Iran and the First World War: Battleground of the Great Powers 9780755611430, 9781786734679

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IRAN AND THE FIRST WORLD WAR

IRAN AND THE FIRST WORLD WAR Battleground of the Great Powers

Touraj Atabaki Editor

Published in 2006 by I.B.Tauris & Co. Ltd 6 Salem Road, London W2 4BU 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010 www.ibtauris.com In the United States of America and Canada distributed by Palgrave Macmillan, a division of St Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010 Copyright © 2006 Touraj Atabaki The right of Touraj Atabaki to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or any part thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Library of Modern Middle East Studies 43 ISBN 10: 1 86064 964 5 ISBN 13: 978 1 86064 964 6 A full CIP record for this book is available from the British Library A full CIP record for this book is available from the Library of Congress Library of Congress catalog card: available Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro by A. & D. Worthington, Newmarket, Suffolk Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ International Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall

Contents List of Contributors Acknowledgements

xi

Note on Transliteration

xii

1.

The First World War, Great Power Rivalries and the Emergence of a Political Community in Iran

2.

The Iranian Provisional Government

Touraj Atabaki Mansoureh Ettehadiyyeh 3. 4.

Iranian Nationalism and the Government Gendarmerie

5.

A Kurdish Warlord on the Turkish–Persian Frontier in the Early Twentieth Century: Isma‘il Aqa Simko

6.

Ahmad Kasravi on the Revolt of Sheikh Mohammad Khiyabani

7.

Pan-Turkism and Iranian Nationalism

Stephanie Cronin

Martin van Bruinessen Homa Katouzian Touraj Atabaki

9 29 43

69 95 121

The Populists of Rasht: Pan-Islamism and the Role of the Central Powers Pezhmann Dailami

9.

1

Going East: The Ottomans’ Secret Service Activities in Iran Touraj Atabaki

8.

vii

137

The Council for International Propaganda and the Establishment of the Iranian Communist Party Oliver Bast

163

Notes

181

Index

223

Contributors Touraj Atabaki is Professor of Modern History at the University of Amsterdam and senior Research Fellow at the International Institute of Social History. He is the author of Azerbaijan: Ethnicity and the Struggle for Power in Iran (London: I.B.Tauris, 1993), of Beyond Essentialism. Who Writes Whose Past in the Middle East and Central Asia? (Amsterdam: Aksant, 2003), editor of Post-Soviet Central Asia (London: I.B.Tauris, 1998), coeditor, with Erik Jan Zürcher, of Men of Order, Authoritarian Modernisation in Turkey and Iran (London: I.B.Tauris, 2004) and co-editor, with Sanjyot Mehendale, of Central Asia and the Caucasus: Transnationalism and Diaspora (London and New York: Routledge, 2005). An edited volume, The State and the Subaltern: Society and Politics in Turkey and Iran, will be published in 2006. His current work focuses on the historiography of everyday life and comparative subaltern history. Oliver Bast is Lecturer in Persian and Modern Middle Eastern History at the University of Manchester. He is the author of Les allemands en Perse pendant la première guerre mondiale d’après les sources diplomatiques françaises (Paris: Peeters, 1997) and editor of La Perse et la Grande Guerre (Tehran/Paris: Institut français de recherche en Iran/Peeters, 2002). In 2004 he published ‘Putting the record straight: Vosuq al-Dowleh’s Foreign Policy in 1918/19’ in Touraj Atabaki and Erik Jan Zürcher (eds), Men of Order (London and New York: I.B.Tauris, 2004), pp 260–81. His research interests include the diplomatic and political history of late Qajar and Pahlavi Iran as well as questions of historiography and cultural memory in modern Iran. Martin van Bruinessen is an anthropologist and historian with extensive fieldwork experience in different parts of Kurdistan as well as Indonesia. He holds the ISIM chair for the Comparative Study of Contemporary Muslim Societies at Utrecht University. He is the author of Agha, Shaikh and State: The Social and Political Structures of Kurdistan (London: Zed Books, 1992) and numerous articles on the Kurds and on Indonesian Islam. His present research interests include, besides the political and identity struggles among vii

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the Kurds and their neighbours, problems of religious authority among Muslims in Europe. Stephanie Cronin is Iran Heritage Foundation Fellow in Iranian History, University of Northampton. She is the author of The Army and the Creation of the Pahlavi State in Iran, 1910–1926 (London: I.B.Tauris, 1997), and editor of The Making of Modern Iran; State and Society under Riza Shah, 1921–1941 (London and New York: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003) and Reformers and Revolutionaries in Modern Iran: New Perspectives on the Iranian Left (London and New York: RoutledgeCurzon, 2004). Her current work focuses on subaltern responses to modernity in Iran. Tribal Politics in Iran: Rural Conflict and the New State, and an edited collection, Subalterns and Social Protest: History from Below in the Middle East and North Africa, will be published in 2006. Pezhmann Dailami obtained his Ph.D. from the University of Manchester in 1994. He has published a number of articles on the impact of the Russian Revolution on Iran as well as early Soviet diplomacy in the East. He is at present an independent scholar writing for Encyclopaedia Iranica and working on a manuscript on the Persian Soviet Republic of Gilan (1920–21). Mansoureh Ettehadiyyeh obtained her Ph.D. in 1979 from Edinburgh University. She taught history in the Department of History in Tehran University from 1963 to 2000. She is the founder of the publishing house Nashr-e Tarikh-e Iran, which specializes in the history of the Qajar period. She is the author of Peydayesh va Tahavol-e Ahzab-e Siyasi Mashrutiyat (The Origin and Development of Political Parties during the Constitutional Revolution) (Tehran: Nashr-e Tarikh-e Iran, 2002), Majles va Entekahbat az Mashruteh ta Payan-e Qajariyeh (Parliament and Elections from the Constitutional Revolution to the End of the Qajar Period) (Tehran: Nashr-e Tarikh-e Iran, 1996), editor of Reza Qoli Khan Nezam al-Saltaneh, Zendegani Siyasi va Asnad-e Muhajerat (The Life and the Correspondence of Reza Qoli Khan Nezam al-Saltaneh during the First World War), 3 volumes (Tehran: Nashr-e Tarikh-e Iran, 2000), and Inja Tehran Ast, Majmueh-ye Maqalati dar bareh-ye Tehran, 1269HQ/1344 (A Collections of Essays on the Social and Economic Conditions of Tehran, 1850–1925) (Tehran: Nashr-e Tarikh-e Iran, 1998). Ettehadiyyeh has also written two novels: Zendegi Bayad Kard (We Have to Live) (Tehran: Nashr-e Siyamak, 1997) and Zendegi Khali Nist (Life is not Empty) (Tehran: Nashr-e Siyamak, 1999). She is currently engaged in working on Iranian public opinion from 1870 to 1920.

CONTRIBUTORS

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Homa Katouzian is a social scientist, historian, literary critic and poet. He is Iran Heritage Research Fellow, St Antony’s College and Member of the Faculty of Oriental Studies, University of Oxford, an honorary fellow in the Department of Politics, University of Exeter, and editor of Iranian Studies, Journal of the International Society for Iranian Studies. His books in English include Iranian History and Politics, the Dialectic of State and Society (London and New York: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), Sadeq Hedayat: The Life and Legend of an Iranian Writer (London: I.B.Tauris, 1991), State and Society in Iran: The Eclipse of the Qajars and the Emergence of the Pahlavis (London: I.B.Tauris, 2000), Musaddiq and the Struggle for Power in Iran (London: I.B.Tauris, 1990), The Political Economy of Modern Iran (London and New York: Macmillan and New York University Press, 1981), and Ideology and Method in Economics (London and New York: Macmillan and New York University Press, 1980).

Acknowledgements The idea for this volume arose out of a conference I organized in 1998 at the Middle East Centre, St Antony’s College, University of Oxford, where I was affiliated as a visiting senior fellow. I would like to thank all my colleagues there who enabled me to have a wonderful and productive sabbatical. I would like also to thank Professor Reza Sheykholeslami and Dr John Gurney, both from the Oriental Institute, Oxford University, whose immeasurable hospitality encouraged me to develop a close academic relationship with the University of Oxford. In composing this volume I greatly enjoyed receiving comments from my venerated friend and colleague Mr Kaveh Bayat, who was present at the conference but unfortunately could not contribute to this volume. Dr Lester Crook, chief editor at I.B.Tauris, was kind enough to spend considerable time reading the manuscript and sharing his comments with me. In the process of editing this volume, I benefited from the indispensable assistance of my friends Mr Hans Timmermans, Ms Mieke Stroo and Mr David Worthington. I would like to offer them my sincere thanks. These acknowledgements cannot be concluded without thanking my wife Sharareh, whose constant understanding allowed me to carry out my research far from home.

xi

Note on Transliteration Transliteration is always a thorny problem when one is dealing with several languages and alphabets at once. The system adopted in this work for Persian and Ottoman Turkish is a modified version of the system used by the International Journal of Middle East Studies (IJMES). For the sake of convenience diacritical marks have been omitted, with the exception of ‘ayn (‘) and hamzeh (’) for the Persian and in representing the vowels for Ottoman Turkish. In the case of Azerbaijani words, a modified Persian system has been followed, except again in representing the vowels. Current English spelling of names such as Azerbaijan, Kerman, Isfahan, Sheikh and Hussein have been retained. With the exception of Dr Cronin’s article, in which she opted for a different transliteration system, every effort has been made to observe the utmost consistency in style and transliteration in this volume.

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The First World War, Great Power Rivalries and the Emergence of a Political Community in Iran Touraj Atabaki The outbreak of the First World War and its aftermath may be the most important political episode in twentieth-century world history. The fall of the Austro-Hungarian dual monarchy, the Ottoman and Russian empires, followed by the emergence of the Austrian republic, the Hungarian kingdom, the USSR and the Kemalist republic in Turkey were among the most significant outcomes of the conflict. In Iran the eruption of the war increased foreign pressure, causing the long-standing rift in Iranian politics to widen. The central government was so divided and ridden by factions that the different cabinets that were formed never lasted more than a few months. And yet the central government itself was not the sole source of power in the country. As Blücher, a contemporary observer, put it, ‘there were two sources for exercising political power in the country, the official one which included the government and its connections, and the unofficial source’, which he explains consisted of ‘the national forces’.1 Following the approval of the Iranian Constitutional Code by the Qajar king in 1906, Anglo-Russian rivalry in Iran faded away, if only temporarily, and an agreement was concluded between the two great powers. According to the Anglo-Russian agreement of 1907, Iran was divided into three zones – Russian, British and neutral. In accordance with this agreement, in October 1910, Britain delivered an ultimatum to Iran concerning the security of southern Iran. In so doing, Britain set an example for the Russians to follow. Russian troops had already occupied the northern provinces. In November 1911 the Tsarist government presented its own ultimatum to Iran, which amounted to nothing less than an attempt to reduce the north of the country to the status of a semi-dependent colony.2 However, while the Iranian parliament, which enjoyed the support of the crowds in the street, resisted 1

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the Russian ultimatum, the fragile Iranian central government decided to accept the ultimatum and to dissolve parliament. The acceptance of the ultimatum and the dissolution of parliament seemed to be the only effective measure available to the deputies in face of the crisis that had arisen.3 Meanwhile the occupation of the north and south of Iran by Russian and British troops was to provoke the Ottoman forces to invade western and northwestern Iran early on in the war. If we add to this list of disasters the activities of the German agents, especially among the southern tribes, we begin to get an idea of how impotent the Iranian central government was during this period. The Iranian central government’s early reaction to the outbreak of the war was to declare Iran’s strict neutrality in the farman of 1 November 1914. But what sense was there in the central government’s announcing its neutrality when the Entente’s forces occupied a sizeable part of Iranian territory? When Mostofi al-Mamalek, the prime minister of Iran, approached the Russian authorities and asked them to withdraw their troops from Azerbaijan because their presence gave the Turks a pretext for invading Iran, ‘the Russian minister appreciated the Iranian viewpoint but inquired what guarantees could be given that after the withdrawal of Russian forces, the Turks would not bring in theirs’.4 Consequently the north and northwest of Iran became one of the major battlefields of the First World War. As part of their military strategy, the Russians, British and Ottomans all pursued policies aimed at stirring up or aggravating the existing animosities between the different ethnic and religious groupings in the province. Promises were made with regard to setting up sovereign states for Kurds, Assyrians, Armenians and Azerbaijani Muslims. Such manipulations led to extremely bloody and barbaric confrontations among these ethnic and religious groups. It seems clear that had Iran’s central government been strong and firmly established, it might have been well able to pursue a policy of neutrality. The fact is, however, that both the young king, Ahmad Shah Qajar, who was crowned in July 1914, and the cabinet of Mostofi al-Mamalek, were utterly impotent. As a result of their inability to remain neutral, some Iranians chose what they considered to be the safest path in seeking an alliance. Germany, because of its geographical distance, appeared to be a preferable ally. In contrast to the British, whose interests in India automatically made them pursue a policy of intervention in Iran, Germany at first sight seemed to present no direct threat. In its relations with Iran, Germany could even claim this advantage over the Russians and the Ottomans when they offered themselves as allies. It was true that the Germans ‘made persistent efforts to

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acquire a place in the sun, but they were always particularly cautious not to antagonize the Russians’.5 Anti-Russian and anti-British sentiments consequently made some Iranian Democrats see the Germans as suitable allies. When the Third Majles was convened in December 1914, 30 out of the 136 deputies were members of the Democrat Party.6 The pro-German activities of the Democrats were viewed with mistrust and dismay by the British and Russians who decided to increase the number of their occupying forces in Iran. The situation became so acute that the Russian troops stationed in Qazvin, 100 miles northwest of Tehran, marched on the capital, threatening to occupy it. The 30 Democrat deputies, accompanied by some journalists and influential E‘tedali (moderate) politicians, set out on their ‘long march’, first stopping in Qom where they formed the Komiteh-e Defa‘-e Melli (the National Defence Committee), then falling back to Kashan, and finally establishing themselves in Kermanshah, where they called themselves the ‘Iranian Provisional Government’. The Provisional Government, which had official recognition as the central power, and as such was the sole legitimate government of Iran, could not persist in face of the increased pressures brought to bear by the British. In 1916 Kermanshah fell to the Russian forces and the Provisional Government came to an end. Meanwhile, inspired by pan-Turkish and pan-Turanian sentiments (envisaging a greater united homeland for all Turkic people), the Ottomans opened a new front against the Entente forces in Azerbaijan. The immediate result was that Azerbaijan became one of the major battlefields of the First World War. As part of their military strategy, the Russians, British and Ottomans pursued policies aimed at stirring up or aggravating the existing animosities between the different ethnic and religious groups in the province. Promises were made with regard to setting up sovereign states for Kurds, Assyrians, Armenians and Azerbaijani Muslims. During the struggles of the Constitutional Revolution (1905–9), although Azerbaijan was split between reformist constitutionalists and conservative royalists, it had nonetheless been possible for Muslim Azerbaijanis to make common cause with the Christian Georgians and Armenian volunteers. Now, thanks to foreign manipulation, Azerbaijan became ‘a divided land’, where the heads of various tribes and communities were engaged in unifying the ummet-e Islam under the banner of Ettehad-e Islam (Unity of Islam).7 The Russian Revolution of February 1917 appeared to have a more immediate impact in northern Iran than in the south. Along with the general consternation among the Russian troops, what could be observed in Azerbaijan was a shift in attitude on the part of some units of the Russian

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army towards the local people. In Tabriz Russian soldaty began to address Tabrizis as ‘friend’ or ‘comrade’, but in the early days there was no real initiative from the Russians to spread the idea of radical change.8 Furthermore, seven years of war and continuous military occupation made the Azerbaijanis reluctant to react favourably to the Iranian social democrats’ call to join in the revolutionary surge descending from the north. By 1917 the Iranian social democrats in Baku, who had been engaged in clandestine political activities since the beginning of the war, announced the formation of their own independent political party, Ferqeh-e ‘Adalat (the Justice Party). In 1918 the Justice Party sent a group of 18 party members to Gilan, under the leadership of Asadollah Ghafarzadeh, first secretary of the party. Although the first attempt by the party to establish contact with Kuchik Khan, the leader of the Jangali rebel movement in Gilan, was a failure, the party soon sent a second group of 20 members to Gilan. In June 1920 the Justice Party held its first congress in Anzali, Gilan’s major port on the Caspian Sea.9 At this congress, consisting of 51 voting members, the Justice Party was renamed the Communist Party of Iran. While the spirit of communism was spreading its wings over the Caucasus, in neighbouring Anatolia pan-Turkism, having replaced the rival schools pan-Ottomanism and pan-Islamism, was flourishing. The outbreak of the First World War, with the Ottomans fighting Russia, paved the way for the spread of pan-Turkism. For the pan-Turkists the Russians were not only kafirs (infidels), but also invaders who had occupied areas south of the Caucasus, which were considered part of the Islamic Turkic homeland. Therefore the war against Russia could be promoted with all the sanctions of jihad. The Russian Revolution of 1917 and the collapse of the Russian Empire made many pan-Turkists believe that the time for liberating the fatherland and unifying the Turkish nation had come. Although this optimism did not last for very long and the Bolsheviks soon showed that they would not tolerate any territorial changes to their empire, nonetheless for some years the veteran partisans of pan-Turkism were still busy employing any possible means for realizing their old dream. However, contrary to their expectations, the achievements of pan-Turkists in Azerbaijan during and immediately after the First World War were not very impressive. Although the province remained for years under quasi-occupation by the Ottoman troops, their attempts to create a solid base of support among Azerbaijanis ended in failure. Following the Armistice of Mudros in October 1918, the Ottoman army finally began to withdraw from Iranian territory. In Istanbul the

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Committee of Union and Progress cabinet resigned and a new government was formed under Ahmed Izzet Pasha. This was the final nail in the coffin of pan-Turkism, pan-Turanism and pan-Islamism that the Young Turks so anxiously exploited during the last four years. The departure of all foreign troops, except the British, from Iranian soil, however, did not strengthen the power of the central government. In the north of the country – in Azerbaijan, Gilan and Khorasan – there were reform-minded individuals who believed that if they succeeded in launching regional campaigns to initiate reform in their own region, the same reforms would gradually spread throughout the whole country. The agenda of these regional campaigns did not include the call for secession, but rather these efforts represented an attempt to establish stable political power in Iran, while considering the question of a fair division of powers between the central government and local authorities throughout Iran. Besides Azerbaijan, Gilan and Khorasan, one could find other regional movements in the south and the west of the country, which although never seeking reform, nevertheless aimed at weakening the authority of the central government throughout the country. Simko’s revolt was one such regional movement. It is interesting to note that it was during this rather chaotic period of Iranian history that the political community of the country was gradually crafted. The emergence of the political community in modern Iran dates back to the turn of the twentieth century with the constitutional movement. During the Constitutional Revolution (1905–9), there was a widespread conviction that the path to social and political improvement lay in a firmly established, centralized government based on law and order. For at least a decade after the revolution, such political aspirations distinguished the constitutionalists from their conservative opponents, ‘the champions of despotism’. In the Constitutional Revolution, Iranians, regardless of their ethnic background, fought alongside one another against those forces that supported ‘lawlessness’ as well as against the absolute arbitrary power of the monarchy. They were united in their opposition to the state retaining its monopoly on decision-making. Their objective was not to divide this power among the different ethnic groups in the country in order to establish separate independent states based on ethnic identity. Although, in their view, the revolution was supposed to change the old power structure, which was centralized, arbitrary and despotic, the new government would still be centralized. Now, however, it would be rational and functional on the basis of a written constitution. The Iranian Constitutional Code was ratified in 1906. However, the period of the Lesser Despotism from June 1908 to July 1909 which followed

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Mohammad Ali Shah’s coup d’état was a decisive stage in the constitutional movement in Iran. Despite the fact that, for the time being at least, Mohammad Ali Shah’s coup successfully hindered the functioning of a constitutional government, the overall long-term effect of his violent intervention was to galvanize the movement. The propertied classes, who rather easily abandoned the barricades in the early days of the movement and, in some cases, even pretended that social harmony prevailed among the people, were now shocked into a new consciousness. It was glaringly clear that the constitutional movement had the capacity to bring about serious changes to the old, established socio-political structures. On the other hand, ordinary people were coming to realize that a constitutional government did not result in everyone ‘eating a kebab as long as the span of a hand’. The latter quotation refers to a statement made by one of the proponents of the revolution, Sheikh Salim. During the early days of the movement in Tabriz, he had assured the people that when the constitution came such would be the benefits that they would enjoy.10 By the outbreak of the First World War one could see in the country’s prevailing political discourse the gradual crafting of a sense of Iranian state patriotism and territorial nationalism. The fashioning of such territorial nationalism was mainly due to the survival of irredentist policies adopted by the great powers, threatening the country’s territorial integrity. For many Iranians, assuring territorial integrity was a necessary first step on the road to establishing the rule of law in society and a competent modern state, which would safeguard the collective as well as individual rights. On the eve of the outbreak of the war, many popular politicians were taking a stance in relation to the question of the country’s modernization. In the programme of his second cabinet, which was rejected by the Majles in 1914, Mostofi al-Mamalek proposed the following: the abolition of the old pensions system, the speedy completion of the new Constitutional Code, the founding of a secular law school to train personnel for the ministry of justice, the establishment of several schools for girls, and new laws concerning telegraphic communications.11 That same year, Moshir al-Dowleh presented his cabinet before the Third Majles with a programme that proposed ‘formulating commercial codes, enacting bankruptcy laws, the establishment of a teachers’ college for women, the adoption by all schools of a uniform curriculum and uniform textbooks, the gradual transformation of maktab-khanehs (religious schools) into secular elementary schools and the formation of a Chamber of Commerce’.12 The process of centralization in the 1930s, which included such harsh and disruptive measures as moving tens of thousands of nomads and forcing

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them to settle on the land, generally enjoyed the support of many members of the Iranian intelligentsia, who during the war and the immediate years after, promoted the idea that only a centralized, powerful (though not necessarily despotic) government would be capable of solving the country’s growing problems of underdevelopment, while at the same time safeguarding the nation’s unity and sovereignty.13 Thus, years before Reza Shah attained power, the blueprint for his future execution of reforms and changes throughout the country was there. During his 20-year rule (1921–41) Reza Shah achieved with stupendous consistency the realization of most of the demands voiced by the intelligentsia during the First World War. The failure of modernization in the nineteenth/early twentieth centuries, the setback that the Iranian constitutional movement suffered in the years before the outbreak of the First World War and indeed the outbreak of the First World War itself, left no choice for the vast majority of the urban population, in particular the middle classes and the intelligentsia, but to opt for a ‘man of order’, who, as an agent of the nation, would install a centralized, powerful (though not necessarily despotic) government capable of solving the country’s growing problems of underdevelopment, while at the same time safeguarding the nation’s unity and sovereignty. If in the early period social egalitarianism, political pluralism and romantic territorial nationalism inspired the new-born intelligentsia in their efforts to initiate change and reform, for the new generation of the intelligentsia, who were more preoccupied with the ideas of modern and centralized state building, political authoritarianism granted the indispensable driving force for accomplishing their aspirations.

2

The Iranian Provisional Government Mansoureh Ettehadiyyeh The First World War began in Europe in August 1914. Three months later Ottoman Turkey declared war on the side of Germany and Austria. It was this step, no doubt, that made Germany look east. German war strategy was to reach India and Afghanistan and to encourage rebellion against British rule there. To this end German agents began to agitate in Iran, and six months after the beginning of the war they were distributing arms and propagating anti-British and anti-Russian information among the tribes of western Iran. In the meantime the presence of the Russian forces, inside Iran since 1910, gave the Turks the excuse to invade the country.1 On 1 November 1914 the newly crowned Qajar king Ahmad Shah declared Iran’s neutrality,2 which was reiterated by each successive government thereafter. But it was obvious that unless Russian forces evacuated Iranian territory, neutrality was useless, especially as Iran had no force to implement this policy. In fact none of the belligerents or the Iranian nationalists, especially the Democrats,3 who wanted Iran to declare war on the Allies, respected the neutrality the government had declared. Together with the difficulty of implementing the policy of neutrality, the Iranian government was beset by a number of insoluble problems. Russia and Britain, onetime rivals who had settled their differences by the 1907 treaty,4 controlled Iran’s political and financial affairs. But the treaty did not end their rivalry and distrust of each other, and German activity upset the old rules of the game by bringing a new element into the Iranian political scene to which Democrats and nationalists, who had long felt humiliated by the imperialist powers, could now appeal. During the war, German policy towards Iran and the East in general suffered from a number of drawbacks. Often the aims of the German High Command did not coincide with those of their representatives in the field. Furthermore it was never very clear whether the Germans aimed at Iran or Afghanistan. Nor was there an open way for arms, ammunition and help to be sent to Iran; Germany often promised these things but rarely 9

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supplied them.5 Besides, the Germans were newcomers to the scene, whereas the British and Russians had years of experience and many friends in Iran. Another obstacle was the fact that the Germans depended for much of their information on the Committee of Iranian Nationalists in Berlin,6 headed by Sayyed Hasan Taqizadeh, which was often out of touch with reality in Iran7 and was influenced by the policies of individual members who did not always see eye to eye with the leaders of the movement. But perhaps the most important difficulty faced by the Germans, which was the ultimate cause of their lack of success in Iran, was their distrust of and rivalry with the Turks. Turkish aims in Iran did not coincide with those of the Germans. They intended to instigate an uprising under the banner of Islam, which would ultimately penetrate Afghanistan and India and challenge the British and Russians. They also wanted to have precedence over the Germans in the East.8 At the beginning of the war the Turks invaded Azerbaijan. Later they invaded southwestern Iran, in response to which the British landed a force to safeguard the Abadan oilfields, despite the objections of the Iranian government. The Turks declared a holy war, or jihad, in September 1914 to unite the Muslims in Iran, India and Afghanistan in a pan-Islamic front, and propagated it widely in Iran.9 This was a cause of worry for the British and Russians, though it was mainly unsuccessful and did not find an echo in Iran. The ulama in general, however, favoured war against the British and Russians. In October 1915 the Germans and Turks agreed to unite their war efforts and their forces in Iran under the leadership of Marshall Von Der Goltz, who was appointed commander in chief of the German and Turkish operations in Iran. The Iranian government was weak and cabinets changed at frequent intervals, as none could obtain sufficient support in the Majles, which had convened on 7 December 1914 while ‘Ala al-Saltaneh was prime minister. He was replaced by Mostofi al-Mamalek, who declared Iran’s neutrality and tried in vain to obtain Russian withdrawal from Iranian territories. Both policies failed and he resigned in favour of Moshir al-Dowleh in March 1915, but the life of the latter’s cabinet was short as he wanted to strictly implement the policy of neutrality with regards to all the belligerents. This was unacceptable to the Allies, and he too had to resign.10 He was replaced by Ain al-Dowleh, whose minister of the interior, Farmanfarma, who was known for his sympathies towards the British, was impeached and the cabinet had to resign.11 The excuse for the impeachment was the Turkish invasion of western Iran by Rauf Bey, which in fact had occurred during the previous cabinet.12 The real cause of the impeachment, however, was the

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opposition of the Democrats, who wanted him removed from the ministry. The round was completed when once again Mostofi al-Mamalek was appointed premier in August 1915 after a month and a half of crisis. His cabinet included a number of Democrat ministers. Meanwhile German agitations and activities were increasing, as was German popularity among the nationalists. This was well demonstrated by the welcome that Prince Reuss, the German ambassador, and Logoteti, the Austrian ambassador, received when they reached Tehran in April 1915.13 Mostofi pursued a two-edged policy. On the one hand he began talks with the British14 for a loan and the withdrawal of Russian forces, and on the other he negotiated in secret with the Germans for a treaty of cooperation. Already during his previous ministry he had negotiated unofficially with the German chargé d’affaires, as had Ain al-Dowleh, but now Mostofi suggested to the Germans that they guarantee Iran’s independence and territorial integrity by making a loan and expediting arms, ammunition, money and officers.15 If these terms were met, Mostofi was ready to declare war on the Allies. He further stipulated that if these terms were not met, and especially if the guarantee was not accorded, he would have to ask the Germans to put a stop to their activities in Iran. In order to show their good will the Germans secured the withdrawal of Rauf Bey at this time. But they were not ready to agree to more, and the German answer was noncommittal. They stipulated that they would only ally with Iran when Iran was ready militarily. However, they added, they would help financially. Again Mostofi asked for financial and military help. The final answer was that if the Iranians declared war on the Allies, the Germans would support its independence and territorial integrity during the peace negotiations.16 The beginning of the emigration Although these negotiations were undertaken secretly, the Allies discovered the plan,17 and the Russians, who had been landing forces at Anzali since August, began to march on Tehran on 7 November 1915,18 causing a great panic in the capital. The German, Ottoman and Austrian envoys had quit Tehran the day before, and now Mostofi asked the Majles deputies and the Democrats and all the opponents of the Allies to leave. He also began to plan for the shah to leave the capital.19 Forty-four deputies, many newspaper editors, a large contingent of the Gendarmerie and all those who feared the Russians left the capital and went to Qom. This movement became known as the ‘emigration’. However, the shah was dissuaded from leaving by the British and Russian envoys and a number of influential politicians. Mostofi then tried to persuade the deputies to return, but did not succeed,

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and the Majles closed through lack of a quorum.20 Mostofi then resigned, being succeeded on December 1915 by Farmanfarma, the pro-British statesman. The Allies thereby regained their supremacy in the capital, especially as Prince Reuss did not return. In Qom in the meantime, the Muhajerin (emigrants) backed by the Germans organized a National Defence Committee21 headed by Suleyman Mirza, the leader of the Democrats. The political parties also organized a coalition,22 though party strife, which had been a characteristic of the Third Majles, continued between the Moderates on the one hand and the Democrats on the other. For the moment, however, Suleyman Mirza had the lead and the allegiance of most of the deputies, and he was close to the Germans upon whom the Muhajerin depended for financial help.23 The Muhajerin sent emissaries to other cities to invite people to join their cause and began to build a force and to coordinate their war efforts, as the possibility of a Russian attack was imminent. They also began to envisage setting up a government of their own. Ever since the Germans had begun to pay attention to Iran as a possible link to India and Afghanistan, or as a possible ally, German agents had begun to operate in different areas in Iran, agitating among the tribes,24 propagating their message and organizing a force in western Iran. Count Kaunitz,25 the German military attaché, was particularly active in this respect. He established close contacts with the tribes, the Gendarmes and the Democrats, and successfully raised a force, as he was convinced that there would be a general uprising, which, however, never materialized fully. As this force was in need of a leader, Kaunitz cast his eyes on Nezam alSaltaneh, the governor of Luristan who was known for his anti-British feelings.26 Nezam al-Saltaneh takes the leadership of the Muhajerin Nezam al-Saltaneh was a statesman of the old school, with long years of administrative experience and important governorships, who was perhaps not sure if democracy worked in Iran.27 Suleyman Mirza, who had hitherto taken the lead in the Muhajerat, was not of the same calibre. Though he was of Qajar descent, and a party member with socialist ideas who had been active in the Majles as leader of the Democrat Party since the Second Majles, he was not in the same position as Nezam al-Saltaneh. Nor was there any sympathy between the two. In the political atmosphere of the war years, and indeed even from the time of the Constitutional Revolution, political leadership and posts of importance had remained in the hands of the members of the aristocracy and the princely class, who could muster a

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force from their estates if need be, and had enough influence and following in the country to win over support by non-political means. Suleyman Mirza, despite his lineage, had neither the experience nor the wealth, and it was no accident that the Germans turned to Nezam. Indeed Nezam had also been approached by the Muhajerin from Qom, who also asked him to take the leadership of the movement.28 Kaunitz held several meetings with Nezam in Burujerd, and started negotiations with him in August 1915. Nezam agreed to take the command of the force Kaunitz was organizing on condition that the German foreign ministry acknowledge the agreement as official. The Germans were also to provide money and arms for the Iranian forces and to pay the cost of any damage suffered during the war and to return to Iran any areas that had been liberated from the enemy.29 On 26 December 1915, when the Muhajerat to Qom began, Kaunitz again visited Nezam on his own initiative and enacted a second agreement with him. Some of the articles stipulated that Nezam would lead the national revolt against Russia and Britain until the enactment of a peace treaty. Germany undertook to put German and Turkish soldiers and officers, arms and ammunition at Nezam’s disposal and to pay for the cost of the war. It was further agreed that if the war extended to Kermanshah, Kurdistan and Isfahan, the Germans would guarantee the territorial integrity of Iran for 20 years, and Nezam’s participation in the war should be considered as the fulfilment of this condition. The German government would also pay 20,000 tuman monthly to Nezam for his political expenses and Nezam would consider such sums as a loan to the Iranian government. Nezam undertook to arm and prepare a force of 400 men by January 1916. Henceforth he began to organize a force despite the fact that the promised German help was not forthcoming.30 In the meantime the Russians began a two-pronged attack, targeting Saveh and Hamedan in order to cut off the route to western Iran. Hence the Muhajerin in Qom were faced with being encircled with no escape route, and so made their way to Isfahan where they were received with great enthusiasm, though it was reported that people feared they might provoke a Russian attack on the city.31 Hamedan fell to the Russians on 3 December 1915, and the forces of Kaunitz were defeated at Avej and fell back towards Asadabad with the Russians on their heels. At that time only Nezam had come to his aid.32 Once again the Muhajerin had to move on. While in Isfahan they had been informed by Nezam al-Saltaneh that he had taken the leadership of the movement, and he invited them to join him in Kermanshah where a National Defence Committee had been established.33

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The Muhajerin in Kermanshah and Qasr-e Shirin The Muhajerin set off to Kermanshah, where they arrived in small groups at the end of January 1916, after great hardship. In Kermanshah the council of the Muhajerin accepted the leadership of Nezam al-Saltaneh, and a Provisional Government, which had originally been suggested by the Germans in December, was organized.34 Several meetings were held and the organization of the Provisional Government proceeded smoothly,35 though it did not become official as yet. The Muhajerin were not destined to stay long in that city, as the Russians defeated the Iranians at Kangavar and the Muhajerin left for Qasr-e Shirin in March 1916. During their stay in Qasr, the Provisional Government became official and received the greetings of the German and Ottoman emperors.36 The organization of the Provisional Government consisted of a cabinet headed by Nezam, with six ministers, all deputies of the Third Majles, who were responsible for foreign affairs, internal affairs, posts and telegraphy, finance, public works and justice. The members of the cabinet included members of the Democrat and Moderate parties, and, despite differences of opinion, they cooperated together for a time. Another body, the Hey’at-e Namayandegan (Council of Peoples’ Representatives) consisting of about 20 deputies, was also set up as a second chamber, which held regular meetings.37 The problems facing this government were many fold. The help the Germans had promised had not arrived and the Turkish forces sent were not much help. And the Russian advance made the repeated defeats of the Muhajerin all the more glaring. They were fighting a lost battle and were becoming demoralized. In fact there are many reports of quarrels between them.38 Other difficulties stemmed from the lack of cooperation between the rival parties, the problems of administration, lack of funds and the difficulties of life during the war. More important was the relationship with the Germans, especially the question of the alliance. Count Kaunitz, who had been the architect of the alliance with Nezam al-Saltaneh, had disappeared in the aftermath of the defeat of Kangavar, and it was assumed that he had taken his own life.39 Prince Reuss, the German ambassador who had accompanied the Muhajerin to Qom, had also been dismissed on 18 December 1915.40 He was replaced by Dr Vassel, whose task it now was to renegotiate a new treaty with Nezam al-Saltaneh, as the German government maintained that Kaunitz had not had the necessary authority to enact the agreement and had made promises on his own initiative. Nezam al-Saltaneh wanted his government to be recognized and legitimized and needed an agreement to justify his actions. The model of any

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demand he made was the abortive agreement with Mostofi al-Mamalek, which had never been ratified. The difficulty was that whereas the legitimacy of the actual agreement was in question, Vassel, who sympathized with Nezam, wanted to persuade his government that Nezam had fulfilled his side of the agreement by entering the war. Nezam too argued that the battle the Muhajerin were waging was to be considered Iran’s entry into the war, but the German government wanted the Iranians to declare war on the Allies and was absolutely unwilling to give the guarantee, though it did not declare so openly and asked Vassel to play for time.41 As the Germans were procrastinating, Nezam al-Saltaneh sent his own envoy, Vahid al-Molk, to Berlin to negotiate with the Germans in the hope of better terms.42 On 31 January 1916 Vassel made it known to Nezam that if Iran did not enter the war, German guarantees would be annulled, but he also wrote a more or less reassuring letter stipulating that there was no doubt that during the war Iran would fight on the side of the Germans.43 This was not what the Iranians wanted. They blamed the Germans for their defeats and the Germans blamed the Iranians for not fighting better, although no help had reached them. At this juncture everyone was blaming everybody else, and Nezam did not escape criticism. In fact it seems that there was a plot to murder Nezam, which was discovered in time.44 German intransigence had the effect of bringing about a rapprochement between Nezam al-Saltaneh and the Turks.45 It seems that there was a shift in Turkish policy and henceforth they took a more active role in Iran. Their support of Nezam strengthened the latter’s position, which was growing weak because of the defeats the Muhajerin were suffering, but it also had the effect of exacerbating the relationship between Nezam and the Germans and the Democrats. In April Marshall Von Der Goltz died and a Turkish commander, Khalil Pasha, was appointed in his stead, which was a sign of the precedence of the Turkish position over the German.46 The retreat of the Muhajerin to Iraq In late April 1916, with the advance of the Russians towards Qasr-e Shirin, the Muhajerin had to leave and make their way to Iraq. Once there they were invited by Enver Pasha, the Turkish minister of war, to proceed to Baghdad.47 In Baghdad, Vassel, who had fallen sick, was replaced by Rudolf Nadolny as chargé d’affaires. During his stay in Iraq Nezam al-Saltaneh and his followers grew even closer to the Turks, which in turn aggravated still further their relationship with the Democrats and the Germans. Thus a number of the followers of Suleyman Mirza, who was closer to the Germans, dissociated themselves from him and joined Nezam and his government, which

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continued to function as it had in Qasr. During the period the Muhajerin stayed in Baghdad, the leadership of Nezam al-Saltaneh was confirmed, and Suleyman Mirza lost all his influence among the Muhajerin except for a few adherents among the members of the Committee of Iranian Nationalists in Berlin. The membership of the cabinet also underwent a change and the Democrats were ousted.48 Though there is no evidence of any actual accusation by Suleyman Mirza against Nezam, there are a number of letters by Kazemzadeh, one of the members of the Berlin Committee who was with the Muhajerin and who was close to Suleyman Mirza, addressed to the German foreign ministry, which were not answered. He also wrote to Taqizadeh stating the condition of the Democrats and their relationship with the other Muhajerin. He had a negative opinion of Nezam al-Saltaneh, though he thought his presence was necessary from the point of view of keeping the National Defence Committee alive. He thought Dr Vassel knew nothing of the conditions in Iran, but was on good terms with Nezam. He also wrote that the eclipse of the Democrats was due to intrigues and enmity and complained of attacks against Suleyman Mirza by the members of the cabinet. He even complained that in Baghdad they were put under police surveillance and were forbidden any activity.49 During the time the Muhajerin stayed in Iraq a number of treaties were negotiated between the Iranians, the Turks and the Germans in order to clarify the changed situation. In May Enver Pasha came to Baghdad to plan a forthcoming attack on the Russians in Iran. He also took the opportunity to meet Nezam in a very secret meeting in the Shrine of Kazemeyn.50 At this meeting, attended only by Nezam, Sayyed Hasan Modarres and Mohammad Ali Salar Mo‘azam, the two leaders promised to cooperate and to negotiate a political and a military agreement, which was enacted in June. Few of the Muhajerin heard about this meeting, and the Germans seemed to have heard of only one article of it. In the same month, a military alliance was negotiated between the Germans, the Turks and the Iranians, and at the same time the Turks and the Germans negotiated a new treaty for military cooperation in Iran.51 All these treaties had the effect of putting the Germans in a secondary position with regard to the Turks, which was resented by Rudolf Nadolny, the new chargé d’affaires. When Nadolny took over from Vassel, he wrote a long memorandum to the German foreign ministry, dated June 1916, in which he set out his view of the state of affairs. From this it becomes clear that the Germans still had two divergent policies. On the one hand they were still thinking of Afghanistan and India, Iran being a bridge in this scheme. On the other hand they wanted to ally with Iran, but this had the disadvantage

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of exacerbating relations with the Russians even more. Nadoly suggested that Iran should be considered as a bridge and used for ulterior motives. He was of the opinion that if Iran declared war on the Allies, it would no doubt increase Russian aggression. Therefore the guarantees the Germans gave should be limited to a promise to help Iran in her efforts to free herself from Russian and British dominance and to support her in the recognition of her independence and territorial integrity in a future peace conference. Also to safeguard German interests,52 they should stop a military occupation of Iran by Russia and Britain by taking on the leadership of a Turkish and Iranian force to advance into Iran. These ideas put forward by Nadolny to his government did not augur well for the Muhajerin, who in fact were sceptical about him even before they had met him. The stay of the Muhajerin outside Iran lasted six months. In June 1916 Ali Ihsan Bey, the commander of the Turkish forces, began his attack against the Russians inside Iran, and by July he had taken Kermanshah. A month later he was in Hamedan. The Muhajerin returned in the wake of the Turks and set up their government once again in Kermanshah. As mentioned earlier, when the Muhajerin left Tehran the influence of the Allies became once more paramount and Mostofi al-Mamalek resigned in December 1915, to be replaced by Farmanfarma for a period of four months. He was followed in March by the pro-Russian Sepahsalar, who agreed to the formation of the South Persia Rifles, the increase of the Cossack Brigade and a mixed commission to control the expenditure of the sum of money the Allies were paying the government of the shah as a moratorium.53 The shah dismissed the unpopular Sepahsalar in August and appointed Vosuq al-Dowleh, who was more amenable to the British. But when the Muhajerin returned to Kermanshah for the second time, the government of Sepahsalar was still in power.54 The second stay of the Muhajerin in Kermanshah On the way back, even before they had reached Kermanshah, the Provisional Government’s meetings in Kerend became regular and the proceedings were once again recorded. In a simple nondescript blue notebook, all cabinet discussions were written down by Adib al-Saltaneh, acting minister of the interior.55 The second stay of the Muhajerin in Kermanshah lasted for seven months. The territory administered by the Provisional Government included Kermanshah, Hamedan, Kurdistan, Luristan and Iraq. The city of Kermanshah was to be the centre of the administration, but it was stated that henceforth wherever the Provisional Government was stationed

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would be considered the centre of the administration. The Government still consisted of two bodies as before, the cabinet and the assembly, or Hey’at-e Namayandegan, with 20 members, which acted as a consultative body and seems to have been under the influence of Suleyman Mirza, though it was headed by Sayyed Hasan Modarres, a moderate cleric close to Nezam. It is most likely that Modarres was the link between Nezam and the cabinet and assembly. However it is interesting to note that he seems not to have trusted the assembly, for he suggested they should not divulge the discussions of the cabinet to the assembly. One of the duties of this assembly was to oversee the budget, which was submitted to it by the cabinet; so there must have been more contact between them that we can judge from the discussions recorded in the proceedings. The Hey’at-e Hokumat-e Movaqat or the Provisional Government, headed by Nezam al-Saltaneh, and which acted as a cabinet, was a more important body. Its membership was the same as in Baghdad. Except for Nezam’s son and son-in-law, who were very young men, the others members were men with political and administrative experience. Nezam’s eldest son, Mohammad Ali Salar Mo‘azam, who had studied in Moscow and Belgium and was versed in European law, acted as minister of foreign affairs. His son-in-law, ‘Abbas Mirza Salar Lashkar, who had studied military sciences in England and France, now acted as minister of war, but the actual title was held by Nezam himself. ‘Abbas Mirza was the son of Farmanfarma, and as such a number of the Muhajerin did not trust him much, and perhaps this was why he did not attend the cabinet meetings.56 No doubt the presence of two members of Nezam’s family in the cabinet gave him great leverage among the other members. Sayyed Hasan Modarres, deputy in the Second and Third Majles, was the minister of justice. Haj ‘Ez al-Mamalek, the deputy for Kermanshah in the Second and Third Majles, was minister of public works, Mohammad Ali Kolub (Farzin), deputy for Hamedan, was minister of finance and Adib al-Saltaneh, deputy for Rasht, was minister of the interior. These had all been Democrats who had defected to Nezam alSaltaneh. Qasem Khan Sur-e Israfil, a moderate and deputy for Shahriyar, was minister of posts and telegraphy. A minister of education was to be appointed later. Each member had been receiving 150-tuman salaries but at this juncture it was increased to 300. The relationship between the cabinet and the assembly was not friendly, and the cabinet seems to have kept the Namayandegan in the dark as to most of its discussions and decisions, probably because of the influence of Suleyman Mirza. It was only when the cabinet met with insurmountable difficulties with Nadoly that it turned to the Namayandegan for support.

