Germany and the Ottoman Railways: Art, Empire, and Infrastructure 9780300228472

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Germany and the Ottoman Railways

Germany and the Ottoman Railways Art, Empire, and Infrastructure

Peter H. Christensen

Yale University Press New Haven and London

Copyright © 2017 by Peter H. Christensen. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, including illustrations, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publishers. yalebooks.com/art Designed by Leslie Fitch and Jo Ellen Ackerman Printed in Singapore by Pristone Pte. Ltd. Library of Congress Control Number: 2016958952 isbn 978-0-300-22564-8 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This paper meets the requirements of ansi/niso z 39.48–1992 (Permanence of Paper). 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Jacket illustrations: (front) Guillaume Gustave Berggren, View of the Anatolian Railways tunnel at Bekdemir, ca. 1893 (detail, fig. 8.6); (back) Theodor Rocholl, Meerschaum Production in Eskişehir, ca. 1909 (detail, fig. 2.16) Page ii: Surveyors at work in the Taurus Mountains during the construction of the Baghdad Railway, 1915. The Granger Collection, New York. Page viii: Railway networks of the German and Austro-Hungarian Empires as well as the Ottoman railway segments constructed by Germans, ca. 1910. James Barbero, Blair Tinker. University of Rochester, River Campus Libraries. Page 9: Guillaume Gustave Berggren, View of Sultan Han, Aksaray, ca. 1893 (detail, fig. 4.7) Page 81: View of Agoustos station. Niedersächsisches Landesarchiv,

Wolfenbüttel (detail, fig. 6.9)

Contents

vi



vii

1

Acknowledgments Notes on Dates, Transcription, and Format Introduction

Part one 10

Chapter 1. Politics

25

Chapter 2. Geography

45

Chapter 3. Topography

68

Chapter 4. Archaeology

Part two 82

Chapter 5. Construction

96

Chapter 6. Hochbau

123

Chapter 7. Monuments

141

Chapter 8. Urbanism

152

Conclusion

157

Notes

167

Bibliography

188

Illustration Credits

189

Index

Acknowledgments

The layered process of making objects that I outline in this book is one that I recognize as transposable too to the process of making a book. I owe a profound debt of gratitude to the many people who helped me form this book in myriad ways over many years. It has been a pleasure to work with Katherine Boller at Yale University Press, whose faith in this project set, and kept, the ball rolling. I wish also to thank Tamara Schechter for her administrative guidance, Heidi Downey for her editorial direction, Laura Hensley for her superb copy editing, and Leslie Fitch and Jo Ellen Ackerman for their work on the design. It has been an honor to work with a publisher so committed to art-­ historical scholarship as well as such nely produced books. One cannot make things without time and resources, and I have received both from a number of institutions. To complete the manuscript, I beneted from fellowships from the Forum Transregionale Studien in Berlin, the University of Rochester Humanities Center, and the National Endowment for the Humanities. As junior faculty at the Technische Universität Munich, I was able to divide my time between writing and teaching in a most productive way. At the research phase, I received support from the Fulbright Commission, the Historians of Islamic Art Association, the Aga Khan Program for Islamic Architecture at Harvard University, and the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences, also at Harvard. Support for this publication in the form of a subvention was provided by the Society of Architectural Historians Mellon Author Award and the dean of the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences at the University of Rochester. For over a decade I have beneted from the mentorship and intellectual compasses of Mary Woods, Barry Bergdoll, and Nasser Rabbat. Earlier parts of the project came to fruition under the superlative guidance of three mentors at Harvard University, Eve Blau, Gülru Necipoğlu, and Antoine Picon, whose collective scholarly rigor I have emulated. My colleagues and students in the Department of Art and Art History at the University of Rochester, as well as the university’s remarkably supportive administration, have furnished the ideal scholarly

vi

environment in which this book could both grow intellectually and be completed logistically. Our indefatigable chair, A. Joan Saab, and my incisive and generous colleagues Rachel Haidu, Janet Berlo, and Douglas Crimp deserve special mention for mulling over drafts and ideas along the way. Teaching students in the Graduate Program of Visual and Cultural Studies has pushed me to see my work in broader terms, and I thank Eitan Freedenberg, Stephanie Alana Wolf-Johnson, Berin Golonu, Alicia Chester, Mimi Cheng, and Julia Tulke for their stimulating engagement with all things architecture, industry, and infrastructure in the classroom. Nora Dimmock, Joshua Romphf, Blair Tinker, and Stephanie Frontz of the University of Rochester library system have gone above and beyond the call of duty on so many fronts. In the wider eld I also owe thanks to Esra Akcan, Sibel Bozdoğan, Vimalin Rujivacharakul, Ken Oshima, Hazel Hahn, Avinoam Shalem, Sibel Zandi-Sayek, Mary Roberts, Shundana Yusaf, Mrinalini Rajagopalan, and Itohan Osayimwese for their various engagements with this material in a number of scholarly venues. I am lucky to have friends who engage my work with such interest, while also providing the social nourishment that has kept me attuned to the vitality and importance of exchange in the process of crafting scholarship. For this I thank Kenny Cupers, Miriam Peterson, Mary Blakemore, Freya Estrellar, Natasha Case, Jenny Sedlis, Noam Andrews, Igor Demchenko, David Roxburgh, Dan Sullivan, Nathan Rich, Jenny French, Maureen Jeram, Tanya Bakhmetyeva, Stewart Weaver, Laura Smoller, Llerena Searle, Ben DeLee, Anne Schmidt, Casey Miller, Christian Larsen, and Oğuz Orkum Doma. My parents, Patricia Hewitt and Dale Christensen, have furnished every intellectual horizon on which this book rests. I owe them far more than a few words here, but I also take great pleasure in knowing how happy they will be to hold this book in their hands. Finally, I thank Robert for his support, patience, and intelligence from the beginning to the end of the process behind this book, a true Komplizenschaft.

Notes on Dates, Transcription, and Format

Throughout the book, dates are primarily given in A.D. Islamic calendar dates were converted using the Gregorian to Hijri dates converter at http://www.islamicity.org/HijriGregorian-Converter/. When dates cannot be identied with a precise year in A.D., a range of years is listed. Also throughout the book, places are referred to by their contemporary names. In the case of signicant historical places that are known by dierent names in English, the latter are indicated parenthetically when the places are rst mentioned—for example, “Ankara (Angora).” Place-names are written in English, except names of places within the borders of modern Turkey where the silent “g” or the dotless “i” have been preserved (e.g., “Ereğli,” “Polatlı”), because these letters do not have English transliterations. An exception to the latter rule is that I do not use the dotted capital “İ” for place names that are commonly recognized without the dot (e.g., “Istanbul,” “Izmir,” and “Izmit” are universally recognized). Original historical place-names, most notably “Constantinople,” are retained in the cities of publication listed for the primary

sources, in the interest of reference-ability. In the listings for the secondary sources, however, contemporary English place-names—which dier from the historical names only on occasion—are used. With regard to Turkish spellings, I have generally not transliterated certain letters that are commonly altered (e.g., “Celal” is not converted to “Djelal,” and “Çiftehan” is not converted to “Chiftehan”). Unless otherwise noted, all translations from German, modern Turkish, and French are my own. For translations from Arabic, Russian, Azeri, Spanish, and the languages of the Balkans, I use the most widely accepted relevant academic sources. Words that are conventionally used in English (e.g., “vizier”) and that appear in Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary (11th ed.) are written without diacritical marks. Given the unwieldy and inconsistent variations in the formatting of bibliographic notations marking volume, issue, and page across the languages and eras consulted, I have used English notation following the Chicago Manual of Style (16th ed.) as the standard.

vii

viii

Introduction

Infrastructures make empires. The economic, social, and cultural systems of empires are guided by and given form and purpose through canals, bridges, tunnels, ports, and, perhaps most importantly, railways. It is no coincidence that infrastructures are often likened to the veins, nodes, and capillaries of organic bodies: they are the stu of life. The power that infrastructure had in the early globalizing world, during the Age of Empire, as Eric Hobsbawm famously described it, also signaled profound imbalances on the world stage, where multiple organisms competed for their share of physical presence.1 In the colonial world, infrastructure was grafted onto territory and often served as a form of exploitation, exhausting the body that hosted it. For every heroic accomplishment of modernity in, for example, France or Britain, there was also, across a sea or an ocean, a landscape of parasitic infrastructure. Yet infrastructure across empires also transcended the binary parasite-host relationship, and the vast gray zone between binary formations is the subject of this book. Symbiotic rather than parasitic, dynamic rather than statically hegemonic, many global infrastructures in the Imperial era were dened in the interstices between the cliché dialectics of metropole and colony, and sovereignty

and dependency. Empires that desired infrastructures they themselves could not build, owing to lack of technical expertise or nancial resources, or that had these resources but did not have the explicit mandate to impose them elsewhere, led to the transfusion of infrastructure across rather than within imperial borders. This book looks at one such transfusion in depth and explores it for the many broader lessons it holds for the history of infrastructure as well as the history of globalization: the Ottoman railway, a massive physical network of railway lines, stations, monuments, and institutions, conceived by the Ottoman sultan and considered the pride of that empire’s modernizing impulses. It was, also, an infrastructure engineered predominantly by German rms, constructed with German materials such as Krupp steel, and nanced by German banks such as Deutsche Bank over the course of a half century, beginning in 1869. While the project employed local builders and craftsmen and advanced Ottoman goals of imperial consolidation and modernization, it also accelerated German inuence in the increasingly circumscribed yet still vast territory of the Ottoman empire, setting the stage for an ambiguous power dynamic that placed infrastructure at the center.

1

This book looks at the German-Ottoman relationship specically through the art-historical prism of objects: train stations, paintings, urban byways, maps, bridges, monuments, photographs, and archaeological artifacts, which I will often read against the prevailing grain. Through its examination of four discrete subsections of the Ottoman railways—including the railways of European Turkey (1871– 91), the Anatolian Railways (1873–99), the Baghdad Railway (1899–1918), and the Hejaz Railway and its Palestinian tributaries (1900–1908)—this book frames the art of infrastructure as one that is multifaceted, born as it is of eight specic contexts through which objects tell stories: political, geographical, topographical, archaeological, constructional, architectural, monumental, and urbanistic. Not only did these contexts serve to shape this infrastructure; they were in turn forever changed by it. I provide here a new way of looking at the production of cultural artifacts—from small portable objects such as maps to massive public monuments—in ambiguous contexts such as the German-Ottoman relationship, in which relations were not premised on the abdication of one party’s political sovereignty. One could draw a number of productive parallels with certain historical settings in China, Persia, Thailand, and Ethiopia, among many others. The ambiguously colonial German-Ottoman relationship helps us to understand the dynamic and artistically productive conditions that can coalesce in the gray zone between the sovereign and colonial states. This book also contextualizes the railways’ construction in a formative moment in the internationalization of the design professions, revealing the project’s wider importance to the history of multicultural design. This book has two parts that develop its themes cumulatively as well as in scalar sequence. Chapters 1 to 4 describe the objects that come to life through the construction of knowledge, beginning with the macro scale of political knowledge and then proceeding downward in scale toward the earth, the building block of geographic, topographic, and archaeological knowledge. Then Chapters 5 to 8 describe the objects that come to life through a dierent construction—the construction of form—by moving upward in scale, beginning with the role of the individual worker and subsequently considering the building, the public monument, and the city. In this book, I highlight the similarities as well as the dierences among the constituent lines of the Ottoman railway network and contextualize them within a span of

2

Introduction

time that corresponds, on the one hand, to an era of German ascendancy on the global stage and, on the other, to the inversely proportional unraveling of the Ottoman empire. I bring to this study my own lens and inevitable subjectivity as an interpreter and an architectural historian. This study coalesces the existing, partitioned literature on the railways’ histories and builds on them through an expansive evaluation of previously unstudied objects and unpublished archival sources ­originating, in order of magnitude, from Germany, Turkey, Austria, the United Kingdom, Israel and the Palestinian territories, the United States, and France. This book also deliberately uses objects as original rather than representational evidence. While the book is subdivided into topical categories, historiographical and conceptual concerns unify it. Although these concerns overlap and cross-pollinate, we can divide their subject matter into three main themes that punctuate my study of empire and infrastructure: geopolitics, multiculturalism, and expertise. I use the term “geopolitical” to describe historical discursive contexts— synchronic with the railways’ construction and specic to the German and Ottoman statecraft—that simultaneously produced geopolitics as a discipline in Germany and the Ottoman railway network as a site in the Ottoman empire. In the wake of the geographer Alexander von Humboldt’s pioneering work on the natural world in the nineteenth century, the discipline of geography expanded, giving rise to new disciplines that included cultural geography, social geography, and geopolitics. Although historians debate the intellectual origins of the term “geopolitics,” they generally agree that Friedrich Ratzel was its rst champion.2 Ratzel developed the widely inuential concept of “the state as organism.” This theory conceptualized the polity as a natural phenomenon and prompted the rethinking of borders as mutable xtures akin to the membranes of cells, not unlike the way in which infrastructure has been introduced in this book as a process of transfusion; it was at this point that our biological analogy for empire was transmuted from an abstract concept to a process with physical form.3 The concept of the state as organism is relevant to this book on several levels. First, it establishes the leitmotif of connective networks, akin to circulatory, digestive, or nervous systems, and oers a conceptual backdrop to what has been described as the mobility turn in contemporary scholarship.4 Second, the concept provided the German state

with a way to strategize its power as land-based, predicated on its organic, contiguous sense of its own political body. After the Dual Alliance of 1879 with the neighboring Austro-Hungarian empire, a land-based superpower stretching from Hamburg to the Persian Gulf was realizable with Ottoman participation, and could constitute a land “wall” that blocked the powers of Western Europe on one side and the Russians on the other. This emphasis on land stood in contradistinction to the maritime xations of France and Britain and the colonial orbits that their seabased power realized and maintained. Conceiving an entity such as the German-Ottoman railway network in artistic terms requires new expository methods of description and conceptual paradigms, and “multiculturalism,” a term whose currency has atrophied in recent decades, is worth reconsidering to this end. While the term has come to describe armative qualities of a diversity of ethnic, racial, and religious groups within a social and political unit, earlier uses of the term seemed more concerned with the inherent complexities of cultural multivalency, an interest that I share. Jürgen Habermas has considered the character of multicultural societies from this standpoint, eliding moral value in favor of analyses of operative dynamics.5 Elemental to this understanding of multiculturalism are the many historical contexts in which knowledge and emancipation developed in culturally pluralistic political bodies. In the cases of the newly unied German empire, forged from a constellation of duchies, diets, and microstates, and the Ottoman empire, with its long-standing and constituent multicultural organization, some unexpected synergy emerges. It is important to note that the framework in which this synergy produces objects is dierent from the conventional power/knowledge relationship produced through Orientalism, the monolithic metric of Europe’s encounter with the Middle East at the time. It is also worth remembering that Edward Said, the father of Orientalist critique, thought of German Orientalism as a benign entity: The German Orient was exclusively a scholarly, or at least a classical Orient: it was made the subject of lyrics, fantasies, and even novels, but it was never actual, the way Egypt and Syria were actual for Chateaubriand, Lane, Lamartine, Burton, Disraeli or Nerval. There is some signicance in the fact that the two most renowned German works on the Orient, Goethe’s Westöstlicher Diwan and Friedrich Schlegel’s Über die

Sprache und Weisheit der Indier, were based respectively on a Rhine journey and on hours spent in Paris libraries. What German Oriental scholarship did was to redene and elaborate techniques whose application was to texts, myths, ideas, and languages almost literally gathered from the Orient by imperial Britain and France.6

This book suggests that this “redenition” and “elaboration” of scholarly techniques is constitutive of what is known in modern terms as “expertise”: the application of scientic knowledge to a pragmatic or real-world end, as in the production of objects and images. In a letter to the editor of the New York Times in 1853, Karl Marx summed up how this functioned between Germany and its interlocutors in the Orient: “German philologists and critics have made us acquainted with its history and literature. . . . But the diplomatic wiseacres seem to scorn all this, and to cling as obstinately as possible to the traditions engendered by Eastern fairy-tales.”7 The German construction of the Ottoman railways broke through this obstinancy, engendering a new relationship between Orientalist knowledge and real-world practice that showcases “expertise” as the bridge between the German study of the Orient and its material engagement with it. Did Said dismiss the German Orient as irrelevant too soon? Suzanne Marchand has suggested that Germanspeaking Central Europeans conjured a counterdistinctive “Orient” premised on a longing to understand the Near East as a basis for interpreting the New Testament, biblical lands, and the history of Christianity.8 This is certainly one way to consider an image of the kaiser’s visit to the Temple Mount in 1898 (g. 0.1). Marchand’s thesis is convincing, and it is also important to note that it would only be scholars, not professional experts such as railway engineers or architects, who would have this humanistic preoccupation. The delivery of German expertise in rail construction to the Ottoman empire was not an Orientalist endeavor per se, but it did draw upon earlier forms of Orientalist knowledge and provided a veritable cause for the acceleration of its production. Marchand contends that German Orientalism laid the foundations for multicultural thinking but was unable to develop it.9 This book suggests an expansion of this idea, revealing the impact of Orientalist knowledge on professionals who made things, not just those who studied them. The pragmatic professional forms of multicultural engagement—evident across the range of knowledge produced in the German construction of the Ottoman railway

Introduction

3

FIG. 0.1  Kaiser Wilhelm visiting

the Dome of the Rock, 1898. Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

network—shaped a modern, multicultural visual logic, a logic whose evolving contours have in turn shaped modernity and imaged the global context in which we live today. Zeynep Çelik has masterfully read infrastructure in the late Ottoman empire as a topic for visual and cultural study, and has pioneered an integrative approach to the study of infrastructure and architectural history (two elds that were literally conated by the railways’ engineers); it is my hope in this book to further that agenda but also to take it in new directions. In two publications, The Remaking of Istanbul: Portrait of an Ottoman City in the Nineteenth Century and Empire, Architecture, and the City: French-Ottoman Encounters, 1830–1914, Çelik touches upon a few of the monuments and places that I discuss in this book and considers them in a broader context that she describes as the Ottoman empire’s “idiosyncratic modernity.”10 One of the main sources for this idiosyncrasy, Çelik argues, is the ambiguously colonial nature of the Tanzimat reforms, a series of modernizing eorts internal to the Ottoman empire, and the role these reforms played in the attempts to coalesce the Arab fringes of the empire into an ordered, Ottoman image.11 Çelik’s supposition that there are colonial currents internal to late Ottoman culture is buttressed by her analysis of French colonial activity in neighboring North Africa and the “uneven” trac of the “two-way street” connecting these parallel empires.12 If the French-Ottoman comparison is one of parallel streets with byways facilitating dialogue and the

4

Introduction

testing of models, then the German-Ottoman relationship may more aptly be described as a coaxial thoroughfare, an indivisible conduit with interests and information moving in either direction at all times. It is this intrinsic complexity that I nd so interesting, and it is this analogy that distinguishes my analysis from those before it, which have maintained that there are always two separable bodies forming a colonial condition. This book was researched and written against the backdrop of intense geopolitical change in the places it studies. Because I believe that the craft of art history has its own intrinsic value and relevance, and because there will certainly be continual change after this book is published, I have resisted the urge to cast its story of imperial infrastructure in teleological terms. Yet, as I have followed the news, I have been constantly reminded of the remarkable velocity of history and the symbolic endurance of these railways for the contemporary world. In the aftermath of World War I, the border between Turkey and Syria was drawn as a sinuous, articial line that was shaped by the southern edge of the railway bed. For example, the point at which the railway station for the city of Kobani (Çobanbey) was built creates a sudden rupture in the line, gerrymandering just a bit to the southern ank of the railway bed and creating the nodal point of a border crossing (g. 0.2). Infrastructure, like rivers and mountains, makes borders that have long-lasting impact.

The case of Kobani demonstrates the interdependency of the specic and the universal in history. We understand the importance of the historical specicity of how and why the German engineers and Ottoman builders shaped the city as well as how colonial and Orientalist legacies writ large continue to pregure and to haunt so many contested spaces across the globe that resemble this one. Yet the paradigms that postcolonial studies oer us have largely bypassed ambiguous contexts—the international milieux where the dynamics of knowledge and power, famously described by Michel Foucault, were muddled by the absence of a formal abdication of sovereignty. The German construction of the Ottoman railway network is a seminal case in point. For one, the railway, the ultimate “metonym for modernity,” represented the Ottoman empire’s most signicant and self-propelled modernization eort in the nal half century of its existence.13 While the Tanzimat reforms, with their emphasis on naa (amelioration), recast society, the railway went one step further in radically renovating the built environment and the spatiotemporal relationships of its people. At the same time, the railway network also represented the empire’s most synthetic eort to transmute Western technology and naturalize modernity. In several regards, the exportation of railway technology and the development of railway infrastructure within the Ottoman empire mirrored developments elsewhere in the non-Western world, particularly in Russia, Japan, and Latin America. Impressed by the American engineer George Washington Whistler’s use of steep grades, sharp curves, and advanced machinery, Tsar Nicholas I of Russia installed Whistler as chief engineer for the earliest railroad in Russia, connecting Moscow and St. Petersburg.14 Second to building the actual line, Whistler’s largest accomplishment was the construction of a massive foundry employing over three thousand skilled workers, including many Americans who trained Russian employees in much the same way that German engineers would later advise the Ottomans in the construction of the Hejaz Railway. Whistler maintained that the foundry, alongside the railway itself, could also bring the Russian economy out of the doldrums, and developed it as a site of apprenticeship and technology transfer for a new generation of Russian engineers and skilled laborers.15 In many other ways, the outward-looking nature of Tanzimat culture mirrored that of Meiji-era Japan, which also sought to abolish cultural practices deemed “unmodern” by looking

FIG. 0.2  Map showing the railway and border between Turkey and Syria

at Kobani. James Barbero, Blair Tinker. University of Rochester, River Campus Libraries.

to the West for inspiration.16 In terms of railway development, this meant an organic mix of Dutch, Russian, American, and British experts who exhibited, consulted, and implemented new railway technologies in Japan.17 The American model of interurban railway networks was particularly appropriate to and adopted in Meiji Japan; in contrast, the railways in less dense Latin America were a skeletal system for agricultural development and the move toward internal colonization, a process that had been mastered by the British in their own colonial holdings.18 In central Argentina, for example, immigrants from Europe, much like the German settlers who would settle in central Anatolia with the construction of the railway there, were brought in to populate new agricultural colonies.19 We nd ourselves in a time that demands a global outlook if not also a global ethic, and these global comparisons alert us to the reverberations of a new international society in the long nineteenth century. But the GermanOttoman context is also valuable for its historical specicity and the monographic lessons it teaches vis-àvis the objects that it made. The coaxial, as opposed to

Introduction

5

networked, kinship that the Ottoman empire was able to foster with Germany was far less lopsided and certainly more dynamic than any other relationship it had with a European power. Imprecise and vague in its ambitions, the German-Ottoman partnership laid the groundwork for a truly spectacular renovation of the built environment from Banja Luka to Baghdad and from Medgidia to Medina, and the objects of this renovation emerge as the evidence of its power. The imperative for global history and the comparative study of empires is premised largely on the ethical idea that no one culture or nation exists in a vacuum. I could not agree more. Yet, as we zoom too far out, this imperative may also lead us toward a texture of writing history that is overly generic and that essentializes the mechanics of discrete historical conditions and personalities. This too, like nationalism, can lead to a form of epistemic violence. Through this monographic study, I attempt to zoom in and out between the forest and the tree to locate myself at a register that essentializes neither a cultural group nor a historical event. The bipartite structure of this book underscores how objects and artistic representations tether the construction of knowledge and the construction of form. This structure reveals the book’s indebtedness to a particular strain of recent architectural historiography, one that, rather than focusing on issues of architectural style or identity, is more concerned with the social processes through which architecture is constituted.20 But this book also diverges from that strain in its underlying contention that the power/ knowledge dyad formulated by Foucault and later by Said cannot be as monolithic and unambiguous a model for architectural history as it has been. Such a formation betrays the many conditions that exist in the vast, ambiguous margins between sovereignty and colony. In terms of its content, this book’s ambitions are also twofold, seeking, on the one hand, to oer valuable new information on the specic German-Ottoman geopolitical relationship, while also furnishing a transposable conceptual paradigm of intercultural engagement that can permeate, and I hope enhance, the so-called global turn in history. What is this paradigm? In light of the paucity of language for considering the ambiguous context of the German-Ottoman relationship, this book turns its attention to the problem of ambiguity itself, shedding light on unied (as opposed to diuse), synthetic (as opposed to found), and plastic (as opposed to xed) creations of art and infrastructure. The book’s eort to deploy lexical

6

Introduction

terminology anew can be seen as part of a broader eort within postcolonial thinking. Ambiguity, along with its material exponents, functions both descriptively and as code for an abstract process. This renewal and synthesis of our lexicon is what Swati Chattopadhyay has done for the term “infrastructure,” and what Esra Akcan has done for the term and process of “translation,” and my motivations for this project are indebted to eorts such as these.21 For the philosopher Simone de Beauvoir, the ambiguity between humans’ inherent “nothingness” (i.e., their immaterial, cognitive world) and their “facticity” (i.e., their physical presence in the world) is precisely what constitutes their presumptive freedom. Ambiguity, as such, represents an inviolable truth as well as an opportunity, when recognized, for emancipation. “To attain truth,” de Beauvoir notes, “man must not attempt to dispel the ambiguity of his being but, on the contrary, accept the task of realizing it.”22 I subscribe to de Beauvoir’s contention that ambiguity is something that is constituted rather than something that merely exists. Speaking from the eld of literary criticism, William Empson describes ambiguity as the ultimate venue for personal experience. When one says, for example, “He is like a dog,” it may be a metaphor or it may be an epithet.23 In both cases, ambiguity is a process that opens up opportunities, rather than foreclosing them. Discerning the inherently productive nature of ambiguity as a condition is part of my broader interest in this study of discerning and developing ways to understand things created in ambiguous contexts, outside of conventional imperial or colonial conditions where someone’s sovereignty is abdicated or through the exponents of technology transfer. The foregrounding of ambiguity allows me to downplay the characteristic primacy that architectural history places on heroic forms of authorship and that political history places on nationhood; it also avoids the rigid rubrics of style that continue to trap us in a postcolonial and historical lexicon that relies on dualistic terms such as “hybrid” and “import.” In this sense, my study gives ambiguity the opportunity to be anything but what many have assumed it to be: a dead end. This book considers the ambiguous nature of the German-Ottoman railway partnership and the process in which conditions are made ambiguous (“ambiguation”) as the dening characteristic of the railway network and a precondition for the unique qualities of its physical forms. Additionally, this book oers a new and critical provocation to the established German and Ottoman archi­

tectural- and urban-historical canons. Histories of the late Ottoman empire tend to emphasize two themes. One theme is cosmopolitanism, which stresses the empire’s pluralist society as the inspiration for a move toward a more diverse architectural profession and set of aesthetic idioms. The vogue of cosmopolitanism across cultural studies stems from an ethical position advocating a kinship of humanity and a refutation of patriotism and nationalism. However, cosmopolitanism has had a far more convincing currency in the humanistic elds other than history—philosophy, law, politics—that emphasize the present and lived condition. The description of historical communities such as the multiethnic Ottomans as cosmopolitan often carries an air of projection or utopian re-narration. It would seem more apt to talk of processes or events, rather than people, as cosmopolitan. The second theme that is commonly emphasized in histories of the late Ottoman empire is modernity. These narratives stress the physical transformations enacted by Tanzimat reforms and the active roles of technology and industry, often with revisionary undertones asserting that “modernization” was not the heroic project of Mustafa Kemal, founder of modern Turkey, and secularism alone, but a project with Ottoman origins and some consonance with Islam. However, both the cosmopolitan and the modernistic emphases fail to provide a complete portrait. Neither the internal nor the international aspects of the construction of railway infrastructure point to a system of unequivocal mutualism between individuals, as the concept of cosmopolitanism would suggest. While cosmopolitanism may serve as a leitmotif or utopian ambition, it seems rarely to function on a subpolitical level. Relations were far more complex, problem-ridden, and contingent on deeply imbalanced systems. Moreover, narratives that stress autonomous production or contracts coming out of modernity fail to recognize the inherent contradictions, trauma, and duress posed by modernization. To seek deeper origins for Ottoman “modernization,” and even to contend that Ottoman modernization represented a highly deliberate and conceptual orchestration to subsume Western technology and somehow make it a priori Ottoman, is to ignore the cultural transformations wrought by pressure, brute force, unconscious thinking, and awe. On the German side, the historiographical territory remains even less charted. The German empire did not coalesce until 1871, which gave it a low, uneven international prole at the time. This has created a vacuum for

understanding Germany’s important, if relatively small, forays abroad. This gap in knowledge has been reduced by recent critical considerations of German architecture and city planning in its African and Pacic colonies.24 However, historians have not yet fully examined the German empire’s engagement with the so-called Orient in the last decades of the nineteenth century, despite ample evidence of its importance to numerous internal discourses.25 The scope of my thinking on empire and infrastructure is largely inspired by Marshall Hodgson’s exegesis on the Generation of 1789, which dened the ways in which transformations in the Occident literally fractured the AfroEurasian ecumenical world and subsequently paved the way for European hegemony in the nineteenth century.26 Hodgson rejects the hierarchical accounts of early modern– and Enlightenment-era transformation by placing a unique European metamorphosis into a global historical framework, focusing on processes rather than product and mechanics rather than progress. Islamic culture, having supposedly manifested its orescence prior to Europe’s, had established prescient institutions of “independent calculation” and “personal initiative,” and acclimated its followers to certain tactical and canny ways of being that were not at odds with religion, as they were in the Enlight­ enment. Infrastructure, as such, was less a transformation of life than of what Hodgson terms European “technicalism,” broadly dened as the primacy of specialized technical considerations over spiritual ones.27 It was this transformation that facilitated the ascendancy and hegemony portended by the state as a technocentric organism.28 So it was that technicalism trumped the boundaries and challenges posed by articial limits such as state borders, language barriers, and “hard to exploit markets,” because that was its modus operandi.29 Western technology in both Islamic and Ottoman culture also stood in internal conict with agrarian social organization, causing a signicant amount of moral and psychological anxiety. Indeed, European technology such as the railways was greeted with immense suspicion at many junctures. As one skeptic put it, “God, who is exalted, has created this kind of thing through the hands of the unbelievers [i.e., the Europeans], in order to lead astray, and deceive, the sinners and the shameless.”30 By the time of the GermanOttoman partnership, technology transfer, particularly in the sphere of railways, had major precedents in Russia and Japan where, as Arnold Pacey has argued, the railway in the non-Western landscape “encouraged a vision of a new

Introduction

7

world order somewhat more benign than the imperialist dreams of the Europeans.”31 Matter became mind, and infrastructure became faith. As the German-Ottoman engagement was patently contractual and deed virtually all other models of the day, the extent to which these dreams were indeed “benign” is precisely what distinguishes it from the axiomatic metanarrative of technology transfer. The creation of this transimperial infrastructure operated beneath—rather than above—the political, economic, and professional activities of its stakeholders. To understand how varied the eects of this ambiguous relationship could be, one need only look at the multiple roles played by one of the many actors we will meet on this journey: the engineer Heinrich August Meißner, who functioned as a colonist in Mesopotamia and a source of technical expertise in the Hejaz. In this sense, ambiguity does not connote vagueness or meaninglessness. Rather, it evokes an artistic and morphological duality where two sides are locked in a partnership in which the level of reciprocity of their relationship is continually in ux. Throughout, this book underscores the

8

Introduction

contention that ambiguity manifests in both knowledge and form, and demonstrates the mechanics of how it does so. While the process creates numerous objects, its intrinsic juxtapositions model the process of their dialectical constitution. These objects—maps, archaeological artifacts, documentary photo albums, bridges and tunnels, train stations, monuments, and city quarters—are vast, and they tell fascinating stories. The lessons that the objects of the GermanOttoman case teach us are also transposable to wider circumstances where a sovereign state is penetrated by imperial capital, trade, and inuence while juridical independence is maintained. In a time of imperatives to think globally, the specicity of place matters more than ever. The focus of this book on the German-Ottoman context is meant to demonstrate the importance of in-depth, “vertical” history within—and for—the cause of multilateral histories that build on the themes at the center of this book. The terms that accompany this book’s main title— “art,” “empire,” “infrastructure”—remind us that history becomes form when space is stitched together.

Part One

1 Politics Tout le monde içi demande une concession, l’un demande une banque, l’autre une route. Çe nira mal-banque et route-banqueroute. —attributed to Mehmed Fuad Pasha, grand vizier of the Ottoman empire, 1866

AffNITIES AND ANALOGIES Many historians have cast the failed second Ottoman siege of Vienna (1682–83) as a paradigmatic global power shift predicated on European technological superiority, ensuring Europe’s command of the world stage from the eighteenth century onward. Yet the history of the railway, poised somewhere between the histories of the Industrial Revolution and of Western imperialism, provides historiographic angles from which to gauge and recalibrate this East/West and progress/decline supranarrative. The German empire’s relationship with its Ottoman neighbors was, in fact, characterized much more by an ambiguity and dynamism than it was by antagonism. A key moment in the union of German and Ottoman interests was Mahmud II’s invitation of a Prussian delegation, headed by Helmuth von Moltke, to Istanbul in 1835 to “Prussianize” the Turkish military.1 Prussian military advisors acquired the Turkish language, while Turkish soldiers acquired Prussian guns, cannons, and other military technology. Despite Ottoman success in the Crimean War (1853–56), military modernization could not keep pace with Ottoman territorial and economic erosion. While a staunch military alliance had been forged, the Ottoman

10

empire—which acquired the popular pseudonym “the sick man of Europe” in international circles—seemed to have been diminished to the point of no return.2 The Ottoman Tanzimat reforms further proved the point that a modern military did not constitute a modern empire. Mahmud II’s Tanzimât Fermânı, an imperial statute issued on November 3, 1830, outlined the holistic development of a modern state with qualities mirroring many of those revered in post-Enlightenment Europe.3 As Europe and the Ottoman empire grew closer through both transportation and communications, with the principles of modernization undergirding them, the Sublime Porte (the Ottoman central government) needed to pacify ethnic and religious minorities who might use modern technology such as telegrams and publishing to rally irredentist sentiment. In this light, it is not possible to understand Ottoman “modernization” as only an enlightened, European-inspired project; one must also see it as necessary for protecting the empire from European spheres of inuence by becoming “Western despite the West.”4 The German economist Friedrich List’s support for the expansion of European railway networks provided a paradigm of rail as a totally modern project commensurate with

Tanzimat ideas. In his 1841 publication Das nationale System der politische Ökonomie, List states six ways in which the rail binds nations and cultivates progress: 1. As a means of national defense . . . 2. As a means to the improvement of the culture of the nation . . . 3. As a security against dearth and famine . . . 4. As a promoter of health and hygiene . . . 5. As a promoter of social intercourse . . . 6. As a promoter of the spirit of the nation.5

List’s design for the First Great German Railway Network of 1833 bears an unapologetic, pan-German tenor, with the railway as its nervous system, connecting Prussia with the patchwork of Germanic states to its south and west (g. 1.1). The lines follow the locations of important cities and the anticipation of important trade routes. The nationalist “organic” ambition of the network is as geopolitically polemical in its pan-Germanism as it is in its delineation of denite borders separating it from its immediate non-German neighbors. Geopolitical and technological strategies like List’s were not lost on the Porte, and such strategies were feasible. But Sultan Abdülmecid I, and Sultan Abdülaziz after him, had to contend with a state that lacked the capital and technical expertise to execute a railway network on its own. In the beginning, the experts were mostly British, particularly outside of inner Anatolia and Rumelia. Abbas I, vali of Egypt and Sudan, was the rst to establish a railway in the empire, contracting the English civil engineer Robert Stephenson.6 The rst part of the line, which spanned from Alexandria to Kafr el-Zayat along the Rosetta branch of the Nile, opened for operation in 1854 and was followed two years later by the completion of the line to Cairo; in 1858, Stephenson extended the line to Suez, making it the rst means of modern transport to connect the Mediterranean with the Indian Ocean. With the Crimean War over in 1856 and the Ottoman establishment of the Darülfünun (House of Science) in 1863, railway development emerged as a goal of scientic progress. In Rumelia, British engineers surveyed the sixty-six-kilometer route between Constanţa (Köstence) and Cernavoda (Boğazköy) and formed the Black Sea Railway and Free Port of Küstendijie Company.7 In Anatolia, the rst track connected Izmir and Aydın in 1866, with the goal of tapping the resources of the rich Aydın plain.

Amid the signicant developments in the eyalets (administrative provinces) of Egypt, Silistra, and Aydın, Francis Rawdon Chesney became the most important foreign gure in the conceptualization of a pan-regional rail network. In 1856, Chesney—a British general, explorer, and canal builder—conducted a momentous survey of the Euphrates. The following year, he published the Report on the Euphrates Valley Railway, a concise seven-page study analyzing the construction of a national railway under four categories: 1) the advantages that would accrue to England, 2) the existing commerce and its extension, 3) the diculties expected from the Arabs, and 4) the means of laying down the proposed railway.8 Charting the approximately 1,600-kilometer overland route from the Mediterranean port of Iskenderun (Alexandretta) to the Persian Gulf port of Basra, the study is a template for the knowledge European powers considered foundational for building a railway abroad. It expands upon the commercial, technological, and nationalistic aims articulated by List, with another category of cultural concerns relating to challenges posed by the Arabs as a people, their culture supposedly predisposed to be skeptical of modernization. Chesney dispelled that hypothesis, though, noting that “trade has always existed in these countries” and “it is obvious that if they were to endeavour to stop trade altogether . . . they would do themselves an irreparable injury, and they are perfectly alive to their own interests on this matter.”9 He concluded: “I think, if judiciously managed by those who know something of their peculiarities, we have nothing to fear from the Arabs.”10 The Arab gured ambiguously in the railway scheme: loath to modernize but mutable enough to be convinced of modernity’s values. More important to Chesney, however, was how a sultan, unambiguously centralizing his power, could dominate his territories and pashas and facilitate a smooth and secure construction process: “Bearing in mind that the Sultan’s power is unquestioned at Mosul, at Baghdad, at Basra, and at other places, we have only to fear the predatory movements of the Nomad tribes who intervene.”11 It is not clear why the Porte did not adopt Chesney’s project, but infrastructural upgrades appear to have been thought to be more important to the Rumelian and Western Anatolian provinces. Some have viewed this as the result of the Ottoman desire to rally an image of modernization on its European frontiers.12 Others have considered it in the wider context of protectionist desires to curb the

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fanning of Balkan nationalisms by St. Petersburg.13 The emphasis on the European frontiers seemed to work toward Ottoman aims, as they were welcomed into the socalled Concert of Europe.14 In exchange for the purported benets associated with the increased diplomatic connections, the Porte promised to accelerate Tanzimat reforms even further, particularly as they related to the treatment of the Christians within the empire. The accession of Abdülaziz to the throne in June 1861 marked the acceleration of modernizing reforms, due in no small part to the sultan’s love of Western material progress. In September 1861, just weeks after the accession of Abdülaziz, the British secured the 224-kilometer Ruse– Varna concession and advanced their presence on the Black Sea.15 The line, completed in 1866, was the rst to link the Ottoman empire directly to another political unit: the United Principalities of Moldavia and Wallachia (subsequently known as the Kingdom of Romania). In turn, this linked the Austro-Hungarian rail network with the rest of Europe via Bucharest and onward through Transylvania. The benets of connectivity were not unalloyed: Abdülaziz came to understand the particular threats posed by such a unilateral relationship. The British navy already played a disproportionately large role in the naval aairs of the Mediterranean, Black, and Red seas as well as the Persian Gulf. The British extended their marine power to key economic ports on all four maritime borders, mounting the appearance of a colonial encroachment.16 Drawing on the Ottoman empire’s role as a part of geopolitical Europe, Abdülaziz and his advisors began a concerted eort in the 1860s to diversify foreign speculations, investments, and expertise in rail construction among a broader range of powers, including Belgian, French, Swiss, Austrian, Ottoman, and, most notably, German parties. The American-educated German railway engineer Charles Franz Zimpel had his gaze on the Holy Land.17 Although Zimpel honed his railway construction skills while studying in the United States, his heart remained squarely with the project of pan-Germanism promoted by List. An 1865 treatise by Zimpel makes the unusual case that railway development in the Levant would create an ecumenical symbiosis between Ottoman techno-­ economic modernization and the region’s signicance for the major monotheistic religions. The development of Jerusalem as a quasi-utopian Weltstadt for Christians, Jews, and Muslims was an ambition best served by a modern

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Politics

maritime-railway connection at Eilat or Aqaba and a major land terminus at Damascus.18 To describe the evolution of the railways as a series of discrete events initiated by foreigners would be to betray the realities of intense Ottoman initiatives. In 1868, the Porte instigated the bidding for a conglomeration of lines in the Rumelian provinces, known in international ­material as the Chemins de fer Orientaux and in national ­material as the İstanbul–Viyana Demiryolu (the Istanbul– Vienna Railway). Unlike the British-operated railways of the empire, the ambitious scheme in Rumelia stood to benet political needs more than it did economic ones. The support, nancing, and technical expertise for such a large project in as diverse and volatile a geopolitical fold as the Balkans represented an undertaking ideally suited to a multinational entity. Ocials organized a conglomeration of French, Belgian, Swiss, and Austrian investors, each with a 25 percent stake in concessions for all ve of its sections.19 In less than a year, the nancial structure of the project grew shaky, and Abdülaziz transferred the concession to the wealthy Bavarian-born nancier and philanthropist Maurice de Hirsch. Hirsch established the Imperial Turkish Railway Company in Paris, where he lived, and he hired Wilhelm von Pressel, an engineer from Stuttgart.20 “Türkenhirsch,” as the German press aectionately called him, had developed an extracurricular interest in railway construction through the inuential writings of the Saint-Simonians in the visionary 1832 publication Système de la Méditerranée, which described a railway connecting the English Channel to the Persian Gulf.21 With sustainable nancial arrangements, completed surveys, land acquisitions, and a workforce in place, subsequent construction on the Rumelian lines began in 1870. The same year, Sultan Abdülaziz turned his attention to the Anatolian hinterland and the empire’s connection to all points east by way of Baghdad.22 His plan entailed an autonomously Ottoman-operated railway that would grow eastward as resources became available. The immediate goal was to connect the densely populated and newly industrial areas of the northern Marmara littoral with a standard gauge railway ending at Kadıköy, a suburb of Istanbul on the Asian side of the Bosphorus.23 While foreign dominance through railways became a reality by the end of the nineteenth century—as in Russia, Japan, and Latin America—this line would also remain the most geostrategic and ostensibly autonomous vision of the Ottoman empire’s infrastructure for the next fty

FIG. 1.1  Friedrich List’s design for the First Great German Railway Network, 1833.

From Robert Krause, Friedrich List und die erste große Eisenbahn Deutschlands: Ein Beitrag zur Eisenbahngeschichte (Leipzig: E. Strauch, 1887). University of Rochester, River Campus Libraries.

13

years. The grand vizier and executor of the railways, Midhat Pasha, held a faith in infrastructure so liberal that it could irritate the sultan himself.24 Midhat had maintained an interest in Chesney’s proposal and ultimately announced a renewed intention for the line in 1871.25 Midhat extended Pressel’s service to the Porte by commissioning him with a detailed study of the span of the empire extending from the Gulf of Alexandretta to the Persian Gulf.26 The Porte always knew that it wanted an overland route to Baghdad, and the beginnings of this are manifest in the Haydarpaşa–Izmit line. Yet Abdülaziz and Midhat Pasha remained conicted about the extent to which they wished to involve the British in the project. Their choice of partner ultimately swayed toward the newly unied German empire. For his part, First Chancellor Otto von Bismarck, famous for his Realpolitik, made the no-nonsense observation that a tighter union with the bankrupt Ottoman empire might be practical. “Turkey could never become dangerous for us,” he noted in 1876, “but her enemies could possibly become our enemies.”27 Germany’s eventual dominance in the construction of the Ottoman rail network is commonly considered a major factor that led to World War I, antagonizing as it did Germany’s relationship with Britain and, to a lesser degree, France. However, in an unpublished letter written to Bismarck four days after Abdülaziz’s deposition on May 30, 1876, the British consulate in Berlin actually encouraged Germany to become involved, perhaps even promoting colonization. The letter makes the following case: “Germany has no such misfortune to rectify the economic plight of the Ottoman empire; but this prospect it seems to my humble prognosis would prove immensely to her advantage. Germany would send the most and best colonists, the railway construction with the Austrian frontier is complete, and the colonies would thus be in rail communication with their mother country.”28 This is precisely the course Germany would take. GERMAN INFILTRATION Following the ninety-three-day reign of his brother Murad V, Abdülhamid II became sultan and caliph and would remain so for thirty-two years, until his deposition at the hands of the Young Turks.29 No gure played a more sustained and impactful role in the development of the Ottoman rail network. Abdülhamid entered his reign with an empire already at war to suppress the nationalist

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uprisings in Serbia and Montenegro, and these would escalate into a full-blown war with Russia. The RussoTurkish War ended less than a year later with the Treaty of San Stefano, which maimed the empire’s—and Abdülhamid’s—sense of sovereignty and physical safety. The principality of Bulgaria was, with additional provisions from the Treaty of Berlin of 1878, reestablished as a sovereign state; Romania, Serbia, and Montenegro gained independence; and Cyprus was leased to Britain. The inroads made in rail development in the southern Balkans proved to be too little, too late. With the Ottoman state wounded and bankrupt, and with so much of its railway infrastructure now ceded, signicant railway development remained at a virtual standstill between 1875 and 1888, the year Wilhelm II became emperor. Rather than focusing on high-prole projects and reforms, Abdülhamid concentrated his eorts during his rst full decade on his role as the sole adjudicator of Ottoman aairs, making pragmatic moves to shore up imperial security and reassure the world of Ottoman competency. In 1880, the sultan, who was famously paranoid of attacks on his life, relocated his ocial residence from Dolmabahçe Palace to a new palace at the top of a hill on the grounds of an imperial estate at Yıldız.30 Amidst a parade of defeating events, Abdülhamid appealed to Wilhelm I in 1880 for guidance in reordering the military. Over the course of twelve years, German generals managed to shape a generation of “fumbling” Turkish ghters into modern military men, while simultaneously preventing the modernization from meaning a break of allegiance to the sultan.31 While Abdülhamid secured his internal power, Wilhelm I and Bismarck began to reverse their policies of isolationism in extra-European aairs and entered the colonial stage. By 1885, three major colonial conglom­ erations had been established: German East Africa (Tanganyika, Zanzibar, Ruanda-Urundi, Wituland, and the Kionga Triangle), German Southwest Africa (Namibia and a part of Botswana), and German West Africa (Cameroon and Togoland). Colonists simultaneously arrived in archipelagoes across the Pacic.32 Meanwhile, because of the Russo-Turkish War and the transition of power at the Porte in 1876, Pressel and Hirsch’s proposal for an Anatolian railway remained on the shelf. Pressel attempted to revive interest in the project by appealing to Abdülhamid in 1883, proposing a multinational nancial structure for an inner Anatolian

railway to Baghdad. Abdülhamid rejected the proposal twice, fearing that the ambiguous nature of the nancial structure would too broadly diuse the economic inuence of European powers on the empire.33 European nanciers were also skeptical whether the Ottomans would be able to sustain the construction of such a signicant railway, a concern Pressel sought to mollify when he wrote that “the Anatolian is no less hard-working than the Italian.”34 When the sultan rejected Pressel’s second multinational nancial structure in 1887, Pressel turned to the banker Alfred von Kaulla.35 Kaulla returned to Germany and pitched the project to the banker Georg von Siemens in March of 1888.36 Siemens was personally enthusiastic, but had reservations that stockholders would not be interested in the project because elite and conservative German circles still advocated isolationism. Writing to Kaulla a few weeks later, the Ottoman ambassador to Berlin indicated that an imperial irade had, in principle, sanctioned a Kaulla-Siemens–backed corporation, and the two would be invited to Istanbul when all parties were ready to begin negotiations.37 Siemens, unlike Kaulla, did not think highly of Pressel, who struck him as a naïve and emotional Turcophile.38 Siemens epitomized the liberal capitalist ideology of the Deutsche Freisinnige Partei (dfp) and rejected Pressel’s benevolent contention that the railway in Anatolia was for the singular benet of the Ottoman people. Rather, he emphasized to Kaulla that any support he might oer would be contingent on the rail being an enterprise that “employed German workers, used German materials, and beneted German investors.”39 Distancing themselves ever further from Pressel, Kaulla and Siemens appealed to the German Foreign Oce for support just a few weeks after Wilhelm II’s accession in June 1888, but they received a resolute rejection from Bismarck.40 Undeterred, Siemens signed up for the project several weeks later and indicated to the Foreign Oce that he, Kaulla, and a new entity to be known as the Chemin de Fer d’Anatolie would apply for the concession that the Porte had all but guaranteed them.41 Bismarck, comforted by the knowledge that a name like Siemens would formally back the endeavor, pivoted his position in favor of the project, and an application for the concession was submitted to the Porte.42 A month later, the concession was signed, and in March 1889 the Chemin de Fer Ottoman d’Anatolie established its headquarters in Istanbul.

All involved parties understood that the railway would need to connect to Istanbul but were uncertain how, given the challenges posed by the Taurus and Amanus mountain ranges dividing the empire’s northern Turkish and southern Arab provinces. Pressel did not regard the town of Eskişehir (ca. 20,000 residents in 1890) as a key juncture of the 486-kilometer railway as it stretched onward from Istanbul and Izmit, and he did not recommend out-of-theway Ankara (Angora) as a terminus. In fact, Abdülhamid conceived this route and the Anatolian Railways syndicate surveyed it; they arrived at the argument that the eort to penetrate the mountain ranges of southern Anatolia would at once bring the protable trade of grain, wool, and carpets closer to the metropolitan fold, while also creating a stronger link between the empire’s Turkish core and Arab fringes. Abdülhamid also reenergized railway development in the Balkan powder keg, issuing concessions for a 219-kilometer line connecting Thessaloniki and Monastir to a German syndicate in 1890, and a 508-kilometer line connecting Dedeağac and Thessaloniki to a French syndicate in 1892. The successful realization of the Jaa–Jerusalem line farther south resulted from an intense three-year lobby of the Porte by entrepreneurs and engineers from Jerusalem.43 Engineers broke ground on the line connecting Jaa to Jerusalem in March 1890. A skilled labor pool of engineers came from Switzerland, Poland, Italy, and AustriaHungary, while workers from Sudan, Algeria, and Palestinian and Egyptian Arab populations provided unskilled labor.44 On the Izmit–Ankara line, German engineers supervised the unskilled labor of local Turks, while Armenians, Italians, and Greeks were hired for semiskilled labor such as stonemasonry and woodworking.45 With tens of thousands of various nationals working on the rails by the fall of 1889, there was no better time to host Kaiser Wilhelm and Empress Auguste Viktoria for a diplomatic visit. As the kaiser’s royal yacht sailed through the Bosphorus, a welcome involving 101 rounds of ammunition and a booming rendition of the German imperial anthem echoed across the waterway. The Turkish press downplayed the strategic nature of the visit, preferring to depict it as a touristic experience: “The principal feature in the moral aspects of the Emperor William’s visit is its distinctly pleasurable character. His Majesty comes to satisfy a perfectly intelligible desire to see this picturesque city,

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FIG. 1.2  Announcement of the completion of the Eskişehir–Ankara line

on the cover of Servet-i Fünun (1890.) Milli Kütüphane Başkanlığı, Ankara.

and to experience the charm of its beauty, of its Oriental character, and all of the historical associations which attach to it.”46 The four-day schedule was, in actuality, a serious political itinerary covering everything from military aairs and German economic growth in Istanbul to Zionist and Christian settlement interests. With a healthy dose of skepticism, some reacted to the sultan’s desire to be popular with the Hohenzollern: “The people, and the government [of Turkey] have to strive for an Islamic culture-state that no longer sees its reason for existence as new conquests or in the obstinate holdings of older territorial gains, but rather in the prosperity of the earth where the Ottomans have the undisputed predominance and right of possession.”47 The natural prosperity of the earth of even a shrunken Ottoman empire was beyond question, and a number of auspicious events in the following years supported the notion of a land resuscitating itself. Expressing this in the terms of Realpolitik, German newspapers described the immense fecundity of Ottoman Palestine, in particular,

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and instructed their readers on the complicated steps of land acquisition in the Ottoman empire, a highly regulated process governed by the Ottoman land code and usufruct.48 To this end, interested parties established the Deutsche Palästina- und Orient-Gesellschaft GmbH in 1896 and the Deutsche Palästina Bank in 1897.49 Yet another concession for a railway connection from Haifa to inner Palestine was granted in 1891, this time to a British-Lebanese partnership.50 In 1892, the Jaa– Jerusalem and Izmit–Eskişehir lines were both completed. The progressive journal Servet-i Fünun, established in 1891, took particular interest in the modernizing landscape of the railways, celebrating the inauguration of the Izmit– Eskişehir line in several sequential accounts (g. 1.2). Shortly thereafter, the Porte extended another concession to the Germans for an additional 445-kilometer line to the city of Konya via Afyonkarahisar. Amidst widespread ­devastation wrought by a massive earthquake on the fault line running through northwest Anatolia in July 1894, there was an armation of faith in German expertise, as the railway and its bridges, tunnels, and stations ­survived unscathed.51 Progress along the railways’ tracks gave way to larger ambitions. The German team, which included two Frankfurt powerhouses, Deutsche Bank and the construction rm Philipp Holzmann GmbH, received the concession for the construction of a railway in German East Africa; Holzmann’s archives reveal the many ways that the lines in Africa and in Turkey were conceived as parallel projects.52 In the spring of 1897, the railways mobilized the Ottoman military for the rst time, bringing troops to Izmir and on to Crete to suppress a Greek rebellion.53 Yet the intellectual and secular elites of Ottoman society began to view the sultan’s xation with rail as an emblem of his increasingly autocratic and oppressive regime. Damad Ferid Pasha, a progressive Serbian-Ottoman statesman, wrote a captious open letter to Abdülhamid in January 1900, after being falsely accused of treasonous plots against the sultan’s life. The letter exclaims: “You indulge in unreasonable actions and wasteful expenditure, such as the creations of grades and decorations unseen in any other state. . . . Our country is rich, capable of prosperity and of supporting in comfort twenty times its present population. But, alas! a gang of robbers has seized it and has barred the road to wealth and treasure.”54 The railway, however, posed a unique quandary for the growing Young Turk movement, of which Damad Ferid

Pasha was a part. Many did not consider it a “wasteful” expenditure in the same way that “gratications” to local governors, lavish festivals, and ostentatious monuments were. Indeed, the vast majority of the Turkish public saw the railway as a means to opening up prosperity. Still, the colonial benets it proered German capitalists (the “bandits”) were also worrisome and accelerated a factious political climate based on ideology, not nationality—one that allied the kaiser with the sultan as much as it did the urban intellectual with the overworked and underpaid railway laborer. GERMAN EXPANSION AND OTTOMAN AUTONOMY By the time of the kaiser’s second visit in 1898, the international press was depicting the German-Turkish venture as unambiguously colonial. In an article entitled “German Anatolia: Conquest by Railway,” the Pall Mall Gazette characterized the meeting as an inevitable and “practical” geopolitical marriage: If only a beginning has been made, it is quite recently that Anatolia has become penetrable, and into the newly opened region the Germans are now the rst to press their way as pioneers of Western commerce. Will these pioneers ultimately become an invasion of colonists? The line of conquest is plain—the railroad, the trader, the settler. Already the railroad is a German strong point. There are now nearly 1,000 miles of railroad in Asia Minor, the easternmost terminus at Ankara fairly in the heart of the country. The railroad represents direct German inuence. For the Mahomedan Turk, a railway is a practically unmanageable invention. Initial diculties attend the working of a railroad by ocials who must attend to their devotions when the muezzin announces the hour of prayer from a minaret; but this is of little importance as the sti formalities of El Islam are falling considerably into abeyance in many provinces of the Empire. It is not, however, so easy to get over the fact that the ordinary Turk is a rough bungling fellow whose heart is better than his head, by no means to be trusted with the management of a locomotive, or able to understand either punctuality or the necessity of giving his attention to routine duties.55

German-Turkish railway activity ourished in the wake of the kaiser’s visit, which both the Porte and Berlin saw as an immense success. In January 1899, German

consular records began to tout the railway as a formulator of Turkish “moral connectivity,” stressing the consuls’ personal belief that the project was not colonial.56 But the crown jewel of the strengthened alliance was the concession for a new railway line to extend from Konya to Baghdad. Of course, a terminus in Baghdad was the main ambition for the Anatolian Railways from the outset, but now the fruit of more than three decades of speculation would emerge from the realm of fantasy into the realm of cold hard steel.57 Abdülhamid himself noted: “The Baghdad railroad will revive the old trade route between Europe and India. If this line is extended so that communication is established with Syria and Beirut, and Alexandria and Haifa, a new trade route will emerge. This route not only will bring great economic benet to our empire but also will be very important from the point of view of the military, as it will consolidate our power.”58

◆◆◆ As momentous as the introduction of the kara vapur (black ferry) had been to European Turkey, Palestine, and Anatolia, the penetration of the Cilician plain, Syria, and Mesopotamia gripped both the Turkish and the German psyche as something more: a teleological necessity. This concession united the topographical and geographical knowledge produced by centuries of European explorers and the ambitions of a twentieth-century sultan. Here the Atlantic would meet the Indian Ocean, and the cradle of civilization would meet the modern age. For their part, the Ottoman signatories stipulated an annex to the agreement in which the German parties promised that no part of the line would be “colonized.”59 Within the Ottoman empire, however, and certainly within the Islamic world, the excitement of a train reaching Baghdad was soon eclipsed by the excitement of a train reaching an even more symbolic destination: Mecca. Invigorated by the successes of the foreign-led railways, Abdülhamid gave his blessing in 1900 to the plans for the so-called Hejaz Railway, which would facilitate a connection to the holy site in distant Arabia. For all of his perceived shortcomings, Abdülhamid took his role as caliph seriously when it came to the Hejaz Railway, wasting little time to place the best technological resources at the empire’s disposal for the cause of a modernized method of pilgrimage for the world’s Muslims. The sultan’s publicly stated aims for the project, which would weave “the motherland from four corners with nets of iron,” were

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threefold: 1) to facilitate the pilgrimage, 2) to maintain the sovereignty of the Ottoman state, and 3) to foster panIslamic unity and education.60 In May 1900, Abdülhamid issued an imperial irade asking the empire’s Muslims for contributions to the railway, advertising the request through dailies such as Malûmat and Sabah.61 By the summer of 1903, with money growing ever tighter, the sultan issued an amplied request with “suggested donations” from every Muslim in the empire.62 Successful overtures were also made to international Muslims, as well as the Christians, Jews, and Druze peoples who stood to benet economically from the railway’s construction in Syria and Transjordan.63 The Hejaz administration organized labor in a binary fashion. A central oce in Istanbul managed donations, the purchase of supplies from abroad, and general scal management, while a central oce in Damascus managed everything else, including design, engineering, construction, and labor management.64 The results of the initial work executed by Ottoman engineers were, by all accounts, disastrous. Feeling intense pressure from the Porte to make things happen eciently, the Hejaz Railway administration reluctantly sought the help of a foreigner who would report to authorities in Istanbul but manage all of the operations from Damascus. The Porte chose Heinrich August Meißner, who had established strong credentials through his accomplished service on the Izmit–Ankara (1888–92), Thessaloniki– Monastir (1892–94), and French-managed Thessaloniki– Dedeağac (1894–96) lines.65 Meißner—who promptly red the vast majority of engineers in place—championed the project’s pious integrity, noting that the Hejaz Railway was “the most honestly managed fund in the country.”66 Soon thereafter, the Damascus oce enlisted the American-German engineer and architect Gottlieb Schumacher, a colonial leader in Haifa, to oversee the branch from Haifa to Daraa and onward to Damascus. Schumacher disagreed with Meißner about the outlook of the project and confessed he never believed the line would reach Mecca. He maintained that its construction was actually geostrategic, not pious.67 The Azeri journal Molla Nәsrәddin, reecting these sentiments, regularly commented on the geopolitical jockeying of the railway project and poked fun at its numerous travails (gs. 1.3, 1.4).68 In Berlin, meanwhile, Siemens, in ill health, was preparing to pass German leadership of the Baghdad Railway on to his successor at Deutsche Bank. Siemens met with a

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FIG. 1.3  Molla Nәsrәddin/Молла Насреддин (Azerbaijan) 1, no. 12 (1907), cover with a satirical view of railway construction. The Ottoman government busily feeds Germany (left) and Austria (right) at a table while others (left to right: Italy, Bulgaria, Serbia) must wait. The train set refers to the Baghdad Railway. The caption reads “Osmanlı: Hәlә sәbr edin, sizә dә verәcayem” (Turks: Be patient, we’ll serve you too). University of Rochester, River Campus Libraries.

group of men, several of whom had recently returned from a study expedition (known as the Stemrich Expedition) from Konya to Basra, to determine the anticipated costs for the railway’s construction. The sum Siemens anticipated was considerable—approximately 700,000 Turkish pounds per year of operation.69 The agreement between the railway company and the Porte was, in principle, based on a system of kilometric guarantees: 11,000 francs per kilometer in full operation, and 4,500 francs per kilometer under construction.70 These were to be delivered from “excess” revenues raised by the normal taxes of the vilayets, which meant that the citizens who most benetted from the railway were the ones paying for it. Just months before his death, Siemens traveled across Europe to raise the necessary capital, and this eventually produced an eective if convoluted nancial structure

FIG. 1.4  Unknown artist, Molla Nәsrәddin/Молла Насреддин (Azerbaijan) 3, no. 2 (1909), cover with a satirical view of railway construction. The gure on the left represents “old traditions,” while the gure on the right represents “old sciences.” The train is labeled as “progress,” while “regression” is written on the back of the cleric’s head. The caption reads “Qoymarıq qabağa gedәәsәәn” (We won’t let you move forward). University of Rochester, River Campus Libraries.

consisting of an initial base of 15 million francs divided among thirty thousand shares at 500 francs each.71 The Ottoman government and the Anatolian Railways Company each purchased 10 percent of the shares outright. Siemens further brought together a nancial conglomerate of German, French, Austrian, Swiss, Italian, and Ottoman banks that acquired the remaining 80 percent.72 In March 1903, the syndicate and the Porte signed the concession for the Baghdad Railway (g. 1.5). Fear of an incursion in or around the British protectorate of Kuwait also frightened its newly semi-independent sheikhs, who sought British help to strengthen port operations. The British swiftly agreed, building a number of wharves and other facilities for the Kuwaitis in 1906 and 1907.73 However, to most high-level ocials in Britain, the railway was insignicant apart from its role in the

Persian Gulf. A British writer and specialist on Ottoman debt reported: “There is no doubt compensation from the increase of land area under cultivation, which has produced a consequent increase of the tithe revenue and the railways have naturally produced a certain amount of prosperity; but as long as commerce is obstructed and industrial liberty is interfered with by puerile police measures, and as long as the construction of roads, bridges, tramways, irrigation and harbor works is neglected, the railways cannot pay their way for a long time to come.”74 The British consul to Germany ventured a comprehensive psychopolitical picture of the railway and its events in March 1907, noting how the German press downplayed the “colonization” eort, strategically diminishing the railway’s geopolitical signicance so as not to raise international suspicion.75 However, Wilhelm’s characteristic nicety, “my friend the Sultan,” belied his ambiguous motives. “There is no doubt,” the British consul wrote, “that in the eyes of many Germans . . . Asia Minor is considered more thoroughly German than some of the German colonies.”76 The colonization was promulgated by what another traveler identied as a facilitative role played by religious Turks, from the bureaucracy down to the peasants, and perhaps more generally by Islam as a religion. After a secretive trip to many of the rail sites in 1908, this same traveler determined that the problem was “the indolence of the peasant, who has no ambition beyond the immediate needs of his belly. To work hard today that he may have some money for to-morrow is unnecessary on the part of an individual who believes that his future lies entirely in the hands of God.”77 What this

FIG. 1.5  View of a German locomotive being transported across the

Bosphorus, 1904. Bayerisches Kriegsarchiv, Munich.

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traveler did not consider, however, was the number of Turks who did not believe that their fate lay in God’s hands or the sultan’s, a group who would mobilize a radical shift in the empire’s state of aairs—as well as that of the railways—in the coming years. RAILWAYS AND REVOLUTION Systematically aggrieved by the sultan’s cherry-picking of modern democratic principles, a formalized union of Ottoman military ocers known as the Committee for Union and Progress (cup) realized the sultan’s worst nightmare: an organized coup against him in 1908.78 The future of German interests and activities, which had been so deeply associated with Abdülhamid, remained to be seen. Construction of the Hejaz Railway and its branches had proceeded extraordinarily well, and in September 1908, just ve weeks after the reinstallation of the constitution, the line opened to Medina with great fanfare. The political situation, however, gave credence to the view that a railway should not penetrate Mecca itself, eliciting the ambiguous relationship that railways and religion should have. The nal 338 kilometers of the pilgrimage to Mecca would continue, as it had for centuries, by land.79 The Hejaz Railway was ready for operation to Medina at the time of the January 1909 pilgrimage, and although this came with a great deal of fanfare, records also indicate that the authorities had begun to fear the German speculation of coal in the area and what that might mean for Ottoman sovereignty in the region around the Hejaz.80 In contrast, construction in the Anatolian hinterland had made no kilometric progress since October 1904. This was partly because of nancial struggles and partly because of the challenges of penetrating the Taurus and Amanus ranges, which required an unprecedented eort in boring tunnels, building bridges, and negotiating labor and supplies across dicult terrain. A workers’ strike in September of 1908 exemplied the sense of personal empowerment rippling across the empire in the wake of the so-called Second Constitutional Era. Approximately seven hundred members of the Union des Employés du Chemin de Fer d’Anatolie had met with their lawyer and cup leaders at Haydarpaşa station in August and mounted a list of concerns, stressing that an imminent strike would, in fact, not be an action tied to the revolutionary events of the day.81 The workers’ statement included the following armations: “We strongly protest against the false idea that we seek to spread revolution. Be

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sure dear comrades, our word would be more revolutionarily pronounced if we were. If there are judges in Berlin there also must be in Scutari. Nobody has the right to slander us while the law protects you.”82 The strikers emphasized Islam as well as Ottomanism to assure the railway administrators that they should not fear a political revolution, despite the political undercurrents of the day. The workers invoked the Qur’an to underscore their unambiguous openness to foreigners, but also to stipulate their right to take issue with particular administrators or other parties if they deemed them abusive or otherwise unt: “It [Deutsche Bank] has also wanted to intimidate you by claiming that your association is illegal because among you there are a few of foreign nationality. It makes me laugh, for we Ottomans have never distinguished between our compatriots and friends overseas. The Qur’an and Muslim laws require us to consider all men—without distinction of race, nationality and religion—as our brothers and to treat them as God teaches. . . . We do not say we do not want any foreign collaborators, but we reserve the right to say at any time that we do not want this or that person, because he simply does not belong.”83 The workers’ dissatisfaction caught the Baghdad Railway administrators completely o guard, and, interpreting the problem as scal rather than cultural, they sought Deutsche Bank’s help in nding a solution. Administrators oered slight pay raises, but Deutsche Bank did not oer suggestions about the cultural issues, leaving that up to the administrators, who, as a group primarily consisting of engineers and architects, were largely untrained in the art of multicultural diplomacy. By the early twentieth century, the ascendancy of the German steel industry had made Germany the most powerful economy in Europe, surpassing Britain sometime around 1902.84 Personal prosperity skyrocketed, and it became increasingly dicult to attract skilled people to a conict-ridden Ottoman empire to build railways. Expansive marketing eorts to do so began in 1909, most prominently through the circulation of several thousand pamphlets to young engineering graduates. The pamphlets laid bare the atavistic aspects of railway construction for Germans, attempting to tap into a heady mix of populist, Orientalist, and colonial elements and convince colonist workers to come to Mesopotamia. A sampling of the lofty rhetoric includes: “Realize your interests in the Orient! She is worth millions and is in danger of being lost. Help strengthen the Germans in the East and

consolidate it with strong roots so that she may bear fruit! The tremendous work that has been done in the land of paradise by the German entrepreneurial spirit shall not have been in vain. Right now an opportune time has come in which we can cooperate on the great peaceful works of the German revival of the Euphrates and Tigris areas where she brings life to new heights.”85

◆◆◆ The Young Turk Revolution and the workers’ strike were responsible for an extended pause in the construction of the Baghdad Railway through January 1910. This resulted in a public discussion about the nature of the railway’s cultural and political signicance. While traveling along the Baghdad Railway’s projected path in Irak province in 1908, one observer encountered several Germans, including a handful of archaeologists busy in the ancient city of Assur on the western bank of the Tigris. Com­ menting on their work, a British traveler argued that the myopia of German “science” meant that German engineers could not understand the greater import of the railway, no less its potential in the Near East: “Man and railways have a trick of reacting upon each other, to their mutual benet. We have become so accustomed to observe the amazing success of the process in various parts of the world, that we are apt to lose sight of the fact there is little intrinsic merit in the conjunction, and that if certain elements are not favourable man may be brought to a railway, or a railway brought to man, without there ensuing any material gain in prosperity.”86 The traveler’s critique that the railway could have no “material gain” hinges signicantly on the strictly technological nature of the project. For this traveler, the work of the German archaeologists typied slavish German academicism and the inability to make an even greater colonial endeavor of the Baghdad Railway: “One wonders, perhaps, whether the great devotion to detail may not tend to lower that power of imagination which must initiate everything great, and if the studious, methodical, industrious German does not sometimes miss the essential in his pursuit of the concrete.”87 German sources indicate that railway engineers and archaeologists were not as naïve as this observer would have it, but the comment raises an important distinction between German Orientalism and its relationship to technological expertise and the essentially hegemonic colonial model of the British or French.

Another underestimated group in the colonial question is the Turks themselves. Writing from Istanbul in May 1909, the feminist nationalist, novelist, and political critic Halide Edip Adıvar articulated the railway’s territorial importance for the future of a modern and consolidated Turkish state: “The country is in a transition period of restless desire and struggle for modern civilization. The old and the new are ghting hand to hand. Those who lead the new know that they have to face obstacles of all kinds, even perdious accusations; but they have no time to halt, be it for an instant. The integrity, the very life of the nation depends on their success. They cannot go a step further on the road of the civilized world if they cannot suppress the prejudices and the ignorance that lead to the massacring of their fellow countrymen because they are Christians.”88 Adıvar’s impassioned plea for the new regime to retain the advantages of Ottoman multicultural society and to use modernization as a framework for doing this was as compelling a concept as it was a result of the railway’s realization. Construction of the Baghdad Railway resumed in February 1910. With the success of the Hejaz Railway now behind him, Meißner had strong ties with Ottoman Arabs and was recruited by the Baghdad Railway Company to be the head engineer for the railway’s nal section in the vilayet of Irak. While the penetration of the Taurus and Amanus ranges remained the primary engineering diculty for the remaining portions of the Baghdad Railway, Irak presented the most administrative challenges. Drawing upon his experience in the Hejaz, Meißner made a resolute decision to minimize the number of Christians hired. The region’s largely nomadic population was considered a threat to the construction process, and the nomads were the very subjects that the railway needed to domesticate. Meißner drew comfort from the observation that Bedouin populations in Egypt had settled in and taken up agriculture as a result of the railway. While Meißner had faith that the Arab could “prove himself as a farmer and a laborer,” in January 1913 the American consulate in Irak expressed a dierent sociopsychological concern: “It [is not] fair to judge the latent capabilities of these people by their present habits, when for centuries they have had no inducement to work more than necessary to supply their immediate, pressing wants. The sheikhs get the lion’s share of the returns from labor, and to enable him to progress, the Arab must be freed from . . . tribal organization.”89

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A portrait of the Baghdad Railway on the eve of the Great War reveals the fortitude of the Ottoman government, the railway’s tenacious German management, and the intrinsic geopolitical problems of the momentum this produced. The railway lay in four unconnected segments. In Anatolia, the rails dead-ended at the insignicant hamlet of Bulgurlu, as the Taurus Mountains were still to be penetrated. On the other side of the range, the railway had made good progress and ran all the way from Durak to Osmaniye at the western edge of the Amanus Mountains. This line also connected with the branch line to Alexandretta and the Mediterranean. West of the Amanus range, the rail ran from Rajo to Tell Abyad near Akçakale, with a major connection at Aleppo in between. OBJECTS OF WAR With the growing possibility of a full-edged European war ramping up over the course of the summer of 1914, the Baghdad Railway Company witnessed a precipitous drop in its workforce in the Taurus Mountains and Irak and Zor provinces. By August, when Germany declared war on Russia, all but the most senior German ocials and engineers were either recalled to Germany for military service or stationed elsewhere in the empire. In November, the Ottoman empire ocially entered the war on the side of Germany and Austria-Hungary, and drafts within the empire forced many workers to abandon labor on the railway and begin military preparations and service. The numbers in the sections of the railway based in Adana and Aleppo paint a clear picture: in August 1914, the Baghdad Railway Company had 11,796 employees; just one month later, it had only 1,651.90 In close consultation with German and Austrian ocials, the Porte issued a series of ve astonishingly ambiguous fatwas of jihad on all Christians in the empire, the ambiguity rising from the fact that Germans and Austrians were actually exempted. The ordinance was widely publicized in Turkish and Arabic publications across the empire on November 14, 1914.91 The call to holy war was framed as an altruistic call to defend the Muslim brethren oppressed by the colonial regimes of Britain and France. The language of the pamphlet is unequivocal: “The killing of the indels who rule over the lands has become a sacred duty, whether it be secretly or openly, as the great Koran declares in its word: ‘Take them and kill them whenever you come across them.’”92 German-style propaganda served as an inspiration for

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this peculiar form of jihad, and the jihad of 1914 was, in essence, a form of Islamicized Realpolitik. A British spy put it this way: “German inspiration is clearly seen in the thoroughness and unscrupulousness of the method, as well as in the lack of comprehension of social and human principles, and the imperfect reading of the mind and the temper of other people.”93 Jihad was of course a historically uncompromising and axiomatic concept, and so the imperative to qualify the plea in order to protect the other members of the alliance who were still residing within the Ottoman empire made it clear that this global jihad was one with signicant, ambiguated caveats. The fatwas, as such, came with the essential qualier: German and Austro-Hungarian nationals were to be spared and revered as “defenders” of Islam, even though there was no empirical evidence that this was true on the ground.94 The Cologne banking heir and Orientalist Max von Oppenheim described the fatwas as a “jihad by campaign,” articulating that the jihad, while Islamic in nature, was an extension of the caliph’s wishes to defeat the French, British, and Russians. This caused confusion in the panic of wartime. In Aleppo, for example, Austrian residents were deported along with their French and British neighbors.95 The role of the railway itself in the context of the war swiftly changed. At rst, many considered the railway as merely a new resource to be used as needed, not one that required further development in light of the war. However, early in 1915, the German general sta received an ocial recommendation to use the railway strategically. The advice was simple: complete the railway to Baghdad as soon as possible, for without it, the war eorts on the crucial Ottoman front would be overrun by British and Russian forces from three of the empire’s four sides.96 In the spring of 1915, the railway eectively became a total military operation. To underscore this, the ocial designation for railway personnel in administrative documents changed from “worker” to “soldier” in October 1916, inadvertently reecting the long-standing conation of the two in Ottoman culture.97 This ambiguation of the function of the railway brought with it a new range of both actors and operative needs. The Porte reckoned that it did not have any able-bodied workers of its own to spare from the battlefronts in the Balkans, the TurkishRussian border, and the Sinai peninsula. There was, however, a new resource: prisoners of war. Between 1915 and

FIG. 1.6  Indian prisoners of war working on the Baghdad Railway, 1916.

Imperial War Museums, Canberra.

1918, thousands of soldiers from the opposing powers were captured and forced into the railway labor camps, primarily at Belemedik in the Taurus Mountains. Russians, Frenchmen, and nationals and subjects of Britain, in addition to native Armenians and Greeks seeking refuge from persecution, all became workers at some point (g. 1.6). Railway labor during the latter part of the war ramped up, and a urry of activity led to the openings of a number of sections. By October 1918, despite virtually no prospect for a victory by the Central Powers, the Taurus stretch went into full operation, making it possible to travel 1,237 kilometers from Istanbul to Nusaybin. The urry of construction on the German and Ottoman side occurred sideby-side with the tumult of war and Britain’s primary interest in sabotaging the Ottoman rail network. In March 1917, the British captured Baghdad, bringing into question the ultimate utility of the railway’s penetration of the sparsely populated desert beyond Anatolia (g. 1.7). These successes of labor did not translate into political victory. The Ottoman empire withdrew from war with the Armistice of Mudros on October 30, 1918, accepting its

defeat. On November 18, 1918, an armistice between Germany and the Entente Powers was signed, sending Kaiser Wilhelm into exile in Holland. With the Treaty of Versailles in June of the following year, the war ocially ended and the Ottoman railways fell under temporary British control.98 By 1923, the formerly Ottoman railway network spanned three continents and twelve distinct political entities: Romania, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, Greece, Arabia, Egypt, Turkey, Syria, Lebanon, Palestine, Transjordan, and Iraq. The Baghdad Railway alone, the only unnished line, covered three distinct territories: the British mandate of Iraq, the French mandate of Syria, and the occupied imperial Ottoman territories. With the signing of the Treaty of Ankara in 1921, the railway played its last active geopolitical role in dening a large part of the border between French Syria and Turkey, a border that remains to this day. The Turks retained the railway from Kobani to Nusaybin, and the border between the two states ran a few meters to its south for a remarkable stretch of 350 kilometers. Even though there was no longer a dire need for a rail link between Nusaybin and

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FIG. 1.7  James McBey, View across a damaged railway intersection at

Muslimie, November 6, 1918. Imperial War Museums, Canberra.

Samarra, the French and British nonetheless collaborated to complete the link. In 1940, with the world yet again at war, a train made its rst long journey from Baghdad to Haydarpaşa. By this point, the need for railway infrastructure on a global scale was more than self-evident, and deep networks proliferated well beyond famous early railway frontiers such as Siberia and the Rocky Mountains. The

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nation state, the mandate, and even the colony increasingly had humanity’s most crucial resources within their reach, and visionary ideas such as a railway from strait to gulf emerged simply as problems to solve and things to build. The Ottoman railway network is an archetypal episode in modernity’s early transition from the realm of ideas to the realm of nations, from the dream and the drawing board to the soil and the spade.

2 Geography The Turks are the Germans of the East as the Greeks are the French. —Karl Kannenberg

After politics, geography is the most obvious context shaping the railways. An aphorism repeated by Alexander von Humboldt, the great German geographer, drives this point home: we can only understand the world, and hence what we do in it, through close physical inspection. In theory, this tenet renders all places and all people equal parts of an undierentiated global space. This idea drove much of the production of knowledge that formed the backdrop for the construction of the Ottoman railway network, insofar as it turned bankers into railway planners, laborers into architects, and engineers into geographers. Yet this lack of dierentiation between subjects was also anathema to the political objectives of a unied Wilhelmine Germany or Ottoman empire, both of which sought not only to homogenize disparate populations into a population with a distinct identity, but also to build a colonial presence abroad. The parallel construction of the polymath, with his disparate skills and interests, and the imperial German and Ottoman citizen, with his (and occasionally her) unity of duty and allegiance to the technological project of the railways, represented the ambiguous subject par excellence. Germany was long fashioned as a nation of Kultur, and this reied notion of German culture could be fashioned

into a transposable resource abroad. Humboldt’s geography would not be able to scientically substantiate the merit of the Wilhelmine Weltpolitik in the Ottoman empire, mostly because it had no means to assign value to the intangible quality of culture or to the relative value of German culture over Ottoman culture. Yet Humboldt’s legacy and his writings proved malleable enough to be remapped as a new science that could do this. This science was geopolitics, a science whose xation on the abstract world of maps, visual descriptions, conceptual systems, and diagrams departed from the primacy Humboldt placed on the physical world, one in which the very idea of “culture” transformed a tacit notion to an imageable program. In the Wilhelmine period, there were two institutions that actively engaged Humboldt’s legacy with particular force: the Monist movement and the University of Leipzig.1 The university was home to a constellation of humanists and natural scientists whose orbit circled largely around the geographer and ethnographer Friedrich Ratzel.2 Many consider Ratzel to be the godfather of several new strains of geographic science, including what would later be known as cultural geography, a discipline that

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drew on the written tract and visual representation in equal measure.3 Ratzel’s illustrated writings reveal a great deal about their time and the radically shifting nature of the science of geography after Humboldt; we can interpolate from Ratzel’s works much of the conception of geography as a science to which the German engineers of the Ottoman railway could contribute. Ratzel’s approach to geography took shape in his earliest full-length study, a descriptive tome on the Land and Leute (land and people) of the United States.4 In this study, Ratzel paid special attention to the Germans who had immigrated to the United States and the places where they settled, particularly Pennsylvania and the Midwest. Ratzel’s study appraised the German immigrants’ desire and ability to sustain German cultural traditions within a foreign culture and, in some isolated instances, their ability to make a direct cultural impact on the host culture in a syncretic fashion. Like so many other European visitors to North America at the time, Ratzel was fascinated by both the concept and the reality of the American frontier. It represented a spatial boundlessness that suited the intrepid qualities of its settlers, but even more importantly served as an ideal spatial model for a society whose settled borders were consonant with its needs. The organic nature of the American frontier inspired what Ratzel would call “anthropogeography,” a framework for considering geography culturally as a system not tied to “real” conditions such as climate, ora, and fauna but rather to the agency and caloric needs of its inhabitants. The nation had become an organism. This concept resonated deeply back home in the newly unied German empire, which had, to recall the biological analogy, coalesced from an array of tiny organisms into one great single organism whose size, relative to its population, was thought to be insucient. Ratzel’s organic theories have often been considered as a forebearer of Nazi thought, but how they would be applied was beyond his control and is beyond the scope of this book. However, his theories did have an immediate relevance to the GermanOttoman relationship insofar as they allowed the Ger­ mans to see the borders of contiguous polities as malleable, penetrable, and frontier-like. By “contiguous,” I am referring to the 1879 Dual Alliance (Zweibund) between Germany and Austria-Hungary, which forged an ocial and profoundly important German alliance with the Habsburg crown and Southeastern Europe.

26

Geography

Despite centuries punctuated by adversarial episodes with the German lands, Austria-Hungary shared a number of interests common to the empires’ geographic location at the center of Europe as well as the ability to communicate in German.5 Through symbiosis and cooperation, the German and Austro-Hungarian organisms could steadily expand the organic Raum to the southeast in the weak Ottoman lands, in the same way Ratzel had seen in the American frontier in the West.6 The railway, whose biological analogues could be many, was a clear rst step in the process of growth—as a spine, a skeleton, a vascular system. Because the notion of biological features trumped the importance of state borders in Ratzel’s model, the fact that the Ottoman empire and the Austro-Hungarian empire were not technically seized was irrelevant. With only the minor, surmountable incision of the Bosphorus, these lands were contiguous and could be connected by land-based infrastructures such as rail, usurping the maritime priorities of France and Britain. Here, Ratzel’s concept of diusionism functioned as conceptual handmaiden. In the diusionist model, physical similarities between objects, such as railway stations, could prove the migration of people, with culture signied by specic physical traits evident in these objects.7 As Suzanne Marchand has noted, this concept allows material evidence to turn into history and a narrative.8 To this end, Ratzel and a handful of those associated with him were part of something called a “diusionist revolt.”9 Because the concept of diusion was as much about the contemporary world as about the historical one, we must contextualize the concept within the German colonial project. Beyond being a relatively late project in the greater European colonial landscape, German colonialism forged particularities with diusionist principles. German colonial law was dierent from British, French, Italian, Dutch, and Belgian colonial law in that it expressly prohibited miscegenation.10 This demonstrated a preference for cultural diusion as opposed to hybridity in the German colonies of Africa, China, and the Pacic—with ramications for everything from marriage laws to the appearance of colonial buildings, thus debunking the tendency to think of the colonial context as a site of hybridity. Ratzel’s immediate focus on issues of “settlement” as a product of his biological analogy for the state was, however, more concerned with the lands adjoining the so-called Heimat (homeland). Ratzel implored Germans to abandon their historical allegiances to duchies, diets, and bishoprics and instead to consider everything between the Rhine and

the Vistula as home.11 While the river-to-river concept was polemical, Ratzel’s eects on thinking about colonialism and expansion were far more evocative at the level of the abstract biological analogy, loaded as it was with suggestions of continental expansion beyond the Vistula.12 As much as Ratzel’s formula is exemplied by the Ottoman railways, his thinking also suggests that the internal migration ideology had an intrinsic relationship to modern engineering. The Hanoverian and Prussian transformation of the marshy fens of East Friesland into habitable, dry land is a case in point.13 Colonists from a variety of German states settled side by side and formed a new “High Moor” culture in a previously unsettled region, displaying the economic as well as cultural success of the notion of Rhine–Vistula migration.14 Letters written by the Orientalist Max von Oppenheim help us go one step further, as they demonstrate the connection to the Near East. In September 1910, Dr. Karl Weule, another Leipzig geographer, wrote to Oppenheim, asking him to review Ratzel’s 1885 text Völkerkunde in preparation for a second edition, and specically seeking his knowledge for any updates on the “MediterraneanNorth African-West Asian” cultural circles.15 The template for Ratzel’s Völkerkunde was scientic in principle, but the Mediterranean-North African-West Asian cultural circle represented something very dierent in 1910 from what it had in 1885. The intervening quarter century was, of course, marked by the German entry into the colonial arena. Geographic and descriptive studies of German colonies in Africa applied methods unique to the science of geography for a fuller understanding of precisely who and what they were ruling.16 However, the southern and eastern Mediterranean, Oppenheim’s region of expertise, was an area of geographic interest that, because of the sovereignty of the Ottoman empire, needed to be portrayed under a dierent rubric. The most useful rubric to gain currency was that of a southeasterly “sphere of interest” predicated not on colonial geography per se, but on geodesy, a concept outlined in a map produced around 1914 by the imperial colonial oce and entitled “Geodetic Areas of Interest to the Central Powers” (g. 2.1).17 The “geodetic” aspects of the map refer to its premise of geographic, earthbound contiguity, making in this case a continuous trigonometric slice of Eurasia and Africa and outlining the slice’s potential apportionment through bands of land. Under the tutelage of geodesy, the German colonial map took a further step toward unifying its “areas

of interest” beyond its partnership with Austria-Hungary; it conated the Central Powers of Germany, AustriaHungary, the Ottoman empire, and Bulgaria into a single entity before they became a bloc in World War I. The “areas of interest” include the Nordic nations, an area spanning from the gates of Paris to northern Italy and the Mediterranean and onward past Cairo in the west, the entirety of the Arabian peninsula and the Persian Gulf in the south, and most of Persia through the Caucasus and the gates of Odessa and St. Petersburg in the east. This space was imagined through “scientic” geographic cartography and represented a contiguous band of land without maritime divisions between colonizer and colonized; the distinction between German colonization in Africa and the country’s ambiguous relationship with the Ottoman empire may therefore be merely a matter of semantics. Although the language used to describe the German penetration of the Ottoman empire occasionally included “colony” and “to colonize,” more often the terms were tied to earth and movement, echoing the pathos of the biological organism: “settlement” (Besiedlung), “development” (Entwicklung), “cultivation” (Bebauung), “irrigation” (Bewässerung), and so on. The actual earth of Anatolia, Rumelia, and Arabia as such revealed itself as a discursively entrenched project of naming and description whose unique, colonial-like qualities are indebted to its theoretical ties to nineteenth-century geography. All of this was despite the trenchant and well-developed conceptualization of Ottoman soil as dictated by the Ottoman land code. German geographers, to be sure, underestimated the extent to which the Ottoman empire had already theorized and governed its own territory and inscribed its own notion of sovereignty in its myriad denitions and regulations of Ottoman soil. By the 1890s, the Ottoman land code had become a very complex system that divided land into ve main categories: freehold lands, lands belonging to the state exchequer, mortmain and tenanted lands, abandoned lands, and dead lands.18 These ve categories are in many ways prescient of Ratzel’s theories, analogizing as they do land and biological vitality. The fundamental dierence, however, was that the tenor of the Ottoman land code is ardently protectionist, not expansionist, forging laws that shield the organism from harm or impingement rather than speculating on ways in which it could expand. This involved imagining virtually any way in which the earth presented questions to those on it.

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FIG. 2.1  Reichskolonialamt, Map of the “Geodetic Areas of Interest to the Central Powers,” ca. 1914. Bundesarchiv, Berlin.

Railways, like roads, fell into the category of mortmain and tenanted lands (arazi metruké), which placed them in an ambiguous zone between private and public land, vividly reecting the ambiguity surrounding their expropriation and development.19 The most common use of the term “colony” in the German engagement with the Ottoman empire referred to settlements whose function was, above all, religious. Being near the Holy Land was important to both Jews and Christians of many nationalities, and the German colonies at Haifa, Jaa, Sarona, and Jerusalem were not particularly unique in this respect.20 A broad swath of literature tinged with colonial rhetoric emerges from the railways. In this literature, the railway is depicted as a natural enterprise of geography, penetrating the diverse landscapes of the empire and uniting an understanding of it. The geographer and Orientalist Hugo Grothe advocated a double function for the railways that included eecting a general cultural transformation of the Ottoman empire. Grothe tried to disabuse those who believed that

28

Geography

the railway alone could reinvigorate the Ottoman empire.21 He rejected claims in 1906 that the railway had already helped to transform the condition of the people of Anatolia and Arabia, noting that on his own journey along the railway he encountered fewer than two hundred Germans. He wrote: “What’s the point, if German scientic development of the land leads to increased German trade and railways built with German money, yet an intimate contact with the people, which can only be acquired through education and instruction, fails to materialize?”22 Grothe insisted that more schools and hospitals were needed and that true cultural enhancement could only take place if the railway companies built these institutions alongside the rail.23 In reality, Germans were developing schools in Istanbul, Bursa, Izmir, and Adana.24 In 1906, the German consul to the Ottoman empire even oered to subsidize Carmelite schools if they would oer German language classes.25 Railway construction also facilitated observation of the surreptitious colonization of Anatolia by other

national groups. Otto Warburg, professor, botanist, Zionist, and agriculture expert, stumbled upon a series of lackluster colonies immediately adjacent to the railway around 1900 while traveling between Eskişehir and Ankara. Warburg discovered they were inhabited by Romanian Jews who had been resettled after losing their land in the Treaty of Berlin. Warburg took the community of more than one hundred families under his wing, championing their interests to both local Ottoman and international Zionist interests and improving their living quality through subsidies.26 GEOGRAPHY, RAILWAY, AND THE DESCRIPTIVE TRACT Descriptive and documentary tracts and visual representations of the Orient are a well-known genre commonly associated with two rubrics: the encyclopedic collection of knowledge of a land newly brought under European dominion, and more specic treatises on the arts of a foreign culture. A touchstone of the former is Napoleon’s Description de L’Égypte, the multivolume series documenting and illustrating ancient and modern Egypt, published between 1809 and 1829. The Description drew upon the expertise of about 160 civilian scholars and scientists with diverse skill sets, particularly from various subelds of geography. The latter is emblematized by Owen Jones’s 1856 masterwork, The Grammar of Ornament, which laboriously detailed examples of ornamental schemes from a broad range of places, featuring Arabian, Turkish, “Moorish,” and Persian examples in particular. Jones’s accomplishment in The Grammar of Ornament was as much one of documentation as it was technological, being one of the rst major works of chromolithographic printing to circulate widely, in turn embedding color into the philosophy of the decorative arts. There are far fewer exemplars in German, particularly at the scale of either the Description or The Grammar of Ornament, although the Austro-Hungarian Kronprinzenwerk did establish important paradigms of charting its own multiethnic lands. That does not mean, however, that there was not an appetite for geographic knowledge from books or that the railway was not an impetus for the development of a body of geographic literature. For armchair travelers, there was no shortage of travelogues documenting Ottoman landscapes and cultural geography. In the postmodern sense, these tracts constructed the otherness—even when written by Ottomans themselves—of the people and places that constituted the landscapes of the newfangled railway

network. We know better than to consider these documents as vessels of unalloyed knowledge, even though most purported to be just that. We also know not to categorically dismiss them, as they contain valuable, subjective insights. Specialists of travel literature have often cited the leitmotif of epistemic violence that colors the power-laden relationship of travelers to their subject.27 Individuals who have the nancial means to travel, the education to write, and the desire to disseminate their accounts can inict a certain violence on their subjects, stripping them of their capacity to represent themselves, as these accounts freeze them in the gaze of those who do not know them and who rarely speak their language. Although the trope of epistemic violence applies primarily to the relationship between people, it is also possible to see it in the geographic descriptions of landscapes, particularly in German examples that depict both peoples and places in parallel extremes: breathtakingly beautiful or, alternatively and quite commonly, plainly hideous. As a conduit traversing everything from the barren steppe, craggy mountains, and lonely desert to lively villages and bustling cities, the railways oered a particularly broad canvas. Among English-language materials, David Fraser’s 1909 Short Cut to India is unrivaled. In this travel account, Fraser couches evocative imagery in the nineteenth-­ century picturesque tradition. Traveling by rail through Bilecik, Fraser rejects comparisons to Europe and instead begins to describe the Anatolian landscape in singular, descriptive prose: “After one wide curve the little town of Biledjik seemed to lie at our feet, the people to be no bigger than ies, the foaming river a mere thread of silver. Up and up climbed the train, through a dozen tunnels, over innumerable bridges, along magnicent gorges, until darkness came and I could see no more. . . . There are few railways in the world that can equal the rst day’s journey on the Anatolian line.”28 Geography and politics in German literature were more clearly linked in the later years of railway construction, when texts proliferated at an even greater rate. Braunschweig geographer Ewald Banse’s orid 1913 account of the railway and Latvian-born Paul Rohrbach’s second edition (1911) of Die Bagdadbahn, with its deepseated racism, are excellent examples of the range of descriptive geographic tracts about the railways.29 The writings of the Austrian journalist Karl Figdor, who traveled the railway on duty for the Vossische Zeitung in the

Geography

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spring and summer of 1914, also relay dramatic accounts of the railway environs in German, anticipating the sensationalist writings of his later career as an author of adventure novels. In Kleinasiens Naturschätze (Asia Minor’s Natural Treasures), German lieutenant and geographer Karl Kannenberg broke with the tradition of German literature on Asia Minor as a eld of purely scientic research and wrote of its geography in more profane terms: utility, commerce, and the potential for development.30 The analogy opening this chapter also opens Kannenberg’s tome on the natural wonders of Asia Minor: “The Turks are the Germans of the East as the Greeks are the French.”31 Kannenberg’s predication of a historical, almost spiritual, kinship between Germany and the Ottoman empire alerts the reader that this is a geographic treatise on the literal and gurative contiguity of the German and Ottoman empires: This shows itself not only through the fact that the Germans, in spite of the dierence in religion, feel themselves drawn much more to the Turks than to the Greeks, while the French sympathize more with the latter, but has also shown itself especially during the late Greek and Turkish war, which reveals so many points of resemblance with the German and French war; on the one side the theatrical ghter’s pose, the many bombastic words before the beginning, and during the ght . . . a bold élan . . . on the other side over and against the attacks of the mobile and excited enemy, at the start utter calm and quiet, then—the awakening of a lion—a stroke like that of the German Michel, when he becomes angry.32

In general, Kannenberg articulates the anity between the two lands by comparing Asia Minor’s landscapes, its ora and fauna, with those of Germany, noting how certain animals and minerals are not utilized to their greatest capacity in the Ottoman empire, whereas in Germany they are, by his account, properly exploited. Here ecology is both kinship and destiny. In 1883, Crown Prince Rudolf of Austria-Hungary initiated one of the greatest works of modern geography and ethnography: the massive, beautifully illustrated twentyfour-volume Kronprinzenwerk. No study to date has examined the particularities of volume twenty-two of this work, which focuses on Bosnia and Herzegovina. Among other subjects, the volume stresses the existing and

30

Geography

emerging railways of Bosnia and Herzegovina as the major force for the region’s modernization. The presupposition regarding the railways was that they could eectively turn the former Ottoman region into an orderly model colony of Austro-Hungarian dominion, exemplifying how the empire could stymie Slavic nationalism and potential resistance from its Muslim subjects while cultivating a centralized Habsburg cultural ethos. The volume is key to understanding how Central Europe saw itself as a safe harbor for Ottoman history and culture.33 Between 1878 and the publication of volume twenty-two in 1883, this understanding had been made fairly evident, and it captures a moment of tremendous optimism about Bosnia’s potential as a positive multicultural experiment, truly one of a kind in Europe. The sections covering the cultural geography of the region would become the most in-depth cultural geographic account of an Ottoman population to date. In addition to the consistent references to the railways, the volume’s authors take particular care to document and describe the Ottoman monuments of Bosnia and Herzegovina. The text’s constant praise of rail development and the accompanying modernity stands in stark contrast to the picturesque illustrations of Bosnia and Herzegovina’s landscape, which are rendered nearly exclusively as historical environments. Signicant portions of the ethnographic and geographic studies focus on architecture and the building arts. Although later German-language studies in the eld of art history are thought to be the rst “scientic” studies of Ottoman architecture, the comprehensive descriptions and documentation of the Ottoman architecture of Bosnia in the Kronprinzenwerk represent the rst critical and analytical studies of the topic. Several plates in particular hone in on architectural information. These include etchings of Sarajevo (g. 2.2), the iconic bridge of Mostar (Stari Most), the Gazi Hüsrev Bey Mosque of Baščaršija, and the Sinan Tekija (meaning tekke, a convent of the Kaderija dervish order) in Sarajevo’s outskirts (g. 2.3). The images of these structures demonstrate, along with the application of Islamic referents to the new civic structures of Austro-Hungarian Bosnia and Herzegovina, aspirations to be contextual. New building styles were not successful if measured in terms of accuracy. The idiom was plainly Neo-“Moorish,” interpreting the traditional characteristic of “Moorish” architecture from Iberia: cusped arches, stair-step crenellation, and ablaq

FIG. 2.2  “H,” View of Sarajevo. From Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild, vol. 22, Bosnien und Hercegovina (Vienna: Druck und Verlag der kaiserlich königlichen Hof- und Staatsdruckerei, 1901), 47. University of Rochester, River Campus Libraries.

FIG. 2.3  R. Bernt, View of the Sinan Tekija. From Die österreichisch-

ungarische Monarchie in Wort und Bild, vol. 22, Bosnien und Hercegovina (Vienna: Druck und Verlag der kaiserlich-königlichen Hof- und Staatsdruckerei, 1901), 441. University of Rochester, River Campus Libraries.

(striping).34 Austrian and Czech architects deemed the style appropriate to represent the Ottoman and Muslim contexts, in part because it conformed to a stylistic repertoire established elsewhere in Europe for “exotic” building types such as synagogues, zoos, and pleasure pavilions. This had the unusual eect of both familiarizing and “othering” Bosnia within the context of Europe, naturalizing it into a notion of multicultural Europe while simultaneously, and anachronistically, linking it to a particular medieval Jewish community with a largely second-class status on the continent. The volume has a single image of the railways: a railway bridge crossing the “Ivansattel,” a steep pass in the Dinaric Alps between Sarajevo and Mostar, built of ashlar and featuring an inverted steel truss span (g. 2.4). At the end of the introductory volume, Crown Prince Rudolf indicated the binding eect he intended the volumes of the study to have, one that appears to address the signicant interethnic strife in Bosnia and beyond: “Let the peoples of these lands love, respect and support each other as they come to learn about each other through this work.”35 While the volume did not successfully cohere the constituencies of the Austro-Hungarian empire in any lasting way, it did have specic eects in the German-language

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FIG. 2.4  R. Bernt, View of a railway bridge in Bosnia. From Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie in Wort

und Bild, vol. 22, Bosnien und Hercegovina (Vienna: Druck und Verlag der kaiserlichköniglichen Hof- und Staatsdruckerei, 1901), 519. University of Rochester, River Campus Libraries.

study of culture and the arts. The volume provided fodder not only for those in the diusionist school of geography but also for those who sought to counter the monolithic Eurocentric origin myths in the arts established by Alois Riegl and the Vienna School.36 The concept of diusionism had a particular potency in Bosnia, as it directly linked an Ottoman and Islamic culture to Central and Germanspeaking Europe. The railway, like architecture, dress, ceramics, and other diusionist indices, functioned as a ligament of this connection. TEXTUAL AND VISUAL DISPATCHES FROM THE OTTOMAN “OUTBACK” There are several epistemological problems in the genre of late Ottoman travel literature that produce a contrast to

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the larger body of works in Europe.37 Scholars have noted that despite the long-standing tradition of travelogues in Ottoman literature, pre- and early modern rihla literature clearly distinguished itself from the European format of travel literature in the latter half of the nineteenth century.38 Ottoman travel literature tended to focus on locations beyond the major population centers in Ottoman lands, which were integral to imperial identity despite their small populations. The descriptive Ottoman geographic and literary tracts on the railways also operate as travel literature and reveal much about issues of class, education, and mobility. Ottoman travel literature within the empire’s orbit is dicult to characterize, given the multiplicity of authors and locations visited. Still, some common themes centering on the new railway network

emerge, and foremost among these are the concepts of “progress” and “modernity” through new technology. The polymath Ahmet Mithat sets the tone in an 1878– 79 tract, describing a gradual shift in the Ottoman psyche that transforms travel from a burdensome activity to something pleasurable because of modernity. He notes: “In these days of ships so grand as to subjugate the seas through their own force and railways capable of mocking . . . terrestrial distances, it can be said that there is left hardly any dierence between travelling across the world’s largest continent and strolling though a city.”39 Late Ottoman travel literature often had maps of the railways, associated shipping networks, and geological structures with latitudinal and longitudinal bearings.40 Servet-i Fünun is without a doubt the single most important source for this literature. The publisher, Ahmet İhsan Tokgöz, used the publication to explore a number of geographic themes, particularly as they related to cultural geography (g. 2.5). The dispatches on the railways fell into that vein. Servet-i Fünun published a series of descriptions of railway journeys beginning in October 1896, on the occasion of the completion of the railway to its Konya terminus.41 Later issues proudly displayed a new station building of the Hejaz Railway on the cover (g. 2.6). The 1896 issues also concentrated on the greater cultural riches around Konya, such as the ruins of Kaykubad’s palace, a Seljuk monument, as well as those in the vicinities of Akşehir and Afyonkarahisar. Traveling from Konya to Istanbul, the writers’ accounts focus on sites along the railway, not the railway’s stations or its physical elements per se. The accounts elicit the thrill of the railway’s technological feats, its landscape, and the parts of the Ottoman “outback” it opened up: Less than three or ve years ago, the journey to Konya was considered as important as it was dicult. For one to say “I travelled to Konya” meant “I made one of the important journeys.” However, now we will travel for two days in moving rooms. Under agreeable circumstances we will arrive at the well-known city where in old times one could hardly have arrived in less than fteen days. As the development of civilization becomes known, is read about in newspapers and grows in inuence, it is truly something quite dierent to benet from the feelings it evokes in reality. One is verbal and theoretical. The other one is tangible. We hear that in America, one can travel [by rail] up one side and down the other

FIG. 2.5  Depiction of an Ottoman geography classroom in Servet-i Fünun

648 (11 Eylûl 1319 [September 24, 1903]). Milli Kütüphane Başkanlığı, Ankara.

in three days. . . . Above all, when a person sees the beautiful works of these modern institutions within his motherland, his home country, through his own eyes, only then does he have this entirely dierent feeling.42

In Konya itself, Servet-i Fünun reporters note the ripple eects the railway development has on the city landscape: “nice and smooth roads,” “a mosque with very elegant minarets,” and generally larger buildings.43 Naturally, the reporters take in the main sights of the city and demonstrate how the railways facilitated a way for more Ottomans to experience the variegated cultural riches within their own empire. For the writers, the spiritual importance of Konya as a center of Su life remained, despite the railway and despite the amelioration occurring in the city’s outskirts; the inner city, its bazaars, and everyday life maintained their natural, pre-industrial ethos and in turn their spiritual relevance. Meanwhile, the writers mention a “model farm” not far from the station, constructed in conjunction with the railway to instruct locals in advanced agricultural techniques.44 Upon arrival in the city of Akşehir, the writers describe the station’s considerable distance from the city center, a common occurrence for the new railway stations, resulting from the often-complicated circumstances surrounding the acquisition of land stipulated by the Ottoman land code: “The station of Akşehir is half an hour away from the town.

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FIG. 2.6  View of Hejaz Railway station under construction on the cover of Servet-i Fünun 607 (28

Teşrinisani 1318 [December 11, 1902]). Milli Kütüphane Başkanlığı, Ankara.

The road from town [to the station] is in bad condition. I searched for the reason why the stations are so far away. When the companies attempted to acquire a [piece of] land to build a station near the town, the proprietors showed their greediness and eagerness, asking for ten times the normal price, forcing companies to acquire lands far away. Consequently, they [the townsfolk] lose money and [wind up being located] far away from the station.”45 Unlike in Akşehir, the road connection from Afyonkarahisar’s station to its inner city is well planned, but the journalists note the city’s curious architecture, which appears at odds with its new status as a modern

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transportation hub. The last city the reporters visit before arriving in Eskişehir is Kütahya. Although they arrive at night, their impression is one of awe at the scale and sophistication of the new structures. The languid narration of the Anatolian Railways in the series presents an entirely dierent format than the enterprising account of the Hejaz Railway. In all likelihood, this is because İhsan Tokgöz wished to market the Hejaz Railway as a national project, rather than a touristic one. While the German aspects of the Hejaz Railway’s construction are mentioned, they are mostly played down. The images published by Servet-i Fünun are the most extensive visual

account of the Hejaz Railway on record and contain the vast majority of visual material documenting the railway’s construction (g. 2.7). In one issue, the journal declared the technical purpose of the Hejaz Railway as follows: “A large railway will pass through the historic places of Arabia and through cradles of ancient cultures from north to the south one or two years later. This line will serve to improve agriculture in Arabia and therefore the incomes of the Ottoman State will also increase. The tribes living in this region will learn about contemporary culture thanks to this railway. It will also serve commercial, agricultural, and other purposes. It is one of the large and successful works of the revered Sultan Abdülhamid II, who made the design and implementation of this project possible.”46 The texts typically fell into such a laudatory genre, while the photographic spreads fell into more variegated categories that systematically broke down the grounds for admiration: preconstruction landscapes, on-site labor, o-site industrial labor, stations and bridges under construction or recently completed, and inaugural ceremonies and festivities. They paint a picture of a landscape transformed from a primordial, mostly unfriendly, untamed “outback” into one domesticated through technology and labor. The structures conquering the landscape are memorialized in photographs whose reverent tone, built through a volume of visual evidence, buttresses the sense of loyalty and support for both the caliph-sultan and Western technology promoted through the text. The accounts of the Baghdad Railway and the Hejaz Railway present very dierent expository strategies. The Baghdad Railway is presented as a project of modernization for Istanbul and Anatolia through German expertise. The Hejaz is considered in far greater detail, both in words and images, as a project of imperial and pious fortitude. The well-known Abdülhamid II albums, a monumental collection of fty-one albums of large-format photographs spanning the years 1880–93, have a similar objective.47 The 1,819 photographs place a primacy on Ottoman modernization, highlighting handsome new educational facilities with alert students, well-equipped army and navy facilities, advanced civic projects such as government buildings, factories, and industrial activities, and a wide swath of infrastructure such as hospitals, port facilities, and, of course, railways, mostly captured by the photographers Abdullah Frères, Pascal Sébah, and Policarpe Joaillier. The time range of the albums’ compilation—1880 to 1893—falls within a period when the railway development

FIG. 2.7  View of Hejaz Railway workshop in Servet-i Fünun 645 (21

Ağustos 1319 [September 3, 1903]). Milli Kütüphane Başkanlığı, Ankara.

was still nascent. The lines of European Turkey and the line from Haydarpaşa to Izmit had been completed, while the technologically more advanced and architecturally more ambitious construction of the Anatolian Railways was either under negotiation or in early gestation. As much as documenting a new, modern geography set into motion by the modern sultan, the albums eschewed the demeaning stereotypes of popular Orientalist photographers working in the empire.48 Abdülhamid II himself gave the following directive at the outset of the albums’ compilation: “Most of the photographs for sale in Europe vilify and mock Our Well-Protected Domains. It is imperative that the photographs to be taken in this instance do not insult Islamic peoples by showing them in a vulgar and demeaning light.”49 How to do this? One image of Sirkeci station by Frères may provide an answer: it depicts the station from the trackside, where the foregrounding of the railbed and the steel canopy camouage the exuberant Orientalizing posture of the building, as if to mask a “demeaning” architecture (g. 2.8). Similarly, the images of the busy port of Haydarpaşa—including the jetty with its narrow-gauge sleepers for loading and unloading goods, the station behind a foreground of tracks, and the rail yards—isolate the Haydarpaşa campus as a freestanding node of technological progress, not an imposition of foreign experts (g. 2.9). Indeed, the images rarely reect foreign powers, with the exception of stately portraits of embassies and consular residences. The Abdülhamid II albums are successful in portraying Ottoman people and Ottoman lands in a way that did not

Geography

35

FIG. 2.8  Abdullah Frères, View of

Sirkeci station, ca. 1890. Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. FIG. 2.9  View of Haydarpaşa

station, ca. 1880. Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

36

demean them as European photography did. The images of the railways—as both infrastructural intervention in the geography of the empire and a technological entity—are some of the evocative examples of Tanzimat spirit, achieved through its singular focus on objects over people. AN ARTIST ON THE RAILS Another album tracking cultural geography is a study in contrasts, and it reveals the sharp dierence in tenor between the heroic Ottoman impulses surrounding album-making and geography and the more romantic German usage of the format. In 1908, Deutsche Bank and the Anatolian Railways Company commissioned a limited-production album of twenty-eight watercolors to commemorate the Anatolian Railways and their environs. German military artist Theodor Rocholl compiled the album, entitled “Images from the Anatolian Railway: Dedicated to Friends and Guests of the Organization.”50 Deutsche Bank’s selection of Rocholl for the project was not arbitrary. After working as an illustrator for several German newspapers, Rocholl was enlisted by the Ottoman government to document the Greek-Turkish War of 1897. By the late nineteenth century, there was a well-established tradition of Ottoman sultans bringing European painters to the imperial capital to document the events of the court and even to train the sultans themselves in techniques of painting.51 Under Sultan Abdülaziz, that painter was the Polish artist Stanisław Chlebowski, with whom the sultan collaborated on a cycle of historical battle paintings and other topics that stressed the sultan’s modernizing agenda.52 Another prominent court painter was the Italian Fausto Zonaro, who ourished under the tutelage of Sultan Abdülhamid II from 1896 until the sultan was deposed in 1909.53 Both Chle­ bowski’s and Zonaro’s focus on heroic battle painting ew in the face of the reality of the contemporary Ottoman battleeld, which was anything but victorious. The fact that the Ottoman empire’s military glory was withering ever more quickly would not have been lost on either artist, particularly Zonaro, whose tenure at the court witnessed some of the empire’s most crushing upheavals. Yet Zonaro maintained a staunchly heroic mood in his depictions of the Ottomans at war. One of his earliest paintings for Abdülhamid was of the Battle of Domokos, a turning point of the Greek-Turkish War of 1897, one of the few decisive victories for the German-trained Ottoman army in the latter half of the nineteenth century (g. 2.10). Although it is clear that the request for this histrionic image depicting

FIG. 2.10  Fausto Zonaro, Battle of Domokos, 1897. Dolmabahçe Palace Collection, Istanbul.

the Ottoman defeat of the Greek army at Domokos came from the sultan in the rst place, Zonaro does nothing to mitigate the false portrayal of the battle as a pure Ottoman victory. In fact, hundreds of Ottoman soldiers perished, and yet what we see on Zonaro’s canvas is a deep, unbroken wall of Ottoman soldiers fearlessly surging up a hill. Behind them, in the distance, additional regiments make clear the plentitude of might, and in front of them the bodies of three dead Greek soldiers lie on the ground, about to be trampled. Siblings to these images come to us from Rocholl, who produced four oil paintings related to the Battle of Domokos in 1898. Rocholl had gained some notoriety in the Ottoman empire through his visual dispatches for German periodicals from the previous year, and his output from this assignment shows the extent to which he mingled intimately with Ottoman soldiers in their time away from the battleeld. Records do not indicate that Abdülhamid was in any way disappointed with Zonaro’s depiction of the Battle of Domokos, and yet he invited Rocholl to travel to Istanbul to paint a second version of the same event.54 This invitation also coincided with Kaiser Wilhelm and Empress Auguste Viktoria’s second visit to the Ottoman empire. While Rocholl does note Istanbul’s “inexhaustible richness of colors and shapes,”55 he demonstrates a certain anti-Orientalist posture when he resists long and lyrical geographic descriptions of the exciting city in his memoir (because he found that such descriptions had already saturated European audiences): “The unforgettable Galata Bridge led me so many times over the Golden Horn into the thousandfold throng of people in Istanbul. And yet I know of the scores of thousands of countrymen who have previously gone on this same path and thus I will not bore the reader with more descriptions of Istanbul.”56

Geography

37

The sultan relayed a request for four color images depicting the Battle of Domokos and had Rocholl set up in a private salon in the southwest corner of Dolmabahçe Palace to execute them. When the four canvases were complete, they were brought up to Yıldız Palace and presented to the sultan, along with a price stipulated by Rocholl.57 The dragoman Tassim Bey came to Rocholl soon thereafter with a troubling report: the sultan found the images to be beautiful but also found the price to be too expensive. The sultan’s intention had been to put the images in elaborate frames and to present them at a grand reception for Kaiser Wilhelm and Auguste Viktoria, but Rocholl’s price would preclude the acquisition of both the images and the frames—and, as a result, the sultan would buy only two of the four images for the sum of 33,000 marks.58 The selections, now part of the Dolmabahçe Palace collection, included a battle scene that appears to show Ottomans successfully repelling Greek horsemen. Deliberating on the priority placed on the frames, Rocholl noted, with an air of both bitter self-consolation and suspicion: “If you know how susceptible the oriental is to all that is shiny and splendid, you can put yourself in the sultan’s position. But was that really the whole story?”59 Indeed, while the rejection of two of the four paintings was posited as a nancial issue, things were probably more complicated. When the reception for the kaiser and empress was publicized, Rocholl learned that he was not among the invitees, and from this understood that he had done something with his images to fall from the sultan’s favor.60 Palace records do not indicate the rationale for the sultan’s selection of two of the four canvases, but the content of the other two likely holds the key to Rocholl’s demotion. One of them, entitled Prayer of the Turks at the Graves of the Perished at Domokos, depicts a brigade of Turkish soldiers standing in solidarity and prayer at the single-deadliest battleeld.61 Although the Ottomans decisively won the Battle of Domokos, it was probably not to the sultan’s liking that the canvas focused on the theme of loss. Rocholl abruptly left Istanbul and never heard from the palace again. The air of exclusion and rejection that characterized Rocholl’s engagement with the sultan was, to be sure, part of a larger binary culture of inclusion and exclusion at the Ottoman court. Rocholl’s short and ambiguous engagement appears to have been an audition for the sultan’s retinue, one that obviously failed. While Rocholl’s painterly methods diered little from those of Zonaro, they bear witness to the critical nature of each

38

Geography

and every visual cue on the canvas and what it could signify. In placing the Ottoman soldier, and hence the Ottoman state, within a life–death continuum, Rocholl unknowingly tapped into one of Abdülhamid’s deepest insecurities: mortality. Painting, like rhetoric, had to arm the organic vitality and longevity of the state. If Rocholl’s goal was not to “bore” his German audiences with more geographic descriptions of a wellmapped Istanbul, he succeeded marvelously by mapping the complex cultural geography that lay beyond the imperial capital, both to the west in the battleelds of Thessaly and to the east in Anatolia. We see in these images the version of storytelling that Rocholl probably wanted to communicate when he painted battle scenes for the sultan, but couldn’t, given the political pressure involved. The watercolors tracing the landscapes of the Anatolian Railways bear the distinct methodological inuence of the generation of French, British, and American artists prior to Rocholl who took up watercolors as a kind of auxiliary artistic medium, namely Rodin, Renoir, Homer, and Cézanne. The medium was not particularly popular elsewhere in Europe, and when it did pick up pace a bit later, it was typically in folk and Orientalist contexts, as typied by Anders Zorn in Sweden and Ilya Repin in Russia. Repin’s contemporary, Konstantin Savitsky, went one step further, melding Orientalist tropes with railway settings in such paintings as Repair Works on the Railway (1874) and O to War (1888). Rocholl’s use of the medium harnessed its gestural, impressionistic power. It also conveyed the swiftness of his travel along the rails, the sheer velocity of capitalism, and what T. J. Clark has described as painting’s ability to be “grandly subservient to the half-truths of the moment, doggedly servile, and yet no less intense.”62 One image, Railway Attendant of the Anatolian Railway, depicts a man in his fties or sixties in a khaki-colored uniform and fez, looking dutifully at the artist (g. 2.11). He carries a baton used for directing railway trac in his right hand and a bag over his left shoulder. In the background, a railway switch signal stands amidst a thicket of trees and vegetation. Although the man is somewhat disheveled and unshaven, his straightforward gaze conveys a sense of reliability and an assurance that the railway is in capable hands. Another image, Railway Track along the Gulf of Izmit, depicts a train chugging in an easterly direction along the gulf’s northern shore, where the tracks, and their attendant power lines, come spectacularly close to the water’s

FIG. 2.12  Theodor Rocholl, Railway Track along the Gulf of Izmit, ca. 1909. Watercolor on board, 10.75 × 7.75 in. (27 × 20 cm). Historisches Institut der Deutschen Bank, Frankfurt.

FIG. 2.11  Theodor Rocholl, Railway Attendant of the Anatolian

Railway, ca. 1909. Watercolor on board, 10.75 × 7.75 in. (27 × 20 cm). Historisches Institut der Deutschen Bank, Frankfurt.

edge (g. 2.12). Meanwhile, the image Karasu Gorge, depicting a canyon of the Karasu River, takes the viewer into the heart of Anatolia (g. 2.13). In a theatrical departure from the format of the other images, Rocholl depicts the gorge setting of the railway with a palpable sense of drama. The railway tracks bend uidly around a rocky passage as a train, sputtering smoke, rounds a bend. Another portrait, Fellow in Bilecik, depicts a man in prole; his arms, folded behind his back, structure his condent posture (g. 2.14). He is the ideal geographic subject: ambivalent about, if not unaware of the railways, and at one with the soil, not the nearby railway. In another portrait entitled Meerschaum Dealer, we are introduced to a man at the heart of the local economy around Lake Beyşehir (g. 2.15). Meerschaum, which was used to fashion high-quality smoking pipes, was cultivated from the shores of the lake, and the railways served to increase its market. Squinting and looking somewhat strained, the man, who appears to be in his eighties or nineties, may be blind or nearly blind—a supposition reinforced by the depiction of a cane in his right

FIG. 2.13  Theodor Rocholl, Karasu Gorge, ca. 1909. Watercolor on board, 10.75 × 7.75 in. (27 × 20 cm). Historisches Institut der Deutschen Bank, Frankfurt.

Geography

39

FIG. 2.14  Theodor Rocholl, Fellow in Bilecik, ca. 1909.

Watercolor on board, 10.75 × 7.75 in. (27 × 20 cm). Historisches Institut der Deutschen Bank, Frankfurt.

hand. His left wrist is bedecked with prayer beads, while two satchels, one resting on the front of his torso and one on his back, are both presumably lled with his goods. He too represents an unsullied subject, blind also to the transformation of the landscape. In a subsequent image, Meerschaum Production in Eskişehir, the viewer is given a glimpse behind the scenes into the production of the special product (g. 2.16). Nine men can be seen in the image: seven of them are either seated or on their knees, working intently with the material, while the other two men in the background appear to be overseeing their work. Notably, the image depicts an unusual moment in which handicraft is the province of men, not the women with whom these types of scenes were more commonly associated. The work environment is relaxed and convivial, unlike a factory setting. Seen together, the images of Theodor Rocholl’s commemorative album oer insight into the specically picturesque as well as ethnographic qualities with which the railway was perceived by its German investors. The visual content of the album falls into three categories: portraits, landscapes, and the chronicling of everyday life. In the category of portraits, there is a selection of subjects who are either very young children or older men, omitting any trace of a person between the ages of eight and fty—the bulk of human life and the apex, normally, of its productivity. This seems to reinforce the timeless qualities of the proverbial Orient, which is either puerile or past its prime. That no adult women are portrayed is also noteworthy, suggesting not only that women would not pose for the portraits but also that they were reckoned as subjects who were not to be gazed upon. The landscapes—divided between those that depict the railway moving through the country, those that depict urban or village scenes, and those that depict the countryside as separate from the railways—alternate between picturesque mise-en-scènes of the slow life and landscapes that emphasize the novelty and heroicism of the railway making its way though a virgin land. The remaining images, depicting men at work, heroicize simple labor such as farming, salesmanship, and crafts. They memorialize a land that, despite all of the recent railway and industrial development, is largely agrarian and remains blissfully simple.

FIG. 2.15  Theodor Rocholl, Meerschaum Dealer, ca. 1909.

Watercolor on board, 10.75 × 7.75 in. (27 × 20 cm). Historisches Institut der Deutschen Bank, Frankfurt.

40

Geography

THE ALBUM IMPULSE The Abdülhamid albums and Rocholl’s commemorative album are but two examples of the currency that albums carried in articulating imperial geographies. For the

FIG. 2.16  Theodor Rocholl, Meerschaum Production in Eskişehir, ca. 1909.

Watercolor on board, 10.75 × 7.75 in. (27 × 20 cm). Historisches Institut der Deutschen Bank, Frankfurt.

inauguration of the German Fountain in 1901, the symbolic gift from Kaiser Wilhelm to the sultan, the kaiser initiated the production of an album with images of the fountain.63 Two years later, Kaiser Wilhelm initiated the production of another photographic album as a gift to the sultan, this time of the Hejaz Railway, all the more meaningful as Germany was not ocially a partner in this project.64 While the Abdülhamid albums memorialized railway landscapes in the hope of asserting their natural place in Ottoman visual culture, the German albums demonstrate dierent aims: to create a tableau, characterized by Orientalist tropes, or to create a sort of visual diary that documented the heroic evolution of a given structure. An unattributed album in the Philipp Holzmann archives, prepared between the summer and early winter of 1914, comprises almost two hundred small and mediumsized photographs pasted one to four per page and bound

into a single volume. The locations of the photographs gradually move westward from the Baghdad Railway line’s projected terminus at Basra to the workers’ camp at Belemedik in the Taurus Mountains. In all likelihood, the photographer was an administrator, not an engineer, as the photographs hardly ever focus on technical or construction feats, and the audience for the album was most certainly internal, as suggested by the casual placement of both the images and their captions. The photographs capture an array of themes juxtaposed in unexpected ways, conating documentary, ethnographic, procedural, archaeological, architectural, and scientic information into a single cultural-geographical compendium with ambiguously colonial undertones. For example, one page, with three images in total, depicts two Orientalist tableaux from two markedly dierent vantage points (g. 2.17). The upper image depicts several men with

Geography

41

FIG. 2.17  Gesellschaft für den Bau von Eisenbahnen in der Türkei, Composite board of photographs, ca. 1915. Institut für

Stadtgeschichte, Frankfurt.

42

FIG. 2.18  Maschinenfabrik Augsburg-Nürnberg A.G. Werk Gustavsburg, View of a railway bridge under

construction, 1915. Institut für Stadtgeschichte, Frankfurt.

photography equipment taking pictures of four local men, who stand along the riverbank with the river itself as their backdrop. The caption notes the location as “Kissik” at kilometer 1251 and identies the photographers as the study brigade of the Baghdad Railway for the unnished line between Tell Halaf and Mosul. The image directly below this depicts four women sitting outside and kneading bread against two ornate grills. Another album begins in July 1914 and documents the construction of a single iron bridge.65 The album appears to have been created by a Holzmann subcontractor, the

Bavarian-based manufacturer Maschinenfabrik Augsburg-Nürnberg A.G., and features thirty-two photographs, each pasted centrally on a single landscape-format page (g. 2.18). This is a baby book for the bridge’s fruition, documenting its earliest stages through its completion and conveying the exhilaration of a challenging engineering project. The German army ocer Karl Staudinger created his own album of photographs, many of which focus on railway construction and operations during World War I as documentation for the imperial War Oce.66 A typical page documents the successful agricultural activities on

Geography

43

the newly irrigated Konya plain as well as a spot in the Taurus Mountains that may very well mark the exact point for a monument that would later be built to commemorate fallen German soldiers (g. 2.19). TRACTS, TRACKS, AND GERMAN GEOGRAPHY The tracts and albums produced around the German construction of the Ottoman railway network oer insights into the essential assimilation of text and image in the creation of a geographic body of knowledge, or at least a corpus of information purporting to be one. Textual and visual sources, ranging from a wide array of travel literature, albums, and geographic treatises to periodicals and newspapers, testify to the common and often inseparable roles of geographic description and political and cultural agendas. When these are studied alongside visual materials such as the Rocholl album and the plates of the Kron­ prinzenwerk, it is also possible to assess how these written works relied on artistic interpretation. They are useful tools for expanding the geographic substrate of the German construction of the Ottoman railway network to an ever-wider audience, well beyond the earth where the track was laid. The corpus of geographic knowledge of the areas of and around the railways is, in contrast to other examples of the day, markedly more parceled and multimedia, and far less systematic. This foregrounds the iterative and phenomenological thread of geographic knowledge, a tribute to Humboldt and his legacy and a distinct way of ushering geographic knowledge into wider spheres bound to the earth.