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The Provisional Government declared its allegiance to the shah and that they governed in his name, stating that, as the shah had no freedom of action, they would go to Tehran and rescue him. They wrote to him to express their allegiance, to explain their aims and those of Turkey and to seek his support.57 The shah in fact replied that he still adhered to his letter of 17 November addressed to the kaiser that when Turkey won the war he would join the Central Powers.58 It is interesting to note that when originally the advance on Tehran was being discussed, Nezam declared that it was unseemly to go in the wake of the Turks and that they would have to go separately. Thus very early on, the Muhajerin began to correspond in coded messages59 with some of the politicians in Tehran and write to Mostofi, to the speaker of the Majles and to a number of former deputies, to try to propagate their policy and win adherents there.60 However, the Turkish army never advanced beyond Hamedan,61 and the Muhajerin therefore were limited to Kermanshah and western Iran. In fact the Muhajerin were cut off from Tehran and news reached them only sporadically. Although Nezam wielded a great influence among the members of the cabinet, decisions were taken democratically and after everyone had discussed the point under review. At times passions could run high, especially when they faced difficult decisions, but they were usually restrained and relations were generally friendly. In fact Nezam declared that he trusted no one but his colleagues in the cabinet. He asked them to be discreet and maintained that he followed the will of the people. Modarres said that they should establish rules of procedure and should behave as a united front. The cabinet met every day except Mondays and Fridays. Sometimes when there was too much business, they had two meetings a day. Some informal meetings were also held when there was an emergency. A roll call of members was kept and it was decided that anyone who came late should be fined two qeran. At the beginning of each session the previous session’s decisions and discussions were read to the members. The cabinet and Nezam himself had their opponents and enemies, such as some members of the Committee of Iranian Nationalists in Berlin and Suleyman Mirza who resented Nezam’s position.62 There were often mentions of ‘intrigues’ in the discussions of the cabinet and Nezam complained they did not let them perform their duties as they should. Once he expressed his frustration saying: ‘Suleyman Mirza and his adherents worked day and night to cause their failure.’ As in Qasr-e Shirin some difficulties were due to local rivalries, the presence of the Turkish army, the result of the war and the ensuing privations. Some of the difficulties, however, emanated from the opposition and enmity of the Democrats, the interference of the Committee

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of Iranian Nationalists in Berlin and the German chargé d’affaires Nadolny’s unyielding character and lack of sympathy for the cause of the Muhajerin and in particular for Nezam and his suspicions of Fevzi Bey, the military attaché of the Ottoman embassy in Tehran. The Muhajerin, aware of their ultimate weakness, were of the opinion that they should be lenient in all matters and should not aggravate the situation by their behaviour or decisions. The worst punishment they gave to their opponents or those accused of plotting Nezam’s murder was banishment.63 The Provisional Government performed all the duties of a national government and enforced the laws that were passed previously by the Third Majles, such as the press laws and the law on the opium trade. Its main aim was to establish a viable and modern democratic government, which to a certain extent was successfully accomplished despite many financial difficulties to be explained later. There were also discussions about establishing a national bank and giving a railway concession, but these remained on the wish list. It is interesting to note that Nadolny, who was always negative, reported that Nezam al-Saltaneh appointed governors on his own initiative for Hamedan, Borujerd and Dowlatabad and collected taxes. However, according to the proceedings we see that every decision was discussed in the cabinet and made collectively. Besides, the appointment of governors and the raising of taxes fell within the duties of any government and had nothing unusual about them. In the sphere of internal affairs, the cabinet acted as the legitimate government of the country, collected taxes, determined the budget and the salary of each governor or employee, appointed governors (who often procrastinated about going to their provinces), and established relationships with the tribes whose loyalty was not always dependable, such as Vali of Posht-e Kuh, who governed part of Luristan. The cabinet dealt with questions of health, education, posts and roads, and dispensed justice. Among the papers of Nezam al-Saltaneh there are references to several schools and a hospital they had opened. The government had some achievements, such as establishing the telegraph line between Kurdistan and Kermanshah, the responsibility of Sur-e Israfil, minister for posts and telegraphy, and building the road from Kermanshah to Qasr-e Shirin, the responsibility of Adib al-Saltaneh.64 Some of the problems faced by the cabinet were rather petty, such as the trial of a thief who had stolen several horses or the fate of the post carriage that had fallen into Russian hands. But gradually as things began to deteriorate between Nadolny and the cabinet, there is less mention of such minor matters.

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One particular policy of the Provisional Government, which has not been discussed before, was the unilateral abolition of the capitulations, which gave European nationals particular privilege during a trial. This privilege had always been a sign of imperial power and was irksome to the Iranians. A demand for the abrogation of the capitulations had been included in the agreement of Kaunitz and Nezam and it was also included in a letter written to Nawab, the Iranian representative in Berlin who had been appointed by the government in Tehran. Now it was decided to dissolve the kargozaris, who represented the foreign ministry and who held the courts where foreigners were tried, and to set up regular courts with judges to try foreigners. It was argued that there was no need for the kargozaris any longer and that they were replacing one Iranian court with another. This decision, however, was contested by Nadolny, who made it conditional on further judicial reforms to be undertaken with German assistance. Nadolny was right when he maintained that there was a need first to enact new laws and judicial reforms before abrogating the capitulations. Modarres, too, was aware of this and suggested this should be limited to criminal courts for the moment, as they had insufficient means to effect such a wide-ranging reform, but this move was popular and he did not contest it. The Turks were more positive and accepted the abrogation of the capitulations, which was considered a great victory by the Provisional Government. The most difficult problems facing the Provisional Government in its internal affairs were financial. These consisted of the inability to collect taxes, the lack of a definite budget and the cessation of foreign trade. The war and the presence of the Turkish troops exacerbated these conditions. The troops had to be paid, and the Muhajerin, whose numbers increased as time went on, all received a salary, but German financial help was not forthcoming, and there was a lot of talk of the need to economize. For instance, it was decided to abolish the municipality of Kermanshah on the grounds that it was not necessary and that the police force was sufficient. A few months later, in view of the dirty condition of the city and the difficulty of providing food, it was decided to reinstate the municipality. There was also a discussion on whether the director of the municipality should be elected or appointed; it was said that because of unrest in the town it was better to appoint him and not to give an excuse for upheaval by electing a mayor. According to the agreement between Kaunitz and Nezam al-Saltaneh, the Germans had agreed to pay a sum of 20,000 tuman monthly, but the Iranians had received this payment only twice.65 These financial difficulties were not unconnected to the foreign relations of the Muhajerin, particularly with the Germans. The cabinet was quite aware of its own weakness

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and dependence on Turkish help but especially the financial support of the Germans, and tried to maintain a friendly and balanced relationship with both sides. The relationship between the Provisional Government and the Turks At this time some politicians thought that the Turks had territorial ambitions in Iran,66 considering their invasion of Iranian territory at the beginning of the war and their subsequent declaration of pan-Islamic and pan-Turkist policies. However, historians such as Ahmad Kasravi and Yahya Dowlatabadi have questioned this view. The members of the Provisional Government did not express any fears, though they might have had their suspicions. One member once said that they should benefit from the Turks while the war lasted. Nezam al-Saltaneh admonished those who were suspicious of the Turks, saying that many things went wrong because of such suspicions, but on two occasions he expressed his own doubts on the matter. Once he told Vassel that he feared ‘the Turks might gradually suck in Iran’.67 On another occasion he told Nadolny that he could not accept his demand to be consulted, for fear that the Turks would ask for the same privilege. The Turks on several occasions stated that they had no ulterior motives or designs in Iran, and Vahid al-Molk, passing through Baghdad, had been reassured in this respect.68 Furthermore the Islamic turn given to their relationship with the Iranians was no doubt done with the purpose of allaying Iranian suspicions, as when the meeting between Enver Pasha and Nezam was held in the Shrine of Kazemeyn, and the Heydari sword was sent to Nezam in Kermanshah by the Shiite ulama of the ‘Atabat as a sign of solidarity with Iran.69 This was received on 26 November 1916 in great pomp, as described by Blücher, the secretary to the German mission. According to him, this was the apogee of Nezam’s career. He felt optimistic and apparently expressed hope in his speech.70 In fact there was a lot of emphasis on the Islamic unity of the two peoples. There were many complaints about Turkish behaviour, however, especially in respect of their interference in the internal affairs of Iran. They tried to appoint governors for various provinces, or to make contact with private individuals. They did not pay for the goods they bought or for the telegrams they sent and declined to pay the rent due to Iranian landlords. The Turks offered to build the telegraph line from Kermanshah to Kurdistan, but the Iranians refused to accept this. In general, however, the relationship was smoother than that with Nadolny. Nezam had no problem with Fevzi Bey, but Ali Ihsan Bey, the commander of the Turkish forces in Hamedan, was blamed for many of the problems between the Muhajerin and the Turks. On

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one occasion Nezam had called him mad, and said that if Nadolny had not occupied his time he would have gone to Turkey to complain about him to Enver Pasha. The relationship between the Provisional Government and the Germans The relationship with the Germans, and in particular Nadolny, was of another order. There was no trust between Nezam and the German chargé d’affaires, who at one time tried to have Nezam replaced by Mokhber alSaltaneh. Nezam thought Nadolny was being influenced by Suleyman Mirza, and Nadolny thought Nezam was under the influence of Fevzi Bey, whom he also tried to replace. Nadolny would have preferred to negotiate with the shah’s government and considered the leadership of Nezam to be only temporary. He was not even ready to recognize the legitimacy of the Provisional Government. Nezam, on the other hand, tried to negotiate directly with the Germans through his own representative, Vahid al-Molk, who had reached Berlin in September 1916. It is interesting to note that in Berlin Vahid al-Molk was assisted by Hussein Qoli Khan Nawab, the representative of the central government, and that Nezam also corresponded with him and asked for his support in his dealings with the German government.71 The crux of the matter lay around the question of the guarantee Nezam wanted and which the Germans were not ready to grant. Nadolny maintained that neither Kaunitz nor Vassel were authorized to accept the conditions they had. Nezam had the letters of Vassel to prove that he had accepted some kind of agreement by stating that Iran would be on the side of the Germans in the war, but to no avail. However, the Iranians made it known that they would accept nothing less than guarantees. During their stay in Kermanshah the discussions over this point continued in vain. Gradually the Iranians came to the conclusion that the Germans did not have a clear policy towards Iran. Some members thought it was their own fault, as they could not decide which side to work with – the Turks or the Germans. However, they were all on their guard not to abandon Iran’s interests and prestige. In fact the members of the cabinet were at a loss what to do. They did not wish to break with Nadolny,72 who they believed was seeking just such a pretext. They tried moderation and emphasized that all their decisions were taken unanimously and that Nadolny was not dealing with Nezam alone. The demands by the Iranians were thus formulated: a German, Austrian and Turkish guarantee of Iran’s independence and territorial integrity for 20 years, the abrogation of all the treaties and concessions made by Iran to

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the Allies, and precedence for the Central Powers for a period of 20 years to obtain concessions. The same conditions were conveyed to Vahid al-Molk in Berlin to be put before the German government, but Vahid was rebutted and told that the negotiations were to be continued in Kermanshah. This never-ending contest had come to a standstill, when, at the end of January, Nadolny presented the Provisional Government with an ultimatum and threatened to leave. This will be discussed below. Nadolny’s distrust of the government of Nezam and his lack of goodwill permeated every aspect of his relationship with the Provisional Government. An example of this distrust is well illustrated from the reports Nadolny sent home about the plot against the life of Nezam, which is repeated by Gehrke, the historian of Germany’s Eastern policy.73 Once the Muhajerin returned to Kermanshah, it seems that another plot of a more serious nature was afoot, which was discovered, and a number of people were arrested, tried and condemned to death. Nadolny expressed doubts about this episode and treated the whole affair as a comedy set up by Nezam to weaken Suleyman Mirza. Gehrke, basing his conclusions on these reports, writes that the tyrannical behaviour of Nezam is proven by his dealing with the question of the plot. However, we know from the proceedings that Nezam actually left the decision for the punishment of the culprits to the cabinet.74 In fact all the culprits were sent into exile. One point of contest between Nadolny and the Provisional Government concerned the German officers who were to train the Iranian Gendarmerie. The terms of the agreement negotiated in Baghdad were not too clear and caused great problems with Nadolny. In Kermanshah it was agreed that the Turks would train the army and the Germans the Gendarmerie.75 The Turks were absorbed in the Iranian army and caused no problem, but Nadolny wanted to retain the Germans as distinct from the other forces, and contested this point with Nezam. The Provisional Government maintained that they could discuss nothing until the question of the guarantee was settled. Nadolny’s threat to leave, however, upset everything and the government had to find a quick solution. Another more important point of contest concerned the financial aid the Germans were to give the government. To the Iranians it was not clear whether this money was to be considered a loan or a gift. Nadolny had arrived to Kermanshah with gold and money. Iranian and Turkish coins had been struck in Germany, and four million marks of German paper money were printed with an Iranian emblem to make them acceptable in Iran. A bank was also established and won people’s trust, as they could exchange their paper money for silver.76 Nadolny, however, made the grant-

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ing of financial aid conditional on his right to oversee the expenditure of the money and the government’s budget. The members discussed this at length and Modarres, who had a low opinion of Nadolny, said that if he had a control over their budget he could control people. In fact he was most outspoken about him, and thought he wanted to break up the government. One member suggested that if the Germans refused to pay they would just have to do without them. However Haj ‘Ez al-Mamalek retorted that they should forget their feelings and allow the Germans to see their budget. Other members of the cabinet were for a compromise and it was decided to let Nadolny see their monthly budget, but no more. Nadolny, however, was not satisfied, for he wanted to act as adviser and to control the budget. Nezam and his cabinet tried to resist, and quarrels ensued between the members at this time, which was unprecedented. Nadolny presented his ultimatum on 22 January 1916, and threatened to quit Kermanshah and to move to Hamedan. By then the Muhajerin had received no financial aid for some time and had been obliged to economize as much as they could. The announcement by Nadolny that he was about to leave was received with great consternation by the cabinet. Relations between the German and the government had thus reached an impasse. It was obvious to the Iranians that they should not allow a break up, but Nadolny was adamant. It was at this juncture that the members of the cabinet referred, albeit reluctantly, to the consultative body, the Hey’at-e Namayandegan. However, the proceedings do not mention whether the members actually participated in the discussions and what role, if any, they played, but, as the members of the cabinet did not trust that body, it is more likely that this was done in a perfunctory manner. Apparently some of the deputies had cried on hearing the German demands, asking what was the difference between the Russians and the Germans. Nezam was of the opinion that it was right that certain points should be left to the deputies to decide, but had added that it was inconceivable to present them with all the demands of Nadolny. In any case he was adamant that the right to be consulted could not be agreed to. On a rare occasion Nezam al-Saltaneh gave vent to his extreme frustration at the German intransigence and told the cabinet what he had told Nadolny: Iranians never quit, 12,000 gendarmes laid down their lives. They all had given up their interests and everything else, they had suffered all kinds of dangers. If it were not for the Iranians, who would have delayed the Russian forces in Hamedan and Kermanshah and other places, and stopped their aggression? If

26

IR AN AND THE FIRST WORLD WAR you have no interest in Iran why did you come? What is your business in Iran? Who invited you to do so much damage and draw the Iranians into the war? If you have no business go and let the Iranians be finished by the Russians and British.

The conditions of Nadolny for staying were the dismissal of Salar Lashkar, the son-in-law of Nezam, the replacement of Salar Mo‘azam and Modarres by more moderate people, the establishment of a Gendarmerie force under German officers and the appointment of a German attaché to Nezam in person. He also demanded that Nezam should pay him a courtesy visit. There were bitter arguments in the cabinet for about a fortnight, but at last it was decided to agree to some of Nadolny’s demands. Although Nadolny declared to his government that he had won on all points, the cabinet decided that on no account would it grant him the right of consultation. However this was the end of the affair. On 26 February 1917 the Turks began to evacuate their forces as the British were marching on Kut alImarah and threatening Baghdad. Interestingly, only four days before the Turkish retreat nothing about it was said at the last cabinet meeting. With the retreat of the Turks, the Muhajerin, too, left Kermanshah. It has been conjectured that about four or five thousand people left Iran to go into exile. Those remaining behind dispersed; some took refuge among the tribes and some made their way back to their homes. Nezam al-Saltaneh and his family went first to Kirkuk, and from there to Mosul, where he was invited by the Turks to go to Istanbul, where he stayed until the end of the war.77 Retreat to Turkey and the aftermath Nadolny tried to persuade Nezam to continue his efforts, pointing to the revolution in Russia. But the lack of sympathy and trust that had been so effective in stopping any positive action in Kermanshah persisted here too, and nothing came of Nadolny’s efforts.78 However, one last attempt was made by Nezam and the Muhajerin to obtain some advantage from the new developments taking shape as the result of the Russian Revolution. The Bolsheviks sought to make peace with the Germans and on 15 December 1917 at Brest-Litovsk79 an armistice was signed between the belligerents, which was to put an end to the war. Accordingly it was stipulated that the Turkish and the Russian supreme commands were prepared to withdraw their troops from Iran.80 News of this was sent to Tehran by the Iranian chargé d’affaires in Russia.81 This was treated as a great victory by the Committee of Iranian Nationalists in Berlin.82 However, the German High Command did not accept this treaty, and war was resumed, with

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great losses for Russia. Lenin once again sought peace and a new treaty was signed on 3 March 1918, which was much more to the disadvantage of the Bolshevik government. The clause concerning Iran was also less advantageous and stipulated that in view of the fact that Iran and Afghanistan were free countries the contracting powers would respect the political and economic independence and territorial integrity of these states.83 Conclusion The Muhajerat of the nationalists during the First World War can he considered as the last manifestation of the Constitutional Revolution of 1905–9. Then, as in this instance, people rose against their own government and fought for their freedom and independence. Both met with defeat. However, the difference lay in the fact that the fate of the Muhajerat was linked to the outcome of a war that was fought far away from Iran. They relied on the Turks and the Germans, for whom the Iranian question was of secondary importance. The aim of the Provisional Government had been to set up a viable and modern democratic government, but, as shown here, the cabinet was beset by so many problems that it was impossible to succeed. Of course their lack of a clear objective was also self-defeating. They began an exodus, which carried them away from the real centre of the political contest, which was Tehran, where the British and Russians held the government under their sway without a rival. After the war there were many recriminations, and blame was piled on the Muhajerin. It was said that by quitting Tehran they had caused the Majles to close. Of course this is contestable, as the Russians would not have tolerated the Majles for much longer. This is what Moddares said in their own defence in the Fourth Majles: His Highness [Suleyman Mirza] and I went on the Muhajerat, our intentions were good, the result was bad. Where did our fault lie? We travelled in the deserts and woods and on the seas … in the hope that things would turn out for the best. What could we do? Whose fault is it? God is our witness that we set out with the best intention to serve the government and the nation, we went to bring something for our people, but we failed.84

3

Going East: The Ottomans’ Secret Service Activities in Iran1 Touraj Atabaki Three months after the outbreak of the First World War, the Ottoman Empire, with the encouragement of Enver Pasha, came in on the side of Germany. Enver Pasha, the Ottoman minister of war, believed that by joining forces with Germany the Ottomans had a fighting chance of halting the disintegration of their empire, and perhaps even of regaining some of the territories they had lost over the years to the Italians, Russians, Greeks, Serbs and Bulgarians. Therefore he began his grand project of re-establishing Ottoman superiority by negotiating a secret German–Ottoman treaty, signed on 2 August 1914, which committed the Ottomans to war against the Allies. Consequently, in order to strike the first blow, in October 1914, the Ottoman fleet entered the Black Sea, bombarded Odessa and the Crimean ports, and sank two Russian ships. In addition, the Ottoman forces were deployed along the Caucasus frontier with Russia, where severe fighting began in the harsh mountainous terrain. Enver Pasha’s strategy involved the declaration of a jihad, inciting Muslims to rise up against British and Russian rule in India, Iran, the Caucasus and Central Asia: We call the whole world of Islam to rise up in arms. … We will send our most resourceful men to strike the Allies’ interests wherever it will be. In this way we will cause India, Baluchistan, Afghanistan, Persia, and all Africa to rise up against the Allies enemy. The world of Islam will come soon under the command of the Caliph. We fight against Russia in Eastern and Western Turkestan and the Caucasus, where the Turks await our final command to launch their offences.2

The immediate strategic objective for the Ottomans was to capture the Baku oilfields and northern Iran in order to penetrate further east, not only with the aim of eventually threatening British India, but ultimately of extending the Ottoman Empire’s frontiers to what the leadership of the ruling Ittihad ve Terakki (the Committee of Union and Progress – CUP) called 29

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the empire’s ‘natural boundaries’. In this context, the circular signed by the central committee of the CUP went on to say: We should not forget that the reason for our entrance into the world war is not only to save our country from the danger threatening it. No, we pursue an even more immediate goal – the realization of our ideal, which demands that, having shattered our Muscovite enemy, we lead our Empire to its natural boundaries, which would encompass and unite all our related people.3

The Ottoman propaganda campaign in the Great War period can be divided into two distinctive stages – first, the pan-Islamic phase and next the pan-Turkic one – both of which have important interrelated features. In the Balkan War they lost territory, population and military prestige on their European frontiers. In the First World War they hoped to compensate or even out-balance those losses by corresponding gains in the Caucasus and Central Asia. To the Young Turk Unionists, the Russians were not only kafir (infidel) but also invaders who had occupied areas south of the Caucasus, territories that the Ottomans considered to be part of the Turco-Islamic homeland. During the early years of the war the Ottomans’ main emphasis was on pan-Islamism. Although in 1914, after five years of revolution and war, the Unionists inherited an empire ethnically and religiously more homogeneous than before, nevertheless, they retained the old Islamic rhetoric. As Feroz Ahmad has pointed out: They could not abandon any of the three elements in their ideology – Ottomanism, Islam, and nationalism – and any change could only be one of emphasis. Despite the increasing importance of Turks as the most significant numerical group, Islam not nationalism received the most emphasis; only some intellectuals in the capital took Turkish nationalism seriously. But the Committee of Union and Progress, despite the presence of prominent Turkists like Ziya Gökalp in its inner circle, remained tied to Islam. … Besides, Islam and Ottomanism still had considerable appeal in the Muslim world as a whole, especially in Egypt and India, as well as among the Muslim subjects of the Tsar. … The appointment of Said Halim Pasha, an Islamist [prince, and member of the Egyptian ruling family, who apparently did not even know Turkish well] as Grand Vizier in June 1913 was no accident.4

However, the Unionists’ brand of pan-Turkism was aimed at the Turkic peoples of the Balkan peninsula, the Caucasus, northern Iran and Central Asia, while the pan-Islamist propaganda was still largely directed at the peoples of the Near and Middle East, and as far as the Indian subcontinent. In Iran and Central Asia, with their diverse ethnic composition, they employed a combination of these two tactics; here pan-Turkism and pan-

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Islamism were injected as a mixture. From the early days of the Great War the Germans displayed their sincere desire for pan-Islamic, rather than pan-Turkic or even pan-Ottoman propaganda by the Ottomans. The Germans in their long-term strategy saw panIslamic propaganda as an effective practical military weapon to threaten the position of the Allies. On 5 August 1914 the German chief of staff referred to a report he had sent earlier to the ministry of foreign affairs: It is of the utmost importance to incite rebellions in India, Egypt and the Caucasus. The agreement with Turkey will give the Ministry of Foreign Affairs the opportunity to carry out this plan in so far as possible, by arousing the fanaticism of the world of Islam.5

The cooperation between the Germans and the Ottomans was based on what Jacob Landau describes as ‘consultation’.6 In August 1915 they designated a Turco-German mission to Kabul, with a message from the Ottoman sultan and the German kaiser for Nasrullah Khan, the emir of Afghanistan.7 Furthermore there were at least two reports of the joint meeting in Berlin. The Ottoman ambassador and military attaché in Berlin, several Turkish and Arab dignitaries, and four representatives of a newly formed ‘Committee for the Rights of the Turco-Tatar Muslim in Russia’ attended the first, in March 1916. At the second meeting, in September 1916, Enver Pasha led a delegation of Muslim personalities from Turkey, Afghanistan, Iran, Central Asia, Egypt and North Africa. Both meetings aimed at intensifying panIslamic propaganda.8 Furthermore, joint Ottoman–German supervisory offices were set up in Istanbul, Berlin and Bern.9 However, German enthusiasm did not last long. Following the Ottomans’ military disappointments on the Arabian frontier and especially following the Arab Revolt of June 191610 and the resignation of Said Halim Pasha in February 1917, the Ottomans remodelled their propaganda campaign along more pan-Turkic lines. In Istanbul the Unionists became more convinced that the Abdulhamid-like old-fashioned Islamic rhetoric not only did not supply them with new lands, but also was not sufficient to put together the jigsaw pieces of the declining empire.11 Consequently a turn to panTurkism became obvious. The policy of pan-Turkism was also linked with the Russian–Ottoman armistice, which opened the way to Kars and Batum. Enver Pasha’s army, which assembled there in June 1918, was to form the centre of resistance in the wake of the unsatisfactory armistice agreement with the Triple Entente. Consequently, ‘the German government found Enver Pasha’s neglect of pan-Islamism in favour of an increasing reliance on pan-Turkism an obstacle to the joint prosecution of the war effort. This was particularly true by 1918, when the German had stopped cloaking their own

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war aim with pro-Muslim propaganda and had come into direct conflict with Enver Pasha’s schemes for Central Asia.’12 In the Ottoman Empire, on the eve of the First World War, despite their rather common perception of pan-Islamism and pan-Turkism, what the Unionists were severely missing was consensus at every level of their leadership. The Ittihad ve Terakki, following five years of incessant conflicts and confrontations with the liberal wing of the constitutionalists of Ahrar Firkasi (known in English as the Liberal Union) as well as the conservatives led by Mehmet Kamil Pasha, finally had managed to consolidate its rule through the coup of January 1913. Nevertheless numerous factions within the ruling establishment threatened its very survival. While Talat Pasha, the Ottoman minister of internal affairs, swayed the organization of Ittihad ve Terakki, Enver Pasha was in control of the entire military apparatus. Disillusioned with Ittihad ve Terakki, Enver Pasha was pursuing his own policy independently from the government. The bitter mistrust between Enver Pasha and Talat Pasha (Talat often portrayed Enver as someone capable of establishing an askeri istibdad or military autocracy) was reflected, more than anywhere else, in the formation and activities of Teşkilat-i Mahsusa, or Special Organization. Under his supervision and in order to realize his longed-for dream of fashioning a greater Turkic homeland of Turan, in 1913 Enver Pasha expanded one of the Ottoman secret services, Teşkilat-i Mahsusa. Initially Teşkilat-i Mahsusa had been set up to organize guerrilla warfare in the Balkans after a series of Ottoman military defeats and ‘to cope with what he [Enver Pasha] regarded as twin threats to the security of the Ottoman state, namely, indigenous separatist movements and European aggression’.13 Whereas ‘the ideological foundation on which it was based and the policies it was supposed to carry out were not explicitly defined’, nevertheless, ‘it rested on the concepts of pan-Islam and pan-Turkism, although, like the government authorities responsible for it, the organization’s agents paid lip service to the traditional concept of Ottomanism’.14 When the Ottoman Empire entered the First World War, the task of the Teşkilat-i Mahsusa was updated. ‘Instead of being a small covert group personally attached to Enver Pasha, it was reorganized and given semi-overt official status within the ministry of war, however, it remained under Enver’s direct control.’15 Now, besides the usual intelligence gathering, espionage and counter-espionage activities, it was poised ‘to launch a widespread campaign of pan-Islamic and pan-Turkic propaganda aimed at the mobilization of Turks and other Muslims against the Allies’.16

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Moreover, from the early stages of its formation, it became obvious that Enver Pasha, as the principal founder of Teşkilat-i Mahsusa, intended to employ it as an alternative to the organizational network of Ittihad ve Terakki, which was largely dominated by the Talat Pasha’s clique and other intelligence organizations in the Ottoman Empire founded by Cemal Pasha and Talat Pasha (such as the Secret Police which was appended to the ministry of internal affairs).17 Thus one of the Teşkilat-i Mahsusa’s ‘important assignments was to oppose any efforts on the part of similar organizations led by Cemal Pasha and Talat Pasha to upset the delicate balance of power that existed among these three strong-minded men. Enver Pasha’s directives to his agents were designed to keep him informed of the other organizations’ activities and to prevent Cemal and Talat from undermining his own powerful position.’18 Immediately following the formation of Teşkilat-i Mahsusa, Enver Pasha recruited and dispatched a group of agents, formerly secretaries of Ittihad ve Terakki, to Russian Turkistan, the Caucasus and the Iranian frontiers. They included Haci Sami Kuşçubaşizada,19 Hamal Ferit, Hasan Basri and Memduh Şevket. However, when Talat Pasha learned of Enver Pasha’s operatives, he too formed a group from the leading members of Ittihad ve Terakki and dispatched them with separate instructions to the same region. Talat Pasha’s agents were Dr Bahattin Şakir,20 assigned to the Northern Caucasus, Ömer Naci21 and Ruşani Bey,22 assigned to Iran, and Süleyman Şefik Pasha, Rauf Bey and Ubeydullah Efendi, dispatched to Afghanistan.23 The striking aspect of both Enver Pasha’s and Talat Pasha’s missions was the lack of essential logistical support. For example, not even a single detailed map of the region seems to have existed in the Ottoman ministry of war.24 Coupled with a meagre budget and inexperienced agents, Teşkilat-i Mahsusa could not have been at a greater disadvantage. The few qualified agents with knowledge of Persian or Russian were in turn handicapped by political divisions within the Ottoman government and army. The only member of the Iranian mission capable of speaking Persian was Mayor (Binbaşi) Ruşani Bey. It was not until some years later when Enver Pasha dispatched his eminent protégé, Yusuf Zia,25 a highly experienced and multilingual agent, that we begin to see some sense of coordination in the activities of Teşkilat-i Mahsusa. In order to facilitate their contacts in Iran, Ömer Naci and Ruşani Bey called on Emir Hishmat, a mojahed of the Iranian constitutional movement (1905–11), to accompany them in their secret mission. Leaving Istanbul for Iran and the Caucasus, Enver Pasha’s mission based its headquarters in Trabzon, while Talat Pasha’s agents, led by Bahattin Şakir, decided on Erzurum as their headquarters. Soon after, under pressure

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from Istanbul, Bahattin Şakir retreated to Trabzon. It was there that the united Teşkilat-i Mahsusa decided to form the Kafkasya Ihtilal Cemiyeti (Revolutionary Committee of the Caucasus) in order to mobilize not only the Muslim–Turkic people of the Caucasus and Russian Turkistan, but also the Azerbaijanis of Iran.26 At this stage, however, there was no hint of persuading their adherents to build a Turkic homeland of Turan. The Ottomans’ pan-Islamist call in Azerbaijan was rather general and addressed the Turks as well as non-Turkic people of the region – including the Kurds – to join the commonwealth of the Caliphate in order to ‘liberate themselves from the yoke of the enemies of Islam’.27 In a number of emotionally loaded leaflets distributed by the Kafkasya Ihtilal Cemiyeti, both in Iran as well as in the Caucasus and Russian Turkistan, they called on the Muslims of the region to: realize that the time has come for the Muslims to rise up against the Russian murderers, who for many years have trampled on our Islamic heritage and at every opportunity have butchered our heroic sons and raped our innocent daughters. They are trying to wipe out Muslims from the face of the earth. … However, the Jinab-i Hak [i.e. God] has given the Russians what they deserve. Suffering heavy defeat from the great powers of Germany and Austria, their reign is now almost on the verge of total collapse. Our Padishah [King], who is the caliph of 300 million Muslims on earth, has accepted the call of our prophet to rally all Muslims for the final holy jihad. Ey ummet Muhammad! [Oh the Muhammedan People], now is the time to take up arms and fulfil the task that our prophet would have accomplished if he was with us now: to exterminate the Russian kafirs [infidels] from the face of the earth.28

In December 1914 a Russian advance toward Erzurum was countered by the Ottomans, but at the battle of Sarikamish in January 1915 the Ottomans, ill-clad and ill-supplied for the Caucasian winter, suffered one of their major defeats of the war. Also sustaining heavy losses in the north, the Ottomans decided to reinforce their southern frontiers and transferred a major portion of their forces to Tabriz on 14 January. Since the Russian army was still stationed in Tabriz, the military confrontation between the two armies seemed inevitable. Although the Russian troops avoided military confrontation with the Ottomans in Tabriz and evacuated the city, the Ottomans were, nevertheless, unable to maintain their hold on Tabriz and were expelled by a Russian counter-attack in March 1915.29 The defeat at Sarikamish was indeed a turning point in the Ottomans’ policy of expansion in the Caucasus, Russian Turkistan and northern Iran, with a majority of Turkic-speaking population. Thus, in order to accentuate even more on pan-Islamism, in early 1915 the Ottomans approached Shiite religious leaders in Karbala and Najaf, and succeeded in securing a

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number of fatwas (religious decrees) of jihad against the Allies.30 Certainly the Ottomans’ move was welcomed by the Germans. Najaf, by dispatching some envoys to Iran, endeavoured to assume maximum conformity within the Iranian clerics on the issue of jihad. For example, Haj Hussein Qumi was assigned to Mashhad in order to convince the Iranian ulams that it was in the country’s best interests to side with the Central Powers.31 However, there was hardly any consensus within the rank and file in the Iranian Shiite hierarchy towards the declaration of jihad issued by Najaf. While some clerics such as Aqa Mirza Ibrahimi from Mashhad reacted indifferently, pronouncing that individuals could proceed according to their predilections, there were others such as Aqa Sayyed ‘Ali Sistani who declared that the war was an encounter between infidels on both sides, including Turks who were Sunni.32 According to Aqa Sayyed Reza Quchani the Russians were to be preferred to the Turks, since as Christians they were not in a position to interfere with the religion of the Muslims.33 On the other hand, the Nayeb al-Towliyyeh (the cleric in charge of the holy shrine in Mashhad) was ‘sedulously circulating mischievous rumours suggesting that Persia has a secret treaty with Turkey and Germany and will soon declare war’.34 Following the defeat at Sarikamish the Ottomans’ military build-up was mainly concentrated in the Iranian western frontiers, i.e. in southern Kurdistan. The headquarters of Teşkilat-i Mahsusa was formally moved to Tehran, and Ömer Fevzi, the military attaché of the Ottoman embassy, was assigned as its executive officer.35 During his term of office, which lasted until the end of the war, Ömer Fevzi endeavoured to capitalize on the Iranian anti-Russian and anti-British sentiments in order to rally support for the Central Powers. This task proved to be more arduous than expected, since the majority of Iranians also harboured strong anti-Ottoman sentiments. A long history of mistrust was compounded by the Ottoman violation of a century-old border treaty with Iran. When Ottoman troops invaded Iranian Azerbaijan, their sincerity was immediately called into question. With the passage of time, and the mistreatment of Iranians at the hands of such Ottoman army officers as Ali Ihsan Bey (commander of Ottoman divisions in Kermanshah), Ömer Fevzi became openly critical of the army’s methods; an aggressive military approach seemed to have undermined his propaganda plans. A confrontation ensued and ended with Ali Ihsan Bey’s dismissal of Ömer Fevzi from office.36 It was thanks to Prince Nezam al-Saltaneh, the leader of the Iranian pro-Central Powers coalition, and his appeal to Khalil Pasha, the governor of Baghdad and the commander of the Ottoman sixth army, that Ömer Fevzi was able to reassume his previous duties.37

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When he was first appointed as the head of Teşkilat-i Mahsusa in Iran, Ömer Fevzi’s first task was to form a broad-based Ittihad-i Islam in Iran. However, he once again realized that ‘the majority of politically minded Iranians are concerned about Ottoman hegemony in this project and perceive Ittihad-i Islam as a threat to Iranian sovereignty’.38 Hence, he decided to change the party’s name to Jam‘ iyat-e Defa‘-e Islam (Society for the Defence of Islam), a transnational network with a clear article in its constitution that ‘in each country, where the society is established, the respective ruler, Shah or Amir, will be considered as the leader of the local branch of the Jam‘ iyat-e Defa‘.’39 Although Teşkilat-i Mahsusa by and large maintained its activities in the capital and the adjacent regions by campaigning among the Iranian Democrats, it launched a second political front by establishing contact with Kuchik Khan, the leader of the Jangali rebellion in the Caspian Sea region. Surprised by the unexpected news of the formation of an Ittihad-i Islam party in Gilan by Kuchik Khan, Teşkilat-i Mahsusa in a later period gave top priority in its agenda to Kuchik Khan’s activities.40 It was, however, the Jangalis who had made the initial contact. In November 1915 Kuchik Khan conveyed a secret delegation to the Ottoman embassy in Tehran, with the objective of acquiring arms and ammunition from the Ottomans.41 According to Mirza Ali Khan Taliqani, a member of this delegation, during their meeting with Ömer Fevzi, it became clear that despite Ömer Fevzi’s great enthusiasm and readiness to provide the Jangalis with financial assistance, he was unable to provide Kuchik Khan with any arms or ammunition. Again, according to Taliqani, it seems that Ottoman military priorities lay elsewhere, in the Hamadan and Kermanshah regions. Furthermore, their limited ammunition (stored in Tehran) had already been distributed to Amir Hishmat and Ali Khan Savadkuhi. Following their meeting with the Ottomans in Tehran, the Jangali delegation – through the arbitration of Ömer Fevzi – visited the German embassy in Tehran, where they were shown the German Krupp factory that made ammunition as well as different types of explosive devices.42 Immediately after his acquaintance with the Jangalis, in a letter to Enver Pasha, Ömer Fevzi favourably reacted to the Kuchik Khan request and remarked: Kuchik Khan with his 300 Ittihad-i Islam mujahids is able to sabotage all bridges, especially the one in Manjil, on the strategic road of Rasht-Qazvin. Furthermore, with the help of Jangalis, we would be able to attack the Russian fleet in the Caspian Sea, one of our main targets. In my conversation with them I showed my commitment to their cause and insisted on offering them money

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to buy the ammunitions they need; however, they turned down my offer and insisted that they do not need financial support but what they desperately need is the ammunition.43

It was apparently in reaction to Ömer Fevzi’s report that, some months later, Enver Pasha dispatched his personal envoy, Hussein Efendi, to Gilan.44 While delivering 300 rifles to the Jangalis, Hussein Efendi presented Enver Pasha’s personal gift to Kuchik Khan, a sword with the following inscription written on it: ‘To the mujahid-i Islam, Mirza Kuchik Khan’. As time passed, the Jangalis’ inclination towards the Ottomans gradually increased. A year later, on 25 November 1916, in a letter to Kuchik Khan, Ali Ihsan Bey (the commander of the Ottoman thirteenth division), criticized ‘those notables and tribal chieftains who by only being engaged in their personal achievements have turned their back on their country’s needs and ‘Alam-e Islam’s contemplation’,45 yet praised Kuchik Khan for his ‘courageous struggle to liberate Iran from the yoke of the British and the Russians’.46 Furthermore, he promised to provide Kuchik Khan with the extra ammunition he needed.47 Ali Ihsan Bey fulfilled his promise and in January 1917, without informing Teşkilat-i Mahsusa, and just following an agreement with Hukumat-i Muvaqqat, he sent Kuchik Khan a relatively small amount of ammunition.48 Soon after the ceremonial visit by Hussein Efendi to the Jangalis, the first agents of Teşkilat-i Mahsusa arrived in Gilan. They included Captain (Yüzbashi) Yusuf Zia, Ömer Efendi and Osman Efendi.49 Yusuf Zia formed a close relationship with the Jangalis, which lasted until the end of Kuchik Khan’s revolt. Following the fall of Baghdad in March 1917, the relations between the Ottoman army and Kuchik Khan began to deteriorate. Nonetheless, for Teşkilat-i Mahsusa, Kuchik Khan’s Gilan remained a rather reliable shelter for its wandering agents engaged in espionage and propaganda missions in northern Iran and the Caucasus. On more than one occasion, the Jangalis had even provided Ottoman agents with cash.50 As early as November 1915, and following his earlier meeting with the Jangali mission in Tehran, Ömer Fevzi dispatched three agents of Teşkilat-i Mahsusa to the Caucasus in order to sabotage Russian military targets as well as strategic bridges in the region. Although Ali Murtiza Efendi, the agent in charge of this operation, provided a detailed report on the condition of the main road connecting Tehran and the Caucasus, he failed to carry out any acts of sabotage. In Baku, while the Musavat Party promised to provide him with the necessary ammunition, at the very last stage it failed to keep its promise because of fear of Russian reprisals.

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The reluctance of the Musavatists and their leader Mohammad Amin Rasulzadeh, who had only recently returned home after a long period of exile, first in Tehran and later in Istanbul, was indicative of their wartime policy of not jeopardizing their relations with Russia. Kaspii, a journal published in Baku by Azerbaijani nationalists, ‘called upon Russian Muslims to join Russia in the fight against Germany and Turkey’.51 For their part, the Russians too were extremely vigilant of Musavatist conduct. Their close ties with the pan-Turkist circles in Istanbul during the years before the war swayed the Russians while conceding the Azerbaijanis’ ‘cultural preferences’ and their call for more cultural autonomy,52 displaying their sincere commitment of severely crushing any move endangering their immunity in the region. Hence, returning to Gilan after his failure, Ali Murtiza Bey appealed to Teşkilat-i Mahsusa headquarters for funds in order to conduct a second similar mission. But, disappointed with the Teşkilat-i Mahsusa’s inability to finance the second operation, Ali Murtiza Bey turned to the Jangalis for financial assistance, which they gladly provided. However, this operation was also doomed to failure.53 The Tehran headquarters of Teşkilat-i Mahsusa was not in sole charge of the Ottoman secret service activities in Iran and the Caucasus.54 Next to Tehran, Herat was also considered by the Teşkilat-i Mahsusa as the second most important city for coordinating their activities in Afghanistan, eastern Iran and Russian Turkistan, though it seems that there was no correlation between the two centres.55 Following the Turco-German mission’s unsuccessful attempts to persuade the emir of Afghanistan to join the ‘Army of Islam’ and break ties with the Allies, eventually they decided to leave Kabul for Herat. In Herat, while sending some agents to eastern Afghanistan for arming and agitating among the tribes of Bajavur, Khayber and Waziristan of the Indo-Afghan frontier,56 they opted for Mashhad, the centre of Khorasan province, as their main post for contacting Russian Turkistan57 as well as the Turkmen tribes of the Russo-Iranian frontiers.58 However, living among the Turkmen soon proved to be the most difficult task the Teşkilat-i Mahsusa agents had endured. According to an intelligence report sent from Mashhad by the British consulate, the Russians had ‘declared that if an Ottoman subject is found in the house of any Turkmen, both host and guest will be shot’.59 In the same report, reference was also made to ‘hanging two Ottoman agents while some others had been sending to Tashkent’.60 In Herat, the Ottoman official Kazim Bey, together with the Indian Islamists Movlawi Barakatullah and Partap, launched a network of agents provocateurs instigating pan-Islamist propaganda in the region. According

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to an intelligence officer of the British consulate in Mashhad, agents such as Sayyed Mustafa Arab ‘frequently dispatched messages to Bukhara and the principal centres of Russian Turkistan with the object of fomenting sedition against Russian rule’ in Turkistan.61 In January 1916 Ömer Fevzi sent one of the newly recruited agents to Khorasan province on the border of Afghanistan. Abdulrahman Pishehvari, a former interpreter at the British embassy in Tehran, was sent there as an agent with specific instructions to propagate pan-Islamic ideas in the region. In his mission to Turkistan and Afghanistan he enjoyed the support of local mullahs and notables such as Akhund Kazem Khorasani and Sardar Birjandi in Khorasan. In Herat he met the city’s governor and notables, yet he was so unsuccessful in his attempt to win them over that eventually he was imprisoned on espionage charges. After his release Abdulrahman succeeded in organizing some local political cells in Mashhad, Ashgabat, Marv and Herat, yet his mission was virtually ineffective owing to lack of support from the Teşkilat-i Mahsusa headquarters in Tehran.62 Surprisingly it was not until 1918 that Teşkilat-i Mahsusa could establish a network in Iranian Azerbaijan, since the Ottomans’ first invasion of Azerbaijan in late November 1914 was too short-lived for any such effort. In Tabriz, according to Ottoman secret service reports, the only proOttoman political party, which had existed since 1907, was the insignificant Ittihad ve Terakki’s local branch, which operated under the cover of the Anjoman-e Kheyriyyeh (Charity Society).63 Following their first occupation, Khalil Pasha, the commander of the Ottoman army, published a strongly worded, bilingual message to the people of Tabriz, calling on them ‘to observe order and prove their commitment to Islamic values’.64 As expected, he avoided any references to ethnicity in his declaration. It was not until the end of the war, following the Russian Revolution, that the Ottomans were able to return to Iranian Azerbaijan. By mid-April 1918 the Ottoman army had returned to Tabriz. If in 1914 the Ottomans had been attached to their pan-Islamist propaganda principles, now, after three years of war and bitter anti-Ottoman rebellions by the Arabs, on the whole, Ittihad ve Terakki found pan-Turkic propaganda more favourable to its position. Moreover the Russian Revolution of 1917 neutralized the threat from the old enemy and provided the Turks with the opportunity of emphasizing their pan-Turkic rhetoric among Turkic peoples living in the vast region stretching from Mediterranean to the Altai mountains. Soon after the invasion of Tabriz, Yusuf Zia and Fikri Efendi moved to the city and introduced a small pan-Turkic party,65 yet still under the old

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title of Ittihad-i Islam.66 Moreover, Yusuf Zia launched an Azeri-language newspaper, published under the title of Azarbayjan. This newspaper was to serve as the Ottomans’ main instrument for propagating pan-Turkism throughout the province. The editorship of the newspaper was offered to Taqi Raf‘at, a local Azerbaijani who later became known for his innovations in Persian language and literature. However, contrary to their expectations, the Ottomans once again did not achieve impressive results in the province. Although Azerbaijan remained under quasi-occupation by the Ottoman troops for months, attempts to win endorsement for pan-Turkism ended in utter failure. The Ottomans never enjoyed substantial support from local political parties, associations or the general public. In a rather lengthy report sent to Ali Ihsan Bey from Tabriz, Isma‘il Haqi, now Teşkilat-i Mahsusa’s chargé d’affaires in northern Iran and the Caucasus, wrote: In Tabriz, next to the Democrat Party, which is run by Khiyabani, Nobari, and Hariri, who incidentally enjoy the support of the Police force, there exist a few trivial parties such as Ahrar, Taraqqiyun and Mujahidin. Amongst them it is only Mujahidin which is worth mentioning. The Party’s leader is Haj Mirza Buluri, an old and eminent friend of ours. The Crown Prince and local Cossacks have backed the party, with its distinct pro-Turkish stance, yet it lacks a clear and unequivocal programme. It simply has failed to rally the people of the city. On the other hand, the Democrat Party, with its clear Iranian patriotic and xenophobic stance, is the most serious and popular party, which not only enjoys the good graces of the people, but has the support of the police, gendarmerie and regular soldiers. Furthermore, our explicit support of Mujahidin’s pan-Turkist policy has allowed the British to launch a counter-campaign in the city. They are accusing us of introducing an irredentist policy, aimed at the secession of Azerbaijan from Iran and its annexation to the Ottoman Empire. This campaign has bolstered the Democrats’ anti-Ottoman positions.67

Besides Tabriz, Ottoman activities in Tehran caused concern and resentment in political circles. Newspapers belonging to different political factions printed anti-Ottoman articles, denounced the Ottoman presence in Azerbaijan and demanded swift action from the government. The head of Teşkilat-i Mahsusa in Tehran, Ömer Fevzi, concerned with growing antiOttoman sentiments in the capital, warned the Ottoman commander of the Caucasian division to take every precaution in order to re-establish some sort of trust between Iranians and Ottomans. In Fevzi’s own words: For many Iranians, Azerbaijan is a vital part of their country and they are extremely sensitive about this province. Any reference to the name of Azerbaijan makes them anxious, not to mention the idea of dispatching and maintaining troops there.68

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In Tabriz Ottoman relations with local Democrats deteriorated to the point where the Ottomans arrested the popular leader of the Democrats, Sheikh Mohammad Khiyabani, together with his two comrades, Nobari and Badamchi. They all were sent into exile in Kars.69 Although at a later date the Ottomans tried to justify their actions by accusing Khiyabani of being a ‘British agent’,70 ‘collaborating with the Armenians against the forces of Islam’,71 the immediate result of their intervention was to whip up serious anti-Ottoman resentments among the Democrats, who were prepared to take control of the province. The spring and summer of 1918 appeared to be a honeymoon period for the Ottomans. Occupying the area north of the Araxes was the next logical step on their agenda, and in mid-March Ruşani Bey moved to Baku, where he founded a new party called Büyük Türkiya ve Ittihad-i Islam – Qafqas Ittihad ve Terakki Firkasi (Greater Turkey and Islamic Unity – Caucasian Committee of Union and Progress).72 In its declaration, signed by Ruşani Bey and his Caucasian counterparts – mostly members of the Musavat Party – the party announced its main objective: to unite the population of the Caucasus, of whom according to the declaration ‘four-fifths are Muslim Turks’.73 The declaration also confined the party’s domain of interest to the southern reaches of the Ottoman–Persian border; however, it did not forfeit its claim to the Caucasus, which it hoped would be joined with the Turkic motherland in the near future.74 With the seizure of Baku in September 1918, it seemed that Enver Pasha’s Turanian dream was about to be realized. Now the region both north and south of the Araxes was under Ottoman control. Yet, with the serious military setbacks on the western fronts, the leadership of Ittihad ve Terakki was obliged to give priority to the centre of its envisaged empire. Escalating political problems at home, not to mention severe food shortages, compelled them to rethink their overall strategy. A direct consequence of the largescale export of cattle and grain from the newly occupied territories to the Ottoman interior caused mounting resentment among the local population. On 23 September 1918 an Ottoman–German protocol was signed which included the Central Powers’ commitment to the territorial integrity of Iran. On the western fronts, the Ottomans were forced to surrender to Bulgarian forces on 30 September. Soon after, the Ittihad ve Terakki government fell, and the new government of Izzet Pasha signed an armistice with the Allies on 31 October. By this time the activities of Teşkilat-i Mahsusa had come to a grinding halt. Thereafter, by order of anti-Unionist Sultan Mehmet VI, it was formally dissolved.

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It is the conclusion of this chapter that, contrary to the common myth, the Ottoman secret service not only lacked a unified and coherent policy, but also was in many respects a dysfunctional organization. From its inception Teşkilat-i Mahsusa was plagued by old rivalries and disputes between different factions within the Ottoman administration. Although the army had been the architect of Teşkilat-i Mahsusa, it soon became a personal instrument of Enver Pasha’s ambitions and hence was unable to coordinate its activities with the army. Furthermore, during its years of activities, Teşkilat-i Mahsusa failed to form a secure and effective network of agents in Iran or the Russian southern frontiers. Randomly dispatching its agents to different locations, Teşkilat-i Mahsusa even failed to provide them with their basic logistical needs. In Iran, if one excludes minor Ottoman successes with the Jangalis – which were mainly due to the dominant role of the latter – the Ottoman propaganda campaign in Iran was very much a failure. The old Iranian nationalist mistrust of the Ottomans’ repeated refusals to honour their border treaties with Iran, together with the ever-changing and outspoken expansionist rhetoric of some Ottoman leaders, presented Teşkilat-i Mahsusa with insurmountable barriers in achieving its objectives in Iran. The Teşkilat-i Mahsusa’s mission to Russian Turkistan was the most perilous assignment the organization encountered in the eastern frontiers during the Great War. Its achievements, although negligible, nevertheless were memorable. Its agents could continue their activities as far as Pamir in the east or the Farghana Valley in the north. Yet, ‘in many cases it would appear that individual agents of the organization were more interested in their adventures and schemes than in the role of this organization in the preservation of the Ottoman state [interests]; the means proved to be more exciting and rewarding than a futile discussion end.’75

4

Iranian Nationalism and the Government Gendarmerie Stephanie Cronin The Government Gendarmerie (Zhandarmiri-yi Dawlati)1 made a highly significant contribution to the advancement of nationalist activity in Iran which took place during the years of the First World War. Furthermore its experiences during these years transformed the Gendarmerie. By their participation in the Muhajirat the Gendarme officers were propelled to a position of national leadership, spearheading the struggle against foreign intervention, and, from 1917, the force was able to claim a central role in the various strategies, imperial and domestic, put forward to reverse Iran’s accelerating political chaos and disintegration. Formation and early years The Government Gendarmerie was established in 1910 by the Second Majlis and may be seen as the most sustained in a series of Iranian projects for the modernization of the armed forces under the leadership of foreign officers. Throughout the nineteenth century military modernization had been a constant preoccupation of Iranian reformers, and the history of the Qajar period is peppered with attempts to create a standing army on the European model with the help of missions of foreign officers. By the end of the nineteenth century, however, all had ended in failure, the only semi-modern military force in existence being the Cossack Brigade, a partially modernized regular cavalry unit officered by Russians and held in profound and abiding suspicion by Iranian radicals.2 The consequences for Iran of the Qajar state’s failure to embrace the measures necessary for its own survival had long been apparent, and Iran entered the twentieth century with a financially bankrupt and disintegrating central authority. Awareness of the dangers attendant upon this situation meant that for many of the participants in the Constitutional Revolution an important goal – indeed, it has been argued, the primary goal – was the 43

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reform of government and the creation of a strong state capable of overcoming Iran’s backwardness.3 Military modernization was still, as it had been for most of the previous century, a central plank of this general programme. Although little was accomplished by the First Majlis, the increased prominence of state building as a constitutionalist objective during the second phase of the revolution, 1909–11, produced effective legislation. After the restoration of constitutional government in 1909, the leading advocates of reform and reorganization of the state were elected to the Majlis.4 In July 1910 the Democrats came to power and, as part of their ambitious programme of modernization, took steps towards the organization of the Government Gendarmerie. Although with the suppression of the Majlis in 1911 efforts at reform and state building were abandoned, the Gendarmerie had acquired sufficient vitality to survive and continue as a focus for radical modernizers. The high command of the Government Gendarmerie was formed by a Swedish military mission led by Major H.O. Hjalmarson, which had arrived in Tehran in August 1911. The Iranian government had first applied to Italy for the loan of Gendarmerie instructors, but Russia and Britain were opposed to this choice, as Italy ranked among the major powers. Iran then decided to approach a minor power and quickly reached an agreement with the Swedish government, which designated a mission to instruct and officer a Gendarmerie, to be formed under the Iranian ministry of the interior, its primary duty being the maintenance of security on Iran’s roads. The Iranian officer corps and rank and file of the Government Gendarmerie was initially composed of officers and men transferred from Morgan Shuster’s Treasury Gendarmerie. This force had been set up in 1911 to assist Shuster in the collection of revenue, and Shuster and his Iranian supporters had taken great pains to assemble an Iranian officer corps of impeccable political credentials, candidates frequently being selected on the recommendation of leading members of the Democrat Party such as Sulayman Mirza Iskandari and Riza Musavat.5 The Treasury Gendarmerie certainly attracted many of the most able officers then in Iran, some of whom were to play important roles in the later military and political history of the country. Among these may be included Fazlallah and Farajallah Aqavli, Ali Quli and Haydar Quli Pasyan, Ahmad Khan Akhgar, Mas‘ud Khan Puladin, Fath Ali Khan Saqafi Tupchi and Hasan Khan Malikzadah. Indeed the accumulation of a number of competent and politically conscious officers may be seen as the most significant feature of the force’s brief existence and constituted a legacy of lasting importance. When, on Shuster’s dismissal, the Treasury Gendarmerie was dissolved, the officers and men

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were transferred to the Government Gendarmerie, enabling the latter force to get off to a flying start and stamping it indelibly with a pro-Democrat, nationalist and anti-Russian character. With the transfer to the Government Gendarmerie of more than 1,000 Treasury Gendarmes, including 35 officers, Colonel Hjalmarson acquired the raw materials he needed and was able to begin work in earnest. Over the next two years his force made steady progress, gradually consolidating its position and extending its influence over an ever widening radius from Tehran. Numerical and organizational growth was consistent. At the end of 1912 the Government Gendarmerie numbered 21 Swedes and nearly 3,000 Iranian officers and men, while by the end of the following year the number of Swedish officers had risen to 36 and the Iranian component had doubled to nearly 6,000.6 By 1914 seven regiments had been established, two headquartered at Tehran, the remainder at Shiraz, Kirman, Qazvin, Isfahan and Burujird, and the men had gained a good deal of experience in operations. Naturally the Gendarmerie’s budget requirements grew accordingly and were met, in this period, largely out of loans from Britain and Russia. Initial mistakes in recruiting were ironed out and a system instituted of training enlisted men at regimental headquarters while flourishing ncos’ and officers’ schools were established in Tehran.7 The Swedish officers accomplished much in terms of popularizing the force among potential recruits by ensuring that, in contrast with the practice prevailing in traditional Iranian military formations, pay was issued regularly and in full, and Colonel Hjalmarson took particular care to conciliate in various ways the ulama, who remained well disposed towards the force. The merchants in the capital and in provincial towns such as Isfahan, for whose business security on the trade routes was essential, held the Gendarmes in high regard, offering to finance the force if the government were unable to do so. Indeed by 1913–14 the Gendarmerie was quickly becoming a focus of Iranian national aspirations and the official classes in the capital in particular had high hopes of the force’s future. However, the success of the Gendarmerie was marred by certain endemic difficulties that deepened with the force’s growth. In its early years the major provincial effort of the force was directed, under British pressure, towards the south, the towns and roads of Fars and Kirman. Here the intrusion of a new and independent source of power inevitably alienated the established authorities and a considerable amount of general opposition to the successful implanting of the force was encountered, particularly from those elements that had opposed military reform and modernization in the past. Especially important for the future was the unrelenting and implacable hostility of

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Qavam al-Mulk, chief of the Khamsah tribe and acting governor-general of Fars, which was apparent from the moment of the Gendarmes’ arrival. British financial and political support was vital to the Gendarmerie in these years. British insistence that the Iranian government act to restore security on the southern trade routes had provided a powerful impetus to the establishment of the force; loans from Britain and Russia financed the force and the intervention of the British legation in the capital had been vital to the survival of the Gendarmerie during its attempts to disarm the Bakhtiyari in 1913. Acknowledgement of British support led to the Gendarmerie initially devoting most of its attention to southern Iran. As the Gendarmerie grew, however, it attempted to expand into areas considered part of the Russian zone under the terms of the Anglo-Russian treaty of 1907, thus provoking increasing Russian suspicions. By early 1914 the Russian minister, Korostovetz, was declaring that the Swedish officers did not enjoy the confidence of the Russian government, which did not wish to see the scope of the force’s duties extended in the north of Iran. Although the Gendarmes had been operating in Qazvin, in the Russian zone, almost since their foundation, British commercial interests were strong in that area and provided a powerful source of backing for the force. This support was absent in other parts of the Russian zone, such as Tabriz, Rasht and Mashhad, where Russia was supreme commercially as well as politically, and where in fact the Gendarmerie was unable to implant itself until after the Russian Revolution. Particularly serious was the fact that the Russian government was now developing plans according to which the Cossack Brigade would be increased and used exclusively in the northern zone, while the Gendarmerie would be reserved for the southern and neutral zones, thus contributing to the likelihood of the country’s eventual partition. Notwithstanding these difficulties, by 1914 the Gendarmerie already constituted a wholly new development in Iranian military and political experience. But perhaps its most original single feature resided in the human resources which it mobilized, specifically the progress which it made in assembling and consolidating an Iranian officer corps. Personnel for the latter was drawn from four main sources. Firstly, and most importantly, were those officers who transferred from the Treasury Gendarmerie, apparently the most valuable and effective of all the Iranian officers.8 They included, for example, Captain Fazlallah Khan Aqavli, First Lieutenants Farajallah Khan Aqavli, Hasan Khan Malikzadah, Ali Quli Khan Pasyan, Fath Ali Khan Saqafi Tupchi, Ahmad Khan Akhgar, Second Lieutenants Mas‘ud Khan Puladin, Ata’allah Khan Ala’i, Haydar Quli Khan Pasyan.

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The second group comprised those officers who transferred from the ministry of war and included Majors Abd al-Ali Khan I‘timad Muqaddam and Azizallah Khan Zarghami, and Captain Muhammad Taqi Khan Pasyan. Thirdly were those individuals who had obtained training in European and Ottoman military schools on their own initiative and who were recruited directly into the Government Gendarmerie. In this group were Majors Salar Nizam Kupal, Mas‘ud Khan Kayhan, Riza Quli Khan Karim Quvanlu, Captains Habiballah Khan Shaybani and Ghulam Riza Khan Pasyan. The fourth category consisted of those officers who graduated from the Gendarmerie’s own schools. These schools were particularly successful in producing officers who were later to reach high rank in the Pahlavi army, including Mir Muhammad Ali Alavi Muqaddam (retired with the rank of general), Mahdi Quli Alavi Muqaddam (general), Shahid Mahmud Amin (general), Husayn Quli Satvati (brigadier), Hasan Khan Baqa’i (brigadier) and Mahmud Khan Puladin (colonel). Many of the Iranians who became officers in the Gendarmerie were, in contrast to the officer corps of older Iranian military formations, drawn from relatively high social strata. They represented, not a rising social stratum, as was so frequently the case with military officers in the Middle East in a later period, but a section of the elite. Hasan Arfa, for example, was the eldest son of Arfa al-Dawlah, a high official in the Qajar bureaucracy; Abd al-Riza Afkhami-Ibrahimi was a son of Sultan Ali Khan Vazir-i Afkham, who had been chamberlain to Muzaffar al-Din Shah; Prince Muhammad Husayn Jahanbani, a member of the Qajar family, was married to a niece of Qavam al-Saltanah, and so on. Some Gendarme officers came from high-ranking military families. This was the case with the Pasyans, while Muhammad Ali Alavi Muqaddam was the son of Sayyid Ali Quli Alavi, a high-ranking artillery officer, as well as being the grandson of I‘timad alSaltanah. In his memoirs Captain Nyström recalled that from an early date the officers’ college had been obliged to accept some cadets because of their being close relatives of the shah or some other powerful noble.9 In keeping with their social status, the Iranian Gendarme officers were, on the whole, well educated. Some had, on their own initiative, acquired education and military training abroad, the Military College in Istanbul being the most popular destination, although a few also went to St Cyr in France or to institutions in Austria and Germany, while others had received their schooling in Iran and their military training in the well-organized Gendarmerie colleges. Many spoke a foreign language, usually French. Naturally an officer corps constructed from such material would have considerable prestige within wider society. Morale was high among the officers and an esprit

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de corps well established. Discipline was strictly enforced and, as General Hasan Arfa later commented, the young officers commissioned after training were ‘keen and conscious of their standing and prestige as officers’.10 The impact of the First World War The outbreak of the First World War, with its radical political realignments and polarization, marked a watershed in the development of the Gendarmerie. Although Iran declared its neutrality, the circumstances of the early years of the war had a profound effect on the force, both organizationally and politically. One immediate consequence of the outbreak of war was that the Swedish government decided that all its officers who were still on the active list of the Swedish army must return home. This produced a serious weakening of the Swedish command structure of the force, but on the positive side it allowed the senior Iranian officers to assume greater responsibility and authority. Another important effect of the war was financial. Down to 1914 the Gendarmerie’s ever growing financial needs had been met largely out of loans from Britain and Russia and no sound method of funding the force from internal resources had been established, although Mornard, the Belgian treasurer-general, was enthusiastic about the force and optimistic about finding money for its maintenance. In reality financing the Gendarmerie independently of foreign loans presented the almost bankrupt Iranian government with an insuperable difficulty. The treasury would reap the benefit of improved security for trade only gradually while the force’s cash needs were immediately pressing. In Iranian terms the Gendarmerie was enormously expensive. The budget drawn up by Colonel Hjalmarson for April 1914–April 1915, and sanctioned by the Iranian government, provided for a total estimated expenditure of £553,404, or rather more than 3 million tuman, approximately half the net revenue of the Iranian exchequer, for a force of over 12,000 men.11 On the provincial level the burden was even more striking. In Fars, for example, the Gendarmerie’s requirements alone equalled or exceeded the total revenue of the province.12 By early 1914 the government’s financial dilemma remained unresolved and a lack of available cash was beginning to produce a certain amount of disorganization within the force. This situation was compounded by the effect of the war on Iranian customs receipts, which further reduced the government’s capacity to provide money. By early 1915 the situation of the Gendarmerie was desperate. As Captain Angman in Shiraz reported to Tehran, it was five months since salaries had been paid and four since rations had arrived.13 Nonetheless a British offer to finance the Fars Gendarmerie until the end of the war was declined by the Swedes at Shiraz themselves on

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political grounds, and it was at this point that the Gendarmerie appears to have turned to German sources for money.14 However, perhaps the most significant effect of the war may be found in the growing politicization of the Iranian officer corps of the force and in its new activism in cooperation with the Democrats and nationalists in the arena of national politics. Notwithstanding its patronage by Britain and the suspicion that this engendered in certain nationalist circles, the Gendarmerie had, from its birth, always been clearly identified with Iranian constitutionalism and the struggle for national unity and independence. Hasan Arfa described the force in 1914 as ‘national-minded’ and as having been, upon its foundation in 1911, ‘the backbone of the new Iranian constitutional regime’.15 The officer corps of the Gendarmerie seemed to attract young Iranians who were sympathetic to the constitutional movement and who wished to see reform and progress in their country, and this milieu constituted a favourable environment for the development of radical political consciousness, which found concrete expression in adherence to the Democrat Party. Indeed it seems that the officer training schools of the Gendarmerie were targeted by the Democrats as fertile ground for propaganda and they insinuated teachers into these schools in the hope of spreading their ideas and broadening their support. In 1911 leading members of the Democrat Party had been closely involved in Shuster’s work of building up the Treasury Gendarmerie. Of the Treasury Gendarmes, who were to go on to form the nucleus of the Government Gendarmerie, Shuster wrote, regarding the Russian ultimatum of November 1911: They were the pick of the Young Persia patriots who really desired to serve their country, and I had taken care that they should be well drilled, equipped and armed. When the thirty-five Persian officers who commanded them heard of the overthrow of the Medjlis, they came and begged to be allowed to fight for their country, and I had ample evidence that they were more than eager to go against the Russian troops.16

In their support for the Democrats and nationalists during the First World War, therefore, the Government Gendarmes were continuing to give expression to the political tradition established in the earlier force. Although the Iranian officer corps was the most politically significant segment of the Gendarmerie, it appears that the rank and file of the force was also developing a nationalist consciousness as a result of the events of these years. For example, in June 1915 the British minister remarked of the Isfahan Gendarmes that not only the officers but also the rank and file of the force were reported to be pro-German.17 (In the British sources the terms ‘pro-German’ and ‘pro-Democrat’ are used more or less interchangeably.)

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This comment provides a rare glimpse into the attitudes of this layer, while Pravitz, the Swedish OC at Shiraz, recorded in his memoirs that despite the admittedly limited mental horizon of the ordinary Gendarmes they had a much greater political awareness than the population as a whole.18 However, society at large was also becoming aware of the international situation and this affected the life of the Gendarmerie. According to Pravitz, although many of the recruits of 1915 had enrolled out of hunger, some places had sent their youth out of ‘pure patriotism’, repercussions of the world war having reached even those who never read a newspaper.19 During the early months of the war the Gendarmerie decisively shook off its association with Britain and, as a result of the new international situation, became drawn, with its Democrat partners, into an alliance with Germany, the reservations of nationalist elements regarding the force quickly evaporating. Iranian nationalism had been trying for some time to secure the intervention of a third power in Iranian affairs as a means of counter-balancing Britain and Russia. America had been tried without success but now the war presented the possibility that Germany might play that role.20 Iranian nationalists became interested in a German victory insofar as it would hurt Russia and Britain and promote the cause of Iran’s independence, and Germany encouraged them in this belief. The Germans, for their part, realized that they could exploit Iranian hatred of Britain, and especially Russia, to further their own project in the East, the attempt to provoke rebellion in Afghanistan and India. However, Iranian nationalist–German attempts at cooperation were complicated by the entry of the Ottomans into the war in late October 1914. The propaganda impact of the participation of the Islamic empire in the war on the side of the Central Powers was significantly reduced by Iranian awareness of the fact that the Turks harboured territorial ambitions towards the northwest of their country. As well as fear of pan-Turkism there was also much resentment in Iran at the behaviour of the Ottoman armies. Indeed the triangular relationship between Germans, Turks and Iranian nationalists during the war was characterized by mutual suspicion and remained fraught with unresolved fears and tensions. Mutual hostility and petty infighting constantly plagued attempts at united action.21 Democrat and nationalist sympathies and a tactical alliance with Germany thus explain the political orientation of the Iranian Gendarmes. For the Swedish officers, however, who shared this orientation, it seems that genuine admiration and respect for Germany was an important factor in determining their allegiance, and in fact the most cordial relations had existed between the Swedes and the Germans in Iran since the former’s

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arrival. According to O’Connor, the British consul in Shiraz who was later taken prisoner by the Gendarmes, the Swedish officers were almost without exception pro-German and anti-Russian. He ascribed these sentiments firstly to the traditional fear and hatred in Sweden for Russia, due to geographical and historical considerations, and secondly to the fact that the Swedes, the majority of whom had undergone courses or attended manoeuvres in Germany, were all imbued with the highest admiration for the German army and the German military system generally, and were incapable of conceiving of Germany’s defeat.22 However, in later years the Swedish officers themselves, when discussing their part in the events of these years, tended rather to stress their desire to help the Iranians in their struggle for freedom and independence, a desire that of course dovetailed neatly with their predisposition towards Germany. At the end of 1916 a group of them made a long statement in self-justification which was published in the Swedish newspaper Korrespondenzblatt as part of a public debate in Sweden about the activities of the officers.23 This statement was made jointly by nine officers and it is indeed characterized by idealism and sympathy for Iranian aspirations. The Swedes begin by saying that as Gendarme officers in Iran they had ‘good occasion to realize the terrible manner in which Britain and Russia are oppressing the unfortunate country; Russia takes the North and England the South’. There then follows a passage in which the Swedes draw a parallel between their enterprise and that of Morgan Shuster. This overt identification implies that the Swedes felt a genuine sympathy for the constitutional movement and were conscious of their work as a product of that movement. They state that when the war broke out they were in a difficult position, being suspected, as Teutons, of harbouring Germany sympathies. ‘The result was that the Entente did its very best to put a spoke in our wheel, as they had already done in the case of Morgan Shuster and his associates.’ They continue: Two courses were open to us: 1. Either to place ourselves in the hands of the Entente, against our own convictions and the interests of the Persians, in order to obtain the necessary means of keeping up the Gendarmerie. 2. Or to work for Persia’s freedom and independence, supported by the Persian nation and the other group of Powers. We all, including Herr Nyström [later Entente-sponsored Commandant], agreed to take the second course.

After describing their role in the events of late 1915 and 1916 the Swedish officers ended their statement with the words: ‘As far as our behaviour and its results are concerned we confidently await the judgement of the future.

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We have always worked according to our lights in the interests of Persia.’ The tone of this statement is clearly heavily influenced by the political outlook of the Iranian Gendarmes. Indeed in a wider sense than the directly political, the Swedes had always been heavily dependent on their Iranian officers. Although occupying the most senior command positions within the Gendarmerie, it sometimes seemed that the Swedes were merely figureheads while the real power lay with the Iranian officers. The Swedes neither spoke nor understood Persian and relied completely on their Iranian subordinates for their local knowledge and intelligence. It also seems that in committing the Gendarmerie to the nationalist cause it was the Iranian officers who took the lead. Indeed by 1915 the British considered the Swedes to be the mere dupes of their Iranian officers. In typical vein the British consul, Cowan, reported on the Gendarmes’ coup at Hamedan in November 1915: ‘There is no doubt in my mind that the leading spirit in this movement has been Major Mohammad Taqi Khan [Pasyan], and that Major Kaellstrom was a puppet in the hands of his subordinate.’24 The nationalist and pro-German tendencies of the Gendarmerie had become more overt as the first year of the war had progressed. By early 1915 various units were accepting money from the Germans and in the following months the force gave practical expression to its political sympathies in various ways, some trivial, some more important, despite the periodic issuing of formal orders by the new commandant, Edwall, as a result of British pressure on the Iranian government, that officers cease their political activities. For example, the small parties of Germans, such as those led by Zugmayer, Griesinger and Niedermayer, who were travelling through Iran towards Afghanistan with the object of gathering support for the Central Powers, received considerable aid, encouragement and protection from the Gendarmerie, as did Wassmuss in his attempts to rouse the tribes of the Persian Gulf littoral against the British. Gendarme officers, both Swedish and Iranian, carried out nationalist propaganda on behalf of the Central Powers and encouraged local chiefs to make preparations to march on Bushihr, the main British base in the Gulf.25 In August the situation in Bushihr and its environs polarized, leading eventually to armed clashes between Gendarmes and Allied forces. As conditions in the south deteriorated Britain made the decision to occupy Bushihr in an attempt to secure the situation and impress the Iranian government with a show of strength, an action that naturally infuriated nationalist sentiment. When the British occupied Bushihr in August the local Gendarmerie detachment was ordered to evacuate its posts and its arms were confiscated. The next sizeable Gendarmerie post along the road from Bushihr was at

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Burazjan and was commanded by Captain Ahmad Khan Akhgar. He led his men in several engagements against the occupying forces before his flight to the west to join the nationalists.26 The Iranian government had, under British pressure, on several occasions during 1915 obliged the senior Gendarme officers to issue formal orders forbidding members of the force from engaging in political activities, but these had little effect. Although at the beginning of the war the government had declared its neutrality, nonetheless its sympathies were equivocal and in any case it lacked the authority to ensure that neutrality was observed, either by internal or external elements. However, the central government was by no means completely irrelevant to the life of the Gendarmerie, which felt the impact of changes in the political constellation at Tehran, particularly regarding the offices of prime minister and minister of the interior. Independent-minded politicians such as Mushir al-Dawlah were able, when occupying these posts, to resist strong British demands regarding such matters of internal Gendarmerie organization as the postings of officers and the distribution of detachments. Pro-Allied cabinet ministers such as Ayn al-Dawlah and Farmanfarma were also occasionally able to exert some influence over the life of the Gendarmerie, but the intentions of such ministers were often frustrated by their pro-Democrat subordinates in the bureaucratic apparatus. For example, the drafting of orders to the Gendarmerie from the ministry of the interior was in the hands of officials with Democrat sympathies who took the opportunity to frame these instructions in such a way as to encourage the Gendarmes, while leaving actually or potentially pro-Allied elements such as Qavam al-Mulk in uncertainty and confusion.27 The Gendarmerie’s ability to produce orders from the ministry of the interior was crucial in deterring Qavam from taking action to control the Gendarmes in Fars during 1915. If the attitude of the government towards the Gendarmerie wavered depending on personnel and circumstance, the sympathies of the Majlis were in no doubt. In the elections to the Majlis held in late 1914 the Democrats had won a real, though small, majority and, furthermore, they were now often supported by many of the Moderates. So popular was the Gendarmerie with the Majlis that Britain and Russia were sometimes obliged to relax their efforts to control the force in order to avoid making the position of pro-Allied cabinets untenable.28 The Muhajirat and the provisional government of Kermanshah As 1915 progressed the struggle between the Allies and the Central Powers for control of the Iranian government and the capital intensified. On 19 August Mustawfi al-Mamalik formed the fifth cabinet of the war. Although

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a supporter of the Democrats he wished to preserve Iran’s neutrality, but as autumn approached German influence grew in Tehran to the point where the Allied ministers feared a pro-German coup. In order to preempt any such action, on 7 November Russian troops at Qazvin began to advance on Tehran. The news of the Russian advance caused panic in Tehran. Majlis deputies and nationalists decided to organize a mass flight from the capital and to establish a new government beyond the reach of Russian military control. Even the shah began talking of leaving for the south. On the night of 11–12 November the Muhajirat (emigration) began and large numbers of Majlis deputies, government officials, nationalists and their armed supporters, together with officers and men of the Gendarmerie, and members of the German, Austrian and Ottoman legations left Tehran for Qom on their way to Isfahan.29 The Gendarmerie in Tehran played an important role in organizing this exodus. As the Russians advanced, both Swedish and Iranian Gendarmes collected transport, assisted the Germans to send away their arms and ammunition and facilitated the departure of some 200 escaped Austrian prisoners of war. The Gendarmerie assumed control of the entire telephone system, commandeered all carriages, forage and baggage animals, and caused all the toll stations on the road to Qom to be occupied and the tolls to be collected by Gendarmes.30 The Muhajirin (emigrants) had initially believed that the shah and the government were going to leave Tehran, and the Gendarmerie was ordered to precede the shah on the road. But the shah was in fact undecided. Major Edwall, commandant of the Gendarmerie, was one of the most insistent advocates of the shah’s departure, and by the afternoon of 12 November all the Gendarmes had left Tehran with the exception of one cavalry squadron, the shah’s escort, which was awaiting him at the city gate. However, the shah was eventually dissuaded from flight by the Allied ministers, aided by the intervention of several important Iranian political figures, including Samsam al-Saltanah, Farmanfarma, Ayn al-Dawlah and Sipahsalar. Upon receiving the news that the shah was to stay in Tehran, the government also decided to remain. The Gendarmes who had set out for Qom were recalled but many did not obey this order, continuing instead with the Muhajirin. The Muhajirin received a friendly reception in mujtahid-dominated Qom and here they set up a body known as the Kumitah-i Difa‘-yi Milli (Committee of National Defence), in fact a kind of provisional government. However, the Committee made it quite clear in their propaganda that, in their eyes, they had not rebelled against the shah and the government, but were rather determined to release them from the Allied yoke. They repeatedly declared their submission and obedience to the shah.31 The Committee

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began sending representatives to various southern and western provinces with the aim of securing support, raising local forces and bringing them to the vicinity of Qom to join the Gendarmes and the mujahidin (nationalist volunteers) who formed the core of the Committee’s armed support. Even before the Muhajirin had left Tehran, the nationalists had seized control of Shiraz in a coup organized by the Gendarmerie. Democrat and pro-German influence had greatly increased in Shiraz during 1915. There, as elsewhere, a revolutionary committee was formed called the Kumitah-i Hafizin-i Istiqlal-i Mamlakat-i Iran (Committee for the Protection of Iranian Independence).32 These committees appear to have grown out of the provincial Democrat committees, and in Shiraz this movement was dominated by Iranian Gendarme officers. The force was by now very popular with politically active elements locally,33 and nationalist volunteers enrolled in a militia which was trained by Gendarme officers. In September Qavam al-Mulk, as a result of British pressure on the central government, was appointed acting governor-general and this greatly raised the temperature in Shiraz. Qavam, chief of the Khamsah tribe, was hated by the Democrats, who regarded him as a stooge of the British, and hostility between him and the Gendarmes dated back to the first days of the establishment of the force in Shiraz. However, the Democrats’ grip on the ministry of the interior reduced Qavam’s capacity to act and indeed Qavam was now quite unable to control the city. On 10 November the Gendarmerie, under the command of Major Ali Quli Khan Pasyan, and the Committee for the Protection of Iranian Independence, took control of Shiraz. Major Pasyan was apparently the leading spirit in the Committee and also, there being no Swedish officer then present, in acting command of the regiment. He ordered Captain Mas‘ud Khan Puladin to take over the British consulate, the bank and the telegraph office and to arrest the British residents of Shiraz. He put Captain Mu‘azid al-Sultan in charge of the maintenance of order in the city and instructed Captain Ghulam Riza Khan Pasyan, his cousin, to occupy the government offices.34 All the available notes and silver coin in the local branch of the Imperial Bank of Persia were confiscated. The British colony were taken south; the women were released but the men were handed over by Captain Ahmad Khan Akhgar to a Tangistani khan, in whose fort they were imprisoned until the following August. After the Muhajirat from Tehran and the establishment of the Committee of National Defence in Qom, Gendarme officers in various towns in southern and western Iran took action similar to that taken in Shiraz. The Gendarmes came out in open revolt and took possession of Hamadan, Kirmanshah,

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Sultanabad, Isfahan, Yazd and Kirman, forcing Allied nationals to evacuate these places. In Hamadan, for example, the Gendarmerie, under the command of Major Muhammad Taqi Khan Pasyan, took control after forcibly disarming the local Cossack detachment. After their surrender Major Pasyan made a patriotic speech to the Cossacks, exhorting them to join the Gendarmes in fighting to defend the independence of Iran, and indeed some of the Cossacks did go over to the Gendarmes, while the remainder was allowed to disperse.35 In view of the bid for national leadership made by Muhammad Taqi Khan Pasyan in 192136 it is interesting to note the contemporary comment of the British consul, obliged to leave Hamadan after the Gendarmes’ coup. He observed of Pasyan that the ‘very excellence of his character’ made him a most dangerous man, as he has a ‘capacity for inspiring confidence in others, great personal courage, undoubted intellectual ability and tact, which … render him a man capable of becoming a national hero’. So serious did Cowan believe the threat to British interests represented by Pasyan to be that he requested that any measures taken in western Iran for the suppression of the nationalist movement be directed specifically against him.37 Meanwhile the Russian armies, whose advance on Tehran in early November had precipitated the Muhajirat, were forcing the nationalists grouped around the Committee of National Defence in Qom to retreat, first to Hamadan, then to Kirmanshah. The Committee’s armed support, mixed forces of Gendarmes, mujahidin and tribal irregulars, although on the defensive, engaged the Russians in a series of hard battles. For example, at Rubat-i Karim the Russians encountered a contingent of Gendarmes commanded by Captain Prince Muhammad Husayn Jahanbani, the Hamadan–Kirmanshah road was defended by Major Muhammad Taqi Khan Pasyan while the defence of the Sultanabad area was organized by Major Mas‘ud Khan Kayhan.38 These forces were of course unable to prevail against the Russian armies, and the nationalists fell back on Kirmanshah in the far west. At Kirmanshah a Provisional Government was formed, largely of Democrats under the leadership of Nizam al-Saltanah. He came to an agreement with the Germans, by which he undertook to assume leadership of Iran’s liberation struggle against Russia and Britain and to mobilize for this purpose 4,000 armed men in return for German money, military instructors and war materiel. The forces of the Provisional Government of Kirmanshah were, according to the German–Turkish plans, to block the advancing Russians at various high passes in the mountains on the Hamadan–Iraq road. The Provisional Government duly made efforts to consolidate the

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miscellaneous armed elements at its disposal into a fighting force capable of confronting the Russians. The National Army thus produced consisted of perhaps 8,000 men, the Gendarmes, undoubtedly its backbone,39 plus fluctuating and unreliable groups of tribal irregulars and mujahidin. However, the National Army was beset with difficulties. Although Nizam al-Saltanah was nominally commander in chief, there was no proper unified command structure. Gendarme officers, nationalist leaders and tribal chiefs all wished to retain command of their own men. Moreover there was considerable mutual distrust and suspicion between the German–Turkish military personnel and the Iranian and Swedish Gendarmes. The National Army also suffered from a serious shortage of arms and ammunition, the promised German supplies never materializing. The apparently inexorable Russian advance continued and the Provisional Government was obliged to withdraw from Kirmanshah. The Gendarmes confronted the Russians once more around Bisutun to give time for the evacuation of Kirmanshah and indeed held them at Pataq for nearly a month while the Provisional Government installed itself in Qasr-i Shirin, the last town before the Ottoman border. However, in Qasr-i Shirin the demoralization and disunity of the nationalist forces, both political and military, became increasingly apparent. The failure of the Germans to provide the promised arms and ammunition caused great bitterness among the nationalists, as did the personal behaviour of the German officers present with the Provisional Government.40 Indeed the Gendarmerie was already beginning to disintegrate when a dispute over command brought the latent conflict between Gendarmes and Germans into the open. An attempt by German officers to establish command over the Gendarme officers was resisted by the latter, who were not prepared to put themselves under the authority of foreigners. Therefore a number of senior Gendarme officers, including Captains Mahdi Quli Khan Tajbakhsh, Abd al-Ali Khan I‘timad Muqaddam, Mahmud Khan Paladin and Isfandiyar Khan Sayyar were arrested one night and banished to Mosul.41 At the same time, Nizam al-Saltanah removed all the remaining Swedish officers from their commands, apparently because he wanted to be in full control of affairs, and the Swedes left for home or Germany. The Russian advance now forced Nizam al-Saltanah and the nationalists to seek asylum in Ottoman territory and in May 1916 they settled temporarily in Baghdad. In August 1916 an offensive by the Central Powers was successful and the Russians were repulsed towards Qazvin. Nizam al-Saltanah re-established a government in Kirmanshah, in the wake of the Turkish army, which functioned for six months. The Germans resolved to reconstruct the Gendarmerie

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and summoned several Swedish officers from Sweden and Berlin. However, these efforts were plagued by internal dissensions, and when a British offensive in early 1917 forced the nationalists to retreat once more the Gendarmes found themselves in political and organizational disarray. The Provisional Government, now deep in Iraq, was clearly a spent force and many of the Iranian Gendarme officers went into exile, some, such as Muhammad Taqi Khan Paysan and Habiballah Khan Shaybani, to Germany but the majority to Istanbul where they entered the Ottoman army. Some Gendarme officers and their men, however, began to filter back into Iran immediately. Initially dispersing to their homes, they soon found their way back into the newly reorganized Government Gendarmerie. The fate of the Fars Regiment was rather different to that which befell those Gendarmes who had gone to the western front in defence of the Provisional Government. The officers and men of the Fars Regiment had not moved westwards after the Muhajirat from Tehran, as had large sections of other regiments, but had remained at their posts in order to support the authority of the Committee of National Defence in Shiraz and to hold the province for the nationalists. However, by the spring of 1916 financial difficulties, a general decline in popular support and the demoralization among the nationalists caused by the reverses suffered in the west combined to produce a climate ripe for a pro-Allied counter-coup in Shiraz. Qavam al-Mulk, acting governor-general of Fars and a long-standing enemy of the Gendarmerie, had fled Shiraz after the Gendarme seizure of power. He had gone to Bushihr where, with the help of the British Resident in the Persian Gulf, Percy Cox, who supplied him with money and weapons, he had assembled an army with which to re-establish his position. Marching north he defeated a Gendarme detachment at Lar and began attracting tribal adherents, impressed by his actual and potential strength. While the tribal army was nearing Shiraz, elements within the Shiraz Gendarmerie, led by Captain Muhammad Hasan Khan Fath al-Mulk, were secretly approached and won over by emissaries sent by Qavam.42 The new Swedish commandant in Tehran, Colonel Nyström, who had been installed by the Allies, handed over formal command of the regiment to Fath al-Mulk. The latter, apparently using money from British sources and exploiting widespread fears of the Qavami army, organized his coup with the particular help of a group of ncos, and after several days’ fighting this faction established itself in control of Shiraz. Roever, the German acting consul, the one remaining Swedish officer, Captain Angman, and many Iranian Gendarmes and nationalists were arrested. This was the situation when the tribal army entered Shiraz with Qavam al-Mulk’s son, Ibrahim

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Khan, at its head, the elder Qavam having died while on the march. Ibrahim Khan immediately became the new acting governor-general and, with Fath al-Mulk, instituted a severe repression. Major Ali Quli Khan Pasyan, the leader of the nationalist Gendarmes in Shiraz, and his cousin, Captain Ghulam Riza Khan Pasyan, decided to try to reach their allies in Tangistan but were unable to carry out this plan. Rather than fall into the hands of their enemies they committed suicide by shooting each other. Other Gendarmes, including Captains Mas‘ud Khan Puladin and Mu‘azid al-Sultan and Doctor Fazlallah Khan, were tortured and executed. The Swede, Captain Angman, was interned until the end of the war, while a number of other Iranian officers were kept under arrest for some months. Towards the end of 1916 Sir Percy Sykes arrived in Shiraz and incorporated the Fars Gendarmerie into the new British-officered force he was responsible for raising, the South Persia Rifles (SPR).43 Having formed a very favourable assessment of the competence of the Gendarmes44 he took over the Fars Regiment with an approximate strength of 2,300 officers and men, and also took over its barracks, administrative buildings and arms. Thus in the early stages of the SPR’s life, ex-Gendarme officers formed the bulk of the force’s ranks. However, the continued existence among the exGendarmes of nationalist and anti-British sentiments was to make them a disruptive element within the SPR. Sykes himself admitted that a large minority, including the most active elements, was hostile to the British take over.45 Immediately after their incorporation into the SPR, Sykes discovered evidence of a plot against the British in which many ex-Gendarme officers were participating. By the autumn of 1918, 500 ex-Gendarmes had been dismissed from the SPR and many of them were clustering around the Democrats in Shiraz who, encouraged by events in Tehran, were intensifying their activity.46 Wolseley Haig, consul-general at Isfahan, was convinced that the mutiny of the SPR garrison at Abadah in July 1918 was the work of ex-Gendarmes. He was prompted to this conclusion by a remark of one of the mutineers during his interrogation after the suppression of the mutiny. Haig quotes the prisoner as saying in his defence: ‘I am not guilty. I was not a gendarme.’47 Apparently the Abadah insurgents had organized themselves into a unit, which they called the third regiment of the ‘Gendarmerie Governmentale’, and had reverted to Swedish methods of organization and drill, even using the Swedish trumpet call.