FIG. 2.19  Karl Staudinger, Wartime photos of the Ottoman railways,

1915–16. Bayerisches Kriegsarchiv, Munich.

44

Geography

3 Topography

TERRA INCOGNITA, TERRA FIRMA The formation of topographic knowledge at the turn of the twentieth century was the science of locating places in space, decoding toponyms, and knowing the distances and optimal travel routes between locations. In Ottoman culture this process had, until the nineteenth century, been closely linked with the science of geometry and trigonometry, forged at the hendesehane (literally “house of geometry”), an institution closely associated with the military and a forebearer of what would become engineering academies.1 Meanwhile, in German lands, topography emerged from geography as a system for tachymetrically mapping the contours of the earth’s surface. In both cases, cartography, topography’s representational apparatus, also functioned as topography’s primary visual exponent in military and engineering contexts. We can see a distinct process of ambiguation in the maps of the Ottoman railway network: the German cartographers, sometimes cognizant of the divergent histories of Ottoman and German topography and cartography, synthesize new visual idioms that facilitate, or at least attempt to facilitate, a transcultural visual language rooted in science.

By the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, German mapping techniques for the country’s colonies and spheres of inuence became increasingly experimental, and these developments may be traced as a parahistory of the Ottoman railways. An example from German East Africa (now Tanzania) demonstrates how native peoples came to be seen as more than mere people settled in a eld of Cartesian space that the rail served to align. This comparison is instructive for understanding the ways in which German engineers and geographers often considered Africa and the Ottoman empire as similar challenges for political and technical will. In 1915, the geographer Karl Weule published a set of experimental maps relating to the railways of German East Africa in the geographic journal Petermanns geographische Mitteilungen.2 It is here that we can probe the nature of the collaborative authorship of maps between colonizer and colonized, and the axiomatic idea that, as Timothy Mitchell has characterized it, the making of a map is in itself an act of colonialism.3 The two sheets in the set contain drawings of the Tanzanian–Zanzibarian littoral and the Dar es Salaam– Tabora road, marked in red, with the most essential information, such as names of villages, outlined (g. 3.1). The

45

FIG. 3.1  Karl Weule, “Regarding the Cartography of East Africans (Part 1),” 1915. Sammlung Perthes, Gotha.

46

African illustrators, identied by the names Mbili and Sabatele, drew this map from memory over these drawings. The drawings, scaleless and psychorelational, are annotated by Weule. The rst map includes a diagram of Mbili’s own house in the town of Lindi, replete with windows and stairways and the stops he had to make on his journey to Dar es Salaam, which is marked with drawings of its port, the government building, and the German imperial agpole. The second map, by Sabatele, depicts the caravan route between the town of Tabora and Dar es Salaam as a network of organic pod-like forms, each pod representing a settled population. In the third map, the artist depicts an outcropping of rocks and ragged trees. Perched on the leftmost rock is what appears to be a man, perhaps a colonist, holding a rie and poised to shoot. In a fourth map, Mbili charts the entirety of German East Africa as a series of pods (g. 3.2). The pods, which appear to represent villages, are occasionally shaded or striped and are interconnected by a line. The scale varies widely, with the agpole, as in the rst map, again appearing larger than many entire villages. Weule annotates clusters without shading as stone houses and notes hatched clusters as huts, indicating Mbili’s graphic strategies as primarily ones framed by architecture. Weule’s maps, through their mere exhibition of “native” topographies, do not connote a desire to celebrate the topographic knowledge of the colonial subjects of German East Africa. Rather, their value is primarily aesthetic. Yet they also reveal the impulse of German geographers to understand their subjects from the inside out, through the mapping of a subjective mental topos. The drawings also reveal elemental dierences in architecture, with the stone houses possibly being the domiciles of the colonizers and the huts in all likelihood the domiciles of the natives. The recurring theme of the agpole is also signicant, reinforcing as it does the spatial marker of German dominion. Through Weule and his collaborators’ mappings, we can perceive similarities and dierences in the maps produced for the construction of the Ottoman railways. The similarities speak to the afterlife of Ratzel’s diusionist concept: the documentation of geographic space became a topographic project based on the visualization of how objects mutated as they proceeded through spatial routes, be these the paths of quotidian routines or of railways.

THE WILHELM VON PRESSEL FOLIOS AND STUDY Analysis of the railway’s topographic representations hinges on the fusion of chorographic and pictographic cartography seen in the African example, and is splendidly demonstrated in a set of innovative maps by Wilhelm von Pressel. Pressel produced these twelve maps, which are annotated in French (indicating the Ottoman ministerial authorities as their intended audience), between 1872 and 1876. One subset of the maps probably originates from late 1872 or 1873. The region that Pressel studies in this subset, spanning the Persian Gulf outlets in Irak to the Gulf of Alexandretta, would become the corridor for the bulk of the Baghdad Railway. As already noted, Pressel lamented the fact that his plans for a railway connecting the Mediterranean with the Persian Gulf were being overlooked by the Porte and, in the case of the railways of European Turkey, were being authorized to other parties. Pressel would have been either outraged or attered to see how closely the nal designs of the Baghdad Railway followed his Syrian and Mesopotamian studies. We do not know whether the Baghdad Railway engineers received Pressel’s studies in 1899, but the possibility seems strong. On the one hand, the parallels between Pressel’s study and the plans conrmed for construction in 1904 might testify to Pressel’s aptitude for railway surveying, as well as his ability to calculate a strategic trail that circumvented major topographic challenges and ran through cities and towns where a railway line could develop economically. Such was the typical strategy for everywhere from the American West to Meiji Japan. On the other hand, the parallels could also mean that Pressel’s study quite literally guided the vast majority of the ultimate trace of the Baghdad Railway. My presumption here is the strong possibility of the latter, and not without reason: in later correspondence with the grand vizier, Pressel outlined a laundry list of the reports he had provided to the Porte to ascertain not only when he would be paid for his work, but also whether the pending projects would start.4 Pressel’s drawings are exceptional visual objects. Together with the report, they are the rst detailed topographic studies of the region. What is more, Pressel’s mapping of a handful of cities and towns along the way provides a fascinating portrait of Ottoman urban form in the 1870s. The nine chapters of the report are typical of railway surveys of the day, reporting as they do on the

Topography

47

FIG. 3.2  Karl Weule, “Regarding the Cartography of East Africans (Part 2),” 1915. Sammlung Perthes, Gotha.

48

basic conditions of the land and its settlements, the anticipated methods to be used in construction, and the challenges its engineers could expect. The most signicant dierence from standard European railway surveys, particularly those found in Germany, was the more ethnocentric focus on cultural aspects of the region, especially evident in Chapter 4 (“Population”) and Chapter 5 (“State of the Culture”).5 The maps reach their full splendor when completely expanded from their rectangular folios. The meandering trace of the railway lines achieves a purposeful, calligraphic eect by forming a snake-like line when the maps expand to their unfolded size. This compositional technique also downplays the maps’ relationship to cardinal directions, asserting as it does the primacy of topography over geography. The formidable dimensions suggest that the maps, which were clearly intended to be portable and placed into a case when folded, were most likely also intended to be displayed on a wall. One folio consists of two maps (g. 3.3). Along its leftmost edge, a small-scale map spans from Baghdad on the right to the Gulf of Alexandretta on the left. Topographic contours rendered in ne, dark pencil lines indicate what was known and what was not. The topographic information is provided as far southwest as Damascus, as far southeast as Baghdad, and in the northern area around Kharput (today Elazığ). In this smaller map, Pressel demarcates with a thick red line not one railway line but rather a network of two major lines. One extends in the south from Baghdad to Homs, largely along the Euphrates’s southern bank, and then onward to Tripoli. The other extends in the north from Baghdad to Birecik via Mosul and Mardin, with a number of branch lines. The branch lines include a line extending northward of Zakho. One spoke line is denoted by a dotted vector along the stretch from Kirkuk to Mosul; it circumvents Erbil and appears to spare the railway trace some dicult terrain. The other spike splits at Mardin and touches down at Diyarbakır and Savur (“Süvereh”) before rejoining the main line at Şanlıurfa. Shortly past Birecik, the line splits into two, with one segment going to Aleppo and the other proceeding toward Alexandretta via Gaziantep. A northern branch proceeds to the Mediter­ ranean port at Samandağ (“Suedia”) via Antakya, while the southern line goes to Homs, where it connects with the southern line from Baghdad. The much larger and detailed map to the right of this regional overview depicts the railway line from Baghdad

northward. This suggests that the southern route was sketched on the map as a possibility, while the northern route was considered more seriously, given its stronger potential for economic growth. The western terminus on the map is Mardin. Railway stops are denoted with a pinshaped graphic symbol whose circular head is half-lled. The map’s primary purpose is to orient us to the arrangement of nodes and vectors that make the topography, but it also serves an indexical function, alerting us to a hierarchical system of places to be both penetrated and made by the railway. The second map of the set also contains a map of the greater area on its left edge (g. 3.4). The detailed portion of the map extends the previous trace onward from Mardin to both of its potential Mediterranean maritime outlets, Samandağ and Iskenderun. While Palmyra is noted in the regional map, there is no indication of other known archaeological sites within a stone’s throw of the railway’s trace, such as Samarra, or ones that had yet to be discovered, such as Tell Halaf or Mount Nemrut. Evocative maps detailing the conditions of particular cities supplement the maps for Pressel’s trans-Syrian railways. For the rst section, east of Mardin, four folios depict Baghdad, Tuz Khormato, Kirkuk, and Mosul. They are rectangular, and rather than bending with the format, the projected railway lines snake through the composition with a bold red line. The folio containing the urban studies for the second map consolidates these into a long, linear strip of city plans that include, from left to right, Antakya, Aleppo, Gaziantep, Birecik, Şanlıurfa, Diyar­ bakır, and Mardin. This format also conjures the cumulative, narrative ambition of relationality and sequence, not unlike a comic strip.6 The consolidation of the urban studies within a single folio allows these maps to examine the cities as forms unrelated to the railway. The reasons for this are unclear, but we do know that it was these cities that had a predominantly Turkish as opposed to Arab population. Each individual city plan uses dierent colors to indicate the various elements contained within it, which lend the plans a heterogeneous character. The map of Baghdad is the most detailed and elegant of the sequence (g. 3.5). Rather than being organized cardinally, the map is oriented in such a way that the Tigris River forms its central axis, demonstrating a conversancy with traditional Ottoman mapping techniques. This selective set of annotations is telling: while several of the

Topography

49

FIG. 3.3  Wilhelm von Pressel (attributed), Map of projected railway lines

spanning the Mediterranean to the Persian Gulf, ca. 1872. Deutsches Museum, Munich. FIG. 3.4  Wilhelm von Pressel (attributed), Map of projected railway lines

spanning the Mediterranean to Baghdad, ca. 1872. Deutsches Museum, Munich.

50

51

FIG. 3.5  Wilhelm von Pressel (attributed), Plan of Baghdad, ca. 1872. Deutsches Museum, Munich.

52

locations indicate important civic spaces, there is also an emphasis on military and industrial sites, indicating that the railway is conceived in relation to them.7 What would appear to be the planned location for a station is marked by a red pinhead, placed at the railway’s intersection with a road adjacent to the English cemetery, which in turn leads into the city through its southern fortications. The railway trace approaches the city from the north on its way to its stop and then turns sharply, changing its course to an easterly direction as it leaves the city. The railway is as much an infrastructural form as it is a gestural one, expressing its motivations clearly through pivots and straightaways. Pressel’s study of Kirkuk similarly sets the city ush along an edge, in this case in the lower portion of the map (g. 3.6). On the eastern bank of the Khasa River, Pressel illustrates the old part of the city atop a plateau, while newer parts of the city ank the plateau’s eastern foot. The railway trace divides another settlement on the western bank of the Khasa from the historic part of the city. Pressel’s study of Mosul (“Mosoul”) is perhaps the most revelatory (g. 3.7). The composition’s most striking feature is the railway trace’s unapologetic penetration of the expansive ruins of Nineveh, the ancient Assyrian city, on the eastern side of the Tigris opposite Mosul. The railway trace uses existing openings in the fortications of the ancient city to enter and exit its domain. The pinhead sits at the railway’s trisection with east–west and north–south roads within the site. Pressel appears well acquainted with the city, as he indicates more detail not only in the network of streets and alleyways but also in its demarcation of the locations of a number of key religious gures, marked either with Cheh (Sheikh) or Ymam (Imam). Another map depicts a branch from the main line between Mosul and Mardin moving toward Carchemish and past Zakho along the Little Khabur River (g. 3.8). This is the only map that has Ottoman as well as French annotations, which suggests that at least part of its intended audience included provincial ocials who may not have spoken French. Moving from left to right within the Anatolian urban studies folio (g. 3.9), Pressel begins with Antakya. The map, spanning two panels, centers on the east–west axis of the Orontes River. The city appears to be tucked graphically into a valley between the foot of the Amanus Mountains and the southern bank of the Orontes (g. 3.10). Pressel notes numerous ruins on all sides of the

FIG. 3.6  Wilhelm von Pressel (attributed), Plan of Kirkuk and environs,

ca. 1872. Deutsches Museum, Munich.

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FIG. 3.7  Wilhelm von Pressel (attributed), Plan of Mosul and environs, ca. 1872. Deutsches Museum, Munich.

54

FIG. 3.8  Wilhelm von Pressel (attributed), Study of Zakho and environs, ca. 1872. Deutsches Museum, Munich.

modern city and an aqueduct, detailed down to its piers, on the northern edge of the Orontes. The depiction of Aleppo, also in two panels, focuses squarely on its famed citadel, which appears to still have its moat lled with water (g. 3.11). The steep topography of Birecik, meanwhile, is evident through the thick brown contour lines that encircle the settlement on the river’s eastern edge (g. 3.12). The most dramatic of the studies is of Mardin, which, like Diyarbakır, remains circumscribed by its fortications tracing the footprint of a dramatic blu with a commanding watch over the surrounding landscape (g. 3.13). Pressel’s depiction of Gaziantep highlights a handful of important sites: three mosques (“Cheik Omer Djami,” “Ouloun Djami,” and one that is unnamed), the old city castle, the konak, the Armenian church, and the Christian and Muslim cemeteries (g. 3.14). A single board depicting Iskenderun (“Alexandrette”) completes the series (g. 3.15). The railway trace approaches its Mediterranean port from the south before swiftly curving inward and ending parallel to the shoreline. Pressel’s map outlines what appears to be a pier at the railway’s terminus, separating the settlement from the natural shoreline. Two docks project from the pier, presumably for ships, and a breakwater sits further aeld in the water. Between 1874 and 1876, Pressel issued at least two additional maps, focusing on the development of the railways east of Haydarpaşa. One map depicts Haydarpaşa and the greater environs of the Asian shore of the Bosphorus

(g. 3.16). The legend indicates a graphic code for the drawings: various forms of pochée and shading provide insight into and continuity with the graphics of the earlier maps. From top to bottom and left to right, the legend identies the red color blocks of urban settlement as quartiers (quarters), distinct from maisons seule (individual houses), which are rendered as small red rectangles. In a variety of shades of green and orange and with small graphic symbols, six topographic types are codied: jardins (gardens), vignes (vineyards), champs (elds), paturages (pastures), cimetières (cemeteries), and prairies (meadows). Within the projected railway traces outlined in Pressel’s map, blue lines indicate topographic ascents, while red lines indicate topographic descents. Stations are long rectangles pierced by continuous blue and red lines. Pressel draws topographic contour lines in the map in ve-meter increments and demarcates distances along each railway trace in one-hundred-meter increments. Throughout the map, the elevations of certain points are noted with a number next to a small ×. Pressel’s map encompasses virtually the entire inhabited portion of Istanbul’s Asian shore circa 1876, reaching the imperial kiosk just north of Kandilli and as far south along the Bosphorus as the Fenerbahçe peninsula. The map also provides detailed information for numerous Bosphorus neighborhoods, including Kandilli, Vaniköy, Çengelköy, Beylerbeyi, Kousgoundjouk, Üsküdar, Haydarpaşa, and Kadıköy, as well as numerous çiftliks (ocial farms) at the

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FIG. 3.9  Wilhelm von Pressel (attributed), Urban studies folio depicting (from left) Antakya, Aleppo, Gaziantep, Birecik,

Şanlıurfa, Diyarbakır, and Mardin, ca. 1872. Deutsches Museum, Munich.

FIG. 3.10  Wilhelm von Pressel (attributed),

Map of Antakya, ca. 1872. Deutsches Museum, Munich.

FIG. 3.11  Wilhelm von Pressel (attributed),

Map of Aleppo, ca. 1872. Deutsches Museum, Munich.

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FIG. 3.13  Wilhelm von Pressel (attributed), Map of Mardin, ca. 1872.

Deutsches Museum, Munich.

FIG. 3.12  Wilhelm von Pressel (attributed), Map of Birecik, ca. 1872.

Deutsches Museum, Munich.

FIG. 3.14  Wilhelm von Pressel (attributed), Map of Gaziantep, ca. 1872. Deutsches

Museum, Munich.

FIG. 3.15  Wilhelm von Pressel (attributed), Map of

Iskenderun, ca. 1872. Deutsches Museum, Munich.

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FIG. 3.16  Wilhelm von Pressel (attributed), Map of projected railway

lines on Istanbul’s Asian shore, ca. 1872. Deutsches Museum, Munich.

higher elevations. Notable sites include the Jewish cemetery and barracks at Üsküdar and the British hospital at Haydarpaşa. Pressel’s map recognizes the existing line to Izmit and the buildings and port at Haydarpaşa. However, it makes no graphic distinction between that line and several other prospective traces intricately linking the entire hinterland of the Asian side of the Bosphorus. The Pressel folios are a formidable collection on several levels. At the level of knowledge, they provide valuable historical details of both the topography and the characteristics of a number of places across the Ottoman empire. Their beauty underscores the artful results that topographic science could instantiate, and they testify to the engineer’s capacity to ambiguate landscape and urban form. Their artfulness also speaks to their ambiguous function as both maps and showpieces for the Ottoman Ministry of the Interior and Ministry of Public Works,

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illustrating how Pressel packaged methods of measurement, surveying, and representation for his Ottoman client. The series derives its visual potency from its vivid use of color, its deployment of graphic symbols, and its playful, enticing format. The Pressel folios have the air of a graphic story and an elegant, accessible beauty that translates the penetration of the rail in a movement through space and unique destinations; they privilege the railways’ scenographic qualities by cleverly downplaying their political aspects and formidable engineering challenges. A report dated June 10, 1874, and entitled “Lines of Syria” accompanies the folios. Submitted to Mahmud Pasha of the Ottoman Ministry of the Interior, the report sets forth straightforward prose about the feasibility of a railway connecting the Mediterranean and the Persian Gulf. Chapter 3 (“Conditions of Construction”), for example, enumerates the relative pros and cons of various

indigenous labor groups, citing three in particular: Arabs, Kurds, and “Turcomans.”8 Pressel’s report is the rst archival document by a foreign engineer to suggest the relative hierarchies that the Ottoman government should assign to its cities, in this case assigning each of the cities between Mardin and the Mediterranean the status of a Class I, II, III, or IV station. Samandağ and Iskendrun are the only Class I stations, a consequence of their status as the two Mediterranean port termini. Gaziantep, Aleppo, and Mardin are Class II stations, and Antakya, Eshref, Birecik, Hevek, and Şanlıurfa are Class III stations. All remaining stations are Class IV. Holzmann, the Baghdad Railway engineers, and the Ottoman Ministry of the Interior would eventually digress from Pressel’s proposals for the urban hierarchies, most importantly promoting Aleppo from a Class II to a Class I station. Because Aleppo is historically more important for its monuments than its economic or political signicance, this system indicates Pressel’s predilection for a strictly geographical, rather than geohistorical, ordering of Ottoman cities. That Aleppo was ultimately promoted to a Class I station is, in all likelihood, indicative of Ottoman agency, which changed the norm for imperial urban ordering from topographical to a more balanced mix between geographical and geohistorical. To this end, Pressel’s studies, despite both their beauty and Pressel’s best eorts, evince a lack of understanding of the Ottoman cultural norms of decorum. His is ultimately the gaze of the engineer, not the historian or purveyor of cultural monuments. While Pressel’s proposed hierarchy for the network of interconnected cities stemmed from his perceptions of the cities’ relative economic importance and population, the system also derives from his study of the region’s topography and hydrography, subjects that constitute the rst and longest chapter of the report. Pressel’s report divides the entire region into eight distinct topographic regions that he describes in painstaking detail, without any points of reference or preexisting topographic information. His topographic descriptions have a breathtaking lexical scope: plain, plateau, glade, ravine, gorge, marsh, oasis, desert, outcropping, sinkhole, riverbed. Along with descriptions of the quality of the soil, the hardness of the rock, aridness, and fecundity, his descriptions make for a highly convincing narrative corollary to the maps. The Pressel maps illuminate a coordinated graphic strategy that pitched an ambiguous mix of necessary topographic

information with graphic legibility and style. They demonstrate the dynamic roles not only of the maps but also of the engineer as both surveyor and graphic interpreter of the railway network. VOLUME AND VECTOR In 1875, the engineer Josef Černik published ndings from an expedition that, while conceived and facilitated by Pressel, was primarily designed as a scientic topographic study unrelated to railway construction.9 The report complements Pressel’s study of Anatolia and western Syria, reporting in detail on the eastern half of the land between the Mediterranean and the Persian Gulf. Forty-seven pages long, with three maps, Černik’s study divides the region into four subregions: 1) the area spanning from Carchemish to the Euphrates valley by way of Homs and Palmyra, 2) the Euphrates between Deir ez-Zor and Hit, 3) the ats of Baghdad, and 4) the Kurdish outlands. Černik conducted the study between late fall of 1872 and spring of 1873, assisted by three professional topographers: Carlo Cedeeraschi, Eugène Girardot, and Johann Binder.10 With his distinct interest in toponymy and his extensive description of landforms, Černik abides by classic modes of topographic exegesis, with a lexicon for landforms, ora, and fauna that is as broad as it is creative. A sample of excerpts paints a more poetic picture of Ottoman lands than did Pressel’s. In many instances, the topographic descriptions evoke historical landscapes and bygone glory: “The end of the upper part of the wildly romantic, almost paradisiacal valley of Nahr Kadischah [sic], which enquilts the snowy peaks of Djebel Machmel [sic], spreads onto the Syrian seashore’s delta-like littoral, the territory of which captures the traveler’s attention as much for its decorative vegetation, as it reminds him of reaching back into the cultural epoch of Phoenician history which, as it is probably unlikely to occur at this place ever again, has an importance to us today that is more intense than ever before.”11 In other landscapes, typically urban, the presence of history is subordinated to contemporary life: “[Baghdad] is situated on both banks of the Tigris, but the complex on the right bank is really only a suburb while the trade, industry, and public life [of the city] are concentrated in the northern sections where [one nds] the big bazaar, the more beautiful mosques, the hans, and the castle-like barracks. The city walls [are] mostly destroyed, with lled ditches and dilapidated towers.”12 Černik traces the study route from Tripoli to Baghdad (g. 3.17). The mapping lls in topographic information in

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the vicinity of the studied path, which spans a very narrow region along the Mediterranean coast to some very wide regions, such as at the Khabur valley. Both maps oer some small excerpts in their margins addressing key regions of interest, and all of these excerpts note geological layers stratigraphically, including at least one of each of the following types of earth: lime, clay, alluvium, basalt fragments, jura, gravel, marl, gypsum, bituminous clay, sedimentary lime, sandstone, and glacial sediment. Another map compiles the stratigraphic information into a single composition, which is placed alongside an ethnographic summary indicating the locations of Arabs, Turks, Kurds, Yazidi, Druze peoples, Nestorians, Jacobites, Chaldean Christians, the Qizilbash, Nazirites, and Jews (g. 3.18). What is striking here is that ethnicities are rendered in the same manner as the geological strata. While this was common in the topography of the time, it distinguishes Černik’s project from Pressel’s, augmenting Pressel’s linear information (topographic lines, the railway trace) with the volumetric information of geology and population. The dialectic of volume and vector emerges as the dening trait in German railway mapping, and its absence in contemporaneous British maps, for example, is worthy of mention. Not only was much of the earliest development of the Ottoman railway network spearheaded by British parties, but its earliest topographic exploration was as well. No other geographic region was the subject of as much intense interest as Palestine and the southern Levant. There are several reasons for this. First, Ottoman Palestine did not have as comprehensive an administrative presence as did Rumelia and Anatolia, which made surveying easier and the subject of less suspicion, at least from those who mattered most within the Ottoman administrative hierarchy.13 Second, the region held great religious signicance as the wellspring and early staging ground for Christianity, Judaism, and Islam. Third, the British saw the Levant as a region with considerable potential for colonization that could, like Egypt, fall under British rule if the Ottoman empire continued on a steady course of decline. No other single institution represented these currents as inherently as the Palestine Exploration Fund (pef), a society founded in 1865 by a conglomerate of geographers and biblical scholars whose mission was to thoroughly chart the topography of Palestine under the auspices of the royal crown.14 The founding prospectus outlines the ambitions as such: “No country should be of so much interest to us as that in which the documents of our Faith

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were written, and the momentous events they describe enacted. At the same time no country more urgently requires illustration. . . . Even to a casual traveller in the Holy Land the Bible becomes, in its form, and therefore to some extent in its substance, a new book. Much would be gained by . . . bringing to light the remains of so many races and generations which must lie concealed under the accumulation of rubbish and ruins on which those villages stand.”15 The image of a land “concealed under the accumulation of rubbish” is an inherently topographic one. To know Palestine meant to purify it of the recent past of an Ottoman administration, eectively a stratigraphic and volumetric layer of “rubbish” that needed to be excavated and then remapped. Early projects to this end included one by Charles Wilson and Charles Warren.16 In 1872, Claude Conder launched an extensive six-year topographic survey of western Palestine entitled Tent Work in Palestine, the majority of which was carried out by members of the Royal Corps of Engineers.17 Sometime between 1882 and 1885, the pef, perhaps cognizant of the aggressive appearance of its engineers’ presence in Palestine, decided to shift its strategy and outsourced the balance of the survey east of Jordan to the leadership of Gottlieb Schumacher.18 Schumacher, a civil engineer by training and architect and archaeologist through informal experience, was educated in both Germany and the United States. Upon completing his engineering studies in Germany in 1881, Schumacher relocated to Haifa to join his father, a diplomat and leader of the Templer Society, a German Protestant sect established in the 1860s. In 1881, Schumacher became chief engineer of the province of Acre and, amidst the spate of modernization projects there, oversaw the construction of numerous roads, bridges, and new urban plans.19 His private work included a large expansion of the German colony at Haifa, Scottish and Russian hostels in Safed, Nazareth, and Tiberias, and the Rothschild wine cellars at Rishon LeZion. His success and his ability to engender the trust of locals by being one himself were not lost on the British consuls, who brought his name to the attention of the pef. Schumacher spent several years conducting topographical surveys of Jordan for the pef.20 His voluminous communiqués with the pef’s London headquarters testify to a particularly collegial relationship with George Armstrong, the pef’s assistant director.21 Schumacher ­frequently wrote of the diculties of his work for the Ottoman government in his correspondence with

FIG. 3.17  Josef Černik, Map of Baghdad, Kirkuk, and environs, 1875. Sammlung Perthes, Gotha.

FIG. 3.18  Josef Černik, Geological and ethnographic maps of the northern

Levant, 1875. Sammlung Perthes, Gotha.

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Armstrong, noting that working for the pef and, in eect, the British Crown, was far more to his liking. “I would give up my tedious and unthankful Gov[ernment] position,” he noted in 1889, “and abandon myself entirely to my exploration work.”22 What Schumacher failed to mention was how his survey work, paid for by the pef, was also supporting a grander plan he was developing with Laurence Oliphant for the railway to connect Acre, Haifa, and Daraa with Damascus. As Oliphant and Schumacher’s Templer Colony ourished in Haifa, their ardent promotion of a railway connecting Haifa with the region further inland took on Zionist undertones.23 While Schumacher did not explicitly seek to exploit the pef to this end, he was not unaware of the ambiguous function of his work and the double benets of topographic data.24 On occasion during the course of his fteen-year engagement with the pef, Schumacher made earnest attempts to expand his role from topographic surveyor to geographic scientist. In October 1889, for example, Schumacher boasted of his resignation from Ottoman service and indicated to the pef that with his newfound time, he was interested in producing an ethnographic study of Palestinian Bedouins.25 Schumacher had even gone so far as discussing the publication with the local Bedouin committee, which sanctioned the proposal.26 Schumacher only needed the support of the military ocer and geographer Sir Charles Wilson. The pef politely declined the oer, claiming it was not within their current research scope, but behind the scenes there were deeper concerns about Schumacher’s scholarly skills. As Wilson put it, “Schumacher is no scholar in any sense; his copies of inscriptions are the despair of everyone I have spoken to. . . . He is, however, a shrewd observer and has done excellent work for the Fund east of Jordan.”27 While the behind-the-scenes records indicate that the pef considered Schumacher a functionary and not a scholar, they also seemed to underestimate his ambition to deliberately ambiguate the roles of scholar and entrepreneur. The nature of this ambition became a bit clearer by late 1889 or early 1890, when Schumacher was approached by the Deutscher Palästina-Verein and asked whether he would be interested in obtaining a permanent retainer position to assist in their own topographic studies in the region.28 Schumacher was tempted to switch his allegiances to the settlement interests of his native Germany, but ultimately weighed the prestige and greater scope of

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the pef’s work favorably; with it came the new potential for an extensive pef-sponsored survey of the Hauran region. Invoking the well-established British-German geopolitical rivalry, Schumacher aunted his courting by the Deutscher Pälastina-Verein to place his singular importance in focus. The 1890 Ottoman concession of an actual railway line between Haifa and Damascus to Shukri Bey, a Christian Lebanese engineer, and Yusuf (sometimes “Yousef”) Elias, a Jewish Ottoman eendi and resident of Palestine, had double implications for Schumacher’s work. For one, it signaled a protectionist impulse by the Ottoman government to shield the railways of Palestine from German and British control. Second, it indicated the Ministry of the Interior’s rather clever subversion of the topographic surveys published by the pef a few years earlier for the autonomous construction of the railways. However, despite the important and signicant nancial support of the wealthy Beirut-based Greek Orthodox Sursock family, Shukri Bey and Elias were unable to raise the necessary funds for the railway.29 They sold signicant shares to the British entrepreneur John Robert Pilling, which eectively brought the railway into the British orbit, to the chagrin of both Schumacher and Oliphant, who had repeatedly advocated for a multinational structure. Meeting with the pef’s leaders in London in July 1893, Pilling, apparently familiar with and impressed by Schumacher’s work, advocated Schumacher’s involvement in further incidental work for the railway.30 Schumacher came on board but also continued to advocate for multilateral involvement, particularly the participation of the Deutscher Pälastina-Verein. In May 1896, on the eve of the railway breaking ground, Schumacher made a nal eort to have a new survey conducted between Ajlun and Es Salt as a joint eort by the pef and the Deutscher Pälastina-Verein.31 The pef did not sanction this, and until the railway’s completion in 1905, Schumacher seemed ultimately resigned to his role as a functionary of British interests.32 Nevertheless, Schumacher’s reputation as a German champion of Palestine seems only to have grown during this period. In a report from the American consulate in Beirut, Gabriel Bie Ravndal noted how Schumacher singlehandedly convinced all the authorities, nanciers, and other engineers of the necessity of a station in Nazareth, as it was a site of interest for Templers and German Zionists.33 Schumacher also demonstrated pertinacity in his commitment to know the topography and archaeology of Palestine

and what these evoked together on an aesthetic register. Schumacher’s many studies are adorned with illustrations that reveal his perception of Palestinian topography as a visual language. For example, Schumacher rarely depicted monuments, preferring instead to depict spatial conditions related to earth and building such as the underground vaults at Umm Qais in Jordan and modest natural wonders such as the natural rock bridge at Tell el Hamma near Tiberias. We may also understand Schumacher’s singular role in the production of topographic knowledge within a longer historical context bridging the descriptive, often romantic tone of the nineteenth century with the technical, ethnographically “disinterested” imperatives of topography in the twentieth century. TAMING THE OTTOMAN OUTBACK Expeditions with a railway concession in hand prove more focused than those without, as in the cases of Pressel and Schumacher. The rst extensive expedition with a railway concession in hand was the Stemrich Expedition, named after the German consul general Wilhelm Stemrich. At the expedition’s plenary session, held in the summer of 1899, a two-part structure was devised involving two groups, one focused on technical aspects of the Konya–Basra route and the other focused on commercial aspects and opportunities.34 Despite the distinct functions of the groups, both included architects, nancial specialists, Ottoman “chaperones,” and engineers. At the session, Georg von Siemens stressed that the expedition should spare nothing to acquire all of the information necessary for a thorough and detailed report, and that the expedition would be supported accordingly with Deutsche Bank funds. While the expedition could take as much time as needed, its primary goal was to determine the most expedient route from Konya to Baghdad, in terms of topographic conditions but also with reference to the presence or absence of political disquiet. Both before and after the expedition, the “study commission” from Berlin met to plan and discuss ndings, and the minutes from these meetings testify to the primacy of the railway’s economic function.35 Even in the relatively well-charted area around Konya, the expedition team quickly found existing maps and accounts to be inaccurate or outright wrong.36 This was frustrating enough, but it was also compounded by what Stemrich and other German members of the expedition troop found to be the deliberately ambiguous information provided by locals. Stemrich noted in September that “the

oriental is inclined to disguise his ignorance and will always give some, though often false, information.”37 The paucity of unambiguous information was troubling, because for the most part the troop found the region between Konya and Diyarbakır to be one that held tremendous economic potential and also, because of the presence of Christians in the area, one that had the distinct possibility of being managed and operated semiautonomously. Beyond Diyarbakır, however, things became even more challenging, and the problems were not those presented by the landscape, which actually became rather docile. The vilayet of Diyarbakır, Stemrich observed, was marked by lawlessness and chaos. In just a matter of a few days, the troop witnessed entire villages burned to the ground and the plundering in broad daylight of commercial caravans that were traveling through.38 The problem was not just the local government’s lack of oversight, or even interest, in maintaining order in the region, but also the specic threat posed by both the Kurds and the Bedouin tribes and their perceived penchant for violence, destruction, and hostility to the establishment of permanent social and cultural institutions, which a railway typied sine qua non.39 With these assessments came a topographic plan, which Stemrich attached to the report he submitted. The plan identies an optimal trace for the railway from Konya to Basra, describing its details and predicting that the total construction would take about eight years. The expedition commission divided the ninety-one-page report into ve geographic regions corresponding to the Ottoman administrative vilayets. Each section appraises the relevant economic and demographic information for the region in question, informed by an introductory description of the physical state of the land in the region and its most important locales. The ocial documentary maps of the trace were produced by the German Army’s cartography division and are dated 1909 from Ereğli in Konya province, home to the main eld oce of the Baghdad Railway. These expedition maps were the rst major step in transitioning the Ottoman government away from thinking of the topography of its provinces in “hours and horses” and toward a rational tachymetric system of kilometers, slopes, and topographic contours.40 The maps also charted something new: the petroleum of Mesopotamia, which became an evermore crucial geopolitical rationale for the railway to reach to Baghdad as soon as possible.41

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FIGS. 3.19a and 3.19b  Baghdad Railway Company, Plan and elevation

views of Baghdad and environs, ca. 1908. Historisches Institut der Deutschen Bank, Frankfurt.

In surveying the vast amount of land lying between Konya and Baghdad, the cartographers used the notational and representational mapping systems of the Anatolian Railways Company as their template, as is evident in a comparison of the Lagepläne (surveyors’ plans) and Lageprole (surveyors’ topographic sections) (g. 3.19). The Lagepläne are constructed like a book that can be extended out into a long linear strip, not unlike Pressel’s urban folio. The long drawings contain six layers of information, stacked vertically. The uppermost layer depicts a sectional cut through the projected trace of the line from one terminus to another. The actual elevation of the track is drawn as a darker line that hovers slightly above the contour line at

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an even grade. Occasionally, the thick line of the railway trace incises the contour line. These notations denote whether the railway bed is above the earth’s surface, and thus atop an earthwork and ballast, or slightly below it, as in a tunnel, a trench, or a delé. Above this line and written sideways, four notations appear: “Pont” (bridge), “Syphon” (siphon), and by far the two most common, “Aq.” (aqueduct) and “P á N” ([meaning unclear]), each followed by a number denoting the sequence or location within the overall kilometric sequence. A graphic of a ag extending upward from the railbed line further emphasizes the notations. Below this topographic sequence, and occasionally above it, a second layer of information about the railway

stations themselves is embedded. At the precise middle point of the railway station building, a dashed line is extrapolated downward or upward, ending at a diagrammatic, thumbnail plan of the station in a larger scale. Written above the diagrammatic plan is the station’s name, and beneath that its class type. The continuous railway track is typically the bottommost line, from which branch lines useful for various purposes—stopping, switching directions, loading and unloading goods, and so on—are shown. The station is diagrammed in the plan as a solid shaded block, as are all other buildings with a function in direct relation to railway operations: storehouses, roundhouses, depots, workshops, oces, toilet facilities, and so forth. Below this, a compact set of parallel lines presents additional layers of information. The uppermost of these lines mark the railway’s elevation above sea level at irregular intervals, through a thin, light line extending downward from the contour. Below this is a simple regular demarcation of distance, with kilometer 0 at the center of Konya station and one-kilometer intervals proceeding from there onward. Beneath, the grade is measured and parceled into blocks of grade changes, measured in meters. For example, if the railway remains at a 0-degree grade for 750 meters, “0/750” appears within the block. If the grade is 7 degrees upward for 300 meters, then the line in the notation “7/300” separating the “7” and “300” itself has an approximately 7-degree upward grade. Finally, below this, a line demarcates the earthwork construction necessary to keep the railway trace at its projected grade. Where earthworks above ground are necessary, a small hump and its width are projected upward from a straight line. Where earth excavation is required, depressions are drawn into the same straight line. This notational system functions as a pretext to the tripartite way in which railway engineers would classify elements of railway construction as those under, on, or above ground. While the topographic information gathered during the Stemrich Expedition was relayed in a straightforward fashion, other aspects were patently ambiguous. North of Baghdad, for example, the map notes the domiciles of several important eendis along the eastern bank of the Tigris. Several instances of ruines (ruins) are noted in the distance beyond the railway trace, but none as densely as in the region around Samarra, which appears to have been quite intensively surveyed. The ruins in and around Samarra, which account for the most signicant doc­

umentation of sites on the railway maps unrelated to the railways themselves, are noted as follows: the Malwiya (spelled “Malqiya”) minaret, ruins of the old city, ruins of the caliph’s palace, ruins of ancient Baghdad, temple ruins, ancient post or station, ruins of the İstanbulate, and the tomb of Sheikh Mohamed. The report of the Stemrich commission and the maps produced from its ndings form a visual model of topographic knowledge par excellence. The report not only facilitated the eventual construction of the most challenging portion of the Ottoman railway network, but also charted its environs demographically, economically, and, in the cases of petroleum and archaeological ruins, geopolitically and culturally. The result is a dramatic advancement of topography as the railway engineer’s lingua franca, transforming it from a topography based primarily on the linear elements of contour lines and projected railway paths. By “lling in” the topographic picture with the volumetric information about culture and natural resources, the expedition more closely approximated a scientic colonial endeavor in terms of what it provided for testing the economic interests of Deutsche Bank, the kaiser’s political aspirations, and the sultan’s wish to have a railway to assist in taming the Ottoman outback. KARL AULER IN THE HEJAZ Early in 1904, Abdülhamid commissioned a topographic expedition for the study of the Hejaz Railway line proposed by Meißner.42 Although under the direction of an Ottoman ocial, Turkhan Pasha, the expedition was led by Karl Auler, or Auler Pasha. The expedition had two main subdivisions: the Damascus–Ma’an route, including the branch line to Haifa, and the second portion, from Ma’an to Al-’Ula. The publisher, Justus Perthes, printed the reports in 1906 and 1908 as special editions of Petermanns geographische Mitteilungen, a geographic journal. The volumes contain maps, notes, and accounts of the railway, making these unique among the genre (g. 3.20). While Auler made a point of acknowledging the project’s two most important gures, General İzzet Pasha and Meißner, it was none other than Freiherr Colmar von der Goltz, the German general, who wrote the study’s introduction.43 This makes sense, as the majority of Auler’s assistance came from the Ottoman troops trained under von der Goltz’s new Tanzimat military regime. Von der Goltz also noted the important contribution the study makes toward the knowledge of historical

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FIG. 3.20  Karl Auler, Map of the Hejaz Railway with projected line to

Mecca, 1906. Sammlung Perthes, Gotha.

topography as well as knowledge about contemporary life. Here he waxed lyrical about the greatness of the “Ottoman race” and, of course, His Highness the Sultan: “But no less captivating is the insight into modern Turkish life aorded here. It clearly shows the history of the Hejaz Railway and the remarkable talent of the Ottoman race in their endeavors, their viability having been so often underestimated in Europe. It often elicited my astonishment, when I was still active in the Orient, how the most dicult tasks could be started with rather insucient funds yet ultimately resolved contrary to all expectations through the good will, adaptability, and naive toughness of the Turk that renders every obstacle easy in the end.”44 The relative simplicity of the geological landscape belied several of its considerable challenges. South of Daraa, however, the outcroppings became common enough

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for Auler to deem any signicant economic development impossible, thus demarcating the zone of economic productivity along a north–south divide.45 Auler also charted the local reaction to the railway and its construction: “I need hardly add that the Fellahs, Muslims and Christians, are happy to welcome the railway construction. They will indeed extract the greatest benet from it because they can use their grain [more eectively] now. The vividness with which they expressed their joy will remain unforgettable to me. As the men incessantly repeated a salutation in unanimous chorus: ‘Allah jansûr sultânenâ’ (May God give victory to our Sultan!) there was an accompaniment of rhythmic clapping of hands [while] the women, with their characteristic high shrills, produced strong pigeon-like cooing sounds in the highest treble.”46 Auler committed a signicant chapter to the perceived challenges of the railway, including the provision of water, the provision of fuel, the overcoming of sand drift, and the question of labor. For each challenge, Auler outlined a set of creative solutions, several of which are design solutions, from the construction of wells to makeshift barriers for sand drifts. Topographic descriptions occur with even greater frequency in the second volume, interwoven with further remedies for the above challenges. Water—or the lack thereof—is a perpetual theme, and it inects the discussion of the Hejaz’s topography in every regard, explaining not only the relative diculty of traversing the region as a pilgrim or an engineer but also the scant natural provisions for constructing anything in the Hejaz.47 The volumes also include a fascinating assortment of images, several of which appear to have run simultaneously in Servet-i Fünun. The images depict an array of topics, from construction sites to archaeological nds to descriptive appraisals of the landscape. Common to the images is the role of the vista. The horizon line is typically almost central to the vertical dimension of the photograph, lending an environmental continuity and a homogenizing evocation of the at desert landscape across the photographs, despite their varied topical themes. Auler’s studies of the Hejaz environment represent the full fruition of the genre of topographic exegeses leading up to and supporting the German construction of the Ottoman railway network. Here, the genre extends to its full potential, as a tome of practical utility for the construction and dominance of the land it traversed as well as part of a greater corpus of topographic knowledge of one of the Ottoman empire’s least charted corners.

TOPOGRAPHY TRANSPOSED Railway maps and expeditions played the elemental role in charting geopolitical ambition. Although composed primarily by German engineers, the documents negotiated the expectations of their Ottoman clients as well as lay German readers. Topography, the content of these maps and expeditions, was its linchpin. Beyond the information that exponents of topography provide, they also elicit broad psychosocial themes. Karl Weule’s superimposition of “native” topographies from the German colonies in Africa over German maps outlined the dialectical, unambiguous mode through which Germans approached the charting of both the people and the places of its formal colonial holdings. By way of contrast, we encounter the revelatory maps of the Ottoman outback by Wilhelm von Pressel, who carefully studied the topography of its cities and transformed them into

graphic portraits primed for further exploration and development vis-à-vis railways. Pressel’s highly original topographies negotiate German and Ottoman visual customs, but ultimately fall short of fully comprehending the decorum of his Ottoman clients. In his noble attempt, however, we see Pressel wrestle with what becomes a diagrammatic leitmotif: the interplay of the volume and the vector. This leitmotif is powerful enough to permeate a wide array of cartographic works in its wake, from the positivist goals of Josef Černik to the archaeological goals of Gottlieb Schumacher. The expedition, too, shows its consistent modes of exegesis in the reports and dispatches of the Stemrich Expedition and Karl Auler, charting the most distant of imperial peripheries. As these men deciphered and represented the land and its contours, they also became aware of its hidden gifts, turning their attention from the sketch to the spade.

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4 Archaeology Those who travel the country witness an extraordinary number of hills, known in Arabic as “tells,” and when they do not nd the ruins of buildings, they are likely unaware that under these grassy hills ancient cultural sites are buried under rubble and earth. . . . They grew into hills, layer upon layer, for centuries, if not millennia. —Gustav Jacoby

DEFINING THE LAY OF THE LAND: THE EVOLVING ANTIQUITY LAWS The history of archaeology in the Ottoman empire mirrors the history of its railways. It began primarily as a British and French endeavor and gradually shifted to one where the most important sites were administered by Germans. Looming large within this history is the role of the Deutsche Orient-Gesellschaft (dog), founded in 1898 as a loose association of German Orientalists, classicists, bankers, politicians, professors, and dilettanti interested in the research and acquisition of classical and Oriental antiquities.1 Among them were Georg von Siemens, the Deutsche Bank executive, and Oswald von Richthofen, the undersecretary of the Foreign Ministry and director of the Colonial Oce. Finance and colonialism were tethered through the dog, as was industry: Friedrich Alfred Krupp, the steel magnate, supported the dog with a yearly subsidy. In 1901, Kaiser Wilhelm himself became involved, granting the group a status as subsidiary to the state museums, eectively turning the institution into a state-funded armature for the German empire’s cultural business with the Ottoman empire. Given the unlikely collaboration between Siemens (representing the railways’ economic

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interests and high nance), Richthofen (representing colonial geostrategy), Krupp (representing industry), and the kaiser himself (representing the state), it would be dicult to argue that the dog’s constitution was one exclusively of scholarship, as it claimed. Its very formation demonstrated both the ambiguous role the Ottoman railways played in whetting the German archaeological appetite and the symbolic functions that the acquisition of antiquities held for Berlin. The dog explained its necessity in theological terms: “The time has come for us Germans to take our part in the great work of opening up and recovering the most ancient Orient by means of systematic excavation and thereby to supply German scholarship with the necessary materials for the expansion of Oriental archaeology, as well as to supply our public collections with monuments of ancient Asiatic art.”2 The dog coalesced around the archaeologist Robert Koldewey’s excavations at Babylon, which began in 1898. New excavations sponsored by the dog quickly followed: Abusir, Schurrupak, Borsippa, and Abu Hatab in 1902, Tell Megiddo and Tell Hum in 1903, Abusir el-Meleq in 1905, Boğazköy in 1906, Jericho and Hatra in 1907, and Tell elAmarna in 1911.

Despite the signicant personnel and structural connections shared by the dog and the Ottoman railways, a handful of excavations did not fall under the dog’s umbrella, either because they preceded it or because they were instigated by outsiders. Yet these one-os, like the ocial excavations, had an ambiguous relationship with railway construction. Because the dog represented the German empire and the kaiser only indirectly, its excavations portended a scholarly, noncolonial façade while nevertheless showcasing a familiar colonial acquisitiveness.3 Every age, like every institution, has its ways of dening and delimiting territory, be they frontiers, economic resources, or boundaries representing the ideologies of those living within them. Yet the rudimentary and immutable building block of territorial denition is always the earth itself. Earth, in other words, is always earth; it is how it is governed, treated, or used that gives it a role greater than the sum of its parts. In the modern era, territory is dened as much by the pen as it is by the fence. The palimpsest that was the Ottoman Antiquities Laws, to which the dog and the German empire were subject (for the most part) in no uncertain terms, is evidence of this. The laws were written and rewritten three times before the eventual collapse of the Ottoman empire: rst in 1869, again in 1884, and then again in 1906. The very writing and rewriting of the laws governing the mapping, excavation, and display of Ottoman antiquities trace, for some, a telltale account of the stopgap attempts Ottoman ocials made to suppress the acquisitive appetite of institutions such as the dog. Those trying to preserve this sovereignty through archaeology were a mix of European-educated Ottomans, most prominently Osman Hamdi. Osman Hamdi and his associates faced the dicult task of balancing the geopolitical necessity of having foreign guests involved in the political and economic life of the state with the growing concern that “scientic” archaeology had become, without a shadow of a doubt, an exploitative practice, if not a downright colonial one, representing a new “dialectic of law and infringement,” as Wendy Shaw has described it.4 European interest in the antiquities of the Ottoman empire accelerated in large part because Europeans assumed that Ottomans were indierent to them, but the Ottoman empire’s ostensible indierence toward its own antiquities began to fade by the end of the nineteenth ­century. Populations, particularly urban ones, had a long and well-documented tradition of appropriating and

s­ poliating antique sites for contemporary needs. The relationship of the Ottoman populace to its antiquities was really characterized by a mixture of historical respect and pragmatic utility. While this might not be an outright indierence, it was dierent from the delight with which European guests reacted to these sites, and it is this dierence, not indierence, that made regulation necessary by 1869. The ocial gazette published the law in a concise statement on February 13, 1869.5 The Levant Times and Shipping Gazette summarized the law as follows: “The new regulation requires that henceforth application for permission to excavate in any part of the empire shall be made to the Department of Public Instruction (under whose charge the museum is to be placed) and prohibits the exportation to foreign countries of any antiquities (ancient coins excepted) found in the course of such excavations, though they may be sold to private individuals resident in the empire, or purchased by the state. The 3rd article provides that every object found on private property shall belong to the owner of the soil.”6 The law originated through a specic concern from the governor of Aydın province, Hekim İsmail Pasha.7 The governor had received a report spanning October 1867 to August 1868 from Antonaki Edwards, an Izmir native and founder of early French-language, pro-Ottoman government newspapers and deputy commissary of the Izmir– Aydın railroad.8 Edwards, himself assuming an ambiguous role oscillating between government operative, archaeologist, and engineer, outlined the systematic dismantling in Ephesus of fty-one blocks of stone by the British archaeologist John Turtle Wood.9 This was in violation of a ­semi-systematic policy that required antiquarians and archaeologists to make plaster casts of important artifacts removed from Ottoman soil and to donate one of these casts to the Ottoman Imperial Museum. The governor was not pleased with Wood’s behavior, and he petitioned the Council of the State on the matter shortly after Edwards’s report was issued. The petition proposed the establishment of a “monitoring network of government inspectors of digs,” “severe restrictions,” and a system of distribution for the nds that would benet the state museums.10 The sweeping law that ensued was not a bureaucratic event alone. The Ephesus site is only 3.5 kilometers away from the tiny village of Selçuk, a city on the railway line.11 British railway engineers were aware of the site and intentionally routed the railway near it so as to facilitate the

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dig. The British economic domination of the region connecting Aydın to Izmir and the railway ocials’ knowledge of the Ephesus site served as an entrée to the dig upon the railway’s completion, and signaled a new conjunction of railway construction and archaeology. The 1869 edict, set into law in 1874, was revised in a telling manner fteen years later in the Antiquities Law of 1884, rectifying some of the previous law’s shortcomings. Although the new regulations viewed antiquities purely through a political prism, they also resulted in an exhaustive laundry list of what an antiquity could be, from coins to fortications to mausolea.12 Beyond dening what was antique and what was art, the law also colluded with Ottoman land laws to oer a precise denition of territory, one that gave the Porte the power to expropriate all property, including private property, for archaeological purposes.13 In doing so, the Antiquities Laws dialectically engaged, and to a large degree ambiguated, the Ottoman land code. Under this set of rules, one could, for example, eat the fruits that grew on trees grown on one’s own land but could not, on the other hand, bury a corpse in one’s own land.14 Apart from the obvious dierences between a piece of fruit and a corpse, the distinction was also heavily predicated on the inherent dierences between that which is in the earth and that which comes from it, above its surface. The power to expropriate ran counter to the 1869 edict, which stated that the land on which an archaeological treasure was found was exclusively the province of the landowner. Soil consequently took precedence over surface—matter trumping mapping—giving archaeological goods beneath the ground the legal agency to render what was above it as property of the state. Geography and topography, by extension, were rendered subordinate to the unearthed object, real or theoretical. In addition, while more dogmatic and protectionist than the 1869 edict, the edict of 1884 was also far more conciliatory to the work of foreign scientists. In requiring a systematic application process for permits along with the production of cartographic records and the presence of a state site monitor, the Porte essentially created an antiquities bureaucracy akin to that of Greece. The law facilitated the power of exception that allowed the sultan to make exemptions where he saw t for political or economic purposes, as he would do for the Germans. A nal revision of the law on April 23, 1906, demonstrates a more philosophical as well as scientic understanding of how archaeology dened Ottoman territory.

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The revision echoes the notion that all land is property of the state and deemphasizes the expectation that archaeological speculation was to be the province of foreigners. It notes that the de facto destination for all antiquities is the Imperial Museum, unless other provisions have been made. Osman Hamdi and the drafters of the law expanded upon the list of possible antiques, creating an eclectic umbrella of both “known and unknown” entities, so as to allow for the possibility of claiming virtually anything with a physical volume originating in the past as an antiquity and thus state property. The pamphlet in which the law was printed had the format of a eld guide, testimony of the extent to which archaeology had, like rail, become a territorial enterprise on the move. One could characterize the writing and rewriting of the Antiquities Laws as a cultural act informed by political circumstances, but this would fail to imagine a writer conceiving the unknown bounties of Ottoman territory and the humanistic knowledge and inspiration they could elicit. In actuality, the Antiquities Laws represented a means to a humanistic end, a subject’s perceived right of access to the knowledge produced on the subject’s own soil. One also may focus on the distinction between soil and surface articulated by the Antiquities Laws to understand how archaeological territory was perceived. This provides a better understanding of how sovereignty dened the issue of Ottoman territory in its own mediation of land and soil in relation to the railway. The anities between archaeology and railway building certainly hinge on their common interest in the geological condition and deliberate movement of earth.15 GORDIUM The foreword to a 1904 report by the German Archae­ ological Institute opens with an unexpected image that tells a remarkable story about these anities (g. 4.1). It is an unassuming landscape containing a diminutive railway station set against a gentle hill in the background.16 The station and its landscape evoke a prototypical Heimat, where the primordial landscape tempers the change wrought by the railway. The image could be set somewhere in the North German plain but is rather Gordium, the site of the rst scholarly excavation in Central Anatolia. The building depicted is the Beylikköprü train station, completed in 1891 as part of the Anatolian Railways branch connecting Eskişehir to Ankara. From the west, one can make out the prole of the so-called Tumulus MM (“Midas

FIG. 4.1  Plate from Gustav Körte and Alfred Körte, Ergebnisse der

Mound,” the burial site of King Midas) in the distance. The articial earthwork, partly conical in prole, looms on the outer limits of the nearby village of Yassıhöyük and had gured for generations in the lore of the region.17 The archaeologist Alfred Körte discovered Gordium on a visit to the region in 1893, two years after the completion of the nearby rail segment and one year after the line opened to train trac.18 The engineers surveying prospective railway routes a decade earlier had identied antique sites around nearby Polatlı and documented them on maps. Curiously, Gordium was never one of them. Either the unmissable tumulus of Gordium was mistaken as a natural topographic feature or it was deliberately left o their maps. We do not know whether a railway survey of 1880 and the “discovery” of Gordium just feet away was a coincidence, but it is safe to say that it probably was not. Records intonate a deep connection between the Körtes, the railway, and Krupp. Gustav Körte was a close personal friend of Alfred Krupp, whose clients included the Anatolian and Baghdad railway companies. When Körte requested a friendly “scientic subsidy” for the excavation at Gordium in September of 1899, Krupp responded obligingly and said that he would gladly give his friend the requested 20,000 marks for the endeavor (g. 4.2).19

Ausgrabung im Jahre 1900 (Berlin: Georg Reimer, 1904), i. University of Rochester, River Campus Libraries.

FIG. 4.2  Unknown photographer from the German Archaeological Institute, Athens division, View of excavation of Tumulus

B at Gordium, ca. 1900. Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Istanbul.

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A close reading of the Körtes’ text also reveals intellectual anities between the railway and the excavation, and provides insight into why the “discovery” of Gordium was probably synchronized with railway construction. In addition to thanking a number of key Turkish ocials for their warm welcome and assistance, the Körtes illuminate the critical role of the railway and its ocials: “We found the ocials of the company, from top to bottom, always willing to oer support for the numerous problems that arise during an excavation in the interior of Asia Minor, problems that arise to a much greater degree there than they do on the coasts. . . . Mr. G. Tria, the Track Master at Polatlı whose daily service passed through Beylikköpru [sic], is as much an enthusiastic friend of archaeological research as he is a man with thorough knowledge of the country and its people and has been an invaluable adviser, helper and friend during the entire duration of our stay.”20 To be sure, neither the sultan nor Osman Hamdi objected to the dig of the Phrygian capital. But it remains unclear whether the way in which the Körtes piggybacked onto the railway’s literal and gurative infrastructure was purely a product of the intercultural anity the Körtes stress in their acknowledgments. The Körtes’ activities on this patch of Central Anatolia were a struggle of soft power, on the one hand, and of art historiography, on the other. In German Hellenist and Orientalist circles alike, the enigmatic Phrygians represented a threshold culture. The Mediterranean origins of the population were nonetheless inected with alien Hittite, Semitic, and Assyrian indices of language, music, and art. By the turn of the twentieth century, the demystication of this ambiguous culture was primed to intervene in the so-called Orient or Rome debate, a scholarly discourse that attempted to decipher whether Occidental culture originated in Greco-Roman culture and its antecedents or in the Orient, writ large, and its antecedents.21 The pressure to disambiguate this scholarly question was enormous, and this confrontation of Occident and Orient was something Alfred Körte saw epitomized in contemporary life as well. He noted of nearby Eskişehir: “What makes Eskişehir especially fascinating is the direct clash of the Oriental and the European. Here there is no mention of the Orient being assimilated into occidental cultural forms. The image of the Orient is not yet distorted by annoying European additions, as for example in Constantinople and even more so in Smyrna. Without any intermediary, the colorful oriental life stands

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next to the occidental cultural wave suddenly rushing in.”22 The Körtes’ ndings in Gordium support a conservative interpretation and oer quantitative as opposed to cultural or diusionist explanations for “divergences” from the established Eurocentric norms. Despite a considerable eort to legitimize a teleology of European culture with roots as far east and inland as Gordium, the Körtes also intone the dramatic nature of a sweeping eastward Bronze Age Balkan migration to Gordium. The assertion of a proto-Aryan culture at the center of the Ottoman empire is perhaps an ambiguously imperial claim on the Ottoman empire. The railway, by its very nature kindred to land and not sea, proves not only to reinforce this symbolically but also to facilitate it logistically. The “Oriental” state of the contemporary surroundings only serves to justify the rushing “wave” of occidental culture by rail. THE BERGGREN ARCHAEOLOGICAL PORTFOLIO Engineers, like geographers, amassed albums, and the content of these albums was often archaeological rather than geographic in nature. A number of photographic albums of the Anatolian and Baghdad railways and environs are cases in point.23 Karl Wilhelm Franz Gabriel Schrader, with whom the albums are associated, was a progressive jurist who assumed an advisory position for Deutsche Bank in 1883, a place on the Anatolian Railways’ board of directors in 1889, and eventually a place on Deutsche Bank’s board of directors in 1894.24 Two of the eight albums contain photographic documentation of sites of archaeological interest within an approximately one-­ hundred-kilometer radius of Konya, conducted by the Istanbul-based, Swedish-born photographer Guillaume Gustave Berggren, whom Schrader commissioned for the project. Berggren photographed the entirety of the Anatolian Railways, including their stations, major bridges, and tunnels, before the construction of the Baghdad Railway began in 1904.25 The photographs attest to the ambiguation not only of railway construction and archaeology but also of photography as art and photography as a documentary practice. As Frances Terpak and Peter Louis Bontto have shown in their study of photolithography, photographing archaeology, particularly in the Ottoman empire, was not simply a process of ambiguation between art and documentation. It was also a mediation between the relic as an object and as an item of mass consumption, beginning as early as the 1850s.26 In this sense, archaeological

FIG. 4.3  Guillaume Gustave

Berggren, View of the İnce Minareli Madrasa, Konya, ca. 1893. Niedersächsisches Landesarchiv, Wolfenbüttel. FIG. 4.4  Guillaume Gustave

Berggren, View of the “Aya Soa,” Konya, ca. 1893. Niedersächsisches Landesarchiv, Wolfenbüttel.

p­ hotographs are productively divorced from the tautological repertoire of Orientalist photography. Indeed, the objects, as in Berggren’s photographs, achieve what Zeynep Çelik and Edhem Eldem have identied as an abstract, ambiguous frame.27 The subject matter of the photograph sets varies, but most are depictions of pre-Islamic and Medieval sites in the Konya region circa 1893, with occasional images of modern sites or panoramas. Berggren’s portfolio plainly indicates the railways’ parallel penetration of new archaeological territory, and while the photographs have, in many cases, a touristic gaze, they often also have a quasi-scientic staging. Photograph 99, for example, depicts ruins of the iconic Seljuk-era İnce Minareli Madrasa at Konya as if it were being documented for its measurements (g. 4.3). The historical layering of Konya is evident in photograph 112, which depicts a small building identied simply as “Aya Soa” (actually the School of Haz, constructed in 1421) with its spoliated façade (g. 4.4). Its function here is most likely as a waqf (a charitable institution).28 The semiruinated state of the façade is the most memorable element of Berggren’s photograph, with its decorative panels axed in a scattershot manner to the frontal wall. Two images also captured in Konya reveal improvisational moments and indicate a bit more about Berggren’s activities in the city. Photograph 115, entitled Phyrgian Lions in the Courtyard of the Kal-Han[e] in Konya, depicts four freestanding statues of lions placed in the corner of the courtyard of a foundry, anking its main entrance to the street (g. 4.5). Squatting behind the foremost lion are two men,

presumably Ottoman, looking ambivalently at the camera. Are they condoning the documentation? Monitoring it? One of the lions is also evident in an image of the Konya tower kiosk at its lower level, published in Servet-i Fünun’s exposé of the Anatolian Railways in 1896.29 Photograph 117, entitled Fragments of Sculpture in the Old Market of Konya, shows a series of stone tablets that have, it would appear, been removed from the same source. The tablets depict a number of men, each within a portico, interacting with one another (g. 4.6). A separate tablet with a darker tone depicts an angel wearing a crown, today recognized as one of the most famous works of Seljuk art. All of the tablets have been delicately placed on hay and lean against a pile of kindling. Their careful arrangement, suggesting inventory being clandestinely catalogued, gives the impression that the stones are soon to be carried o. Local gangs often looted the stones in the city, suggesting that the engineers and Berggren may have had some interaction with these gangs while exploring Konya.30 Photograph 124 is the rst in the set to evoke a larger sense of archaeological exuberance, depicting the ­thirteenth-century Sultan Han near Aksaray (g. 4.7). Berggren’s photograph depicts the inner courtyard, where one can discern the freestanding kiosk at the center of the composition. A long arcade on the right side of the composition and the domed extension in the distance reveal the structure’s unique organization as a nonrectangular caravanserai. In contrast, photograph 140 depicts the nearby altar of the Phrygian acropolis at Yazılıkaya

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FIG. 4.5  Guillaume Gustave Berggren, Phyrgian

Lions in the Courtyard of the Kal-Han[e] in Konya, ca. 1893. Niedersächsisches Landesarchiv, Wolfenbüttel. FIG. 4.6  Guillaume Gustave Berggren, Phrygian and

classical sculptural reliefs at the Bedestan, Konya, ca. 1893. Niedersächsisches Landesarchiv, Wolfenbüttel.

(g. 4.8). Standing in front of the structure, perhaps to provide an index of scale, stands an Ottoman man. The beauty of Berggren’s archaeological photographs is undeniable, but it is their break with his familiar mode of landscapes, particularly railway landscapes, that makes them so signicant. We see in this trove a distinct shift away from compositions with large amounts of sky and vivid portrayals of contemporary landscapes and cities to fragmented, sometimes microscopic snapshots of historic portraiture; this testies to the new propensity of engineering

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and photography to oscillate between scales within the ambiguous frame of archaeological photography. TELL HALAF Berggren was neither the rst nor the last nonarchaeologist to make Ottoman antiquities the subject of his gaze. A case in point was Max von Oppenheim, who was simultaneously unearthing a site of his own: Tell Halaf, then the rst known Neolithic settlement, later reestablished as the Aramaic city-state of Gozan around 6000 B.C. The

s­ culptural programs of the Tell Halaf mounds and ar­chitectural fragments were manifestations of Aramaic folk culture and prophecy and reveal a society ourishing in the plastic arts. In a series of memoirs written in 1900 while at Tell Halaf, Oppenheim expounds upon German developmental concerns in Turkey and their relationship to the Baghdad Railway. From his perch atop the Aramaic mounds, Oppenheim argues that the development of culture is embedded in the laying of rail, noting: “I believe that in Mesopotamia and its surroundings the possibility for the extension of culture is quite viable through human resources. It will help at the beginning for state power to demonstrate goodwill and then later secure the conditions and the rich proceeds of agriculture through the work of immigrants from Asiatic Turkey and Arabia who would naturally develop the population and agriculture, because even in spite of dicult relations, it has already been shown that the people are extraordinarily capable of production, and that prosperity can multiply rapidly and signicantly.”31 Perhaps it was this can-do optimism that led the Baghdad Railway Company to call on Oppenheim to assist in the surveying of the railways, his experience with the unruly Bedouins being particularly useful. The surveying of the southerly route, in fact, was what brought Oppenheim to Tell Halaf. Presumably drawn with information provided by Oppenheim, the map of the area by the Holzmann engineers curiously omits the Aramaic city. Unlike the tenuous sequence of archaeological and railway events at Gordium, Tell Halaf was undisputedly seen by Western eyes and brought to international academic attention by way of the railway’s construction.32 Upon encountering Tell Halaf in 1899, Oppenheim notied a host of relevant parties in Berlin of its existence, and this was made public shortly thereafter. Oppenheim returned to Tell Halaf in 1911 with a massive team and sophisticated equipment. Seeking to establish a permanent installation at the state museums with the nds, Oppenheim wrote to Wilhelm von Bode, curator at the Kaiser Friedrich Museum, describing an image of a thoroughly modern excavation site, replete with short-distance trains to move heavy items, busy workers, and the most modern archaeological technology: “With such a wealth of well-preserved stone reliefs in my additional ndings, it would really be a crying shame if everything were to go to Constantinople. I certainly hope that our home museums will have their share of the results of my work.”33

FIG. 4.7  Guillaume Gustave Berggren, View of Sultan Han, Aksaray,

ca. 1893. Niedersächsisches Landesarchiv, Wolfenbüttel.

FIG. 4.8  Guillaume Gustave Berggren, View of Midas monument at

Yazılıkaya near Eskişehir, ca. 1893. Niedersächsisches Landesarchiv, Wolfenbüttel.

The dig at Tell Halaf highlights the ambiguous functions of the archaeologist’s spade and the railway engineer’s gauge. Photography too plays a major role in giving contour to the achievement of this ambiguity: its importance is demonstrated by the fact that a darkroom was set up in the expedition house to conduct visual analyses of

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the specimens with photography, in real time. Unlike Berggren’s photographs from the sites around Konya, Oppenheim’s photographs from Tell Halaf convey a touristic jubilance, focusing on personalities, social relations, and the actual act of digging as much as they do the objects themselves. With the advent of the war and the need to suspend the dig, Oppenheim ceded the facilities to the engineer Foellner of the Baghdad Railway. According to Foellner, Ottoman ocials overtook Oppenheim’s base camp sometime in May of 1916.34 For its part, the Ottoman government had long been suspicious of Oppenheim’s activities, as indicated by records from ocials in Diyarbakır province who describe the artifacts Oppenheim exhumed at Tell Halaf as “stolen.”35 This may explain some of the resistance Oppenheim encountered in a plea to the minister of the interior, Talat Bey, after asking him to return the site to Foellner because of Foellner’s need for the facilities and German wartime operations—a way, barely cloaked, of expressing his distrust of Ottomans.36 GOTTLIEB SCHUMACHER AND MSHATTA In many ways, Oppenheim had his verso in the well-integrated gure of Gottlieb Schumacher. In the process of surveying the railways of Palestine, Schumacher also discovered, led, and assisted with a number of important archaeological projects. These included the Canaanite site Tell Megiddo (also known as “Armageddon”), which he excavated from 1903 to 1905. Schumacher also played a key role in the excavation, deconstruction, and shipping of a particularly magnicent façade: the delicately carved main portal of the never-completed Umayyad palace of Qasr Mshatta, adjacent to the Hejaz Railway (g. 4.9).37 Richard Schöne, then-director of the state museums, oversaw Schumacher’s involvement in the Mshatta project. Routing a letter to Otto Puchstein, the classical archaeologist then stationed at Baalbek, Schöne relayed the kaiser’s desire to have the men collaborate in the removal and delivery of the façade.38 The possibility that the sultan would dedicate the stones to the kaiser became increasingly likely with time, and Schöne liaised with the German embassy in Istanbul to try to ensure that the authorities at the Porte would have whatever they needed to issue the necessary irade.39 The Orientalist Julius Euting wanted to be involved with the removal of the Mshatta façade from Jordan, in large part because he seemed not to trust Schumacher.

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Schöne was cognizant of the above/beneath the earth distinction outlined in the Antiquities Laws. While he did not exclude the possibility of digging into the earth, he was also aware of the knotty issues that doing so might raise. In advocating for the plaster casts, Schöne also signaled that it was the form of the stones that was valuable, not their actual thingness. Puchstein traveled to Haifa and met Schumacher in July. They proceeded to Mshatta, where Schumacher measured, analyzed, and drew the prized façade. Schumacher, anxious that the slow progress of the Hejaz Railway would not place it at the disposal of transport needs in time, began to explore alternative options, including transporting the stones on the backs of camels through Palestine.40 Schu­ macher praised the eorts made by Nazim Pasha, the governor of Damascus, to ensure that the stones were protected by local guards while awaiting removal.41 The

FIG. 4.9  Julius Euting, Sketch map of the Hejaz Railway and the

location of Mshatta with possible transportation routes, 1902. Zentralarchiv der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin.

FIG. 4.10  Osman Hamdi Bey, Persian Carpet Dealer on the Street, 1887/88.

Oil on canvas, 23.5 × 47 in. (60 × 119.5 cm). © Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Nationalgalerie/Bernd Kuhnert.

planned removal of the stones, although given the sultan’s blessing, was not lost on the Ottoman cultural elite, specically, Osman Hamdi. In September of 1902, Theodor Wiegand intonated Hamdi’s discomfort with the situation at Mshatta: “The evacuation of the pieces of Mshatta could not possibly be looked upon as a personal insult by Hamdy [sic] Bey, namely a) because we have ocially received the permission from him to secure a still-to-be precisely named monumental portal ornament for us in Syria; this point was specically included in the List of Antiquities, which I had asked for as a commemorative gift for His Majesty the Emperor and King for his journey to Palestine, which he had conceded to and b) because Mister Privy Council Bode, as a sign of gratitude for the concession of the nd, immediately afterwards bought an oil painting painted by Hamdy [sic] himself for 6000 francs.”42 Bode’s symbolic purchase of Hamdi’s oil painting is a telling indication of how the Berlin Museums believed they could placate Istanbul with relative ease, and also indicated that no gesture would be spared to streamline the process of extricating desired goods circulating between the sultan and the kaiser.43 The painting, Persian Carpet Dealer on the Street, from 1888, depicts three men in Oriental garb showing Persian rugs to a family—a man, a woman, and their young daughter—in European garb (g. 4.10). The painting is at one and the same time a vivid tableau of objects—which, in addition to the rugs, includes various vessels, a candle

holder, and a rie—and a portrait of ethnographic encounter between East and West. Rarely did Osman Hamdi depict the East and West in such proximity, and it is perhaps this anomaly that provides a hint as to why it was thought to be a particularly symbolic choice. Noting the considerable progress in the construction of the Hejaz Railway in May 1903, Schumacher retracted his discouragement regarding use of the railway for the Mshatta’s removal, and suggested that it might be the least problematic way to extract the stones because it would draw the least amount of attention to their removal.44 The stones would rst travel north to Damascus before proceeding onward to Haifa, where they would be shipped to Hamburg. Wiegand assured Berlin that Meißner and his team were on board and would help in every way necessary.45 Despite some small delays in the Hejaz Railway’s construction, Schumacher and Puchstein were delighted when the irade became ocial in June of 1903.46 But their enthusiasm was dampened two days later, when Hans Freiherr von Wangenheim—the German ambassador in Istanbul, who had seen Schumacher’s photographs of Mshatta—tried to remove the stones himself.47 The archaeologist Ernst Herzfeld’s interpretation of Mshatta, rst published as “The Genesis of Islamic Art and the Mshatta Problem” in Der Islam (1910), gave the denitive interpretation of the palace and its elements and, in the process, placed Mshatta above all other objects

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FIG. 4.11  Unknown, possibly Bruno

Schulz, View of a fragment of Mshatta, ca. 1907. Zentralarchiv der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin.

of art as the fulcrum of the “Orient or Rome” debate.48 In order for these art-historical debates to take place in earnest, the valuable Mshatta stones needed to become accessible in the museums on the Spree (g. 4.11). While French authorities were willing to oer assistance for Mshatta’s transport out of the desert, the British were not amused. In November of the same year, Oxford Reverend Henry Baker Tristram wrote a furious editorial for the Daily Times decrying the German actions in Transjordan as an international act of vandalism. Tristram, who claimed to have discovered Mshatta in 1872, stated: “This marvelous work, which has remained for 1,300 years, untouched by weather, unmutilated by man, of which when I rst saw it not a chip was missing, has now, we are told, been given by the Sultan to the German Emperor, and, under the auspices of German savants, the gures of the façade have been sawn o and conveyed to Haifa for transport to Berlin. . . . We may be reproached for the Elgin marbles. But that was long ago, and it is to be hoped that we have reached a higher stage in archaeology. Lord Elgin would at least plead that if he had not taken them they would have been destroyed. No such plea can be adduced from this act of vandalism.”49 The ethical burden that Tristram laid on the sultan and the kaiser was, nonetheless, irrelevant to the authorities in Berlin, especially Wiegand, who saw the acquisition as the cornerstone of the new Islamic museum. The Elgin marbles, in all of their scandalous history, were in their eyes a product of British tyranny. Mshatta, on the other hand, could feign the appearance of mutualism to everyone, or at least everyone who they thought mattered, as the Mshatta stones made their way to Berlin.

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“NEITHER WOOD NOR WATER” Unlike the area around Mshatta, Mesopotamia was not a tabula rasa. Upper Mesopotamia, in particular, had been the archaeological domain of the British since George Smith’s discovery of Carchemish in 1876 and Patrick Henderson’s excavation of the site beginning in 1878. By the twentieth century, with the railway activity in Anatolia well under way and the edgling German colonial project taking o, the time had come for the Germans to elbow their way into the archaeological landscape of Meso­ potamia and come into more intimate contact with the lands that the Baghdad Railway would ultimately penetrate. Robert Koldewey’s permit to excavate Babylon, granted in 1898, is the most symbolic event marking the escalation of a British-German rivalry. Babylon had rst been discovered by British anti­ quarian Claudius James Rich in 1811 and was subject to increasingly detailed studies by a succession of British archaeologists.50 Koldewey’s takeover of the site and his intention to bring relics from it to Berlin represented to the British their increasing loss of inuence in Irak. Four new excavations initiated by the dog in 1902 (Kisurra, Borsippa, Schuruppak, and Assur), another in 1907 (Hatra), and yet two more in 1912 (Uruk) and 1913 (Kar-TukultiNinurta) reinforced the new power balance. In 1906, British Consul General L. S. Newmarch expressed his frank opinion about the German archaeological excavation’s ambiguous role as a colonial endeavor and its greater geopolitical signicance for Britain: In my opinion, the excavations at Babylon and Kela Shergat . . . are not merely excavations for archaeological

research. It seems hardly necessary to have at Babylon three highly trained surveyors, who appear to have a good deal of engineering knowledge as well. Moreover, the excavations advance so slowly that one is inclined to think there must be some reason for the leisurely progress that is being made and to wonder what is being awaited. The employés [sic] at Babylon are changed rather frequently, apparently as soon as they have mastered enough Arabic and acquired enough patience to control and direct Arab labourers. Such men will be very useful hereafter when the Bagdad [sic] Railway enters this part of the country, not only in managing, but in collecting, numbers of Arab workmen. . . . I think both these places are meant not only to serve the ends of archaeology but to act as centres for the collection of information and the dissemination of German inuence.51

The nature of the German-British archaeological rivalry, predicated on Newmarch’s fear of the “dissemination of German inuence,” and its interrelationship with railway development in Irak, can also be charted in the records of the British archaeologist Gertrude Bell and of Ernst Herzfeld, a German archaeologist. Bell’s encounter with the German undertakings in Mesopotamia began in April 1909, when she traveled to Samarra for the rst time. Although Herzfeld’s excavation at Samarra would not itself begin in earnest until 1911, he had completed preliminary studies of the site.52 Bell described Herzfeld’s drawings as “woefully bad” and, perhaps for this reason, took ample (and well-known) photographs of the site herself. Bell also later visited Assur and the archaeologist Walter Andrae, the architect Walter Bachmann, and other members of Andrae’s team. “We all lunched together very cheerfully,” she noted, “and they agreed with me that Herzfeld was a charlatan.”53 She went on to note: “He worked here for two years and [could] learn nothing because he knew everything before.”54 Bell’s distrust of Herzfeld and her description of him as a charlatan encapsulated her mistrust of German archaeological projects in Mesopotamia in general, on both scientic and political grounds. After his completion of the Hejaz Railway, Meißner was transferred to the Irak section of the Baghdad Railway in 1910. Bell rst met Meißner, with whom she established a friendly rapport, in May 1911 while he was in Birecik surveying the railway.55 Later that month Bell traveled to Aleppo, where she mingled at the German mission run by

a certain Martha Koch and met Felix Langenegger, an architect employed by Max von Oppenheim. She reported that Koch had strong opinions about the archaeologists and railway men penetrating the area; she believed that Oppenheim was creating a “negative eect” everywhere he went and found Meißner to be “as bad as an oriental.”56 Bell was also in Aleppo at the same time the railway engineer Foellner was assisting the Berlin Museums with the dismantling and shipment of the “Aleppo-Zimmer,” a delicately painted set of domestic wooden walls dating from the early seventeenth century. The walls, with their rich polychromatic array of vegetal motifs and muqarnas cornice, were seen as a distinct corollary to the examples being unearthed in Damascus and represented another major frontier, the early modern period, for the Berlin Museums’ Islamic collections. The absence of this event from her diaries is noteworthy, indicating that Bell was not made privy to the room’s removal, despite the fact that she socialized with German expatriates while in Aleppo. Upon returning to Baghdad in March 1914, Bell made plans to visit Meißner and see the developments of the railways with her own eyes. On her arrival in the city, she noted: “The rst thing I saw as I came into Baghdad was the railway station—it’s the only thing that looks like it’s going forward instead of round and round, and I am glad to see it.”57 On March 28, Bell spent the better part of the day with Meißner, touring the railway operations in Baghdad and their environs. She paints a vivid image of the scene: The palms nodded over Tigris bank and on its swollen tide lay a otilla of ancient boats, their lateen sails furled, their shallow hold lled with wooden sleepers straight from Hamburg. . . . The muddy waters of the Tigris ood, the palms, the ragged singing Arabs— these were the ancient East, and in their midst stood the shining faultless engines, the blue eyed, close cropped Germans, with quick decisive mood and smart military bearing—the soldiery of the West, come out to conquer and conquering, their weapon science. . . . They have to import everything. They cannot use the water without straining it because it is salt, for lack of stone they must cast blocks of concrete, for lack of sand (there is not even sand in Arabia, it seems!) they must crush pebbles. “We have neither wood nor water,” said Meißner Pasha, “stone nor sand nor wood.”58

Bell’s characterization of science as the German “weapon” came full circle in 1917, as she described the day

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Baghdad was recovered by British forces. She characterized the failed German project in Irak as the end of a colonial project predicated on railway domination that was, thankfully, squashed by Britain. A German Mesopotamia represented a specter that would have “attened” a great Arab center: “Their place is not going to be in this sun; it would have been if they had let well alone and not tried to force the pace by war. We had, in my opinion, for all practical purposes resigned this country to them; they knew it well enough—Meißner told me so 3 years ago in veiled terms at Baghdad. Now they’re out of it forever I hope, and they have no one but themselves to thank.”59 Herzfeld, Bell’s competitor in Mesopotamia, seemed to be far less concerned with the British operations in the area than Bell was with the German operations. Herzfeld graciously invited Bell to his dig at Samarra in 1911 and referred to her work throughout his excavation journals. Given his proximity to Meißner’s rail construction operations, there was surprisingly little engagement between the two, and it would appear that Herzfeld was not particularly interested in the railway operations or the project’s ability to either facilitate his work or to function in tandem with it. Rather, he left any necessary choreography between the two entities up to the authorities at the dog and the State Museums. Unlike Oppenheim’s operations at Tell Halaf, where the expedition house operated as a sort of multipurpose outlet for German expatriates, Herzfeld preferred to keep his workforce and his operations untethered, establishing base camps with collapsible housing and tents for only short periods of time. By 1913, before the completion of the rail, his excavations at Samarra were well known across both the German and the Ottoman empires as digs of great signicance. THE PANORAMA OF ARCHAEOLOGY The archaeological discoveries and documentation by the Körtes, Berggren, Schumacher, and Herzfeld, set against the backdrop of the Antiquity Laws, played a twofold role in the German construction of the Ottoman railway network. They assisted the railway in their ability to dene territory, both literally and guratively, as a cultural domain. They also materialized an artistic and cultural linkage that serves as many needs on the ground as it does for imperial and cultural identity in Berlin. The laying of the monument of Western, and later German, technology

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sine qua non—the rail—in tandem with the breaking down of antique monuments through archaeology created the ambiguated professional prole, the engineer-­ archaeologist, that fullls imperial impulses and the national self-fashioning that accompanies them. Ottoman records support the notion that the ramping up of German archaeological activity was largely collusive with the railway construction. Nevertheless, this made the ambiguation of engineering and archaeology all the more dicult to see within the lens of the Antiquities Laws alone. Yet certain instances reveal the shrewd and ingenious adaptations Ottoman ocials made on the ground to transform the railway into service of their own archaeological ambitions. The most important, although subtle, example occurs alongside the construction of the elaborate Haydarpaşa station. Over a three-year period, an assistant from the Imperial Museum periodically scoured the construction site on the Bosphorus to look for goods that might emerge in the construction process. Many small objects—pottery fragments, onyx, marble graves, stones from older structures—did in fact appear, objects that must have generated little interest for the German engineers and architects on-site. In tandem with the Ministry of Education, the Imperial Museum chose to collect these objects as they appeared, bringing them to their courtyard for safekeeping.60 Although the objects were diminutive in scale and value, we see in this that the relationship between railway construction and archaeology is, to some degree, both symbiotic and axiomatic. The politician and journalist Friedrich Dernburg made the predatory aspect of the railway and all of its attendant economies clear in a text penned in 1892. For Dernburg, it is the sound of the steam train that awakens the Land of “Sleeping Beauty” from its long slumber, and, like a fertilizing river, the railway tracks bring abundant blessings into those hitherto remote areas.61 The slumbering (read: archaeological) Ottoman empire, in other words, was brought to life through the penetration of the German rail. The gendered, predatory analogy is unambiguous but also underestimates tactical activities such as those at Haydarpaşa. The image also reveals the perception of the relationship between the empires as one of vast disparities in their relative alertness and agility. The awakening jolts that the rail came to represent lay at the core of the modern German construction of the ancient world, as well as the Ottoman construction of a new modern project.

Part Two

5 Construction The tracks of Alexander the Great and Mithradites have been obliterated by us, but the tracks of those who build this railway for us will remain. —Cemal Pasha, governor of Adana province

HUMAN RESOURCES Objects exhibit the process of ambiguation. But what about people? The German-Ottoman union behind the construction of the Ottoman railways belies the multivalent composition of national and ethnic groups who played elemental roles in the railways’ realization. To zoom in on the mix of peoples who constructed the network is also to move beyond seeing it as a dualistic endeavor. At one point or another, written records make all of the following assignations in detailing those who constructed the railways: Albanian, American, Anatolian, Arab, Armenian, Australian, Austrian, Bavarian, Bedouin, British, Catholic, Circassian, Cretan, Cypriot, Druze, Egyptian, French, German, Germanic, Greek, Hungarian, Italian, Jewish, Kurdish, Lebanese, Macedonian, Maltese, Muslim, New Zealander, non-Christian, non-Muslim, non-Ottoman, Ottoman, Protestant, Prussian, Romanian, Russian, Sudanese, Swabian, Swiss, Syriac, Turkish, and Yazidi. It is tempting to extrapolate an ethos of cosmopolitanism from such a diverse mix of people. However, this would also be limiting, as it would fail to recognize the trenchant hierarchies, power imbalances, and intercultural strife that derived from dierences in hourly pay; the tacit

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distinction between “craft” and “labor” and between “expert” and non-expert; the fact that by 1915 many of the railway workers were there involuntarily as prisoners of war; and how all of these things fundamentally changed the nature of construction. The Ottoman landscape was by no means devoid of engineering expertise, and some notes on its engineering culture provide an important context regarding who several of the relevant actors were. The infusion of German engineers into Ottoman culture over the course of the railways’ construction helped move the eld of engineering in the Ottoman empire away from a profession intrinsically intertwined with the military and in a more liberalized direction.1 This did not mean, however, that some of these changes weren’t already under way by the 1870s, nor did it mean that all Ottoman engineering traditions bent to German inuence. When they did not, particularly in the case of the Hejaz Railway, one can see that it was the German practices that needed shifting and recalibration. An elite Ottoman engineer (mühendis) and students of the engineering school (mühendishane) were often included in the processes of surveying and construction, although they would not design the railways. The engineers who

participated in these processes were by and large the engineers who had trained in the recently formalized subdiscipline of road and bridge building at the Military School of Engineers.2 Traditionally, these men built and repaired roads across the empire, linking that type of infrastructure (yollar) with the new railways (demiryollar).3 The ascension of Sultan Abdülhamid II to the throne in 1876 ushered in a particularly dramatic set of changes for the Ottoman engineering profession that unfolded concurrently with railway construction. The sultan privileged the idea that a mütefennin, or man of science, should be a man of government, and that these were the men who would be able to autonomously help weave the network of communication and provide the technological stimulation the empire so desperately needed. To this eect, Abdülhamid consolidated civil engineers’ position within the bureaucracy and created a school of civil engineering that was partially modeled on the École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées, where graduates were obliged to work for the state upon graduation. In response to what he saw as an overreliance on foreign expertise and a lessening of the position of Islamic knowledge in Ottoman culture, Abdülhamid stipulated that, while non-Muslims were allowed to teach, only Muslim students would be allowed to matriculate, thus limiting the inux of non-Muslims into the bureaucracy.4 The nature of the institution was also ambiguous, on the one hand modeled on European engineering schools, with a signicant amount of instruction oered by German engineers and architects, and, on the other, as a madrasah, as evinced by the religious composition of the student body and the fact that the scientic director (başhoca) was also the teacher of the top grade.5 Among the many new modes of thought the institution provoked was a shift in thinking on the nature of the male body. Whereas sedentarism (and hence a lack of tness) had traditionally been seen as a mark of privilege and prestige, the school implemented an undeniably German emphasis on the practice of gymnastics among engineering students, which emphasized that a t body in a tight, crisp uniform was consonant with a t mind and hence a t and nimble nation.6 Here we see Ratzel’s organic theory of the state transmute from the body politic to the human body. This structural change in the education of Ottoman engineers brought with it the prospect, and to some degree the reality, of a more autonomous engineering culture by the end of the nineteenth century. Yet numerous accounts indicate that a cult of credentialism persisted, one where

foreign degrees (particularly from France or Germany) were perceived as inherently superior and where foreign engineers (particularly German) were unjustly favored in major commissions, such as the railways.7 All of this indicates why the position of railway inspector would become the most prestigious position an Ottoman engineering graduate could obtain. A position with the Hejaz Railway, pious in its goals, carried additional merits. After or in tandem with their service for the railways, Ottoman engineers were recruited to assist with other prestigious development projects, particularly agricultural ones that were related to the new livelihood associated with the railways.8 The emancipatory nature of the Hejaz Railway, as the result of certain bureaucratic and educational structures, was, however, hard won. It also came after several decades of a certain imposition of European standards on the ground and a huge amount of skepticism from abroad. The British traveler and diplomat Mark Sykes appraised the ethnic dynamics of railway construction while visiting the Hejaz Railway: “Alas! When the East takes to the mechanical arts it grows far fouler than the West. . . . And I cannot weep or wonder at the fact that the Bedawin [sic] pulls up the rails and wrecks the trains by instinct.”9 The racialized depiction of the conict lines that arose from cultural dierences is typical of the day. Sykes’s appraisal is nevertheless instructive as a portrait of the railways’ ethnocentric identities and religious complexity. As a Briton, he would have received permission from the Ottoman railway authorities in Damascus to visit the Hejaz Railway only because of his diplomatic status; and as he was a non-Muslim, they most certainly would have prohibited him from traveling the railway south of Ma’an. To the north of Ma’an, Sykes would have encountered anti-Bedouin sentiment. Sykes would have observed that, this being the holy railway, only Muslims were (in principle) allowed to build it, and that even among the Muslim workers there were distinct hierarchies: Syrian Arabs tended to perform skilled labor, while Egyptian and Sudanese workers were contracted for non-skilled work. A predominantly non-Catholic German coterie of engineers would oversee these men and direct their work, perhaps assisted by a Catholic Italian engineer or two. The wages for all of these men came from donations collected in Istanbul from Muslim patrons from Singapore, Morocco, Zanzibar, and India and sent to Damascus, in addition to direct investments by the Christian, Jewish,

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and Druze communities that stood to benet from the railway’s construction in the north. The piecemeal nature of the railway network’s construction in Ottoman Europe paralleled the piecemeal nature of its labor force. In 1876, after conducting additional studies in Anatolia and Mesopotamia, Wilhelm von Pressel wrote a manuscript entitled “The Situation of Turkey: Characteristics and Aphorisms.”10 Pressel’s unltered reections in this text manifest his bittersweet relationship with both the Ottoman government and its people. Beyond indicating that virtually all of the populations employed for the unskilled and semiskilled labor of these lines were local, Pressel’s text reveals the complex cultural dynamics between ethnic groups within the empire and how those dynamics were maneuvered through the process of the German-led railway development. Pressel’s platitudes on ethnicity were often tempered with descriptions of exceptions or contradictions, most often rendered through anecdotes about his interactions with individuals. One of the most intriguing of these episodes is an encounter with a minor Armenian landlord (rajah) living in the Balkans who astounds Pressel with his learnedness, candor, and realistic geopolitical view of the railway endeavors in Southeastern Europe. The landlord says: They [build the railways] because [the Turks] must have us [non-Turks]. They do it to place before Europe the semblance that [Ottomans] are of a more tolerant and liberal attitude. In this vein, we are simple demonstration objects, nothing more. Such decisions on all matters of the empire do not originate from the ministries, the assemblies or government institutions so as to perform the farce of the adoption of European forms of government, but rather entirely at the Palace or within the intimate circles of the Grand Vizier, from which we [landlords], myself included, are left out and placed under the pervasive contempt for all non-Turks . . . high or low, we are forced to play the role of tolerance, combined with that of worker and . . . pezevenk [pimp] between state and stranger. They have reduced us to this position, we need acquiesce to it, as we are dependent on this land for our livelihood, but the Turks have to pay us for it. Although we are suppressed we understand the railway’s advantages which, in our view, outweigh the sweetness that comes with enjoying power.11

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Pressel takes these remarks as a reluctant agreement by the non-Turkish Ottoman populace to play the role of plastic “demonstration objects” for the German remodeling of the Balkans. Yet seen through the lenses of a longer span of subnational history and the implicit Porte policy, the comment amounts to more than a mere grievance. Contrary to Pressel’s appraisal that the railway marked a death knell for Balkan nationalism because it consolidated Ottoman power in the Balkans, the grievance instead indicates a legitimate reason for nationalism to be stoked by the railways. Concerning skilled and semiskilled laborers, Pressel’s accounts lay out boilerplate ethnic proles of the kaleidoscopic Balkans and indicate the relative “utility” of various labor groups. Turks, essentially colonists, are the most privileged and not prone to working. Greeks, available primarily around the coasts, make good workers but often believe that menial labor is beneath them. Tatars, found in small villages, are a casual, felicitous people who demonstrate warmth, tolerance, and a good work ethic. The Circassians in Bulgaria also make good workers, but not quite as good as those in Anatolia, who have not been inuenced by Bulgarian brutishness and retain more of their natural character. Armenians, ample in and around Edirne, have no particularly strong advantages or disadvantages. Aromanians (Macedo-Romanians) live peacefully with their neighbors and have proven their savvy in the eld of transportation. Sephardim and Roma (Gypsies) express no interest in working on the railways. Finally, Albanians excel primarily in agriculture and are less likely to be useful for construction.12 Although orchestrated by the German-led Anatolian Railways Company, the railway construction from Izmit onward to Ankara and Eskişehir drew in large part upon the labor model established by the Haydarpaşa–Izmit railway, in which the Porte subcontracted British engineers to oversee a primarily Ottoman labor force (g. 5.1). The main dierence was the sheer scale of the endeavor, as it encompassed a greater distance, greater engineering challenges, and the necessity of a larger workforce that needed to be more systematized than Pressel’s scheme in the Balkans. Deutsche Bank’s bureaucrats, charged with subcontracting the construction, were inclined to sta skilled positions with their own engineers. The men typically came from the rm’s Oberbau (earth-level building), Bahnbau (railway construction), and Hochbau (above-earth-level building) divisions.13 Two men, Otto Kapp von Gültstein and Ernst

FIG. 5.1  Guillaume Gustave Berggen,

Workers in front of a storehouse at the Izmit station, ca. 1893. Niedersächsisches Landesarchiv, Wolfenbüttel.

Mackensen, became the general construction directors and were free to sta their unskilled workforces as they saw t, while skilled workers were almost entirely fellow German countrymen. Whether through national preference or a general reluctance to hire Turkish workers for a Turkish railway, Kapp von Gültstein and Mackensen both contracted out the majority of unskilled labor to a mélange of Ottoman Greeks, Kurds, Slavs, Armenians, and Circassians.14 A German reporter for the Vossische Zeitung describes the colorful scene in Adapazarı in 1893: “The various adventurous European workers often reminded me of old acquaintances from the elds of California. These vagrants give the impression of migrant-wanderers. Yet more were the colorful costumes of the Orientals, Turks, Armenians and Circassians, the Croats and Montenegrins. Even a dark-skinned son of Africa popped up here and there.”15 The reporter further commented: “There is a color cast of the society of artisans and laborers. Bricklayers and stonemasons were Greeks, Italians, Bosnians, Dalmatians, and Armenians. The workers were for the most part Kurds. A jumble of languages.”16 While the precise cultural negotiations remain largely unknown, both Kapp von Gültstein and Mackensen successfully managed the religious needs of their laborers: Muslim workers did not work on Friday, while Christian workers tended not to work on Sundays.17 This admin­

istrative model was largely carried over to the Baghdad Railway. It is noteworthy that such exibility was far less common in the labor practices of railway construction in other multicultural contexts such as Russia, Canada, and the United States. Race and religion also played a role in the construction of the Baghdad Railway, whose fourteen-year duration and 1,600-kilometer distance exposed it to myriad demographic and geographical conditions, more than any other line within the empire. The railway from Konya to Baghdad was divided into four subsections of dierent lengths, yet roughly equal in the labor required. Each section had a chief engineer, a deputy engineer, three to eight section engineers, twenty to forty secondary section engineers, architects, and architect assistants, eighteen to sixty bureaucrats and bookkeepers, and ten to fty technical specialists. All unskilled labor was executed by massive forces of thousands of men aged fteen to fty, some apparently arriving on foot from as far away as Shiraz.18 While squarely under German management, the Baghdad Railway Company had a consistently multicultural face. In addition to payment records, accounts by journalists and travelers testify to the workforce’s composition from Konya to Bulgurlu in the initial years.19 The upper-level engineers included some Austrians and Britons in addition to Germans, while minor ocials were Turkish,

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Greek, or Armenian. Masons and other skilled workers were frequently Italians. Between 1905 and 1908, a considerable amount of unskilled labor was allocated to Kurdish workers, most of whom would likely have traveled to Konya from southern and southeastern Anatolia in search of work.20 The composition of unskilled labor in later years tended to reect a cross section of the population in and around each particular section’s headquarters, constituted primarily of a mixture of Turks, Kurds, and Arabs.21 Their work was mundane and intensive: moving, loading, and unloading materials, removing stone and earth, and clearing brush and trees from the track’s path.22 The Baghdad Railway Company separated the unskilled labor force by ethnic groups and delegated tasks to ethnic subgroups, so that any given ethnic group would have only minimal contact with other groups.23 The Baghdad Railway Company’s pay scale, at least in the beginning, was signicantly stratied, with wages reecting the xation with ethnicity and the hierarchies constructed between them.24 Turkish miners received an average of twenty-four piasters per month to an Italian’s forty. The lowest-level workers—porters and simple helpers—were always Ottoman and earned no more than seventeen or twelve piasters per month, respectively.25 The German management of the Baghdad Railway Company made every eort to use the early construction years as an opportunity for the apprenticeship of Turkish workers.26 We can interpret this practice in two ways. On the one hand, it was an investment: if a critical mass of Turkish workers mastered the construction process, they would master the same language, so to speak, making translation and transmission of the construction process less opaque and more expedient. On the other hand, it was a strategic tool the Germans used to reduce the non-Ottoman workforce, which cost more to employ and which posed the challenges associated with multiculturalism. The traveler David Fraser interpreted the predilection for apprenticeship in purely capitalist terms: “The fact is that the people who run the line, though German, care rst for their own pockets and next for Germany. They buy or employ what is cheapest or most suitable, and do not care a nger-snap for the origin of an article or a servant. True, much material must be of German manufacture in order that they retain the political and diplomatic support essential to their welfare in the future. But with that support secured, in the case of most German enterprises in

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Turkey, . . . patriotism occupies a small place in the calculations of the promoters. . . . The master impulse . . . is to make money for himself as quickly as possible.”27

◆◆◆ The workers’ strike of 1908 and the geopolitical pressures of the Young Turks began to chip away at this purely capitalist façade. The Baghdad Railway Company altruistically used employment with the company as a safe harbor for Armenian employees in the region facing the threat of deportation.28 While the Germans’ friends, the Italians and Austrians, continued their service as the geopolitical tensions of Europe escalated in the run-up to World War I, all Britons on the railway were phased out between 1909 and 1911.29 This even applied to Maltese and Cypriot workers, subjects of the British crown.30 Although the 1908 labor strike posed the most direct challenge to the Baghdad Railway’s human resource policy, the Italo-Turkish War of 1911–12, in which Italy captured the Ottoman provinces of Tripolitania, Fezzan, and Cyrenaica, prompted the most signicant human resource crisis of all. Because of the conict, the Baghdad Railway Company and its armatures were forced to abruptly and reluctantly dismiss all Italian workers from service.31 These workers accounted for almost all of the labor force’s skilled masons, and their abrupt disappearance can be seen in the discontinuity of techniques within numerous structures. The Baghdad Railway Company recruited stopgap replacements from local Turkish and Arab populations, whose masonry traditions varied greatly from the Italians’ in both quality and method. Wages codied the perceived importance of a craft as much as ethnicity had tended to codify the craft of a given worker. Yet the workers’ strike of 1908, the reduction of the number of Armenian laborers, and the dismissal of the English and other workforces narrowed the gap between various workers’ wages. Whereas wages of simple handymen (Handlanger) and supervisors (Aufseher) had about an 800 percent dierential in 1907, Holzmann’s records show that the gap had shrunk to 550 percent by 1912.32 Additionally, all skilled and unskilled workers witnessed an increase in pay that surpassed the rates of ination: diggers/excavators earned fourteen piasters per day, artisans thirty, miners thirty-ve, and quarrymen forty. Reports from the German consulate in Adana oer revealing accounts of the ramications of a decade of geopolitical changes in the Baghdad Railway’s multiethnic

character. The documents describe conicts and crimes between railway employees that typically centered on questions of ethnicity: Greeks retaliating against Turks for perceived injustices committed on the construction sites, Arab and Turkish workers rising up against German administrators to protest administrative policies, Armenians desperately seeking protection from persecution by marauding locals, and so on.33 As the years went by, the labor groups eased their obsession with the railways’ multiethnic composition and increasingly came to recognize one another as colleagues. Disputes gradually took on cultural as opposed to ethnic undertones. Alcohol, for example, became a major theme by 1911, as Muslim workers increasingly began to complain about their non-Muslim counterparts’ overconsumption during o-hours.34 With the advent of the Great War and the incorporation of prisoners of war into the Baghdad Railway’s workforce, the railway reassumed some of the multinational character that had dwindled in the years leading up to the war. The context of conscription was obviously new, and this meant that ethnicity and nationality, for the rst time, were not automatically consonant with craft, as they had largely been in prewar times. Because of the prisoner of war’s very status and because he was trained as a soldier and not a craftsman, he received the harshest and most menial jobs, regardless of nationality. The soldier-as-laborer model also applied to the Hejaz Railway, but with much dierent contours. In theory, religion played a cardinal role in the labor force of the Hejaz Railway. Because it was intended for the holy pilgrimage to Mecca and its construction fell under the auspices of Abdülhamid’s caliphal stewardship, non-Muslims were not to participate in its construction. Some have contended that this sentiment, which ultimately proved impracticable, was also related to the Ottoman desire to develop its own infrastructure and limit further European inuence.35 This seems unlikely, as the Baghdad Railway delegated construction to the Germans in parts of the empire that had greater economic and political relevance. The hiring of an Italian by the name of Labella and later Heinrich August Meißner to direct the line’s construction shows how İzzat Pasha and Abdülhamid struck ideological bargains for the gain of expertise.36 Such bargains multiplied during the railway’s early years, as Meißner demonstrated his cultural savvy, linguistic skills, and loyalty to the Porte. Meißner’s rst thirty months of service were so impressive that the Damascus Central Com­

mission extended his contract for another two years, with the added privileges of being “free from supervision” and “exempt from criticism.”37 An observer noted in 1905 that Meißner “studied with the greatest care the Turkish character and always displays excellent tact in managing his superiors.”38 This meant that Meißner would enjoy greater freedom to sta the railway as he saw t until it reached Medina in 1908. Yet the prohibition of non-Muslims from the inner Hejaz remained steadfast, so the multinational workforce would end when it reached sixty-ve kilometers south of Tabuk, the threshold past which non-Muslims theoretically could no longer tread. This placed almost one-half of the railway’s extent from Damascus to Medina out of bounds for non-Muslim skilled labor.39 But through Meißner’s bureaucratic forethought, it also fostered a systematized process of real-time, iterative apprenticeship between nonMuslim and Muslim laborers in the railway’s early years. Italian stonemasons, for example, taught one company how to build small stations and culverts, a task they would repeat independently south of the threshold.40 While his apprenticeship model cultivated the transmission of construction knowledge, Meißner developed another system more aptly described as a transmission of conservation principles. For example, while iron was the typical material for constructing railway bridges, they could also be built of stone, which would allow future Ottoman administrators easier and swifter repairs than would be needed for iron bridges.41 This is precisely what was done and is why the stonemasonry of the bridges, culverts, and station buildings of the Hejaz Railway bear a striking uniformity. None of this is to say, however, that the Hejaz Railway operated solely under Meißner’s apprenticeship model. Our understanding of the apprenticeship model can benet from visiting Michel de Certeau’s well-known distinction between strategy and tactics, or top-down power and bottom-up synthesis.42 A number of Ottoman parties tactically adapted their own education and experiences to the overall project in ways that indicate the importance of intercultural encounters, not merely intercultural strategies. Muhtar Bey, an original surveyor of the route and Meißner’s deputy, ultimately took charge of the railway’s completion from al-Akhdar to Medina and became a leader in the rst generation of engineers graduating in Istanbul.43 Although Ottoman bureaucrats and high-level engineers were typically recruited directly from the navy

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or the army, Muhtar Bey made a concerted eort to recruit Ottomans who had trained specically as engineers, whether in Istanbul, Europe, or both.44 For example, Nazif Bey al-Khalidi, a Sunni Muslim from a well-known family in Jerusalem, had studied at both the École Polytechnique in Paris and Istanbul University. Imme­ diately after graduating, al-Khalidi traveled from Paris to Damascus, where he oversaw the construction of the station and a small number of bridges and tunnels south of it.45 Meißner had initially objected to recruits from Muhtar Bey’s alma mater, fearing that the men’s degrees would not make up for their lack of the practical experience that graduates of European engineering programs typically had. This reasoning was, in a sense, self-defeating, as the other railways were foreign-owned and had never employed Ottoman engineering graduates, and hence denied these graduates the chance to get a proverbial foot in the door.46 Meißner quickly reversed this position in response to the sultan’s explicit request that half of all engineers who graduated from the School of Engineering at Istanbul University be given jobs on the Hejaz Railway.47 In 1903, this meant only seven graduates, but the number steadily increased over the next four years.48 The international component of the railway construction was certainly not limited to Germans. Prior to Meißner’s arrival, Labella had advocated for seven thousand paid and specialized positions to supplant soldierbuilders, an ambiguous job prole he believed was no longer working.49 His request, which specically stipulated Egyptian and Italian nationals, was not accepted, likely because the Porte was not ready to end the railway’s connection to the military.50 By 1902, tensions between Italian workers and Arab soldiers escalated out of control. A British consular report relays that the Italian workmen, generally, who are employed on the construction of this line . . . have been behaving so badly and are so constantly coming into collision with the natives that the vali has “requested” (some say “ordered”) the contractors to cease to employ them in the future. This prohibition, if insisted on, will aect at least 1,500 workmen—between the two lines, whose places will be very dicult, if not actually impossible adequately to ll. The Italian . . . is an excellent workman—innitely superior to the natives of this country—but he has three serious defects; he drinks

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heavily as soon as his day’s work is done, he is always ready with his knife and he is somewhat loose in his morals. If to these three factors a fourth be added viz: his absolute ignorance of the language of the country in which he is working, all the necessary elements of a serious disagreement with its inhabitants are present at one and the same time.51

Between 1903 and 1907, Meißner had employed forty engineers, half of whom were foreign.52 Of those, about half were German, with the others hailing from Belgium, Switzerland, and France.53 Unskilled labor, typically performed by Ottoman soldiers, actually had a sizable foreign composition, particularly in the northerly areas of Syria where, in 1902, non-Ottomans made up fteen hundred of the ve thousand unskilled laborers.54 Even in Trans­ jordan and around Tabuk, the record shows six hundred unskilled foreign workers, including Austrians, Italians, Greeks, and Montenegrins (g. 5.2).55 To assuage problems between workers, the central administration proposed that foreign nationals working on the railway assume a provisional Ottoman citizenship, to avoid entreaty for diplomatic intervention result­ing from intercultural schisms. European consulates staunchly rejected the idea.56 The Ottoman government was also not unaware of the presence of Christians on the Hejaz work sites. A note from the Ministry of the Interior to the grand vizier noted how, perhaps with some encouragement from German engineers, non-Muslim laborers often temporarily adopted Islamic pseudonyms: “Although it is necessary to not allow Christian workers to be employed within the area that is between Al-’Ula and Medina Munawwara because of the exceptional speciality of the Hejaz site, it is reported by the sheikhs of the desert Arabs [Bedouins] that along the Hejaz train some contractors are employing Christian workers with Islamic pseudonyms and to this there are objections.”57 The railway company commonly hired civilians as subcontractors for skilled or project-specic work, including station and bridge construction. Typically, these were day laborers from the immediate vicinity of a work site. The proximity of the workers’ origins to their work site is a critical fact: it reects the extent to which the serial construction of prototyped buildings was tactically inected by a panoply of authors with varying traditions and skills. Civilian workers often suspected that work for the railway was corvée (labor exacted in lieu of taxes).58

FIG. 5.2  Bernhard Moritz, Construction of the Hejaz Railway near Tabuk, 1906. Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

Although this was not common, unpaid labor was an option for peasants who could not or did not wish to pay the corvée road tax.59 The railway companies used forced labor in Palestine, where local Arab residents who had not paid taxes were literally enslaved by the railways.60 Two non-European contractors also did signicant work in the construction process. Husayn Haydar Bey, a member of the esteemed Mutawali family from Baalbek, built the seventy-kilometer stretch from Muazzam to Dar al-Hamra, in addition to all stations to its south.61 Sa’d al-Din alDimashqi built several of the stations between al-Kiswah and Ma’an and executed some of the masonry work independently.62 PROCEDURAL STRATEGIES AND AUTHORIAL OPENINGS Textual and visual snapshots of the people behind these accounts and images of their everyday life come to us from a variety of sources, including governmental and consular archives, construction rm and subcontractor records, rsthand accounts such as diaries and travel stories, and photographs. While the enumeration of the railway network’s polyvalent character provides a more complete picture of who built the railways, an account of how they

were built brings us closer to understanding the plastic synthesis of objects (g. 5.3). Despite the varying conditions of human resources from one site to the next, there are some remarkable consistencies in both the process and the output; these reect the uniform way in which the Germans prescribed the construction practices behind building railway beds, tracks, culverts, tunnels, bridges, stations, roundhouses, and other facilities. An aesthetic consistency between the discrete lines derives in large part from the bureaucracy of the German construction process, which functioned as something of a tacit doctrine, even for the ostensibly autonomous Hejaz Railway. The railway network’s various concessionary agreements spelled out construction methods, resources, protocols, and policies in painstaking detail. The regular carrying over of personnel also contributed to the consistency. The main engineers involved—Pressel, Kapp von Gülstein, Mackensen, and Meißner above all—freely transferred from one line to another. These men had to reappropriate their knowledge and construction systems for variables beyond the composition of the labor force, which was constantly changing. These included technological advances (which

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FIG. 5.3  View of the quay facilities at Haydarpaşa under construction in Servet-i Fünun 591 (8 Ağustos 1318 [August 26, 1902]).

Milli Kütüphane Başkanlığı, Ankara.

FIG. 5.4  American Colony (Jerusalem), Arab boys working with picks on the Baghdad Railway, ca. 1910. Library of

Congress, Washington, D.C.

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occurred at breakneck speed), administrative structures, and the relative hospitality of the local political circumstances and climate, among other things (g. 5.4). The 1903 articles for the Baghdad Railway oer a typical record of the bureaucracy of the construction process. They contain three articles revealing certain open elements of the network’s evolving attitude toward building processes. Article VII, for example, eliminates all tax burdens for the import of materials, which creates a considerable incentive to mix the materials and machinery used to construct and create the railway and its structures, shaping a delicate balance of cost and quality.63 Such mixing often meant that Ottoman materials and products, when sucient for the best practices of German engineering and architecture, would be employed for their cost eectiveness. When they would not be sucient, as was often the case with sophisticated items, there was to be no hesitation to have their replacements brought in from abroad. Article X, relating to the acquisition of wood, creates a carte blanche for deforestation, a practice in the Ottoman empire that was heavily regulated, and promotes the liberal employment of wood as a building material when available.64 Moreover, it cultivates a diversity among the types of wood to be employed, given the particular species found in the empire’s forested areas: Turkish oak, pine, Lebanon cedar, Aleppo r, pistachio, juniper, and laurel, to name a few. Article XXVII concerns the treatment of antiquities encountered in the construction process: “Art and antique objects discovered during construction will be subject to the [Ottoman] rules governing the matter. However, the licensee is exempt from the obligation to apply for and obtain authorization for the research.”65 This article, more than anything, provides an incentive to locate buildings near sites of archaeological interest. The railway companies expand on certain details of the construction process in the Cahier des Charges; although these vary in their level of specicity, they nonetheless demonstrate the capacity the railway companies had for tailoring aesthetic programs. The Cahier des Charges issued to workers on the second section of the Baghdad Railway (Bulgurlu–Tell Halaf) appear to be the most specic.66 These documents are principally concerned with methods of construction for the railbed itself. They do, however, also set out important general terms for the materials and procedures of masonry construction. The terms stipulate that timber be used only in good

seasons, that sand for mortar come from pits approved by the railway company, and that Portland cement be used exclusively when cement was required.67 The production of brick and mortar for the construction of the network’s buildings and masonry for culverts, foundations, and screeds all stress qualitative and procedural standards over aesthetic ones.68 Point One of the Cahier des Charges outlines a number of important material and procedural specications ­relating to the “disposition” of station buildings, their ­representation and approval, and their relation to their immediate environment. This may be the only signal of an outwardly aesthetic concern. Key excerpts from Article XI bear quoting at length: The concessioner will construct works from as good quality materials as are to be found in the country and must comply with best practices in order to obtain as perfectly solid a construction as can be constructed from the given material. Bridges and culverts constructed over rivers or public and private roads and aqueducts will be built in stone, iron, or steel, wood will be used in foundations, and aprons and girders shall be placed under the rails. Metal bridges 10 meters in range and beyond will, prior to [use, be] subject to a test in accordance with standards of approval by the Ministry of Public Works. . . . Steel bridges will be calculated according to the latest circular from the Ministry of Public Works, from France or Prussia. . . . Regarding the provisions and construction of buildings, stations, and booths, it is agreed that the rules of strict necessity be maintained, [keeping] in mind the convenience and ordinary customs of the country. Stations will be built of stone or brick, and they may have at roofs and oors of stone, brick, or concrete.69

This clause set up an important array of regulations as much as opportunities for the construction process. On the one hand, the outline of permissible materials for bridges and the process for testing them is rather rigid. On the other, the guidelines for the construction of railway stations paint only the vaguest hint of an aesthetic program. The “rules of strict necessity” and “ordinary customs of the country” are the most culturally signicant provisions, tacitly implying as they do a handful of cultural norms that the Ottoman government intended to highlight. While these most clearly include the need to divide men

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and women in the station waiting rooms, the meanings in regard to spatial patterns of privacy, discretion, and inhabitation were more subject to interpretation. Also noteworthy is the requirement of a 1:200 drawing scale for a structure with a spatial envelope that was smaller than typical industrial structures.70 After all, when disparately sized structures—say, a small booth and an enormous roundhouse—are rendered at the same scale, the relative detail and articulation in the drawings of the smaller structure in relation to the larger one makes it look atter and somewhat scaleless and diminishes its potential for ornamental embellishment. Conversely, since buildings— while being built—are never constructed from drawings alone, the potential for ad hoc ornamentation and detailing increases in inverse proportion to the scale of the original drawings. Indeed, the drawings of several of the railway’s structures lack the detail they actually exhibit in situ, making clear the dynamic role played by laborers.71 Returning to the articles, even casual observation of the railway network will underscore the ubiquitous eect of Article XIII, which outlines the necessity of constructing wooden fences in cities and villages, and sometimes next to rivers, clearly demarcating the railway’s property from all others and ambiguating the tenets of Ottoman usufruct, which had railbeds classied as semipublic land.72 The urban, not to mention aesthetic, eects of this strategy have a deep import for virtually all of the railway’s encounters with population centers. For one, fences delimit certain modern sectors from non-modern ones. Fencing o property, particularly with orderly picket fences, is primarily a European practice, not an Ottoman one, and demonstrates how one banal clause produces a lasting image and territorial strategy. Although aesthetic concerns are absent from the section of the Cahier des Charges describing the construction of tunnels, the protocol does reveal that designs and on-site decisions were left primarily to the section engineer: “The nature and thickness of the masonry shall be determined by the engineers of the Company, by section, depending on the nature of the land and favored by the entrepreneur, who shall make cuttings accordingly.”73 While the scale of the preparatory drawings for the railway network’s Hochbau was dened in the railway company’s agreement with the Ministry of the Interior, the process for its review and approval was established between the railway company and the contracting construction rm. This was, in all cases but the Hejaz Railway, a German company (and in the case of the Hejaz Railway,

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under the directorship of Meißner). This is perhaps the most signicant document outlining the bureaucracy of the authorial process and the oscillation between strategies and tactics. The standards established with Philipp Holzmann GmbH, given its role as the contracting construction rm for both the Anatolian and the Baghdad railways, are the most signicant. They read as follows: “Execution of plans: The preparation of the nal plans of the buildings is to be done by the contractor (Philipp Holzmann GmbH). Each completed plan is to be rst presented to the railway company (The Baghdad Railway Company), who will examine it and suggest amendments or supplements that will in turn be returned and presented for authorization from the Turkish government by the railway company. The nal plans approved are thereafter to form the basis for their construction and may . . . not be changed without the express written permission of the railway company—except on insignicant deviations caused by local conditions.”74 The “deviations” caused by local conditions are, throughout the reams of contracts, deviations of species of wood, types of stone, brick, mortar, and so on. The documents do not dene other forms of deviation, such as the skills of one labor group in comparison to another and climatic or cultural concerns, and they most certainly do not articulate “deviation” as a term that could encompass cultural variegation or, as a consequence, dierent manipulations of architectural elements as a form of cultural signication. Architectural signication was not an articulated priority, but this does not mean that signications did not coalesce, and the clause above reveals a twofold window of opportunity for those shaping the railways to tactically embed their imprimaturs on their work. First, changes to architectural drawings that were sought after gaining Ottoman approval did not need to be reapproved by the government but rather only by the railway company, which was thus placed in the role of arbiter, determining which architectural changes deemed necessary on-site were ­deviant from the original plan and which were not. Architectural changes deemed too deviant could be made possible, in all likelihood, by middle-ground solutions mediated by the railway company. Moreover, changes deemed insignicantly deviant did not even require the permission of the railway company but could simply be executed and approved by the construction company— which would mean the head engineer on a given work site, one whose expertise was in Bahnbau and not Hochbau.

This points, in particular, to the agency of the stonemasons and woodworkers and their freedom to determine best practices and aesthetic programs from site to site. The proviso that section engineers had free rein to make stopgap decisions was hindered by the actual realities of the labor force, climate, and political situation. For example, the Ottoman government expressly forbade the use of dynamite to blast rock, for fear of having it fall into the wrong hands.75 Instead, the government allowed the use of a far less powerful, domestically produced powder that proved to be ineective as the rail pushed into the Taurus and Amanus ranges, where a daunting total of fty tunnels spanning nineteen kilometers needed to be bored through stubborn Paleocene rock.76 By 1910, the Baghdad Railway Company successfully convinced the Ministry of the Interior to lift its embargo on dynamite, and limited amounts were permitted into the country.77 An abundance of rock in one location stood in stark contrast to a paucity in others where the provisions permitting stone cutting from the local quarries were often useless. On several occasions, ballast had to be quarried and collected in locations very remote from its ultimate destination, which frequently delayed work for long periods of time.78 TERRITORIAL PRACTICES ON THE WORK SITE Time—lost time, delayed time, time pressure—is the central theme of the work site. The Hejaz Railway posed the particularly stark biopolitical specter of disease, which, in addition to ravaging workers’ health, made for ample schedule delays. To be sure, disease had consistently ­crippled or reduced workforces along the European, Anatolian, and Baghdad railways, yet because of their relative proximity to urban centers and access to at least some medicine, such diseases as cholera, malaria, typhoid, and the “Aleppo button” (a type of boil, the most common) were, while often tragic, kept fairly contained.79 Fundamentally dierent circumstances for the Hejaz workers became apparent in the late spring of 1902, when the inux of pilgrims passing overland through Trans­ jordan brought a particularly awful wave of cholera that wiped out almost the entire labor force, bringing work to a standstill.80 The Hejaz Railway was also exceptional in other respects. Its tripartite division of labor followed the Oberbau-Bahnbau-Hochbau formula, but the nature of the division of work in the nal construction stages was more strictly compartmentalized by task, indicating

Meißner’s desire to disambiguate labor roles for the individual railway workers. One group prepared the earthworks, a second group spread ballast, a third group placed the sleepers on the track bed, and a fourth group laid and attached the rails. Water beyond that required for human consumption was needed in massive amounts to mix mortar for masonry. In some instances, centuries-old wells at various Hajj caravanserais were utilized for this purpose, while in others, new wells were built, often themselves requiring considerable engineering.81 Drift sand and sandstorms also posed unique problems that were not seen in the Balkans and Anatolia (although these were later encountered in Mesopotamia, albeit with less frequency).82 While railway stations and auxiliary structures along the Hejaz Railway tended to be built after the railbed, ballast, sleepers, and track were laid, a very dierent custom took hold in Anatolia and along the Baghdad Railway. One traveler described the situation around Adana, where workers feverishly erected “small stones placed to mark the foundations” and “small stone houses” in no time to demarcate and claim the site’s future stations.83 In some cases, the stone houses would eventually serve as residences for workers.84 These practices, clearly in violation of the Ottoman land code, seemed to have gone largely ignored. More common living accommodations for sleep time and recreation time included tent camps and collapsible barracks.85 The annual reports of the Baghdad Railway, for example, detail the purchasing of “equipment” for housing workers. In scal year 1910–11, the railway company purchased an astounding 1,874 tents and twenty prefabricated barracks. Tents were designated as one of four types: sickbay tents, workers’ tents (each housing sixteen individuals), engineers’ tents, and foremen’s tents.86 Photographs show that the tents diered not only in terms of who their residents were but also in form and size (g. 5.5). Forebodingly, the Ottoman government pressed the Baghdad Railway Company on a question of geological time. Only shortly before the disastrous Şarköy-Mürefte earthquake of 1912 (which did not signicantly damage the railway), the Baghdad Railway company inquired about seismic safety conditions.87 This prompted the company to commission a study from the leading German seismologist, Fritz Frech, the nal section of which focuses on ways the network’s construction—particularly its buildings, tunnels, and bridges—could be fortied against the danger of earthquakes.88 The centerpiece of his recommendation

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FIG. 5.5  Tent camp in the Taurus Mountains, ca. 1918. Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Istanbul.

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FIG. 5.6  View of a warped railway bridge

after the Mino-Owari Earthquake. From W. K. Burton, The Great Earthquake of Japan, 1891 with 30 Plates by K. Ogawa, 2nd ed. (Yokohama: Lane, Crawford, 1893), 57. University of Rochester, River Campus Libraries.

included excerpts of studies by the pioneering Japanese seismologist Fusakichi Omori, who in Frech’s estimation revolutionized building, bridge, and tunnel construction safety against seismic activity with his extensive study of San Francisco, conducted after its disastrous 1906 earthquake.89 While Omori’s expertise was honed in San Francisco, his curiosity for the seismic safety of railways emerged from the hard lessons learned through the MinoOwari earthquake of 1891 in Japan, an event that destroyed many of Japan’s brand-new railway bridges, such as the one at Nagara Gawa (g. 5.6).90 Even before the construction of buildings began, the domain of construction was a circumscribed one that oered as many limitations to architecture as it did opportunities. These stipulations of law and the conditions of life on the work site inuenced the railways’ various structures in both their form and presence. But these are, for the most part, piecemeal regulations and contingent conditions that make plain the exibility of their framework, their openness, and their ability to actualize the environmental, political, and technological inconstancies

that pregure tactical authorship and the ambiguation of architectural models. An analysis of the workers, processes, and construction practices of the Ottoman railway network sheds light on the ways in which ambiguation was constructed as a condition in the daily lives of workers, emerging from the gap between ideas as they were expressed on paper and how they actually functioned on the ground. The dissimilarities between ostensibly similar structures built from serially produced plans are the result of a handful of variables that made a cogent, uniform architectural program across time and space impossible, despite an earnest attempt to do so. The result is a network of uncanny architectural adaptations of platonic ideals traceable to both their precise location as well as their precise builders, all within the framework of a prosaic, hegemonic, and ostensibly “German” construction program. The extent to which the railway network was either German or Ottoman in its architectural program is a reection, more than anything, of how closely we measure the balance between strategies and tactics.

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6 Hochbau

ENGINEERING AN EMPIRE The people who made the railways were circumscribed by organizational frameworks. What, then, circumscribed the objects they produced? For one, they exhibit the morphological process of ambiguation, seen most obviously in railway stations. But we also see this in bridges, tunnels, and other elements of the built environment. One can turn to these objects as both primary sources that tell their own stories and as material evidence of architecture and engineering as the subjects of ambiguation. Tanzimat reforms had dramatically changed the nature of architectural practice in the Ottoman empire. The sultan’s architects were reorganized under the auspices of the director of imperial buildings, which limited them largely to the functions of inspection and administrative work.1 The commissioning of grand architectural works became, nearly exclusively, the province of the sultan who, in the new Western-facing era, tended to select either Western or Ottoman Christian architects. In this sense, the articles and statutes that governed the peoples constructing the railways signaled a return to a certain bureaucratic routine, even if under the tutelage of German engineers and architects.