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The reconstruction of the Government Gendarmerie In summary, the situation regarding the Gendarmerie after the political polarization of late 1915 was as follows. The majority of the Fars and Kirman regiments, having espoused the nationalist cause, had remained in situ in an attempt to hold the south against the British. After their defeat they were incorporated into the South Persia Rifles. The greater part of the remaining regiments, having followed the Provisional Government and fought on its behalf in western Iran, had either gone into exile or had dispersed to their homes. Although the bulk of the force had come out in open support of the Committee of National Defence, a small percentage of the first and second regiments, headquartered at Tehran, a few hundred men, and a handful of Swedish officers had preferred neutrality, remaining in the capital and staying loyal to their pro-Allied commandants. It was on this last, relatively stable, component of the Gendarmerie that attention was now to be refocused. Iranian governments throughout this period had remained committed to the principle of a Gendarmerie, notwithstanding the turbulence of 1915–16. They possessed, in the Swedish and Iranian Gendarmes who had remained at Tehran, the core around which the force could be rebuilt, and throughout 1917 they repeatedly raised the possibility of applying again to Sweden or to another neutral country for more officers. These proposals for reconstructing the Gendarmerie were incorporated into wider schemes, reminiscent of pre-war plans, for raising and financing a national army.48 In August 1918, when Vusuq al-Dawlah formed a government, one of his projects was to reform and re-arm the Government Gendarmerie and, by the late autumn, he was making plans for the restoration of order in the more accessible parts of the country using the force. Vusuq’s government was based on a very close relationship with the British, who seem to have agreed to the project, perhaps because they had succeeded in installing a tame commandant, Colonel Gleerup, and because they were aware of the danger posed to their own strategic aims by a pro-British government too weak to impose its own authority. Although resolutely opposing any more Swedish officers, when Vusuq asked the British to provide rifles for the Gendarmerie, which was short of arms, they agreed and handed over some captured Turkish rifles. The Gendarmerie’s growth during the next two years was rapid and extensive. Regiments were established both in areas where they had existed prior to 1915–16 and also in new areas which had not previously possessed Gendarmes. The collapse of Tsarism meant that Russian hostility no longer impeded the development of the force, and regiments were formed in such places as Tabriz and Mashhad. But the Gendarmerie was still unable to

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develop on a truly national scale. Paradoxically the one area into which it could not expand in this period was the south of Iran. Britain was anxious to keep the south the exclusive preserve of the SPR that had, in any case, swallowed up most of the Fars and Kerman Gendarmes. In the newly reorganized force the Iranian officer corps had much greater responsibilities, and Iranian officers now had command of regiments since only three Swedes remained. Furthermore many officers and men who had been dispersed after the nationalist collapse simply rejoined the force, bringing with them the considerable experience of active service they had gained on the western front. The prestige of the Gendarmerie was high in these years and it continued to be seen by many Iranians as an expression of their national aspirations. Hasan Arfa, for instance, well educated and from a privileged and aristocratic background, chose to join the Gendarmerie in 1919 rather than the Cossack Division, because the Gendarmerie was a ‘national force’ and despite a personal invitation to join the Cossacks from their Russian commandant.49 By early 1920 a sophisticated structure had been established. The force had implanted itself in the north, west and east of Iran, and schools were functioning in Tehran. The strength of the Gendarmerie was: three Swedish officers, including the commandant, 242 Iranian officers and 8,158 men.50 However, the estimates provided for continued expansion, and by the time of the coup d’état in early 1921 the force numbered nearly 10,000. The annual cost of the Gendarmerie, at its 1920 strength, amounted to more than 3 million tuman, total government revenue at that time not exceeding approximately 15 million tuman. Recruitment was still largely by voluntary enlistment. Officers were appointed either from the officers’ school or from the ranks. The officers’ school, commanded by Major (later Brigadier) Riza Quli Khan Qajar Karim Quvanlu, provided a high standard of training for officers, many of whom were to reach senior rank in the new army of the 1920s. In the years from its reorganization in 1917 to the coup d’état the Gendarmerie was undoubtedly the most significant military force possessed by Iran and spearheaded the government’s attempt to arrest the centrifugal tendencies so dangerously aggravated by the First World War and to re-establish its authority throughout the country. The Gendarmerie participated, sometimes in cooperation with the Cossack Division, in the campaigns against the Jangalis and the Bolsheviks in the Caspian provinces, and against the Kurdish rebellion led by Isma‘il Aqa Simko in Azarbayjan, as well as engaging in its traditional duties of guarding the roads and suppressing brigandage.

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However, the Gendarmerie’s political significance was undoubtedly greater than its military role and it occupied a central place in the two most significant strategies adopted to halt the country’s political and territorial disintegration and to restructure and modernize the Iranian state. These were, firstly, the proposals to rebuild the Iranian state under British hegemony embodied in the Anglo-Persian Agreement of 1919, and, secondly, the movement which culminated in the coup d’état of February 1921. In the years 1918–21 the symbiotic relationship between the Gendarmes and the nationalist movement continued. Those Gendarmes who had quietly filtered back to their homes after the collapse of Nizam al-Saltanah’s government immediately resumed their political activities. Furthermore the disintegration of the Tsarist armies in 1917 gave heart to the nationalists who, with the Gendarmes, began spontaneously reorganizing themselves. In September 1917 in Hamadan, for example, the Democrats, growing in influence, set up a kind of militia. This militia was instructed by exGendarmes and apparently received some encouragement from the local Russian soldiers’ committees. In February 1918 it was reported that a nationalist Gendarmerie was forming near Qazvin. Indeed so significant had been the role played by the Gendarmerie in the nationalist movement, and its impact on that movement so profound, that there was a tendency for any locally organized nationalist militia to adopt its name in some form. This was the case, for example, when Shaykh Muhammad Khiyabani and the Democrats seized control of Tabriz in 1920. Khiyabani, who had in Tehran been impressed by the organization of the Gendarmerie, decided to set up a similar force, under his orders, to be called the Azarbayjan Gendarmerie. This force was absorbed by the Government Gendarmerie after the overthrow of Khiyabani,51 and it may be assumed that it took its overt Democrat sympathies with it into the larger corps. The nationalist and Democrat politics of many of the officers and men of the official Government Gendarmerie led them to sympathize with various of the radical movements that appeared in the area in the aftermath of the First World War, including Kemalism, the Jangali revolt, and even, in some cases, Bolshevism. It also ultimately led to their involvement in the planning and execution of the coup d’état of February 1921. The Russian Revolution had a considerable impact on the Gendarmerie. The ideology of Bolshevism, or more usually radical nationalism with a communist colouring, began to exert a certain appeal to elements within the officer corps of the force, while the Soviet struggle against British interventionist forces, then using northern Iran as a base, aroused widespread sympathy, and the Soviet objective of removing British influence from Iran

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harmonized with the aims of the nationalist Gendarmes. During 1917 the Gendarmes had been directly and dramatically exposed to Bolshevik activity through contact with the soldiers’ committees set up by the Russian soldiers still in Iran. Furthermore it seems that, in the following years, the Gendarmerie was one of the segments of society specifically chosen as a potentially receptive target by the Firqah-i ‘Adalat (Justice Party), later the Iranian Communist Party, which directed constant propaganda, although mostly of a nationalist character, at the force. The effect of exposure to influences of these kinds is perhaps best exemplified by the political development of Major Abul Qasim Khan Lahuti, undoubtedly the most famous communist produced by the Gendarmerie.52 Always inclined towards the left wing of the constitutional movement, Lahuti participated in the nationalist battles against the Russians in western Iran in 1915–16. In his hometown, Kirmanshah, where Nizam al-Saltanah had established his Provisional Government, Lahuti founded and edited an anti-Allied periodical. It seems that in 1916–17 he came into contact with Bolsheviks working clandestinely within the Russian army of occupation. In this way he heard for the first time about scientific socialism, Marx, Lenin, the Bolshevik Party and its programme, and he joined a joint committee of Russian and Iranian revolutionaries.53 In 1917 Lahuti set up in Kirmanshah the Firqah-i Kargar (Workers’ Party), which supported the Soviet revolution and opposed intervention against the new Soviet state. However, the party was disbanded after the establishment of British control in Kirmanshah and Lahuti again fled, like many of his fellow officers, this time to Istanbul, where he resumed literary activities of a politically radical character before returning to Iran and rejoining the Gendarmerie. Clearly, however, the political belief that ran most strongly through the Gendarmerie, and which defined its attitudes towards other ideologies and neighbouring states, was nationalism, particularly since the collapse of Tsarism, in its anti-British form. Nonetheless Gendarme officers were centrally involved in the work of the Anglo-Persian Military Commission, which was set up under the terms of the intensely unpopular Anglo-Persian Agreement of 1919, although their political outlook inevitably affected their contribution to that body.54 The Commission was to report on Iran’s military needs and to make recommendations as to how best these needs might be met. The British component of the Commission was headed by Major-General W.E.R. Dickson and four of its nine Iranian members were Gendarme officers, Colonel Azizallah Khan Zarghami, Officer Commanding the first regiment at Tehran, Lieutenant-Colonel Fazlallah Khan Aqavli, OC the sixth regiment at Isfahan, Captain Ali Khan Riyazi and Doctor

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Amir A‘lam Sardar, doctor in chief of the Gendarmerie. The Commission assembled in January 1920 and at the beginning of April presented a report containing a comprehensive survey of the existing military forces and institutions and recommending the merging of these forces and the construction of a uniform national force under British officers.55 The involvement of the Gendarme officers was necessary both because of their individual military expertise and because of the prestige of their corps, but they were unhappy with the work of the Commission and the nature of British proposals for building a new army, feeling that they damaged Iranian independence and national dignity. The belief that the Anglo-Persian Agreement as a whole would result in the subjection of their country was widespread among Iranian nationalists, who involved the Gendarmerie in their agitation against the Agreement. For example, in early September 1919 the outspoken constitutionalist cleric, Sayyid Hasan Mudarris, invited officers of both the Gendarmerie and the Cossack Division to come to a meeting to protest against the Agreement.56 Furthermore there was also resentment within the Gendarmerie specifically towards the military arrangements the British wished to make, particularly the proposal that the new uniform force be placed under British officers. However, Gleerup, whom the British had installed as commandant, cooperated wholeheartedly with his patrons regarding the Agreement and the Military Commission, passing on to his men the assurances of the prime minister, Vusuq al-Dawlah, that the interests of the force would not be prejudiced by the Agreement. In fact when the Commission eventually produced its report only two of the four Gendarme members, Zarghami and Riyazi, actually signed it. Colonel Aqavli had, shortly before, committed suicide, an act that was widely interpreted in Iran as a protest against the Agreement and the military subjection of the country.57 The Gendarmerie now constituted a factor of considerable political importance in Iran, and certain circles within the force were drawn into the coup preparations being made in late 1920 to early 1921 by Sayyid Ziya alDin Tabataba’i and Riza Khan, respectively civilian and military heads of the movement. Sayyid Ziya had apparently been cultivating a relationship with individual Gendarme officers for some time. He had defended the Gendarmerie in the pages of his newspaper Ra‘ d and was particularly close to the two officers, Captain Kazim Khan Sayyar and Major Mas‘ud Khan Kayhan, who were assisting Colonel Smyth in his work with the Cossack Division at Qazvin.58 The years of the First World War in Iran had also wrought a transformation in the internal structure and political and international

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orientation of the Cossacks, now expanded to a Division. The endemic conflict between the constitutionalist and nationalist Gendarmerie and the Tsarist Russian-officered, royalist Cossack Brigade had reached its apogee during the war, with outright clashes between the two forces. The revolution in Russia, however, had provoked a crisis for the Brigade, which was temporarily allayed by the bestowal of British patronage. Yet the British quickly lost patience with their uncooperative and troublesome clients and in October 1920 summarily dismissed the Russian officers and took over direct command of the Division. Thus Smyth and his colleagues were uniquely well placed to bring together under British auspices the elements involved in the coup preparations. Although in the light of their past relationship it may seem surprising that the Gendarmes and Cossacks were able to agree on joint action, in fact during 1919–20 the traditional hostility and rivalry between the two forces had been modified and even partially superseded by a recognition of common interest. It was their common opposition to British control, implied in the proposals of the Anglo-Persian Military Commission, which first forged political links. When the British contemplated using force to compel the Division to embody itself in the proposed Iranian army, they admitted that, in that event, it was doubtful which side the Gendarmerie in Tehran would take. This sympathy between the two forces was perhaps the first step on the road that led to successful collaboration in the execution of the coup, and certainly by the spring of 1920 active liaison between the Cossacks and the Gendarmes had been established. Captain Sayyar and Major Kayhan accompanied the Cossacks on their march from Qazvin to Tehran and the presence of these officers helped ensure that the coup would take place without any dissent from the Gendarmerie in the capital. In fact there is some evidence to suggest that elements within the Gendarmerie, conscious of the seriousness of the impending political collapse in Tehran and the urgency of formulating a response to it, may have been planning a coup of their own which was only just preempted by the march from Qazvin.59 For the support that they had given to Sayyid Ziya and the coup d’état, the Gendarmerie was rewarded with important posts in the new government and also with considerable power in the provinces. The two Gendarme officers who had played such an important role at Qazvin and on the march to Tehran, Captain Sayyar and Major Kayhan, were appointed military governor of Tehran and minister of war respectively. In the period following the coup d’état the Gendarmerie attained the zenith of its influence, occupying the commanding heights of political power in both the capital and

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the provinces. However, by the end of 1921 it had largely succumbed to the ascendancy of the Cossack Division within the structures of the new army, as a result of Riza Khan’s twin tactics of cooption and repression. The First World War had transformed the Government Gendarmerie from a modest road police officered by Europeans to an institution free of foreign tutelage that was of central military and political significance. Indeed it now occupied a position akin to that of a national army in states possessing more normal trajectories of development. Although in the immediate pre-war period the Gendarmerie had derived enormous benefit from the political and financial support of Britain, with the outbreak of war and the concomitant political polarization, the Gendarmerie rejected its imperial patron and identified itself unequivocally with Iranian nationalism, placing its armed strength at the latter’s disposal. The Swedish officers, although initially providing the corps with European figureheads acceptable to Britain, were from 1914 increasingly marginal to the life of the Gendarmerie, though they remained in nominal charge and the Swedish commandant continued to offer political allegiance to Britain. The effective eclipse of the Swedish command presented the Iranian officers with an enormously enhanced role and revealed them as the true determinants of the political and military direction of the Gendarmerie and those who looked to it for leadership. In the aftermath of the war the reorganized force constituted a focus around which the shattered Iranian state might be rebuilt, as the Turkish state was to be rebuilt around the remnants of the Ottoman army. Indeed the parallels between the Gendarmes and the Kemalist officers in this period are irresistible. Yet drawn into preparations for a coup led largely by elements outside itself, the Gendarmerie paved the way for its own destruction. The years of the First World War and its immediate aftermath in Iran are usually characterized as a period of constitutionalist defeat, of political turmoil and collapse. Yet two institutions created by the Constitutional Revolution, the Majlis and the Government Gendarmerie, not only survived throughout this period but also made important contributions to the nationalist struggle, stabilizing radical political activity and providing it with a focus and an instrument. Both the Majlis and the Gendarmerie also constituted an element of continuity between the state-building efforts of the constitutional period and of the post-war and early Pahlavi years. The Gendarmerie provided the Muhajirat with its most coherent military force and with its only competent military leadership. By the end of the war the force constituted one of the few remaining stable structures of the Iranian state. The Gendarme officers had come to perceive themselves both collectively and individually as capable of offering national leadership but

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were clearly a subordinate element in the coup of 1921. The Gendarmerie, in the person of Colonel Pasyan, made a final bid to realize the aspirations awakened and emboldened during the First World War but found its claim to represent Iranian nationalism had been usurped by Riza Khan.

5

A Kurdish Warlord on the Turkish–Persian Frontier in the Early Twentieth Century: Isma‘il Aqa Simko1 Martin van Bruinessen During the First World War and the first few years of the post-war period, the dominant personality of the Persian–Turkish frontier was Isma‘il Aqa, better known as Simko, chieftain of the large Shikak tribe. Cleverly exploiting the possibilities offered by the turbulent history of the region in the first quarter of the twentieth century, balancing between the Turks, Russians and Persians, and later the British in Iran, with all of whom he was in regular contact, Simko not only managed to hold his own but to increase the extent of his power and influence in the region. In the aftermath of the war he set himself up as an independent local ruler, cooperating with a number of leading Kurdish nationalists and challenging the central government. Even after his ‘rebellion’ was crushed by the modernized Persian army in August 1922 and he had fled from Persian soil, he remained an influential actor in central Kurdistan, and both Turkey and Britain attempted to use him in their interests in the conflict over the status of the Mosul velayat. Simko’s career was not an atypical one for a Kurdish tribal leader. Most of the powerful Kurdish chieftains strengthened their positions within their tribes through various forms of association with outside forces, most commonly the Ottoman and Persian states, but since the late nineteenth century also the European Great Powers (and more recently yet, the United States of America). What made him unique is the nexus of time and space in which he operated. The Shikak territory, in the mountains to the west of Lake Urumiyeh, was just inside Persia but so close to the border that even in times of peace Shikak influence extended into Ottoman territory; it was part of the periphery of both states. Until well into the twentieth century, the border had not much practical significance for the Kurdish tribes, many of which had pastures on both sides. Nor did the border represent a fixed boundary to which Ottoman and Persian control extended; authority in the 69

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frontier districts was in permanent flux. In 1906 Ottoman troops invaded Persian Azerbaijan and occupied a significant part of the Kurdish-inhabited districts of that province. They remained there, though not in full control, until 1911, when they were expelled by the Russians. The latter had in 1909 invaded the province and occupied Tabriz, which was then, together with Rasht, the last bastion of Persia’s constitutional movement. They stationed infantry and Cossacks in Tabriz, Khoy, Deylaman and Urumiyeh. Until the outbreak of the First World War these managed to keep the Kurdish tribes in check without actually occupying their territory. The Russian troops were called back at the time of Enver Pasha’s Caucasian campaign in December 1914, and in early January 1915 Ottoman troops, aided by Kurdish irregulars, briefly occupied Azerbaijan. Russian troops returned almost a year later and stayed in the region until Russia, in the wake of its revolution, withdrew from the war altogether. For a final brief period in 1918, Turkish troops, aided by Kurds, once again controlled parts of Azerbaijan.2 A complicating factor was the presence of a considerable force of Christian Nestorians in the Urumiyeh area. The Nestorians of Hakkari, who had before the war been in contact with the Russians and with American missionaries in Urumiyeh, felt threatened when the war broke out and fled from Ottoman soil to Urumiyeh and Salmas, seeking Russian protection. Many of them were to help the Russians as advance scouts when these invaded central Kurdistan and often took private revenge on the Muslim population. Christian–Muslim relations, which had been relatively good before, deteriorated badly during the war. The departure of the Russian troops in 1917 left the Nestorians without foreign protection, but by then they were reinforced by numerous Armenian refugees, well trained, and well armed with weapons the Russians left behind. In this tense situation, Simko committed the most notorious misdeed of his career. He invited the religious leader of the Nestorians, their patriarch Mar Shimun, to negotiations and had him and his entire company shot dead. This led to a series of reciprocal massacres between Christians and Muslims. Meanwhile, the British attempted to liaise with the Nestorians at Urumiyeh and organize their irregulars into a fighting force that could halt the Turkish offensive towards Tabriz. This effort failed; most Nestorians evacuated Urumiyeh and fled south to the British-controlled zone. Later the British resettled them in the Mosul velayat, where they were used as a barrier against the Turks.3 The conditions in which Simko could emerge as one of the three warlords on Iran’s periphery who seriously threatened the integrity of the state were unique, but in many respects his career exemplifies the relations between

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Kurdish tribes and the states in whose peripheries they existed. The internal structure of these tribes and the nature of the chieftains’ authority over their followers are to a large extent a product of their relations with the state. The first part of this chapter will sketch the changing relations between Kurdish tribes and the relevant states; in the second part, Simko’s rebellion and its aftermath will be studied in some detail. Kurdish tribes between powerful states Kurdistan has for millennia been not just a frontier area but a buffer between two or more empires. Unlike Afghanistan, it has never been politically distinct, but has been partitioned between two empires, the Ottoman and the Iranian, for almost five centuries. Nevertheless the natural conditions are such that these, like previous conquerors, could establish only a very tenuous suzerainty over Kurdistan. Direct rule could only rarely be maintained, and usually some form of indirect rule through local chieftains was practised, as it still is in some parts. This contact with well-developed states, stretching over many centuries, could not but have profound effects on the social organization of Kurdistan. When the Ottomans incorporated most of Kurdistan (c.1515) there existed several emirates, state-like units of varying size and organizational complexity, some of which then claimed ancient origins. Their political system more or less resembled that of the Qaraqoyunlu and Aqqoyunlu Turkman confederation-states, with which they had been in relations of alliance and/or vassalage. The Ottoman conquest did not result in the destruction but in the preservation of the emirates and consolidation of the ruler’s (emir or mir) position within each emirate. Around 1800 some of these emirates still existed. Their internal organization by that time appears to have been much influenced by the Ottoman state.4 The two emirates in Iranian Kurdistan on which some information is available, Ardalan and Guran, both seem to have differed considerably from those under Ottoman suzerainty: for instance, the ruling stratum in both was largely non-tribal. It is tempting to speculate that this represents differences in organization and policies of the Ottoman and Iranian states. There are, however, other factors at work that may be equally important: natural conditions, population density, the ratio of the settled to the nomadic population, etc. The presence of more than one strong state in the vicinity also had its specific effects on the political process in Kurdistan. For instance, it gave the local chieftains more leverage in dealing with the suzerain state: they could threaten to switch loyalties or actually do so. Moreover the local rivals of these chieftains were not dependent on popular support if they desired to

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replace them but could attempt to invoke the aid of the rival state. In several emirates, the ruling families were thus split into ‘pro-Turkish’ and ‘proIranian’ branches.5 The nineteenth century witnessed, for obvious reasons, the emergence of ‘pro-British’ and ‘pro-Russian’ wings in Kurdistan’s ruling circles. By the second half of the century Russia and Britain had become the most significant powers in the area. The actions of the leading Kurds were strongly influenced by their perception that Britain and Russia were stronger than the Ottomans and the Iranians, and that both intended to acquire control of Kurdistan. Moreover the emergence of Kurdish nationalism received a firm boost from the political and military advances these powers made, and, of course, from their support of Greek and Slav independence. Most Kurdish nationalists of the period 1880–1930 envisaged an independent state under British and/or Russian protection. To this day, the nature of the Kurdish nationalist movement is strongly influenced by the presence of the successors of these rival powers, the USA and – until its demise – the Soviet Union, and by the generally perceived need to enlist their support.6 Emirate, confederacy, tribe It is especially during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries that great changes in the social and political organization of Kurdistan took place, as central control by the Ottoman and Iranian states became increasingly effective. The consequence of the elaboration and refining of the administrative networks of the encompassing states was that the highly complex indigenous forms of political organization (the emirates) gave way to simpler ones. The basic organizational pattern of the emirates had been the same as that of many Middle Eastern states, the most obvious parallels being the Turkman confederation-states. The ruler belonged to a chiefly lineage that usually claimed prestigious descent different from that of the powerful tribes of the emirate. There was no set rule of succession, only certain minimum requirements of descent (belonging to the ruling lineage), intelligence, courage, etc. The actual selection of a successor usually involved fierce competition within the ruling lineage and numerous intrigues by internal and external interested powers. The ruler was surrounded by a court consisting of leading military men (tribal chieftains) and civilian officials and scholars. There was a standing army or armed retinue drawn from different tribes of the emirate as well as from outside. The loyalty of this retinue was ideally to the ruler alone, but it constituted only a small fraction of the total military strength of the emirate. The bulk of the army consisted of tribesmen led by their own chieftains, who could mobilize them when needed. The

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tribesmen, usually nomadic or semi-nomadic, constituted in fact a military caste that dominated a lower stratum of cultivators and artisans: non-tribal Kurds, Christians and Jews. Not all tribes were equally closely bound to the emirate. The permanent core was organized into a number of confederacies, typically two, each again under a chiefly lineage unrelated to the component tribes. In none of the cases that I studied closely could I ascertain whether these confederacies had already been in existence prior to the emirate. Legend suggests so for some,7 but it seems to me that in at least several cases the emirate itself was the raison d’ être of the confederacies. It was the organization of the tribes into confederacies more or less balancing each other that made the emir’s divide and rule possible. The chieftains of these confederacies were the emir’s advisers and counsellors, and in many cases the real makers of policy. Each of the component tribes also had its own chieftain, but these appear to have been of the primus inter pares type and rarely played important political roles. In emirates that had more than one urban centre the emir kept the most important town as his own residence and capital, and appointed governors, usually from among his close relatives, to the other towns and surrounding districts. These governors took care of military and financial affairs and the most important judicial cases; other affairs were left to the chieftains of tribes or sub-tribes. As yet, I have found little information about the division of revenue between tribal chieftains, governors, the emir and the central government. Most probably this showed great fluctuations, as the actual balance of power between these authorities changed frequently. Not all tribes belonged to one emirate or the other. There were probably always (and certainly around 1800) groups that managed to maintain a delicate independence by balancing emirates against each other: nomadic tribes whose migration routes passed through more than one emirate and semi-nomadic (transhumant) tribes living at the periphery of the emirates. These tribes belonged, as it were, to the frontier of the emirates. The political processes there replicated, on a lower and less complicated level, those of the empires’ frontiers, i.e. those in and between the emirates. The distinction made here between ‘confederacy’ and ‘tribe’ is one of degree rather than of kind. Kurdish usage does not make a distinction: both may be called ashiret or tayefeh, and the same terms may even be applied to sections of tribes. The Kurdish tribes are political associations consisting of at least one descent group (but usually several) with a number of other people who have attached themselves to it. Quite different degrees of complexity are to be found in Kurdistan: tribes consisting of one or two lineages, tribes

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consisting of a number of (named) associations of lineages, tribes consisting of associations of associations of lineages, etc. Size and degree of complexity form a continuum, and it is largely a matter of choice where one finds the term ‘confederacy’ more appropriate than ‘tribe’. A confederacy, as I use the term, is a large-scale association, less integrated than a tribe, and with less clearly defined boundaries. It is a political association of tribes that previously had an independent existence and that retain a separate identity. Individual persons are referred to by the name of their tribe rather than that of their confederacy. Where there is a tendency to invent a common ancestor, this suggests increasing integration and I would here use the term ‘tribe’ rather than ‘confederacy’. In confederacies and tribes there are chieftains at several levels of segmentation: confederacy, tribe, lineage, extended family, household. Where there are one or more intermediate levels between the tribe and the maximal lineage, I shall speak of ‘sub-tribes’. In confederacies and large tribes the chieftains generally belonged to separate chiefly lineages not closely related to the commoners and had an armed retinue to enforce their rule, whereas in smaller tribes the chieftain was (and still is) usually related to the commoners and ruled by consent rather than by coercion. In different historical periods it was chieftains of different levels of segmentation that played the most significant political roles. In recent times, for instance, several former confederacies have continued to exist, if only in name. The paramount chieftain enjoys respect but no longer has a political function. Real political power is in the hands of the chiefs of tribes or, frequently, sub-tribes, who were much less important two centuries ago. This change is connected less with economic changes than with changes in the political environment, i.e. the central state, as will be discussed below. Kurdish tribes and the Ottoman state In the first half of the nineteenth century the Ottoman and Iranian governments, in their drive for administrative reform, abolished the remaining Kurdish emirates. These reforms were the result of European pressure, as the Kurds realized only too well. The destruction of the last great emirate, Botan, and the capture of its ruler Bedir Khan Beg (1847), was the immediate result of British intervention with the Porte. Bedir Khan Beg was responsible for the massacre of some of his Nestorian subjects, and the British demanded his punishment.8 The dissolution of the emirates resulted in chaos and lawlessness. Tribal conflicts, no longer checked by the emirs, proliferated. Not only the emirates themselves but also most of the tribal confederacies fell apart.

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Ambitious chieftains attempted to usurp as much as possible of the power formerly belonging to the emirs – which involved a lot of raiding, feuding and warfare. Many leaders of the ‘chief’ type had to cede to brigands.9 Contemporary reports all mention the absence of physical security. The state was as yet too weak to restore law and order. The most that provincial governors could do was to mount punitive raids or support one chieftain against others and occasionally back him with military support. They did not have the authority to negotiate or impose a solution in the many tribal conflicts. In this Hobbesian situation there remained one type of ‘traditional’ authority that could restore some kind of order: the sheikh. Sheikhs are ‘holy men’, usually associated with a Sufi or Dervish order. Many have a reputation for piety, wisdom and miraculous powers that earns them wide respect. Many people had (and have) a special relationship with a particular sheikh whom they visit(ed) periodically, sometimes just out of courtesy, but more often with the intention of receiving a protective amulet, a cure for barrenness or disease, advice on spiritual or worldly matters or mediation in a conflict. Sheikhs are generally not associated with any particular tribe (although an entire tribe may consider themselves the followers of one and the same sheikh), so that they are not party to any conflicts between tribes. This and the wide respect some of them enjoyed made them the only persons remaining that could resolve such conflicts – as go-betweens, counsellors, mediators, notaries and guarantors of agreements reached. The successful resolution of tribal conflicts in turn increased their prestige and political influence. Gradually some sheikhs took over some of the functions of the former emirs. After a few decades of chaos and insecurity, from c.1860 we find sheikhs as the most influential political leaders in Kurdistan. It is not accidental that most of the early Kurdish national revolts (until the 1930s) were led by sheikhs: these were virtually the only leaders who could make a number of tribes act in concert. Another factor that contributed to the increasing political influence of these primarily religious leaders was European missionary activity, which resulted in anti-Christian feeling and a stressing of the Muslim identity of the Kurds. However, sheikhs not only resolved conflicts: precisely because their political power derived from their ability to do so, they also needed conflicts if they wished to increase their power. Some ambitious sheikhs therefore actually fanned conflicts between rival chieftains in order to impose their authority.10 Gradually, and not without reversals, the Ottoman state and its twentieth-century successors brought Kurdistan under closer central control, breaking the power of the great tribal chieftains and sheikhs. The result was not the complete dissolution of the tribes but a change in their character.

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Successful centralization broke larger structures up but thereby freed their segments for independent action. The deeper the state and its administrative organs penetrated into Kurdish society, the smaller the tribal entities with which it interacted. Whereas until the early nineteenth century Ottoman and Persian governors had dealt with the Kurds through largely autonomous emirs ruling large tribal conglomerates, in whose internal affairs they but rarely intervened, the first great administrative reforms replaced the emirs by centrally appointed district governors, who administered the tribal population through chieftains of large tribes and confederacies or an occasional influential sheikh. Further extension of the state bureaucracy broke up the large tribes and confederacies and resulted in smaller chieftains being the middlemen between state and society. The relevant tribal units thus became ever smaller, from emirates to confederacies to large tribes to smaller tribes. With each step, they came to resemble more the ideal model of the tribe as a large descent group. Kinship, which had always been central in tribal ideology, became more important than political affiliation in the actual functioning of the tribe. Instead of undergoing de-tribalization, Kurdish society became in a certain sense even more tribal. With the overarching confederate structures gone, narrow tribal loyalties became more pronounced and tribal feuds increased.11 This general trend of ‘devolution’ of the tribes was sometimes reversed, if only for a short time, when central authority weakened or when for some reason the state found the presence of strong tribes in its interest. This was for instance the case when the Ottoman Sultan Abdulhamid II recruited cavalry regiments, the Hamidiya, from Kurdish tribesmen. Each regiment consisted of 500 to 1,150 men of the same tribe, commanded by their own chieftain. The ostensible duty of the Hamidiya was to guard the frontier against foreign (i.e. Russian) incursions and to keep the Armenian population of the empire’s eastern provinces in check. For the sultan they represented a parallel system of control of the east, independent of the regular bureaucracy and army, which he did not fully trust. The Hamidiya enjoyed a high degree of legal immunity – neither the civilian administration nor even the regular military hierarchy had any authority over them, and no court had the competence to adjudicate crimes committed by members of the Hamidiya – and the regiments turned into virtually independent chiefdoms. Their commanders could not only consolidate their control of their own tribes but also expand it at the expense of neighbouring tribes that did not constitute Hamidiya regiments. The establishment of the Hamidiya did not entail the creation of new tribes, but it strengthened some of the existing tribes economically and politically at the expense of their neighbours and it made them internally more

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hierarchical.12 The Hamidiya were hated by reform-minded Turks as representing the worst aspects of Hamidian reaction, and after the Young Turk coup d’état of 1908 they were dissolved. A few years later, however, some of them were revived under another name. They did not play a major part in the First World War, at least not as part of the Ottoman forces.13 During the war years and in the aftermath of the war, weakened central control made it possible for several large confederacies to reassert themselves under powerful chieftains. They regained their former unity and even drew neighbouring tribes into their orbit. Several of these revived confederacies even reached the newspaper headlines in the 1920s, mainly for their association with Kurdish nationalism: the Heverkan (east of Mardin in Turkey), the Jalali (around mountain Ararat), the Pizhdar (east of Qal‘eh Dizeh, Iraq) and the Shikak, who are the subject of the case-study below. In this period the organization of the Heverkan and the Shikak confederacies, and probably also of the Jalali, differed in some respects from the ‘ideal’ pattern. Fredrik Barth has provided us with a somewhat idealized description of the Jaf confederacy.14 In this description the Jaf consist of a number of lineages, some of them ‘real’ Jaf, others more peripheral, all of them subordinated to a single ruling lineage, the Begzadeh. The Heverkan and Shikak differed from this model in that there was not one but several competing chiefly lineages, and each of them was associated with a specific component tribe of the confederacy. This seems to me an indication of the recent (re-)constitution of the confederacies. Their growth and integration went together with the victory of one of the chiefly lineages. The component tribes maintained their own identity. Each inhabited a well-defined territory and owned or had rights in well-defined pasture lands. Leadership in these tribes seems more permanent than in the confederacies. They were by and large marriage isolates – though not the minimal ones, given the strong preference for marriage between paternal cousins. These component tribes could be quite heterogeneous, as in the case of the Heverkan, where some were Muslim, some Yezidi, and where even Christian groups were considered as part of the confederacy. Not all of these tribes had equal political status within the confederacy: there were ‘central’ tribes, which dominated the confederacy politically and militarily, and more marginal ‘client’ or ‘vassal’ tribes that had joined it because of its success or had been subjugated by it. The latter were the first to break away in times of adversity.15 In periods of relative quiet it was virtually impossible for ambitious chieftains to rise to or maintain a position of effective paramount leader-

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ship of such large confederacies unless supported by a strong central state. Prestigious descent, lavish hospitality, wisdom, readiness to help his subjects (characteristics of the ‘chief’ type of chieftain) might be necessary to make a chieftain respected, but were rarely sufficient to guarantee him general recognition as a paramount ruler. In such periods there were several competitors for paramount leadership over the confederacy, each recognized by some of the tribesmen only. Within the component tribes there were also several aspirant chieftains, each of whom allied himself with one of the competitors at the confederate level. This resulted in a factional system of the ‘chequerboard’ type, in which the relevant units were sections of the component tribes. At times of weak government, however, such as the period 1915–30, the rival chieftains could indulge in the kind of military activities that increased their hold over the tribes – the ‘brigand’ aspect of the chieftain. These included raiding caravans or towns, or the villages of neighbouring tribes – an excellent means of reinforcing the unity of one’s own tribe – but apparently raids against villages or camp groups of one’s own tribe were equally important. These raids were directed mainly against the ‘non-tribal’ subjects of a rival chieftain and the client (sub-)tribes that recognized his authority. There was usually little killing and destruction in the raids: only the animals were driven away and movable property taken, and both might later be partially restored. The raids were carried out by the chieftain’s retinue, tough warriors of diverse origins (sometimes including even non-Kurds), who had cut all previous social ties (‘they were ready to kill their own parents if the chieftain ordered them to’, one of my informants explained). They lived with and at the expense of the chieftain, to whom alone they were loyal. In more peaceful times they performed the tasks of collecting the tithe for the chieftain and of enforcing the labour corvée from the non-tribal subjects. If a number of raids were successful, villages and tribal sections would switch their loyalties to the raiding chieftain, both out of fear and because the most courageous and cunning chieftain was thought to be the best.16 ‘Brigand’ and ‘chief’ are not necessarily different types of chieftains; they are rather complementary aspects of the ideal chieftain. Scions of old, established tribal dynasties may act as brigands, as may any parvenu who challenges them. It is largely external political factors that determine which aspect will prevail. It should be stressed, however, that even the most successful brigand chieftains did not rise to power by these means alone. They supplemented them with the method employed by chieftains of all types and in all periods: political alliances with outside powers. These outside powers might include other tribes or confederacies (it is significant that the

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great chieftains of the Shikak and the Heverkan acquired a large following among other tribes before they completely dominated the ‘central’ tribes of their own confederacies), as well as urban merchants, but the most significant powers were, of course, the states. Even when the state had no effective control, a chieftain might derive much power from it – as long as it was not entirely absent and could in theory apply the ultimate sanction of violence. The state might recognize a chieftain as the one and only paramount leader of his tribe or confederacy in exchange for promises of ‘loyalty’. If the Ottoman sultan (who was also widely accepted as the caliph) recognized a chieftain, this in itself was already effective. Frequently, however, recognition by the state was substantiated with significant gifts and by increasing the coercive powers of the recognized chieftain. From the last decades of the nineteenth century onwards, many chieftains thought it useful to establish contacts with Russia and/or Britain besides the states of the region. These powers, though despised, were seen as more powerful (and therefore more useful allies) than the sultan or the shah. The British appear to have remained non-committal until the First World War, but Russia several times invited leading Kurds on tours of the Caucasus and Georgia, made them many promises and distributed much money and other presents among chieftains,17 which strengthened the latter’s positions. Tribes and the non-tribal population It should not be assumed that at any period in the past all Kurds were ‘tribal’. There have always been large numbers of Kurdish ‘non-tribal’ peasants (variously called kurmanj, guran, ra‘ iyat, misken), with no autonomous social organization beyond shallow lineages. The tribesmen that dominated and exploited them superimposed their own organizational structure on theirs. Thus a kurmanj living on land controlled by the Shikak confederacy might identify himself with a particular tribe or sub-tribe of that confederacy, and even feel antagonism towards kurmanj living with rival Shikak sections. They might play a part, though mainly as victims, in feuds between subtribes, but no one would consider them as Shikak proper. The tribesmen were a military elite, usually (but not necessarily) nomadic or transhumant pastoralists. The terms ashir and ashiret are often used not to denote any particular tribe, but the tribesmen as a sort of military caste. Several nineteenth-century travellers observed that the terms ashiret and sepahi – the latter referred to the traditional Ottoman military class, the feudal cavalry – were used interchangeably in Kurdistan.18 Since many nomadic tribesmen have settled and taken up agriculture, the difference between tribal and non-tribal Kurds has become less obvious.