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Specically, the term “Hochbau” governed construction. “Hochbau” has no good translation in English, but can be roughly translated as a eld of construction and planning related to any entity built above the ground. Hochbau, along with Tiefbau (underground construction) and Oberbau (ground-level construction), formed the administrative divisions of Holzmann’s corporate structure. This meant that the same engineers and architects designing massive buildings, including railway stations, were also those building tiny culverts or water fountains. All that mattered was that the structure emerge from above the surface of the ground. This unies infrastructure and architecture into one entity, both administratively and conceptually, and posits it as the verso to the notion of territory in Ottoman culture, where it was seen as something extending from the surface of the earth to all that is below it, as we have seen with archaeology. Bridges, embedded both into and above the earth, provide the natural point of entry for consideration. David Billington has made the argument that the symbolic nature of bridges has been largely misunderstood. We are not, he argues, to adhere to the common dictum that bridges are “designed objects,” “works of architecture,”

FIG. 6.1  Postcard depicting the Waschmühltalbrücke in Kaiserslautern, ca. 1936. Theodor-Zink-Museum, Kaiserslautern.

or “products of science,” but rather to the idea that they are ambiguations of politics, art, and engineering. He locates this ambiguation in the writings of engineers such as the German-born American engineer of the Brooklyn Bridge (1883), John Roebling. In this record, we nd feelings juxtaposed with reason, and a reverence for the persistent laws of gravity wrapped up in the persistence of political facts.2 Michael Baxandall’s analysis of Benjamin Baker’s Forth Bridge (1890) is also instructive here. Baxandall invokes the bridge to explore the degree to which the so-called work of art, in this case a bridge, marks the genius of a culture or of an individual, ultimately concluding that the two are barely separable. One learns from Baxandall that any attempt to dissociate an individual from that individual’s culture demonstrates our inherent bias against ambiguity because genius, in fact, cannot exist in such a monolith, but rather only in a context that relies on multiple authors and collective purpose.3 In Ottoman culture, bridges were also imperial symbols in that, unlike roads, which were maintained at the local level by an engineer-in-chief (sermühendis) of a province, they were typically overseen at the imperial level by an architect.4

In 1935, the architect Paul Bonatz completed his design for the Waschmühltalbrücke, a bridge near the city of Kaiserslautern on the autobahn connecting the cities of Mannheim and Saarbrücken; it marked the apogee of a decades-long struggle in Germany to conceptually and aesthetically unify the role of the architect and engineer in this, the most public (and by many accounts most dicult) form of civil engineering (g. 6.1).5 Though very dierent men, neither Bonatz nor Roebling wrote of the marriage of art and engineering as a sort of teleological goal. The necessity, rather, came from the political realm, which instituted the disambiguation of art and engineering as a modernist mantra. As Andrew Saint has shown, Bonatz’s bridge was less a stroke of genius than it was simply a stylistic clarion call. The call was prescriptive for masonry viaducts, with elegant detailing and proportion that compensated for the almost vernacular conventionality of its twelve railway-type arches.6 With his design, Bonatz oered a succinct answer to what had become a matter of political debate about bridge design in turn-of-the-century Germany, the so-called Cologne Bridge Quarrel of 1913. The quarrel was one in which the architect Peter Behrens accused the city of

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Cologne of allowing his design for the Hindenburgbrücke (completed 1915) to be plagiarized.7 The testimony and conclusions of an armada of experts, who gathered to weigh the claims about which aspects of bridge design were mere engineering and which were in fact “art,” shaped a long-lingering discourse that turned bridges into some of the most potent sites of architectural modernism in the decades to come. Bonatz’s task of developing many of the bridges for the ambitious autobahn network under the National Socialists was given conceptual clarity through the “engineered” tradition of the railway bridge with its ashlar construction, free-span (freie Bahn) deck, and Romanesque austerity. Bonatz’s revelation at Kaiserslautern came before his self-imposed exile to Turkey in 1943, and yet it echoed much of what he would have seen as he traveled by rail between Istanbul, where he taught, and Ankara, where he played a pivotal role in shaping the new architectural program of the Turkish Republic.8 The German architects and engineers, as well as the Ottoman laborers who built the railway bridges of the Ottoman railway network, were in this sense prescient, fashioning a number of truly stunning, pared-down freespan masonry bridges and culverts throughout the Balkans, Anatolia, the Levant, and Arabia. These structures demonstrate, existing as they did outside of the purview of the German imperial government, how politics can shape the symbolism of the bridge more than the actual engineer. These works unselfconsciously intertwined the architectural and engineering concerns brought to the fore in Cologne under the greater titular auspices of Hochbau. For as long as an Ottoman railway network was an idea, so too were grand bridges, and no discussion of railways and bridges in the Ottoman empire can be complete without discussing the well-known story of the so-called Bosphorus Bridge, which was to be the crucial connection between the railways of Europe and those to be built in Anatolia.9 Ottoman records indicate that the discussion of a bridge over the Bosphorus began around the time Pressel was surveying Anatolia, and three complete proposals still exist: one for an iron bridge designed by an American team of Captain James Buchanan Eads and A. O. Lambert, one from a French syndicate in 1890, and one from the French engineer Ferdinand Joseph Arnodin, noted for his work with transporter bridges.10 Arnodin’s proposals are the most famous, not least

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because of their particularly audacious design, which Murat Gül has linked to the German architect August Jachmund.11 Arnodin’s design consisted of two bridges that would eectively create a circumnavigable ring for the city, spanning both the Asian and European sides. One of the bridges, between Sarayburnu and Üsküdar, was a steel suspension bridge resting on three pylons that was not designed for railway trac, but does follow Arnodin’s earlier designs for bridges in Bizerte (1898) and Rouen (1899).12 The second design, connecting Rumelihisarı and Kandilli, was indeed a railway bridge and is outtted with bombastic Islamic references (g. 6.2). The design of the suspension bridge comprises three thick masonry piers in the waterway and a shallow iron stay system holding the deck. The three piers pierce the deck and emerge above as mosque-like towers. This kind of exuberance was not, however, part of the repertoire of the engineers who would actually wind up building the railways, and whose aims began rst and foremost with the challenges of topography rather than style. The rst thing Holzmann’s engineers felt they had to negotiate concerned the relative advantages and disadvantages of either laying the railway on a meandering course over consistent topographic contours and mild grades or having it sharply penetrate those contours with tunnels and bridges. This required a complex calculus of cost eectiveness, attempting to keep the railway’s overall course as short as possible while minimizing segments of endless turns to allow moving along the railway at a decent clip. Although the bridges and tunnels display variations, they also share several traits that speak to common components of the Hochbau system. The most striking commonality is the recurring employment of semi-rough cubic ashlar masonry laid in a Roman pattern. The emphatic repetition of this scheme across the network stresses its conceptual importance to the overall project. Although no mention of the material’s symbolic value is made by any of the engineers in writing, the use of cubic ashlar masonry had well-established cultural as well as ideological precedents, in both Central Europe and the Ottoman empire, as well as in earlier historic periods. Of note, most proximately, is the context of the bridges’ engineers in Frankfurt. In the early and middle nineteenth century, ashlar stonemasonry (Werkstein) had become a central theme among Freemason groups internationally, particularly in England and Germany; ashlar transformed

FIG. 6.2  Ferdinand Joseph Arnodin,

Proposal for the Kandilli– Rumelihisarı bridge, 1900. Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivi, Istanbul.

from a normative building pattern to the potent symbol of a double-edged desire to bring progress to civil society and to acknowledge civil piety by rejecting revolution, a stance positioned inherently against avant-garde thinking.13 Because the preferred ashlar was rened and not rusticated, it represented the “perfection” of nature and a counterposition to picturesque ideals, making it a nimble tool for an array of historicist styles, while simultaneously maintaining a modern and civic subtext.14 In Germany, the use of ashlar had a quasi-nationalist tenor, as it could symbolize a building art that, although born in England, was perfected by the masons of the Holy Roman empire.15 This narrative was critical in the decades before and after the unication of the German empire and was exemplied in countless important buildings, bridges, and other monuments built in its early days. The roughhewn cut of the stone and its Roman-style arrangement articulate two aesthetic objectives. Ashlar, with its light roughness, had proven to take mortar more easily and thus demonstrated its structural integrity over complete aesthetic streamlining. The Roman arrangement, with its invocation of the Holy Roman empire, alludes to the urge for a Germano-Mediterranean narrative that also drove Schinkel and German Neoclassicism.16 What was likely not recognized by the German engineers was the capacity of ashlar construction to also harken the dominant form of Ottoman construction since the mid-fteenth century, when the burgeoning imperial power replaced cruder cloisonné with the more ecient, economical, and dynamic ashlar construction system. (Prior to the late nineteenth century, this system had no connection to

social and political ideology in Ottoman lands as it did in Europe and, later, North America.17) The railway’s material palette achieves its greatest visual eect through its consistency and its appearance in particularly magnicent settings. The most impressive bridge of the network is undoubtedly the 172-meter-long, 98-meter-high Varda viaduct (completed 1907), situated in the Taurus Mountains between the villages of Hacıkırı (Kıralan) and Karaisalı Bucağı (g. 6.3).18 The viaduct, which spans the yawning gorge known as Çakit Deresi, was the crown jewel of the projects executed by the Ottoman-Greek section engineer Nicholas Mavro­ gordato.19 The construction started on both ends in 1905, eventually meeting in the center, and this required the erection of an auxiliary narrow gauge railway for transporting material for the main bridge from one side of the gorge to the other.20 The viaduct has three 30-meter-long main arches, whose piers thicken as they attach to the gorge’s bed. Linking that structure to either side of the gorge are two sets of arch spans, one with four arches and the other with three.21 Five spandrel arches, contrastingly rendered in agstone ashlar, connect the voussoirs of the central arch with its adjacent arches, in turn facilitating support for the railway deck above. The imposts reveal the particularity of the bridge’s function: rail gauges protrude from either side as structural reinforcements, a special touch probably added for want of customized steel parts. This is similar, only at a smaller scale, to precedents on the Hejaz Railway and its Palestinian tributaries that also reveal a steel falsework apparatus.22 The slight curvature and peculiar imposts

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FIG. 6.4  View of the Euphrates railway bridge.

FIG. 6.3  Varda viaduct, view from north.

call to mind the design of another, earlier foreign-built railway bridge with which Mavrogordato may have been familiar. This was the Usui Pass brick-arch bridge in Japan designed by the American engineer C. A. W. Pownall and built in 1893.23 Preceding the German railways in the Ottoman empire, Meiji-era railway bridges, engineered largely by Americans and exhibited widely at world expositions, may have provided some of the key points of reference for how technology transfer in railway bridge design could materialize in far-ung, noncolonial contexts. The railway bridge spanning the Euphrates, the network’s most signicant river crossing, highlights the procedural and formal dierences of the bridges that crossed water rather than land (g. 6.4). A suggestion for a bridge spanning the Euphrates appears in the personal journals of Oppenheim, who identied a point adjacent to Carchemish and Jarabulus while traveling the area in 1899.24 Oppenheim had selected a point on the river where a small island split it into two, and this is the point the railway engineers ultimately chose. The Euphrates bridge fell under the auspices of the Baghdad Railway’s third section, overseen by head engineer Foellner after 1911, and construction on the three-quarterkilometer bridge began in the summer of 1913.25 Foellner

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calculated the bridge’s loads under the same regulations as those used for the Prussian state railways, opting for caged iron deck spans. However, because this was not a specialty of the rm, he awarded a subcontract for the bridge’s upper portion to the German-Luxembourgish company Bergwerks- und Hütten-Aktiengesellschaft, based in Dortmund, which would be Peter Behrens’s collaborator and co-complainant on the foreclosed bridge project in Cologne.26 By late July of 1914, all but one portion of the bridge’s iron spans had been completed, but workers were forced to leave the work site because of the onset of the war. The bridge remained incomplete until the Ottoman Ministry of War commanded that it be nished in the winter, reinstating a reduced workforce who would complete the bridge in January 1915.27 The appearance of the 3,400-ton bridge highlights how the railway’s masonry iconicity was capable of playing a supporting role when iron was privileged as a structural material. The iron spans sit elegantly on the piers, yet the overall impression is not one of delicacy, the typical aesthetic goal for bridges constructed of iron. Rather, the bridge conveys a certain Teutonic sturdiness, with the parabolic iron operating as a sort of light, connective ligament on a muscular spine. The iron cage, on the other

hand, expresses the serial and industrial aspects of the bridge. It is their combination, one that did not exist in the rm’s portfolio, that is so distinctive, but it is also not without precedent in global terms. The design may be informed by Nikolai Belelyubsky’s design for another important railway river crossing, the Trans-Siberian Railway’s path over the Ob River, completed in 1897, which employs a structural scheme of nine spans on granite pillars.28 T. E. Lawrence himself cloaked the Euphrates railway bridge in a mantle of suspicion even before it was built, when he claimed in a 1911 London Times article that the incursion of German archaeologists into the area (referring to Tell Halaf and Carchemish) had aims of spoliation, noting (speciously) that the stones of Carchemish were being used to pave the roads to the construction site of the future railway bridge across the Euphrates.29 The Ottoman government sought to piggyback the railway construction activity in Anatolia with a long-discussed eort to rejuvenate the dormant yet fecund land of the great Konya plain, south and southwest of that city.30 The plain had once been the larger seabed of Lake Beyşehir and stood uncultivated, despite its great potential, for centuries. Under the direction of H. Waldorp, Otto Riese, and Eduard Huguenin, construction of the irrigation network began in November 1908 on both sides of the Baghdad Railway near the village of Çumra.31 The engineers expected to revitalize the entire area—over 328 square kilometers and 23 million cubic meters of water—through wheat production, the distribution of which would benet enormously from the proximity to the railway. Given the railway’s kilometric guarantee structure, this would create easy revenue for both German investors and local businesses.32 The construction entailed two major dams and pumping stations at Lake Beyşehir, three bridges, and several dozen primary and secondary canals, all of which were completed around 1911 and began running in 1914 (g. 6.5).33 As the Frankfurter Zeitung proclaimed, the project had brought the neglected land a new life through “German energy, technology and nance.”34 The dams, pumping stations, and bridges further extend the ashlar and iron repertoire evident in the railway bridge at the Euphrates. In the main pumping station, a retaining wall is punctuated by rounded buttresses that convey the channelization functions in a quasiFuturist fashion. The wall is partly rendered in Romanstyle, semi-rough ashlar and partly in agstone ashlar, echoing the mix evident in the upper component of the

FIG. 6.5  View of an irrigation dam in the Konya plain, 1911. University of

Rochester, River Campus Libraries.

Varda viaduct. The canalization system spreads from either side of the railway bed, thus strengthening its visual presence in the landscape. The Hejaz Railway also contained an impressive array of bridges constructed of ashlar, similar to the bridges of the Anatolian and Baghdad railways: sixty-four masonry and one iron.35 Bridges south of Ma’an were composed of darker stones, reecting the dierent geology of the Arabian peninsula.36 Like the Varda viaduct, the bridges of the upper Hejaz were clearly modeled on Roman precedents, although they never reached the scale or depth of the Varda. The most aesthetically impressive of these structures is the “ten arches” viaduct near Amman, a viaduct of ten equal sections, the middle eight being doubletiered with smaller inset reinforcements (g. 6.6).37 Numerous bridges in the desert were placed at unusually high topographic contours, which was necessary because so many were built over wadis where water levels rose in the winter. Despite the prevalence of ashlar, the use of steel in the network was not unheard of, particularly on the European and Anatolian railways, where the military and maintenance issues faced by the Baghdad and Hejaz railways seemed less important. The bridge crossing the Vardar River in Macedonia is an archetypal example, with its twelve curved steel-trussed spans resting on ashlar piers (g. 6.7). The tunnels of the Ottoman railway network are most numerous in the Taurus and Amanus regions, in the upper Hejaz, and in Macedonia. While the penetrations of the railway’s longest tunnels carry some of its most dramatic stories of patience and risk, the smaller ones tend to be the most architectonically expressive, largely because they

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FIG. 6.6  Postcard depicting the railway bridge at Amman, date unknown.

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FIG. 6.7  Paul Zepdji, Railway bridge at Vardar, ca. 1894. Niedersäch-

sisches Landesarchiv, Wolfenbüttel.

often required only partial boring through rock and thus demanded a bespoke, semicylindrical articulation between outside and inside, retaining their legibility as threedimensional objects. An excellent example can be found in a small tunnel approximately ten kilometers north of Belemedik (g. 6.8). At its northern and southerly entrances, the tunnel echoes the same horseshoe-shaped portal of the other tunnels in the network. The entry and exit portals are framed in a rectangular wall that protrudes from the rock formation, rearticulating the spatial incision. Only the westerly edge of the tunnel’s penetration pierces rock, leaving the easterly side exposed like a partially sliced tube. The protrusion from the rock face is further emphasized by three rounded arches that allow a greater amount of natural light coming into the tunnel. The treatment is as unusual as it is eective in creating a dynamic articulation of the penetration—something not

FIG. 6.8  Rail tunnel north of Belemedik.

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commonly done with tunnels—and expresses the railway’s predilection for dominating geology rather than disappearing into it. THE STATION: DISCOURSE AND FORM Train stations hold the clear capacity to be the most symbolic element of railway infrastructure. Often associated with the new architecture of glass and steel, the railway station marks what Jules Romain has described as modernity’s construction of “a cultural unit characterized by intellectual emancipation, a owering of the creative spirit, and a vastly enhanced signicance of life for each individual.”38 In the Imperial era, stations also carried the somewhat paradoxical microcosmic symbolism of “empires in miniature,” as Valeska Huber has described it.39 The architects and engineers of the railway stations of the Ottoman empire did not employ the glass and steel repertoire found in so many of Europe’s railway stations. Considerable aesthetic continuity and a discernible evolution can be found among the German designs, which constituted approximately 90 percent of the empire’s stations by 1919.40 The solid, earthbound quality of the stations represented a strong relationship to historical precedents as much as it did the inability to build in glass and steel at such a scale in Ottoman lands. But this did not mean that there was no emancipatory aspect to their formation, nor did they patently foreclose the creative spirit. In fact, they gained their emancipatory qualities simply by evading the “empire in miniature” motif and thus assuming a more ambiguous posture than the railway stations of most European colonies. More importantly, the stations demonstrate a tremendous capacity for the ambiguation of a prototype and how this could make a visual and cultural impact in a plural, rather than singular, sense. The strategy of building all but the largest railway stations as prototypes was born out of an eort to streamline costs as much as it was indebted to a historical tradition, both in Germany and in other transnational contexts. The kingdom of Württemberg, for example, standardized all of the railway stations for their railways in a Swiss chalet style that came in three dierent versions, varying in size, whose deployment depended on the importance and population of the location in which they were built. This reduced both the expense to the local community and the bureaucracy associated with customized design. The strategy is associated with the later nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, a period during which the desire to

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make architecture work as a signier of a specic place was subsumed to the necessary rapidity with which railways needed to be constructed.41 A somewhat dierent, but relevant, serial scheme emerged on the Trans-Siberian Railway with the creation of what were known as étapes, or stockade rest stations with two or more barrack-like rooms built at roughly equal intervals along the wayside of the railways. Later, as it was necessitated, a second typology emerged, the half-étape, a smaller version of the same structure, placed halfway between the larger étapes.42 The serial architecture of the railway network makes up for what it lacks in architectural ambition through its important contribution to architectural historiography. The railway stations and their aliated buildings that were built before 1908 followed a stylistic template that was referred to in the engineers’ parlance as Heimatstil (roughly translated as “homeland style”). This term is more commonly associated with the architectural discourse of the interwar period that followed. In particular, Heimatstil is commonly (and inaccurately) deployed as a shorthand for the Heimatschutzstil (roughly translated as “homeland protection style,” a notion of architectural style sensitive to ­historical and cultural context) that was promulgated by Theodor Fischer, Hermann Muthesius, Heinrich Tessenow, and Paul Schultze-Naumburg, among others.43 Schultze-Naumburg was the most ardent advocate of the Heimatschutzstil, a concept he developed in his multivolume Kulturarbeiten (1900–17). Schultze-Naumburg was also a major interlocutor with Paul Mebes’s so-called Circa 1800 concept, a notion that argued that the gravitational center of German architectural history and style lay in the vernacular landscape across German lands around the turn of the nineteenth century, the last point at which it remained unsullied by the “feeble” and “poor” cycle of stylistic revivals in the nineteenth century.44 Itself a form of revival, the Heimatschutzstil, as well as the Circa 1800 movement, articially purported to be a reincarnation of style rather than a revival proper. This idea was one that critics of the burgeoning Neue Sachlichkeit movement held to be both antirational and antimodern. For Muthesius, “the broad sweep of an iron bridge” had a “modern sensitivity” inscribed within it that could inspire architectural logic and break the cycle of revivals.45 But by its very nature, the Hochbau rubric conated the bridge and the building as part of the same system of engineering, in ways buering its architectural landscape from the critique that such a binarism produced. There is also, of

course, no such thing as looking at the past without being beholden to a historical referent. Yet this ssure is one of the signal tensions setting the stage for the heroic story of twentieth-century modernism, which countered any form of historical revival or reincarnation. We should not confuse the engineers’ deployment of the term “Heimatstil” with the more self-conscious and ideological thrust of the term “Heimat” (and its conjugations) and what it meant in the late 1910s through the 1930s. To do so would not only be an anachronistic indictment; it would also fail to reckon with the inherent dierences between the temporal nature of Schultze-Naumburg’s and Mebes’s notions and the geographic determinism that preceded them. To be sure, the engineers’ use of the term is rooted in the promulgation of vernacular form culled from the geography of Humboldt and later Ratzel. It did not matter whether it meant exposed timber construction or chalet architecture; all styles could be a means of extending the physical reach of a living, breathing German landscape as opposed to articially reviving it from the past, a strategy that tacitly invokes stylistic (and in turn cultural) death and rebirth. In other words, its application was geographically rather than temporally oriented and thus rendered itself as the logical extension of Ratzel’s concept of the state as a contiguous organism and the railways as its circulation system. The Heimat of Ottoman railway architecture is thus a notion of the lifeblood of a living nation, not a romantic invocation of history. The primacy that the Heimatstil placed on territory over history is also a vivid reection of the internationalizing capitalist system from which it emerged, one where the mandates of national and international growth and revenue gradually liquidated existing ideologies (in this case a conviction for style) of their humanistic values. Philipp Holzmann GmbH, the giant Frankfurt engineering rm behind the design of the vast majority of the railway network’s buildings, was rst and foremost a business. Its signicant corporate portfolio of Hochbau projects demonstrates the rm’s ability to combine the most mainstream of architectural tastes with the most competent and sophisticated construction techniques at any given time. This is evidenced by signicant yet stylistically safe projects such as the Frankfurt Opera House (1873–80), the Königlich-Preußische Bank (1873–74), major portions of the Frankfurt (1883–86) and Amsterdam (1882) railway stations, and the well-known City Hall of Hamburg (1886–97), among others.46 Further reinforcing

the rm’s conservative approach to architecture was the fact that it never hired architects with even remotely progressive ideas to its Hochbau sta and, apart from architects such as Louis Peter, Georg Seestern-Pauly, and, most notably, Paul Wallot (architect of the Reichstag in Berlin), rarely collaborated with architects with a signicant professional prole.47 Yet the permeability of stylistic dogma is also worth pointing out. Architectural ambiguations occurred on the drawing board as well as at the work site, through authorial openings found in the bureaucratic apparatus of construction management. Synthesizing the written and visual information, we arrive at a better understanding of this network of structures by contemplating their role in bringing a distinct image to the German-Ottoman union, while also teasing out its potential complicity in the conicting geopolitical narratives of penetration, colonization, and development originating from the very ambiguity of that union. Mutations of the Heimatstil, and the territorial implications they held for their Ottoman subjects, did not apply to the railway’s agship stations, including Damascus, Medina, and the stations on either side of the Bosphorus. In this sense, the idea that uniform style in the provinces could represent a civilizing mission that referred back to the iconography of the metropole is in fact ruled out. Nor did the mutations apply to the stations of the Baghdad Railway completed after 1910 on that railway’s second section. Railway stations between al-Akhdar, the supposed no-go threshold for non-Muslims, and Medina also strayed from the model because of the climate and the materials of Arabia, although less than one might expect. The railways of the Balkans, built under far patchier circumstances, exhibit a greater level of variety, yet even they remain recognizable as a group, with the exception of the stations in Bosnia. The railway stations constructed in the Heimat­ schutzstil formula could also be distinguished from one another. Over the decades, a strict class system emerged as a key element in the design of the network’s stations, and this furnished a repertoire of visual hierarchy. Uninhabited locales, towns, villages, and cities traversed by the railway were, beginning around 1880, designated as Class I, II, or III stations to connote their relative importance and size. Prototypes for the classes of stations were designed as a family of types whose members increased in size, grandeur, and decorative splash. The

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FIG. 6.9  View of Agoustos station.

Niedersächsisches Landesarchiv, Wolfenbüttel.

classication system also tended to bear on the railway’s campus at large, codifying the number and sizes of workshops, depots, roundhouses, water towers, gardens, streets, and residences. Because so many of the Ottoman railway network’s stations were prototypes, an exhaustive account of every railway station is neither necessary nor productive. Rather, it will be prudent to examine key prototypes that occurred with considerable repetition, in order to shed light on the iterative architectural process they exhibit. In considering the entirety of the network constructed in the German-Ottoman framework, my analyses reject the temptation to parcel the railway’s architecture into parts, and instead form productive comparisons articulating architectural dierences as much as they do the process of ambiguation itself. CODIFYING A CONTINENTAL THRESHOLD A consistent ordering system rst emerges in the stations between Mitrovica, Priština, and Skopje. The stations of the Monastir line at Agoustos (Naousa), Guida-Kapsohora (Alexandreia), and Karaferia (Veroia), all completed in 1873, are identical, featuring a two-story structure with a pitched roof, two chimneys, and an adjunct loading dock and warehouse, providing a template for future stations at a similar scale (g. 6.9).

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Sirkeci station, the terminus for the railways after the 1890 extension from San Stefano, represented a dierent approach: that of the bespoke, highly symbolic station. Sirkeci held immense symbolic value and was one of the most important buildings constructed in Istanbul at the end of the nineteenth century. An unrealized design for the station from before 1888 has been attributed to the Balyan family, the Armenian court architects (g. 6.10).48 The design presented a common dualism of structure and style: it is largely plain except for the central component, which has an array of Islamicizing motifs. Later, the project was conferred to August Jachmund, then a professor at Istanbul Technical University, who may have been privy to the Balyans’ design (g. 6.11).49 The station sitting on the southern shore of the Golden Horn, northwest of Seraglio Point, includes a larger central volume with wings on either side, both terminating with two ends that cap the longitudinal composition. The central volume features a main entryway with double doors and a large, circular stained-glass window in a rosette style above these. On either side is a tripartite vertical bay of windows, the bottom a pair with rounded arches that have decorative detailing at their apexes, and the middle and upper sets comprising three smaller windows—the middle slightly larger than those on the sides— with muqarnas and arch articulations, respectively. The

FIG. 6.10  Member of the Balyan family (attributed), Design for Sirkeci

station, prior to 1888. Museums of History and Art, Udine.

tuğra (the sultan’s imperial emblem) sits above the circular window on the cornice line, and a mansard-style roof of bronze plate bedecks the composition. At its ­corners, small tower-like forms with gold and cerulean clocks on their outward sides signal the building’s ­temporal function. The siding of the building exhibits a distinct ablaq pattern. Bands of small bricks and a slightly narrower band of concrete appear along the entire lower half of the frontal and side elevations. Each long wing has eight bays, two functioning as additional entrances to various interior spaces, including waiting rooms, the restaurant, and the ticketing oce. The window bays are arched, separated by a slender column with a cristallisée capital, while the simple beveled articulation of the doorways is enhanced by stained glass.50 The bays rise to subtly pointed arches and contain large rounded windows in their upper section, some of which open and some of which are covered with grills. Spans subdivide each circular window into eighths, while two overlaid squares rotated by forty-ve degrees articulate the eight points of the window’s division in its central portions. The tuğra and date of construction are inscribed into the far ends of the building, while the ­cornice line, a pattern of rhythmic waves of ­arabesques, connects the composition of the side volumes with the central one.

FIG. 6.11  Sirkeci station, north entry.

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FIG. 6.12  Sirkeci station, waiting hall.

Inside, delicate qualities reign. The main hall, the grandest space, is notable for its large and airy central area organized around a nine-square grid (g. 6.12). An upper band of arches inlaid with stained glass connects to the exterior motifs, while a series of pink and white wooden ribs meeting at a perforated square exhibit a diaphanous layering eect. The roof structure, reinforced by thin exposed rebar, is supported by slender, uted cast-iron columns with muqarnas capitals, arming the congruity of a modern structural system with Islamicized detailing. In the Orientalist tradition, Jachmund’s composition makes liberal use of Islamic motifs, including the ogee arches, the interpretations of Arabic geometric ornament in the stained-glass windows, ablaq, and several other ornamental details whose pedigree is seldom cogent from a historical or geographic standpoint. The treatment of bricks and the dynamic layering of thin sheets of wood in the interior are perhaps the composition’s most original elements. This is a quintessential work of Orientalist architecture, and the logic behind this makes sense:

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Sirkeci was the new terminus of the Orient Express, and thus the symbolic gateway to the Orient. Regardless of what it symbolized, Sirkeci had a signicant function: marking a major addition to the city’s landscape and a vessel for its modern future. Such architectural scenography was not without contradictions. In this case, a distinctly European concept, Orientalism, and its German author project the style back to its supposed origins. The little that Jachmund knew about “classical” Ottoman architecture—its emphasis on mass and structure, its monochromy and profound dialogue with Byzantine architecture—did not easily lend itself to the decorative, colorful, and primarily optical qualities that “Oriental” references had aorded the style in Europe.51 Jachmund would have had some signicant stylistic precedents to draw upon from his German-speaking milieu in Central Europe, including Ludwig Persius’s Sanssouci Pumping Station in Potsdam (1843), Ludwig von Zanth’s Wilhelma palace grounds in Stuttgart (1855), and Hugo von Wiedenfeld and Karl Mayreder’s contemporaneous Zacherl mothball factory in Vienna (1892).52 Both the examples in Potsdam and Vienna as well as the later example of Martin Hammitzsch’s Yenidze cigarette factory in Dresden (1909) demonstrate how the synthesis of Orientalist architecture had strong ties to an industrial context, which on a broader register is indicative of the style’s apparent currency with building typologies emerging from the nineteenth century. Yet even among railway stations, Jachmund’s application is unique. In British India, for example, architects fashioned railway stations along the syncretic lines of the so-called Indo-Saracenic idiom; Frederick William Stevens’s Victoria Terminus in Mumbai (1888), with its exuberant yet ecclesiastical character, was the most signicant example of this idiom.53 The closest corollary in terms of railway design is probably Alexeï Léonitiévitch Benois’s station at Turkmenbashi in Turkmenistan (1896), part of the Russian empire, with its similar composition in ve segments, crenellation, and striping (g. 6.13).54 Turning to the Ottoman side, the style had little resonance with Ottoman culture. As much as it symbolized the empire’s modernization, it also symbolized the tyranny of European image-making, which Abdülhamid had always resisted. This suggests, provocatively, that in the decades that followed, the German railway personnel and architects would play as much a role in the casting of these

FIG. 6.13  Alexeï Léonitiévitch Benois, Turkmenbashi (Krasnovodsk)

FIG. 6.14  Izmit station, view from southeast.

station, 1896.

debates within Ottoman architectural culture as they would be an integral part of the style’s antidote and revisionist ambition. TO THE HEART OF THE EMPIRE The spatial and visual repertoire of the railway network comes into its own in the railways of Anatolia, and does so rst in Izmit. While the British-built station at Izmit was a parallel bookend to the original station at Haydarpaşa in both scale and visual impression, the German-built station of 1888 downplays the bourgeois ceremonial of the older terminus in favor of a romantic, völkisch realism (g. 6.14). The juxtaposition presages the potent stakes of the British-German debates on vernacularism and national style later popularized by Hermann Muthesius, and yet it also reconciles the utility of a spatial hierarchy with a ­stylistic one, expressing Izmit’s growing importance as both a port city and the industrial hub within a day’s reach from the capital.55 The stations beyond Izmit reect a four-tier class system, as per the concession. In principle, buildings within each class were meant to be the same and built from the same drawings, but ambiguations were both bountiful and subtle. Organizational dierences between the stations built by the two dierent head engineers working in the area, Kapp von Gülstein and Mackensen, are most evident within the Class II station typology, in which all stations comprise a large main structure with a side wing. All of the structures take on the presumptive appearance of the Heimatstil, but they also dier signicantly in the

rendering of the side wing. In Afyonkarahisar, workshops and storage facilities stand as freestanding entities separate from the station building, whereas in Adapazarı and Beylikköprü they integrate with the main structure as a long, one-story extension with a serviceable platform (g. 6.15). The Class I stations of Eskişehir (1891) and Ankara (1892) are identical, consisting of a central block with two wings, with three stories each.56

FIG. 6.15  Beylikköprü station, view from southeast.

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FIG. 6.16  Bilecik station, view from north.

FIG. 6.17  Guillaume Gustave Berggren, Roof detail of Eskişehir station,

ca. 1893. Niedersächsisches Landesarchiv, Wolfenbüttel.

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One of the most signicant developments on this line is the introduction of subtle pointed arches in the windows of some of the residences on Class II station campuses, such as in Bilecik (g. 6.16). While the buildings with technical and storage functions are rendered with the same rounded, rusticated arches as in the station building, the subtle, pointedarch articulation of the window frames in the residential structures marks the rst outwardly Islamicizing mutation of the railway network’s architecture. As in Ottoman Europe, the city names for all of the stations are inscribed on the façades in Latin and Ottoman. Bargeboard animates the lower rim of the gabled roof, and decorative nials resembling leaves punctuate the ridge’s ends. The architectural treatment of the roof with its delicate woodwork pays homage to the earlier Victorian railway stations of the Haydarpaşa–Izmit line, but the references are more in the vein of the new station at Izmit, with an emphasis on solidity and authority through ashlar. We can also identify mutations upon close inspection. The nial’s leaf motif, for example, diers slightly from that outlined in only rough detail on the station’s elevation, and the hewing pattern appears in the drawings as chamfered, when in reality it is channeled, lending the actual buildings a atter appearance (g. 6.17). Along this section of the railway, a number of repetitive, typological elements serve an indexical function, relating the station and its campus not only to a consistent architectural program, but also one with specic spatial symbolism. In Eskişehir and Afyonkarahisar, silos used to store grain adjacent to the railway station became the two cities’ tallest structures and highlighted their new image as hubs of modern commerce and industry. Reinhold Menz, a German traveler who in 1893 commented on the new train hub at Eskişehir, provided one of the earliest reections on the visual character of the Anatolian Railways when he noted that the city had “the character of a small north German city in at arable land.”57 The sheer capacity to renovate the architectural and urban landscape into a Germanic image was nowhere more on display, however, than it was in Konya, the deepest point in the Ottoman empire reachable by train for a full decade (1896–1905). Konya’s role as terminus for ten years also gave it the role of a fulcrum between two generations of engineers and rail technology. This transfer of knowledge is made plain in the juxtaposition of the structures completed in 1896 and those constructed beginning in 1903 to keep pace with the city’s

exponential growth. Although technically also a Class I station like Eskişehir and Ankara, Konya’s original station has signicant dierences, demonstrating the ability to promote variety within the rigid typology system.58 While the building maintains the tripartite division evident in Eskişehir and Ankara, its character is enhanced by the full rustication of its lower level, and the composition expresses an overall sympathy with Rundbogenstil over Heimatstil.59 The vestibule presents a rich ornamental ­program, including a coered ceiling with hand-painted vegetal ornamentation, a circumscribing frieze of railway landscape vignettes, and four slender, cast-iron columns (g. 6.18). While several campuses of the Anatolian Railways had signicant auxiliary structures, only a handful had freestanding houses for long-term railway employees, and certainly none as extensive as Konya, where a cluster of eight homes, erected just north of the station, gave the campus the unmistakable character of a German colony (g. 6.19). Seen from the newly constructed İstasyon Caddesi (Station Street), the houses, fences, and landscaping hide from view the hulking industrial buildings behind them. The omnipresent fencing system is held in place by railway gauges staked into the ground and embossed with their manufacturer’s name (Krupp) and

FIG. 6.18  Konya station, main hall, ceiling and column detail.

FIG. 6.19  Konya station, view of workers’ colony.

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year of fabrication, driving home the fact that steel, even when sought for purposes independent of the railbed, was only available in the form of gauges.60 Over the course of two decades, the Ottoman railway network of Anatolia eclipsed the Ottoman railway networks of Europe and the Marmara in both its sophistication and its formal consistency. The clear delineation of typologies and sturdy and consistent construction strategies gave it a proto-corporate visual identity that raised the stakes for the imperial capital and its capacity to signify its imperial renovation architecturally. As Konya transitioned from terminus to the railway’s next gateway, the German role in this process continued to expand and take on even loftier ambitions.

FIG. 6.20  Tabuk station, view from south.

FIG. 6.21  Abu el Na’am station, view of iron rung set into the

wall for defense purposes.

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Hochbau

PATHWAYS, PIETY, AND PRODUCTION The railway stations of the Hejaz Railway and its tributaries are characterized by an insular air, evident in the extensive employment of stone and the minimal employment of glass, wood, and iron. While the railway stations bear similarities to the rest of the network through their volumetric proportions, certain formal hierarchies and site planning strategies nonetheless reveal the ambiguations of their distinct labor force, political and religious background, and environmental conditions. Beyond signifying the program of the holy pilgrimage, the railway stations of the Hejaz required unprecedented protection from three major adversaries: extreme sun, sandstorms, and the nomadic tribes infamous for robbery and destruction.61 Because Meißner’s oversight of the railway construction was purely contractual, systematic programs for designing stations in classes and typologies could only be achieved by recommendations to the Ottoman authorities. There are enough dierences in layout between the buildings to conclude that either Meißner was unable to institute a standardized building plan, or he simply chose not to do so. In practice, masons utilized stone from local quarries for the route from Damascus to Medina, ranging from the near-black basalt near Medina to the bright-yellow sandstone around Zumurrud. Urban locations along the route, such as Tabuk and Al-’Ula, featured gabled roofs and a twostory main station building with planar and sectional organizations that roughly follow the formula established by the Class III stations of the Anatolian Railways (g. 6.20). Other stations, such those at Abu Na’am and Muazzam, were designed as tiered structures with at roofs, the rst of

their kind to capitalize on the contractual permission of at roofs in the construction prospectus. Some have argued that these were actually designed in response to the stationmasters’ need to have at, elevated surfaces from which to defend the more remote structures from nomadic attacks, a view supported by the embedding of iron rungs in the mortar, which could be used for ascending the building so as to protect it (g. 6.21).62 Almost all of the stations have a single entrance and exit, allowing the stationmaster to control and monitor circulation into and out of the station.63 The terminus at Medina displays a symbol-laden ornamental program unlike any other station on the Hejaz Railway, representing the railway network’s clearest statement of its religious function. The building was commissioned by Meißner and designed by the young Haifa-based German Jewish architect Otto Lutz.64 Comprising eleven freestanding structures and the main station building, the terminus sits on a 133-acre parcel adjacent to the Al Anbariya mosque (g. 6.22). The station’s façade to the city is a low and impressive composition: a portico consisting of seventeen ogee arches anking a two-story main hall with twelve bays. The structure has three primary entrances, with the easterly being the primary entrance for passengers, leading from the portico through a courtyard to the rail platforms. The station’s upper portion is built from basalt and limestone and contains a series of paired arch windows beneath a larger round window, set in a frame of alternating basalt and limestone voussoirs. The window composition has its most direct parallels with the windows of the Sirkeci station. The strict geometries of the windows’ muntins and the use of kaleidoscopic stained glass possibly indicate that the window frames shared a manufacturer from Germany and also possibly signal the involvement of the German glass artist Otto Linnemann, known for his work at Haydarpaşa station. The muqarnas detailing of the porticoes’ column capitals evinces Lutz’s familiarity with the principles of Ottoman classicization promoted in Montani Eendi and Boghos Eendi Chachian’s Usul-u mimari-i Osmani (an album illustrating the fundamentals of Ottoman architecture), while the color palette and patterning reveal a familiarity with the architecture of Cairo (g. 6.23).65 Ottoman records also indicate that as funds were collected from the pious, some donors specically asked for their donations to be earmarked for architectural purposes. A certain Haz Abdurrahim Han of India suggested, for example, that his money go toward a fountain for ablutions at Medina station, and a great deal

FIG. 6.22  Medina station and environs.

FIG. 6.23  Detail of column, Medina

station.

of care was taken to graciously respond to these directed requests—although there is no indication that a fountain in his honor was ultimately executed.66 BUILDING TO BAGHDAD As the Bosphorus port of Haydarpaşa increased in importance after the completion of the Anatolian Railways, and with the decision to extend the railway network yet further toward Baghdad, it became clear that Haydarpaşa’s station building was outmoded, both technologically and stylistically. While the Anatolian Railways line had proved strong enough to withstand the previous summer’s earthquake, the demure, older stations were more vulnerable to the region’s considerable seismic activity. In April 1899, the Anatolian Railways Company established a daughter company for the construction and

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FIGS. 6.24a and 6.24b  Hellmuth Cuno for Philipp Holzmann GmbH, Two designs for Haydarpaşa station, ca. 1904. Institut für Stadtgeschichte,

Frankfurt.

operations of the port of Haidar Pacha, the Societé du Port de Haidar-Pacha, which in addition to revamping the actual station undertook a massive reconguration of the port itself. Among the architectural elements of the port’s renovation were a breakwater and ceremonial column celebrating the anniversary of the sultan’s ascension to the throne. The French architect Alexander Vallaury, designer of the Imperial Ottoman Bank Headquarters (1890) and numerous other prominent buildings in the city, designed the column, and his composition includes the requisite tuğra and a commemorative inscription.67 Even before ground was broken for the new station building, some observers also commented on the vastly improved nature of the port because of the German renovations. “A first look at the railway building,” said German writer Fedor von Zobeltitz in 1904, “shows that the Germans have been in charge here. No dirty makeshift shelters, instead massive buildings with an inviting ambiance, clean uniforms and good restoration: all that is quite unusual for the orient.”68 The Ottoman railway network’s symbolic gateway to Asia is its most architecturally ambitious station as well as by far its best documented.69 The design, which went through a number of iterations and employed a team of several experienced architects, clearly communicates its spatial and stylistic goals—all of which distinguished it from other stations. This was in no small part due to the architect Hellmuth Cuno, who, after playing a leading role in the design of Frankfurt’s new City Hall, joined Holzmann in 1904.70 In 1905, the same year construction began on the new Haydarpaşa station, Cuno was appointed director of the Baghdad Railway’s Hochbau division and stationed in Istanbul, where he oversaw the construction of

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all of the network’s buildings until his departure in 1914. From the drawings that remain, it appears that two dierent designs were prepared concurrently, indicating that the sultan may have been presented with more than one option when asked to approve a design (g. 6.24). The designs, while not radically dierent, demonstrate how options were presented as mutable stylistic choices, in this case Neo-Baroque and Neo-Renaissance. Whereas the development of the building’s elevations signied conservative historicist impulses, the station’s site planning reveals some of its most progressive and technologically advanced features, aunting German expertise in a way not seen elsewhere. Despite the acquisition of a considerable amount of land, Holzmann’s engineers still did not consider the station’s plot to be large enough and, as a result, developed a design that placed the station and its frontal plaza partially over water. This was accomplished by an ambitious scheme of pile-driving seventeen hundred wooden posts almost twenty-one meters into the Bosphorus seabed. The area has slightly less than a half of a hectare, and while not technically landll, the building platform represented one of the most extensive reclamation eorts of its day.71 The Ottoman land code, in fact, had likely incentivized such a decision insofar as it stipulated that any land reclaimed from the sea, so long as it was done with the sultan’s permission, would automatically become the property of the entity who had created it.72 Granite blocks, quarried in Hereke and transported sixty-three kilometers by rail, dress the steel frame of the building’s foundation. The architects employ sandstone in hues of gray, green, and yellow for a handful of rusticated elements on the building’s Bosphorus façade (gs. 6.25–6.27). These elements, quarried in Lefke, which is

FIG. 6.25  Guillaume Gustave Berggren, Hellmuth

Cuno for Philipp Holzmann GmbH, Haydarpaşa station, view of exterior, 1909. Institut für Stadtgeschichte, Frankfurt.

FIG. 6.27  Guillaume Gustave Berggren, Hellmuth Cuno for Philipp Holzmann GmbH,

Haydarpaşa station, view of saloon and restaurant entry, 1909. Institut für Stadtgeschichte, Frankfurt.

FIG. 6.26  Guillaume Gustave Berggren, Hellmuth

Cuno for Philipp Holzmann GmbH, Haydarpaşa station, view of administrative entry, 1909. Institut für Stadtgeschichte, Frankfurt.

located around kilometer 195 of the Anatolian Railways, demonstrate the self-indexical nature of the building’s material composition. The building’s three main façades articulate the stylistic aspects of the design most vividly. The western façade, facing the city’s European shores along the Bosphorus, is its main and most ceremonial one. The delineation of the

piano nobile at mezzanine level—where windows are framed with classicizing details, including small individual pediments—reinforces the building’s Neo-Renaissance posture. The towers on the northern and southern edges taper to a cupola that makes allusion to a minaret, perhaps the only Islamicizing element of the design.73 The station’s plan is U-shaped and frames the ends of

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FIG. 6.28  Guillaume Gustave Berggren, Hellmuth Cuno for Philipp

FIG. 6.30  Guillaume Gustave Berggren, Hellmuth Cuno for Philipp

Holzmann GmbH, Haydarpaşa station, view of rst- and second-class waiting room, 1909. Institut für Stadtgeschichte, Frankfurt.

Holzmann GmbH, Haydarpaşa station, view of main hall, 1909. Institut für Stadtgeschichte, Frankfurt.

FIG. 6.29  Guillaume Gustave Berggren, Hellmuth Cuno for Philipp

Holzmann GmbH, Haydarpaşa station, view of restaurant, 1909. Institut für Stadtgeschichte, Frankfurt.

four tracks partitioned by three longitudinal platforms, which meet at a single broad platform parallel to the main Bosphorus edge. The main reception hall serves as the primary ceremonial space, with four large pillars dividing the space into three separate bays, each with its own cashier and ticketing vestibules. The southern portion of the reception hall opens onto a long corridor that spans the majority of the southerly wing and provides access to the rst- and second-class (g. 6.28) and third-class waiting rooms, the haremlik, and sanitary facilities, terminating at the restaurant (lokanta) (g. 6.29).74 Although the corridor connects the spaces, the primary path of longitudinal

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access was always envisioned outside of the building along the track edge, choreographing an interplay between the inside spaces and the courtyard. The main reception hall exhibits the building’s most extensive ornamental program. With its delicate motifs and color scheme, the program is at odds with the hulking disposition of the building’s exterior (g. 6.30). The lower sections of the hall are covered in a toned granite, recalling similar uses in contemporaneous civic structures in the Ottoman empire, including Vallaury’s Ottoman Bank building. Arabesques, scrolls, and rosettes embellish the ceiling and upper portions of the walls alongside the geometric stained glass designed by Linnemann.75 The tiles of the restaurant, in contrast, have Ottoman origins in the designs of the tile artist Mehmed Emin Usta, who employs Kütahya tiles, perhaps because of that city’s status as a part of the new railway network.76 Whereas the third-class waiting room is lined in tiles, the combined rst- and ­second-class waiting room is paneled in wood, suggesting the hierarchical (and national) distinction of wood over tile. The administrative sectors of the building exhibit an incongruous usage of Gothic groin vaulting, and the monumental marble staircase alternates between black and lighter tones to create a striking visual rhythm (g. 6.31). The building received a range of assessments upon its completion. Cuno described the building as an adaptation of the local character and landscape, an opinion roundly

FIG. 6.31  Guillaume Gustave Berggren, Hellmuth

FIG. 6.32  Ayrancı station, detail of ticket window.

Cuno for Philipp Holzmann GmbH, Haydarpaşa station, view of administrative hall, 1909. Institut für Stadtgeschichte, Frankfurt.

rejected by a number of members of the Ottoman press and architectural circles.77 Historians have described the building with lukewarm language, focusing on what they view as its awkward synthesis of styles and the design’s relative incongruity with its Turkish and Bosphorus context.78 The German press placed the project in a more positive light. The Tägliche Rundschau exclaimed in 1916: “The Baghdad Railway Station at Haidar Pasha [sic] is, for anyone who sees it for the rst time, a surprise. It is as if the purely German Renaissance building has been plunked down in the middle of the wilderness of the former landing site of Haidar Pasha [sic] to thereby interpret the Baghdad Railway as an Oriental project born not of English or French inuence, but as a German project leading into the heart of the East. . . . On the ground oor travelers have everything they could possibly need.”79 The construction of Haydarpaşa station also marked the onward march of the Baghdad Railway beyond Konya. Several administrative personnel from the Anatolian Railways, including Otto Riese and Ernst Mackensen, were part of its leadership. As on the Eskişehir–Konya line, the stations were divided into three classes. Among the Class III stations, there is little deviation from earlier designs, but a signicant mutation, as evidenced in Ayrancı, speaks to the continual process of ambiguation (g. 6.32). A decorative decal above the ticketing window, today hidden beneath several layers of paint, has a silhouette that clearly

outlines a Bundesadler, the heraldic icon of the German empire. This addition appears in neither the drawings nor the written record and may indicate how a German engineer inected the generic plans for the stations, asserting their German tutelage explicitly through additive graphic symbols rather than implicitly through architectural form. The Class II stations are nominally more customized than their precedents in Mackensen’s earlier designs. Despite the similarities between the stations, Ereğli is particularly notable as a legible composition of both the Heimatstil aims and a desire to contextualize the station buildings, workshops, water towers, and homes for a variety of workers. As in Konya, the houses served the temporary needs of the railway’s construction and functioned largely as public showpieces, intended to present the area’s poor residents with construction strategies alternative to their own. This explains some of the morphological unity, achieved through a unied setback from the street front, an identical cornice line and steep pitch in the gabled roofs, and consistent use of classicizing elements on the window frames. These details are evident in the engineers’ domiciles at Ulukışla (g. 6.33) and the impressive depots elsewhere on the line, such as at Pozantı (g. 6.34). The stretch through the Cilician Gates extending from Durak to Fevzipaşa via Adana penetrates the dicult terrain of both the Taurus and the Amanus ranges. The section also presents a radical formal departure from the

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FIG. 6.34  Pozantı station, depot.

FIG. 6.33  Ulukışla station, detail of house.

FIG. 6.35  Durak station, view from west.

existing precedents. It is unclear what exactly prompted the dramatic shift in the design repertoire, but an ap­ praisal of the records provides some insight. The general director of the railway company, Otto Riese, employed primarily Greek and Italian craftsmen, masons, and carpenters.80 Cuno remained the main designer of the stations—his name appears on the drawings beneath the stamp of Holzmann’s Istanbul oce—yet Riese’s signature also appears on the drawings for the rst time, perhaps ­indicating a procedural alteration.81 All drawings were ­approved by Muhtar Bey for the Ministry of the Interior in March 1911, a signicant nine-month gap that indicates that the Ottoman authorities deliberated over the design with some degree of care. Cuno developed three slight variations (subtypes 1–3) for the Class III stations that appear to address small changes in the functions and climates of the various stations. The rst station encountered after crossing the Taurus Range is Durak, a Subtype 2 station, and a

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dramatic shift in the architecture parallels a radical shift in climate. Because of its particularly rural location, Durak is one of the most unchanged Class II, subtype 2 stations and is an important exemplar of the variegation of this set of buildings. Three large glass doors connect to a portico that abuts the track and is subdivided by ve pillars and four ogee arches (g. 6.35). On the two-story side of the building, a staircase connects the ground level to an upper-level apartment. Wide bracket-supported eaves overhang the entire exterior perimeter and pay homage to vernacular Anatolia. A geometric wooden pattern, painted for embellishment, adorns the undersides of the eaves. The Class I railway station at Adana (1912) represents the apogee of this new design scheme and is the second most impressive station of the Baghdad Railway (g. 6.36).82 The design consists of a U-shaped building with a one-story middle section and two-story wings, laid out symmetrically on its latitudinal axis with only small dierences in the partitioning of their interior

FIG. 6.36  Adana station, view from south.

spaces. The frontal façade of the middle section features three large ogee arches, the center one functioning as the entrance to the main hall. The track is accessed by ascending one of two short stairways, making this the only station on the line whose main hall is not on the same level as the track bed. The wings, which functioned as administrative spaces, contain windows with pairs of lobed arches. Islamicizing details include the station’s ticket windows, the wooden tracing of the eaves, and the fountains installed on either side of the small plaza in front of the building, with their inlaid Kütahya-style tiles (g. 6.37). The fountains pay tribute to the wall-mounted fountains used for holy ablutions and as a public resource in numerous Islamic buildings, including madrasas, caravanserais, and bathhouses. All of the stations are better equipped and more spacious than their predecessors in Anatolia. This is a consequence of the elevated standards Haydarpaşa set as a

FIG. 6.37  Adana station, niche detail.

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modern rail facility, as these stations were the rst to be designed after Haydarpaşa’s completion in 1909. The Cilician stations were also the rst to be designed in the wake of the Young Turk movement and the workers’ strike of 1908 and must be seen in the context of the radical shifts engendered by those events. In a memo from 1910, Cuno makes a passing and enigmatic mention of the changes in the Hochbau program, which he had been designing from his oce in Istanbul: “As a result of the negotiations, where Mr. Riese was present, a whole ream of alterations to the building designs and the contract have been made.”83 This comment suggests that Riese was somehow key in the changes and that it was he who advocated for the Islamicizing elements. It might also be tempting to attribute the modications to the inuence of the First National style and its foreign proponents, such as Jachmund, on Cuno.84 However, while it seems inevitable that Cuno and Jachmund would have met in the six years they overlapped in Istanbul, that alone cannot explain the radical stylistic shifts of the Cilician stations.85 Jachmund’s Sirkeci station did prove an important transitional moment from the formal experimentation of the nineteenth-century historicist movements to the more selective, narrative-based objectives of the First National movement’s leading architects. These architects aimed to establish a movement consonant with the secularist principles of the Young Turks by deriving inspiration from Ottoman forms irrespective of their Arab, Christian, or Islamic points of reference. But Jachmund’s eclectic design does not have any direct bearing on Cuno’s more synthetic designs in Cilicia, and actually stood in diametric opposition in its borrowing from non-Ottoman, Islamic architectural motifs. Cuno’s design bears hallmarks of the First National movement style in its use of the ogee arch and the wide eave, its expansion of traditional building proportions, and its use of decorative elements to codify both an Ottoman and an Islamic context (distinct as they were), including tile work and the geometric decoration beneath the wooden eave. Some Eurocentric characteristics, such as the portico, are embellished, while others, such as the bargeboard, are altogether eliminated. This selective process of embellishment and deletion of European norms was typical of the First National style. Although Cuno’s designs in Cilicia follow a largely European spatial plan, their stylistic departure makes them an early mutation of the First National style, and this

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challenges the conventional dictum that the style developed solely from the revolutionary ambitions of Ottomans. It also indicates that the style could have derived from a bow to the revolution’s march by the foreign architects already engaged in the empire’s modernization.86 The challenge of placing Cuno’s designs in Cilicia in the arc of the First National style is exacerbated by the fact that the style was abandoned when war broke out in 1914. The stations beyond Cilicia that were constructed during the war, such as those at Nusaybin and Carchemish, referenced what the engineers described as a Wohnhaus typology, an architectural structure mimicking a freestanding vernacular German house.87 They demonstrate the full range of the section’s varied architectural ambition and the duress that wartime placed on the successful execution of a consistent architectural program, from Baghdad’s low-slung half-timber station (g. 6.38) to the highly original composition at Carchemish.88 The railway station at Aleppo, completed in 1912, demonstrates morphological adaptations to the Cilician station model similar to those at Carchemish, but on a grander scale (g. 6.39).89 As the result of local politics, the Aleppo station involved one of the trickiest acquisitions of land on the entire railway, and this ultimately led to its siting on an inconvenient hill in the leafy western suburb of al Azizieh.90 Despite the challenges posed by the site, Meißner and the other engineers also enjoyed certain advantages working in Aleppo, including the ability to ship materials directly to the site via the French-operated railway line to Damascus, the availability of an Italian workforce for masonry and earthworks, and security and administrative support aorded by the presence of a German consulate within the city.91 The station’s composition includes a two-story central unit connected to two other two-story units at either longitudinal end through one-story connecting units. The exterior is clad in limestone likely quarried from Akterin, which was laid atop a basalt foundation.92 The interior of the middle section, which functions as the main reception hall, is outtted in an array of marbles and wood, articulating its geometric program with a cream-brown-black color scheme. Cartouches, ogee arches, and wide eaves with proles similar to those in the Cilician stations signify the railway’s formal continuity. Given the proportional similarities between the Aleppo station and the Cilician stations, it is evident that Cuno took a more active role in the design of this station

FIG. 6.38  View of Indian troops guarding the Baghdad Railway station,

1917. Imperial War Museums, Canberra.

than he did in others. The important changes—the use of limestone, the ve-unit composition, and the interior decorative scheme—were at least in part due to Meißner, who may have suggested using some of the same building materials that were used for the Hejaz Railway, which would be appropriate since Aleppo was the Baghdad Railway’s rst major station in a predominantly Arab part of the empire.

FIG. 6.39  Postcard depicting Aleppo station, ca. 1920. Levantine

Heritage Foundation, London.

STATION TO STATION The architectural specicity of a station like that in Aleppo is anathema to the administrative apparatus from which it came, one that implicitly suppressed any kind of stylistic ambiguation through the dual constraints represented by predetermined design and bureaucracy. Yet its morphology expresses the ambiguation at the core of the GermanOttoman partnership better than words could, situating it and its kin somewhere between a state of German hegemony and cross-cultural equanimity. Who, actually, made such a structure? Whose expertise was privileged, and how did this happen?

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If we cannot answer these questions, then we must be prepared to develop a new paradigm that accounts for a new kind of “expert” in the production of architecture in this incipient and ambiguous international context. This new expert—as opposed to the king, the prince, or the sultan—emerges as a force of tactical agency in the visual expression of power relations. The biographies of the builders barely exist, and the architects and engineers are, by and large, bureaucratic gures, located far away from both home and any kind of avant-garde ideology. This vacuum of conventional architectural power is precisely what makes all of these men and their objects such fascinating subjects to study and their retrieval from the margins of history so necessary.

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Hochbau

Because German “experts” developed expertise largely devoid of either political ideology or capital, the multi­ cultural milieu they coalesced in the construction of the Ottoman railway spoke to a new multicultural, as op­posed to cosmopolitan, sensibility. It postdates the Enlightenment and its values and yet precedes political correctness and its values, indicating an important intermediate step between the two and explicating their interrelationship with technology and the international economies of expertise. While the railways’ construction operated primarily within geopolitical and economic imperatives and lacked conceptual or uniform aesthetic values, it nonetheless materialized rich terrain for the many mutations of architectural form.

7 Monuments

Railways necessitate stations. They also necessitate monuments, architectural projects, and public symbols well beyond the tracks. These works conveyed the Ottoman railways’ technological, geopolitical, and cultural importance on a civic register and to a wide audience. Unlike the railway stations and structures, these monuments express the vested interests of individual agents—local patrons, the sultan, the kaiser, and nancial institutions, among others. As such, they present some of the clearest articulations of the architectural and artistic ambitions of specic partners in the railways’ development and coalesce the railway network’s most expressive moments. The powerful, the rich, and the inuential could erect monuments and whole colonies. So too could they design, fabricate, and exchange gifts. All of these monuments articulate this power through the prism of the railway, as an enunciation of strategy in stone and gilding. But closer inspection also reveals enunciations of tactical action, humble expressions from some of the railway’s least enfranchised parties. We see these authors commemorate the loss of a fallen colleague, build a playground for their children, and convert a German locomotive into a moving mosque. The freestanding monuments constructed in tandem with

the railway represent its extremes—its most and least enfranchised agents, its most orchestrated and most improvisational construction—and thus help expand the artistic and architectural program of the railway beyond the bureaucratic and technocentric circumscription of the railway engineers, administrators, and station buildings. The erection of monuments in the late Ottoman empire was mired in conicting interests. The process of erecting monuments echoed the Western urbanistic and ceremonial expressions emulated by the Tanzimat reforms as well as the alterations to the built environment made by the inux of Westerners. But it also ran counter to the entrenched perception that stones were not to be venerated if they were profane.1 Consequently, norms continually evolved concerning what constituted a dignied civic monument or an appropriate gift in line with Tanzimat principles, mindful of religious piety and what was deemed culturally appropriate. The negotiations were largely the task of foreign or non-Muslim architects and artisans, and from close readings of both their design process and the monuments themselves we can infer much about how these negotiations tread the ne line that represents—be it in brick or in velvet—the core tension

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FIG. 7.1  Tea service set, c. 1900. Dolmabahçe Palace Collection, Istanbul.

FIG. 7.2  Drum cover, c. 1900. Dolmabahçe Palace Collection, Istanbul.

between Tanzimat ideology and religiosity and German concepts of civic and public life. THE ART OF THE GIFT Monuments register strategic ambition vis-à-vis their public presence; yet it is in a series of intimate objects intended exclusively for the eyes of the kaiser, the sultan, and their ­retinues that we nd expression of some of the most spectacular ways in which objects were imbued with both geopolitical and allegorical functions. The exchange of gifts was by no means novel to the context of Wilhelm and Abdülhamid, nor to German and Ottoman spheres more generally, but the objects that exist from these exchanges, which occurred mostly during Wilhelm’s three visits to Istanbul, exhibit a number of telling traits. The objects, many part of the imperial collections in Istanbul, span a wide swath of functions: vases, a sta, a compass kit, a revolver and a cover for it, a runner for the top of a buet, a rie, a pocket watch, a decorative plate, and a ten-piece tea service set. Even in these relatively small tokens, architectural imagery, along with its symbolism, is a recurrent theme. The Rococo styling of the ten-piece tea set given by the kaiser to the sultan belies the Neoclassical content of the buildings depicted, including the Schloss Berlin,

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Opernhaus, Brandenburger Tor, and other monuments (g. 7.1).2 The intention of its designer was to showcase and create a shorthand for the major monuments of the German capital and to convey the civilizational sophistication that the revival of classicism sought to represent.3 Martial themes were also quite common in the gifts that were exchanged. Wilhelm gave Abdülhamid a revolver with his own imperial monogram outlined with precious stones in ivory and a rie with the sultan’s inlaid tuğra. A ceremonial silk blanket commemorates the German-Turkish brotherhood of weapons (Waen­ brüderschaft) in the rst two years of World War I.4 The dyadic nature of the gift exchange is evident in one of the most ceremonial gifts of all: an elaborate yellow and red velvet drum cover (g. 7.2). Here we see the symbolic intertwining of both the two individuals and the two states: the individuals, the kaiser and the sultan, are respectively represented by their monogram and tuğra on the undulating red portion of the cover, while the states are respectively represented on the yellow portion by the star and crescent and the Bundesadler.5 In addition to these portable objects, the kaiser presented the sultan with three architectural gifts, each commemorating a location he visited in 1898: Baalbek, Istanbul, and Damascus. As with the drum cover, a pair of commemorative plaques at Baalbek represent the German-Ottoman partnership through the use of the Bundesadler and the tuğra (g. 7.3). For Damascus, the kaiser synthesized a kinship with Frederick Barbarossa, the Holy Roman emperor who died on his way to the

FIG. 7.3  View of commemorative plaques,

Baalbek.

FIG. 7.4  View of the German sarcophagus for Saladin,

Damascus.

battleelds of Syria in the twelfth century, by eulogizing his contemporary, Saladin, the rst sultan of Egypt and Syria and founder of the Ayyubid dynasty. The kaiser laid a brass wreath on Saladin’s sarcophagus, which he would later try to supplant with a new marble sarcophagus, sent to Damascus as a gift accompanied by a lamp emblazoned with the Bundesadler and the tuğra (g. 7.4).6 While the new sarcophagus was installed, Saladin’s remains stayed in his original sarcophagus. The so-called German Fountain (Alman Çeşmesi) in Istanbul is undeniably the most signicant of the gifts exchanged between the two rulers and certainly the most visible commemorative monument of the GermanOttoman partnership. While diminutive, the fountain derives its prominence from its strategic location at the northern end of the Hippodrome, adjacent to the mausoleum of Sultan Ahmed I and within the sight lines of the Sultan Ahmed Mosque and Hagia Sophia. Wilhelm had been intrigued by the double function of fountains in Islamic society, as both a benevolent civic service and a facilitator of the customs of worship, and upon returning to Berlin from his Orientreise (journey to the Orient) of 1898, he summoned the trusted state architect Max Spitta, made a quick sketch of a fountain to be given to the sultan

as a token of gratitude, and asked Spitta to develop and execute it.7 The project was a unique one for Spitta, who, apart from a management role in the construction of the famed and widely derided Siegesallee in Berlin, had spent his entire career as an architect of sacral buildings.8 Ottoman records indicate that the Ottoman ambassador to Berlin, Tevk Pasha, participated in at least some of the design process. Reporting to the Porte in January 1900, Tevk Pasha noted how Spitta, accompanied by architects with the names Schoele and Carlitzik,9 briefed him on the design concept: “The architecture of the building,” as he described it, “should reect the relevant recommendations of the form of Byzantine architecture, which have been in use in Germany for some time.”10 The precise meaning of the term “recommendation” (tavsiye) is ambiguous, as it does not specify whether there is an Ottoman suggestion preceding it or whether the term is simply a formal moniker for the proposal itself. “The corners and pillars,” Tevk Pasha goes on to note, “are to consist of emblems with the Ottoman tuğra and the fountain will be bedecked with a dome.”11 He continues: “The upper surface of the dome’s roof is to be clothed with copper and iron plates. The outer surface of the columns and the inner surface of the dome are to be decorated with mosaics. . . . At the upper end of all external surfaces the monograms of the emperor and the tuğra of the sultan are to be attached. On the surfaces of the eight arches a mosaic inscription will be incorporated on a blue background with a golden color. It should be written in appropriate couplets in Ottoman that the Emperor sets this fountain in memory of his visit to the Sultan in Istanbul. The corresponding verses from the Koran on the shine of water should also be inserted.”12 With this brief in the background, a graphic sample of the tuğra handed over, and the decision to render the Ottoman inscription in the decorative Sulus style of calligraphy, Spitta began drawing.13 Spitta’s designs went through several iterations before Wilhelm found them satisfactory. The rst consists of a covered octagonal pavilion constructed of ashlar, with stout Byzantine-style columns of black marble and rounded arches (g. 7.5). An upper band contains triangular pediments punctured by three similarly proportioned projecting portals, a larger one in the center and two smaller ones on either side. Beneath, a heraldic shield depicts the Bundesadler on two sections and the tuğra on a third. Above, the cornice line is rendered in relief and at each corner supports a small entablature also depicting the Bundesadler. The roof rises to a

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FIG. 7.5  Max Spitta, Design for a fountain in Constantinople, iteration 1. Architekturmuseum der Technischen Universität Berlin.

126

circular top, serving as the pedestal for an oversized reproduction of the German imperial crown. A second sectional drawing below illustrates the ornamental scheme of the fountain’s interior, which shows a brownblue-yellow scheme of decorative dots that indicate a mosaic. The coding of green for the iconography of the sultan and blue for the kaiser may derive from the notion that these two colors are representative of Orient and Occident.14 Erudite viewers familiar with architectural history would not have missed the striking similarities between Spitta’s rst iteration and Charlemagne’s ninth-century Palatine Chapel in Aachen, which was incorporated into Aachen Cathedral.15 Impressed by the sheer stature and rich mosaic plan of the octagonal Byzantine church of San Vitale in Ravenna, Italy (A.D. 525–48), the Carolingian builders of the Palatine Chapel modeled their design on this structure. The segmented, pedimental façade of the upper portion of the dome is vividly conjured in Spitta’s design. The design also interprets a baldachin plan, which gained popularity across Europe in the Renaissance. Upon closer inspection of the elevation, one notices a large × drawn in pencil across the center of the fountain’s image. The intersection of the × appears virtually on top of the central Bundesadler. The × is most certainly the mark of Kaiser Wilhelm himself, indicating, as it would, a rejection of Spitta’s scheme and perhaps the gurative Bundesadler in particular.16 Is this an indication of Kaiser Wilhelm’s cognizance of the supposed prohibition of gural motifs in Islamic art? Wilhelm was, after all, an amateur student of Islam and its customs, and after employing the image in his earlier gifts in Baalbek and Damascus, he may have come to reconsider its usage. Regardless, it is telling that the Bundesadler would not appear in subsequent iterations. A second design, rendered only in pencil, alters the previous design by subdividing the large arches into two smaller ones (g. 7.6). The upper pediment band is eliminated in favor of a simpler row of miniature arches, seven on each face. The roof is round and squat, culminating in a small crown-like cap resting on a circle of small columns. A third design modies this scheme slightly, placing a rosette between the paired columns and the apex of the larger column of each face. It also articulates the fountain program explicitly with an elevation and a plan (g. 7.7). A large fountain rests at the center of the interior platform, which can be accessed from ground level by ascending

FIG. 7.6  Max Spitta, Design for a fountain in Constantinople, iteration 2.

Architekturmuseum der Technischen Universität Berlin.

eleven stairs. On the exterior, fountains are embedded on the sides of each face of the perimeter. A fourth design (not pictured) removes the upper band altogether, extending the length of the columns signicantly and changing their proportioning through wide rounded arches with pronounced voussoirs and carved Byzantine-style capitals. A round motif marks the apex of each arch and rests under a thin cornice line supporting a semispherical dome with external banding. The fth design, similar to the fourth, is the realized project. An elevation indicates the presence of a new, lower decorative band on the perimeter, directly above the fountains on each face, as evident in a scale model of the fountain with a gurine wearing a fez, perhaps representing the sultan himself (g. 7.8).17 The band features a circular emblem that alternates between the tuğra and a crowned W, Wilhelm’s imperial monogram. With the stairs leaving one less face for the octagonal structure, the imperial tuğra has four occurrences, in contrast to the kaiser’s three, statistically favoring the Ottoman side. The structure in the interior is no longer a typical fountain but

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FIG. 7.8  Max Spitta, Photograph of a model of a design for a fountain in

Constantinople, 1899. Architekturmuseum der Technischen Universität Berlin. FIG. 7.7  Max Spitta, Design for a fountain in Constantinople, iteration 3.

Architekturmuseum der Technischen Universität Berlin.

FIG. 7.9  View of mosaic and epigraphic ornament

under the dome of the German Fountain.

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rather an elevated, stupa-like mound that allows water to trickle downward from its top. One structural section indicates the decorative scheme of the dome, again depicting alternating German and Ottoman emblems. Spitta designed the fountain as a prefabricated kit of parts, which he shipped to Istanbul via Hamburg in late 1900.18 The fountain contains a slate of symbols and inscriptions, including a dedication plaque. The interior of the dome rewards its visitor with a lively green, blue, and red mosaic on a golden background designed by the mosaic artist August Oetken. Above the archways, Oetken installed an undulating ribbon that relays an eight-couplet poem by Ahmet Muhtar Bey, with epigraphy by Hattat İzzet Efendi, commemorating the fountain’s construction (g. 7.9).19 The text was written with Abdülhamid’s blessing and underwent two iterations. The rst is a typical hagiographic epigram, identifying Wilhelm as a “well-informed” and “able” soldier, a “compassionate” “visitor to the Holy Land,” a ruler “honored with respect of Islam,” and the builder of the fountain.20

The nal version is less saccharine, stressing not Kaiser Wilhelm’s greatness but rather the friendship of the two rulers, likening it to a “pillar” of an “enduring” bond.21 The development of the project, with its ve iterations, inscriptions, and ornamental program, melds elements of Gothic, Romanesque, and Byzantine architecture that crisscross between Ravenna, Aachen, and Istanbul. It becomes clear that, in the process of such virtual travel, the fountain’s designer wrestled with the ideological issues at the fulcrum of style and nationalism. The development of Spitta’s design articulates a clear trajectory from a German nationalist bravado to an architectural ambiguity that pays lip service to a notion of geopolitical equanimity. This equanimity is furthered by the Byzantine motifs Spitta brought to the fore, with their potential to symbolize the rudiments not only of Ottoman architecture—in its referencing Hagia Sophia, standing only yards away—but also Christian-Byzantine imperial heritage, which at the time of Justinian extended to the borders of German-speaking Europe.22 The stylistic choice and its execution, enhanced by the ornamental program and informed by the iterative design process, form a narrative that stresses the cultural parity of the German and Ottoman empires.23 While German archives reveal certain tensions in the morphology of Spitta’s design, Ottoman archives reveal tensions around the fountain’s siting and its afterlife, demonstrating how this architectural gift was much more than an axiomatic gesture circumscribed by a particular historical event. Spitta’s name, for one, is absent from Ottoman records; concerns were centered on placement and style rather than on an interest in the author. In the summer of 1899, the General Protocols Oce reported that the sultan, upon hearing of the kaiser’s intention to present the fountain as a gift, noted that he thought the new urban neighborhoods of Nişantaşı or Eyüp would be ideal locations, representing as they did the modern Tanzimat state.24 These neighborhoods nevertheless lacked the level of water infrastructure that the fountain required, and this worried some ocials at the Porte.25 With an array of polite ourishes, an Ottoman ocial reported Wilhelm’s apparent objection to siting the fountain in the newer parts of the city, noting instead his ­preference to situate it in a place where the kaiser’s “obedience” to the Porte would be seen by more people.26 So it was resolved to site the fountain in its ultimate, extremely prominent location. Tacitly, this shows the sultan’s

expertise in handling the kaiser’s unwanted demands, and yet it also indicates the kaiser’s inclination to sway the sultan.27 After its inauguration in January 1901, the fountain provided a continual stream of headaches for its beneciaries. The fountain, with its rich interior of marble and precious stones, came to be known as the “Luxury Hotel” and “German Palace” among vagabonds who liked to loiter in and around it.28 Over the course of the rst several years, vandals regularly stripped the fountain of all of its spigots and a number of its most precious mosaic stones.29 To make matters worse, the vandalism forced a protracted debate between the Ministry of the Interior, the Ministry of Foreign Aairs, the Ministry of Public Works, and the grand vizier himself over who, precisely, was responsible for the fountain’s upkeep.30 The debate essentially hinged on whether the fountain was primarily considered a diplomatic symbol or a waterwork. The onus of the fountain’s upkeep ultimately fell upon the Ministry of the Interior, indicating that its delegation as a diplomatic symbol trumped that of a fountain.31 When the replacement spigots were again stolen, within just a few weeks, it became clear that the reason was not the perceived value of German spigots per se, but rather a general public disregard for the fountain’s status as a site for ablutions.32 The Ministry of the Interior was both baed and irritated by the recurring spigot disappearances and, after replacing them a second time and building a wrought iron fence around the structure, delegated the responsibility for the fountain’s protection to the Istanbul police sergeant.33 By 1914, with the German-Turkish partnership now formalized under the auspices of war, the need to restore the fountain to a respectable condition warranted bringing in a restorer and engineer by the name of Schiele.34 In the end, the erection and preservation of the monument required and perhaps anticipated the collective expertise of, at least, the kaiser, the sultan, a diplomat, an architect, a poet, an epigrapher, a mosaicist, two policemen, and a conservator. While the fountain gives form to the multi-authorial dynamic of ambiguity in the German-Ottoman relationship, it is also tacitly in dialogue with both urban legend and a rich historical obsession with fountains in Istanbul, contexts that the kaiser and Spitta were probably aware of. Foremost among these is the fountain’s precise siting: it stands on the site of the mythical Vakvak ağacı (Vakvak tree), where a number of ocials of the court of Mehmed IV

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were executed during the janissary rebellion of 1656. The victims’ heads, legend says, regrew as fruits of the tree, creating the image of the Secere-i Vakvak, a tree in hell whose fruits are human heads.35 That the site represented regrowth is not incidental, alluding as it may to the regrowth that the railways could engender. The proximity to the myth also hints at a certain visual perversion of political tensions. By the eighteenth century, fountains had literally begun to grow out of their discrete placements in walls in the city, inhabiting dramatically embellished protrusions with wide eaves exhibiting chronograms and elaborate ­decorative motifs of trees, owers, and fruits.36 As social ­mobility in Ottoman society grew, fountains became a particularly splashy way for patrons of dierent ilks to represent themselves and their aspirations to a higher form of societal prestige, while also appearing pious through the civic municence that characterized this self-initiated expansion of urban infrastructure.37 In this sense, fountains emerged as a singularly potent symbol of political and social will well into the nineteenth century. Another fountain situated nearby, the fountain of Ahmed II at Bab-i Hümayun (1729), represented a further development in the growth of the typology. As if it were suddenly emancipating itself from its historical allegiances, the fountain emerges from the wall tting to become a freestanding, cubical structure with an eave and faucets, a type of fountain commonly described as the Maydan fountain. This name notes its location and centrality within a public square, and it is possible that Spitta was familiar with this type through the German architect and traveler Antoine-Ignace Melling’s engravings of a similar example, the fountain of Mahmud I at Tophane (1732).38 With their increased public prominence, fountains also came to be known as sites of recreation, and the German Fountain was no exception.39 The eighteenth-century tradition of the fountain’s chronogram as a “literary arithmetic game,” as Shirine Hamadeh has described it—where the epigrapher must calculate the numerical value of the last line of the verse to add up to the date of the event being celebrated (in this case the date of dedication)—continues with Ahmet Muhtar’s verse.40 So too does the tradition of extending the subject of the verse beyond the reication of the patron to a description of the object on which the verse is written. Moreover, Muhtar’s verse is perhaps the rst example in which a foreigner is lauded in Ottoman on a civic monument, itself a notable break with custom.

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Another break with custom was the intensity with which the fountain’s image was retransmitted across media. The press, for example, conjured analogue monuments, such as a fountain proposed by the satirical Turkish journal Daoul that would stand in Berlin’s Tiergarten and feature Abdülhamid, emaciated and naked, spitting out a pathetic stream of water for the passersby, as if to suggest both his futility and the imbalanced power narrative (g. 7.10).41 Another cartoon, published in 1908, indicates that at least some in the Ottoman community understood the ambiguously colonial symbolism of the fountain (g. 7.11).42 In the image, a tree, presumably a reference to the Vakvak ağacı, is depicted steadily growing and encircling the fountain, ultimately dismembering its top from its bottom section and allegorizing it as a

FIG. 7.10  Comic depiction of Abdülhamid II as a fountain in Berlin’s

Tiergarten in the journal Daoul (April 26, 1901). Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amts, Berlin.

FIG. 7.11  Comic depiction of the destruction of the German Fountain in

an Ottoman comic paper dated December 3, 1908. University of Rochester, River Campus Libraries.

potential victim of an “organic” rebellion reminiscent of the one on the site in 1656. A captivating postscript to the story of the German Fountain’s itinerant image is folded up in a single dossier in the Ottoman archives that contains documents and a drawing related to a fountain, relayed to the Ottoman ambassador in London in 1901, just months after the dedication of the German Fountain in Istanbul. The design of the fountain, created by a certain William Cheney, is virtually identical to the design of the German Fountain.43 Apparently Cheney had been prompted to design a fountain to be given as a gift to the city of London in honor of the (rather minor) celebrations being held there to

celebrate the twenty-fth anniversary of Abdülhamid’s ascension to the throne. Cheney must have been rather condent that no one would notice the similarities between the two fountains or, as a marking on the envelope in which the drawing is held may indicate, the design may have also been intended as a reciprocal gift to both London and Berlin, making the mimetic gesture slightly more comprehensible.44 Either way, the design was not realized in either city. STRATEGIC MONUMENTS While the imperial taste for commemorative public monuments, exemplied by the German Fountain, accelerated

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FIG. 7.12  Hejaz Railway commemorative column, Haifa.

in Istanbul throughout the nineteenth century and into the twentieth, monuments were also extended to regional centers. Three cities—Haifa, Damascus, and Konya—contain prominent monuments celebrating the triumphal construction of the Ottoman railway network. While infrastructural improvements such as parks, street furniture, public lighting, and fountains had already begun to recast provincial centers in a modern image, monuments represented a particularly bombastic addition to the public sphere, as they did not have a literal civilizing function, unlike other modernizing interventions tangibly benecial for public health, leisure, and safety.

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Monuments

Despite the avoidance of gural statuary in Ottoman culture, two monuments celebrating the railway and its achievements follow a typical Western format: a slender vertical form atop a pedestal. The rst such example is a monument commemorating the March 1902 transfer of the Haifa–Daara railway into Ottoman hands (g. 7.12).45 The monument, known as the Exalted Column, sits adjacent to the Haifa terminus, its construction preceding that of the station itself.46 The “column” actually comprises a tightly packed group of four uted Ionian columns supporting a square entablature and architrave. Atop the entablature sit four spheres that support a fth sphere,

FIG. 7.13  Postcard depicting Raimondo D’Aronco’s telegraph monument

in Damascus, ca. 1910. SALT Research (Osmanlı Bankası Arşiv ve Araştırma Merkezi), Istanbul.

bedecked in a oral wreath and itself supporting a crescent. The street face of the statue’s pedestal depicts a steam locomotive, while the adjacent sides depict winged wheels and a bolt of electricity, graphic motifs commonly used to symbolize railways. The imperial tuğra appears throughout the monument, and an inscription on the upper section of the pedestal reads: “Our lord and master . . . Abdülhamid . . . has commanded the construction of a railway line from Damascus to facilitate for the nation of Muhammad the pilgrimage to the house of God. . . . The Sultan then gave his grand command, may God lengthen his rule, that a railway line should be laid from Haifa to connect with the Hamidiyya Hijaz line. Therefore it is the duty of every Muslim who made his pilgrimage to the house of God and availed himself of the visit to the grave of the Prophet to pray to God to support the Sultan’s Grand Caliphate and to raise his high hand [sic] over the heads of the people.”47

Although we do not know the architect of the monument, the classicizing elements indicate that he was neither an Ottoman designer nor a member of the Balyan family, and while some have linked the design to Raimondo D’Aronco, an Italian architect who had lived in Istanbul since 1893, this connection seems unlikely.48 The column’s uency with the visual motifs of the Hejaz Railway and the integral use of both epistolary graphics and the tuğra indicate the presence of someone familiar with the contemporary graphic identity of the railway network. In fact, the three main symbols evident on the monument—a winged wheel with lighting bolts (the symbol of the Hejaz Railway Company), the Ottoman coat of arms, and an image of a locomotive—precisely address the three aspects of imperial legitimation that so much of the rhetoric, both written and visual, around the railways emphasized: that of the imperial state and caliph, that of the ecacious railway administration, and that of technology itself.49 The provenance of the vertical monument commemorating railway construction in Damascus is more complete. The sultan charged D’Aronco with the construction of a monument in al Marjeh Square in Damascus, northeast of Qanawat station.50 It would commemorate both the initiation of the construction of the Hejaz Railway and the completion of the telegraph line built in conjunction with it. D’Aronco’s design breaks from all norms in its Art Nouveau styling, which changed signicantly from an earlier iteration that contained an obelisk on a pedestal with eaves and four faces with fountains. The nal design, completed ca. 1900, is an elegant, bulbous column festooned with faux telegraph wires (g. 7.13). Atop the capital, which bears the imperial tuğra, a most unexpected object appears: a scalar replica of Serkis Balyan’s mosque at Yıldız; completed in 1886, the latter work commemorated the modern caliph and his modern building program in a highly unusual mix of the sacral and the profane. D’Aronco’s use of architecture instead of gurative sculpture is also unique, indicating that even representations of architecture could play a primary role in signifying imperial and caliphal power, as much as, if not more than, gural statuary. The Ottoman architect Muzaer Bey erected a particularly unusual monument in Konya in 1916 to commemorate agricultural innovation in the region and province, in large part thanks to the German railway intervention and the irrigation of the Konya plain.51 The monument, resting on a platform at the important trac juncture of Ferit Paşa Caddesi and Sait Paşa Sokak, consists of four faces

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FIG. 7.14  Muzaffer Bey’s agricultural monument of 1916 with the later

addition of a statue of Mustafa Kemal by Heinrich Krippel, added 1926, Konya.

containing pointed and crenellated portals with muqarnas detailing (g. 7.14). At the corners are bulb motifs linked to Rumi designs associated with the city.52 The rooine of the main section bears a distinct sinusoidal prole, common to numerous Classical-era Ottoman portals.53 TACTICAL MONUMENTS While these public monuments celebrated the achievements of the railways and their attendant modernity, a spate of monuments hidden far from the urban public’s view illustrate bottom-up manifestations of the railways’ material nexus and a form of its vernacular symbolism. These monuments articulate the parallel function of the tactics of common people encountering the railway with the political and strategic ambition of the enfranchised; in the process they create the actors who actualize it, on the

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one hand, and a system of physical referents to geopolitical ambition, on the other. In the far northeast of Mersin province, about halfway between the villages of Gülek and Çamalan and a few kilometers away from the workers’ colony of Belemedik, stands a monument memorializing the lives of forty-one German nationals who perished during the construction of the Baghdad Railway (g. 7.15). The monument rests atop a blu, with a scenic view of the plunging landscape amidst a thick pine forest. Although the monument does not bear a date, the typography and iron cross motif indicate its status as a World War I monument, probably erected after the war.54 The monument may be connected with three other memorials in the area. Çamalan had been an important center for truck transportation, as it stood at the center of the unnished rail route.55 A photograph from ca. 1916 depicts an improvised memorial to fallen German truck drivers (g. 7.16). Three cannons surround an outcropping of rock with the names of those who were lost (members of a union of drivers known as the Kraftfahr-Kolonne) inscribed on a tablet set within it. Atop the tablet is a winged wheel, similar to the one found in the Haifa monument. The winged wheel as iconographic symbol was long associated with the representation of motion and connected to the Greek gods Athena and Mercury. In the nineteenth century, the symbol had become a common one for graphic representations of railways, particularly in Europe and the United States. Most of the bodies of German nationals who perished in the Taurus stretch during World War I were ultimately brought to the North Cemetery of Baghdad, while bodies of Hindu prisoners of war, for example, were merely incinerated. Çamalan, however, was also home to a German cemetery for those engaged in military service and demonstrates how German railway ocials were able to usurp the Ottoman land code’s strict stipulations on burial practices. The cemetery is surrounded by a low stone wall of the same quality and size as the stone produced for the railway’s tunnels, bridges, and culverts. At the far end from the gated entrance stands a stone similar to the memorial for the forty-one railway workers (g. 7.17). In Belemedik, there was also a German cemetery with a low, round wall and gate surrounding a central stone commemorating ranking military ocers.56 Rectangular stones are also set into the earth, possibly marking the burial places of lower-ranking soldiers. The

FIG. 7.15  Memorial to railway

workers in the Taurus Mountains. FIG. 7.16  Memorial to fallen bus

drivers, Çamalan, ca. 1916. FIG. 7.17  German cemetery,

Belemedik, ca. 1918.

135

FIG. 7.18  View of the Şale Köşk, on the grounds of Yıldız Palace.

FIG. 7.19  T. Baldasr, Watercolor of the Kaiser Wilhelm pavilion at

Hereke, ca. 1900. Türkiye Büyük Millet Meclisi, Ankara.

monument would appear to be at least partially in dialogue with the work of the Wilhelmine architect par excellence Bruno Schmitz and his Völkerschlachtdenkmal (Monument of the Battle of Nations) in Leipzig, in particular.57 Although smaller in stature, the design of both memorials is premised on a pyramidal, masonry structure, which for Schmitz had been inspired by references originating in ancient Egypt and Assyria. INTRA- AND EXTRA-IMPERIAL SYMBOLS The construction of the Ottoman railway network also prompted architectural projects that mapped the constellation of economic, political, and philanthropic activities aliated with it. These examples demonstrate that ­architectural projects auxiliary to the railway network’s construction articulated a maturation of German selfcondence abroad and a deepening cultural investment in the Ottoman partnership. This maturation is traceable through both axiomatic and dialogic approaches to architectural design that provide a strong visual record extending the German-Ottoman agenda well beyond the railbed. While the vast majority of the building program associated with the Ottoman rail network served interests that could be described as disproportionately German, there are also several exceptions that originated through Ottoman volition and employed Ottoman designers and laborers. The earliest and most signicant examples, the Yıldız Şale and the pavilion at Hereke, relate directly to Wilhelm’s visits to Istanbul in 1889 and 1898 and clearly demonstrate Abdülhamid’s desire to impress Wilhelm and win his aection through architecture.

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Monuments

The Yıldız grounds developed originally as private imperial hunting grounds until 1880, when Abdülhamid II, famously fearful of attack by an enemy, opted to move the imperial seat to these grounds, where he would greatly expand the campus, employing the Balyan family of architects and later D’Aronco.58 The architectural centerpiece of the campus was the sultan’s residence, known as the Şale Köşk (g. 7.18). The word “Şale” derives from the Turkish transliteration of the word “Chalet,” a reference clearly interpreted by the pavilion’s architect in a manner similar to the design of Heimatstil railway stations. On the occasion of the kaiser’s visits, Abdülhamid II commissioned D’Aronco to expand and modernize the structures, encompassing everything from a grand parlor almost completely lined with mother of pearl (the Sedei salon) to European-style toilets and sinks in the rst expansion and a grand reception chamber in the second expansion.59 Abdülhamid II, proud of his carpentry skills, even made some pieces of furniture himself.60 The Hereke pavilion, built in the kaiser’s honor for his visit in 1898, implicates D’Aronco in its design. The pavilion is said to have been made of prefabricated units over the course of approximately three weeks, probably at the imperial factory, and transported to its site adjacent to the Hereke textile factory on the Gulf of Izmit.61 The pavilion has a main central unit housing a greeting area with doors leading axially from the dock, where the kaiser and the empress would disembark. Both the pavilion and the factory itself became popular as artistic and photographic subjects, celebrating the concomitance of craft and industry with geopolitical symbolism (g. 7.19).

The German Colony at Haifa, established in 1868 and the rst Templer Colony in Palestine, is loaded with an inverse rhetorical function. Gottlieb Schumacher, the prospective engineer of the Haifa–Damascus railway, was also the colony’s leader and planner and executed a scheme centered not on architectural symbolism but on the proselytizing capacity of both scale and text. This included a wide boulevard, known today as Ben Gurion Avenue, leading from the base of Mount Carmel to the shore. Each colonist had a similar freestanding home, also of Schumacher’s design.62 Most notable are the biblical ­passages inscribed above each doorway that suggest Schumacher believed that architecture had not only the ability but also the obligation to advocate religion. The passages are laden with meaning: the entrance to Schumacher’s own house reads: “Bis hieher [sic] hat der Herr geholfen” (“Thus far the Lord had helped us”), inscribed at the time of construction in 1890 (g. 7.20).63 The verse refers to the story of the Prophet Samuel, who took a stone and placed it between the modern cities of Tell en-Nasbehm (then Mizpah, a city of Benjamin, thirteen kilometers north of Jerusalem) and Ramses (then in the land of Goshen in Egypt). Samuel called the stone “Ebenezer,” which translates from Hebrew as “Look what God has done for us up to this point.” Schumacher understood the colony in Haifa as a monument, with a kinship to Samuel’s biblical monument somewhere in modernday Gaza. While the Ebenezer memorial commemorates the glory of God, it also commemorates the hope for that glory to safeguard the enlightened community against the adverse conditions of its surroundings, which were marked by the presence of apostates and the absence of infrastructure. As if the contrast between the sturdy modern houses of the German settlers and the ramshackle communities of Palestine were not clear enough, the proselytizing program went one step further in analogizing the Ottomans as Philistines.64 In his poem “Zahme Xenien” (Gentle Reminders), Goethe declares: “What is a Philistine? / A hollow gut / Full of fear and hope / That God will have mercy!”65 Samuel, who thanks God for his grace in the past, stands in noble contrast to the threatening Philistines. Schumacher’s choice of inscription is a clear delineation of German values in the face of degenerate Oriental ones: a culture of building and love of the grace of God set against the backdrop of a culture of destruction and passive hope for the mercy of God.

FIG. 7.20  Entryway and biblical inscription of Gottlieb Schumacher’s

house at the German Colony, Haifa.

Proselytization also relied on education, and education relied on architecture. The proliferation of German schools across the Ottoman empire developed in direct proportion to the proliferation of settlements and the expansion of the railway network. German expatriates and consulates helped to establish schools in all of the major cities of the railway network, including Eskişehir, Damascus, Jaa, Aleppo, Jerusalem, and Adana.66 These schools built upon the curricular model of the original German school in Istanbul, established in 1868, which entailed the coeducation of German and Turkish children separated by gender but not by ethnicity in nationalistically oriented activities such as Turnen, the same form of gymnastics that Germany embedded into the curricula of Ottoman military life (g. 7.21).67 The most monumental building erected in the Ottoman empire was the Auguste-Viktoria-Stiftung, a church and pilgrims’ hospice located prominently on the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem, designed by the Berlin architect Robert Leibnitz and completed in 1910 (g. 7.22).68 The complex, conceived by the kaiser and his wife while on their trip to Jerusalem in 1898, was to harness the bourgeois principles of German schools while also functioning as the center of the German Protestant community. Until his commission in Jerusalem, Leibnitz had worked exclusively in the eld of church design in and

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FIG. 7.21  View of a Turnen class at the German Girl’s School, Istanbul,

ca. 1905. Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Istanbul.

around Berlin. Nonetheless, his church designs retain a certain amount of historical-political charge through their clear referencing of Hohenzollern imagery and castle architecture, not only to the delight of the kaiser, but also in tune with the stone architecture of historic Jerusalem.69 The complex is organized around a central courtyard anked by two- and three-story wings connecting directly to the Church of the Ascension. The decorative program is common to the German Neo-Romanesque idiom established by Bruno Schmitz, including an elaborate mosaic over the entry to the pilgrims’ dormitories and an impressive pair of winged gures at the main entrance representing Saint Michael, the patron saint of the Holy Roman empire, and Saint George, the Christian martyr of Palestine.70 Within the courtyard, two massive bronze statues designed by the Berlin sculptor Gotthold Riegelmann rest on pedestals abutting the side of the building.71 The gures allegorize the emperor as a crusader

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and the empress as a reincarnation of Saint Elizabeth, mother of John the Baptist.72 The crusader iconography is represented only tacitly in the Church of the Ascension, the design of which involved the kaiser directly. He commented specically on style, noting that the building should be built “in the Roman style of the best periods of the crusaders and the Hohenstaufens” (a medieval dynasty of German monarchs).73 Much of the architecture and art commissioned by the German community in Palestine was designed in Germany, sent to the Holy Land, and re-created by a local German artist or builder, as was the case with the ceiling murals of the Church of the Ascension. They were provisionally designed by the Berlin-based painter Otto Vittali the younger, who led a successful glass and painting workshop and occasionally dabbled in Orientalist themes.74 Vittali’s designs were executed by a certain Jerusalembased Schmidt, whose handiwork is most prominent in

FIG. 7.22  View of the Auguste-Viktoria-Stiftung under the ag of the

British, Jerusalem, 1921.

the impressive ceiling murals depicting religious scenes relating to the ascension of Christ, which was said to have occurred not far from the site.75 Intermixed in the imagery is a representation of Wilhelm and Auguste Viktoria, personied by Sapientia and Misericordia, respectively, with a model of the Church of the Sepulchre of Saint Mary above the nave.76 Representations of a coterie of crusaders who had attempted to reach Jerusalem ank the emperor: Peter of Amiens, Tancred, Conrad III, Louis VII, Philip II, Augustus of the Franks, Richard the Lionhearted, Frederick I Barbarossa, and Frederick II.77 Seeing himself as the inheritor of the Christianizing mission of the House of Hohenstaufen, Kaiser Wilhelm II autohistoricized himself and ambiguated his identity as a modern-day man with the historical charge of a medieval crusader—revealed not only through the iconography of Leibnitz’s church, but also through the wider project of historicism.

At the opposite end of the spectrum is the ultimate tactical monument. This was a moving mosque for the Hejaz Railway, appropriated from a standard Henschel locomotive and outtted with a small, impromptu dome. The only known image appeared on the cover of Servet-i Fünun on June 6, 1901 (g. 7.23). Because the car would have been moving and perpetually changing its directional orientation while in use, there is no qibla wall but rather an ersatz niche serving as a symbolic, rather than literal, directional marker toward Mecca. As a ritual space in motion on the empire’s new infrastructure, the mosque wagon was perhaps the object sine qua non to ambiguate the dierence between sacral space and infrastructural resource. In imbuing the railway car with transcendent, supernatural dimensions, Abdülhamid, Meißner, and the Ottoman engineers eectively naturalized the technology that they were so often reminded was imported into the decidedly caliphal context of the Ottoman empire.78

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FIG. 7.23  Interior view of the

mosque fashioned from a rail car for the Hejaz Railway on the cover of Servet-i Fünun 534 (24 Mayıs 1317 [ June 6, 1901]). Milli Kütüphane Başkanlığı, Ankara.

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Monuments

MONUMENTS IN CONTEXT The array of scale, resources, and tactics that populate the spectrum between the Hejaz locomotive and the AugusteViktoria-Stiftung demonstrates the scope of the railway as both a political catalyst of form as well as a promoter of the ambiguation process. Through geopolitical strategy or tactical ingenuity, these constructions reect the oscillation of the German-Ottoman relationship and visually codify its geostrategic substrate. The ability of the monument to project ambition, whether of a soldier, an architect, or a pilgrim, also proves to be a form of communication, beckoning others to experiment with the balance of context and innovation. In considering a variety of sources, we learn of the ways in which the German-Ottoman axis ambiguated the conventional means for reading monuments of imperialism and technology transfer. The engineers, architects, nanciers, and bureaucrats who surveyed and led the construction of the Ottoman railways shaped a multilateral consortium of expertise with a mandate, at times tacit and at times explicit, to produce and form cultural knowledge. Expressed in political and economic terms alone, this mandate remained hidden behind the individual histories of these railways as much as it announced itself in the form of the monument and, as a climax, at the scale of the city.

8 Urbanism

AMERICAN MESOPOTAMIA Through its construction of buildings and monuments, the Ottoman railway network had a widespread impact on the architectural landscape of the hundreds of cities and towns it traversed. While neither the German builders nor the Ottoman bureaucrats formally engaged the services of urban planners, there were profound urbanistic goals as well as eects that permanently shaped the urban landscape and the lives of these cities’ inhabitants. The ways in which the new railways negotiated, or altogether avoided, practices of urbanism speak to the tacit marriage of technocentric German planning, on the one hand, and Ottoman ideas about the future formal growth of its cities, on the other. In addition to revealing urban hierarchies, as with the Pressel maps, the railways also articulate ideas about what constitute the boundaries, nodes, and “modern” versus “historic” parts of Ottoman cities. Max von Oppenheim’s eccentric exegesis on the Baghdad Railway, “The Development of the Baghdad Railway Area and the Practical Application of the American Experience in Syria and Mesopotamia,” is the closest thing there is to a manifesto on Ottoman railway urbanism.1 The study came out of a visit Oppenheim paid

in 1902 to the United States, where he observed the ways in which the American railways had opened up the country’s western frontier. Although a large part of the Ottoman railways had already been built or was under construction, it is likely that the text circulated throughout the German embassy and consulates in the empire as well as among the railway administrators and the Holzmann sta. Oppenheim’s prescriptive thoughts emphasize a number of lessons for the new urbanism of the Mesopotamian railway cities, based on the touted American model.2 These include the wisdom of strategically placing stations at important geographic thresholds such as river crossings and the feet of mountains. As there are fewer such natural occurrences in Mesopotamia than in the American West, Oppenheim suggests looking past geography to topography in order to identify ersatz features of landscape in cities and villages. Like geography, these cities and villages would be dicult to alter with the railway, as their traditional structures included fortications and agricultural rings (which he called “gardens”). To penetrate these places, Oppenheim recommended the American convention of building absolutely “straight and wide” roads meeting at right angles, to

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penetrate the gardens connecting the station to the old city. He saw advantages in continuing to place the stations slightly outside of the city, as this would promote new growth in the Bedouin and rural Arab communities that were disinclined toward it. Oppenheim suggested that the construction of railway workshops and, most importantly, stores with goods would assist in this process. Finally, he had the forethought that some of the locations could later develop into railheads for branch lines to further extend the network into the desert, particularly in light of the long-debated plans to irrigate Mesopotamia. In reality, Oppenheim’s prescription was really not as specic to Arabs and Mesopotamia as he suggests it to be. This was, in fact, a comparable strategy for laying city grids in the case of both the Canadian Pacic and the Trans-Siberian railways.3 Nevertheless, the prescription indicates two important things for the German-Ottoman case. First, the American landscape oered Europeans an originary model of progress from the New World. Second, the prescription oered the rst explication of the railway’s colonial-like approach to planning and developing the Ottoman frontier, much as had been done in the American West. These urban changes were created through otherwise unsystematic and contingent processes driven by an everchanging mixture of parties with vested economic, political, and religious interests. It is not possible to describe many overarching characteristics of the railway’s urbanistic transformation as it went from city to city. We can, however, reect upon what appear to be two consistent strategies: rst, the deliberate siting of the railway a signicant distance from the old city core and, second, the resulting grand boulevard, the İstasyon Caddesi, that connected the station to the old city. While this was not dissimilar to the way other nations developed their railway infrastructure at their frontiers, there are signicant distinguishing factors in the Ottoman case. Here, a handful of case studies that examine some of the unique urbanistic alterations to a selection of small, middle-sized, and large urban centers form a heuristic for what we might provisionally call an Ottoman railway urbanism. The siting of the railway bed and its station in a given urban center typically followed one of two general models. In landlocked population centers, the railway bed is laid on a relatively even topographic contour standing anywhere from two hundred meters to three kilometers from the city’s limits. Barring any problems encountered

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in acquiring the necessary land, the railway bed converges parallel to a signicant intercity thoroughfare as it approaches the urban center, usually on the side that was opposite to human settlement. At marine termini—Thessaloniki, Haydarpaşa, Sirkeci, Iskenderun, Jaa, Haifa, and Izmit—the railway came in much closer contact with the existing urban fabric, primarily because it needed to connect with the existing port operations; this inevitably meant that it needed to penetrate, and often replace, existing settlements. As a rule, the railway penetrated the city and eventually veered to one extreme side before approaching the port. Izmit was an exception, as the railway did not connect directly to the port but rather terminated very near to it, thus requiring the intermediate use of vehicles for transporting materials from sea to rail. The so-called Sandschakbahn, under the leadership of Maurice de Hirsch and Wilhelm von Pressel, did not fulll its original aim of connecting the Mediterranean shores of the Ottoman empire with Austria-Hungary. Nevertheless, it succeeded in creating an early template in a signicant population center, Banja Luka, when that station opened to trac in 1874.4 Banja Luka was an important regional center for the production of bricks and textiles as well as for brewing. Pressel’s schematic studies of the region trace the proposed railway on the western bank of the Vrbas River. Because it was hoped that the railway would ultimately continue southward to Sarajevo, Monastir, and Thessaloniki, it penetrated the city deeply, running parallel to the main commercial thoroughfare known today as Gospodska Ulica (Turkish: Konak Sokak). Sometime during the construction of the railway, Gospodska Ulica was widened, straightened, and rerouted where it ran parallel to the railway station.5 The old Gospodska Ulica and the new wider street, which came to be known as Carski Drum, are a study in contrasts. The Carski Drum is a wide, tree-lined boulevard (g. 8.1). The station is sited perpendicular to it, tucked away behind a service road that camouages its industrial and commercial functions. Gospodska Ulica, on the other hand, retains its meandering quality and zones of densely packed shops. After Austria-Hungary occupied the area, the economic livelihood of the Carski Drum and the new, orderly neighborhoods established to the north and west replaced the older Ottoman fabric as the economic heart of the city, delineating the “modern” city from the “historic” city, much the same way fences

FIG. 8.1  Postcard depicting the Carski Drum

(Kaiserstrasse), Banja Luka, ca. 1880.

did. The station and the railbed functioned as a fulcrum between the two. The construction of the Salonica railway station, connecting that city with Skopje and Monastir, marked the rst major German-led rail-to-port connection within the Ottoman empire and transformed the city’s western waterfront edge upon its completion in 1873.6 The construction of the quay adjacent to the railway terminus, located at the edge of the city’s Jewish quarter, necessitated a staggered removal of the sea wall, which began in 1869 (g. 8.2).7 The land around the new quay, which connected directly to the terminal passenger station a bit to the northwest, developed into a thriving industrial sector centered largely on the production and trade of cloth goods.8 In 1890, the railway line was extended eighteen kilometers from the Istanbul suburb of San Stefano (Yeşilköy) to Eminönü at the northern edge of the historic city core; this seems to have been driven in equal parts by necessity and by the line’s signicance as the terminus for the Simplon Orient Express. To minimize the trace’s interruption of the existing city fabric and the old city walls, the line ran from San Stefano to a point not far east of the Galata Bridge on the Golden Horn, directly along the Marmara coastline. The coastal route necessitated a radical transformation of the European side of the city’s face to the Marmara: the marshy shores at the foot of the fthcentury city walls were remodeled into a railbed, precariously close to the water’s edge. This made for a stunning visual climax for the tourists on the Orient Express. In addition to its prominent face northward to Pera and Galata, Sirkeci became an important public plaza with proximity to the waterfront and ferries. Sirkeci Square, with the station as its centerpiece, contributed to a

vivifying sense of modernity in the historical district of Fatih and the Sultanahmet. Ankara’s meteoric rise from a sleepy agricultural center to the capital of the Turkish Republic is attributed to Atatürk’s desire to locate the republic’s capital centrally within the country’s new borders and to stress its Anatolian character, all the while breaking with Istanbul’s vexed political history. To be sure, Ankara fullled Atatürk’s geographical and psychological desires for the new capital, but the railway’s presence in the city since 1890, fostering its growth and prominence, is widely overlooked as a factor in the city’s already nascent rise. The planned railhead in Ankara—one and one-half kilometers to the southwest of the city’s historic core, right along its legal boundary—would facilitate a tremendous amount of commerce and growth without interrupting an expansive tabula rasa city plan that would later be reinvented by the German planner Hermann Jansen.9 No city had a grander İstasyon Caddesi than Ankara’s, which choreographs a ceremonial artery in and out of the city (g. 8.3). Never­ theless, while the station remained the regional terminus it was designed to be, it stayed largely disengaged from the urban fabric of the city, serving instead as a suburban hub intended for commercial trac. Many of the albums gathered in the process of scouting the railways also comprised loose panoramas, oering vivid views of the cities as “as found” landscapes, like that of Afyonkarahisar (g. 8.4). The verso to this was the completely designed environment. No city is more recognizable as a total urban project born of the railway network than Konya. A 1905 report in The Times oers a vivid image of the activity, with evocative impressions shared by many Europeans traveling the railway for the rst time:

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“Konia [sic] . . . would probably make a poor enough impression on one coming direct from Europe. The houses are almost all built of mud bricks, and most of the streets are more or less unpaved. But to reach it after a journey of some weeks in the interior is to feel that one is on one’s way back to civilization.”10 The construction of the railway line south of the city of Ereğli in Konya province is also emblematic of the railway’s capacity for the transformation of urban form. In addition to overhauling the sleepy town into a regional center for trade and agriculture, the railway’s transformation of the entire urban fabric over a few years beginning in 1905 belied Ereğli’s status as a mere Class II station. The railway approached the village, lying between Konya and Adana, from its south, maintaining an approximate distance of three kilometers from the old city center as it gently curved to the southeast. Punctuating the railway trace at a point due south of the historic core, the Ereğli

FIG. 8.2  Sketch of a plan for rail and port construction in Salonica, ca.

1868. Bundesarchiv, Berlin.

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station is surrounded by a small, purpose-built village of two-story houses for the railway workers based in the area. The houses are in an orderly row and enclosed by picket fences. The small community was connected to the old town by a grand boulevard known today as İnönü Caddesi, a facsimile of an İstasyon Caddesi outtted with a central median punctuated by street lamps. Reporting on Ereğli in September 1905, The Times noted that “it is worthy of mention, as illustrating the diculties with which the railway enterprise has to contend in the Ottoman empire, that the local authorities had not begun even to think of building a road from the town to the station” (g. 8.5).11 This and several observations about the boulevard indicate that the Germans waited a bit to see whether local authorities would develop road infrastructure. When they didn’t, the German engineers took the initiative for its construction. The boulevard, which led all the way to the old city, merges with the historic Karaman–

FIG. 8.3  Wagner & Debes, Map of Ankara, 1903.

Adana Yolu, a regional trade route that had been the city’s widest thoroughfare and the center of its commercial activities until the construction of the boulevard. The merging of the new boulevard with an older trade route was perhaps an attempt, for its own sake but also symbolically, to merge overland economic activity with rail activity and facilitate an integrated approach to the urban growth that would follow the railway’s arrival. While the new part of the city grew rapidly, it emphasized ethnic dierences within. Most of the houses and businesses along the thoroughfare and near the German settlement were Christian, particularly Armenian. Proprietors erected a number of impressive villas aunting the city’s new wealth.12 Although the desired trace of the railway was valueengineered to not penetrate major population centers, it did, on occasion, come into a head-on collision with minor population centers. Sometimes it was harder to

skirt a town than to penetrate it on the easiest topographic contour, even if that meant expropriating property and dislocating a handful of people. Nowhere is this clearer than in Bekdemir in Bilecik province, a tiny hamlet between Bilecik and Eskişehir on the Anatolian Railways. Immediately after traversing a tributary of the Sakarya River on an even contour, the line plows the center of the hamlet into two, barely sparing its sole mosque, before boring through a large hill (g. 8.6). While neither German nor Ottoman records make clear what happened to the displaced buildings and residents, the uncompromising incision into the village fabric is obvious, channeling it with a horizontal column of stone and ballast four and one-half meters high. The maritime outlet at Iskenderun was also exceptional in many ways. Fearing an attack, Abdülhamid II resisted connecting the Baghdad Railway to the sea

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FIG. 8.4  Guillaume Gustave Berggren,

Panorama of Afyonkarahisar, ca. 1890. Niedersächsisches Landesarchiv, Wolfenbüttel.

FIG. 8.5  Guillaume Gustave Berggren, View of Ereğli train station and

environs, ca. 1910. Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Istanbul.

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FIG. 8.6  Guillaume Gustave Berggren, View of the Anatolian Railways tunnel at Bekdemir, ca. 1893. Niedersächsisches Landesarchiv,

Wolfenbüttel.

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anywhere between Istanbul and Basra. It was nevertheless necessary to do so. The proposal to create a rail–maritime link at Iskenderun, historically a major Mediterranean outlet for trade from Baghdad and India, goes back to Pressel, who proposed it in his schemes of 1873. Completed in 1913, the branch line connecting Iskenderun to the main line at Toprakkale approached the city from the north and hugged the coastline in its nal several kilometers. Unlike Pressel’s proposal, the railway did not enter the port directly, but came near it at the northern edge of the city. A large plaza in front of the station amplied its presence in the city, and an unnamed street ending at the station attempted to connect the city to the water’s edge, although this was never completed. To the north of this street, a small settlement of bungalowstyle houses, similar to those found in Adana, provided accommodations for railway ocials and workers, and picket fences, naturally, parceled the lots and delineated them from the rest of the city. Despite the outbreak of war, the construction of the connection at Iskenderun reinvigorated much of the trade and livelihood that had been lost decades earlier with the construction of the Suez Canal. As a result, the urban growth that ensued was primarily industrial and occurred around the station and along a corridor nestled between the railway and the Mediterranean waterfront. The port of Jaa presented a set of exceptional urban conditions when the construction of the Jaa–Jerusalem railway line began in 1890. Not surprisingly, the railway’s trace ran adjacent to the colony, which had been completed in 1892. The railway at Jaa did not penetrate the historic Arab quarter to connect with its lively port, and it remains unclear why it did not. Regardless, the station and its environs to the north made for a tabula rasa landscape and played an immense role in driving the development of the city northward, particularly with the Zionist and Christian settlers coming from abroad. Despite the station’s indirect contact with the waterfront, during construction a temporary winding narrow-gauge rail was built all the way to the seafront and onto a temporary pier to accommodate the transport of supplies (g. 8.7). The formation of a family-run concrete and tile factory immediately adjacent to the Jaa railway station by the entrepreneur and Tempelgesellschaft member Hugo Wieland highlights the relationship between urbanism and material culture. In 1871, the eighteen-year-old Wieland had moved with his family from Germany to the

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Templer Colony in Jerusalem. He relocated to Jaa in 1900, and in 1902 he constructed a one-story house immediately opposite the railway station along the end of the tracks. In 1905, Wieland built a factory to the east of the railbed and founded a company that produced oor and roof tiles, prefabricated Jerusalem-stone cement bricks, decorative interior tiles, concrete piping, and other building materials made from cement, which Wieland imported from Germany and the United States. In 1906, Wieland used materials from his factory to expand his own house to two stories (g. 8.8). The building products proliferated in new construction across Palestine until the outset of World War I and are particularly evident in the German colony of Sarona. Here the stone blocks, cement window frames, and roof tiles mark a signicant departure from the conventional architecture of the German colonies in Palestine, which tended to employ rough-hewn Jerusalem stone and local roof tiles.13 The appearance of these new buildings, while following the formal conventions preceding them, demonstrates the mechanization of the colonial building process; it also shows its eect in transitioning architecture away from rustication toward clean plastered surfaces and mass ornamentation, urban in their ambition, and mirroring the technological spirit of the railways. A particularly provocative piece of architectural ornamentation found on the Wieland house, most of the buildings on the station grounds, and countless buildings in Tel Aviv (north of Jaa) built between 1906 and 1914 is a small, double-faced metal gure attached to brackets used to secure shutters in place (g. 8.9). When the shutter is open, the face of a man faces forward, and when it is closed, the face of a woman appears. These might depict the Wielands themselves. They may also represent the interplay of male and female motifs, even Occident and Orient, indexing the dyad across the entire city. The eects of the Hejaz Railway on its cities diered from those engendered on the settlements along the European, Anatolian, and Baghdad railways. The distinct political and religious character and more dominantly Ottoman workforce of the Hejaz Railway and its siting in a less secure environment render it the most urbanistically disengaged. The railway was treated like, and resembled, a military operation. The construction of the railway station at Al-’Ula, about halfway between Tabuk and Medina, illustrates the challenges posed by political unrest and the harsh climatic

FIG. 8.7  Garabed Krikorian, View of Jaa coastline and provisional

railway construction, ca. 1891. Palestine Exploration Fund, London.

FIG. 8.8  Detail of the prefabricated concrete elements in the Wieland

family home and factory at Jaa station.

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FIG. 8.9  View of a shutter holder on the Wieland

family home and factory at Jaa station.

FIG. 8.10  View of Al-’Ula station from southeast.

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conditions of the desert (g. 8.10). Although still a settled community, Al-’Ula had been in decline since the early medieval period and had assumed a semi-transient character. As such, the railway station and its depots, stores, and housing facilities were laid approximately eleven kilometers to the northeast, where the station was fortied and doubly protected by another fortication on a neighboring hill.14 The railway campus, enclosed by the walls, resembles a small city, and as many steps as possible were taken to not rely on the surrounding infrastructure. As such, the railway campus included the same provisions as many of the campuses of the Hejaz: water and food stores, garrisons, wells, and so on. The small railway community remained largely divorced from the daily life of the Arab city to the southwest and reinforced the railway’s military and political posture in place of civic engagement. Compared to the lower Hejaz Railway stations, the Medina terminus was the most successful on an urbanistic level, as evidenced by the openness of its architecture and its relationship to the neighboring mosque and large public plaza (g. 8.11). But its success is also evident in the

FIG. 8.11  Bernhard Moritz, Map of Medina,

1914. Library of Congress, Washington D.C.

planning of Omar Ibn al Khattab Street, connecting the station to the historic city. The broad boulevard integrates the military zone near the station—including Ottoman barracks and the Egyptian kitchen—with the civic and religious zone adjacent to al-Masjid an-Nabawi and the site of the Prophet’s house. AVENUES OF INTERPRETATION Avenues such as that in Medina, spanning new modern city quarters with loaded historical sites, tell us a lot about what an Ottoman railway urbanism might be. Western European and American railway planning tended to chart a railway’s integration into a city center and the simultaneous development of an industrial periphery. By contrast, Germans and Ottomans make the argument that cities were only important insofar as they were topographically networked, and that the network had a distinct hierarchy of rst, second, and third orders that remained xed upon

the completion of a city’s railway. In other words, the railway dened a matrix of urban relationships as much as it clearly delineated a city’s relative importance in economic, political, and perhaps even cultural terms. The tiered system manifested explicitly in architecture also appears in the spatial taxonomies of the Ottoman network and its cities as small, medium, and large bodies and does much to further contextualize what we know of the growth of Turkish, Balkan, and Arab cities in its wake. This consideration of urban form also highlights the scalar exibility of ambiguation, arguing as it may that the unique nature of the German-Ottoman relationship established a framework for the formation of novel urban places that marked a spatial framework of both German and Ottoman cultural expansionism. These cities instruct us about how ambiguity itself took on a dynamic role as a mediator and shaper of knowledge exchange at a scale exceeding that of the building, map, or treatise.

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Conclusion

Late in 1911, the German archaeologist Theodor Wiegand issued a pithy pamphlet for an atypical readership. Comprising eleven pages of instructions, the document addresses the “gentlemen engineers” of the Baghdad Railway.1 The pamphlet represented an unusual foray into geopolitics for Wiegand, the incoming director of the Antikenabteilung (Department of Antiquities) in the Berlin state museum. With the German involvement in the construction of the Ottoman railway network entering its fourth decade, Wiegand sought to nally systematize some sort of blueprint for how German railway construction for the Ottoman empire could complicitly script knowledge of the Ottoman empire, particularly knowledge germane to the elds of geography, topography, and archaeology. Apart from the archaeological information, such knowledge would have no direct bearing on Wiegand’s role as a museum director, but it was, on the higher geopolitical register, crucial for the state apparatus’s late colonial ambition. Counter to the trend toward the specialization of the engineering profession at the time, Wiegand encouraged the ambiguation of professional roles in the eld.2 Wiegand reminds the Baghdad Railway engineers that it was the German engineer Carl Humann who discovered

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the great altar of Pergamon while surveying roads in Izmir province in the winter of 1864–65. He reminds them that it was a German engineer, Karl Sester, who ­discovered the gures of Mount Nemrut while surveying roads in Adıyaman province in 1881. Wiegand stresses to the engineers that they too can secure their place in the hall of German greats if they know what to look for while forging the “iron road” (demiryol) from Konya to the Persian Gulf.3 Despite not being a geographer, Wiegand demonstrates an anity to the observation-based methods of Humboldt in his instructions for the collection of geographic data. “Every poke, every step, and every stroll,” he explains, “can result in scientic meaning.”4 He suggests the engineers carry compasses, barometers, and sketchbooks along with their railway tools. Their written and measured observations should spare nothing of signicance, and they should scrawl lengthy descriptions of landforms, vegetation, cultivation, human settlements, and irrigation. Wiegand recommends sketching these sites with blue ink, using a uniform scale related to the pace of walking in the absence of more exact measurements. He advocates carrying a tripod and suggests inspecting sites of interest from all angles. He

encourages the men of the Baghdad Railway to collect fossils and decompose them in the palms of their hands to test the geological structure of the earth.5 With regard to topography and archaeology, Wiegand stresses the historical context of antiquity. Topography, he demonstrates, is the study of antique roads, networks, and settled earth, while archaeology is the study of constructed monuments. Again, Wiegand stresses the importance of immersive observation and patience, noting that it is not possible on the rst or second reading of a site to truly understand it. Wiegand notes the importance of engendering the help of natives through baksheesh (“Trinkgeld,” or tips/bribes) to become more intimate with the sites, and advises that it is important not to overemphasize the importance of stones and ruins, as natives note these items with ambivalent adjectives such as “old” and “Genoese.” Suggesting that the overt valuation of these stones would imperil them, Wiegand discourages the engineers from thinking artfully: their drawings should be “more accurate than beautiful.”6 The binary of accuracy and beauty that Wiegand portends is rife with symbolism. Applied to the Ottoman empire, it reveals how that land loomed large in the German cultural psyche as both a place of great beauty but also one stymied by considerable despotism. With regard to methods of recording spatiotemporal relationships, Wiegand alerts the engineers to the cylindrical distance markers of antique roads and articial burial mounds, outlining how to draw, photograph, and describe them. Wiegand formulates the dierence between a sculpture, an inscription, and Kleinkunst (small art), and alerts the engineers that even sites in use—hans, mosques, bazaars, Byzantine churches—are still not properly understood and would benet from documentation.7 Finally, Wiegand concludes his text with a statement that is both cautionary and hopeful: “The fact that we recommend that workers take part in the care and treatment of ancient remains that appear or are touched through their work is for self-evident reasons: already, acts of barbarism have occurred where valuable ancient ruins have been at least partially destroyed for the construction of railway buildings. Regarding the Baghdad Railway, it is possible to give back to the widest circles of the educated if you, engineers, will show how such a large company, without prejudice, can provide signicant services to the truest purpose of science.”8 Wiegand’s pamphlet—and the counter-position of German science with the picturesque experience of Ottoman lands, premised on the scientic

divisions of geography, topography, and archaeology— echo the structure of this book as a cumulative synthesis of forms of knowledge and forms of objects. The sudden switch of titles from laborer to soldier ascribed to the men building the Ottoman Railway network at the outset of World War I demonstrates the scope of the ambition behind Wiegand’s pamphlet. They, like the engineers, had their roles rendered ambiguous, their function as builders subsumed to the function of war. This was a dramatic shift, but it was also Ottoman in nature, reecting as it did the long-standing conation of engineering and the military in Ottoman culture. As we have seen, the railway network was the pride of the Ottoman empire’s modernizing impulses, despite being predominantly engineered by Germans. While it employed local builders and craftsmen and advanced Ottoman goals of imperial consolidation and modernization, it also accelerated German inuence in the region. That inuence baed the rest of Europe because of its contrast with the naked models of domination by Britain and France. It was, in fact, an entirely coaxial relationship, benetting both the Germans and the Ottomans in its own ways. As this book demonstrates, Ottomans savored their new infrastructure, which enhanced the economy (although too little, too late) as well as mobility. We have also seen how the characteristic ambiguity of the German-Ottoman relationship furnished subtle opportunities for some of the Ottoman empire’s least enfranchised subjects to be heard and seen. These subjects, such as day laborers, typically came from the surrounding countryside after hearing of the great nancial investments in the railways, investments negotiated far away in the boardrooms of Frankfurt. When the anonymous builders of the railway station at Carchemish, for example, saw the German blueprints for the station’s design, they exploited the openings aorded by the details the blueprints left out (g. 9.1). While we rarely know their names, we certainly see their presence in the ablaq of its doorways and in the carving of window frames. We can sense their desire to transform a prototypical German building into something that was at least in part their own. Railway infrastructure was a grand state project that seemed to be about anything but the individual, but in the process of its construction it oered the voiceless the opportunity to become identiable. In a time before remote sensing and satellite imagery, an engineer such as Wilhelm von Pressel measured the

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FIG. 9.1  Max von Oppenheim (attributed), Views of Carchemish station under construction, 1915. Universität zu Köln.