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It is, however, still recognized by the Kurds themselves and is frequently reflected in the control of land. Tribesmen generally own some land; informants from several Kurdish tribes in Iran claimed not to know of any fellow tribesman who is not at least a khordeh-malek (small landowner). Non-tribal Kurds, on the other hand, are usually tenants, sharecroppers or landless agricultural labourers. Rayats who received title to land under the Iranian Land Reform have not, as yet, been accepted as equal to the tribesmen, in spite of the fact that they differ very little from the sedentary tribesmen. Although within any one tribe a rather strict caste-like division was maintained between the tribesmen and their non-tribal subjects, there appears at times to have been a significant mobility between the two strata. The rapid growth shown by some tribes at times of prosperity (increases of 200 per cent within a five- to ten-year period were not rare) was only possible by the incorporation of non-tribal elements from elsewhere. The reverse process, de-tribalization, could result from conquest by another tribe, or from impoverishment followed by settlement. Muslims and Christians Until recently the Kurds, tribal and non-tribal, were not the only inhabitants of the Turco-Persian frontier, but shared this habitat with other ethnic groups, the most significant of which were Christians (Armenians and Assyrians) and Jews. Most of the craftsmen and many urban merchants belonged to these ethnic groups. The majority of the Christians were, however, agriculturalists, often more prosperous than the non-tribal Kurds because they possessed a more sophisticated technology. In most places, they were dominated politically and exploited economically by Kurdish tribes, but this was not everywhere the case. The district of Van had until the First World War a large rural as well as urban Armenian population that was not subjected to any one tribe (although not immune to raids by Kurdish tribesmen, especially after the establishment of the Hamidiya).19 The most important Christian population in the present context, however, were the Nestorian (Assyrian) communities of Hakkari.20 As among the Kurds, there were tribal and non-tribal (ra‘ iyat) Nestorian communities. Each tribal community had its own political and military leaders (malek) but all recognized the Nestorian patriarch (a function hereditary in the Mar Shimun family) as their highest authority. The relations between the Kurds and the tribal Nestorians were long those of equals; the patriarch mediated in Kurdish tribal quarrels, and Nestorians often had recourse to a Kurdish sheikh.21 There was a marked deterioration in Christian–Muslim relations during

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the nineteenth century, when the European powers increased their missionary efforts among the Christians of Kurdistan. Both Christians and Kurds perceived the activity of the missionaries as a preparation for more direct interference by the Great Powers. The Christians, feeling they had powerful protectors, began to resist the traditional exploitation and oppression by Kurdish chieftains. Many Kurds, understandably, felt threatened by the growing control of the European powers over the Ottoman and Iranian governments, by the increasing missionary activity in Kurdistan and by the resulting militancy of the local Christians; they directed their anger against the latter. This increasing antagonism was to make the Kurds receptive to the pan-Islamist propaganda of Sultan Abdulhamid II (1876–1908) and to lead to several massacres of Christians.22 Pan-Islamism and Kurdish nationalism The loyalties of Kurdish tribesmen are embedded in a system of segmentary alliance and opposition. In the period under consideration, however, there appeared two important ideologies that appealed to wider loyalties than the tribal ones: pan-Islamism and Kurdish nationalism. There is a certain similarity between the pan-Islamic and the Kurdish nationalist movements on the one hand and the states on the other, in their relations with the Kurdish tribes and chieftains. For the chieftains these movements offered the same ideological and material sources of power as the state. The movements, however, needed the tribes to give them military strength, but they found them as unstable a basis as the states did. This is especially true of the nationalist movement: tribal division had always been its main weakness. The pan-Islamic movement was closely linked to the Ottoman state or, more precisely, to the sultan and caliph. It became influential in Kurdistan for at least three reasons. First, the European powers and their perceived support for the Christians in Kurdistan aroused Kurdish anxieties. The ‘Christian threat’ made Muslim solidarity appear necessary for defensive reasons. Moreover pan-Islamism was to give the Kurdish tribesmen a licence to loot Christian property. Secondly, it was in the interest of the sheikhs, the most influential leaders in Kurdistan, to strengthen Islamic sentiment. They were its most fervent propagandists. Thirdly, Sultan Abdulhamid II, the chief initiator of the pan-Islamic movement and the founder and patron of the Hamidiya, was perceived by the Kurdish chieftains as their protector against the reform-minded state bureaucracy that desired to break their powers. His successors inherited these loyalties. According to some observers, pan-Islamic propaganda was so effective that in 1914–15 almost all Kurds (including those of Iran) responded to

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the call for jihad, but others seriously contest their commitment to the Ottoman-Islamic cause. Basile Nikitine, the Russian consul in Urumiyeh, claims that all Kurdish chieftains, including those that had been responding positively to Russian overtures and had previously accepted Russian money, obeyed the call for Holy War.23 Other sources emphasize the pragmatism or opportunism of the Kurdish tribal chieftains during the war. They took part when there was a possibility of rapid gains and looting but avoided dangerous engagements. Kurdish conscripts deserted massively, and various influential chieftains, including some former Hamidiya commanders, sided with the Russians.24 Kurdish nationalism developed partly as a reaction to and an imitation of Armenian nationalism and later the Young Turk movement. Both the British and the Russians stimulated this nationalism, which they intended to use against the Ottomans. What appears to have been the first serious attempt to establish something like an independent Kurdish state was made in 1880 by Ubeydullah, a sheikh of great influence in the districts southeast of Lake Van. With an army recruited from the many tribes under his influence, he invaded Iranian Azerbaijan, where many of the local tribes joined him.25 The sheikh had the tacit support of Sultan Abdulhamid II, who approved of the idea of a Kurdish vassal state on formerly Iranian territory, and who apparently intended to use the sheikh against the Armenian revolutionaries. Not deeming the sultan’s support sufficient, Ubeydullah also wrote letters to the British government to inform them of his intentions.26 He failed, but the ideal of an independent Kurdish state remained. It was embraced by many chieftains, if only because it seemed to promise them more personal freedom and power. Modern nationalism developed in relatively limited circles of educated Kurds living in Istanbul and other major cities. A central role in it was played by members of the large family of Bedir Khan, the last ruler of the emirate of Botan. Emin Ali Bedirkhan led the ‘separatist’ wing of the Kurdish movement that surfaced in Istanbul after 1908; Sheikh Ubeydullah’s son Abdulqadir, who enjoyed more authority among the common Kurdish population, represented the moderate ‘cultural’ wing of the movement.27 One of the Bedirkhanids, Abdulrazzaq, had fallen out with the sultan in 1906 and had gone into exile in Russia. By 1912 he had settled in western Azerbaijan, where he became the major proponent of Kurdish nationalism. According to one source, he started publishing a (Kurdish and Turkish) journal named Kurdistan from Urumiyeh.28 In 1913 he founded, with Russian support, a Kurdish cultural association in the town of Khoy, which later that year opened the first Kurdish school.29

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During the First World War, pan-Islamic sentiment proved on the whole stronger than Kurdish national feeling, and there were no serious attempts to separate Kurdish territory from the Ottoman Empire.30 Abdulrazzaq Bedirkhan, with a Kurdish force of some 500 men, took part in operations against the Ottomans alongside the Russians, but his efforts appear to have remained insignificant and not to have provoked the large Kurdish uprising he probably hoped for, Turkish exaggerated perceptions notwithstanding.31 The tribes had little affinity with the idea of a Kurdish nation-state. After the Ottoman defeat, however, nationalism spread rapidly across all Kurdistan. There was a general awareness of Woodrow Wilson’s ‘Fourteen Points’ (which included the principle of self-determination)32 and of British plans for a Kurdish buffer-state between Turkey and Mesopotamia. As an independent Kurdish state became feasible, many sheikhs and tribal chieftains suddenly became nationalists and revolted. The difference between such national rebellions and the more traditional type of a chieftain’s yaghigari was not a sharp one, as may be shown in the case of Simko’s rebellion, the most important of the type to occur in Iranian Kurdistan. Simko and the Shikak confederacy Simko rose to paramount leadership of the Shikak, the second largest Kurdish confederacy in Iran. Only the Kalhor, living west of Kermanshah, exceed them in numbers. The Shikak inhabited the mountainous districts of Somay and Bradost, west of Salmas and Urumiyeh. In about 1920 they numbered some 2,000 households, non-tribal subjects not included. There are no statistics on the neighbouring tribes for that period, but figures from the late 1960s give an indication of the relative strengths of the tribes as they may have been in Simko’s time:33 Shikak Milan Mangur Herki Jalali

4,400 households 2,030 1,500 1,350 1,135

Mamash Zarza Piran Begzadeh Haydaran

950 750 650 500 300

It should be noted, however, that most of these tribes have sections living across the border, which are not included in these figures. Notably the Herki and the Haydaran are stronger than these figures suggest. By 1920 those Shikak who remained fully nomadic were already a minority. They used khaleseh (crown land) summer pastures in the Tergevar and Dasht-e Bil districts and spent the winters in the plains of Salmas and Urumiyeh. Most of the tribe was transhumant, spending the winter in

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mountain villages. The Shikak dominated a kurmanj population (non-tribal Kurdish peasants) that was three times more numerous than themselves and they had a similar parasitic/symbiotic relationship with the Christians in their midst. Many of the latter were quite rich; they were not only cultivators and craftsmen but also pastoralists, several of them owning something like 1,000 sheep and 40 horses. In summer these animals went together with the flocks of the Shikak to the yeylaq, accompanied by one or more members of the family, while the other men remained in the village to cultivate.34 Additional income to the tribe was generated by raiding: the Shikak had one of the worst reputations as robbers and raiders (and presently as smugglers). Some authors even claimed that this, and not animal husbandry, was their chief occupation. It appears that their raids were directed not so much at trading caravans as against the settled population of the plains and valleys: Christian Assyrians (Nestorians or converts to one of the European or American churches) and Shiite Azeris. They did not take loot indiscriminately, however; Nikitine found, in fact, that the poor population of the plains had a rather favourable opinion of Ja‘far Aqa (Simko’s elder brother, responsible for much of the bad reputation of his tribe), for ‘souvent, après avoir dépouillé un richard, il distribuait une partie du butin aux miséreux’.35 The Shikak consist of numerous tribes of quite unequal size and status: the lists I found add up to 25, of which nine occur the most.36 Three of these are generally mentioned as the central, politically dominant tribes: Avdovi, Mamedi (or Mamdoi) and Kardar. The others appear more peripheral, joining the tribes mentioned when these were led by a great chieftain, but otherwise keeping a low profile. Some were apparently in a dependent position as ‘client’ tribes. Thus Ghilan described the strong sub-tribe Henareh as: tribu … dans une espèce de vassalité à 1’égard des Chéqqaq, car leur chef doit être accepté par l’Agha de ces derniers. … Ils n’aiment pas la guerre, sont surtout marchands et éleveurs de betail; mais les Chéqqaq les poussent dans leurs guerres, et occasionnent d’ailleurs contre eux des représailles des tribus qu’ils lésaient.37

When Blau visited the area in 1857, the Henareh were still considered a fully separate tribe, neighbours of the Shikak; in all more recent lists they are mentioned as a component tribe of the Shikak with no apparent lower status. Similarly the Mamedi, which was a leading Shikak tribe by the turn of the century, was in 1857 an independent nomadic tribe.38 This means that the Shikak grew into the present confederacy in the second half of the nineteenth century, a period when many other confederacies were in decay.

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One factor that made this growth possible and contributed to the rise of powerful chieftains is immediately apparent from a study of frontier warfare. The district of Somay used to be administered by a Kurdish dynasty on behalf of the Ottomans, and it was the Iranian government that actively encouraged the Shikak (who then lived further south) to conquer these districts, which took them from 1841 to 1893.39 As a reward, and later also in vain attempts to restrain the Shikak from raiding Iranian territory, the Iranian government appointed Shikak chieftains as governors of the frontier districts. There are two chiefly lineages (called Pisaqa) among the Shikak, associated with the Avdovi and Kardar tribes respectively. The former family claimed descent from Kurdish chieftains who had participated in Saladin’s military campaigns.40 Between these two families there was always competition for leadership of the entire confederacy. Most of the time each controlled only part of the Shikak. Around the turn of the century at least three chieftains were competing for paramount leadership of the Shikak. The strongest was probably ‘Ali Aqa of the Avdovi Pisaqas; his sons,41 Ja‘far Aqa and Isma‘il Aqa (nicknamed Simko), made themselves quite a reputation as daring warriors and bold raiders. The second chieftain was ‘Umar Aqa, who led the Mamedi tribe (according to some sources he was an uncle of Simko, but there is much confusion), and the third was Mustafa Aqa (later succeeded by his brother Isma‘il) of the Kardar Pisaqas who had also some other tribes and sub-tribes under his control. There was a high turnover of chieftains during those years. Another section of Avdovi Pisaqas, led by ‘Ali’s brother Yusuf, living further south, was dispersed when ‘Ali rose to power at Yusuf’s expense, and many of them were subsequently killed by the rival Kardars. ‘Umar Aqa of the Mamedi was killed by Iranian officials in 1902, and Mustafa Aqa by his Avdovi rivals in 1906. Around the same time Ja‘far Aqa, who had held official titles but continued to irritate the government of Azerbaijan by his raids on Urumiyeh, Salmas and Khoy, was invited to Tabriz by the governor and Persia’s heir apparent, Nezam al-Saltaneh, and killed.42 Perhaps it was this disappearance of most other experienced chieftains that made Simko’s rapid rise possible. However, he was a clever and opportunist politician who knew with whom to ally himself and when. As a young man he had assisted his brother Ja‘far in his raids, and he was to continue raiding throughout his career, thus attracting many roughs into his retinue. In the Constitutional Revolution Simko turned against the constitutionalists (urban Azeris) and, without being invited, took 300 horsemen to join

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the forces of Iqbal al-Saltaneh, the governor of Maku, against the anjuman of Khoy. As a reward Simko was made sub-governor of Qotur district. In spite of his continuing raids the central government confirmed the appointment.43 Neither the Turks nor the Russians occupied the Shikak lands before the First World War; Simko’s contacts with both were mainly indirect. Prior to 1913 he appears to have cooperated with pro-Ottoman, anti-Russian Azerbaijanis, but in 1913 he delivered one of these, who had sought refuge with him, to the Russians in an attempt to gain their goodwill.44 He was apparently successful, for in that same year a Russian observer noticed that two chieftains who had previously been clients of Isma‘il Aqa of the Kardar Pisaqas (Simko’s main rival) swore, under Russian pressure, fidelity to him.45 By this time Simko was in regular contact with Kurdish nationalists and appears to have adopted some of their discourse, although it is hard to say how much it meant to him. Simko had married a sister of Sheikh Sayyed Taha, grandson and successor of the famous Sheikh Ubeydullah.46 This was a convenient marriage, for Sayyed was the most influential man across the border, besides being a leading nationalist. Simko and Sayyed Taha were to cooperate much in the following decade. Another of Simko’s contacts was Abdulrazzaq Bedirkhan of the famous nationalist family descending from the emirs of Botan. Sayyed Taha, Abdulrazzaq, and Simko’s brother Ja‘far had previously been invited to Russia, from where they had returned with ‘generous gifts and encouraging messages that stimulated their imaginations and ambitions’.47 Abdulrazzaq started publishing a monthly Kurdish newspaper in Urumiyeh in 1912. After some time, however, the Russians banished him from Urumiyeh, and, according to one historian, it was Simko who took over the responsibility for the paper until it ceased publication in 1914.48 During the war Simko stood aloof from the real fighting, trying to keep all doors open while expanding his control of the frontier districts. The Russians once arrested him and sent him to prison in Tiflis but, expecting to achieve more with the carrot than the stick, they let him return to Azerbaijan on condition that he lived in the town of Khoy and remained ‘loyal’.49 When the troops of the Russian general Baratoff were called back from central Kurdistan after the Revolution, Simko managed to capture many of their arms, including field guns. From other parts of Kurdistan arms started flowing towards Simko, who had by then already a wide reputation as a nationalist leader. These arms were either left behind by depart-

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ing Russians or had belonged to the Kurdish militias that had fought on the Turkish side. Simko was not the only one to arm himself, however. The Nestorian Assyrians (the local ones, but especially the refugees from Hakkari, who were more militant) were quite well armed too, and they were reinforced by equally well-armed Armenians from Anatolia. The departing Russians, unable to protect them any longer, left many arms behind and encouraged them to organize in fighting units. According to Arfa‘,50 a French military mission had also brought arms for the Assyrians to defend themselves against the Turks. The Assyrians had desires similar to Simko’s: the establishment of an independent state in Urumiyeh and Salmas. The local Muslim population (Azeris in the plains and Kurds in the mountains) were hardly pleased, and the Iranian government even less so. Famine and mutual depredations, in which the departing Russians had no small share, led to increased bitterness between Christians and Muslims. It was especially the Azeris and the ‘non-tribal’ Kurds that suffered, for the Christians were better armed. During riots in Urumiyeh (February 1918) the Christians got the upper hand and took control of the entire town. The Iranian government was incapable of restoring order. The governor of Tabriz then approached Simko. At his instigation Simko invited Mar Shimun, the religious and secular leader of the Nestorians, for talks on a proposed alliance, and had him treacherously killed in March 1918.51 Simko’s men took no part, however, in the subsequent fighting between the invading Turkish armies and the Armenians and Nestorians, whom the British then attempted to mould into a force capable of stopping the Turkish advance. Only when most of the Nestorians, lacking strong leadership after the death of their leader, fled in panic from Urumiyeh did his men join Turkish soldiers in their pursuit, killing many (June or July 1918). Turkish soldiers and irregular bands of Kurds (dispatched, some claim, by Simko and Sayyed Taha) entered the town and plundered what was left.52 The armistice brought an end to the Turkish presence in Azerbaijan, and no strong government was left. The Iranian government appointed new governors at Tabriz and Urumiyeh, but these did not succeed in establishing control of western Azerbaijan. The only authority with a strong power base was Simko, whose private retinue had been reinforced with several hundred Ottoman soldiers, many of them Kurds, either simply deserters or people with nationalist motivations; others, mercenaries, were attracted by the high pay and the fact that Simko gave them wives. With their field guns (some of them taken from the Russians) and machine guns, they were to prove more than a match for the ill-trained government troops of Azerbaijan.

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The government had for some time no way of subjecting Simko, who continued more boldly than ever to raid the plains. The governor of Urumiyeh, Sardar Fateh, visited Simko in his stronghold at Chahriq (southwest of Deylaman) and attempted to win him over by peaceful means, but Simko apparently saw this as further proof of weakness and even expanded the areas where he took the tribute (‘loot’ in the Iranian perception, ‘taxation’ in his own) that was necessary to maintain his army. Some time later the governor of Tabriz, Mokarram al-Molk, had recourse to modern technology and sent Simko a parcel-bomb that had been made to look like a box of sweets. Its explosion killed a younger brother of Simko and several of his retainers but failed to hurt the person for whom it was intended.53 Simko’s rebellion against the central government Meanwhile Simko was busily preparing for the establishment of independence. In February 1919 there was a meeting of the most important chieftains of Iranian Kurdistan, at which the proposal for an open insurrection against the Iranian government was discussed. It was decided to postpone the uprising until it had become clear what the attitude of the powers was going to be.54 Sayyed Taha, who had joined Simko and closely cooperated with him (without, however, forgetting his own private interests), visited Baghdad in May 1919 in order to obtain British support for an independent Kurdish state. Simko himself addressed the civil commissioner, A.T. Wilson, by letter with similar requests. Neither received a definite commitment. According to Armenian sources,55 Simko and Sayyed Taha were at the same time in touch with the Turkish nationalists in Van, who wished to employ them for resisting the proposed repatriation of Armenians to eastern Anatolia and therefore promised help. In the following years the two Kurdish chieftains were to remain in contact with both the British and the Turkish nationalists. Without waiting for the other chieftains to declare themselves in open rebellion, Simko took the town of Deylaman, looted Khoy, laid siege to Urumiyeh and massacred part of the Azeri population of the Lakistan district (northwest of Deylaman) that refused to recognize his authority and pay taxes. Those who escaped were pursued as far as Sharafkhaneh on the northern shore of Lake Urumiyeh. During the autumn of 1919 Simko’s Kurds kept these districts north of the lake under occupation.56 Tabriz had, however, a new military commander, Entesar, who efficiently mobilized and coordinated whatever troops he could find (Gendarmerie, Cossacks, irregular Azeri cavalry). Led by Filipov, a Russian Cossack officer who had just arrived from Tehran, these troops managed to repel Simko’s Kurds and

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to inflict heavy losses upon them. Simko was forced to take refuge in his mountain stronghold at Chahriq and many of his partisans deserted him (including several of the former Ottoman soldiers). For reasons which are unclear,57 however, instead of following up their initial success and forcing Simko to surrender unconditionally, Filipov and Entesar entered into negotiations with him, as a result of which Simko promised to return the loot taken from Lakistan, to send off his Turkish soldiers and to surrender all his arms to the state. None of these promises was fully executed, and the whole affair ultimately strengthened Simko’s standing among the Kurds: he could apparently act against the state with impunity. During 1920 he re-established his control of the plains of Urumiyeh and Salmas and the southern part of Khoy district. In Urumiyeh he appointed men of his own choice as governors: at first Ershad al-Molk, a local man, later Teymur Aqa, a Kurdish chieftain from Kohnehshahr. His men raided a vast area, mainly to acquire firearms and to finance his future exploits. One day they took thousands of the inhabitants of Urumiyeh, people from all walks of life, hostage in a garden near the city, demanding 40,000 rifles and a similar quantity of gold liras for their release.58 The villages were similarly ‘taxed’. Gendarmerie troops sent from Tabriz to relieve the area were defeated by the Kurds and pushed back behind Sharafkhaneh in March 1921. Simko proved the strongest again, and thereby attracted many new followers. Other victories over government troops during that year resulted in further increases in territory. In March 1921 his forces were still described as ‘1000 horse and 500 foot, with a Turkish flag’; in a summer campaign they were already estimated at 4,000, in the autumn of 1921 at 7,000, while in his last great campaign, in the summer of 1922, 10,000 men are said to have participated.59 Each of these estimates is rather rough and, except for the last, includes only a part of what Simko could mobilize. The increase is nevertheless clear. Simko’s authority was being recognized by a growing number of tribes. Early in 1920 there had been several meetings of a ‘council of Kurdish chiefs’ presided over by Simko, which were attended not only by chieftains of some of the biggest tribes of Azerbaijan (Herki, Begzadeh, Haydaran, Shikak), but also by chieftains of the Artushi confederacy and other tribes of the Hakkari. It was said that in 1921 Simko appointed a certain Ahmad Khan as the paramount chieftain of the Herki, and that this was generally accepted by this powerful tribe.60 By the middle of 1921 the area under Simko’s authority included all Iranian territory west of Lake Urumiyeh and from there south as far as

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Baneh and Sardasht, as well as the northwestern districts of Iraq, where the British and the Kemalists were still competing for control. Besides the entire Shikak confederacy and the Herki tribe, the Mamash, Mangur, Dehbokri, Piran, Zarza, Gewrik, Feyzullahbegi, Pizhdar and the minor tribes around Baneh had also joined Simko.61 In October 1921 Simko’s troops entered the town of Savoj Bulagh (Mahabad), which had until that date been held by government troops. Two hundred of the Gendarmerie garrison were killed, another 150 wounded. It may be illustrative of the motivation and attitude of many of Simko’s men that they sacked the town upon capturing it, in spite of the fact that the inhabitants of Savoj Bulagh, unlike those of Urumiyeh and Deylaman, were mainly Kurds. Other Kurdish nationalists later severely rebuked Simko for this pillage. Why sow discord among the Kurds and thus serve the interests of their enemies? In answer to such accusations from a Kurdish notable from Suleymaniyeh, Simko said that, first, the Gendarmerie had forced him to offer battle inside the town, and thereafter he had not been able to restrain his men who were used to following up battle with plunder; and that, secondly, he had his doubts about the attitude of the Dehbokri and the Mangur tribes, which lived immediately around Savoj Bulagh, towards him.62 Savoj Bulagh naturally became the capital. Simko did not take residence there himself, however, but appointed a loyal chieftain, Hamzeh Aqa of the Mamash, as governor. The Azeri towns of Mianduab, Maragheh and Binab sent letters of submission to Savoj Bulagh.63 Further military successes against government troops that year added to Simko’s standing among the Kurds and swelled the number of his followers. By July 1922 his territory reached its greatest extension: it stretched as far east and south as Sain Qal‘eh (Shahin Dezh) and Saqqiz. Moreover Simko was in permanent communication with tribes further south: he had influence in Mariwan and Awroman, and even tribes as far south as Luristan were to rise in support of his revolt.64 Similarly many Kurdish chieftains in Turkey and Iraq had established friendly relations with him. There were no concrete plans for united action, but it could never hurt to have relations with a successful strong man such as Simko. Rumours started to circulate that the Iranian government was going to grant the Kurds autonomy because it could not subdue them.65 Those rumours were to prove unfounded, however. Since the coup d’état of February 1921 Reza Khan had devoted his energies to the building of a modern, disciplined, coherent national army. His efforts were soon to bear fruit. During 1921 and even in early 1922 Simko had been able to inflict

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repeated defeats on the motley troops (irregulars, Cossacks, Gendarmerie) sent against him, capturing many of their arms. In August 1922, however, a well-coordinated campaign by the reorganized army brought him to heel.66 His followers dispersed, leaving him nothing but a small band of loyal men. He had to escape into Turkey and from there to Iraq. Edmonds, who interviewed him on his arrival in Iraq, observed that he was especially bitter against the Turks and the British. The former had always promised him assistance but they too had now turned their armies against him, and the latter had passively allowed him to be crushed in spite of his usefulness to them.67 As a refugee in Iraq, Simko did not remain idle but immediately started attempting to strengthen old ties and establish new ones with Kurdish chieftains there, in preparation for his return to Iran. He approached his old ally Sayyed Taha (who was now used by the British to get the Turks out of Rowanduz and who had lost interest in further adventures in Iran), and also Sheikh Mahmud of Suleymaniyeh (the most influential nationalist leader of southern Kurdistan who showed equally little interest in Simko’s problems), and many others. He even tried to appease the Assyrian refugees, who had been brought to Iraq by the British and who still thought of returning to Urumiyeh and Salmas. He was shown much respect wherever he went, but no one was ready to help him. In 1923 he went to Turkey to solicit Turkish support, but equally in vain. In 1924 Reza Khan pardoned him, and he returned to Iran. In 1926 he made a last abortive attempt to regain the virtual independence he had once held, and besieged the town of Deylaman, assisted by sections of the Herki and Begzadeh tribes. Again he had to flee to Iraq. In 1929 the Iranian government invited him back again, offering him the governorship of Oshnaviyeh. A few days after his arrival he was killed in an ambush set up by the same government.68 The organization of Simko’s forces The most serious weakness of Simko’s movement was the absence of any kind of formal organization. There was just the network of Simko’s private relations, no party to organize the followers, no formal government or war council. The major towns, Urumiyeh and Savoj Bulagh, were administered by governors appointed by Simko who were both tribal chieftains unrelated to the inhabitants of the towns and simply took over the offices of the previous Tabriz-appointed governors. There was no systematic and equitable taxation; Simko’s treasury was plagued by indiscriminate looting, although the latter aspect may be severely exaggerated in the sources, most of which are inimical to him.

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The army constantly fluctuated in size, as tribal armies do. The more or less permanent nucleus consisted of the chieftains’ retinues, more precisely those of Simko himself and of Amr Khan, head of the Kardar section of the Shikak. In 1918 Simko’s retinue included several hundred former soldiers of the Ottoman army, well armed and trained by German instructors. In 1921–22 Simko was said to have a large Turkish contingent which, so the Iranians and British suspected, had been put at his disposal by the Ankara government,69 though proof of these suspicions has never been found. Most probably there were Kurdish nationalists from Turkish Kurdistan among his retinue too; during my researches among the Kurds of Turkey in the 1970s, I still heard many accounts of local men who had gone east to join Simko. Even this central core, however, was not really permanent. Many of the Ottoman soldiers who had joined him surrendered when they were promised amnesty during the 1919 campaign by Entesar and Filipov. Retainers also came and went according to Simko’s fortunes, motivated more by pay and booty than by nationalist sentiment or personal loyalty. Whereas by July 1922 consistent success had swollen his forces to some 10,000, after the first reverses they dwindled, and within a few days no more than 1,000 loyal followers remained.70 A strong retinue appears to be a necessary condition for any chieftain who embarks upon an expansive political career. Once his strength is perceived, many others may join who are not and do not become retainers. They are not fed by the chieftain, and it is well nigh unavoidable that they compensate themselves for their military services by plunder. This is not to say that retainers do not engage in pillage, but rather that the chieftain has the other tribesmen even less under his control. In Simko’s raids and battles against government troops, not only his retainers but many other tribesmen took part. These were primarily Shikak and especially from the Avdovi, Mamedi and Kardar component tribes. At times of Simko’s good fortune, chieftains of other tribes also joined, with their retainers and with common tribesmen. It was especially the Herki tribe that contributed many men: the Herki and the Mamash proved to be Simko’s most loyal allies. Others joined later and deserted earlier. At times of adversity even the closest allies left Simko. Thus Amr Khan, the head of the Kardar Pisaqas and therefore Simko’s main potential rival among the Shikak, who had on many occasions acted as Simko’s plenipotentiary, in 1922 attempted to desert him. He contacted the government through a local sheikh as intermediary and demanded amnesty, in exchange for which he promised obedience to the government and willingness to fight against Simko.71

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Even though after his defeat Simko lost his actual power and the capacity to mobilize large numbers of men, he continued to enjoy wide respect among the tribes. Immediately upon his last return to Iran many chieftains of the Shikak confederacy and the Herki, Surchi and other tribes came to pay him their respects, accompanied by large retinues.72 Simko not only sought support among the tribes; he also attempted to ally himself with foreign powers. Repeatedly he tried to elicit British support, usually through chieftains who had better relations with the British than he had himself: Sayyed Taha, or Babakr Aqa of the Pizhdar.73 In this he had little if any success. At the same time, he was in communication with the Soviet authorities in the Caucasus and with the Kemalists at Van. Some of his letters to the former were apparently intercepted;74 British and Iranian authorities were convinced that the Kemalists had put troops at his disposal, as already mentioned. None of these foreign powers came to his support when he most needed it. In the early phases of his career, however, his association with state authorities (the Iranians, who made him a governor of Qotur; the Russians and Ottomans who recognized him during the occupation) had strengthened his position among the Kurds. Such relations with neighbouring states have – it has been said before – always been present in the politics of Kurdistan, and they continued to influence Kurdish nationalism in its later phases as well. They may well be considered part and parcel of Kurdish tribal politics. The large confederacy of tribes that was Simko’s movement continued to exist as long as the tribes were kept mobilized. One of the factors that did mobilize them was nationalism. The rapidity with which Simko’s support dwindled in times of adversity, however, suggests that for the majority of his followers nationalism was at best an additional motive. As usual among tribes, mobilization should have some more concrete and immediate object and there should be reasonable chances of attaining it, be it a military victory (over a rival tribe or government troops) or simply plunder. The frequent raiding associated with Simko’s rebellion, which many contemporary and later nationalists held against him, was not simply accidental to it: it probably was a necessary condition for keeping the tribes mobilized and thus together. When mobilization ended – in this case because most tribesmen judged the chances of further success very small and therefore gave up – the unity immediately broke down.

6

Ahmad Kasravi on the Revolt of Sheikh Mohammad Khiyabani Homa Katouzian In April 1920 Sheikh Mohammad Khiyabani led the Tabriz Democrats’ bloodless uprising and took over the administration of Azerbaijan. In the following September the rebellion was put down as effortlessly as it had started, and Khiyabani lost his life in the process. Shortly before the end of the First World War, when the country had been in chaos both at the centre and in the provinces, Vosuq al-Dowleh formed a ministry with active British support. Almost all the political notables, as well as the wider public, were of the opinion that unless a strong reforming government was at the centre, the country ran a high risk of being torn asunder. There was famine in many (mainly northern) regions of the country. The armies and/or political agents of the belligerent countries were still active in Iran. The Jangalis had been in revolt in Gilan for a couple of years. There were chronic rebellions and organized brigandage in many other provinces. Many of the country’s roads were unsafe, both for ordinary travellers and especially for suppliers and distributors of commercial goods. The old network of provincial levies had all but collapsed. The only military and security forces in existence were the Cossack Brigade led by Tsarist Russian officers, and the recently organized Gendarmerie force run by Swedish officers. They were much too small and inefficient for the task in hand. Their meagre pay was often months in arrears, even though the larger part of the Cossacks’ pay was financed by a British subsidy, now that the Bolshevik revolution had led to a complete Russian withdrawal from Iran. The country was equally desperate when it came to meeting its basic civil expenses, although here too it was dependent on a monthly British subsidy. Public revenue had been reduced almost to what customs and excise duties could be collected, and the whole of the country’s financial system was in a state of collapse.1 Almost all the leading politicians and intelligent political public felt the need for a strong government that would organize a unified, disciplined 95

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and well-equipped military force, reorganize the country’s financial system and stamp out chaos and disorder. Some of them were opposed to a Vosuq ministry because of his British connection, but many of them admitted that there were few politicians equal to the task. The shah – who was receiving a personal subsidy from the British government – agreed to appoint Vosuq in August 1918.2 But Vosuq had his own supporters within the political hierarchy, by far the most effective and influential of which was Sayyed Hasan Modarres. He was an able and strong popular politician with an impeccable constitutionalist and anti-imperialist record, and had excellent connections within the political establishment as well as among the ulama, the bazaar and ordinary people.3 In the first year of his office, Vosuq managed to bring some order to government and administration, and stamped out the long and menacing rebellion of Nayeb Hussein Kashi (Kashani) and his gang of plunderers, as well as the terrorist Committee of Punishment (komiteh-e mojazat) in Tehran.4 These measures did not change the hearts of radicals against him and his government, but it did have a positive effect on the attitude of many of his critics among popular politicians and moderate constitutionalists. During the same year, he and his two closest allies within the cabinet – Akbar Mirza Sarem al-Dowleh (Mas‘ud) and Firuz Mirza Nosrat al-Dowleh (Firuz) – negotiated the Anglo-Persian agreement, which was signed in Tehran in August 1919. The agreement was instantly described, both inside and outside the country, as having turned Iran into a British protectorate, and was rejected by the political public with growing resentment and vehemence. Even Modarres went over to the opposition. The agreement was the brainchild of Lord Curzon and the Foreign Office, and had met with strong opposition from the government of India, the India Office, the Treasury and the War Office. India remained in opposition to the whole scheme, and the other departments, which had eventually acquiesced in the agreement, returned to their critical position as soon as it faced serious trouble.5 When the agreement was announced, Bolshevik Russia – which had issued several unilateral declarations of the annulment and abrogation of all the Tsarist loans, concessions and privileges in Iran since 1918 – issued a violent denunciation of it.6 This was enough to seal the opposition of Iranian radicals to the agreement. But the strongly worded public attack on the agreement by the American government, as well as the campaign against it by the French press, left little doubt in the minds of even some of the most sober and moderate Iranian politicians that the country had been indeed ‘sold out to Britain’.7

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The massive public reaction to the agreement encouraged another upsurge of the Jangali campaign in Gilan that, however, was driven back to the forests by a Cossack force helped by the British Norperforce (North Persia Force), which had its headquarters in Qazvin. Vosuq followed this by a policy of appeasement towards the Jangalis, and for a while it even looked as if they would come to a definite agreement for the restoration of peace and central government control in the province. Vosuq’s appeasement policy was largely encouraged by his knowledge that Iranian Bolsheviks in the Caucasus and strong parties of activists in Iranian Azerbaijan had been making friendly contacts with Kuchik Khan in the hope of possible cooperation against the government in the Caspian provinces.8 Indeed the fear of a Bolshevik thrust across the frontier was growing daily. Vosuq and Firuz wisely thought of talking directly to Moscow but, though stressing that he would not veto such a move, Curzon effectively ruled it out. He did, however, support (and even help) their decision to recognize the newly formed non-Bolshevik Republic of Azerbaijan (formerly Russian Transcaucasia) and sent an official delegation for a trade and cultural agreement.9 By the beginning of April 1920, when the draft agreement reached Tehran, Khiyabani led his successful revolt in Tabriz. Three weeks later, the Azerbaijan republic fell to the local Bolsheviks. On 18 May a Russian fleet landed at Anzali, and the Norperforce units retreated to Rasht. Shortly afterwards Norperforce received orders from London to retreat further to their base in Qazvin. On 4 June Kuchik Khan entered Rasht and, together with Iranian Bolsheviks and their Soviet advisers, declared the Soviet Socialist Republic of Iran in a coalition government headed by himself.10 This brief background explains to some extent the legend that Khiyabani and his party were pro-Bolshevik revolutionaries with possible designs to secede Azerbaijan and even declare a soviet socialist regime there, although it was the later Azerbaijan (communist) Democrats and the Tudeh party that gave it strong currency. But it certainly explains the origins of the view commonly held down to the present day that Khiyabani’s revolt had been a direct response to the 1919 agreement, with the aim of bringing down Vosuq’s government, which he regarded as being an instrument of British imperialism. Recent evidence, however, rejects much of this widespread belief about the nature and purpose of Khiyabani’s revolt, and throws considerable light on his personality as a popular political leader, on the movement which he led and on the rise and fall of his revolt. By far the most important of the new sources are Ahmad Kasravi’s manuscript on The Revolt of Sheikh Mohammad Khiyabani, and Major C.J. Edmonds’ (monthly as well as annual) reports on

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the northwestern provinces of Iran for 1919 and 1920. Kasravi’s manuscript is in his own handwriting and is signed ‘Sayyed Ahmad Tabrizi, Ahvaz, 1923’. His family put a photocopy of it at my disposal in 1993, with encouragement to publish its contents.11 Major Edmonds was the political officer attached to Norperforce in Qazvin. His unpublished reports and other papers are at the Middle East Centre, St Antony’s College, Oxford. There are, however, other new sources that shall be used, tacitly or explicitly, in what follows. Kasravi had been a Tabriz Democrat, a witness to the uprising and a critic of the revolt and of Khiyabani’s style of leadership before, during and after the event. The manuscript was written at the invitation of Hussein Kazemzadeh (later known as Iranshahr), to be published in his Berlin Journal, Iranshahr, along with a number of iconizing articles by some of Khiyabani’s close lieutenants such as Mohammad Ali Aqa Badamchi, and great admirers such as Sadeq Rezazadeh Shafaq. It is therefore not surprising that Kazemzadeh politely turned down Kasravi’s manuscript, which in any case was far too long to be included in that issue.12 Badamchi wrote: In the meantime, Vosuq al-Dowleh had made the famous Anglo-Iranian agreement. Being busy with the [Majles] elections, the Democrat party [of Azerbaijan] was, for the moment, silent, but the party newspaper Tajaddod ran the headline, ‘So long as this agreement has not been ratified by the Majles, we would regard it as no more than a scrap of paper, and would completely ignore it.’ After being disappointed by the election, and realizing the greatness of the [Democrat] party, and knowing that when the Azerbaijan deputies enter the Majles under the leadership of their beloved and powerful leader, the late Khiyabani, the Agreement would never pass through the Majles, Vosuq al-Dowleh decided to extinguish this light, stifle Azerbaijan, this cradle of liberty, and fulfil his abominable aim. He therefore sent the Swedish [officers] Biverling and Vogelklu together with a number of [Iranian] police officers, with instructions to stifle the Democrat party and kill its leading members at any cost (for one of the police officers, whom I do not wish to name at the moment, once when he was drunk had said that their mission was to kill the leading Democrats). After their arrival [in Tabriz] the aforementioned Swedes and police officers sent from Tehran went to work. … On the other hand, seeing that, though Vosuq al-Dowleh had conditioned the implementation of the Agreement to Majles approval, he had put the [British] financial and military advisers to work in Tehran, and that soon all the points in the Agreement would be made operational, and independence would say eternal farewell to Iran, and Iranians would be condemned to destruction and annihilation, the Democrat party regarded silence at that moment as treason against the motherland, and felt impelled to rise against the independence-destroying activities of the government, under the leadership of their brave and gallant commander, and able and respectable leader, Aqa Sheikh Mohammad Khiyabani.13

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Kasravi’s account of the uprising is much at variance with this story. He says in the preface of his manuscript that it comprises three sections (bakhsh) whereas it is in fact made up of six ‘sections’ or chapters. Chapter One is on Khiyabani himself, ‘since the day I met him’, and events in Azerbaijan from the beginning of the First World War up to the Russian Revolution. Chapter Two covers the period between the Russian Revolution of February 1917 to the autumn of 1918 when the Turkish armies withdrew from Azerbaijan. Chapter Three discusses the situation up to the eve of the revolt in April 1920. Chapters Four and Five describe the uprising and its developments until September 1920. Chapter Six gives an account of the collapse of the revolt and death of Khiyabani. Kasravi on Khiyabani Kasravi writes that he first met Khiyabani in 1906 as a teacher, when he himself became a student in Talebiyeh College – ‘which is one of the Tabriz traditional schools where they teach religious sciences such as Jurisprudence, Principles (Osul) and Arabic’ – and had been impressed by his charismatic personality.14 He had read religious sciences up to the level of a local prayer leader, but knew some mathematics and traditional cosmography as well. Shortly afterwards, he gave up teaching and became prayer leader at a mosque in the Khiyaban district of Tabriz. After Mohammad Ali Shah’s coup against the Majles, Khiyabani joined the constitutionalists of Tabriz, and, when Mohammad Ali fell, was elected as a deputy for the town in the Second Majles. The closure of the Majles in the wake of the Russian ultimatum in 1911 and the occupation of Tabriz by the Russian forces drove Khiyabani to the Caucasus, but sometime afterwards he was allowed to return to Tabriz, after the intervention of the Imam Jom‘eh of that city on his behalf. At first he went back to the mosque, but sometime later opened a shop in the bazaar where ‘the freedom loving people of Tabriz’ went to talk to him quietly about the country’s situation. ‘And as the late Khiyabani combined wisdom and respectability with intelligence, his influence grew daily, and he even had a number of devotees who were totally committed to him and his leadership.’15 The February Revolution in Russia and the consequent departure of Russian forces from Tabriz made it possible for the Tabriz Democrats to resume activity, but Khiyabani’s personal style of leadership divided the party into two factions – Khiyabani’s supporters and the opposing faction who called themselves the Lawful Democrats (Demokratha-ye Qanuni ).16 Kasravi does not explain the reason behind this nomenclature, but it might have been because the latter made up the party majority. He himself began

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to become critical of Khiyabani’s style of leadership, because ‘for Khiyabani, the leadership of the Democrat Party itself was as if he was the ruler of Azerbaijan. … And we shall see that, in the very name of the leader of Democrats, he took very important decisions, and eventually established his dictatorship (diktatori ) under the banner of “uprising”.’17 Kasravi writes quite extensively about a secret terrorist organization that became active in this period – i.e. between the departure of the Russians and the occupation of the Turks – and believes that it was run by Khiyabani and his deputy, Isma‘il Nobari. While he is critical of terrorism in principle, he emphasizes that the victims were not just unpopular reactionaries but also innocent men who were killed for personal reasons: The point, however, is that the Committee of Terror did not stop at killing the enemies of freedom, and killed some innocent people, and even one freedomloving man. Sayyed Ne‘matollah Khan, the publisher of the newspaper Kelid-e Nejat, was a freedom-loving man, and he was only guilty of being an opponent of Khiyabani and [his deputy] Nobari. Another victim of the Committee of Terror was Hajj Malek al-Tojjar, and after he was killed they said that he was innocent, and was killed by mistake.