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earth on the ground. He could not see the earth from above, nor could he foresee the negotiation of norms and decorum that his work for Ottoman ocials would require in order to become culturally, not just scientically, successful. Likewise, an architect such as Hellmuth Cuno, based in Frankfurt and drawing a prefabricated plan for a railway station in Syria, could not anticipate the precise conditions or availability of materials at these faraway sites. Workers, practically voiceless as they may be in the archival record, proved unequivocally crucial in transforming plans on paper, with all of their gaps of knowledge and detail, into habitable structures that played host to a new and ineable social and cultural landscape. When Ottoman laborers at these remote sites tinkered with and adjusted the German plans in response to their own conditions and through their own artistic idioms, when they built railway monuments and railway cities in their own responsive images, they were naturalizing European technology and stretching the circumscribed power they had to be heard, or seen, as far as they possibly could. The description of how a map, a building, or a monument is inected by its multiple layers of authorship and the deep ambiguity of its German-Ottoman context is as much an attempt to show the specic contours of this particular story as it is an eort to reconstitute a model for authorship globally. To have an authorial voice is an issue of belonging. We recall, for example, how Ottomans granted a German engineer by the name of Heinrich August Meißner the elite honoric of “Pasha” for his work on the Hejaz Railway. In the same diplomatic spirit, railway administrators discussed a proposal of provisional Ottoman citizenship for foreign nationals working on the railway. The aim of this proposal was to avoid the bureaucratic and legal obstacles that came with a multinational labor force. This was even more apparent in areas along the railway that were o-limits to non-Muslims, where German and Christian engineers who provided critical expertise adopted Islamic pseudonyms so they could work, as authors, without fear of being evicted from the country. Personal identities, like maps, administrative structures, and buildings, also proved mutable and ambiguous. As we continue to see, Germany’s connection to the Near East is profound but it is also entirely literal: a chain of buildings, ballast, gauges, and human identities linking Berlin and Baghdad and all points in between. This chain both constructs and represents an instructive unity that exists

outside of the norms of certitude that imperialism and colonialism rely on. I must stress that my eort in this book to explore ambiguity as a unifying concept is not an attempt to refute the notions of syncretism that tend to characterize the discussion of colonial settings. I see here a historical world where the unity of experience represented by ambiguity is no more nor less plausible than the phenomena of hybridization or translation, just two of several phenomena that have gured in other works dealing with imperial, colonial, and transnational contexts.9 This story could equally be one about the continuing and simultaneous narrative of power and symbolism that marks the logics of infrastructure writ large. Yet it is also important to remember that such dialectics arise from technological conditions in equal measure to cultural ones. Karl Marx made the case that the “revolutionary rupture” that was the invention of the railway lay in its unique historical position as the rst annihilator of both time and space, a thesis Sigfried Giedion adopted for the entirety of his career studying the built environment.10 In a unique interpretation of Marx, Wolfgang Schivelbusch has converted the dialectical condition of destroyed time and space into a condition of unied ambiguity, noting that “annihilation of time and space was the topos which the early nineteenth century used to describe the new situation into which the railroad placed natural space after depriving it of its hitherto absolute powers.”11 Here, the topos marks the site of a generative condition. Fraught yet unied, this condition is one where “motion was no longer dependent on the conditions of natural space, but on mechanical power that created its own spatiality.”12 This new dynamic condition of ambiguity in modern life is also not, as Sibel Zandi-Sayek characterizes her own study of the particular condition of Izmir, one where neither the cultural or the technological processes at play, nor a “direct causality between them,” can “satisfactorily account for . . . dynamic changes.”13 The mapping of networks and vectors is indeed at the core of much recent scholarship.14 Is it time to strive for an artistic concept that unies rather than diuses? Scholarship focused on networks has done much to reveal the particular complexities of the condition of this place and time, spanning themes from nested Orientalisms to the supposed center-periphery struggle, both issues this book has taken up vis-à-vis its objects. While the privileging of networks and vectors implicitly rejects the binarisms associated with Orientalism, it does

Conclusion

155

not aord the emancipatory advantages that come from the unifying concept of ambiguity at the center of this book. While the scholarly landscape of Germany’s (and the German empire’s) engagement with the world is growing, networks and vectors appear to be less of a concern in this arena than the monolithic theme of identity construction, which I see, at least in part, as a result of the backward ripple eect of World War II historiography.15 Even when railways do factor into German historiography beyond their function in the Holocaust, they are considered as part of a push-and-pull story of national consolidation, as with the “centrifugal forces” that “threatened to tear apart the Weimar Republic.”16 But what of centripetal forces? How do we understand massive, ambitious projects that echo historical ambitions such as the Saudi Arabian government’s prolongation of the Hejaz Railway route from Medina to Mecca, whose stations are built by global actors such as Sir Norman Foster and BuroHappold, or Israel’s tendentious use of a part of the Jezreel Valley railway corridor?17 Global and international history has done much to advance concepts of centripetal force, and it is probably clear by now that this book is sympathetic to those larger projects and their conceptual objectives.18 These domains have convened important conversations about the syncretic nature of form, particularly in art and architecture. Here, however, I have attempted to be wary of the potentially romantic notions of equivocality to which the distance of both time and space lend themselves. It has certainly been easier to shed at least some of that mantle by virtue of the fact that so few of the objects surveyed in this book are known or published and so few of the architects or engineers are famous. That so much of this material lands in the margins is, if anything, a testament to its intractability. I have resisted polemics in this book, but I will say this: it is high time to turn our attention to the intractable objects of our built world. Their place on the grayscale spectrum is precisely why they need to be positioned in the historical record.

156

Conclusion

The unied character of ambiguity highlighted in this book is one that relies on a division of agency for its construction. As Simone de Beauvoir reminds us, existentialism, the philosophical theory that emphasizes the existence of individuals as free and responsible agents determining their own development through acts of their own volition, dened itself from the very beginning as a philosophy of ambiguity.19 While I am cognizant of the philosophical condition of ambiguity and the dialectical apparatuses that support it, my main interest here is to locate ambiguity—and the free and responsible agent with his or her volition—in the world of objects, like the images and buildings I have brought forth in this book. There very well may be such a thing as an ambiguous object, but it is also then, ipso facto, an object of philosophy—and thus we would need to be ostensibly more concerned with its meaning than its author or historical condition. What I have done, in my eort to carry the value of ambiguity as a unied concept into the world of objects, is, rst, to forge a shift in thinking: a shift to thinking of ambiguity no longer as a noun but rather as a verb, a process. Our final cue, Wiegand’s pamphlet, not only beckons for the ambiguation of objects, but also for the ambiguation of human roles, as in constructing knowledge through infrastructure (Part I) and constructing infrastructure through knowledge (Part II). My nal act of conveyance is siting that shift in a specic historical and geographical terrain, the German construction of the Ottoman railway network. The infrastructural objects are many and their sequence here outlines an order of iteration as much as it does an order of magnitude: edicts, political cartoons, concessions, travel books, photographs, albums, maps, blueprints, policy documents, ruins, monuments, buildings, and entire cities. I leave it to the readers of this book to determine whether ambiguity is a concept that is operable when facts and forms preclude an absolute notion of authorship. It is both my hope and my inclination to believe that it is.

Notes

INTRODUCTION 1. Hobsbawm, Age of Empire. 2. There is a growing amount of literature on the origins of geopolitics that highlights the importance of Ratzel. See Ó’Tuathail, Critical Geopolitics; and Dalby, Rethinking Geopolitics. 3. Ratzel, “Der Staat als Organismus.” 4. See Brenna et al., Routes, Roads and Landscapes, 1–9. 5. See, for example, Habermas, “Struggles for Recognition.” 6. Said, Orientalism, 24. 7. Marx, Eastern Question, 22. 8. Marchand, German Orientalism, 1. 9. Ibid., 495–99. 10. Çelik, Empire, Architecture, City, 247. 11. Ibid., esp. 246–74. 12. Ibid., 5, 16–17. 13. I borrow the term “metonym for modernity” from Aguiar, Tracking Modernity. 14. Weeks, Russia’s Life-Saver, 69. 15. Ibid., 70. 16. The parallels between the Westernization of the Ottoman empire and that of Japan also included a healthy amount of anti-Western sentiment. See Aydin, Politics of Anti-Westernism. 17. See Free, Early Japanese Railways. 18. The Indian railways provide the most signicant examples. See Aguiar, Tracking Modernity; Chopra, Joint Enterprise; Mukhopadhyay, “Wheels of Change?” See also Burke, American Steam. 19. See Duncan, “British Railways.” 20. James-Chakraborty, “Beyond Postcolonialism,” 3. 21. Chattopadhyay, Unlearning the City; Akcan, Architecture in Translation. 22. De Beauvoir, Ethics of Ambiguity, 13. 23. See the discussion of the interchangeability

of metaphors and epithets in Empson, Seven Types of Ambiguity, 3. 24. See, for example, Osayimwese, “Demystifying Colonial Settlement,” 124–47. A more general account of German colonialism is documented in Conrad, German Colonialism. 25. While there is a good body of literature on German Orientalism in general, very little specically studies architecture. The main point of entry to date is Koppelkamm, Der Imaginäre Orient. 2 6. Hodgson, Venture of Islam, 3:177. 2 7. Ibid. 2 8. Ibid., 182–83. 2 9. Ibid., 201. 30. Peters, “Attitudes towards Modernisation,” 94. 31. Pacey, Technology in World Civilization, 165.

8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

15. 16. 17.

18. 19. 20.

CHAPTER 1. POLITICS Epigraph: Quotation cited in Grunwald, Türkenhirsch, 31. 1. von Moltke and Örs, Türkiye Mektupları. 2. See Çırakman, “Terror of the World.” 3. Hodgson, Venture of Islam, 3:231–32; Finkel, Osman’s Dream, 447–87. 4. I borrow the concept of being “West despite the West” from the slogan of the women’s rights movement in the Ottoman empire in the 1910s, popularized by the women’s journal Kadın Dünyası. Kieser, Quest for Belonging, 38. 5. As cited by Lalor, Cyclopaedia of Political Science, 499. See also List, Das deutsche National-Transport-System, and Das nationale System. 6. Bailey, “Wider Horizons.” 7. Müller and Schultz, National Borders and Economic Disintegration in Modern East Central Europe (Berlin: A Spitz, 2002), 94–95.

21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

27. 28.

29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

Chesney, Euphrates Valley Railway, 1. Ibid., 5. Ibid. Ibid., 6. See Engin, Rumeli Demiryolları; and Bilmez, “European Investments.” Finkel, Osman’s Dream, 527. For a discussion of the development of Tanzimat reforms within the context of the Treaty of Paris and the Concert of Europe, see Hanioğlu, Late Ottoman Empire, 72–108. NA FO 881/3639. See Gallant, Experiencing Dominion. Zimpel, Das Eisenbahnbauwesen. Zimpel’s work on Palestine was published in Zimpel, Straßen-Verbindung. Zimpel, Das Eisenbahnbauwesen, 17–20. Grunwald, Türkenhirsch, 31–32. Institut für Neuzeit- und Zeitgeschichtsforschung, Österreichisches biographisches Lexikon, 8:268. Grunwald, Türkenhirsch, 28–29. Özyüksel, Osmanlı-Alman İlişkilerinin, 13. Ibid., 13–17. Dodge, Inventing Iraq, 43–62. Zahm, Berlin to Bagdad, 152. Özyüksel, Osmanlı-Alman İlişkilerinin, 13–16; McMurray, Distant Ties, 18. See also DM NL 13II/24. Buttereld, “Diplomacy of Baghdad Railway,” 33. Colonel John Cox Gawler to Otto von Bismarck, London, 3 June 1876, in Ba R901/15067, 13b. Finkel, Osman’s Dream, 483. Yücel, Yıldız Sarayı. Nezir-Akmeşe, Birth of Modern Turkey, 22–23. Conrad, German Colonialism, 36–65. McMurray, Distant Ties, 21.

157

34. Wilhelm von Pressel, “Das Anatolische Eisenbahnnetz,” undated essay, 2. Document is located in DM NL13/41. 35. Manzenreiter, Die Bagdadbahn als Beispiel, 47. Ottoman ocials registered Pressel’s rather extreme disappointment as well. See BOA Y.PRK.TNF 1 62. 36. McMurray, Distant Ties, 22. 37. Tevk Pasha to Alfred Kaulla, Berlin, 26 April 1888, in Ba 8119f/8106, 336. 38. McMurray, Distant Ties, 20. 39. Ibid., 23. 40. Earle, Turkey, Great Powers, Baghdad Railway, 41. Cited also by McMurray, Distant Ties, 22. 41. Ba 8119f/8106. 42. Ba 8119f/8107. 43. Travis, On Chariots, 27. 44. Ibid., 45. 45. McMurray, Distant Ties, 93. 46. “The German Emperor’s Visit to Constantinople,” Levant Herald and Eastern Express, November 9, 1889, in GSPK BPH Rep. 53 F IIId Nr. 2A. 47. Goltz, Denkwürdigkeiten, 133, cited by McMurray, Distant Ties, 21. 48. See, for example, Ongley, Ottoman Land Code; Ludwig von Hirschfeld, “Ueber das Grundeigenthum in der Türkei,” Mainzer Allgemeine Zeitung, December 25, 1892, in Ba R901/30181. 49. Gross, “Die Deutsche Palästina-Bank.” 50. Kushner, “Haifa Damascus Railway,” 193; Nicholson, Hejaz Railway, 50. 51. Bein, “Istanbul Earthquake.” 52. Özyüksel, Osmanlı-Alman İlişkilerinin, 101–22. 53. Sievers, Der europäische Einuß, 33. 54. “Mahmoud Pacha and the Sultan,” The Standard, January 23, 1900, in AA R14.131. 55. “German Anatolia: Conquest by Railway,” Pall Mall Gazette, October 18, 1898, in AA R13.456. 56. AA R13.457, 47. 57. Pohl, Von Stambul nach Bagdad, 101. 58. As quoted and translated in Çelik, Empire, Architecture, City, 29. 59. NA FO 406/26, 31. 60. Ibid., 60. 61. Nicholson, Hejaz Railway, 12. 62. NA FO 78/5452, 123. 63. Ochsenwald, Hijaz Railroad, 67–70. 64. Ibid., 26. 65. Herbert Pönicke, “Meißner, Heinrich August,” in Neue Deutsche Biographie (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1990), 16:699–700. 66. “Im Namen Allahs,” Der Spiegel, December 9, 1964. 67. NA FO 78/5452, 40.

158

Notes to Pages 15–29

68. The Molla Nәsrәddin publications have been compiled as an exhibition catalogue: Slavs and Tatars, Molla Nasreddin. 69. Ba R8119f/8113, 2–12. 70. According to McMurray (Distant Ties, 50n30), in 1903, when the agreement was reached, 2 Turkish lira = 18.54 marks = 22.73 francs. 71. McMurray, Distant Ties, 52. 72. Schlagintweit, “Verkehrswege und Verkehrsprojekte,” 17. 73. Admiral Evan MacGregor to India Oce, 11 July 1906, in NA FO 881/9055X, 10. 74. Memorandum by Adam Block to the Foreign Oce, undated, c. 1907, NA FO 881/9437, 31. 75. Consul-General Francis Oppenheimer to Sir F. Lascelles, Frankurt am Main, 12 March 1907, in NA FO 406/31, 48. 76. Ibid. 77. David Fraser, “Report on Journey between Constantinople and Eregli Made in November 1907,” in NA FO 406/33, 12. 78. Incidentally, Mustafa Kemal had been appointed inspector of the eastern Rumelian railways in June of 1908, while coming to inuence in the CUP ranks. 79. Ochsenwald, Hijaz Railroad, 103. 80. BOA DH.ŞFR 52 130. 81. The strike is mentioned in Beinin, Workers and Peasants, 78. 82. GSPK 4508. 83. Ibid. 84. Interpolated from Paul Bairoch, “Europe’s Gross National Product: 1800–1975,” Journal of European Economic History 5 (1994): 281, table 4, and 295, table 10. 85. Plenske, Aufruf. Deutsche Männer! 1, 6, 14. This document is located in Ba R901/6667. The recruitment eort was most successful among readers from the state of Württemberg, who settled in small colonies outside of cities and adjacent to the railways. 86. D. Fraser, Short Cut, 296. 87. Ibid., 224–27. 88. Adıvar, “Young Turks.” This is also located in AA Orientalia Generalia R14560–2/Bd, 7. 89. Ba R901/6688, 183. 90. McMurray, Distant Ties, 115. 91. McMeekin, Berlin–Baghdad Express, 123–37. 92. Ibid., 123. Pamphlet submitted to Morgenthau by J. B. Jackson from Aleppo, 8 April 1915, in NA M 353, Roll 6. 93. AA R14.162. 94. McMeekin, Berlin–Baghdad Express, 123–37. 95. Ibid., 125. 96. McMurray, Distant Ties, 116. 97. Ibid., 121. 98. Ibid., 138.

CHAPTER 2. GEOGRAPHY Epigraph: Kannenberg, Kleinasiens Naturschätze, ix: “Die Türken sind die Deutschen des Orients, wie die Griechen die Franzosen des Orients.” 1. Rupke, Alexander von Humboldt, 58. 2. Buttmann, Friedrich Ratzel. 3. See, for example, Blouet, Geopolitics and Globalization, 28–29; Ó’Tuathail, Critical Geopolitics, 28–29. 4. Ratzel, Die Vereinigten Staaten. 5. Theiner, “‘Mitteleuropa.’” 6. Naumann, Vom Goldenen Horn, 438. 7. Smith, Politics and Sciences of Culture, 140–61. 8. Marchand, German Orientalism, 228. 9. Smith, Politics and Sciences of Culture, 140– 61. See also GoGwilt, Fiction of Geopolitics, 22–23. 10. Conrad, German Colonialism, 3–4. John Phillip Short has described German colonialism, writ large, as an ideology consonant with the construction of a body of knowledge. See Short, Magic Lantern Empire, 2–3. Short also notes how the visual phenomenon of the panorama, including the one of the German colonies at the German Colonial Exposition in Berlin in 1884, was eclipsed by the visual experience of the railway. 11. Ratzel and Buschick, Deutschland, 314. See also Marchand, Down from Olympus, 172. 12. Hehn, Low Dishonest Decade, 118–34. 13. Blackbourn, Conquest of Nature, 157–61. 14. Bodungen, Ueber Moorwirtschaft und Fehncolonien. 15. Karl Weule to Max von Oppenheim, Leipzig, 30 September 1910, in SOHa Oppenheim Nachlass MvO Nr. 21, 40. 16. See, for example, Deeken, Die Auswanderung; Krüger, Die deutschen Kolonien; Leutz, Die Kolonien Deutschlands; Sander and Hellgrewe, Die deutschen Kolonien; Volz, Unsere Kolonien. 17. Torge, Geodäsie. 18. Ongley, Ottoman Land Code, 1. 19. Ibid., 6. 20. Ba R901/31731 enumerates who lived in these colonies. 21. See Grothe, Die Bagdadbahn. 22. Grothe, Meine Vorderasienexpedition, 40. This translation is McMurray’s in Distant Ties, 60. 23. Grothe, Meine Vorderasienexpedition, 40. 24. Süreyya Sırma, “Sultan II.” 25. India Oce to Foreign Oce, 5 March 1906, in NA FO 406/30. 26. Ibid. 27. For examples of this concept, see Nacy, Social History, 75; Roberts, Intimate Outsiders. 28. Fraser, Short Cut, 19.

29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

34.

35. 3 6. 37.

38. 3 9. 40. 41.

42.

43. 44.

45. 46. 47.

48.

49.

Banse, Auf den Spuren; Rohrbach, Die Bagdadbahn. Kannenberg, Kleinasiens Naturschätze. Ibid., ix. Ibid. This is McC.’s translation. See McC., “Naturschätze,” 460–61. Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie, vol. 22, Bosnien und Hercegovina. Relevant pages include: 18, 20, 36, 39–41, 43–46, 76–78, 82, 97–98, 102, 104, 108–10, 112, 120–22, 124–27, 129–30, 137, 152, 200, 231, 268, 296, 426, 428, 430, 436, 452, 472–74, 476, 484, 486–87, 496, 499–500, 502, 504–6, 508, 574. Krinsky, Synagogues of Europe; Koppelkamm, Der Imaginäre Orient. On Moorish Revival architecture, see Kalmar, “Moorish Style.” Die österreichisch-ungarische Monarchie, vol. 1, Wien und Niederösterreich, 295. Rampley, “Art History.” See “Seyahatnâme,” in Türk Dili ve Edebiyatı Ansiklopedisi, Devirler, İsimler, Eserler, Terimler (Istanbul: Dergah, 1990), 7:550. Herzog and Motika, “Orientalism Alla Turca,” 140–41. As cited in ibid., 147. Ibid., 173. “Osmanlı Demiryol Hattında Haydarpaşa’dan Konya’ya bir Cevelan: Azimet ve Avdet 1498 Kilometre,” Servet-i Fünun 292–96 (3 Teşrinievvel–31 Teşrinievvel, 1312 [October 15–November 12, 1896]). “Osmanlı Demiryol Hattında Haydar Paşa’dan Konya’ya Bir Gezinti ‘Gidiş ve Dönüş: 1498 Kilometre,’” Servet-i Fünun 293 (10 Teşrinievvel, 1312 [October 22, 1896]). Servet-i Fünun 292 (3 Teşrinievvel, 1312 [October 15, 1896]). “Osmanlı Demiryol Hattında Haydar Paşa’dan Konya’ya Bir Gezinti ‘Gidiş ve Dönüş: 1498 Kilometre,’” Servet-i Fünun 293 (10 Teşrinievvel, 1312 [October 22, 1896]). Ibid. “Hamidiye Hicaz Demiryolu,” Servet-i Fünun 678 (8 Nisan 1320 [April 21, 1904]). LOC Lot 11915. “Abdul Hamid II Collection,” Library of Congress, Washington, D.C., http://www.loc.gov/pictures/collection/ ahii/(accessed November 6, 2013). These are not to be confused with the even larger collection of photos known as the Yıldız Albums. Mary Roberts, “The Limits of Circumscription,” in Behdad and Gartlan, Photography’s Orientalism, 53. BOA, Irade Hususi 878/123, 17 Muharrem 1310/12 [August 1892], Yıldız Palace Imperial Secretariat no. 678, as quoted in Deringil, Well Protected Domains, 156; and in Roberts,

“Limits of Circumscription,” 53. 50. DBHI. This is the sole known edition and is stored as a special holding: Anatolische Eisenbahn-Gesellschaft, Bilder von der Anatolischen Bahn: Den Freunden und Gästen des Unternehmens gewidmet, Privatdruck, ca. 1908. See also Christensen, “Theodor Rocholl.” 51. Roberts details these interactions in Istanbul Exchanges, esp. 1–4. 52. Ibid. The sketches produced by the sultan were published in several venues: Brassey, Sunshine and Storm, 11; Treter, “Rysunki Sułtana Abdul-Azisa”; Sami, “Selatinde İncizab-ı Tersim.” 53. Roberts, Istanbul Exchanges, 137–50. Other sources on Zonaro include Damiani, Ferraza, and Şerifoğlu, Zonaro; Gürçağlar, “Padualı Bir Ressam Gözüyle”; Öndeş and Makzume, Fausto; Thalasso, “Peintre de S.M.I. le Sultan.” 54. Rocholl, Ein Malerleben, 139. 55. Ibid., 128. 56. Ibid. 57. Ibid., 140. 58. Ibid. 59. Ibid. 60. Ibid. 61. Ibid., 106. This is believed to be the same painting as the one identied by its custodian, the Stadtmuseum Hofgeismar, as Gebet der Brigade Nuri am Grab der Gefallenen von Domocos. Helmut Burmeister, e-mail message to author, July 14, 2014. 62. Clark, Painting of Modern Life, 78. 63. BOA Y..PRK.HR 29 86. 64. Y..PRK.EŞA 44 33. I have not located either of these albums. 65. Heigl, Schotter für die Wüste, 101–9. 66. Bka Staudinger-Sammlung. Some biographical notes appear in Deutsche Nationalbibliothek, http://d-nb.info/ gnd/117223425/about/html (accessed February 23, 2014). A compilation of the younger Staudinger’s work is held at the Frick Collection in New York, OCLC #855212871.

CHAPTER 3. TOPOGRAPHY 1. Martykánová, Reconstructing Ottoman Engineers, 64. 2. Karl Weule, “Zur Kartographie der Ostafrikaner” pt. 1 and 2, from Petermanns geographische Mitteilungen 61, no. 22 (1915). SPG Geogr 4° 00022/01 (61). 3. Mitchell, Rule of Experts, 9. 4. Wilhelm von Pressel to Mahmoud Pasha, Constantinople, 10 December 1875, in DM NL 13II/24. 5. Wilhelm von Pressel, “Situation in der

6.

7.

8.

9.

10. 11. 12. 13.

14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

19.

20.

21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

28.

Türkei, 1876: Charakteristiken und Aphorismen” (unpublished manuscript), DM NL 13II/24. Comic strips provide a valuable heuristic for narrative imagery, and I am indebted to David Roxburgh for my thinking in this regard. See Roxburgh, “Micrographia.” For an excellent portrait of Baghdad ca. 1872, including many projects that were being developed on the ground (trams, etc.), see Black, Banking on Baghdad, esp. 71–112. See Lignes de Syrie, DM NL 13II/24. I suspect that the maps were produced signicantly earlier than the publication of the report; hence the earlier dating. Černik, Technische Studien-Expedition, in SPG Geogr 4° 0021/01 (10, 44). The volume is, in fact, bestowed (zugeeignet) to Pressel, who is thanked in the foreword. Ibid., vii–viii. Ibid., 1. Ibid., 27. For a discussion of the theme of autonomy in Palestine, see Kushner, “Ottoman Governors.” See Moscrop, Measuring Jerusalem. Quoted in Lipman, “Origins of Palestine Exploration Fund,” 45. Wilson, Recovery of Jerusalem. See also Janin, Four Paths, 172–73. Palestine Exploration Fund, Quarterly Statement (January 1878), 6, 12. A succinct biography of Schumacher has been compiled by the Palestine Exploration Fund; see Palestine Exploration Fund, “Gottlieb Schumacher.” See Kark, American Consuls, 122. For an excellent account of Schumacher’s role in the planning of Acre, see Waterman, “PreIsraeli Planning.” Schumacher, Abila, Pella Northern ’Ajlûn; Schumacher, Across the Jordan, and Survey of Jaulân. Letters are held at the PEF. See PEF DA SCHUM 1–110.05 (letters and sheet). Gottlieb Schumacher to George Armstrong, Haifa, 9 August 1889, in PEF DA SCHUM. See Goldman, Zeal for Zion, 63–70. See Egger, Oliphant, and Schumacher, Eisenbahnprojekt für Syrien-Palästina. Gottlieb Schumacher to George Armstrong, Haifa, 23 October 1889, in PEF DA SCHUM. Ibid. Sir Charles Wilson to Besant, Southampton, England, 5 December 1889, in PEF DA SCHUM. The history and events of the Deutscher Palästina-Verein are documented in its own publication, the Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins. See specically Gottlieb

Notes to Pages 29–62

159

29. 30.

31.

32. 33.

34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

41.

4 2.

43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

Schumacher to Palestine Exploration Fund, Haifa, 10 January 1890, I PEF DA SCHUM. See Laurence, Haifa, 78–83. “Memorandum of an Interview between the Palestine Exploration Fund Representatives and Mssrs. Phillips and Pilling,” London, July 1893, in PEF DA SCHUM. Gottlieb Schumacher to Dr. Thomas Chaplin, Haifa, 8 May 1896, in PEF DA SCHUM. Such platitudes appear throughout the les in PEF DA SCHUM. Gabriel Bie Ravndal, “Railways in Syria,” report, Beirut, December 28, 1903, Ba R901/15069, 118–20. Regarding Nazareth, see Rabinowitz, Overlooking Nazareth, esp. 3–23. McMurray, Distant Ties, 43. See Ba 8119F/8113. Ibid. Ibid. McMurray, Distant Ties, 45–46. Ba 8119F/8113. Vice Consul Doughty Wylie to Mr. G. Barclay, Konya, 1 July 1908, in NA FO 406/33, 79. The Stemrich Expedition’s role in petroleum speculation and the British suspicion around it are mentioned in Petroleum Review, “Petroleum Fields of Mesopotamia.” See also Eichholtz, Die Bagdadbahn. Auler (“Pasha”), “Die Hedschasbahn, Teil 1,” in SPG/Universität Erfurt Signatur SPA 4º 000099; Auler (“Pasha”), “Die Hedschasbahn, Teil 2,” in SPG/Universität Erfurt Signatur 4º 000099. The Orientalist Martin Hartmann also mapped and described the route either close to or upon the railway’s completion. See Hartmann, “Die Mekkabahn.” Auler (“Pasha”), “Die Hedschasbahn, Teil 1,” iii–iv. Ibid., 2–3. Ibid., 7. Ibid., 10. Ibid., 9.

CHAPTER 4. ARCHAEOLOGY Epigraph: Gustav Jacoby, “Ausgrabungen in Sendschirli in Syrien,” Zentralblatt der Bauverwaltung 83 (1908): 553. “Wer das Land bereist, kommt an außerordentlich vielen Hügeln, arabisch ‘tell’ genannt, vorbei, und wenn er nicht gerade Trümmer von Bauwerken ndet, ahnt er meistens nicht, daß unter diesen grasbewachsenen Hügeln alte Kulturstätten begraben sind, unter Schutt und Erde. . . . So wuchsen Schicht auf Schicht die Hügel durch Jahrhunderte, wenn nicht gar Jahrtausende.” 1. See Marchand, Down from Olympus, 196–97.

160

Notes to Pages 62–77

2. Jahresberichte 107. ZSaM Nachlass Schmidt-Ott, A-XXXIX, vol. 1. See also Delitzsch, Ex Oriente Lux!; and Marchand, Down from Olympus, 197. 3. See Bilsel, Antiquity on Display; Payne, “Portable Ruins”; Troelenberg, Eine Ausstellung. 4. Shaw, Possessors and Possessed, 108. 5. Bahrani et al., Scramble for the Past, 311. 6. “Local News,” Levant Times and Shipping Gazette, March 22, 1869. See also Bahrani et al., Scramble for the Past, 311. 7. Eldem, “Blissful Indierence, Anguished Concern,” 316. 8. For more on Edwards, see Zandi-Sayek, Ottoman İzmir, 73, 190, 206n60, 225n7. 9. The author regrets not being able to engage the analysis of the dig at Ephesus that will appear in a forthcoming book by Zeynep Çelik: About Antiquities: Politics of Archaeology in the Ottoman Empire (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2016). 10. Eldem, “Blissful Indierence, Anguished Concern,” 315–17. 11. Wood, Discoveries at Ephesus. 12. BOA Meclis-i Mahsus İradeler 3401 (4 Rebülevvel 1301 [ January 2, 1884]), as cited by Shaw, Possessors and Possessed, 111. Coins were also cross-listed in the Ottoman land code as the only type of metals that could not be fairly claimed by the owner of a given parcel of land. See Ongley, Ottoman Land Code, 58. 13. Shaw, Possessors and Possessed, 112. 14. Ongley, Ottoman Land Code, 9–17. 15. Heimsoth, “Die Bagdadbahn und die Archäologie,” 355–56. 16. Körte and Körte, Gordion, vii. 17. See Orta Doğu Teknik Üniversitesi, Yassıhöyük. 18. Sams, Temizsoy, and Ministry of Culture of the Republic of Turkey, Gordion Museum, 13. 19. Friedrich Alfred Krupp to Gustav Körte, Baden-Baden, 1 October 1899, in HAK FAH 3 C 63, Konzept hs. (Sekretariat). 20. Körte and Körte, Gordion, viii. 21. The “Orient or Rome” debate begins with a polemical text by Josef Strzygowski, Orient oder Rom, published in 1901. 22. Körte, Anatolische Skizzen, 5. 23. NLa no. VIII, 3–10. 24. Wolfgang Ayaß, “Schrader, Karl Wilhelm Franz Gabriel,” in Neue Deutsche Biographie (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 2007), 23:505. 25. Zeynep Çelik has touched on photography as it relates to the Hejaz Railway, describing a concept of “mundane modernity” that Berggren had forecast. Zeynep Çelik, “Photographing Mundane Modernity,” in Çelik and Eldem, Camera Ottomana, 154– 205, esp. 155–68.

26. Frances Terpak and Peter Louis Bontto, “Transferring Antiquity to Ink: Ruins from the Americas to Asia Minor and the Development of Photolithography,” in Çelik and Eldem, Camera Ottomana, 21–65. 27. Zeynep Çelik and Edhem Eldem, introduction to Camera Ottomana, 11. See also Behdad and Gartlan, Photography’s Orientalism; Ayshe Erdogdu, “Picturing Alterity: Representational Strategies in Victorian Type Photographs of Ottoman Men,” in Hight and Sampson, Colonialist Photography, 107–25; Nancy Micklewright, “Orientalism and Photography,” in İnankur, Lewis, and Roberts, Poetics, 98–110; Roberts, Intimate Outsiders, 143–49; Shaw, “Ottoman Photography.” 28. Rogers, “Waqf Patronage.” 29. The art historian Friedrich Sarre would describe these elements in greater detail in Der Kiosk in 1936. 30. Konyalı, Âbideleri ve kitabeleri ile Konya tarihi. 31. SOHa Oppenheim Nachlass MvO no. 33, 40–41. 32. Oppenheim’s collected ndings on Tell Halaf were eventually published in Oppenheim, Der Tell Halaf. 33. Max von Oppenheim to Wilhelm von Bode, Tell Halaf via Aleppo, 24 February 1912, SOHa, Oppenheim Nachlass, MvO no. 229. Oppenheim eventually established a museum with the nds from Tell Halaf that was independent from the State Museums. 34. Max von Oppenheim to Talat Bey, Pera, 10 May 1916, BOA 64/45, 2–3. 35. BOA DH-İD 129 2. 36. Ibid. 37. See Enderlein, “Mshatta”; Enderlein and Meinecke, “Graben, Forschen, Präsentieren.” 38. Richard Schöne to Otto Puchstein, Berlin, 23 May 1902, in SMPK I/IM 006. 39. Richard Schöne to Gottlieb Schumacher, Berlin, 24 May 1902, in SMPK I/IM 006. 40. Gottlieb Schumacher to Richard Schöne, Haifa, 17 September 1902, in SMPK I/IM 006; Gottlieb Schumacher to Richard Schöne, Haifa, 25 September 1902, in SMPK I/IM 006. 41. Gottlieb Schumacher to Richard Schöne, Haifa, 6 March 1903, in SMPK I/IM 006. 42. Theodor Wiegand to the Kaiserliche Botschaft, Therapia, Constantinople, 17 September 1902, in SMPK I/IM 006. 43. I have seen ephemera indicating that the painting was a gift, but this does not appear to be correct. There is, alternatively, the case of the University of Pennsylvania, which purchased several paintings by

44.

45.

46. 47.

48. 4 9. 50.

51.

52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 6 0. 61.

Hamdi so as to grease the wheels of their excavations in Anatolia. Gottlieb Schumacher to Richard Schöne, Tell el Mutesellim (Tell Megiddo), 17 May 1903, in SMPK I/IM 006; Dr. Gröte to Richard Schöne, Göttingen, 27 May 1903, in SMPK I/IM 006. Theodor Wiegand to Richard Schöne, Constantinople, 30 May 1903, in SMPK I/ IM 006. Gottlieb Schumacher to Richard Schöne, Haifa, 15 June 1903, in SMPK I/IM 006. Hans Freiherr von Wangenheim to the Generalverwaltung der Königlichen Museen Berlin, Therapia, 17 June 1903, in SMPK I/IM 006. Grabar, “Date and Meaning.” See also Enderlein, “Mshatta.” Tristram, “Act of Vandalism.” Layard, Nineveh and Its Remains; Loftus, Travels and Researches; Rawlinson, Notes on Babylonia; Smith, Assyrian Discoveries; Rassam, Asshur. L. S. Newmarch to Nicholas O’Conor, Baghdad, 10 March 1906, in NA FO 406/30, 12. Gertrude Bell Diaries, 15 April 1909, NUSC. Ibid., 23 April 1909. Ibid. Ibid., 19 and 20 May 1911. Ibid. Ibid., 26 March 1914. Ibid., 28 March 1914. Gertrude Bell to her father, 10 March 1917, in Gertrude Bell Letters, NUSC. BOA MF.MKT 180 2, BOA MF.MKT 179 132. Dernburg, Auf deutscher Bahn, 188.

CHAPTER 5. CONSTRUCTION Epigraph: Cited in McMurray, Distant Ties, 13. 1. Martykánova, Reconstructing Ottoman Engineers. 2. Ibid., 26. 3. Ibid., 20. 4. Ibid., 48–49. See also Uluçay, Yüksek mühendis Okulu. 5. Martykánova, Reconstructing Ottoman Engineers, 65, 79, 99. See also Kaçar, “Osmanlı Develti’nde Bilim ve Eğitim.” Kemalettin Bey, the architect, and Mehmed Rek had studied in Germany and Switzerland, respectively, and promoted German models at the Civil Engineering School, where they taught. 6. Martykánova, Reconstructing Ottoman Engineers, 89. 7. Ibid., 100, 122. 8. Ibid., 56. 9. Nicholson, Hejaz Railway, 79. 10. Wilhelm von Pressel, “Situation in der

11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

25. 26.

27. 28.

29.

30. 31. 3 2. 33. 34.

35. 36. 37.

3 8. 39. 40.

Türkei, 1876: Charakteristiken und Aphorismen” (unpublished manuscript), DM NL 13II/026. See also Pressel, Les Chemins de Fer. Pressel, “Situation der Türkei,” 18–19. Ibid., 23–24. Pohl, Philipp Holzmann, 48–78. Civelli, Deutsche Schienen, 61. Vossische Zeitung, Morgenblatt, January 14, 1893, in DBHI Orientbüro, OR 505. Ibid. Civelli, Deutsche Schienen, 61. McMurray, Distant Ties, 86–87. Ibid., 54. Ibid. McMeekin, Berlin–Baghdad Express, 87. Fraser, Short Cut, 16–17. McMeekin, Berlin–Baghdad Express, 87. Gesellschaft für den Bau der Eisenbahnen in der Türkei, “Zweiter Bericht an die Generalversammlung der Aktionäre,” September 23, 1911, 80–82, Ba 7990 10. Ibid. Fraser, Short Cut, 16–17. On the issue of apprenticeship, see Martykánova, Reconstructing Ottoman Engineers, 73, 171. Ibid. Charles Marling to Edward Grey, Constantinople, 5 November 1909, in NA FO 406/24, 37. George Mounsey, “Notes on Journey from Eregli to Adana,” report submitted to Gerard Lowther, Pera, May 1910, in NA FO 406/35, 120–121. See also E. C. Donaldson Rawlins to Gerard Lowther, Adana, 8 April 1910, in NA FO 881/9729, 92. Mounsey, “Notes on Journey,” 120–21. Rawlins to Lowther, 8 April 1910, 92. McMurray, Distant Ties, 93. ISg W1/2 518. See, for example, BOA DH.İD 112–1; AA Konsulat Adana 17–20. Notice 23895 from the Département impériale des travaux publics, retransmitted by Hans von Wangenheim, Pera, 24 October 1912, in AA Konsulat Adana 19. For example, Gülsoy, Hicaz Demiryolu, 31–40; Ochsenwald, Hijaz Railroad, 6–14. Findley, “Ahmed Midhat Meets Madame Gülnar.” W. S. Richards to N. R. O’Conor, Damascus, 7 March 1904, in NA FO 195/2165; W. S. Richards to N. R. O’Conor, Damascus, 15 January 1903, in NA FO 78/5451; Ochsenwald, Hijaz Railroad, 30. Richards to O’Conor, 15 January 1903. Ochsenwald, Hijaz Railroad, 34. Thamarat al-Funun, January 18, 1902, 4; Thamarat al-Funun, July 14, 1906, 5; Tresse, Le pèlerinage syrien, 324; Hecker, “Die

41.

42. 43.

44.

45. 46.

47. 48. 49.

50. 51. 52.

53. 54. 55. 56.

57. 58. 59. 60.

61.

62.

Eisenbahnen”; Karl Auler “Pasha,” “Report,” 6, NA FO 371/156; F. Maunsell, “Report on the Hedjaz Railway, 1907,” 2, 36, NA FO 371/350; Ochsenwald, Hijaz Railroad, 36. Frederick Maunsell, “Report on Syrian Railways, 1905,” 9, NA FO 78/5451; Ochsenwald, Hijaz Railroad, 31. De Certeau, Practice of Everyday Life. Eleftériadės, Les Chemins de Fer, 169; Ochsenwald, Hijaz Railroad, 31; Thamarat alFunun, November 5, 1904, 4; Thamarat alFunun, June 24, 1904, 6. See also Martykánova, Reconstructing Ottoman Engineers, 152. Ochsenwald, Hijaz Railraod, 32; Thamarat alFunun, April 28, 1902, 4; Thamarat al-Funun, March 3, 1903, 3; Thamarat al-Funun, June 24, 1904, 6. Ochsenwald, Hijaz Railroad, 34. Ochsenwald, Hijaz Railroad, 33; Thamarat alFunun, February 18, 1903, 2; Thamarat alFunun, October 28, 1903, 4. Ibid. Ibid. W. S. Richards to W. E. de Bunsen, Damascus, 5 December 1900, in NA FO 78/5452, 43–44b. Ibid. W. S. Richards to N. R. O’Conor, Damascus, 8 February 1902, in NA FO 78/5452, 93–93b. W. S. Richards to N. R. O’Conor, Damascus, 23 March 1903, in NA FO 195/2144; J. Monahan to N. R. O’Conor, Haifa, 28 January 1904, in NA FO 195/2165; Guthe, Die Hedschasbahn, 16; Ochsenwald, Hijaz Railroad, 33. Nicholson, Hejaz Railway, 22. Thamarat al-Funun, October 6, 1902, 5; Ochsenwald, Hijaz Railroad, 34. Ochsenwald, Hijaz Railroad, 34. Richards to O’Conor, 8 February 1902; W. S. Richards to N. R. O’Conor, Damascus, 5 April 1902, in NA FO 195/2122; GoodrichFreer, In a Syrian Saddle, 73. BOA DH.MUİ 101 47. Ochsenwald, Hijaz Railroad, 36. Ibid. Thamarat al-Funun, December 17, 1900; Charles Gaillardot to Théophile Declassé, Haifa, 26 April 1903, MAE 320 Turquie, chemins de fer; Sir Robert Hay DrummondHay to N. R. O’Conor, 14 April 1903, in NA FO 195/2140. Ochsenwald, Hijaz Railroad, 41. Ochsenwald writes that Husayn Haydar Bey employed Europeans. Haydar Bey did not, however, draw the plans of Medina station. Thamarat al-Funun, April 3, 1904, 3; Thamarat al-Funun, September 10, 1902, 5; Thamarat al-Funun, June 27, 1904, 2–3.

Notes to Pages 77–89

161

63. “Conventions, &c., relating to the Bagdad [sic] Railway: 1903 to 1908,” NA FO 881/9803. Article VII. 64. Ibid. Article X. 65. Ibid. Article XXVII. 66. ISg W1/2 518. I refer here to the Cahier des Charges accompanying a work contract between Mavrogodato and a certain “Jehany Bey Ismet Hacky,” signed in Ereğli on June 14, 1912. 67. Ibid., 6. 68. Ibid., 7. 69. “Société impériale ottomane du chemin de Fer de Bagdad [sic], cahier des charges,” NA FO 881/9803. 70. Ibid. 71. The author is currently at work on a freestanding digital humanities project entitled “Architectural Biometrics” that uses algorithmic comparisons of 3-D scans of serially produced buildings to isolate the variations local laborers made to platonic designs on paper. The pilot case study includes a comparison of the Canadian and Ottoman railways. The project has an evolving website at http://www.architecturalbiometrics.com. 72. “Société impériale ottomane du chemin de Fer de Bagdad [sic], cahier des charges,” NA FO 881/9803. 73. Ibid., 19. 74. Ibid. The document referred to is a template “Bauvertrag” between Holzmann and its subcontractors, which also included architects who were not on the sta. 75. Arthur F. Townshend to N. R. O’Conor, Adana, 23 March 1904, in NA FO 406/19, 80. 76. McMeekin, Berlin–Baghdad Express, 45. Regarding the specic geology of the Taurus Range, see Alsharhan and Nairn, Sedimentary Basins, esp. 55–57. 77. Townshend to O’Conor, 23 March 1904. 78. Ibid. 79. Throughout its gestation, the Baghdad Railway was witness to malaria, typhus, and dysentery, among other diseases. See McMurray, Distant Ties, 89–91. 80. Nicholson, Hejaz Railway, 24. See also British Medical Journal, “Cholera”; Bulmuş, Plague, Quarantine, Geopolitics, 160–74; Low, “Empire and the Hajj.” 81. Gülsoy, Hicaz Demiryolu, 126–40; Nicholson, Hejaz Railway, 35–36. 82. Nicholson, Hejaz Railway, 36–37. 83. E. C. Donaldson Rawlins to Harry Eyres, Adana, 27 April 1910, in NA FO 881/9729; Mounsey, “Notes on Journey,” 120–21. 84. Donaldson Rawlins to Eyres, 27 April 1910. 85. As evinced in society reports as well as numerous photographs. See, in particular, those published in Nicholson, Hejaz Railroad.

162

Notes to Pages 91–104

86. 87. 88. 89.

Ba R8119F/8302. Ibid. Ibid., 34. Ibid., 36. See also Omori, “Note on Seismic Stability.” 90. An album of the destruction, particularly of railways sites, was produced. See Milne and Burton, Great Earthquake.

CHAPTER 6. HOCHBAU 1. See Martykánova, Reconstructing Ottoman Engineers, 119. 2. Billington, Tower and Bridge, 84–86. 3. Baxandall, Patterns of Intention, esp. 12–40. 4. Martykánova, Reconstructing Ottoman Engineers, 25–27. 5. May, “Discovering Construction”; Saint, Architect and Engineer, 356–58. 6. Saint, Architect and Engineer, 356. 7. May, “Discovering Construction,” 1012–13. 8. On Bonatz in Turkey, see Akcan, Architecture in Translation, 235–45. 9. Çelik, Remaking of İstanbul, 107–9; Hayri Mutluçağ, “Boğaziçi köprüsü’nün,” 32–33. Çelik also illustrates how the American rm Strom, Lindman, Hilliker conceived of subways running through underwater tunnels as part of the schema to connect the shores of the Bosphorus. See Çelik, Remaking of Istanbul, 99. 10. Gül, Emergence of Modern Istanbul, 58–60. 11. There is no evidence to suggest that Arnodin would have been familiar with Jachmund’s work. The connection was likely drawn from the Orientalist aspects of the bridge’s design. See ibid., 62. There is an alternative and widely printed spelling of “Jachmund” as “Jasmund.” Neither is a common family name in German. I cannot say with certainty which spelling is correct, but I have stuck with “Jachmund” as it seems linguistically more probable. 12. Gül, Emergence of Modern Istanbul, 59. 13. M. S. Abdullah, “Die große Legende vom Tempelbau. Spuren der Freimauerei in der islamischen Tradition und Legende,” Eleusis 28 (1973): 319; Reinalter, Die Freimaurer. 14. See Lawrence, Perfect Ashlar. 15. See Klos, Die Freimaurerei. 16. Regarding ashlar in German stonemasonry, see Weston, Ashlar, 1:195–98. See also Prade, Ponts et Viaducs. 17. As summarized by Blair and Bloom, Grove Encyclopedia. 18. Engineering News Record, “Giaour Dere Viaduct”; Balamir, “Varda Köprüsü.” 19. I suspect that the engineer Johann Lorenz Winkler, as an experienced engineer also working on the Adana section, played a major role in the bridge’s construction as

20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

31.

32. 33. 34. 35. 36.

37.

38. 39. 40.

well. See Yavuz, “Eine vergleichende Studie,” 38, 118, 161. Engineering News Record, “Giaour Dere Viaduct.” Ibid. Çelik, Empire, Architecture, City, 31. Konishi, “Railways and Bridges,” 53. SOHa Nachlass Max von Oppenheim, nos. 50–51 (bd.1–2). Zentralblatt der Bauverwaltung, May 26, 1915, 274. Ibid. Ibid., 273. See Tupper, Great Ocean, 75. Heimsoth, “Die Bagdadbahn,” 364. Oppenheim also noted the potential for irrigation of the region in 1904, somewhat competitively. Von Oppenheim, “Zur Entwicklung des Bagdadbahngebietes,” also located in SOHa as a loose edition. Notably, Oppenheim compared the potential with what was achieved in the United States (146). To irrigate the Konya plain, the Anatolische Eisenbahngesellschaft, the Bagdadbahngesellschaft, and the Ottoman government established the Gesellschaft für die Bewässerung der Koniaebene in 1908. See DBHI Koniaebene, Braun, “Von der anatolischen Riviera”; Fitzau, “Geographische Neuigkeiten” (1908); Fitzau, “Geographische Neuigkeiten” (1911); Fitzau, “Geographische Neuigkeiten” (1913); Money, “Irrigation of Konia Plain”; Woods, “Baghdad Railway”; Pohl, Philipp Holzmann, 107–8. Pohl, Philipp Holzmann, 107–8. Ibid.; Fitzau, “Geographische Neuigkeiten” (1911). Frankfurter Zeitung, April 4, 1914. Board of Trade Journal, “Hedjaz Railway.” The Transjordan and the Hejaz span a surface of mostly Paleozoic rock, whereas Anatolia and Syria span a mix of MioPliocene and Paleocene rock. It is possible that the aqueduct is in dialogue with Sinan’s aqueduct at Mağlova (1555–62), outside of Istanbul, which has a similar twotiered structure and the same amount of bays. Meeks, Railroad Station, 1. Huber, Chaneling Mobilities, 313. For a discussion of some of the principles and parameters of Heimatstil, see CrettazStürzel, Heimatstil, which considers the specic but not dissimilar case in Switzerland. The re-creation of traditional Alpine houses for the 1873 International Exhibition in Vienna, in which the Ottoman empire participated, was very well received

41. 42. 43. 44.

45. 46. 47. 48. 49.

50.

51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58.

59.

60. 61. 62. 63. 64.

and represented a high point in the style’s popular critical reception. “Landhaus,” a term championed by the likes of Hermann Muthesius, is often deployed in conjunction with “Heimatstil.” See Walz, Die Eisenbahn. Tupper, Great Ocean, 139. See Rudor, Heimatschutz. Mebes, Um 1800. See also Denslagen, Romantic Modernism, 89–90; Philipp, Um 1800; Meyer, Paul Mebes. As quoted by John Maciuika in Before the Bauhaus, 91. Pohl, Philipp Holzmann, 67–74. Ibid., 54, 67. Barillari and Godoli, Istanbul 1900, 45. Yıldız Salman, “Sirkeci Garı,” in Dünden Bugüne İstanbul Ansiklopedisi (Istanbul: Kültür Bakanlığ ı ve Tarih Vakfı’nin ortak yayınıdır, 1994), 4:13. See also Yıldırim Yavuz and Suha Özkan, “The Final Years of the Ottoman Empire,” in Renata Holod and Ahmet Evin, eds., Modern Turkish Architecture, 36. The term “cristallisée” refers to the “fourth order” of columnar orders argued to be distinctly Ottoman by de Launay, Usūl-i Mi‘mārī-i ‘Osmānī. Ahmet Ersoy ­discusses the wide ramications of the Usūl in Late Ottoman Historical Imaginary. See a discussion of this in Saner, 19. Yüzyıl İstanbul, 154–58. See Koppelkamm, Der Imaginäre Orient. I borrow this characterization from Bremner, Imperial Gothic, 142–43. See Bookwalter, Siberia and Central Asia, 183–84. See Hubrich, Hermann Muthesius. Ibid., 103. Menz, Deutsche Arbeit, 57. The cost of the expansion of the Konya station and its environs between 1903 and 1917 totaled 666,360.06 Lira (LTQ). Ba R8119f/8311. Rundbogenstil, a variant of the Romanesque Revival particular to Germany and German communities and projects built abroad, was popularized by Heinrich Hübsch as a rejection of the Gothic Revival and a streamlining of Neoclassicism. See Bergdoll, European Architecture, 184–89. See James, Krupp. Oppenheim, Die Beduinen. Gülsoy, Hicaz Demiryolu, 126–30; Nicholson, Hejaz Railway, 31–32. Nicholson, Hejaz Railway, 32. There are very few records of Lutz. His only other known work is as architect of Alonei Abba, a semi-cooperative village near Lake

65. 66. 67.

68.

69. 7 0. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75.

7 6. 77. 78.

79. 80.

81.

8 2. 83.

8 4. 85. 86. 87.

Tiberias, and a project on Jaa Road. See Fahmy, “Industrial Monuments”; Gilbert and Sosnovsky, Bauhaus on Carmel; Çelik, Empire, Architecture, City, 41. De Launay, Usūl-i Mi‘mārī-i ‘Osmānī. BOA Y.MTV 220 174. Eyice, “Haydarpaşa,” 39. Whether it was a mistake or indicated a later change of plan, in July 1904, the Moniteur Oriental announced Vallaury as the architect not only of the jetty column, but also of the new station. See Moniteur Oriental, July 21, 1904. Alexandre Vallaury is referred to as “M. Vallauri.” Zobeltitz, “Ein Ausug,” 543. Zeynep Aygen, whose accurate translation I use here, misidentied the subject of Zobeltitz’s comment as the new Haydarpaşa station, which had not yet begun construction in 1904. See Aygen, “Ship Sailing East,” 104. ISg W1/2 268; W1/2 278; W1/2 297; W1/2 298; W1/2 369; W1/2 463; W1/2 475; W1/2 518. Cuno, “Hochbauten in der Türkei,” 115. Servet-i Fünun, “Haydarpaşa Mevkı,” 181. Ongley, Ottoman Land Code, 69. Christensen, “Eurasian Hour.” Menz, Deutsche Arbeit, 71–72. Cuno, “Hochbauten in der Türkei,” 266; Pohl, Philipp Holzmann, 106; Linnemann, Otto Linnemann und Rudolf Linnemann. Toker, “Bir Dönemin.” Cuno, “Hochbauten in der Türkei,” 265. See also Yavuz, “Eine vergleichende Studie,” 61. Aslanapa, Osmanlı Devri Mimarisi, 461; Eyice, “Haydarpaşa,” 39; Salman, “Haydarpaşa Garı,” 30. See also Yavuz, “Eine vergleichende Studie,” 62. Tägliche Rundschau, August 17, 1916. AA Konstantinopel 271, letter to Adolf Marshall von Bieberstein, Bagtsche, 15 January 1912. See also GSPK, I. HA. Rep. 89. Br. 13348, Abschrift I. 27517. Drawings for the Iskenderun branch line carry the signature of Oberingenieur Hossbach. The drawings include the following: TCDD 2G-347/2; 2G-492/15; 2G-976; 10 A-5/1, 2, 3, 4; 10 A-154/1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6; 10 A-854/1, 2. Ba R8119F/8120 (MF 3). Hellmuth Cuno to Phillipp Holzmann, Constantinople, 22 October 1910, in ISg W1/2 518. Yavuz, “Eine vergleichende Studie,” 165–66. Yavuz, “Mimar August Jasmund,” 2004. Melda Araz makes a similar suggestion in “Impacts of Political Decisions.” “Wohnhaus” is a generic term referring to any freestanding house in which one can live. The zenith of the term’s usage corresponded with the time period in question here and may reveal its particular discursive

8 8. 89. 90.

91.

92.

context. Max Hittenkofer, an architect in Holzminden, published an inuential study on the topic: Das freistehende FamilienWohnhaus. The Krupp steel rm linked the term directly to the lifestyle of the laborer in their own architectural designs; Friedrich Krupp Aktiengesellschaft zu Essen/Ruhr, Das Arbeiter-Wohnhaus. Yavuz, “Eine vergleichende Studie,” 185–86. Çelik, Empire, Architecture, City, 41. AA R 13499, Kaiserlich Deutsche Botschaft in Aleppo, Nr. 20, Aleppo, February 8, 1911; AA R 13502, “Zweiter Geschäftsbericht des Verwaltungsrats der ‘Gesellschaft für den Bau von Eisenbahn[en] in der Türkei,’” September 23, 1911; AA Konstantinopel 270, Kaiserlich Deutsche Botschaft in Aleppo, Aleppo, May 16, 1911. AA Konstantinopel 270, Kaiserlich Deutsche Botschaft in Aleppo, Aleppo, September 22, 1911. Yavuz, “Eine vergleichende Studie,” 185.

CHAPTER 7. MONUMENTS 1. Kreiser, “Public Monuments.” 2. Baytar, İki Dost Hükümdar, 256. 3. On Central European porcelain traditions, see Ware, German, Austrian Porcelain. 4. Ibid., 260, 267. 5. Ibid., 265. 6. New World Encyclyopedia, s.v. “Saladin,” http://www.newworldencyclopedia.org/ entry/Saladin (accessed May 12, 2016). The attention that Wilhelm paid to Frederick Barbarossa and Saladin appears to have reignited a certain level of interest in Saladin as a historical gure in the Ottoman empire. See Gruber and Haugbolle, Visual Culture, 61–62. 7. Gorka-Reimus, Luh, and Evers, Der Traum, 45. 8. The project chronicles Kaiser Wilhelm II’s fascination with Romanesque architecture and its variants. See Lehnert, Der Kaiser, 59; Ulrich Thieme and Felix Becker, eds., Allgemeines Lexikon der Bildenden Künstler von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart, vol. 31 (Leipzig: E. A. Seemann, 1937), s.v. “Spitta, Max.” Zeynep Çelik briey mentions the fountain, noting its intricately carved capitals, in Çelik, Remaking of Istanbul, 145. 9. The two executive architects are noted in Afe Bautr, “Alman Çeşmesi,” in Dünden Bugüne İstanbul Ansiklopedisi, vol. 1 (Istanbul: Kültür Bakanlığı ve Tarih Vakfı, 1993), 208–9. 10. BOA Y.PRK.EŞA 34 83. See also Yazıcı, “Türk-Alman Dostluğunun Hatırası,” 177. 11. BOA Y.PRK.EŞA 34 83. 12. Ibid.

Notes to Pages 104–125

163

13. Regarding the tuğra sample and the preference for the Sulus style, see Yazıcı, “TürkAlman Dostluğunun Hatırası,” 177. 14. Aygen, “Ship Sailing,” 102–3. 15. On Carolingian architecture generally, as well as the Palatine Chapel specically, see Collins, Charlemagne; Conant, Carolingian, Romanesque Architecture; Hulburt, Percher, and Vollbach, Carolingian Renaissance. 16. It would not be unusual to draw an X through a drawing that was rejected, but the crudeness of the act on a drawing as delicately crafted as this one makes the act particularly signicant. I have located one other instance of this, a design by Heinrich Reinhardt and Georg Süßenguth for the main railway station in Hamburg. Here the delicate competition drawing actually has six Xs over various portions of the building and outlines what was changed for the nal, realized design. See Pehnt, Deutsche Architektur, 17. 17. I have also located another model that diers from the one in the photograph insofar as it is made of silver and sits on a marble base. Its provenance is unknown; it is held by the Erol Makzume Collection in Istanbul. See Baytar, İki Dost Hükümdar, 258. 18. Batur, “Alman Çeşmesi,” 208–9. See also Yazıcı, “Türk-Alman Dostluğunun Hatırası,” 181–82. 19. Batur, “Alman Çeşmesi,” 208–9. See also Yazıcı, “Türk-Alman Dostluğunun Hatırası,” 181–82; and Gorka-Reimus, Luh, and Evers, Der Traum, 45. 20. BOA Y.PRK.MF 4 40. 21. Ibid. The full text reads: “Hazreti Abdülhamid Han’ın muhibb-i halisi/Ziver-i iklil haşmet Kayser âlitebar/Yani Alman İmparatoru hükümdar-ı güzin/Hazret-i Wilhelm-i Sani kamran-ı rüzgar/Padişah-ı Âl-i Osman’ı ziyaret kastedip/Makdemiyle eyledi İstanbul’u pirayedar/Bu mülakat-ı muhabbetperveri tezkar için/Eyledi bu çeşmesarı saha pira-yi karar/Sübesü cari olan âb-ı safa teşkil eder/Ab-ı sa-i müsafata misal-i abdar/Vakfa gir hayret eyler çeşm-i ehl-i dikkati/Tarzi inşaasındaki hissi bedi’ zernigar/Rükn-i akva-yı hayat oldukça ab-ı canfeza/Payidar olsun bu te’sis-i muhabbet-i üstüvar/Bi bedel tarihi caridir lisan-ı lüleden/Oldu bu çeşme mülakate ne dilcu yadigar.” The foreign minister’s commemorative speech is located in BOA Y.PRK.HR 27 32. 22. See reections on the Hagia Sophia legacy in Mark and Çakmak, Hagia Sophia. Göğüş has noted that the Ottoman ambassador to Berlin also reported “Arabian” inuences in the design; Göğüş, “German Fountain,” 190.

164

Notes to Pages 125–137

2 3. Christensen, “Eurasian Hour.” 24. BOA Y.PRK.EŞA 35 39. 25. BOA Y.A.HUS 384 38l; İ.HUS 73 66; Y.A.HUS 394/119. See also Yazıcı, “TürkAlman Dostluğunun Hatırası,” 174. 26. BOA Y.PRK.EŞA 35 39. 27. This task fell to Selim Pasha, minister for forestry, natural resources, and agriculture. BOA İ.ŞE 11 1317 M 1; Y.PRK.BŞK 59 37. See also Yazıcı, “Türk-Alman Dostluğunun Hatırası,” 176, 178–89. 28. Reşat Ekrem Koçu, “Alman Çeşmesi,” in İstanbul Ansiklopedisi, vol. 2 (Istanbul: İstanbul Ansiklopedisi ve Neşriyat Kollektif Şirketi, 1959), 728. 29. BOA ZB 379 59. Regarding the taps, Yazıcı also notes that the intended German spigots did not arrive in time for the dedication ceremony and that poor substitutes had to be hastily prepared in Istanbul at the last minute. Yazıcı, “Türk-Alman Dostluğunun Hatırası,” 181. 30. BOA DH.MKT 2391 44. 31. BOA ZB 45 95. 32. BOA ZB 55 62; ZB 374 112. An article in the Berlin Lokal Anzeiger dated July 30, 1906, reported on the vandalism and suggested that it actually represented a direct aront to Germany. In his memoir, Orhan Pamuk cites a 1929 newspaper column that also mentions children pilfering stones and stealing spigots from public monuments. See Pamuk, İstanbul, 141. Göğüş notes that the Porte may have understood the fountain not to be a site for ablutions from the outset. See Göğüş, “German Fountain,” 189. 33. BOA ZB 379 59; DH.MKT 2520 41. 34. BOA DH.KMS 20 52. See also Yazıcı, “TürkAlman Dostluğunun Hatırası,” 185. 35. Başgöz and Sılay, Turkish Folklore, 298; Afe Batur, “Alman Çeşmesi”; Çeker, İstanbul mevlevihaneleri, 196. 36. Hamadeh, “Splash and Spectacle.” See also Hatice and Karateke, III. Ahmed Devri İstanbul Çesmeleri; Egemen, İstanbul’un Çeşme ve Sebilleri. 37. Hamdeh, “Splash and Spectacle,” 126. 38. Ibid., 136, 139. 39. Ibid., 141. 40. Ibid., 133–34. 41. See AA R14.155. 42. Illustration entitled “Un exemple de la loi d’évolution,” Kalem (December 3, 1908) [volume information omitted], as noted in Heinzelmann, “Osmanlı Karikatürlerinde,” 240. 43. BOA YPR.BŞK 66 53. See also Yazıcı, “TürkAlman Dostluğunun Hatırası,” 190–92. 44. Ibid. 45. Gülsoy, Hicaz Demiryolu, 130; Kushner,

4 6. 47.

48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

53. 54.

55.

56.

57.

58.

59.

60. 61. 62.

6 3. 64. 65.

66.