And although the Imam Jom‘eh did not have a good reputation among the freedom-loving public, killing him had a very unfavourable effect … especially as they killed him together with his son during the festival of Nawruz in a crowded street in front of hundreds of people.18

Later in the manuscript Kasravi mentions that the Tabriz police chief, Abdollah Bahrami, was in league with the Khiyabani group. In his own memoirs Bahrami has almost admitted as much, although he says that Khiyabani’s men had no hand in the terrorist campaign.19 Throughout his account Kasravi emphasizes two important aspects of Khiyabani’s personality and leadership: that he was highly intelligent, very clever and a champion in the field of politics; and that he was a ‘dictator’, given to personal rule. Therefore, although Khiyabani did not pay much attention to criticisms of his decisions and style of leadership, he could try and disarm his critics by making a few conciliatory gestures whenever he was in a weak position. For example, Kasravi relates that on one occasion, when he and Zainol‘abedin Khan (Iranshahr’s brother) attacked his leadership in a meeting of the party activists, Khiyabani said that ‘our esteemed colleagues are right, but we should forget about the past and look to the future’.20

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But he still did what he thought best. To give a few examples, it had been agreed that Taqi Raf‘at (of whom more below) should not be made the editor of Tajaddod, the official party newspaper, but Khiyabani appointed him regardless. He eliminated Nobari (his deputy, and rival in his own faction) from the list of the party candidates for the Majles elections, claiming, ‘the British do not favour him’. He also made a personal election pact with Mohammad Vali Mirza, son of Farmanfarma, without reference to the party. ‘One day I said to him,’ writes Kasravi, ‘Aqa Sheikh! Mirza Taqi Khan [Raf‘at] has been expelled from the party, and Tajaddod, which is the party organ, should not be put in his hands. Since in those days Aqa Sheikh was kindly towards me, he did not react in anger, and simply said: “I like Mirza Taqi Khan very much”.’21 Raf‘at is especially known and revered by literary modernists for his criticisms of classical Persian poetry and his radical advocacy of the modernization of contemporary poetry, which led to the famous debate between him and poet-laureate Bahar through the pages of Tajaddod in Tabriz and Bahar’s Daneshkadeh in Tehran.22 Predictably Kasravi had a few critical remarks to pass on Raf‘at’s prose as well as his literary views. But his objection to his role in the party was on political grounds. He relates that when the Turks had entered Tabriz, banished Khiyabani and Nobari, and banned the Democrats (who did not support the Union of Islam movement, seeing it as a pan-Turanian ploy), Raf‘at broke with the Democrats, published a newspaper in Ottoman Turkish with their encouragement, and wrote in a leader that Azerbaijan had been a Turkish land since the ancient Greeks. He had also published the Turkish poem that he had recited at the welcoming party for Khalil Pasha, commander in chief of the Turkish army in Azerbaijan and the Caucasus, when the latter had visited Tabriz.23 It is for these reasons that Kasravi and the others had been opposed to Raf‘at’s appointment by Khiyabani as the editor of Tajaddod after the Turks departed and the party was reorganized. The origins of Khiyabani’s revolt An important source of historical revisionism revealed by the Kasravi manuscript is that the revolt was far from sudden. On the contrary, it is now clear that the origins of the uprising went back three years to the aftermath of the departure of the Russian forces from Tabriz in the wake of the February Revolution, and the resurgence of the Democrats in the town. For a few months, until the appearance of the Turkish forces, the town – and anywhere else in the province where the government had any authority at all – was effectively run by armed Democrat activists. The first (acting) governor, Sharif al-Dowleh Kashani (later, Bani Adam), was not prepared to

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submit, and so ‘Khiyabani arranged for him to be dishonorably driven out of Tabriz’.24 The next governor, Haj Mohtashem al-Saltaneh Nuri (later, Hasan Nuri-Esfandiyari), was a relatively weak personality and had no choice but to go along with Khiyabani and his men. The Russians had left a large arms depot behind which contained many heavy weapons. The Democrats took control of it and appropriated more than half of the arms and ammunition, some of which they took for their own use, selling the remainder for 14,000 tuman. Less than half was left for the government, but – Kasravi emphasizes – even this would not have been left for the government if the Democrats had not taken charge of the depot. There was famine both in the town and in the province as a result of bad harvests, the lootings of the retreating Russian armies and hoarding by traders. The Assyrians rose and ransacked several towns and villages, especially Urumiyeh and Salmas, and the terrorist gang mentioned above was active in Tabriz. Khiyabani and Nobari could not do much about the Assyrian revolt short of bringing pressure on the governor, who sent a force of Iranian Cossacks to stop them but did not succeed. The terrorist gang was in control, but later Khiyabani was remorseful about some of the assassinations and tried to blame Nobari alone for them. On the other hand, they were very active and largely effective in dealing with the famine in Tabriz. Then came the Turkish forces who expelled the governor from Tabriz, banned the Democrats and banished Khiyabani and Nobari to Urumiyeh. They were in Azerbaijan until after the European armistice of November 1918, when they pulled their forces out and released the two Democrat leaders while retreating. The new acting governor did not like ‘freedomloving people’ (azadi-khahan) and curbed the activities of the Democrats, but Khiyabani established a good rapport with him and arranged for the banishment of Nobari as the erstwhile terrorist leader. In June 1919 a new and strong governor, Sepahsalar-e Tonokaboni (later, Mohammad Vali Khal’atbari), came to Tabriz, but a couple of months later was replaced by a weak acting governor, Sardar Mo‘tazed. It was from the autumn of 1919 that the idea of an open revolt began to take shape. Prelude to the revolt Before the return of Khiyabani and Nobari from banishment, the Democrats had begun to reorganize their party and activities. In the meetings that were held for this purpose, there was much criticism of the leadership of the two men and – for reasons mentioned above – Raf‘at was expelled from

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the party. When they returned, Khiyabani managed to take control again because he got the acting governor’s goodwill, arranged for the banishment of Nobari, who was unpopular in the party, and used his charisma and political acumen to organize his own supporters, whereas his critics were ordinary traders or intellectuals. Conflict broke out within the party, both over their candidates for the Fourth Majles elections and the internal party decisions. Kasravi suggested to all the critics to write down their objections so they would all sign and send it to Khiyabani. This they did, but it was of no use, and Khiyabani’s reply was none other than ‘a series of coarse and unseemly words’, so that Kasravi concluded that ‘he wanted power for himself, not for the Democrat party’. That is how the party was openly divided into two factions: the Tajaddodiyun, as the Khiyabani faction was now called (because they published the party newspaper), and the Tanqidiyun, or Critical Faction. According to Kasravi, the latter was larger in number but the former had control of the party.25 The foundations of the revolt were laid in the autumn of 1919. The Democrats still played an important role – although informally – in the running of affairs. In late October Isma‘il Aqa (Simko), the legendary leader of the Shikak Kurdish rebels, rose again in the province, plundering many villages. In his Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh Kasravi presents a detailed account of Simko’s plundering and massacres,26 but largely confines himself to the matter as it affected Tabriz politics. The last village in the Salmas plain was captured in December, and according to Major Edmonds’ report ‘nearly all the men were massacred’. The acting governor was corrupt and secretly in league with Simko. The troops had mutinied in Tabriz, imprisoned the governor and demanded their arrears of pay.27 Sardar Entesar (later, Mozaffar A‘lam) was sent from Tehran as the commander in chief of all the government forces in Azerbaijan, and shortly afterwards became acting governor as well. Kasravi describes him as a very able man who managed to defeat Simko within a short period.28 But the rebel leader himself managed to escape, and widely believed rumours had it that the Sardar and Colonel Filipov, Russian commander of the local Cossack force, had let him go in exchange for a large bribe. Ernest Bristow, the British consul in Tabriz, wrote in his end-of the-year report for 1920: The expedition of about 5,000 men under the Russian Colonel Phillipoff left Tabriz early in January and on the 17th announced a great victory; the matter however dragged … and on 22nd February it was announced that Col. Phillipoff had proposed terms to Simko which early in March he accepted. The only manifest result of this expedition, which is said to have cost the Persian government some five hundred thousand Tuman, was that the Chief of the expedition returned to Tabriz the richer by a considerable sum.29

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This, according to Kasravi, created anger among the people of Tabriz. But soon there was another source of discontent. Majid Mirza Ain al-Dowleh, the aged Qajar nobleman who did not have a good reputation among the constitutionalists (and least of all in Azerbaijan), was named as the new governor of the province. But he was taking his time to get to his post. He reached Zanjan by the beginning of January 1920, and remained there for two months ‘where’, reported Edmonds, ‘he did not fail to line his pocket’.30 ‘The passage of HRH ain al-Dowleh,’ he wrote in a following report, ‘was, here [in the Khamseh province] as elsewhere, the signal for general unrest and disorder.’31 Ain was still in the small town of Miyaneh (Miyanaj) at the time of the revolt in early April. Nevertheless the Tabrizis had a specific grievance against him. While still in Zanjan, he had sent someone to Tabriz as the chief of Azerbaijan’s finance department, and he in turn had taken a large team of men to replace the existing civil servants there. Kasravi points out that the arrival of the new finance team angered the influential local employees who were about to lose their jobs. It intensified feelings that had arisen because of the real or imagined misdeeds of the previous as well as present acting governor, and the prospect of the arrival of Ain al-Dowleh as governor-general.32 The revolt was triggered by the arrival of two Swedish officers – Major Biverling and Captain Vogelklu – from Tehran as the chief and deputy chief of the Azerbaijan police. They too had brought a number of Tehrani officers with them who replaced some of the existing officers, while some others were demoted. And there was no doubt, says Kasravi, that ‘these people followed the lead of the [dismissed] finance employees and got ready for action’. At the same time, the new police team (replacing Bahrami’s, who had collaborated with Khiyabani) began to question the old terrorist suspects who were thus alarmed and would not surrender without a fight. So, according to Kasravi, it was Khiyabani who was afraid that the investigations could ‘result in the revelation of many a secret’. He was therefore determined to confront the Swedish police chiefs. The opportunity was provided by the zeal as well as cultural insensitivity with which the Swedish major was trying to carry out his duties. There was a substantial theft of cash from a shop in the bazaar during the night. The police ‘arrested the thief who was none other than the caretaker of the entire dalan’ – i.e. a long row of shops with a gate at the general entrance which was locked by the caretaker every night. The man managed to get away, and the police, in search of the cash, took his wife in for questioning. She was the sister-in-law of a well-known prayer leader, highly respected and revered by all, including Kasravi himself. As it happened, it was the first time that a

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woman had been put in jail in Tabriz. Her brother-in-law, the prayer leader, and other mullahs loudly protested, but Major Biverling, ‘as he was not a native of Iran’, was not sensitive to the issue and did not pay any attention. The fact that the Swede was not a Muslim made matters much worse, invoking the religious duty of not tolerating the rule of the infidel. The final twist was the arrival of Amin al-Molk who – it appears from Kasravi’s manuscript – had been independently sent from Tehran as deputy governor. This did not please Sardar Entesar who – as noted above – had been both commander in chief and acting governor, presumably hoping to become deputy governor under Ain. He therefore entered into a pact with Khiyabani to help him ‘with his acumen and ability’, in exchange for the sheikh’s support both for him to remain acting governor and for his brother to be elected a Majles deputy for a provincial town.33 The revolt The revolt began on 5 April 1920. Two days later the town was in Khiyabani’s hands with hardly a shot being fired. On 5 April Khiyabani ordered his men to go fully armed to the office of the Tajaddod newspaper. He then sent a detachment of them to release a prisoner from the Nobar district police station. This man was a nonentity, but Khiyabani had been preparing for action and he decided to seize the moment. Faced with about 60 armed men, the station chief surrendered the prisoner to them but reported the matter to the police headquarters via telephone. Biverling sent his deputy, Vogelklu, at the head of a detachment of mounted police who, seeing that the men were numerous as well as armed, did not stop them but surrounded the Tajaddod building once they had gone in. At this point Sardar Entesar personally arrived on the scene and, as the commander in chief of all the armed forces, ordered Vogelklu to relent. Khiyabani and his men spent the night in the building and conferred with the Sardar on their next move. In the morning they closed the high schools – the head of the local education department was a Khiyabani ally – and sent them to the bazaar to close down the shops. Khiyabani then sent word to soldiers, Gendarmes and policemen to go and collect their back pay at the Tajaddod office. This was followed by a large rally outside the office where passionate speeches were made about the sacrifices and sufferings of Azerbaijan and about how they had to rise to defend themselves. The crowd was then sent round to the police headquarters to take it over and drive the Swedish officers out of town. The ordinary policemen were not prepared to fight, and Amin al-Molk, the deputy governor, ordered the Swedes and their ‘company’ to leave town.34

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As usual, almost everyone – friend, foe, constitutionalist, radical and time server – jumped on the bandwagon and jubilantly cheered Khiyabani’s speeches in the rallies. Kasravi does not directly quote from these speeches, but most of them have survived. A careful study of the speeches shows that he was particularly concerned about the tendency towards chaos and disintegration that had beset the country after the Constitutional Revolution, and so he put much emphasis on the need for discipline. This was absolutely necessary – he did not tire of repeating – if the movement’s other principal goals, namely progress and modernization, were to be pursued.35 And while he was careful to keep the line of communication open with his public base, he did manage to impose order and discipline, as much as the circumstances allowed, and take ‘hard decisions’ to maintain his authority. At the same time, he was careful not to make highly ambitious proclamations about largely unattainable goals – a habit all too familiar in Iranian politics in the twentieth century – partly perhaps from a commensurate sense of social responsibility, but certainly out of regard for a tactful and cautious approach to politics. A short public communiqué, which was posted on the walls a couple of days after the rising, said that they had risen in protest against ‘a series of unconstitutional actions of [the various] provincial governments’, and expected provincial government officials to respect their ‘free regime’ and implement their decisions with sincerity. The ‘freedom-loving people’, it said, was well aware of the country’s ‘highly sensitive situation’ and was determined to ‘establish order and security’. Their programme was: ‘the establishment of public security; the actualization of the constitutional regime’.36 Kasravi complains that Khiyabani’s lieutenants ‘expected blind obedience from the people in the name of the “maintenance of discipline”’.37 He also says that the Khiyabani faction of Tabriz Democrats was silent about the 1919 agreement. Khiyabani himself would not reply when asked about the agreement, but his disciples would say that ‘it is not easy to know whether the agreement is in our interest or against it’.38 When asked about their positive programme, they would simply reply that they had a sublime ideal and objective which it was not yet opportune to reveal. As we shall see below, both the maxim of order and discipline and the principle of tact and cautiousness informed many of Khiyabani’s decisions. He fell neither because of lawless nor tactless behaviour, but because of a considerable loss of legitimacy when the situation changed. They did, however, rename the province Azadistan (or Freedomland), though without clearly explaining its significance beyond the literal meaning of the term. It gave the impression to many, both then and later, that it

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reflected separatist aspirations, although that particular form was close to the names of such provinces as Kurdistan, Luristan, Baluchistan, etc. In his Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh – where Kasravi is noticeably less outspoken about the uprising and Khiyabani, though still very critical of them – he says that the change of name had been suggested by Isma‘il Amirkhizi, a lieutenant close to Khiyabani, on the grounds that the province had fought vehemently for freedom during the Constitutional Revolution, and that the newly formed Transcaucasian Republic had called itself the Republic of Azerbaijan.39 This is not mentioned in the manuscript, though no doubt Kasravi had heard it from Amirkhizi or others years later, and it may well have been true. But his insight in the manuscript seems persuasive: that the change of name reflected the desire of establishing some form of home rule in the province, led by Khiyabani and his men. Kasravi’s view is that the sheikh was neither a separatist nor a pro-Bolshevik, but wished to impose his ‘dictatorship’ (diktatori ) over Azerbaijan.40 It is important to remember that Sardar Entesar, who was commander of all the armed and security forces, had gone along with the revolt and, moreover, did not try to use the Cossack, Gendarme or police forces against it. On 20 May (a month and a half after the revolt), Ain al-Dowleh – probably prodded on by Tehran – finally moved from Miyaneh to Tabriz. Significantly, however, he left his horse and rifle guards ten miles outside Tabriz before entering the town. Far from declaring Khiyabani and his men as rebels, he described his own relationship with the people of Tabriz as one of a father and his sons, dismissed and expelled Amin al-Molk, the deputy governor, at Khiyabani’s request, moved into Government House (Ali Qapu), and let Khiyabani and his men – who had received him cordially – get on with the administration of the province. Shortly after that, Khiyabani ordered the banishment of Zainol‘abedin Khan, and a few other leading figures of the Critical Faction of the Democrat Party, to Kurdistan. The same night, they went to arrest Kasravi, who gave them the slip and hid in a friend’s house for a fortnight and then escaped to Qal‘eh Afshar, where he became ill for a whole month before making his way to Tehran. He insists that the Faction had not been active since the revolt and that Khiyabani’s motive in moving against them must have been the settling of old scores.41 There is no reason to doubt Kasravi’s word about their own harmlessness, but Khiyabani is likely to have wished to be rid of respected community and Democrat leaders opposed to his own leadership who could have presented an alternative focus in difficult times. Besides, Kasravi says that Major Edmonds, a political officer attached to Norperforce, had come to Tabriz

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and had talked to him about the possibility of his faction working against Khiyabani, but Kasravi had firmly rejected the idea. He also says that someone representing the Tehran government had made the same suggestion to him and received the same reply. From what followed, it would seem much more likely that theirs was a fact-finding mission, probably couched in antiKhiyabani terms, which gave Kasravi the impression described above. But Khiyabani may have known about the contacts. At any rate, Kasravi says that Edmonds met Khiyabani himself, and since, said Kasravi, it was in both their interests, ‘not much argument was required for them to enter a pact’. Although there was no ‘pact’ as such, Kasravi’s account is borne out by a special report sent by Edmonds to Sir Percy Cox, the British minister in Tehran, on his interview with Khiyabani on 1 May 1920: On April 30th I with Captain Geard attended a ‘Garden Party’ given by the Democratic party in honour of those who fell in the fight for the constitution at Tabriz. … The primary object was doubtless to raise the wind with the democrats who doubt[less] also wished to invest their present movement with the halo of the struggle for the constitution.

Later he watched Khiyabani address the guests: Towards sunset Sheikh Mohammad Khiyabani, president of the ‘Tajaddud’ and a virtual dictator of Tabriz ascended the stage to speak. … A man of about 40 of slight build, with black beard thin below the corners of the mouth, pallid complexion, slightly discoloured front teeth, wearing gold rimmed spectacles, a small white turban (as one would expect from his name) neat grey frock coat with stand up neck with an abba over it but no collar tie, he spoke with restraint deliberately and with no hesitation as one who knew exactly what he wanted. The speech was punctuated with vociferous applause as he made his points. He spoke in Turki and I was unfortunately not able to follow it all. Among other things … he announced that, especially during the coming Ramazan, when the people would constantly be meeting together, no political discussion would be permitted without the previous consent of the Tajaddud.

Next day he met Khiyabani at the house of Fakhr al-Atebba: On closer acquaintance he does not give that impression of the cold impassive revolutionary I got the previous day. Indeed he was almost shy but for all that spoke with a conviction that he had Tabriz in his hand and that his decisions could admit no discussion.

It was indeed an interview, for much of the time was spent on Khiyabani answering Edmonds’ specific question: He explained that his party expelled the Swedes [Biverling and Vogelklu]

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because they had been made the tool of others to suppress freedom. They had been tactless in at least two cases of imprisonment of women, including one who was pregnant. As for Vogelklu he was quite incompetent while his notorious proclivity to sodomy made him especially unsuitable.

As for the aims of the movement: Their objects were summarized in their manifesto of 9th April [quoted above] … nothing more and nothing less. They demanded a constitutional government according to the fundamental law and pure administration.

When Edmonds asked him ‘how long, it would be necessary for an unofficial body to exercise supervision over government departments’, he said: He could not admit that a committee representing the people was unofficial – government officials were servant of the public and the public had every right to and would control their actions. He quoted the dishonesty of successive chiefs of the revenue department, the wicked waste over the Simko expedition, etc. His committee would continue to exercise supervision till they were convinced the country was being governed constitutionally and were confident the provincial government could ensure honest administration.

Asked if the movement was ‘a struggle for freedom’ and why it was necessary for meetings to have the permission of Tajaddod, he replied that Persia was not like England, where a law passed by the majority was enforced on all, although minorities were free to raise their voice against it. They had Bolsheviks and Turkish propagandists, reactionaries and other parties ready to seize such opportunity to creat[e] disorder. Unrestricted freedom of meeting would lead to turmoil. His first duty was to preserve order and he was determined to do it. Expression of opinion would be allowed but not in meetings and provided there was [no] incitement to disturbance.

About foreign relations he said that they ‘could only look at Germany and Turkey who had brought calamity to Persia with a hostile eye’. Russia had collapsed and other European countries did not concern them. They wished to benefit from European civilization and realized the need for foreign advisers: His party had at bottom a great affection for England that had gained them the constitution, they knew they had many sincere friends in England such as Professor Browne. Though it was primarily for the Majles to accept or reject the Anglo-Persian agreement, his party did not oppose the agreement as such but they would expect the people to have some voice in its interpretation, e.g. in the choice of advisers – the Swedes for instance had been quite unsuitable for Azerbaijan. An instrument like the agreement was necessary and inevitable, but should not be between two or three men but between peoples.

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And whereas almost all Democrats outside of Tabriz, most nationalists and many constitutionalist politicians had been describing Vosuq as a traitor and a British agent, the sheikh expressed quite a different view of him: Poor Vosuq has handicapped himself hopelessly by electing to play a lone hand. He is distracted from the administration of the state by the intrigues around him, he has to keep his supporters together with jobs and money. I think you may tell higher [British] authority that your relations with Persia would be on a much firmer basis if the Prime Minister would take the country into his confidence.42

Edmonds’ report clearly confirms Kasravi’s account that Khiyabani had reached an understanding with him, and refutes the persistent legend – put out by Khiyabani’s lieutenants, and continued by Pishevari’s Democrats and the Tudeh Party – that he had been anti-agreement, anti-Vosuq and antiBritish. He may not have put all his cards on the table, and an experienced intelligence officer would hardly have expected that. But Edmonds was suitably impressed as well as reassured by Khiyabani, as can be read from the tone of his reporting, and is absolutely clear from his general report for April and May: The circumstances of the democratic rising … have been fully reported elsewhere. In P[olitical] O[ffice]’s opinion the movement started as a genuinely patriotic agitation for the restoration of the constitution, there was nothing Separatist or Bolshevik about it. It is of course impossible to foresee the results of mishandling by the Central Government. This view is rather confirmed by latest news of steps taken by the Democrats, since the Russian descent on Anzali, to suppress Bolshevik [sic] activity in Tabriz and prevent communication by the German Consul (who was endeavouring to profit by it) with the outside world.43

The reference to ‘mishandling by the Central Government’ was both an aside on the way the former governors of Gilan had mishandled the Jangali problem and a warning to Tehran to be more careful this time. Vosuq could not have received better news in the midst of bad luck pouring down from everywhere: Khiyabani was not a rebel, nor a separatist, nor pro-Bolshevik, nor pan-Turanian, and he was trying to impose order and discipline in a highly sensitive province.44 The question of the German consul in Tabriz was related to this. Bolshevik agents and local sympathizers had stepped up their activities since the fall of Baku at the end of April, and the landing at Anzali on 18 May had further emboldened them. Kurt Wustrow, the German consul, was ‘endeavouring to profit by’ the situation, it appears, out of anti-British feelings. His involvement in the Bolshevik agitation had been known even

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before 1 May when Edmonds met Khiyabani, because he warned the latter that the police guards he had posted outside the German consulate had not stopped regular contact between the consul and the Bolsheviks.45 It is not clear whether Kasravi was still in Tabriz when Khiyabani ordered the attack on the German consulate, although he covers that episode in some detail and with accuracy, as also the rest of the events until the fall of Khiyabani, which he had gathered from eyewitnesses. At any rate, he says that Wustrow had stored an arsenal, including heavy weapons, in the consulate long before the Khiyabani uprising, and when once the Tabriz government had asked him to surrender the weapons, he had threatened to explode the consulate and all the adjacent houses with it. Indeed Kasravi describes him as being ‘mad’.46 The Bolsheviks in Gilan were about to conclude a coalition pact with Kuchik Khan, and in fact it was concluded on the very day that Khiyabani fighters and the regular police attacked the German consulate. Some leading Bolsheviks had taken refuge in the building, and the consul refused to surrender them. But the real fear was that he was both organizing and arming the Bolsheviks for an insurrection. The battle did not last very long because, as he was shooting from the rooftop, the consul was either hit in the mouth or committed suicide, both of which possibilities are mentioned by Kasravi as well as by other accounts of the incident. That ended the siege of the consulate as well as Bolshevik agitation in Tabriz. Any doubt about Vosuq’s attitude towards the situation in Azerbaijan is dispelled by the account of Kahhalzadeh, the Persian secretary at the German legation in Tehran, of the reaction of the central government to the news of the consul’s death. On the evening of 4 or 5 June Vosuq summoned Kahhalzadeh to give him the news of Wustrow’s death, adding, ‘I would like you to go to the German legation first thing in the morning and say that there is a rumour in town that Mr Wusrow has committed suicide.’ He did that, and the day after accompanied the German minister to the foreign ministry where they were officially informed of the incident. The ministry’s chief of protocol mentioned the rumour that the consul had taken his own life, adding that the government would investigate the matter, but that ‘there is no doubt that it was his own fault’. The German minister did not take that comment at all well. Ain al-Dowleh – the non-interfering governor – was dismissed by Moshir al-Dowleh, who replaced Vosuq, and left town early in July as peacefully as he had entered it, but his caravan was held up seven miles outside the town by an unofficial party of Democrats. Long before then – as reported by Kasravi in the manuscript – Sardar Entesar, the commander in chief of

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the armed forces of the province, had been peacefully eased out of town, although Khiyabani had no more than 400 men under arms, most of whom were untrained militia. With his acumen and efficiency, it is unlikely that Entesar would have left without a fight if he had had Vosuq’s backing. This is how Vosuq fell. The shah returned to Tehran from Europe on 2 June and did not accept Vosuq’s conditions – mainly the dismissal of Colonel Starosselski, the commander in chief of the Cossack Division – for continuing in office. He told Herman Norman, the new British minister in Tehran, that ‘he disliked and distrusted him [Vosuq] so extremely that he would never be able to work with him sincerely’.47 Therefore, he accepted Vosuq’s resignation on 25 June. It took two weeks and much haggling (through Norman) with Curzon in London for Moshir al-Dowleh (later, Hasan Pirniya) to form a cabinet. Moshir was an honest, urbane and respected constitutionalist. He had a reputation among the radicals of both left and right (including the British Foreign Office) for lacking political will and acumen. The reputation is fair only insofar as – both then and later, when he was prime minister again – he wished to govern by constitution and consent during hard and turbulent times. A close study of his government between July and November 1920, however, has shown that he fulfilled his extremely difficult task with wisdom and firmness.48 Kuchik Khan had already run into trouble with his Bolshevik partners in Rasht, mainly because of the zeal and lack of tact with which the latter were trying to implement their own social policies in Gilan, but also as a result of intervention by the new prime minister, for whom Kuchik had much respect. Moshir could then send a strong force of Cossacks, led by Starosselski himself, to Mazandaran and Gilan in August. At first, they made rapid progress, taking Rasht and driving the Bolsheviks to Anzali, but were later defeated and withdrew from Rasht in October, and that played a decisive role in the fall of Moshir’s cabinet.49 It would have been a difficult decision for Moshir to try and suppress Kuchik by force, though there can be little doubt that he would have done so if Kuchik had remained defiant. The Azerbaijan problem must certainly have looked incomparably easier than that presented by the Caspian ‘insurgents’ (or motejaserin, Moshir’s favourite term for them). Moshir and his colleagues had personally known and respected Khiyabani as an old constitutionalist Democrat from his time as a Tabriz deputy in the Second Majles. Kasravi writes in his manuscript: We all know Mr Moshir al-Dowleh … to be a renowned freedom-loving man (azadikhah ). And there can be no doubt that he did not wish to resort to fighting and bloodshed with the people revolting (qiyamiyan) in Tabriz, who were

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part of the freedom-loving public. And so it was that for over two months the government was making conciliatory gestures and overtures to Khiyabani. But Khiyabani and his lieutenants were in no mood to listen to such words, and it was not easy for them to step down from the elevations to which they had ascended.50

This is right. From early July to the end of August, Moshir tried to come to terms with Khiyabani. Moshir withdrew Ain al-Dowleh as governor-general soon after assuming office, and Khiyabani moved into the Government House after Ain’s departure. They also created a ‘Khiyabani Guard’, according to Kasravi, of 300 men, whose significance was probably more symbolic than real. After a few weeks, Moshir named Mokhber al-Saltaneh (Hedayat) – then in the cabinet – as the new governor of Azerbaijan. He was an old constitutionalist hand, several times minister and governor, and twice before governor of Azerbaijan. He was not as popular as Moshir and a few other men, but he was a respected constitutionalist with impeccable credentials, especially as he had been openly critical of the 1919 agreement. Indeed, both for that and for his perceived pro-German attitude during the war, the British Foreign Office was opposed to his membership of Moshir’s government.51 Mokhber’s account of events from then until the fall of Khiyabani is very similar to Kasravi’s independent narrative, except that the former is more detailed and – occasionally – more precise. For example, Kasravi writes that he heard that when Mokhber’s appointment was announced to Khiyabani, he wired back that Mokhber was not needed, and, later, that the people did not want him. He also pointed out that the province must be recognized as Azadistan, which – as noted above – was very probably a euphemism for the recognition of his own rule there. Nevertheless he asked the government to send him money for the maintenance of the services of the provincial government. Mokhber writes in three different but consistent and complementary sources that in response to Khiyabani’s request for funds, Moshir twice sent him 20,000 and once 15,000 tuman.52 When he was named as governor, he got a message from Khiyabani through a third person that if he wanted to go to Tabriz he must go alone, and that ‘Azerbaijan is now called Azadistan, and it has its own popular military force’.53 Indeed Khiyabani, who knew him personally, had sent him a telegram of congratulations upon the formation of Moshir’s cabinet,54 and in a following letter – couched in highly respectful terms, and addressing him as his ‘esteemed and exalted fellow democrat’ – he said that Mokhber’s ‘wise, learned and true’ view of the political situation was entirely consistent with his own.55 At the end of August, Mokhber left for Tabriz. In his memoirs he

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describes the state of chaos on the roads, especially where the Shahsavans were active. Kasravi also writes in his manuscript that ‘in those very days lawlessness in Azerbaijan had become so bad that the Tabriz–Miyaneh road was cut off … and the Shahsevan were looting the villages up to a few miles to Tabriz’.56 At Basmenj, near Tabriz, Sa‘ed al-Saltaneh, a Tabriz community leader and go-between, met him and said that he should attend Khiyabani’s regular meetings at Government House, but when he agreed, Khiyabani telephoned Sa‘ed back to say that he would not wish to see Mokhber. Neither would he be allowed to take up residence in Government House or in the other two government buildings. Mokhber declined the Tabriz Cossack’s suggestion to send a welcoming party, and arrived at Sa‘ed’s house in town. On the third day Sayyed al-Mohaqqeqin and Badamchi (both of them Khiyabani collaborators) went to see him. He told them that Vosuq had gone, the 1919 agreement was in abeyance, members of the cabinet (as they knew) were honest men, and civil war and separatism would be destructive, i.e. he tackled all the reasons that he and most others believed to have motivated the revolt. They replied and went on repeating – as, according to Kasravi, they had done since the very beginning – that they had a great ideal that they were not yet ready to reveal. In his separate meetings with the British and American consuls he asked them to try and bring Khiyabani into line, he said, in order that ‘if things got far’ he would have witnesses that he had tried his best. Khiyabani told the British consul that Mokhber was a fast talker and would get the better of him if he met and talked with him. And whatever he replied to the American consul, the consul told Mokhber that Khiyabani was now ‘a rebel’.57 The Russian Cossack chief had visited Mokhber and told him that Khiyabani’s men could be easily reduced. The commander of the much less important but more popular Gendarmes had also sent him word that he was at his disposal. It was Khiyabani who made the first move. On 13 September, the tenth day since Mokhber’s arrival in Tabriz, Sayyed al-Mohaqqeqin brought word from him to Mokhber that he should leave town: ‘Khiyabani says, What are you waiting for here?’58 Kasravi writes: For ten days Mokhber al-Saltaneh was there and no matter how many times he sent messages to Khiyabani that he had been appointed governor of the province and wished to talk to him, he would only reply through some of his collaborators that the people did not want Mokhber. … Eventually, Khiyabani sent a message to Mokhber, saying ‘Leave town or you will be thrown out.’59

Meanwhile the Cossack chief and his Persian assistant, Zafar al-Dowleh (later, General Hasan Moqaddam), had contacted Mokhber again and

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declared their readiness for action. That Sunday afternoon – as usual – there was an open-house tea party at the Cossack headquarters on the outskirts of town. Mokhber went there ‘two hours before the sunset’ and stayed behind after all the other guests had left. He ordered the Cossacks to get ready for action during the night and move early in the morning. On the other hand, Khiyabani and his people, as Kasravi pointedly writes, were completely surprised, probably because they were sure that Mokhber would soon leave town. Both Mokhber and Kasravi write that by sunrise Government House and other government buildings and offices were in the hands of the Cossacks, after very little resistance which had altogether resulted in a couple of deaths on both sides. Both of them also say that late on that very Sunday night Khiyabani, who went home alone, had been recognized by the Cossacks, but they did not arrest him because, says Mokhber, he ordered the Cossack chief not to. Thus the movement collapsed within a few hours with hardly a shot being fired. Khiyabani and most of his lieutenants went into hiding, and the Cossacks – as was their habit – looted their homes, though Mokhber managed to stop the looting of the homes of Sayyed al-Mohaqqeqin and a few others in time.60 Mokhber says that since he could not find Sa‘ed on the telephone, he told another intermediary to tell Khiyabani that he could go and remain at his home unmolested, and when the intermediary asked him to write the message down he did so. There is no reason to doubt this because he did not take severe measures against any of the others. The accounts of Kasravi and Mokhber about the manner of Khiyabani’s death on the following day are also consistent. Khiyabani was hiding in the basement of a neighbouring house. Two Cossacks on their regular beat were told by a little girl that he was hiding at the house of Sheikh Hussein Miyanaji. Kasravi says it was a beggar rather than a little girl, but in his Iranshahr article (cited above) Badamchi refers to ‘that dog of a child’.61 Perhaps it was a child beggar. At any rate the Cossacks entered the house, there was an exchange of fire and Khiyabani was killed. It was not clear who had opened fire first, and there was a theory that, having been hit in the foot or leg, Khiyabani had shot himself in the head. Both Kasravi and Mokhber mention these conflicting rumours without insisting on any of them. Indeed Mokhber concludes by saying ‘Wa ‘l ‘ilmu ‘indu’ llah’ (God knows best).62 Nonetheless Mokhber quotes verbatim a suicide note, allegedly found in Khiyabani’s pocket, which had been handed to him: Farewell comrades. Since I was all on my own, and was determined not to be arrested, I committed suicide. Follow my principles. Do not forget my people. I have no one. They looted my home. So much for Mokhber al-Saltaneh’s love of freedom (azadikhahi ). 14 September [1920], Mohammad Khiyabani.63

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Once the man was killed, the rabble, most of whom, says Kasravi, had been applauding his public speeches only a few days before, followed the corpse as it was being carried to police headquarters, in dancing and jubilation, and were thinking of taking it round the bazaar in triumph. Mokhber heard the noise, discovered its source, put an end to it and ordered the body to be buried in a local Imamzadeh.64 Even Badamchi gives the same account, though bitterly complains that Mokhber ‘did not arrange a respectable funeral’ for ‘that blessed martyr’.65 Mokhber says that he repaired Khiyabani’s home, replaced his looted furniture and paid 6,000 tuman (which up to then had been collected from an entry-and-exit tax for Tabriz under Khiyabani) to his family.66 Kasravi writes in the manuscript: And of Khiyabani’s lieutenants the only one who was killed was Mirza Taqi Khan Raf‘at. On the same day that the Cossacks occupied the town, he and a few others had escaped to a village near Arvanaq. One day they heard that a few riders had come to arrest them. The others managed to escape, but as he did not succeed in running away, the poor young man, driven by fear, pulled out his pistol and killed himself. … Some of the others had already obtained immunity for themselves from Haj Mokhber al-Saltaneh, while the remainder hid away, and when they were found they were banished from town.67

Mokhber says that there was much pressure on him from the town notables for some banishments, and in the end he had to banish three of them – including Badamchi – to a village, but lifted the ban ‘after a few months’.68 Predictably, meetings were held in Tehran and elegies and other poems were written in mourning for the violent death of Khiyabani. But this time the reaction was mixed. While hardly anyone received the news of Khiyabani’s death with joy, constitutionalists and many popular politicians and activists – certainly all the supporters and well-wishers of Moshir’s government – did not blame the government for it. The government allowed a public memorial meeting of the Tehran Democrats, called by Suleyman Mirza (later, Eskandari), at which Moshir and Mokhber were blamed for Khiyabani’s death. The Democrats brought the same charges against the government in their newspapers. In a number of ways, the most significant published material of that kind was a long and impassioned tarji’band by poet-laureate Bahar, of which the recurring verse was: If the blood of the innocent [mazlum] Khiyabani comes to boil, Iran would wear a red shroud from one end to the other.69

The name of both Vosuq and Moshir was Hasan. Bahar, who had supported Vosuq’s government, compared Vosuq’s execution of a couple of leaders of the rebel band of Nayeb Hussein Kashi (Kashani) with the death of

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Khiyabani in his verse: ‘If that Hasan killed a couple of Kashis for the sake of the motherland/This Hasan killed the motherland’s freedom-lovers like beasts.’70 Kasravi makes a brief reference to the hagiographies, which were published at the time: ‘someone wrote that Khiyabani had become a mojtahed at Najaf, another, that he had graduated in law from Istanbul’. He also mentioned Bahar’s poem and pointed out that, in an article, Bahar had attacked Khiyabani and the revolt at the beginning, to which Khiyabani had reacted in great anger.71 And he concluded that the real motive behind Bahar’s poem was to attack Moshir because he had replaced Vosuq. There may be something in that, though the fact that – even if indirectly – some kind of understanding had been reached between Vosuq and Khiyabani soon after the rising must also have played a part. However, when he came to write his history of political parties almost a quarter of a century later, Bahar’s view of the incident had radically changed. Referring to the incident, he wrote in the book: These actions of Moshir al-Dowleh were very brilliant and – though they hurt the feelings of negative sentimentalists (manfi-bafan) and even some popular constitutionalists – there can be no doubt that, from the point of view of the basic interest of the state and service to the country, the actions had been taken wisely. And the weight of the prime minister’s personality was such that it could not be shaken by the criticisms.72

Kasravi ends his manuscript (and signs it: ‘In the name of God’) with the following words: And it is very clear that these hagiographies are not consistent with our account [of the rising] and of Khiyabani. Because what they have written uses the language of politics, and what we wrote and described, the language of history. And the languages and ways of politics and history are always apart.73

There is also politics in his own account, in the broader sense of that term. But the account is honest, balanced and free from malice or rancour. It is highly unlikely that any of the people close to the events – whatever their political colours – could have presented an account as good, as comprehensive and as relatively fair, shortly after the event, as can be seen in the articles published in the special issue of Iranshahr, from which Kasravi’s was excluded. The manuscript is also important with regard to studies of Kasravi and his work. It is the earliest document showing his dislike both of authoritarian rule and disorder, his open, tenacious and uncompromising approach to social and political issues, his lack of understanding of – or sympathy for –

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human weakness, his honest reporting (though coloured by his own views) of events, and his careful and balanced historiography. His prose is an early example of his later insistence on writing ‘pure Persian’, and includes some of the new words coined by himself, most of which are now part of the regular Persian vocabulary. Khiyabani’s revolt: a brief appraisal From the new evidence it is clear that Khiyabani was not a separatist, was far from pro-Bolshevik, did not rise in reaction to the 1919 agreement and Vosuq’s government, and, whatever his real feelings may have been about it, was prepared to compromise with the Vosuq government so long as it did not challenge his authority in Azerbaijan. He was a stern, charismatic leader who saw his first task as stamping out chaos in the province – which he tried to do with tact and astuteness, as well as firmness and determination – as a necessary step towards modernization. He was a man of principle, but also a pragmatist who was ready to take unpopular action when he thought it necessary. His main concern, at least at the time, was with Azerbaijan, and he wished to have a free hand to rule the province, quite unlike Kuchik, whose undivided concern was with the whole of Iran and who was always hesitant to take action that might appear to contradict his principles. All this explains the rather intriguing fact that Khiyabani could live with Vosuq but not with Moshir, whereas it was the other way around with Kuchik. Unlike Vosuq, Moshir’s popular legitimacy was second to none everywhere, including in Azerbaijan. Had Vosuq tried to topple Khiyabani by force, there would have been a strong popular resistance there with unpredictable consequences; there would also have been a great outcry in Tehran and elsewhere. Moshir’s ‘weakness’ as a strict constitutionalist was also his strength as a popularly legitimate prime minister who could thus deal with both Kuchik and Khiyabani with incomparably greater ease, even though their different responses led to different outcomes for themselves. No doubt there were many factors working towards the decline of Khiyabani’s authority before he fell. But by far the most effective was that this time he had to reckon with Moshir and Mokhber, not Vosuq, Sardar Entesar and Amin al-Molk. He seems to have completely overlooked that factor, thinking that his previous tactics would work again, perhaps even more easily. But it was not so easy to tell Mokhber to leave town as it had been to tell Amin al-Molk or Sardar Entesar, for he and his political master enjoyed the kind of legitimacy, and hence self-confidence, that they and their political master did not.

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Khiyabani’s revolt was another episode in the long and turbulent history of Iranian politics after the Constitutional Revolution, which reached its climax first in the coup d’état of 1921, followed by the fall of the Qajars in 1925. That is when both constitutionalism and chaos came to an end for 16 years.