“Haifa Damascus Railway,” 193–213. See also Kreiser, “Public Monuments,” 110. Talbot, “Exalted Column,” 258. This is Kreiser’s translation in Kreiser, “Public Monuments,” 110. Talbot has a slightly dierent translation; see Talbot, “Exalted Column,” 263. See Norris, Land of Progress, 52. Talbot, “Exalted Column,” 264–70. Kreiser, “Public Monuments,” 111. Yücel, “Mimar Muzzafer.” Osman Nuri Dülgerler and Tülay Karadayı Yenice, “Türklerde Anıt Mimarisinin Bir Örneği; Konya Atatürk Anıtı.” Article published online by Selçuk University, http:// sujest.selcuk.edu.tr/sumbtd/article/view File/134/257 (accessed December 8, 2016). Kreiser, “Public Monuments,” 113–14. The use of modern Turkish in a tablet at the foot of the monument indicates that it was likely erected sometime in the 1920s after the language reforms, possibly even later. The tablet reads: “Here rest German citizens who through the construction of the Baghdad Railway gave their lives.” According to Gunter Hartnagel, Çamalan was the headquarters of the German truck units KK 500–508 serving Pozantı to Tarsus/Adana. Gunter Hartnagel, e-mail message to author, September 22, 2013. Ibid. The remains of the Germans from the cemetery at Kıralan (Grosse, Nahler, and Maier, among others) were brought to the Tarabya German central cemetery. See James-Chakraborty, German Architecture, 26–29; Pehnt, “Deutscher Zyklopenstil”; Schliepmann, Bruno Schmitz. Bilgin, Geçmişte Yıldız Sarayı. Deniz Türker details the landscape history of Yıldız and the important role played by its longtime head gardener, the Bavarian Charles Sester. See Türker, “‘I don’t want.” Concerning D’Aronco, see Batur, “Raimondo d’Aronco.” Reproduced drawings from D’Aronco’s oeuvre may be found in Istituto Italiano di Cultura di Istanbul, Osmanlı Mimarı D’Aronco. Bilgin, Geçmişte Yıldız Sarayı, 13. Finkel, “Wood Culture, Timber Houses.” This is supported by the observation that the plans for the colony contain the dimensions of the house in Schumacher’s le, even though no actual architectural plans remain. 1 Samuel 7:12. See Morgan, “Goethe and the Philistine.” Goethe, Goethes Sprüche in Reimen, 111: “Was ist ein Philister?/Ein hohler Darm/mit Furcht und Honung ausgefüllt/Daß Gott erbarm!” Ba R901/31747.

67. Records of the various schools, their curricula, and key data can be found in Ba R901/31748. 68. The Auguste-Viktoria-Stiftung broke ground in 1907. Meyer-Maril, “Der ‘friedliche Kreuzritter.’” Concerning Leibniz, see Weigandt, Geschichte des Corps. 69. This characterization comes from Kroyanker and Wahrman, Jerusalem Architecture, 42. 70. Klaus Hansel, “Ehrungen in der evangelischen Kirche,” 272. 71. Gotthold Riegelmann worked on other important projects in Germany, including the Posener Schloß, the Kölner Hohenzollernbrücke, the Borsig Haus in Berlin, and the Romanisches Haus at Auguste-Viktoria-Platz in Berlin. See Vera Frowein-Ziro, Die Kaiser-WilhelmGedächtniskirche, 182, 317, 321. 72. See Meyer-Maril, “Der ‘friedliche Kreuzritter,’” 83. 73. van Treek and Vaasen, “Die Mosaiken und Malereien,” 67. 74. Concerning Vittali, see Schneider, “Pforzheim.” 75. Meyer-Maril, “Jerusalem.” See also van Treek and Vaasen, “Die Mosaiken,” 61; Ronecker, Nieper, and Neubert-Preine, Dem Erlöser der Welt, 148. 76. Meyer-Maril, “Der ‘friedliche Kreuzritter,’” 84. 77. Krüger, Rom und Jerusalem, 108. 78. See Simonowitz, “Mobile Matrix.”

5. 6.

7. 8. 9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

CHAPTER 8. URBANISM 1. Oppenheim, “Zur Entwicklung.” 2. Ibid., 290–3. 3. See Tupper, Great Ocean; Innis, Canadian Pacic Railway. 4. Elmar Oberegger, Der “Große Aufbruch,” in Das gescheiterte Eisenbahnprojekt WienSarajevo-Saloniki (1874–1914) (Sattledt,

14.

Austria: Info-Büro für Österreichische Eisenbahngeschichte, 2009), 299–300. Ayverdi, Avrupa’da Osmanlı Mimari Eserleri, 66–67. As has been noted, the British connection at Izmir preceded that at Salonica. See ZandiSayek, Ottoman İzmir. Hastaoglou-Martinidis, “Advent of Transport,” 75. Ibid., 77. Boundaries of Ottoman cities were often disputed. The Ottoman land code stipulated that, when unknown or unclear, boundaries should be veried by elders in the local community. See Ongley, Ottoman Land Code, 66. Jansen also designed plans for Mersin and Adana. Concerning Jansen, see Burak and Uğuz, “Planning as Tool”; Kezer, “Early Republican Ankara”; Ökesli, “Hermann Jansen’s Planning.” “The Land of the Anatolian Railway,” The Times (London), October 3, 1905, in Ba R901/6667. “The Land of the Anatolian Railway,” The Times (London), September 30, 1905, in Ba R901/6667. Ibid.: “[Ereğli] boasts . . . several hans and even a small but comfortable inn, which came into existence to supply the wants of the engineers and others who the work of constructing the rail brought to the place.” See also C. E. Heathcote-Smith to N. R. O’Conor, Aleppo, 17 July 1907, in NA FO 881/9437. Glenk, Desert Sands, Golden Oranges, 49–50; Dolev, Gilgulega shel Utopyah, 89, 95, 160. Nicholson, Hejaz Railway, 90–91.

2.

3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

15.

16. 17.

CONCLUSION 1. Theodor Wiegand [attributed], Instruktionen für geographische, topographische und archäologische Beobachtungen (Berlin, Special printing, 1911), in BA R8119F/8115 F.2, dated

18.

19.

November 1911. The pamphlet appears to be a revised edition of an earlier version produced in 1899, a document in the DBHI (Document number P8115, 168–70). David Blackbourn and Geo Eley have demonstrated that the beginning of the nineteenth century marked a time when professionalization became a hallmark of bourgeois culture in Germany. The interdisciplinary nature of Wiegand’s pamphlet can be seen as a form of proto-professionalism as well as a self-conscious turn away from specialization and hence a reaction against bourgeois culture. See Blackbourn and Eley, Peculiarities of German History, esp. 194–95. Wiegand, Instruktionen, 3. Ibid. Ibid., 3–5. Ibid., 5–7. Ibid., 8–12. Ibid., 12–13. See, for example, Akcan, Architecture in Translation; Morton, Hybrid Modernities. Marx, Grundrisse der Kritik, 538–39. Schivelbusch, Railway Journey, 10. Ibid. Zandi-Sayek, Ottoman İzmir, 187. Deringil, Well Protected Domains; Ersoy, Late Ottoman Historical Imaginary; Makdisi, “Ottoman Orientalism”; Roberts, Istanbul Exchanges. Berman, German Literature; Marchand, German Orientalism; Penny, Objects of Culture; Wildenthal, German Women. Mierzejewski, Most Valuable Asset, xi. Railway Gazette, “Haramain High Speed Rail.” See Jezreel Valley Regional Project website, http://www.jezreelvalleyregional project.com (accessed September 13, 2016). See James-Chakraborty, Architecture since 1400; Jarzombek, Prakash, and Ching, Global History. De Beauvoir, Ethics of Ambiguity, 9.

Notes to Pages 137–156

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Bibliography

ARCHIVAL SOURCES The archival sources listed below represent sources consulted for the book. Some of these appear in the notes. Those that are not specically cited contain material of interest on broader themes related to the topic of this book. The abbreviations used in the notes appear in parentheses.

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Illustration Credits

The photographers and the sources of visual material other than the owners indicated in the captions are as follows. Every eort has been made to supply complete and correct credits; if there are errors or omissions, please contact Yale University Press so that corrections can be made in any subsequent edition. Ahmet Ersungur: g. 6.22 Alain Letort: g. 8.10 Alleinverlag Fon & Grgic.: g. 8.1 Architekturmuseum der Technischen Universität Berlin: gs. 7.5–7.8. The Armatura Press: g. 6.20 Başbakanlık Osmanlı Arşivi, Istanbul: gs. 6.2, 7.21 Bayerisches Kriegsarchiv, Munich: gs. 1.5, 2.19 Bundesarchiv, Berlin: gs. 2.1, 8.2 Chronicle/Alamy: g. 6.6 David Mitchell Photography: g. 6.36 David Stanley: g. 6.13 Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Athens: g. 4.2 Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Istanbul: g. 5.5 Deutsches Museum, Munich: gs. 3.3–3.16 Discus Media: g. 8.3 Dolmabahçe Palace Collection, Istanbul: gs. 2.10, 7.1, 7.2 Evgeniy Fesenko/dreamstime: g. 7.14 Gunter Hartnagel: gs. 6.4, 7.4, 7.16, 7.17 Historisches Institut der Deutschen Bank, Frankfurt: gs. 2.11–2.16 Imperial War Museums, Canberra: gs. 1.6., 1.7, 6.38 Institut für Stadtgeschichte, Frankfurt: gs. 2.17, 2.18, 3.19, 6.24–6.31

James Nicholson: g. 6.23 Levantine Heritage Foundation, London: g. 6.39 Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.: gs. 0.1, 2.8, 2.9, 5.2, 5.4, 8.11 Matthew Sutherland: g. 6.21 Milli Kütüphane Başkanlığı, Ankara: gs. 1.2, 2.5– 2.7, 5.3 Museums of History and Art, Udine: g. 6.10 Niedersächsisches Landesarchiv, Wolfenbüttel: gs. 4.3–4.8, 5.1, 6.7, 6.9, 6.17, 8.4, 8.5, 8.6 Palestine Exploration Fund, London: g 8.7 Peter Christensen: gs. 6.3, 6.8, 6.11, 6.12, 6.14– 6.16, 6.18, 6.19, 6.32–6.35, 6.37, 7.9, 7.12, 7.15, 7.20, 8.8, 8.9 Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amts, Berlin: g. 7.10 Ramazan Ersoy: g. 7.3 SALT Research (Osmanlı Bankası Arşiv ve Araştırma Merkezi), Istanbul: g. 7.13 Sammlung Pethes, Gotha: gs. 3.1, 3.2, 3.17, 3.18, 3.20 Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Nationalgalerie/ Bernd Kuhnert: g. 4.10 Theodor-Zink-Museum, Kaiserslautern: g. 6.1 Türkiye Büyük Millet Meclisi, Ankara: g. 7.19 Universität Köln: g. 9.1 University of Rochester, River Campus Libraries: gs. 0.2, 1.1, 1.3, 1.4, 2.2–2.4, 4.1, 5.6, 6.5, 7.11 Wikimedia Commons: g. 7.22 Zentralarchiv der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin: gs. 4.9, 4.11

Index

Page numbers in italics indicate illustrations, maps, and photographs. Aachen, 129; Palatine Chapel, 127, 164n15 Abbas I (vali of Egypt and Sudan), 11 Abdülaziz (Sultan), 11, 12, 14, 37 Abdülhamid II (Sultan): albums of large-format photographs (1880–93), 35–37, 36; cartoon depiction, 130; commemorative gifts exchanged with Wilhelm II, 41, 124–31; desire to impress Wilhelm II, 136; engineering and construction initiatives of, 83; fear of revolt or attack, 20, 145; as furniture maker, 136; Hejaz Railway and, 65, 87; military paintings commissioned by, 37–38; moving mosque for Hejaz Railway and, 139; praise of, 35; railroad development and, 14–18; resistant to European designs, 108 Abdülmecid I (Sultan), 11 Abu Hatab, 68 Abu Na’am station, 112, 112 Abusir, 68 Abusir el-Meleq, 68 Acre province, 60, 62, 159n19 Adana, 22, 93, 117, 118–19, 119, 137, 162n19 Adapazarı station, 109 Adıvar, Halide Edip, 21 Aesthetic standards, 91 Africa, German colonization in, 14 African laborers, 85 Afyonkarahisar, 33, 34, 109, 110, 143, 146 Age of Empire, 1 Agoustos station (Naousa), 106, 106 Ahmed I (Sultan), 125 Ahmed II fountain (Bab-i Hümayun), 130 Akcan, Esra, 6 Akşehir station, 33 Albanian laborers, 82, 84 Albums and commemoratives: Abdülhamid II albums of large-format photographs (1880–93), 35–37, 36; Anatolian Railways commemorative album of watercolors, 37, 38–40,

39–41; Berggren archaeological portfolio of photographs, 72–74, 73; commemorative gifts exchanged by Wilhelm II and Abdülhamid, 41; Staudinger’s album, 43–44 al-Dimashqi, Sa’d al-Din, 89 Aleppo, 22, 49, 55, 56, 59, 79, 120, 121, 137 Aleppozimmer walls, 79 Alexandretta, Gulf of, 11, 14, 22, 47, 49 al-Khalidi, Nazif Bey, 88 Alonei Abba, 163n64 Al-’Ula, 88, 112, 148–50, 150 Amanus mountain range, 15, 21, 22, 53, 93, 101, 117 Ambiguity/ambiguations: archaeology and role of DOG, 68–69, 75, 80; architectural, 105; art vs. documentation, 72; cartography and, 45; as characteristic of German-Ottoman relationship, 6, 10, 121, 140, 153; duality in artistic and morphological senses, 8; fatwas, 22; genius of a culture and, 97; geopolitical, 129; laborers vs. soldiers, 153; of origins of Occidental culture, 72; productive nature of, 6, 156; rail station design and, 104, 106, 109; science vs. culture, in empire building, 25; syncretism vs., 155–56; truth and, 6; unifying concepts of, 156; urbanism and, 151; worker life on paper vs. in reality, 95 Amman railway bridge (“ten arches” viaduct), 101, 102 Anatolia: bridges in, 98; earthquake (1894), 16; Fraser’s description of, 29; Körtes’ activities on, 71–72; railway construction in, 11, 12, 15, 22, 78, 101; surveying of, 60, 98. See also Gordium site Anatolian Railways: Baghdad terminus as goal for, 17; compared to European and Marmara railway networks, 112; early phases of, 35; earthquake and, 113; financing of, 15, 19; German character of, 110; history of, 2; laborers hired by, 84; mapping systems of, 64; mountain crossings deemed essential for, 15; photographic albums of, 72–74; railway stations and auxiliary structures, 93, 109–11,

112; standards for, 92; travel literature on, 34; urbanism and, 145; watercolor albums of, 37, 38–40, 39–41. See also Haydarpaşa; specific lines Andrae, Walter, 79 Ankara (Angora), 15, 98, 109, 111, 143, 145 Ankara, Treaty of (1921), 23 Antakya, 49, 53, 56, 59 Anthropogeography, 26 Antiquities laws, 68–70, 80, 91 Aprons and girders, 91 Aqaba, 12 Arab laborers, 15, 59, 79, 82, 86, 87 Arabs, 11, 49, 60, 88, 142. See also Bedouins Aramaic culture, 75 Archaeology, 21, 68–80; Berggren portfolio, 72–74, 73; evolving antiquity laws, 68–70; Gordium site, 70–72, 71; Mshatta site, 76–78; panorama of, 80; Tell Halaf site, 74–76; Tell Megiddo site, 76; Upper Mesopotamia, 78–80. See also Antiquities laws “Architectural Biometrics” (digital project), 162n71 Architectural historiography, 6 Architectural signification, 92 Architecture. See Hochbau; specific types of structures and specific periods “Areas of interest,” 27; “Geodetic Areas of Interest to the Central Powers” (1914), 27, 28 Argentina, 5 Armageddon. See Tell Megiddo Armenian laborers, 82, 84–87 Armistice of Mudros (October 30, 1918), 23 Armstrong, George, 60–62 Arnodin, Ferdinand Joseph, 98, 99, 162n11 Aromanian (Macedo-Romanians) laborers, 84 Art Nouveau, 133 Ashlar construction, 31, 98–99, 101 Asia Minor, 19, 30, 72 Assimilation, 72 Assur, 21, 78, 79 Assyrians, 72, 136 Atatürk, Mustafa Kemal 143 Athena (Greek god), 134

189

Auguste Viktoria (Empress), 15, 37–38, 139 Augustus of the Franks, 139 Auler, Karl, 65–66, 66, 67 Austrian laborers, 82, 85–88 Austro-Hungarian empire, 3, 26, 30, 142 Authorial voice and dynamic, 129, 155 Autobahn bridges, 97, 97 Avant-garde thinking, 99, 122 Ayrancı station, 116, 117 Baalbek, 124, 124 Babylon, 68, 78–79 Bachmann, Walter, 79 Baghdad, 12, 14, 15, 49–50, 52, 59, 79–80 Baghdad-Birecik line, 49 Baghdad-Homs line, 49 Baghdad Railway, 17–22; articles (standards) for, 91–92; Bell describing, 79; Cahier des Charges, 91–92, 162n66; commemorative album on railway expansion, 41–43, 42; cultural issues and, 20, 85; diseases of workers on, 162n79; dynamite use, 93; Euphrates bridge construction, 100; German management priorities, 86; history of, 2; housing for workers, 93; Indian troops guarding station, 121; laborers hired by and workers’ strike (1908), 21, 85–87; mapping of routes, 47; maritime connections and, 145; Meißner and, 21; monument to German nationals who died during construction of, 134, 135, 164n54; Oppenheim and, 75, 141; photographic albums of, 72; plan and elevation views of Baghdad and environs (ca. 1908), 64, 64; prisoners of war working on, 22–23, 23, 87; railway stations and auxiliary structures, 93, 105, 113–21, 121; satirical drawing, 18; travelogues and travel literature about, 35; unfinished piece at end of World War I, 23; Wiegand on, 152, 153; World War I and, 22–23; Young Turk Revolution, effect of, 21 Bahnbau (railway construction), 84, 92, 93 Baker, Benjamin, 97 Baldasr, T., 136 Balkans, 14, 15, 105; bridges in, 98; migration to Gordium in Bronze Age, 72; nationalism in, 12, 84 Ballast, 64, 93, 145, 155 Balyan, Serkis, 133 Balyan family, 106, 107, 136 Banja Luka, 142, 143 Banse, Ewald, 29 Basalt, 60, 112, 113, 120 Basra, 11, 41 Battle of Domokos (1897), 37, 37–38 Baxandall, Michael, 97 Bedouins, 62, 63, 75, 82, 88, 142; anti-Bedouin sentiment, 83 Behrens, Peter, 97–98, 100 Bekdemir, 145, 147 Belelyubsky, Nikolai, 101 Belemedik, 103, 103, 134, 135

190

Index

Belemedik labor camp, 23, 41 Bell, Gertrude, 79, 80 Benois, Alexeï Léonitiévitch, 108, 109 Berggren, Guillaume Gustave, photographs by, 72–74, 80; Afyonkarahisar panorama (ca. 1890), 143, 146; “Aya Sofia,” Konya (ca. 1893), 73, 73; Bekdemir tunnel (ca. 1893), 145, 147; compared to Oppenheim’s photographs, 76; Ereğli train station and environs (ca. 1910), 144, 146; Eskişehir station (ca. 1893), 110, 110; Fragments of Sculpture in the Old Market of Konya (ca. 1893), 73, 74; Haydarpaşa station, 115, 115–17; İnce Minareli Madrasa, Konya (ca. 1893), 73, 73; Midas monument at Yazılıkaya near Eskişehir (ca. 1893), 73, 75; Phyrgian Lions in the Courtyard of the Kal-Han[e] in Konya (ca. 1893), 73, 74; Sultan Han, Aksaray, 73, 75; workers in front of storehouse at Izmit station (ca. 1893), 84, 85 Bergwerks- und Hütten-Aktiengesellschaft company, 100 Berlin, Treaty of (1878), 14, 29 Berlin Museums, 77, 79–80 Bernt, R., 31 Beylikköprü station, 70, 109, 109 Beyşehir Lake, 101 Bilecik station, 109–10, 110, 145 Billington, David, 96–97 Binder, Johann, 59 Birecik, 49, 55, 56–57, 59, 79 Bismarck, Otto von, 14, 15; Realpolitik, 14 Bizerte bridge, 98 Blackbourn, David, 165n2 (Conclusion) Black Sea Railway and Free Port of Küstendijie Company, 11 Bode, Wilhelm von, 75, 77 Boğazköy, 68 Bonatz, Paul, 97–98, 162n8 Bonfitto, Peter Louis, 72 Borsippa, 68, 78 Bosnia and Herzegovina, 30–31 Bosphorus Bridge, 98 Bosphorus Strait, 19, 26, 55, 58, 80, 105, 114–15, 162n9 Boundaries, 165n9 (Ch. 8) Brandenburger Tor monument, 124 Bremner, G. A., 163n53 Bricks and mortar, 91, 107, 108, 142 Bridges and viaducts, 16, 19–20, 29–32, 35, 43, 63, 64, 72, 87–89, 91, 95, 95–104, 97, 99–100, 102–3, 134. See also specific names of bridges Britain: Babylon excavation and, 78; capture of Baghdad in World War I, 23, 80; Egyptian railway, first established in British empire, 11; Elgin marbles and, 78; Ephesus excavation and, 69–70; fountain imitation of German Fountain proposed for London, 131; laborers from, 82; mapping and exploration of empire, 60; maritime domain of, 3, 12, 26; Mshatta façade removal and delivery, view of German involvement in, 78; Ottoman relations with,

14, 60–62; post-World War I, Ottoman railways under control of, 23; rivalry with Germany, 78–79, 109; Ruse-Varna concession secured by, 12; in Upper Mesopotamia, 78 British experts, 11 British laborers, 82, 85, 86 Bronze, 107 Bronze Age migration, 72 Bulgaria, 14, 84 Bulgurlu–Tell Halaf line, 22, 85, 91 Bundesadler (icon of German empire), 117, 124–27 BuroHappold, 156 Byzantine architecture, 108, 125, 127, 129 Cahier des Charges, 91–92, 162n66 Çakit Deresi (Balkans gorge), 99 Çamalan memorial to fallen bus drivers, 134, 135, 164n55 Canadian Pacific Railway, 142 Carchemish, 53, 59, 78, 100, 101, 120, 153, 154 Carlitzik (architect), 125, 163n9 Carolingian architecture, 164n15 Cartography, 45, 63. See also Černik, Josef; Pressel, Wilhelm von Catholics, 82, 83 Cedeeraschi, Carlo, 59 Çelik, Zeynep: Empire, Architecture, and the City: French-Ottoman Encounters, 1830–1914, 4, 73; “Photographing Mundane Modernity,” 160n25; The Remaking of Istanbul: Portrait of an Ottoman City in the Nineteenth Century, 4, 162n9, 163n8 Cemal Pasha, 82 Cement, 148 Cemeteries, 134, 135, 164nn55–56 Central Europeans, 3, 163n3 Central Powers, 23, 27, 28 Černik, Josef, maps produced by, 59, 60, 61, 67, 159n9 Certeau, Michel de, 87 Chachian Montani Effendi and Boghos Effendi, 113 Chaldean Christians, 60 Charlemagne, 127 Chattopadhyay, Swati, 6 Chemin de Fer d’Anatolie, 15 Chemin de Fer Ottoman d’Anatolie, 15 Chemins de Fer Orientaux, 12 Cheney, William, 131 Chesney, Francis Rawdon, 11, 14; Report on the Euphrates Valley Railway, 11 Chlebowski, Stanisław, 37 Christians, 60, 66, 82, 83, 88, 137, 148 Cilician stations, 120 Cilician Gates, 117 Cilician plain, 17 Circassian laborers, 82, 84, 85 Clark, T. J., 38 Cloisonné, 99 Coins, 160n12

Cologne Bridge Quarrel (1913), 97–98, 100 Colonialism, 7, 14, 17, 19, 45, 157n24 (Intro.). See also German empire Committee for Union and Progress (CUP), 20 Concert of Europe, 12 Concrete, 91, 107, 148, 149 Conder, Claude: Tent Work in Palestine, 60 Connective networks, 2 Conrad III, 139 Construction, 82–95; consistent approach in, 89; inspector positions, 83; labor and human resources for, 82–89, 85, 89; OberbauBahnbau-Hochbau labor formula, 93; procedures and bureaucracy of, 89–93; railway stations and auxiliary structures, 93–95; tent camps for workers, 93, 94. See also Railway stations; specific railway lines Cordoba: Great Mosque, 107 Corvée (labor exacted in lieu of taxes), 88–89 Cosmopolitanism, 7, 82 Council of the State, 69 Crimean War (1853–56), 10, 11 “Cristallisée,” 107, 163n50 Crusader iconography, 138–39 Cultural artifacts, 2. See also Archaeology Cultural challenges, 11, 20, 59, 91–92. See also Multiculturalism Cultural diffusion, 26 Cultural geography, 25–26, 30 Cultural transformation, 7, 25, 28, 123 Cuno, Hellmuth, 114, 114, 115–17, 116–17, 118, 120, 155 CUP. See Committee for Union and Progress Cyprus, 14 Czech architecture, 40 Damad Ferid (Pasha), 16–17 Damascus, 12, 49, 62, 77, 79, 105, 124; monument commemorating railway and telegraph line, 133, 133; schools in, 137 Damascus Central Commission, 87 Damascus–Ma’an route, 65 Damascus–Medina route, 112 Dams, 101, 101 Daoul (Turkish journal), 130 Daraa, 62, 66 Dar al-Hamra, 89 Dar es Salaam, 47 Dar es Salaam–Tabora road, 45 D’Aronco, Raimondo, 133, 133, 136 Darülfünun [House of Science], 11 de Beauvoir, Simone, 6, 156 Dedeağac and Thessaloniki railway line, 15 Deforestation, 91 Deir ez-Zor, 59 de Launay, Marie, 163n50 Dernburg, Friedrich, 80 Deutsche Bank, 1, 16, 18, 20, 37, 63, 65, 72, 84 Deutsche Freisinnige Partei (DFP), 15 Deutsche Orient-Gesellschaft (DOG), 68–69, 78, 80

Deutsche Palästina Bank, 16 Deutsche Palästina- und Orient-Gesellschaft GmbH, 16 Deutscher Palästina-Verein, 62, 159n28 DFP (Deutsche Freisinnige Partei), 15 Diffusionism, 26, 32, 47 Diyarbakır, 49, 55, 56, 63, 76 DOG. See Deutsche Orient-Gesellschaft Domokos, Battle of (1897), 37, 37–38 Druze, 60, 84 Dual Alliance [Zweibund] (1879), 3, 26 Durak station, 22, 117, 118, 118 Dynamite, 93 Eads, James Buchanan, 98 Earthquakes, 93–94, 95, 113, 162n90 East Friesland, 27 Ebenezer memorial, 137 École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées, 83 Ecology, 30 Edirne, 84 Education and proselytization, 28, 137, 138, 165n67 Edwards, Antonaki, 69, 160n8 Egypt, 11, 60, 136 Eilat, 12 Eldem, Edhem, 73 Eley, Geoff, 165n2 (Conclusion) Elgin marbles, 78 Elias, Yusuf (or Yousef), 62 Elizabeth (Saint), 138 Employés du Chemin de Fer d’Anatolie, 20 Empson, William, 6, 157n23 (Intro.) Engineers: albums of, 72; autonomous culture of, 83; German, 5, 82, 83, 88, 99; Meißner’s choice of, 88; Ottoman, 88; training of, 83, 161n5; Wiegand on role of, 152, 153 Enlightenment, 7, 10, 121 Ephesus, 69–70, 160n9 Epistemic violence, 29 Ereğli, 63, 117, 144, 146, 165n12 (Ch. 8) Ersoy, Ahmet, 163n50 Eshref, 59 Eskişehir, 72, 109–11, 110, 137. See also Izmit– Eskişehir line Eskişehir–Ankara line, 15, 16, 29, 70 Eskişehir–Konya line, 117 Ethnicity. See Intercultural dynamics Ethnocentric focus of Pressel’s maps, 49 Euphrates: railway bridge, 100, 100–101; valley, 59 Eurocentric norms, divergence from, 72 Eurocentric origin myths, 32 Euting, Julius, 76, 76 Existentialism, 156 Exoticism, 40 Expertise, 2, 3; British as leaders, 11; German architecture and construction, 114; labor vs. craft, 82, 86; multinational pool of, 15; new kind emerging in ambiguous international context, 122; Ottoman lacking, 11, 18; recall of engineers in World War I, 22

Fencing, 92 Fenerbahçe peninsula, 55 Figdor, Karl, 29–30 First Great German Railway Network, 11, 13 First National style, 120 Fischer, Theodor, 104 Foellner (engineer), 76, 79, 100 Forced labor, 89 Forth Bridge, 97 Foster, Norman, 156 Foucault, Michel, 5, 6 Foundry and technology transfer, 5 Fountains, 125–31, 126–28, 130–31 France: development of Ottoman railways, 15, 120; maritime domain of, 3, 12, 26; Mshatta façade removal and delivery assistance from, 78; railway engineers from, 88 Frankfurt, 105, 114 Fraser, David, 86; Short Cut to India, 29 Frech, Fritz, 93, 95 Frederick II, 139 Frederick Barbarossa, 124–25, 139, 163n6 French laborers, 82, 88 French-Ottoman comparison, 4 Frères, Abdullah, 35, 36 Gaziantep, 49, 55, 56–57, 59 General Protocols Office, 129 Geodesy, 27 Geography, 25–44; album-making, role of, 37–44; descriptive tracts, 29–32; dispatches from Ottoman “outback,” 32–37; knowledge expansion through railroad development, 44 Geopolitics, 2, 19, 22, 23, 25, 124, 136, 140, 152. See also Politics George (Saint), 138 German Archaeological Institute, 70 German archaeologists, 68–70 German Army cartography division, 63 German Colonial Exposition (Berlin, 1884), 158n10 German East Africa (Tanzania), 45, 47 German empire: colonialization, 7, 14, 19, 26–28, 157n24 (Intro.); creation of, 7; miscegenation prohibited, 26; multicultural society in, 25; unification of, 99 German Foreign Office, 15 German Fountain (Alman Çesmesi), 41, 125–31, 126– 28; cartoons commenting on, 130–31, 130–31 German immigrants to United States, 26 German influence and ascendancy, 1, 2, 153; construction approach, consistency in, 89–93; contiguity of German and Ottoman empires, 30; cultural and educational influence in Ottoman empire, 28, 137, 138, 165n67; German engineers and, 82, 83; isolationism rejected by Bismarck and Wilhelm I, 14; organic politics and, 2–3, 7, 11; professionalization in German culture, 165n2 (Conclusion); railway station designs, 104, 110, 114; rivalry with Britain, 78–79; steel industry and, 20

Index

191

German laborers, 82, 85–87, 134, 135 German Orientalism, 3, 68 Gesellschaft für die Bewässerung der Koniaebene, 162n31 Giedion, Sigfried, 154 Gifts, geopolitical and allegorical functions of, 41, 124–31; allegory of Vakvak ağacı (Vakvak tree) and location of German Fountain, 129–30, 131; architectural gifts to represent locations of state visits, 124, 124–25; cartoons commenting on German Fountain, 130–31, 130–31; drum covers, 124, 124; German Fountain (Alman Çesmesi), 41, 125–31, 128, 131; martial themes, 124; Saladin sarcophagus, 125, 125; tea service set, 124 Girardot, Eugène, 59 Glass, 104, 112, 113, 118, 138 Globalization, 1, 4–8, 24–25, 156 Goethe: Westöstlicher Diwan, 3; “Zahme Xenien” [Gentle Reminders], 137 Golden Horn, 106, 143 Gordium site, 70–72, 71 Gospodska Ulica thoroughfare, 142 Gothic architecture, 116, 129 Gothic Revival, 163n59 Gozan. See Tell Halaf Granite, 114, 116 Great War. See World War I Greco-Roman culture, 72 Greek laborers, 82, 84–88, 118 Greek rebellion (1897), 16 Greek-Turkish War (1897), 37 Grothe, Hugo, 28 Guida-Kapsohora railway station (Alexandreia), 106 Gül, Murat, 98 Gymnastics and physical fitness, 83 Habermas, Jürgen, 3 Habsburg cultural ethos, 30 Haidar Pacha port. See Haydarpaşa Haifa, 60, 62, 65, 77, 142; German Colony, 137, 137, 164n62 Haifa railways, 16; Exalted Column monument to commemorate, 132; Haifa–Daara railway, 18, 132; Haifa–Damascus railway, 62, 137 Hamadeh, Shirine, 130 Hamburg, 77, 164n16 Hamdi, Osman (Bey), 69, 70, 72; Persian Carpet Dealer on the Street, 77, 77, 160–61n43 Hammitzsch, Martin, 108 Han, Hafiz Abdurrahim, 113 Hartmann, Martin, 160n42 Hartnagel, Gunter, 164n55 Hatra, 68, 78 Hattat İzzet Efendi, 128 Haydar, Husayn (Bey), 89, 161n61 (Ch. 5) Haydarpaşa, 24, 36, 55, 58, 80, 90, 109, 113–20, 114–17, 142 Haydarpaşa–Izmit line, 14, 35, 58, 84, 110

192

Index

Heimat [homeland], 26, 70, 105 Heimatstil [homeland style], 104, 105, 109, 111, 117, 136, 162–63n40 Hejaz Railway: Auler study of, 65–66, 66; bridges and viaducts, 99, 101; commemorative album from Wilhelm II to sultan, 41; construction consistent with other railways, 89; construction near Tabuk (1906), 89; construction practices unique to, 93; donations to fund, 83–84, 113; engineers graduating from Istanbul University to be given preference for, 88; extension from Medina to Mecca, 156; German engineers and, 5, 82; Haifa line connection, 133; history of, 2, 17–18; laborers required to be Muslim, 83, 87, 148, 155; moving mosque for, 139, 140; mundane modernity and, 160n25; new station building, 33, 34–35; opening of line to Medina, 20; pilgrimage route and, 17; preparatory drawings for, 92; prestige of Ottoman engineers working on, 83; prisoners of war working on, 87; Qasr Mshatta palace and, 76, 76–77; railway stations, 112–13; travelogues and travel literature about, 35; urbanism and, 148–50 Hekimbaşı İsmail (Pasha), 69 Hellenism, 72 Henderson, Patrick, 78 Hendesehane [house of geometry], 45 Hereke pavilion, 114, 136, 136 Herzfeld, Ernst, 79, 80; “The Genesis of Islamic Art and the Mshatta Problem,” 77 Hevek, 59 “High Moor” culture in Germany, 27 Hindenburgbrücke design, 98 Hirsch, Maurice de (Türkenhirsch), 12, 14, 142 Hittenkofer, Max, 163n87 Hittites, 72 Hobsbawm, Eric, 1 Hochbau (above-earth-level building), 84, 92, 96–122; Anatolian railways, 109–12; architectural expertise and, 121–22; Baghdad lines, 113– 21; bridges, viaducts, and tunnels, 95, 96–104, 97, 99–100, 102–3; codification of construction, 106–9; division of labor, 93, 96; Hejaz Railway, 112–13; railway stations, 104–6, 106 Hodgson, Marshall, 7 Hohenstaufens (German monarchs), 138, 139 Hohenzollern architecture, 138 Holy Land, 12, 28, 60 Holy Roman empire, 99, 124 Holzmann construction firm. See Philipp Holzmann GmbH Homs, 49, 59 Huber, Valeska, 104 Hübsch, Heinrich, 163n59 Huguenin, Eduard, 101 Humann, Carl, 152 Humboldt, Alexander von, 2, 25, 44, 105, 152 Idiosyncrasy, 4

Imperial era, 1, 10 Imperial Museum. See Ottoman Imperial Museum Imperial Ottoman Bank Headquarters, 114, 116 Imperial Turkish Railway Company, 12 Indian railways, 157n18 (Intro.) Indo-Saracenic style, 108 Infrastructure: borders created by, 4; power of, 1; railway as form of, 53; technicalism and, 7 Intercultural dynamics, 6, 82, 84–87, 155 International Exhibition (Vienna 1873), 162n40 Internationalization, 2. See also Intercultural dynamics Irak, 21, 47, 78–80 Iron, 87, 91, 98, 100–101, 112 Irrigation, 133, 142, 152, 162nn30–31. See also Dams Iskenderun (or Alexandrette), 49, 55, 57, 59, 142, 145–46, 148. See also Alexandretta, Gulf of Islam. See Muslims and Islam Islamic architecture, 107–8, 110, 120 Istanbul: Anatolian Railways connecting to, 15; Asian shore railways (ca. 1871), 55, 58; Baghdad Railway and, 35; Dolmabahçe Palace, 14, 38; Erol Makzume Collection, 164n17; German school in, 137, 138, 165n67; Hagia Sophia, 125, 129, 164n22; Rocholl’s description of, 37; Sultan Ahmed Mosque, 125; Vakvak ağacı [Vakvak tree], 129–30; Yıldız mosque, 133; Yıldız Palace and Şale Köşk, 14, 38, 136, 136, 164n58 Istanbul University, School of Engineering, 88 Istanbul–Vienna Railway [İstanbul–Viyana Demiryolu], 12 Italian laborers, 82, 85–88, 118, 120 Italo-Turkish War (1911–12), 86 Ivansattel pass, 31 Izmit, 109, 109, 136, 142, 152, 165n6 Izmit–Ankara line, 15, 18, 84 Izmit–Eskişehir line, 16, 84 İzzet Pasha, 65, 87 Jachmund, August, 98, 106, 108, 120, 162n11 Jacobites, 60 Jacoby, Gustav, 68 Jaffa, 137, 142, 148, 149, 150 Jaffa–Jerusalem line, 15, 16, 148 Janissary rebellion (1656), 130 Jansen, Hermann, 143 Japan: Meiji-era, 5, 100; Mino-Awari earthquake (1891), 95, 95, 162n90; parallels with Westernization of Ottoman empire, 157n16 (Intro.); railway development in, 5, 7, 12, 100; Usui Pass brick-arch bridge, 100 Jarabulus, 100 Jericho, 68 Jerusalem, 12, 90, 137; Auguste-Viktoria-Stiftung church, 137–38, 139, 165n68; Church of the Ascension, 138 Jews, 60, 83 Jezreel Valley railway corridor, 156 Jihad, 22

Joaillier, Policarpe, 35 Jones, Owen: The Grammar of Ornament, 29 Jordan, 60, 63 Justinian, 129 Kaiserslautern, 97, 97–98 Kaiser Wilhelm. See Wilhelm II Kandilli, 55 Kandilli–Rumelihisarı bridge, 98, 99 Kannenberg, Karl, 25; Kleinasiens Naturschätze [Asia Minor’s Natural Treasures], 30 Kapp von Gültstein, Otto, 84–85, 89, 109 Karaferia station (Veroia), 106 Karaman–Adana Yolu trade route, 144–45 Kar-Tukulti-Ninurta, 78 Kaulla, Alfred von, 15 Kemal, Mustafa, 7, 134 Kemalettin Bey, 161n5 Khabur valley, 60 Kharput, 49 Khasa River, 53 Kirkuk, 49, 53, 53 Kobani (Çobanbey), 4–5, 5 Kobani–Nusaybin line, 23 Koch, Martha, 79 Koldewey, Robert, 68, 78 Konya: Berggren archaeological portfolio of photographs, 72–73, 73; model farm located near, 33, 34–35; plain irrigation, 101, 101, 162n31; railway monument, 132, 133–34, 134; station, 110–12, 111, 117, 163n58 Konya–Afyonkarahisar line, 16 Konya–Baghdad line, 17, 63–64, 85 Konya–Basra line, 63 Koppelkamm, Stefan, 157n25 (Intro.) Körte, Gustav and Alfred, 71, 71–72, 80 Krikorian, Garabed, 149 Krippel, Heinrich, 134 Kronprinzenwerk, 30, 44 Krupp, Friedrich Alfred, 68, 71 Krupp steel, 1, 111, 163n87 Kurdish laborers, 59, 82, 85, 86 Kurds, 60, 63 Küstendijie Company, 11 Kütahya, 34 Kütahya tiles, 116, 119 Kuwait, 19 Labella (Italian construction supervisor), 87, 88 Laborers, 15, 20–21, 82–89, 153, 155. See also Workers’ strike; specific nationalities Lake Beyşehir, 39 Lambert, A. O., 98 “Landhaus,” 163n40 Langenegger, Felix, 79 Latin America, railway development in, 5, 12 Lawrence, T. E., 101 Lefke, 114–15 Leibnitz, Robert, 137–38, 139 Leipzig: Völkerschlachtdenkmal (Monument of

the Battle of Nations), 136 Levant region, 12, 60, 61, 98 Levant Times and Shipping Gazette’s summary of Ottoman Antiquities Laws, 69 Limestone, 113, 120, 121 Linnemann, Otto, 113, 116 List, Friedrich, 10, 11, 12, 13; Das nationale System der politische Ökonomie, 11 Little Khabur River, 53 Louis VII, 139 Lutz, Otto, 113, 163n64 Ma’an, 101 Ma’an–Al-’Ula route, 65 Macedonia, Vardar River bridge in, 101, 103 Mackensen, Ernst, 84–85, 89, 109, 117 Mağlova aqueduct, 162n37 Mahmud I fountain (Tophane), 130 Mahmud II, 10 Mahmud Pasha, 58 Marble, 80, 116, 120, 125, 129 Marchand, Suzanne, 3, 26 Mardin, 49, 53, 55, 56–57, 59 Maritime domain of France and Britain, 3, 12, 26 Martial themes, 124 Marx, Karl, 3, 154 Maschinenfabrik Augsburg-Nürnberg A.G. Werk, 43, 43 Masonry, 91, 92, 97, 98, 101, 136 Mavrogordato, Nicholas, 99–100 Maydan fountain, 130 Mayreder, Karl, 108 Mbili (African illustrator), 47 McBey, James, 24 Mebes, Paul, Circa 1800 concept of, 104–5 Mecca, 17–18, 20, 66, 87, 139. See also Hejaz Railway Medina, 20, 87, 113, 113, 150, 151; Al Anbariya mosque, 113. See also Hejaz Railway Mediterranean-North African-West Asian cultural circle, 27 Meerschaum, 39 Mehmed IV, 129–30 Mehmed Fuad Pasha (grand vizier), 10 Meißner, Heinrich August: Baghdad Railway and, 21, 79; Hejaz Railway and, 18, 65, 79, 87, 92, 121, 139, 155; labor management by, 87–88, 93, 96; Medina station design and, 113; Mshatta façade removal and delivery, role in, 77; Porte relations with, 87; roles of, 8, 89, 112 Melling, Antoine-Ignace, 130 Menz, Reinhold, 110 Mercury (Greek god), 134 Mersin province, 134 Mesopotamia, 20, 63, 75, 78–80 Metals, 91, 160n12 Michael (Saint), 138 Midas Mound (burial site of King Midas), 71 Midhat (Pasha), 14 Military School of Engineers, 83

Miscegenation prohibited by German colonial law, 26 Mitchell, Timothy, 45 Mithat, Ahmet, 33 Mitrovica, 106 Modernity/modernization, 5, 7, 10, 11, 33, 104, 108, 153, 160n25 Molla Nәsrәddin (journal), 18, 18–19 Moltke, Helmuth von, 10 Monastir line, 15, 106, 142, 143 Monist movement, 25 Montenegrin laborers, 85, 88 Montenegro, 14 Monuments, 123–40; art of the gift, 124–31; burial places, 134–36, 135; in context, 140; intra- and extra-imperial symbols, 136–39, 136–40; strategic monuments (Haifa, Konya, and Damascus), 131–34, 132–34; vandalism, 129, 164n32. See also Gifts “Moorish” architecture, 30 Moritz, Bernhard, 89, 151 Mostar bridge [Stari Most], 30, 31 Mosul (or Mosoul), 43, 49, 53, 54 Mother of pearl, 136 Mount Nemrut, 49, 152 Mshatta. See Qasr Mshatta palace Muazzam, 89, 112 Muhtar Bey, Ahmet, 87–88, 118, 128, 130 Multiculturalism, 2, 3, 30, 31, 122 Mumbai, Victoria Terminus, 108 Murad V (Sultan), 14 Muslimie, 24 Muslims and Islam, 7, 18, 19, 20, 22, 30, 60, 66, 83, 87 Muthesius, Hermann, 104, 109, 119, 163n40 Muzaffer Bey, 133 Nafia (amelioration), 5 Napoleon: Description de L’Égypte, 29 Nationalism, 6, 7, 12, 14, 30, 84, 109, 129, 137 National Socialists, 98 Naturalization of European technology and design, 139, 155 Nazareth, 62 Nazim Pasha, 76 Nazirites, 60 Nazi thought, 26 Neo-Baroque, 114 Neoclassicism, 99, 124, 163n59 Neo-Moorish, 40 Neo-Renaissance, 114, 115 Neo-Romanesque, 138 Nestorians, 60 Newmarch, L. S., 78–79 Nicholas I (Tsar of Russia), 5 Nineveh (ancient Assyrian city), 53 Nomad tribes, 11 Non-Muslim laborers, 82, 87, 155 Nusaybin, 120

Index

193

Oberbau (earth-level building), 84, 93, 96 Ob River bridge, 101 Occidental culture, 72, 148 Ochsenwald, William, 161n61 (Ch. 5) Oetken, August, 128 Oliphant, Laurence, 62 Omori, Fusakichi, 95 Opernhaus monument, 124 Oppenheim, Max von: on Euphrates bridge, 100; letters of, 27; Tell Halaf museum founded by, 160n33 (Ch. 4); Tell Halaf operations of, 80; visit to United States (1902), 141 Oppenheim, Max von, photographs by, 22, 74–76, 79; Berggren’s photographs compared with, 76; Carchemish station under construction (1915), 154; Der Tell Halaf, 160n32 (Ch. 4); “The Development of the Baghdad Railway Area and the Practical Application of the American Experience in Syria and Mesopotamia,” 141 Orientalism, 3, 21, 41, 72, 108, 155, 162n11 Orient Express, 108, 143 “Orient or Rome” debate, 78, 160n21 Orontes River, 53, 55 Ottoman Antiquities Laws, 69–70, 80, 91 Ottoman architecture, 108, 113, 129, 134 Ottoman Bank, 116 Ottoman Department of Public Instruction, 69 Ottoman empire: cosmopolitanism and, 7; cultural norms of, 59, 97, 123; diversifying foreign interests in rail construction, 12; German viewing as both place of great beauty and despotism, 153; goals linked to railways, 1, 153; historical studies of, 7; land code, 16, 27–28, 33, 93, 114, 134, 165n9 (Ch. 8); military glory of, 37; modernity and, 7; multicultural society in, 21, 25; resuscitation deemed possible for, 16, 28; unraveling of, 2, 10, 14; urban studies of Pressel’s maps, 47–49; in World War I, 22–23. See also Abdülhamid II; Railways; specific railway lines Ottoman General Protocols Office, 129 Ottoman Imperial Museum, 69, 70, 80 Ottomanism, 20 Ottoman military, 14, 37, 65, 153 Ottoman Ministry of Education, 80 Ottoman Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 129 Ottoman Ministry of Public Works, 58, 91, 129 Ottoman Ministry of the Interior, 58–59, 62, 88, 92, 93, 118, 129 Ottoman Ministry of War, 100 Pacey, Arnold, 7–8 Paleocene rock, 93, 162n36 Paleozoic rock, 162n36 Palestine, 60–63, 89, 159n13; Templer Colony, 60, 62, 137, 148 Palestine Exploration Fund (PEF), 60, 62 Palestinian tributaries (1900–1908), 2 Pall Mall Gazette: “German Anatolia: Conquest by Railway,” 17

194

Index

Palmyra, 49, 59 Pamuk, Orhan, 164n32 PEF (Palestine Exploration Fund), 60, 62 Pergamon, 152 Persian Gulf, 19, 47 Persius, Ludwig, 108 Perthes, Justus, 65 Peter, Louis, 105 Petermanns geographische Mitteilungen (journal), 45, 65 Peter of Amiens, 139 Philip II, 139 Philipp Holzmann GmbH: capitalist approach of, 105; commemorative albums on railway expansion, 41–43, 43; construction standards set by and approvals from, 92, 162n74; Cuno and, 114, 118; divisions of corporate structure of, 96; German East Africa railway construction and, 16; Oppenheim’s writing on Ottoman railway and, 141; Tell Halaf and, 75; topographic challenges and construction decisions of, 98; urban hierarchies and, 59; wages paid out, 86 Phoenician history, 59 Photolithography, 72 Phrygians, 72, 73 Pilling, John Robert, 62 Plaster casts of artifacts removed from Ottoman lands, 69 Politics, 10–24; affinities and analogies, 10–14; German expansion, 17–20; German infiltration, 14–17; objects of war, 22–24; railways and revolution, 20–22; unrest, 148–49 Porte. See Sublime Porte Portland cement, 91 Postcolonial studies, 5, 6 Potsdam: Sanssouci Pumping Station, 108 Pownall, C. A. W., 100 Pozantı station, 117, 118 Pressel, Wilhelm von: Anatolian railway proposal by, 14–15; assigned to multiple railway lines, 89; on rail–maritime link at Iskenderun, 148; on railway laborers, 84; Sandschakbahn and, 142; “The Situation of Turkey: Characteristics and Aphorisms,” 84; survey of Anatolia by, 98 Pressel, Wilhelm von, maps produced by, 47–59, 63, 64, 67, 141, 148, 153–55, 159n9; Aleppo (ca. 1871), 55, 56; Antakya (ca. 1871), 53, 56; Baghdad (ca. 1871), 49–50, 52; Birecik (ca. 1871), 55, 56–57; Gaziantep (ca. 1871), 55, 57; Iskenderun (ca. 1871), 55, 57; Istanbul’s Asian shore railways (ca. 1871), 55, 58; Kirkuk and environs, plan of (ca. 1871), 53, 53; Mardin (ca. 1871), 55, 56–57; Mosul and environs, plan of (ca. 1871), 53, 54; projected railway lines spanning Mediterranean to Baghdad (ca. 1871), 49, 51; railway lines spanning Mediterranean to Persian Gulf (ca. 1871), 49, 50; urban studies folio (ca. 1871), 53, 56; Zakho and environs study (ca. 1871), 53, 55 Prisoners of war working on railways, 22–23,

23, 87 Priština, 106 Professionalization in Germany, 152, 165n2 (Conclusion) Puchstein, Otto, 76, 77 Qasr Mshatta palace (Umayyad), 76, 76–77, 78 Qizilbash, 60 Race. See Intercultural dynamics Railways: archaeology benefiting from and aiding in development of, 68–80; archetype of vision connecting nations, 24; benefits of development of, 11, 17; cultural transformation associated with, 28; evolution of, 12; as goal of scientific progress, 11; Kronprinzenwerk praising development of, 30; military links with, 88, 153; monuments commemorating, 131–34, 132; multinational undertaking in Balkan development of, 12; non-Turkish Ottoman population’s views on, 84; Ottoman designers and laborers, use of, 136; Ottoman empire’s goals linked to, 1, 11, 153; rail-to-port connections, 142–43; station placement, importance of, 141–42. See also Construction; specific lines and companies Railway stations, 16, 104–11, 106–10; Baghdad Railway, 93; Class I stations, 109, 111, 118; Class II stations, 109–10, 118, 144; Class III stations, 112, 117, 118; design consistency, 106–9; names in both Latin and Ottoman, 110. See also specific locations Ratzel, Friedrich, 2, 25–27, 47, 83, 105, 157n2 (Intro.); Völkerkunde, 27 Ravenna, Italy, 129; San Vitale church, 127 Ravndal, Gabriel Bie, 62 Refik, Mehmed, 161n5 Reinhardt, Heinrich, 164n16 Religion: accommodation of laborers’ varied religions, 85, 87; architecture advocating, 137; areas of significance, 12, 28, 60; monuments in style acceptable to Islam, 123. See also specific religions Renaissance architecture, 127 Repin, Ilya, 38 Rhine–Vistula migration, 27 Rich, Claudius James, 78 Richard the Lionhearted, 139 Richthofen, Oswald von, 68 Riegelmann, Gotthold, 138, 165n71 Riegl, Alois, 32 Riese, Otto, 101, 117, 118, 120 Rihla literature, 32 Road construction, 83 Rocholl, Theodor, 44; Battle of Domokos depiction, 37–38; Fellow in Bilecik, 39, 40; “Images from the Anatolian Railway: Dedicated to Friends and Guests of the Organization,” 37–40, 39–41, 44; Karasu Gorge, 39, 39; Meerschaum Dealer, 39–40, 40; Meerschaum

Productionin Eskişehir, 40, 41; Railway Attendant of the Anatolian Railway, 38, 39; Railway Track along the Gulf of Izmit, 38, 39 Rococo, 124 Roebling, John, 97 Rohrbach, Paul: Die Bagdadbahn, 29 Romain, Jules, 104 Roma (Gypsy) laborers, 84 Romanesque architecture, 98, 129, 163n8 Romania, 12, 14 Romanian Jews, resettlement of, 29 Roman style of bridgework, 99, 101 Rouen bridge, 98 Royal Corps of Engineers, 60 Rudolf (Crown Prince of Austria-Hungary): Kronprinzenwerk, 29, 30–32, 44 Rumelia, 12, 60 Rundbogenstil, 111, 163n59 Ruse–Varna concession, 12 Russia, railway construction in, 5, 7, 12, 85 Russo-Turkish War, 14 Sabatele (African illustrator), 47 Said, Edward, 3, 6 Saint, Andrew, 97 Saint-Simonians: Système de la Méditerranée, 12 Sakarya River, 145 Saladin, 125, 125, 163n6 Samandağ, 49, 59 Samarra, 24, 49, 65, 79, 80 Samuel (Prophet), 137 Sand, 91, 93 Sandschakbahn, 142 Sandstone, 112, 114 Şanlıurfa, 49, 56, 59 San Stefano, Treaty of (1878), 14 San Stefano extension, 106, 143 Sarajevo, 142; Gazi Hüsrev Bey Mosque of Baščaršija, 30; Sinan Tekija convent, 30, 31 Sarayburnu–Üsküdar bridge, 98 Şarköy-Mürefte earthquake (1912), 93 Sarona (German colony), 148 Sarre, Friedrich, 160n29 (Ch. 4) Savitsky, Konstantin: Off to War, 38; Repair Works on the Railway, 38 Schiele (restorer and engineer), 129 Schinkel, Karl Friedrich, 99 Schivelbusch, Wolfgang, 154 Schlegel, Friedrich: Über die Sprache und Weisheit der Indier, 3 Schloss Berlin monument, 124 Schmidt (artist/builder), 138–39 Schmitz, Bruno, 136, 138 Schoele (architect), 125, 163n9 Schöne, Richard, 76 School of Hafiz (identified as “Aya Sofia”), 73, 73 Schrader, Karl Wilhelm Franz Gabriel, 72 Schultze-Naumburg, Paul, 105; Kulturarbeiten (1900–17), 104 Schulz, Bruno, 78

Schumacher, Gottlieb, 18, 60–63, 67, 76–77, 80, 137, 137, 159nn18–19, 164n62 Schurrupak, 68, 78 Sébah, Pascal, 35 Secere-i Vakvak (tree in hell), 130 Second Constitutional Era, 20 Seestern-Pauly, Georg, 105 Selçuk, 69 Selim Pasha, 164n27 Seljuk art, 73 Semitic peoples, 72 Sephardic laborers, 84 Serbia, 14 Servet-i Fünun (journal): cultural geography explored by, 33, 33; exposé of Anatolian Railways, 73; image of moving mosque on cover of, 139, 140; on railway development, 16, 66; travel literature published by, 33 Sester, Charles, 164n58 Sester, Karl, 152 Shaw, Wendy, 69, 160n12 Shukri Bey, 62 Siemens, Georg von, 15, 18–19, 63, 68 Sinan, 162n37 Sirkeci terminus, 35, 36, 106–8, 107–8, 113, 120, 142, 143 Skopje, 106, 143 Slavic laborers, 85 Smith, George, 78 Societé du Port de Haidar-Pacha, 114 Spitta, Max, Istanbul fountain designed by, 125–29, 126–28, 130 Stained glass, 106, 107, 108, 116 State as organism, concept of, 2, 7, 11, 26, 83 State Museums. See Berlin Museums Staudinger, Karl, 43–44, 44 Steel, 91, 98, 99, 101, 104, 112, 114 Steel industry, 20. See also Krupp steel Stemrich, Wilhelm, 63 Stemrich Expedition, 18, 63–65, 160n41 (Ch. 3) Stephenson, Robert, 11 Stevens, Frederick William, 108 Stone, 87, 91, 93, 101, 112, 134, 148 Strom, Lindman, Hilliker firm, 162n9 Strzygowski, Josef, 160n21 Stuttgart: Wilhelma palace grounds, 108 Sublime Porte: Antiquities Laws, enforcement of, 70; Baghdad Railway and, 19, 47; fatwas of jihad on Christians, 22; geopolitical and technological strategies of, 10–12; German fountain and, 129, 164n32; Hejaz Railway and, 18; labor policies of, 84; Meißner and, 87; Mshatta façade removal and delivery to Germans, 76; on railway development, 14–16, 88; World War I and, 22 Sulus calligraphy, 125, 164n13 Sursock family, 62 Süßenguth, Georg, 164n16 Swiss laborers, 82, 88 Sykes, Mark, 83

Syncretism, 155–56 Syrian border with Turkey, 23 Tabuk, 88, 89, 112, 112 Talat Bey, 76 Tancred, 139 Tanzania. See German East Africa Tanzimât Fermânı (statute, 1830), 10 Tanzimat reforms, 4, 5, 7, 10, 12, 96, 123–24, 129 Tassim Bey, 38 Tatar laborers, 84 Taurus mountain range, 15, 21, 22, 23, 44, 93, 117, 162n76; memorial to railway workers in, 134, 135; tent camp in (ca. 1918), 94; tunnels in, 101; Varda viaduct in, 99, 100. See also Belemedik labor camp Technicalism, 7 Technology transfer: bridge design and, 100; foundry works and, 5; monuments and, 140; naturalization of European technology, 139, 155; railways and, 7, 8, 21, 35 Tel Aviv, 148 Tell el-Amarna, 68 Tell el Hamma, 63 Tell Halaf, 43, 49, 74–76, 80, 101, 160nn32–33 (Ch. 4) Tell Hum, 68 Tell Megiddo, 68, 76 Temple Mount, 3 Templer Society. See Palestine Terpak, Frances, 72 Tessenow, Heinrich, 104 Tevfik Pasha, 125 Thessaloniki (Salonica), 15, 142, 143, 144 Thessaloniki–Dedeağac line, 15, 18 Thessaloniki–Monastir line, 15, 18 Tigris River, 49, 59, 79 Tile, 116, 119, 120, 148 Timber. See Wood construction Tokgöz, Ahmet İhsan, 33, 34 Topography, 45–67; Auler’s study of Hejaz Railway, 65–66, 66; background of German study of, 45–47; Černik and, 59–60; expeditions into outback, 63–65; as linchpin for geopolitical ambition, 67; Pressel’s folios and study, 47–59; Schumacher and, 60–63; station placement, importance of, 141, 145, 151; Stemrich Expedition and, 63–65; Wiegand on, 153 Trade, 11, 143, 145, 148 Train stations. See Railway stations Transjordan, 78, 88, 93, 162n36 Trans-Siberian Railway, 101, 104, 142 Travelogues and travel literature, 29, 32–37. See also Albums and commemoratives Treaty of Ankara (1921), 23 Treaty of Berlin (1878), 14, 29 Treaty of San Stefano (1878), 14 Treaty of Versailles (1919), 23 Tria, G., 72

Index

195

Tripoli, 49, 59 Tristram, Henry Baker, 78 Truth and ambiguity, 6 Tuğra (sultan’s imperial emblem), 106–7, 114, 124–25, 127, 133, 164n13 Tumulus MM (“Midas Mound”), 70–71 Tunnels, 101–4, 103, 147 Turcomans, 59 Turkhan Pasha, 65 Turkish laborers, 82, 84–87 Turkmenistan: Turkmenbashi station, 108, 109 Tuz Khormato, 49 Ulukışla station, 117, 118 Umm Qais, 63 United Principalities of Moldavia and Wallachia, 12 United States: American West as model for railway development, 85, 141–42, 151; German immigrants to, 26; irrigation in, 162n30 University of Leipzig, 25 University of Pennsylvania, 160–61n43 Urbanism, 141–51; American model and, 141–42, 151; deliberate siting of railway outside the city, 141–42; marine termini and location of railway, 142; street to connect railway to city, 141–42, 143, 144–45 Uruk, 78 Üsküdar, 58 Usta, Mehmed Emin, 116 Vallaury, Alexander, 114, 116, 163n67 Varda viaduct, 99, 100, 101 Vernacularism, 109 Versailles, Treaty of (1919), 23 Viaducts. See Bridges and viaducts Vienna: International Exhibition (1873), 162n40; Ottoman siege of (1682–83), 10; Zacherl

196

Index

mothball factory, 108 Vienna School, 32 Vittali, Otto, the younger, 138, 165n74 Volume and vector, interplay of, 59–63, 67 von der Goltz, Colmar, 65 Vrbas River, 142 Wagner & Debes, map of Ankara (1903), 145 Waldorp, H., 101 Wallot, Paul, 105 Wangenheim, Hans Freiherr von, 77 Warburg, Otto, 29 Warren, Charles, 60 Waschmühltalbrücke (Kaiserslautern, 1935), 97 Western technology vs. agrarian society, 7 Weule, Karl: German East Africa railway maps published by, 45, 46, 47, 48, 67; letters of, 27 Whistler, George Washington, 5 Wiedenfeld, Hugo von, 108 Wiegand, Theodor, 26, 77, 78, 152, 156, 165nn1–2 (Conclusion) Wieland, Hugo, 148, 149–50 Wilhelm I, 14 Wilhelm II: ambitions in Asia Minor, 19; Anatolian railway development and, 15; archaeological interests of, 68; commemorative gifts exchanged with Abdülhamid, 41, 124–31; exiled at end of World War I, 23; German fountain as gift to sultan, 125–29, 126–28; historicism and, 139, 163n6; representation in Church of the Ascension, 139; Temple Mount visit (1898), 3, 4; Turkish visit by (1889), 15–16, 136; Turkish visit by (1898), 17, 37–38, 124–25, 136 Wilson, Charles, 60, 62 Winged wheel image, 133, 134 Winkler, Johann Lorenz, 162n19 Wohnhaus typology, 120, 163n87

Women as subjects of portraits, 40 Wood, John Turtle, 69 Wood construction, 91–92, 108, 112, 114, 120 Workers’ strike (1908), 21, 86, 120 World War I, 4, 14, 22–24; Euphrates bridge construction and, 100; martial themes of gifts exchanged during, 124; monument to German nationals who died during railway construction, 134, 135; prisoners of war working on railways, 22–23, 23, 87; railway station construction during, 120; Staudinger’s album of rail construction during, 43–44, 44 Württemberg railway stations, 104 Yazidi, 60, 82 Yazıcı, Nurcan, 164n29 Young Turk Revolution, 14, 16, 21, 86, 120 Zakho, 49, 53, 55 Zandi-Sayek, Sibel, 154 Zanth, Ludwig von, 108 Zepdji, Paul, 103 Zimpel, Charles Franz, 12 Zionism, 62, 148 Zobeltitz, Fedor von, 114, 163n68 Zonaro, Fausto, 37, 38; Battle of Domokos, 37 Zorn, Anders, 38