7

Pan-Turkism and Iranian Nationalism1 Touraj Atabaki Twentieth-century historiography on nation–state correlation and nationalism has to a large extent been shaped by a Eurocentric ethno-linguistic discourse, where ‘ethnicity and language’ become the central, increasingly the decisive or even the only criteria of potential nationhood,2 or as Karl Renner asserts: once a certain degree of European development has been reached, the linguistic and cultural communities of people, having silently matured throughout the centuries, emerge from the world of passive existence as people (Passiver Volkheit ). They become conscious of themselves as a force with historical destiny. They demand control over the state, as the highest available instrument of power, and strive for their political self-determination. The birthday of the political idea of the nation and the birth-year of this new consciousness, is 1789, the year of the French Revolution.3

However, what this perception of the nation-state largely neglects is the fact that the construction of a bounded territorial entity (or what is generally referred to as nation-state building) has often entailed components other than ethnic or linguistic bonds. Collective imagination, political allegiances, reconstructing and reinterpreting history, and the invention of necessary historical traditions to justify and give coherence to the emerging modern state, all these are often major factors in bringing groups of people together and strengthening or even forming their common sense of identity and political solidarity. In some cases the mere application of ancient, historically resonant names and traditions is enough to evoke a consensus of political legitimacy. Consequently the social connotations of certain key socio-political phrases, as well as geographic terms, become an important element in reshaping the geographic boundaries of emerging sovereign states. As far as Iran is concerned, it is widely argued that Iranian nationalism was born as a state ideology in the Reza Shah era, based on philological nationalism and as a result of his innovative success in creating a modern 121

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nation-state in Iran. However, what is often neglected is that Iranian nationalism has its roots in the political upheavals of the nineteenth century and the years immediately following the Constitutional Revolution of 1905–9. It was during this period that Iranism gradually took shape as a defensive discourse for constructing a bounded territorial entity – the ‘pure Iran’ standing against all others. Consequently, over time there emerged among the country’s intelligentsia a political xenophobia that contributed to the formation of Iranian defensive nationalism. It is noteworthy that, contrary to what one might expect, many of the leading agents of the construction of an Iranian bounded territorial entity came from non-Persian-speaking ethnic minorities, and the foremost were the Azerbaijanis, rather than the nation’s titular ethnic group, the Persians. The aim of this study is to throw further light on the complex origins of Iranian nationalism. While examining the various loyalties of the Iranian non-Persian intelligentsia, I shall sketch the measures adopted by such groups when defending their real or imagined identities against the early twentieth-century irredentist ideology of neighbouring states. The outbreak of the First World War For many Iranians the 13 months of ‘lesser despotism’ of June 1908–July 1909 that followed Mohammad ‘Ali Shah’s coup was the most crucial period of their country’s constitutional history: the entire country, except for Azerbaijan, was subjugated to the new regime. By sending in the army and imposing economic restrictions, the central government strove to bring the Azerbaijanis, too, to their knees. However, while famine spread across the province, the Azerbaijani constitutionalists set up barricades in Tabriz and prepared to offer armed resistance. When the government in Tehran was eventually overthrown, the constitutionalists found themselves in a nearly unique position, with the attention of the entire nation fixed on them. Gradually the belief arose among Iranians that although the Constitutional Revolution had been born in Tehran, it had been baptized in Tabriz and the constitution had no chance of surviving without Azerbaijan. Moreover Azerbaijan was seen as the most important centre where any future progressive political changes would originate. This appraisal of the cardinal role played by the Azerbaijanis in restoring constitutionalism in Iran left Azerbaijani constitutionalists with a strong sense of being the protectors of the country’s territorial integrity, a perception that still persists. When the First World War began, political chaos and confusion swept across Iran. Successive governments proved to be incapable of solving the country’s escalating problems and implementing fundamental reforms prom-

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ised by the Constitutional Revolution. The eruption of the war increased foreign pressure and caused the long-standing rift in Iranian politics to widen. As early as October 1910 Britain had delivered an ultimatum to Iran concerning the security of the southern part of the country. In so doing, Britain set an example for the Russians to follow. Russian troops had already occupied the northern provinces. In November 1911 the Tsarist government presented its own ultimatum to Iran, which amounted to nothing less than an attempt to reduce the north of the country to the status of a semidependent colony.4 However, while the Iranian parliament, which enjoyed the support of the crowds in the street, resisted the Russian ultimatum, the fragile Iranian government decided to accept it and dissolve the parliament. This seemed the only effective measure available to the deputies in the face of the crisis that had arisen.5 The occupation of the north and south of Iran by Russian and British troops was to provoke the Ottoman forces to invade western and northwestern Iran early on in the war. If we add to this list the activities of the Germans, especially among the southern tribes, we begin to get an idea of how powerless the Iranian central government was during this period. The Iranian government’s reaction to the outbreak of the war was to declare Iran’s strict neutrality in the farman of 1 November 1914. On the other hand, what sense was there in the government’s announcing its neutrality when a sizeable part of Iran’s territory was occupied by the Entente forces? When Mostofi al-Mamalek, the prime minister, approached the Russian authorities and asked that they withdraw their troops from Azerbaijan because their presence gave the Turks a pretext for invading Iran, ‘the Russian minister appreciated the Iranian viewpoint but inquired what guarantees could be given that after the withdrawal of Russian forces, the Turks would not bring in theirs’.6 Consequently Azerbaijan became one of the major battlefields of the war. As part of their military strategy, the Russians, British and Ottomans all pursued policies aimed at stirring up or aggravating the existing animosities between the different ethnic and religious groups in the province. Promises were made with regard to setting up a sovereign state for Kurds, Assyrians, Armenians and Azerbaijani Muslims. Such demographic manipulations led to the most bloody and barbaric confrontations among these ethnic and religious groups. Soon after the outbreak of the First World War, the Ottoman Empire, with the encouragement of Enver Pasha, the Ottoman minister of war, sided with Germany. Enver Pasha judged that doing so gave the Ottomans a good chance of surviving and perhaps even of making some gains from Russia.

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He also declared a jihad, inciting Muslims to rise up against British and Russian rule in India, Iran, the Caucasus and Central Asia. To him, the Russians were not only kafir (infidels), but also invaders who had occupied areas south of the Caucasus that were considered part of the IslamicTurkic homeland. Enver Pasha played a leading part in negotiating a secret German–Ottoman treaty, signed on 2 August 1914; in October the Ottoman fleet entered the Black Sea, bombarded Odessa and the Crimean ports and sank Russian ships. In addition, Ottoman forces were deployed along the Caucasian frontier with Russia, where severe fighting began in the harsh mountain terrain. The ultimate strategic objective for the Ottomans was to capture the Baku oilfields and northern Iran in order to penetrate Central Asia and Afghanistan, not only as a threat to British India but also to extend the Ottoman Empire to what were referred to as its natural boundaries: We should not forget that the reason for our entrance into the world war is not only to save our country from the danger threatening it. No, we pursue an even more immediate goal – the realization of our ideal, which demands that, having shattered our Muscovite enemy, we lead our empire to its natural boundaries, which would encompass and unite all our related people.7

In December 1914 a Russian advance toward Erzurum was countered by the Ottomans, but in battles at Sarikamish in January 1915 the Ottomans, illclad and ill-supplied for the Caucasian winter, suffered their greatest defeat of the war. In the south the Ottoman forces, which had invaded the city of Maraghan in late November 1914, moved to Tabriz on 14 January. Since the Russian army was still stationed in Tabriz, confrontation between the two armies seemed inevitable. Although the Russian troops avoided a military confrontation and evacuated Tabriz, the Ottomans were unable to maintain their hold on the city and were expelled by a Russian counter-invasion in March 1915.8 The defeat at Sarikamish was indeed a turning point in the Ottomans’ policy of expanding east. Throughout the remaining years of the war they adopted a low profile in the region. It was only at the end of the First World War, and following the Russian Revolution, that the Ottomans were able to return to Iran. Pan-Turkism and Iran’s response to it Although it took some years for the Ottomans to realize their dream of installing themselves in the region north as well as south of the Araxes river, the pan-Turkist uproar reached Iran and the Caucasus as early as 1908, when the Young Turk Committee of Union and Progress (CUP) launched

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their coup, which brought an end to the despotic era of Abdulhamid. When Abdulhamid abdicated, pan-Islamism, which he had supported, was flavoured throughout the heartland of the empire by Turkic national sentiment. Like the people who initiated pan-Turkism, the pioneers in propagating pan-Turkism among the Turkic peoples came from the Russian Empire, having been influenced by the model of nineteenth-century pan-Slavism. The origins of pan-Turkism go back to the beginning of the century, when both pan-Ottomanism and pan-Islamism failed to cope with the ever-growing problems of the Ottoman Empire. ‘Ottomanism had proven a failure. Islamic loyalty still dominated the sentiments of the great mass of Turks, as it had done for centuries past, but its modern political avatar, panIslamism, had won only limited successes, and held, moreover, a diminishing appeal for the Western-educated, younger intellectuals.’9 Indeed it was the Ottoman-Turk münevver al-fikirler (intellectuals) who first began to shed the aura of contempt associated with the name Turk. Mehmet Amin, for instance, expresses the new sense of national pride in his poetry: I am a Turk, my faith and my race is mighty … We are Turks, with this blood and with this name we live.10

What began as a lack of resentment at being called a Turk soon evolved into a positive sentiment of pride and came to embrace the concept of a Turkish nation. Surprisingly enough, the one who baptized pan-Turkism was not himself a subject of the Ottoman Empire. In 1904 Akçuroğlu Yusuf (later known as Yusuf Akçura), a Tatar from the Russian Empire, published a pamphlet called Üç Terz-i Siyaset (Three Kinds of Policies), which soon came to be known as the manifesto of the pan-Turkists. In this famous declaration, which was originally printed in Cairo by Turks in exile, Akçuroğlu Yusuf discusses the inherent historical obstacles blocking the advance of pan-Ottomanism and pan-Islamism and advocates Ittihad-i Etrak (the Unity of Turks, i.e. pan-Turkism) as the sole concept that is able to sustain the Türk milleti (Turkish nation). He admits that he ‘does not know if the idea still has adherents outside the Ottoman Empire’ especially in Qafqaziya ve şumali Iran (Caucasus and northern Iran), but he hopes that in the near future his views on Turkish identity will attract the support of many Turks wherever they live.11 Ittihad-i Etrak, or as it was later named by Akçuroğlu Yusuf Türkçülük (Turkism),12 was soon adopted as a policy by political parties and ‘cultural organizations’ in the Ottoman Empire. In 1908 the Türk Derneğı (Turkish Society) was founded in Istanbul to study the ‘past and present activities and circumstances of all the people called Turk’.13 In its declaration

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issued on 25 December 1908, the Society pledged to ‘encourage the use of Ottoman-Turkish among foreign peoples. At first, Turks in the Balkan states, Austria, Russia, Iran, Africa, Central Asia and China will be familiarized with Ottoman-Turkish.’ Furthermore ‘languages in Azerbaijan, Kashgar, Bukhara, Khiva, etc., will be reformed to be like Ottoman-Turkish for the benefit of Ottoman trade’.14 Türk Derneğı was followed by another society called Türk Ocağı (Turkish Hearth). In its manifesto, written in 1912, it proclaimed that its chief aim was ‘to advance the national education and raise the scientific, social and economic level of the Turks who are the foremost of the peoples of Islam, and to strive for the betterment of the Turkish race and language’.15 The issues that these ‘societies’ still had to address were: who is a Turk and where is his homeland? Zia Gökalp (1876–1924), the most influential nationalist and one of the founders of the Türk Ocağı, in a poem published in 1911 called Turan, describes the Turkish homeland in the following terms: The country of the Turk is not Turkey, nor Turkistan. Their country is a vast eternal land: Turan!16

Later in a much more politicized book, Türkçülük Esasları (Principles of Turkism), Zia Gökalp reiterates the old beliefs and adopts a more ‘realistic’ approach in defining Turk and the Turkish homeland. By ‘Turk’ he now means ‘a nation which possesses a culture peculiar to itself; therefore a Turk can have only one language, only a single culture’.17 Realizing the obstacles confronting his former utopian notion of assembling all Turks in the land of Turan, he now excludes the Tatars, Kyrgyz and Uzbeks from sharing in the ideal unity and only focuses on the Oghuz Turks: Today, the Turks for whom cultural unification would be easy are the Oghuz Turks, that is the Turkmen; for the Turkmen of Azerbaijan, Iran and Khawrazm, like the Turks of Turkey, belong to the Oghuz, or Turkmen unity.

He then describes the kind of unity he proposes: A political unity? For the present, no! We cannot pass judgement today on what will happen in the future, but for the present our goal is only cultural unity of the Oghuz peoples.18

The pioneers of pan-Turkism in Caucasian Azerbaijan, however, were those of the Azerbaijani elite living in Istanbul who were disillusioned by the stagnation of the Iranian constitutional movement, the failure of the Russian Revolution of 1905 and the crisis in the European social democratic movement. Some who were sympathetic to the Iranian reformist movement

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turned their gaze from Tabriz and Tehran to Istanbul. The Istanbul of the Young Turks, with its call for unity among the Turkic peoples, was a new haven for such elites from Tsarist Russia. With a growing sense of their isolation, they turned to studying ethnic culture and history and its accompanying political importance. The outlook of Ali Husseinzadeh, Ahmad Agayev and, later, Mohammad Amin Rasulzadeh, was immediately welcomed by the CUP, and some of them were even given government positions in the new Ottoman regime. When Türk Yurdu (Turkish Homeland), the main journal propagating pan-Turkism in the Ottoman Empire, was launched in Istanbul, they were among the most prominent contributors to it. In one of his editorials Ahmad Agayev even reproaches the Ottomans for calling the Iranian Azerbaijanis ‘Iranians’ rather than ‘Turks’.19 Mohammad Amin Rasulzadeh, in a series of articles entitled Iran Türkleri (Iranian Turks), contributed a descriptive analysis of the Iranian Turkic minorities and their distinctive national identities.20 During the war pan-Turkist activities in Baku, which was still under Tsarist rule, were mainly confined to the publication of certain periodicals. While maintaining their absolute loyalty to the Tsarist cause in the war, periodicals such as Yeni Füyuzat (New Abundance) and Şalalé (Cascade) adopted as their chief mission the purification of the Azerbaijani language. Arabic and Persian vocabulary was to be purged, and words of pure Turkic origin were to be substituted, as was being done in nationalist circles in the Ottoman Empire. Whereas news about the activities of pan-Turkist organizations in the empire was often covered in editorials by ‘Isa Bey Aşurbeyli, the editor of Şalalé, the question of Iranian Azerbaijan remained neglected by such periodicals, and it seemed that in their hidden agenda the forging of firmer ties with the Ottomans had priority over unification with the Iranian Azerbaijanis.21 However, the attitude towards Turkism in the Caucasus was somewhat altered when in 1913 an amnesty was declared in Baku on the occasion of the 300th anniversary of the Romanov dynasty. Political activists, such as the committed social democrat Rasulzadeh, who some years earlier had the leading newspaper Iran-e No in Tehran, were then able to return to live within Tsarist territory. On his return to Baku, Rasulzadeh began to publish his own newspaper. The first issue of Açiq Söz (Candid Speech) appeared in October 1915 and publication continued until March 1918. Under the Tsars the newspaper called itself ‘a Turkish political, social and literary paper’ and adopted a standpoint close to that of the Russian Empire, endorsing the latter’s war policy. At the same time, it paid a certain amount of attention to Iran and Iranian Azerbaijan. When it had occasion to cover

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Iranian news, it voiced its sympathy for the Iranian Democrats.22 After the Russian Revolution, however, it changed its attitude and abruptly adopted an open pro-Ottoman policy, calling for türklamé, islamlamé va mu‘asirlamé (Turkicization, Islamicization and modernization). On 18 October 1917 a branch of Türk Ocağı was founded in Baku. Among the aspirations of the new society, which claimed that its activities were confined exclusively to the cultural domain, was the desire to ‘acquaint the younger generation with their historical Turkic heritage and to consolidate their Turkic consciousness through setting up schools, organizing conferences and publishing books’.23 Açiq Söz not only welcomed the new society but reported extensively on its activities, covered its frequent gatherings in Baku and published lectures delivered at its conference. Most of these lengthy articles were on different aspects of the history and culture of the Muslim peoples of the southern Caucasus. It seems that at this stage no one in Baku was interested in applying the term ‘Azerbaijan’ to the territory south of the Caucasus. The expressions Türk milleti and Qafqaziya müsalman xalqi (Muslim people of the Caucasus) were often employed to designate the inhabitants of the region. The first Constituent Assembly, which was established in Baku on 29 April 1917, was even called the General Assembly of the Caucasus Muslims. One result of the political upheavals in Moscow, which eventually ended with the Bolshevik takeover in October 1917, was the creation of a power vacuum in the Caucasus. A month later, a Transcaucasian Commissariat was established in Tbilisi, which proclaimed ‘the right of Caucasus nations to self-determination’. By then it was obvious that the Armenian Dashnakists and Georgian Mensheviks were poised to establish their power over a large territory in the region. The Baku Musavatists, who enjoyed an absolute majority in the Baku Constituent Assembly, realized that the time had come for swift political action. With the old Russian Empire gone, the Musavatists were counting on the Ottomans, who were now viewed as the uncontested dominant power in the region. The goal of the Musavatists in their contest with the Armenians and the Georgians was to win control over as much territory as possible. They claimed ‘besides the Baku and Ganja province, the Muslim population of Daghistan, the northern Caucasus, the Georgian-speaking Muslim Inghilios of Zakataly, the Turkish inhabitants of the province of Yerevan and Kars, and even the Georgian-speaking Muslim Ajars of the southern shore of the Black Sea’.24 Furthermore, since the majority of Azerbaijani-speaking people lived in a large region within northern Iran, their ultimate hope was to persuade the Azerbaijani leaders in Iran to support their proposed project for unity. Consequently, in October

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1917, an emissary arrived in Tabriz, approached the local politicians and advocated that they separate from Iran and join with Baku in a great federation. However, their proposal was rejected by the Azerbaijani Democrats.25 Following their failure, in an editorial published in Açiq Söz in January 1918 the Musavatists for the first time tackled the question of Iranian Azerbaijan. In a rather haughty style, the author defined the historical boundaries of Azerbaijan as stretching to the Caucasus Mountains in the north and to Kermanshah in the south, with Tbilisi forming the western frontier and the Caspian Sea the eastern. The Russian expansionists and Iranian ruling class were blamed for having adopted policies that resulted in the dismemberment of the nation of Azerbaijan. Furthermore, according to the author, it was the ‘natural right of the south Caucasus Muslims to call their territory Azerbaijan’ and to hope that ‘one day their brothers in the south could join them’.26 Interestingly enough, the first reaction to this irredentist propaganda came from a group of Iranian Democrats residing in Baku. Since the beginning of the century the flourishing economy of the Caucasus had been attracting many Iranians, most of whom were Azerbaijanis or Azerbaijanspeakers from the north of Iran. But although they spoke the same language, they did not readily assimilate. Throughout the Caucasus region they were known as hamshahri (fellow countrymen) and they maintained a sense of separate identity that marked them out as different from the local population.27 Of the various organizations that existed among the Iranian community in Baku, the local branch of the Iranian Democrat Party was the most eminent and active. The party’s Baku Committee was founded in 1914 and its members were recruited from the Iranian community in Baku and the adjacent regions. In their perception the view expounded in the Açiq Söz editorial was nothing less than a pan-Turkist plot, which menaced Iran’s sovereignty and territorial integrity. Disturbed by such attempts to undermine Iranian unity, they soon inaugurated their own political campaign in the region. On 10 February 1918 the Democrats launched the publication of a bilingual newspaper, Azarbayjan, Joz’-e la-yanfakk-e Iran (Azerbaijan, an Inseparable Part of Iran).28 ‘Azarbayjan’ was printed in big letters on the masthead with ‘Joz’-e la-yanfakk-e Iran’ printed in much smaller letters inside the ‘n’ of ‘Azarbayjan’. Later on, Salamullah Javid, a political activist in Baku, acknowledged that ‘the decision to publish the newspaper was taken by the Democrats at the local level and was a direct response to irredentist propaganda initiated by Açiq Söz’.29 In addition to promoting political change and reform in Iran, the

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newspaper declared its task as ‘displaying the country’s glorious past and its historical continuity’,30 as well as ‘hindering any attempt to diminish the national consciousness of Iranians’.31 While glorifying the name of Azerbaijan and its ‘key position in Iranian history’, the publication frequently referred to ‘the many centuries during which Azerbaijan governed all of Iran’. Similarly it stressed that Azerbaijan had a shared history with the rest of Iran, and strove to foster self-confidence and the feeling of belonging to territorial Iran. Pointing to the geographical front-line position of the province, the newspaper ‘declared it to be the duty of Azerbaijanis’ to confront the hostile outsiders, and to safeguard the country’s ‘national pride’ and ‘territorial integrity’. Though the newspaper never named these outsiders, or ‘intruders’ as they were called, it considered that ‘their intention has always been to undermine Iran’s territorial integrity and political sovereignty’. Moreover, by representing Azerbaijanis as the main champions of the Iranian Constitutional Revolution, it attempted to portray them as the sole guardians of Iran as a bounded territorial entity. In a multi-ethnic society like Iran, where Persians form the titular ethnic group, a minority of Azerbaijanis living outside Iran but within their linguistic territory promoted a sense of Iranian state-patriotism and territorial nationalism rather than their own ethno-nationalism. Their political loyalty and attachment to a constructed political reliability therefore took precedence over their other loyalties, in particular their ethnic loyalty. Likewise they apparently believed in the nineteenth-century notion of a ‘historical nation’ in which the Staatsvolk (state-people) was associated with the state. In their view the Iranians, just as the dispersed members of a greater Russia or a greater Germany did, made up a community associated with a territorial state. Consequently they attempted to uphold their territorial/Iranian identity in the face of pan-Turkist propaganda by ‘shaping a significant and unbroken link with a seminal past that could fill the gap between the nation’s origin and its actuality’.32 For them, as Nipperdey has correctly pointed out, romantic nationalism provided the driving force for political action: ‘cultural identity with its claims for what ought to be, demanded political consequences: a common state, the only context in which they [the people] could develop, the only force that could protect them and the only real possibility for integrating individuals into a nation’.33 With a persuasive political agenda, Azarbayjan, Joz’-e la-yanfakk-e Iran pursued what in its first issue it had proclaimed to be its duty, and continued to publish even after the takeover of Baku by the Bolsheviks, known as the Baku Commune. However, it was forced to close down in May 1918 when the Musavatists regained power and formed their national government. In

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their turn the Musavatists, who had been obliged to stop publishing Açiq Söz during the previous five months, in September 1918 launched their new gazette Azerbayjan. By adopting the same name for their publication as the Iranian Democrats in Baku had used four months earlier, the Musavatists demonstrated their firm attachment to the name they intended to give to their future independent state. The return of the Ottomans After the First World War, the political situation in Anatolia and the Caucasus was significantly altered. The Russian Empire had been swept away by the winds of revolution and the Ottomans were striving to put together the jigsaw pieces of their empire. If during their first short-lived invasion the Ottomans had not had time to disseminate their pan-Turkist propaganda among the Iranian Azerbaijanis, then as a result of the Russian Revolution of 1917 and the fall of their old foe, the CUP was now able to initiate a new pan-Turkist campaign in northern Iran. As noted by a member of the British diplomatic service: ‘Turkey is hand in glove with the Tatars of Transcaucasia [Baku] and these have put in claims to Azerbaijan on their own account. … Northern Persia is essential to Turkey as a link with the Turanians of Central Asia.’34 In the middle of April 1918, the Ottoman army invaded Azerbaijan for the second time. Yusuf Zia,35 a local coordinator of the activities of the Teşkilat-i Mahsusa (Special Organization, the Ottoman main secret service) in the region, was appointed political adviser to the Ottoman contingent in Iran. Soon the Teşkilat-i Mahsusa introduced a small pan-Turkist party in Tabriz36 together with the publication of an Azerbaijani-language newspaper called Azarbayjan, which was the Ottomans’ main instrument for propagating pan-Turkism throughout the province. Contrary to their expectations, however, the Ottomans did not achieve impressive success in Azerbaijan. Although the province remained under quasi-occupation by Ottoman troops for months, the attempt to win endorsement for pan-Turkism ended in failure. The Ottomans had never enjoyed the support of local political parties ever since their arrival in Tabriz, and their relations with the local Democrats had been particularly strained. With the passage of time, relations with the Democrats deteriorated to the point where the Ottomans went as far as to arrest the Democrats’ popular radical leader Mohammad Khiyabani, together with his two comrades Nobari and Badamchi, and sent them to exile in Kars,37 Khiyabani being accused of ‘collaborating with the Armenians against the forces of Islam’.38 The immediate result of this was to whip up serious anti-Ottoman sentiment

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among the Democrats, who were preparing to take control of the province. The summer of 1918 appeared to be a honeymoon period for the Ottomans after stationing their troops on Iranian soil. Occupying the area north of the Araxes was the next logical step on their agenda. With the seizure of Baku in September 1918, it seemed that their Turanian dream was gradually being realized: the region both north and south of the Araxes was now under their control. However, with the end of the war approaching and an escalating political problem at home, not to mention the food crisis, the CUP leadership was obliged to give priority to the centre of its envisaged empire rather than to the periphery. A direct consequence of the large-scale export of cattle and grain from the newly occupied territories to the Ottoman interior was a cause of mounting resentment among the local population. On 23 September 1918 an Ottoman–German protocol was signed confirming the territorial integrity of Iran, but the Ottomans suffered a setback on their western front when Bulgaria was forced to surrender on 30 September. It was then obvious that pursuing the war any further was impossible for the Ottomans. On 9 October the CUP government fell and the new government of Izzet Pasha signed an armistice with the Allies. Returning to Tabriz from exile on 24 June 1920, Khiyabani announced the formation of a local government. The announcement took place with pomp and ceremony in the Ali Qapu, the central government’s provincial headquarters. In a country where the political culture was dominated by xenophobia, one of the key issues for Khiyabani and his fellow Democrats was how to dissociate themselves as completely as possible from the foreign powers. Their relations with the Ottomans remained cold and distant. But what concerned them even more was how to defend their position in face of the political upheavals sweeping through the Caucasus. On 27 May 1918, when the new Republic of Azerbaijan was founded on the territory north of the Araxes river and southeast of Transcaucasia, the adoption of the name ‘Azerbaijan’ caused consternation in Iran, especially among Azerbaijani intellectuals. Khiyabani and his fellow Democrats, in order to dissociate themselves from Transcaucasia, decided to change the name of Iranian Azerbaijan to Azadistan (Freedomland).39 By way of justifying this decision, they referred to the important ‘heroic role’ Azerbaijan had played in the struggle to establish the constitution in Iran, which, in their view, warranted adopting the new name Azadistan.40 From territorial to titular nationalism The fall of the Musavatists in 1920, which was a result of close collaboration between the Bolsheviks and the CUP leadership, caused considerable disillu-

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sionment among the Azerbaijani pro-Ottoman intelligentsia. However profitable this cooperation was for the Bolsheviks, the old guard of the Ottoman Unionists in the region, by adopting different measures, were still striving to realize their old dream. As a British intelligence officer remarked: It will be remembered that the unfortunate ‘Musavat’ government of Baku was successfully overturned by the Communists mainly as a result of the assistance given by the numerous Turkish Unionists. The infiltration of Unionists in the Turkish Communist Party in Baku still continues; they thus seek to establish complete control in course of time, and to gain control of Georgia and Azerbaijan in order to connect them up with their schemes in Central Asia. … The Unionists’ plan therefore is to continue the alliance with Russia so long as it enables them to advance their own plans, which are being energetically pursued.41

The final consolidation of Soviet power in the Caucasus, which was eventually realized by the subjugation of Georgia in March 1921, paved the way for a shift in diplomatic manoeuvring by the newly born Soviet administration. In February the Soviet–Iranian Treaty was concluded, and it was followed by the signing of a peace treaty with Turkey in March 1921. Having extended its southern border to the Araxes river, the Soviet regime adopted a restrained policy towards Iran, officially forbidding any nationalistic claims on Iranian territory. The tragic outcome of Khiyabani’s revolt, which was followed by the suppression of the uprisings in Khorasan and Gilan, left the Democrats in Iran in total disarray. A group of them, mainly from a non-Azerbaijani background, were enthralled by the pan-Islamism propagated by the late Ottomans as a measure of winning over a non-Turkic people in the region. Another tendency within the Democrats found it difficult to subscribe to the regional movement launched by their party comrades. Subsequently a new group of reform-minded intellectuals gradually emerged on the Iranian political scene. Their mode of understanding society was based on socio-political ideas of a Western European origin. Despite the diversity of their political views, what singled them out from the home-grown variety of educated individuals was the model of society that they took for granted. The West European model presupposed a coherent, class-layered society, which by definition was organized around the distinctive concepts of nation and state. They were convinced that only a strong centralized government based in the capital would be capable of implementing reform throughout Iran, while preserving the nation’s territorial integrity. Likewise they believed that modernization and modern state-building in Iran would require low cultural diversity and a high degree of ethnic homogeneity. Only when Iran fulfilled

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the preconditions for a nation-state as defined by them, when ‘empirically almost all the residents of a state identify with the one subjective idea of the nation, and that nation is virtually contiguous’,42 could they realistically cherish hopes of safeguarding Iranian territorial integrity. In the recently born state of Turkey, the Türk Ocağı activists strove to find a new home under the self-restrained Kemalist regime. In 1923 the Turkish magazine Yeni Mecmu‘a (New Journal) reported on a conference about Azerbaijan held by Türk Ocağı in Istanbul. During the conference Ruşani Bey, an ex-member of Teşkilat-i Mahsusa and an eminent pan-Turkist, condemned the Iranian government for its oppressive and tyrannical policies towards the Azerbaijanis living in Iran. He called on all Azerbaijanis in Iran to unite with the new-born Republic of Turkey.43 In reply Iranshahr (Land of Iran), a journal published in Berlin, and the Tehran-based journal Ayandeh (The Future) ran a series of articles denouncing pan-Turkism and became the pioneers of the newly launched titular nationalism in Iran. While Iranshahr attempted to provide historical underpinning, Ayandeh took on the task of propounding the necessary conditions for the ‘unification’ and ‘Persianization’ of all Iranians as one nation.44 Advocating the elimination of regional differences in ‘language, clothing, customs and suchlike’, Ayandeh demanded ‘national unity’ based on the standardized, homogeneous and centrally sustained high culture of the titular ethnic group: Kurds, Lors, Qashwa’is, Arabs, Turks, Turkmen, etc., shall not differ from one another by wearing different clothes or speaking a different language. In my opinion, until national unity is achieved in Iran, with regard to customs, clothing, and so forth, the possibility of our political independence and geographical integrity being endangered will always remain.45

Their insistence on raising the status of Persian above that of a lingua franca and cleansing its vocabulary of loan words, especially from Turkish and Arabic, provided the newly constructed sentiment with a form of philological nationalism. Later, philologists were to be inspired to create grotesque and far-fetched neologisms such as kas nadanad-sikhaki, to replace mahramana-mostaqim (direct-confidential). Moreover their campaign of purification naturally went beyond the linguistic field and pervaded the realm of Iranian history as well. By rewriting history, a ‘pure Iran’ with a long historical identity was created, an Iran purged of all ‘foreign’ and ‘uncivilized elements’ within its borders. Such an identity ultimately depended on negative stereotypes of non-Iranians. The Turks and later the Arabs, who were referred to in nationalist discourse as the ‘yellow and green hazards’,46 served as the indispensable ‘others’ in the construction of the new Iranian

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identity. With the passage of time, the proponents of this form of revivalist nationalism became the founders of a trend in Iranian historiography known above all for its emphasis on continuity in Iranian culture and its concern to uphold the country’s pre-Islamic values. Furthermore, by adopting the Western European model of modern nation-state building under an absolutist ruler, the Iranian nationalists in their manifesto advocated bureaucratic efficiency, clear territorial demarcation and a homogenized and territorially fixed population, who were to be taxed, conscripted into the army and administered in such a way as to be transformed into modern ‘citizens’. When Reza Shah ascended the throne, he wholeheartedly endorsed all the demands voiced by these nationalists. Indeed the blueprint for his ‘one country, one nation’ project was already on his desk. Conclusion The most important political development affecting the Middle East at the beginning of the twentieth century was the collapse of the Ottoman and the Russian empires. The idea of a greater homeland for all Turks was propagated by pan-Turkism, which was adopted almost at once as a main ideological pillar by the Committee of Union and Progress and somewhat later by other political groups in what remained of the Ottoman Empire. On the eve of the First World War, pan-Turkist propaganda focused chiefly on the Turkic-speaking peoples of the southern Caucasus, Iranian Azerbaijan and Turkistan in Central Asia, with the ultimate purpose of persuading them all to secede from the larger political entities to which they belonged and to join the new pan-Turkic homeland. Interestingly it was this latter appeal to Iranian Azerbaijanis that, contrary to pan-Turkist intentions, caused a small group of Azerbaijani intellectuals to become the most vociferous advocates of Iran’s territorial integrity and sovereignty. If in Europe ‘romantic nationalism responded to the damage likely to be caused by modernism by providing a new and larger sense of belonging, an all-encompassing totality, which brought about new social ties, identity and meaning, and a new sense of history from one’s origin on to an illustrious future’,47 in Iran after the constitutional movement romantic nationalism was adopted by the Azerbaijani Democrats as a reaction to the irredentist policies threatening the country’s territorial integrity. In their view, assuring territorial integrity was a necessary first step on the road to establishing the rule of law in society and a competent modern state, which would safeguard collective as well as individual rights. It was within this context that their political loyalty outweighed their other ethnic or regional affinities. The failure

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of the Democrats in the arena of Iranian politics after the constitutional movement and the start of modern state-building paved the way for the emergence of the titular ethnic group’s cultural nationalism. Whereas the adoption of integrationist policies preserved Iran’s geographic integrity and provided the majority of Iranians with a secure and firm national identity, the blatant ignoring of other demands of the constitutional movement, such as the call for the formation of a society based on law and order, left the country still searching for a political identity.

8

The Populists of Rasht: Pan-Islamism and the Role of the Central Powers Pezhmann Dailami In May 1920 Bolshevik forces landed on the southern shores of the Caspian Sea and supported the local revolutionaries of Gilan (the Jangalis) in the northern Iranian province in establishing a Soviet republic there. Some time later, in the autumn of 1921, Moscow, despite the defiance of Transcaucasian Bolsheviks, withdrew its support and the republic collapsed under the military pressure of the Tehran government. Lenin’s policy of subduing both the Iranian communists and the Jangalis in favour of Tehran’s nationalists had more to do with his dogma of world revolution in the West. Since then, however, from the 1920s to the 1970s, Soviet bureaucrats, commentators and historians, from Hormoz Mikaelian (alias A. Sultanovich Sultanzadeh), the originator of the entire Stalinist propaganda on the subject, to Mikhail Ivanov, the personification of that doctrine, tried to justify the Soviet policy by arguing that the Jangali movement and especially its leader, Mirza Kuchik Khan, were reactionary. Kuchik Khan was portrayed as a superstitious religious nationalist who opposed land reform, had no interest in spreading his revolution and collaborated with the Central Powers.1 For most of the period 1928–65 the contradiction that ran through the Soviet argument was evident. As the so-called national liberation movements of the Third World were no longer desirable, Lenin’s policy of coming to terms with them had to be justified and denied at the same time. The result was the condemnation of one of the most radical political movements of twentiethcentury Iran. In response Iranian religious and bourgeois nationalists have adopted Kuchik Khan for themselves. These historians have not challenged the factual basis of the tenets of Soviet historiography. Their arguments have rather been about the moral desirability of the Jangali movement and its leader. To this day Kuchik Khan remains a religious nationalist who is also 137

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now the precursor of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Iranian nationalism has tried to decontaminate the Jangali movement of all signs of radicalism: their agrarian policy, their relationship with the Bolsheviks prior to the establishment of the Republic and their close collaboration with the communists in 1921 are all ‘chapters of shame’ that have not been talked about.2 In more recent times the government of the Islamic Republic of Iran has joined the debate too. Kuchik Khan is now a hero of Islam. Some years ago a series on his life and activities was broadcast on Iranian state television. Stamps have been printed in his honour. Posters of his severed head are on sale in the streets of Tehran. And government ideologues have now published books on the subject of the Jangali movement, thus reinforcing theories of foreign and communist conspiracy.3 In truth the subject of the Jangali movement has become literally the most profitable publishing activity in Iran. The latest bibliography lists more than 400 books and articles published in the Iranian state press. The list is merely a selection and already out of date.4 The predominant idea is that the Jangalis were religious nationalists. Three further ideas intermingle: the Jangali movement was Islamic, it was pan-Islamic and it collaborated with the Central Powers. In these propositions, academic scholarship and popular myth interconnect to the extent that they cannot be separated from each other. Indeed the Jangalis were pan-Islamists for a while and they did have relations with the armies of the Central Powers during the First World War. However, this chapter is intended to clarify the meaning of Jangali pan-Islamism and the role of the Central Powers. Hopefully in the course of this story it will become clear that Jangali pan-Islamism was a passing fancy and that Turkish and German influence in the movement was about a coincidence of interests. The Jangalis were not puppets of the Central Powers. On the whole, while the British believed that the Jangalis collaborated with the Central Powers, German documents clarify the nature of that relationship and also shed light on the role of the Ottoman army in relation to the Jangali movement. Origins of the myth The stories of Jangali collaboration with the Central Powers and their panIslamism found their origins in the war propaganda of the Entente during the First World War, which was in full swing in Iran in late 1915. It was then that a new Iranian revolution, fragmented into distinct provinces, found its national origins. Not much earlier, a democratic revolution, more often than not ignorant of national concerns, had been violently suppressed by a Russian army of occupation helped along by British complacency. It became inevi-

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table that the new Iranian movement should take on a primarily national character. After the outbreak of the First World War an opportunity arose to exploit the antagonisms between the Entente and the Central Powers to Iranian ends. Thus the Iranian movement worked with the Central Powers to rid Iran of the old-established imperialists. In late 1915 Russia, alarmed by a possible Iranian declaration of war on the Entente, dispatched a large force that threatened Tehran. In response the Iranian revolutionaries together with their German and Ottoman allies left the capital for the west of the country and Mesopotamia. They became known as the ‘Emigrants’ (Muhajerin, or the unverständliche Gruppe – the incomprehensible group – as the Germans called them) and fought the Russian army until early 1917. At almost the same time, the Jangali revolution began in Gilan behind the Russian lines.5 The Russians believed that the Jangalis were puppets of the Ottomans. Even after the February Revolution in Russia, the Provisional Government refused to withdraw its forces from Iran because of an alleged Turkish threat. In 1917 the Russian newspaper Russkoe Slovo claimed that the Jangalis were puppets of the Turks and declared that, ‘It must be mentioned that the whole guerrilla movement was organized with financial contributions and the resources of the Turkish and German legations in Tehran.’6 Later, in 1918, when the British arrived in Gilan, they too accused the Jangalis of submitting to German and Turkish influence.7 In both cases the Jangalis vehemently denied the truth of these accusations. These convictions were reinforced by the fact that the Jangalis adopted a pan-Islamist organization as their political arm in 1917–18. Their leader had had a religious past. He allegedly adopted a religious language to pursue his political goals. These facts were enough for the Soviets as well as the Iranian nationalists to foster myths to the extent of falsifying evidence. The role of Islam in the Jangali movement should not be taken seriously. There was no Islamism in the movement but there was pan-Islamism. A section of the Jangalis was influenced by the Ottomans. That was in turn connected with the role of the Central Powers in Iran during the First World War. There exists evidence of the activities of Turkish agents in Iran prior to the outbreak of the war, and when the war broke out they conducted intense pan-Islamic propaganda in the country. Some Young Turk leaders such as Enver Pasha were pan-Islamists and there was a lot of pan-Islamic propaganda within Turkey itself. Here no debate is intended with those who have not taken Young Turk pan-Islamism seriously. Indeed that policy was more of a failure than their pan-Turkism. Iran, while a Muslim society, was not predominantly Turkish. There was no cultural or linguistic sharing.

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Therefore what is noteworthy is that those Iranians who had relations with the Turks tried to justify that relationship in pan-Islamic terms. This is the subject of the present chapter. The Turks’ allies, the Germans, also exerted influence in Iran, sometimes in collusion with the Turks and sometimes in collision with them. As it turned out, some Iranians preferred relations with the Germans rather than the Turks, as they believed that in that way Iranian sovereignty would be less threatened. In any case, German and Turkish activities in First World War Iran were so intermingled that it would be impossible to distinguish them from one another. Pan-Islamism and Turkish influence in Iran In the nineteenth century a handful of Iranian intellectuals and even fewer activists flirted with the Ottoman sultan and adopted pan-Islamism, but their ideas were far from popular in Iran. Of these, we can name Malkum Khan, Kermani, Talebov and of course Jamal al-Din Assadabadi Afghani, who travelled the world to spread his ideas of pan-Islamism.8 The origin of the ‘revolutionary’ influence of the Turks in Iranian politics was in fact formed prior to the outbreak of the First World War. The first contacts between the Iranian constitutionalists and the Young Turks were made in 1906–7 when a group of them were exiled to Europe. Some of them joined a pan-Islamic society by the name of La fraternité Musulmane, which was dominated by exiled Young Turks. The most prominent of these was Ahmed Riza Bey, who later headed the Turkish parliament. In Paris the Iranian constitutionalists adopted, with slight alterations, the programme of the Young Turks for their own political society in Switzerland.9 In 1908 the Young Turks came to power in Turkey. Ahmed Riza Bey became the chairman of the Turkish parliament, and subsequently some of the Iranian exiles moved to Constantinople and there established their famous Sa‘adat society.10 At the same time, the Young Turk victory gave them much prestige in Iran. They gave token support to the constitutionalists, such as military assistance for the Tabriz revolutionaries, and in Rasht, the capital of Gilan, the Turkish consulate became a haven for the Gilani revolutionaries.11 It was at that stage, from 1909 onwards, that branches of the Young Turks’ Committee of Union and Progress were established in various parts of Iran. Soon most of these were suppressed together with other political societies by the Russian army in 1911 when the Constitutional Revolution was crushed. More precisely, after the conquest of Tehran in 1909, a small Committee of Union and Progress was established in Tehran, which had

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its roots in Gilan. The Party published the newspaper Esteqlal-e Iran (Iran’s Independence) and adopted a political programme that had little resemblance to that of the Young Turks. It nevertheless opposed the Democrats and allied itself to the E‘tedalliyoun Ammiyoun (Moderate Socialist) Party in the Second Majles to which it had managed to send four deputies. Ironically the Party’s programme contained some socialist demands, and its followers were active in the countryside – a point that could have later appealed to the Jangalis.12 In Gilan the Committee of Union and Progress alarmed a right-wing remnant of the Hinchak Party, Grekor Yeqikian, who published a warning against the motives of the Party.13 The appearance of pan-Islamism in Iran, after all, coincided with agitation by Turkish agents. By 1911 rumours were rife in Russia that a certain Yusuf Zia Bey was agitating against Russia, Britain and France by spreading ideas of pan-Islamism in Tehran.14 When the First World War broke out, Turkey counted much on Islamic propaganda. In fact it declared holy war on the Entente and hoped that Muslims of the world and especially Turkish-speaking Muslims would rise up in religious solidarity and rally around Turkey against Russia and Britain. On the whole, Turkish pan-Islamist efforts, which involved the incorporation of the Turkish-speaking regions of the world into the Ottoman Empire, were a failure.15 Turkish and German influence in Gilan was very meagre. Of all the tales that tell of the origins of the Jangali movement and of Kuchik Khan’s journey from Tehran to Gilan, none show that he had any financial backing or any political organization behind him. During the first two years of the history of the Jangali movement, the only Germans and Turks in Gilan were escaped prisoners of war, as numerous pieces of evidence indicate. Even the first secretary of the German legation, Movarekh al-Dowleh Sepehr, indicates nothing in his monumental memoirs, despite his interest in showing that all anti-Entente activities were due to German intrigue, and despite his knowledge of every intricate detail of German activity in Iran.16 In Gilan itself the Jangalis may well have been assisted by the Turkish consul. The late historian Isma‘il Ra’in once claimed that the Jangalis were given four rifles by the consul.17 At the time, of course, he was quite active against the Russians. His activities ranged from agitating among the Muslim troops of the Russian army to supporting anti-Russian actors.18 It is possible that some kind of contact was established between the Jangalis and the Turkish consul but this, in any case, would have been a very short-lived relationship. He was arrested and deported to Russia in the autumn of 1915 as the Jangali movement was beginning.19 After that the involvement of the

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Central Powers was not renewed until 1917. Mirza Kuchik Khan: transformation of a Persian revolutionary What has also contributed to the creation of the myth of an Islamic Jangali movement was the character and early career of Mirza Kuchik Khan. The labels he has acquired throughout history have defied simple logic. Born in 1878 in the village of Kasma in Gilan, Kuchik’s early career consisted of learning theology.20 He soon became an ardent supporter of the Constitutional Revolution. A people’s petition for ‘liberty and constitution’ from the Persian shah, dating back to 1906, includes Kuchik’s signature.21 As a theology student (Talabeh) Kuchik played an active role in the movement of the Anjumans (political societies),22 but as soon as the Constitutional Revolution gained momentum he abandoned his religious career and joined the ranks of the social democrats. In 1908 Kuchik was certainly active in social-democratic circles. One photograph of him, taken in the house of Mirza Karim Khan Reshti (the man responsible for bringing the Georgian Bolsheviks to Gilan), shows him in the company of some Social Democrat revolutionaries.23 There are also signs that he was close to the Transcaucasian Social Democrats who had joined the Iranian revolution. In May 1920, when the Red fleet landed on the Gilani shores of the Caspian, a Bolshevik who was well known and trusted by Kuchik mediated between him and the Red forces. That Bolshevik was the famous ‘Sergo’ Ordzhonikidze, who had collaborated closely with the Gilani revolutionaries.24 A more recent Soviet source claims the existence of evidence in the Russian archives that shows that Kuchik was a social democrat.25 There is little doubt that he was also active in the political society of the Gilani mujahedin, the Abbasi Anjoman. The Abbasi Anjoman was probably the most radical ‘social democratic’ political society in Iran, which adopted as its driving force the aspirations of both the urban petty-bourgeoisie as well as that of the peasantry, with the support of elements of the mercantile bourgeoisie. External threats to small-scale production and the particular rural conditions of Gilan had radicalized the artisans and the peasantry. The Abbasi Anjoman came to collide with the official Provincial Society of Gilan, especially over the land question and the condition of the peasantry, a feature very rare of any Anjoman during the Constitutional Revolution of 1905–9.26 If the socio-economic conditions of Gilan allowed for radicalism to flourish, the Transcaucasian influence was to organize that radicalism in an unprecedented manner. Gilan, as the shipping gateway to the south-

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ern regions of the Russian Empire, channelled an economic and political current between the Caucasus and Iran. After the defeat of the first Russian Revolution, various Caucasian Social Democrats took refuge in Gilan and supported the local revolutionaries. The gist of their activities consisted of radicalizing the revolutionaries and organizing them for political action – a feature yet unfamiliar to the Gilani mujahedin who acted as a crowd rather than a proper political organization. The Transcaucasian Social Democrats nevertheless remained populist subordinates of a bourgeois-democratic revolution in Iran. The basis of their collaboration with the Gilani revolutionaries was mutual alliance. Russian defeat by Japan had weakened Tsarist rule and had allowed for the outbreak of the 1905–7 revolution. It was also hoped that the failure of Russian designs in Iran would again weaken the Russian government. It was in this way that international solidarity found its concrete meaning. After the suppression of the Constitutional Revolution by the Russian army, the Caucasian Social Democrats returned home, but as soon as the war broke out they were back in Gilan and supporting the Jangalis. Among them were Georgian Bolsheviks such as ‘Sergo’ Ordzhonikidze and Budu Mdivani, who later became well-known figures in Soviet politics.27 In 1908, when Mohammad Ali Shah carried out a coup d’état to topple the constitutional government, Kuchik escaped to Tbilisi where he was influenced by the activities of the Caucasian Social Democrats as well as the news of the Young Turk revolution.28 He soon returned to Gilan and in 1909, together with the rest of the Gilani revolutionaries, participated in the conquest of Tehran as a minor commander.29 In line with all the Gilani Social Democrats, Kuchik joined the Moderate Socialist Party. It appears that they all did so because of the influence of Sepahdar A’zam (later, Sepahsalar), the statesman who had acquired the nominal leadership of the revolutionary camp in the province. In 1911, when the deposed shah tried to return to Iran via Turkistan, he was in the force that confronted him. Subsequently he was wounded and was sent to Baku, where a suppressed revolutionary movement was nevertheless active underground.30 Following the suppression of the Revolution, Kuchik Khan was exiled from Gilan on Russian demand.31 He spent his exile in the company of Sardar Muhyi, a well-known Gilani revolutionary, and some prominent members of the Democrat Party.32 Kuchik later went to Tehran and stayed there until the summer of 1915 when he made his way to Gilan. He witnessed the events in Tehran in that year and it is extremely unlikely that he did not participate in the activities of the nationalists. It was probably at that time, but before the evacuation of the Emigrants, that he left for Gilan where the

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Jangali movement began away from the mainstream of opposition to the Entente, although it was not altogether separate from it. The origins of that movement too were unmistakably anti-imperialist in character, although a class struggle combined with it from the outset. In Gilan the main cause of discontent was the Russian military occupation of the province and the enforcement of feudal suppression under Russian auspices. Once the war broke out, the administration collapsed and thus social and political forces were unleashed. The Jangalis soon organized a partisan army in the countryside and managed a six-year revolution, which culminated in the establishment of a Soviet Republic in 1920–21. Jangali pan-Islamism: a passing fancy, after all If the early political career of Kuchik Khan has been coloured by Islam, the Jangali movement itself is also believed to have been Islamic. In fact, Jangali Islamism is even more prominent as a myth than their pan-Islamism. The two are intermingled to the extent that they cannot be separated from one another. There is very little basis for the claim that the Jangalis were Islamic fighters. There is more evidence of their pan-Islamism, although even that was a passing fancy, dependent on the vicissitudes of the Ottomans in the First World War. As the February Revolution in Russia was under way in 1917, the Russian forces stationed in Gilan relaxed their hostilities towards the Jangalis and allowed them to emerge from the forests and take over the administration of the province. Soon Jangali reforms were under way. Of exceptional significance were their reforms in the countryside. They established schools for peasant children, built highways and byways in the countryside, regulated the distribution of water among peasants, carried out partial land reform, persecuted and suppressed landowners, and dealt with the peasants’ longstanding quarrels against the landlords in independent courts. This was also the time to establish a political organization. The Jangalis adopted the Committee of Ettehad-e Islam (Union of Islam), which appears to have survived the Russian suppression from the Constitutional times, as their political arm. The extent of Kuchik Khan’s involvement in the Ettehad-e Islam is not clear. As it turned out, he was no fan of the Turks. The radical Jangali Isma‘il Khan nevertheless wrote that Kuchik acquired much support through the adoption of such a populist title for the Jangalis’ political organization. He had acquired a ‘political front’.33 The Jangalis’ action was not unlike the action of the petty bourgeois and populist social democrats of the constitutional period who had adopted a religious name for their political society in order to attract (particularly) the peasants of

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Gilan.34 In spite of that, the Committee was purged of a number of clergymen before it was set to work.35 Soon after the establishment, or rather the adoption, of the Ettehad-e Islam, the Jangalis began to publish a newspaper by the name of Jangal. The title page of every issue carried the slogan: ‘The guardian of Iranian rights and disseminator of the ideas of Muslims.’ As expected the paper professed both nationalism and pan-Islamism. Sooner or later this contradiction had to be resolved and it was – in August 1918. The writers of the paper were very much preoccupied with the war situation and the military occupation of Iran by the Entente armies but, surprisingly, there was little Turkophilia in their writings. This was probably due to Entente propaganda. The Jangalis denounced Russia for continuing to occupy northern Iran on the pretext of a Turkish threat. The paper denounced the aristocracy and corrupt officials who opposed reform. It even supported Ahmad Shah until late 1917, when the Bolshevik Revolution brought about radical change in Iranian politics. At the time, this was the policy of all radical Iranians. While the Jangalis demanded fresh elections to reopen the suppressed Majles, they did not cease pushing for government reforms. In the Jangal there are also a few anti-landlord pieces, but on the whole the paper never did justice to the reality of the Jangali revolution in Gilan, especially the agrarian policy of the Jangalis. This is true in spite of the fact that Jangali journalists were very much influenced by the radical newspapers of the constitutional era. The Jangalis never meant to establish a social and political order that would be based on the principles of Islam. Their passing fancy was rather with pan-Islamism in its simplest form: the unity of all Muslims against Western imperialism. While this allied them with the Turks during the war, the precise name of the Committee distinguished them from the Turks’ Committee of Union and Progress. A stronger source of inspiration for the Jangalis was probably the Caucasus where an Ettehad-e Islam organization actually existed. This organization merged with the Bolsheviks in 1920.36 In any case, no member of the clergy was ever to play a role in the leadership of the movement. Nor were the clergy guaranteed a privileged position in Gilani society. We have the example of a prominent one, the leader of the Provincial Society during the Constitutional Revolution, and a staunch enemy of the peasants. He was in fact arrested and imprisoned by the Jangalis in 1917 for his counter-revolutionary activities. Haj Mirza Mohammad Reza, as he was called, became the subject of ridicule in the pages of the Jangal.37 In 1917 and 1918 there were no indications whatsoever that the Jangalis wished to establish an Islamic society. Even their independent courts and

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schools were void of any Islamic signs. The only Islamic measure that they took was the extraction of 10 per cent tax (Ushrieh) from the peasants. Then again, the communists took exactly the same measure during their ultraleft regime in early 1921.38 Now the Iranian regime, in its quest to find historical heroes, has played its last card. We have at our disposal the text of a Jangali proclamation in justification of Ushrieh: if there was an Islamic reason for it, there were also many other reasons more to do with Realpolitik than anything else.39 The Committee of Ettehad-e Islam was dissolved in August 1918. Both Jangali pan-Islamists and non-pan-Islamists seem to have welcomed the action. Turkish actions forced the Jangalis to come to terms with the British. It also brought about the collapse of the Baku Commune and thus caused the collapse of a firm alliance between the Jangalis and the Bolsheviks. At the same time, the Jangali pan-Islamists could tie their hopes to the Ottoman army no longer. The non-pan-Islamist Jangalis got the upper hand. Turkish defeat in the First World War was imminent. The story of the collapse of the Committee of Ettehad-e Islam is told in a later section. German and Turkish encounters: contact and reservation From the outset the Jangalis carried out an effective guerrilla campaign against the Russian army as well as the landlords of Gilan. In early 1916 it took some 1,000 Russian soldiers to rout the Jangalis but they survived until the February Revolution in Russia. When the Jangalis emerged from the forests in March 1917 and took over the administration of the province, central to their policy was a political struggle to secure the withdrawal of Russian troops from Iran. They engaged in long arguments with the Russians who used the Turkish threat as an excuse to remain in the northern provinces. Alongside their political struggle, the Jangalis did not hesitate to strengthen their military force and build up a partisan army whose strength has been claimed to range between 4,000 and 8,000 men. To this purpose, they did not hesitate to seek and accept military aid from the Germans and Turks. However, proper contact between them was not established until late 1917 when the prevailing chaos in Russia and the disintegration of the Russian army in Iran allowed Gilan to become the Iranian haven for German soldiers and officers. The first of these were in fact escaped prisoners of war who merely meant to pass through Gilan and found temporary refuge in the forest. As late as December 1917 the British acting vice-consul, Charles Maclaren, reported of ‘various Germans and Turks who, as a rule, only remained one night at [the village of] Kasma before proceeding to the interior’.40

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Documentation in the German foreign ministry archives reveals a not altogether different story. Before late 1917 German contacts with the Jangalis were at best scanty. In the wake of the February Revolution of 1917 the Germans sent an Emigrant to Kuchik Khan and urged him to continue fighting the Russians.41 The expected fighting, of course, never took place, but by the summer of 1917 Austrian and Turkish POWs who had arrived in Gilan were instructed by their respective legations ‘to take up the military education’ of Jangali partisans.42 When the Turks had moved into the Caucasus, the Jangalis acquired unprecedented significance.43 Then the Turkish general Khalil Pasha wrote to Kuchik Khan that the Turks intended to join the Jangali forces via Lankaran after they had captured Baku. Khalil also sent a German officer and arms to the Jangalis. At the end of his letter he wrote: The whole of the Islamic world is praying for your Godly efforts. I have instructed all my commanders to establish relations with you and to vanquish the enemy with your assistance. I ask the Almighty for your success. I request facilities so that we may achieve the sacred object, the greatness and prosperity of Islam.44

In January 1918 a German officer who had escaped from Moscow arrived in Gilan. He reported to Tehran that the Jangalis wanted arms from the Germans. They wished to ‘structure their army on the German model’. And the justification for help would be that Kuchik was ‘principled’ and ‘antiBritish’. The soldier reported that ‘Kuchik Khan has always seen Germany as the only ally for the liberation of Persia’. The German legation agreed and the soldier was set to work.45 But the province of Gilan on the southern shores of the Caspian did not fully acquire its strategic importance until later in 1918. After the Bolshevik Revolution and the Brest-Litovsk treaty, the Turks still remained resolved to capture Baku. For that reason contact with the Jangalis was established from the Caucasus. Later the Turkish agent in Tehran also contacted Kuchik Khan. In March 1918, when the Turks were organizing their ‘Army of Islam’ in the Caucasus,46 Kuchik Khan received a letter from the Young Turk leader, Enver Pasha, in which he asked for assistance in organizing that army. Enver also sent a gold-plated sword in the usual Islamic manner of a modern selfproclaimed prophet as an indication that he was granting the rule of Iran to Kuchik.47 Enver’s two emissaries remained in Gilan for a short while and left with the promise of sending arms to the Jangalis.48 The Turks counted much on Jangali support for their plan to capture Baku. But we know that the Jangalis were actively feeding the city at that

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time. This is true in spite of the fact that at the same time Iran itself was in the grips of famine.49 Indeed the Jangalis were on very good terms with the Bolsheviks both in Baku and in Gilan, where the latter maintained a significant force. But those Turkish gestures were mere preliminaries for a later emergency when the combined Ottoman and Azerbaijani forces reached the outskirts of Baku. Before that the Turkish ambassador to Afghanistan, Mehmet Ubeydullah Effendi, who was awaiting his mission, took it upon himself to blatantly agitate in Tehran and contact Kuchik in Gilan as well.50 Ubeydullah’s rhetoric was of course familiar: ‘The independence of Persia and the unity of Mohammedans’. Yet in his first letter to Kuchik he had no good news. The Turks had withdrawn from the western Persian front to defend Baghdad. Southern Iran was occupied by the British and, although the Russian Empire had collapsed, Ubeydullah was surprised at Kuchik’s inaction. He could disarm all the Russian detachments and send 10,000 men to Hamedan to assist the Turkish forces.51 Kuchik’s reply was distrustful and suspicious. He needed arms and the Turks could not provide them. Disarming the Russians was impossible. He informed the Turkish agent that he was obtaining arms from Baku: ‘I think the Caucasians will afford me easy assistance. A slight misunderstanding which existed between us has been removed.’ Indeed since the Bolshevik Revolution, Kuchik had had his eyes on the Caucasus. He did not hesitate to state that all the Turkish and German words had been empty promises. He needed solid encouragement before he could move on Hamedan. Unity with the Caucasus was the best tactic for the time being. Kuchik stated, ‘At the present moment in my opinion the essential and necessary thing is to secure the unity of Gilan, Azerbaijan and the Caucasus. I regard this step as the most important step of all.’ In this letter Kuchik made it clear that a Turkish officer was working in Gilan. He asked for three more who were available in Tehran.52 In reply Ubeydullah offered arguments in favour of an impending Turkish victory, which were hardly believable. And: If you take no steps, you will have been guilty of tyranny towards the Persian people. When will there be a better day or opportunity for you to move from words to deeds? You may be perfectly certain that immediately you move, you will receive every sort of aid and assistance both from the Persian people and from the Turkish government.

Ubeydullah counted much on the support of the tribes, which were in fact either suppressed by or were in the hands of the British. He also conveyed the bad news of the resignation of the independent premier, Mostofi al-

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Mamalek, due to British intrigue.53 Indeed Ubeydullah Effendi had put his finger on a point that had become central to the story of the Jangali movement: a movement not hesitant but local and frustrated because of the fact that Iranian society was deeply fragmented. The Turks’ overtures regarding the Iranian western front were one thing, the capture of Tehran was another. This was theoretically possible on the pattern of the Constitutional Revolution when the Gilanis and the Bakhtiari tribe united to capture the capital. With the victory of the Bolshevik Revolution, the idea and the aim were there, but the political situation was radically different. The ‘Bakhtiari horse-thieves’54 were by 1918 in the pocket of the British. Their chief, Sardar Zafar, received a salary of 1,500 tuman (£500) provided that he ‘conformed to our [British] wishes in every way’.55 Indeed southern Iran was occupied by the British army and a unitary capture of Tehran would have entailed a possible civil war in Iran. In addition the Iranian Azeris were in the grip of famine and subdued by the Ottoman army. There exist sufficient intercepted letters in the British archives of Jangali agents reporting from Tehran to Gilan, to show that the Jangalis had a profound awareness of the unfavourable political situation.56 Kuchik, nevertheless, changed his tune. On 7 March 1918 he conveyed to Ubeydullah the news of the arrest of the British agents in Gilan and stated: Until I personally get authority into my hands and arrive at Tehran, it is impossible for me to move in any direction and so to discredit myself. If in truth you intend and the Turkish government think it advisable that I should assist you, you must certainly first make preparations so that I can take control of affairs.57

Kuchik’s change of heart made Ubeydullah suspicious. He could, however, offer very little by way of encouragement. Only the Democrats, who were at any rate greatly weakened after the Emigration, would welcome the Jangalis. Ubeydullah wrote: It is possible to do every sort of thing but I have got tired of writing you letters and this is the last letter I shall write and tell you that Mostofi and the people are wishing for you to come to Tehran. What is the reason for your delay? However soon you can bring your men to Tehran, it is already somewhat late and in my opinion the present is the time for your arrival here.58

Thus the Tehran contact, which was in any case trivial, was severed. Kuchik was now free to concentrate on the Caucasus and deal with the complex and perplexing situation there.

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The German Caucasus mission: German help but for what? Perhaps the largest group of German soldiers and officers, consisting of a few hundred, arrived in Gilan in March 1918. Their leaders, Walter Strich, Wilhelm Grützmacher and Christian Schneider, took up the military training of the Jangali partisans. Strich’s opinion of the significance of the Jangali movement was thought in Tehran to be a great overestimation, as he asked for immediate delivery of war materiel and money for the Jangalis. Strich had asked for 10,000 rifles with 4 million cartridges, ten machine guns, six mountain canons, five aeroplanes, ten tanks and 30 heavy-goods vehicles. The German minister, Sommer, who was aware of the Jangalis’ anti-British stand, referred Strich to the German authorities in Russia.59 It appears that most of the German soldiers, nevertheless, soon left Gilan. This almost coincided with the arrival of the British mission in Gilan under the leadership of General L.C. Dunsterville. As it turned out, the Germans were soon to establish themselves in Georgia and made contact with the Jangalis. On 1 May 1918 they captured Sevastopol and laid claim to parts of the Russian navy in the Black Sea, thus finding their way to Transcaucasia. Soon a German mission arrived in Tbilisi to ‘protect’ Georgia. The British had to evacuate. The Turks were marching on Baku and approaching Iranian Azerbaijan. Nuri Pasha’s forces entered Tabriz on 6 May 1918. The first deliberations of the Germans brought two German officers, Wilhelm von Paschen and Fritz Wedig, to Gilan. These officers were in fact sent on a mission to Herat through northern Iran and Turkistan but the way in Turkistan was blocked. Instead they accepted the Jangalis’ invitation to train their ‘5,000–6,000’ partisans. They reported that ‘the aim of the local movement is to free Persia from foreign yoke and to introduce Germany’s internal and military organizations’.60 Major Paschen, Captain Wedig and a number of escaped prisoners of war were employed by the Jangalis as instructors.61 (The German soldiers, furthermore, hoped to ‘proceed in the direction of Zanjan–Qazvin– Tehran’.62) Yet those Germans had no influence on the Jangalis and were kept in rather isolated conditions. No news reached them and, according to a German eyewitness, they were watched with great suspicion.63 One British soldier, despite what he wished to believe, also reported that the ‘Germans with the Jangalese are instructors only. They give no orders and do not advise on policy. Each has four Persians attached to him to prevent him from exceeding his duties.’64 In reality, proper contact between the Jangalis and the German Caucasus mission was not established until August 1918 when the Jangalis were

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forced to sign a non-aggression agreement with the British, who at the time were more concerned about going to Baku. When they were on the verge of coming to terms, Kuchik asked the Germans for help.65 In August 1918 the leader of the German Caucasus mission, General von Kress, wired his foreign ministry and explained the situation in Gilan. He stated that the Jangalis had been defeated by the British. As ‘the Germans have always found benevolent reception, numerous German prisoners of war, who arrive there, are supplied with rations and even money’, ‘our military and political interest in my [Kress’s] opinion requires fast and sufficient support of Mirza [Kuchik] Khan with war materiel and money’. Kress suggested that he would supply the war materiel from Tbilisi but the money, in silver tuman, had to come from Berlin. He asked that decorations for Kuchik should be sent, and the German consul for Tabriz should return as soon as possible so that contact could be made with the Jangalis. Kuchik had in fact sent Captain Wedig to Tbilisi. He did not arrive there until October. He had taken with him Kuchik’s request for arms and support.66 The Germans heard about the Anglo-Jangali agreement and the consequent expulsion of 12 Austrian and German officers headed by Paschen. The officers were sent off to Tbilisi via Tabriz.67 After that agreement, Kress urged the German government to support Kuchik Khan. He stated that Kuchik had never received money from the Germans. Now that the British had defeated the Jangalis, Kuchik should be supported with money and war materiel. This was a matter of moral commitment as he was a ‘friend’.68 The German Caucasus mission also wrote to Kuchik and responded positively to his request for help: Your ability, your wise policy and experience and specially the kindness you have shown to the German prisoners, compels me to write a few lines to express my satisfaction. As you have during the war shown your ability and courage, and with the force at your disposal have courageously stopped our enemies and are now fighting against them, General von Kress will be glad to send you the money you asked for, with the rifles, mitrailleuses, guns and ammunition. General von Kress has reported your proceedings to the German emperor who will later confer on you decorations and other royal distinctions.69

After all, it was decided to support Kuchik Khan with money and war materiel, as he was ‘absolutely anti-British’. Medals and other decorations were also requested for Kuchik with whom communication was finally established.70 More senior officers agreed with Kress that after all they owed Kuchik Khan thanks ‘for his services’ and that they could not leave him alone after the Anglo-Jangali agreement. They even decided to offer him sanctuary and ordered medals and presents for him – a third-class Red Eagle medal with

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swords was considered a suitable decoration.71 By mid-September Kress had ordered the delivery of war materiel.72 He also sent German officers to Gilan via Tabriz.73 Captain Wedig, together with a more senior officer, Major Griesinger, was dispatched to Iran. Nineteen officers and soldiers of the German army reached Tabriz. From there a few Germans, together with a few Turks, were sent to Gilan. They took with them 196 loads of arms and ammunition.74 Later in the summer of 1919, when Kress arrived back in Germany from Tbilisi, he stated that he had sent Kuchik 2,000 guns, 12 machine guns, a wireless and ammunition. (He also stated that he knew not if and in what quantity these reached the Jangalis in reality.75) Griesinger and Wedig took a second letter from Kress to Kuchik. Kress expressed his friendly sentiments and stated that ‘the imperial government of Germany is thankful to you for your sincere friendship and is prepared to give you every assistance’. He also promised to send money to Kuchik and offered him sanctuary in Berlin, should the necessity arise.76 Kress informed Berlin that support for the Jangalis had started and requested Russian ammunition. Berlin had prepared the sum of 3 million qeran in coins of which 2½ million were transported to Tbilisi. Some of that money was meant for the Jangalis via Tabriz.77 But it is not clear what became of the money. Kress justified his support for the Jangalis as the ‘war situation’.78 Indeed the significance of the Jangali movement for the Central Powers was in relation to the war in the Caucasus and especially with regard to the struggle for the capture of Baku. The siege of Baku: an unholy alliance As early as September 1917 it was believed that connecting the Turkish army with the Jangalis would be of decisive significance for the development of events in the Caucasus and could threaten the Russian positions near Erzurum.79 By June 1918 the Turks were virtually masters of Iranian Azerbaijan.80 By the beginning of July they began marching towards the British positions.81 Indeed a military capture of Baku required neutralizing the British forces in northern Iran, in collaboration with the Jangalis. For this purpose a Turkish force was dispatched in May 1918 to join forces with the partisans of Kuchik Khan. More were reportedly waiting in the northeast of Iranian Azerbaijan to join later.82 Kuchik resolutely refused to accept the Turkish troops and they were forced to leave. This incident apparently caused an argument among the Jangalis, some of whom were obviously proTurkish.83 In June the German foreign ministry sounded out its policy towards Iran. Germany was to resist British advances in Persia. The Persians them-

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selves were resisting and the forces of Kuchik Khan were supposedly moving towards Qazvin. Nationalist circles could be strengthened and supported by means of propaganda work. The Turkish positions were said to be insecure. Cooperation with Kress in Tbilisi was necessary, and for this purpose a German representative was designated for Tabriz for the late summer of 1918. The Turks, who were not altogether cooperative with the Germans, had to be controlled.84 There were also dreams of capturing Tehran by a joint force of Germans and Turks with the collaboration of the Jangalis who were thought to be very popular in the capital.85 Then, once again, Ubeydullah Effendi contacted Kuchik and revealed a plan for a right-wing Bakhtiari coup in Tehran. Kuchik was urged to take part in this plan. Ubeydullah promised help and in return expected Kuchik’s collaboration.86 By then the Jangalis were closely engaged with the British forces. But in any case the coup plot was nipped in the bud by the British, and Ubeydullah was secretly kidnapped, handed over to the British forces in Qazvin and from there deported to Baghdad.87 Still, the significance of the Jangali movement was more meaningful with regard to the plans of Germany and Turkey for Baku than for Tehran. While in the case of the rest of nationalist Iran, the Germans competed with the Turks for influence, Gilan too became the subject of rivalry between them. Yet that was an extension of Turko-German rivalry in the Caucasus. Chapters have been written about the precise plans of the Germans and Turks for Baku. It appears that the Germans initially designated Tehran to the Turks in return for German control of Georgia. It was hoped that the Turks would not advance too far into the Caucasus.88 As soon as Kress arrived in Tbilisi he warned the Turks that a capture of Baku would lead to the destruction of industrial plants, while the actions of Nuri Pasha, the commander of the ‘Army of Islam’ in the Caucasus, did not match Turkish promises with regard to the state of peace with Soviet Russia. Kress even resorted to Berlin to put pressure on the Turkish leaders to this effect.89 Within the German camp there was strong pressure to join forces with the Turks and share in the spoils of Baku. Also significant was the arrival of the British on the southern coast of the Caspian. But the German government did not take notice of such proposals. It was more interested in its peaceful relations with Soviet Russia. It would have been more convenient to share the Baku oil with the Bolsheviks. This was despite the fact that the Germans had smelled a possible accord between the Armenian nationalists of Baku and the British.90 Nuri Pasha’s ‘Army of Islam’ nevertheless moved towards Baku and to

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some degree the Germans refused to have anything to do with it. However, Kress was in a hurry for Germany and the Soviets to come to an understanding over the Baku oil as soon as possible. The political situation became more complicated. Bolshevik power in Transcaspia was reported to have collapsed. In the rest of Russia the Bolsheviks’ position was insecure. The Turks had only one step to go towards creating the ‘promised Turan’ and Germany could lose its influence in the Christian republics of the Caucasus. British interest in the Caucasus was also a danger. Kress finally argued for collaboration with the Turks. More senior officers agreed and the Young Turks made their relations with Germany smoother by coming to terms with its interests in Georgia.91 But involvement in the capture of Baku would have entangled the German forces in the Caucasus to an extent that Germany could ill afford. There was a plan for a German occupation of Baku independently of the ‘Army of Islam’ in the last days of August 1918, but this did not materialize and the ‘Army of Islam’ took Baku on 14 September 1918.92 It was in the context of this Turko-German scuffle that the Germans also tried to control Turkish actions in Gilan. At one point one German officer even decided that pan-Turkism in Gilan had to be fought against.93 The Germans also became increasingly alarmed with Turkish policy in Iranian Azerbaijan. On 19 August 1918 they were informed that the British force had defeated the Jangalis and had reached the Caspian to go to Baku.94 Later the German foreign ministry was informed that Kuchik Khan had made peace with the British ‘because of the unbelievable Turkish actions in Azerbaijan’ and ‘to prevent a Turkish march on Gilan’.95 This is probably the most convincing explanation of Kuchik Khan’s position with regard to the Anglo-Jangali agreement. After the capture of Baku the Turks sent a force towards Zenjan, which was apparently meant for Gilan.96 There was also the possibility of Turks approaching Gilan from Baku via Astara. Kuchik saw great danger in this and this time resorted to the British. It appears that his mind was quite clear about Turkish atrocities in Iranian Azerbaijan.97 The Germans were also aware of his sentiments with regard to the Turks. When they came to collide with the latter in Tabriz, the Turks claimed that Germany had left Persia to Turkish devices. They were actively trying to annex Iranian Azerbaijan for their imaginary ‘Turan’. Thus the Germans were convinced that the Anglo-Jangali agreement was an anti-Turkish measure on the part of Kuchik Khan.98 After the capture of Baku, the Germans were on the verge of attacking the British force in Gilan but at the last moment it was decided that

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the situations in Palestine and Bulgaria were too threatening for such an engagement. At the same time, Nuri Pasha decided to march to the north Caucasus. He had no belief in the possible British control of Baku, as he believed that the end of the war would come soon. He thus prevented the arrival of more Germans. Once again the Germans had thought of extending their operations into Iran but nothing came of it.99 In the end even the British were grateful to Kuchik Khan for his antiTurkish attitude. After they took over Baku and the armistice came, on 11 November 1918, General Thomson, the commander of the British forces, wrote to Kuchik: I wish to take the opportunity now that Turkey has made peace with Great Britain and her allies, to thank you for the loyal manner in which you have observed the terms of the agreement made with you by my predecessor in command of British forces in northern Persia, especially in regard to your repeated refusals to join the Turkish forces or to admit them to the area under your control.100

After the armistice the Turks evacuated Tabriz. Wustrow, the German consul in the city, reported that should any danger arise, he would seek refuge in the territory of the Jangalis.101 Over a month later he wrote to Kuchik Khan. I have sent back Mohammad Bagher Khan the bearer of the letter and informed him that armistice has been arranged between Germany and the Allies. Therefore, the mission under Major Griesinger and Captain Wedig has returned to Tbilisi but arms are ready here and the governor has asked me to hand them over to him. Please let me know whether you require the arms, guns, mitrailleuses & C, in the Jungle. If you do not let me know in six weeks from the date of this letter, I will be obliged to make some other arrangements for moving them. I request you to be kind to the subordinate German officers who are left there. After the winter you may send them away. I hope to go to Tehran after the conclusion of peace and to thank you verbally for what you have so kindly done for the German prisoners who have passed through.102

The final trials of ideology The contacts of the Jangalis with the agents of the Central Powers cannot be considered in isolation. They were not the only Iranian radicals with relations with the Ottomans and the Germans. Also the relationship with the Central Powers is not the only aspect of Iranian politics of the time that has to be taken into consideration. The Iranians’ attitude towards the shah of Persia and the ruling elite of the country are aspects that also have to be understood.

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While during the Constitutional Revolution the radicals had weakened the shah, after the outbreak of the First World War in Iran, they believed that the young Ahmad Shah had to be supported in order to combat imperialism. For this purpose, practically all the Iranian radicals supported the shah and opposed the ruling elite of the country. This was the only aspect of class struggle that remained relevant after the outbreak of the war. The only exception, of course, was the Jangalis, who carried out an intense agrarian revolution in Gilan at the same time. In any case, while the war continued, they all primarily concentrated on the military occupation of the Iranian territory. In this section a whole series of fragmentary facts can be presented to speculate on the nature of relations with the Central Powers, the shah and the ruling elite of Iran, and, not only that, but to speculate on the spirit of the times. We can compare. We can also glance at the later development of the Jangali movement. When the Jangali movement began in the autumn of 1915 in the context of widespread national risings, the Germans and the Ottomans exerted much influence on all Iranian nationalists. It is therefore quite probable that they were also in contact with the Jangalis and encouraged their antiEntente endeavours. In turn the Jangalis were no doubt influenced by ideas of pan-Islamism while at the same time they were sensitive about Iranian sovereignty. The Committee of Ettehad-e Islam was indeed the manifestation of a passing flirtation with pan-Islamism, and its fate was very much interwoven with the vicissitudes of the Ottomans in the First World War. On the other hand, more involved in Iranian politics but of a lesser threat to Iranian sovereignty were the Germans, who did not come into conflict with the Jangalis. For a long time, German policy in Iran very much depended on their relations with the Ottomans. Even in the early days of the war, when they were supporting the Emigrants in western Iran, a German official commented that ‘Persia has two choices: servitude under Russia, or sovereignty under Turkey’. He then suggested an ‘Islamic alliance’ between the two.103 While the Ottomans tried hard to extend their influence in Iran, the Germans never committed a significant part of their army to the Iranian theatre. Their support for the Jangalis appears to have been a tactical ploy. In the summer of 1919 when the German treasury considered ways of recovering the cost of arms supplied to the Jangalis, General Kress objected. In his letter he also explained why he had supported the Jangalis: The delivery of guns and money to Mirza Kuchik Khan was not only a command of gratitude for that man who has been during the whole war an active opponent of our enemies and has helped the numerous Germans and

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Austrians who looked to him much for shelter, but it was also absolutely necessary because of military political reasons. Out of his inaccessible forest territory he constantly threatened the communication lines of the English. With regard to the bad connections to home, it was not possible for me to ask a higher authority for permission for the measures which seemed to me to be absolutely necessary. Kuchik Khan had signed a peace treaty with the English temporarily but he let me know that he was only forced to this action by the loss of money, weapons and ammunition. It is not possible to demand the return value of the delivered weapons; they should not be sold to him but be a present from the German government. … The four canons were, however, not taken from the German stock but should have been delivered by the Turks out of confiscated Russian stock. If and in what amount the guns have reached Kuchik Khan, I cannot say. When our transport reached Tabriz, the Turks suddenly took back their permission for further transport of the guns and demanded that these should be handed over to them. Through this robbery and inconsiderate action, they have turned the Persians very much against themselves so that they feared Kuchik Khan could use the weapons against them. The weapons etc., were taken by transport of leading German officers to the German consulate in Tabriz. The German officers and soldiers were called back by me because a breakdown took place in the meanwhile. If the consul has in the meanwhile succeeded in handing over the materiel to Kuchik Khan, I do not know.104

In any case, as the government of the Baku Commune collapsed under Ottoman pressure, the Jangalis lost their firmest ally. We cannot ignore the fact that throughout the story told in this chapter, the Jangalis held a firm alliance with the Bolsheviks both in Gilan and in Baku. Their alliance temporarily collapsed precisely because of the siege of Baku by the Turks. By the late summer of 1918 the non-Bolshevik forces in the Commune opted for an alliance with the British who had promised a considerable force for the defence of Baku against the Turks. Then the Bolsheviks resigned their positions in the Commune. They did not come to power again until April 1920.105 If the Jangalis had relations with the Central Powers, other Iranian radicals went much further in their efforts to please them. During the First World War, Sayyed Hasan Taqizadeh, the Democrat leader, pursued the policy that most Iranians had followed: support for the young Ahmad Shah, condemnation of his entourage and collaboration with the Central Powers. He repeatedly referred to the combined Turko-Iranian force of the Emigrants as the ‘Army of Islam’. He repeatedly argued for a pan-Islamic alliance between Turkey, Iran and Afghanistan that would be based on the

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‘independence’ of the parties involved, and offered flimsy arguments to prove that the Turks respected the sovereignty of the Iranians. He repeatedly praised the Ottoman sultan and supported the Turkish war efforts in the First World War in the newspaper Kaveh that he published in Berlin.106 Even Heydar ‘Amoghli, the most radical figure in Iranian politics of the time, echoed that policy when he called on his supporters to support the shah and collaborate with the Germans. Heydar himself joined the ranks of the Emigrants for a while.107 Collaboration was not confined to the Iranians. At the time, the Bolshevik diplomatic agent in Tehran, N.Z. Bravin, also cooperated with the Germans and Turks. He borrowed money from the Turks and used German lines of communication. He joined the Ottoman and German ministers in their diplomatic actions against the Entente. In return the German legation asked the Persian government to recognize the Soviet government.108 Before that, even Lenin had had contacts with the Germans during the war.109 During the First World War, the Jangalis were not the only populists in Iran. There were different levels of populism at work – populism not just as a religious political language and propaganda but also as the heterogeneous political movement. The Committee of Ettehad-e Islam in the Jangali movement represented not Islam but pan-Islamism and Ottoman influence. But this story has been largely about those non-pan-Islamist Jangalis who won the battle of the day and got the upper hand in the end. It is inevitable that very little can be said about the Jangali pan-Islamists. In any case, this is not the main feature of the Jangali movement, as their relations with the Bolsheviks were far more prominent. In a way, pan-Islamism in the movement represented what, in the annals of Marxism, is called the ‘democratic’ revolution. After that, the Social Democrats of Gilan radicalized the movement to the extent that the right wing could no longer tolerate it. On the other hand, for quite a while, Leninism could have had no problem with pan-Islamism until late 1918 and after, when some Young Turk leaders began to make trouble in Bolshevik territory. As will be shown, Kuchik Khan had abandoned his religious past and even ridiculed it. The Committee of Ettehad-e Islam can now be seen as a defunct and passing flirtation. What remained in place was Kuchik’s conviction that the religiosity of the population (and indeed that quasi-national popular sentiment) had to be treated with caution. In 1919, in one of his usual open letters, Kuchik claimed that it was the duty of every Muslim to fight imperialism. He continued by stating his aim to establish a republic in Iran that would be based on the principles of socialism and democracy.110 He did not see any incompatibility between Islam and socialism. After that,

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one aspect of the story of the Persian Soviet Republic of Gilan was about Kuchik’s persistent efforts to ally with the Bolsheviks. Likewise, the influence of the Central Powers was a passing fancy based on a coincidence of political and military interests and restricted to the timeframe of the First World War. The Jangalis found their military significance in the context of the war in the Caucasus. They nevertheless rejected the overtures of the Turks, although they had accepted help from them. As far as the Germans were concerned, for a good while the anti-British aspect of the movement was sufficient ground for friendship and military help. It was possible that the Jangalis would have become a military necessity for the Germans too, but that situation never materialized. The Jangalis could have learned their populism from a variety of predecessors. In the nineteenth century, while Sayyed Jamal al-Din Assadabadi Afghani had established the creed of pan-Islamism, Mirza Malkum Khan conducted his arguments within a religious discourse. In his opinion Islam was not incompatible with political change. Later during the Constitutional Revolution, the radical newspaper Sur-e Israfil adopted the same style of argument and agitation. The newspaper of the Jangalis was modelled on the Sur-e Israfil. And if all this is not enough, we can also look at the political behaviour of the Transcaucasian Social Democrats. It may be recalled that in 1908, when they reached Tabriz, they offered to the local revolutionaries to adopt Islam. The reporter of the Caucasian newspaper bearing the news, stated that after all that did not become necessary.111 In Gilan itself good authority reported that the Caucasian Social Democrats took part in the Ashura processions in 1908, and conflict with the reactionary rival procession in fact formed the origins of the revolutionary insurrection in Rasht.112 The leader of the Caucasian Bolsheviks, the staunch ‘Sergo’ Ordzhonikidze, a close ally of Stalin in Baku, acquired the nickname of Mujtahed in Iran.113 At the time, and for a long while, Social Democrats were populist subordinates of a bourgeois-democratic revolution in Iran – a cardinal principle of which was respect for Iranian sovereignty and Islam. Nariman Narimanov, the leader of the Hemmat Party, once stated: The question of religion is so important in the Muslim’s life that, in 1906, I had to omit from the programme those clauses pertaining to the separation of church and state, and to the separation of schools from the church. This was the time when as the leader of the Iranian Social Democratic Party, I had to send agitators to Iran with the programme of our party. … I may have committed a crime, but nonetheless, we threw off the throne the most foolish hangman of the world, Mohammad Ali Shah.114

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In August 1918 the name of Ettehad-e Islam (Union of Islam) was changed to Ettehad-e Iran (Union of Iran). The Jangalis thus came to fully reject pan-Islamism in their movement.115 After that the fate of the clergy in the movement is not altogether clear, but in 1919 a Baku Bolshevik spoke of Kuchik’s anti-clergy purges.116 This information may well be true. Indeed a crisis soon developed in the movement when the right wing of the Jangalis split away and surrendered to the Cossacks and the British. At the same time, when the Jangalis were attacked by the British and Cossack forces in early 1919, the akhunds of Rasht did not hesitate to orchestrate their actions with those forces and preached against the revolutionaries in mosques.117 Soon afterwards most of the remaining leaders of the movement formed a committee, which they called the ‘Bolshevik Committee’. This, it appears, even presented a radical programme to the movement.118 It is interesting that the formation of the Bolshevik Committee took place at a time when there was little external Bolshevik influence in the movement. The members of the Committee had been subdued and had persevered in the movement for some time. Kuchik nevertheless came to offer them a ‘Socialist Committee’ that was very much under the influence of the left wing of the Democrat Party.119 It was also in those days that Kuchik commented on his own religious past: He told me that he was born in the village of Kasma and … after studying in the local Madreseh, he became an Akhund. He seemed to regard this as an enormous jest; his solemn fanatical countenance became wreathed in smiles and his bulky frame heaved with inward mirth as he confessed to his former calling.120

Kuchik had abandoned a religious career but it is interesting that he did not apologize for the Committee of Ettehad-e Islam. The Socialist Committee became the political arm of the Jangali movement and it consisted mostly of Jangali Bolsheviks. It was as though a new movement had been born. On 18 May 1920 the Bolsheviks arrived in Gilan and the Jangalis came to establish a Soviet republic. They pursued a policy of close collaboration with the Bolsheviks and for most of the duration of the Republic remained friendly with them. This is true except for the short period of conflict (July–August 1920) when ‘left’ communist snobbery on the one hand and the Jangalis’ demand for local sovereignty on the other came to collide. After the establishment of the Republic, the Jangalis’ Socialist Committee adopted a social-democratic programme in which they rejected nationalism and demanded the separation of religion and politics,121 and that in the face of pervading British propaganda that had invested in the anti-Islamic aspect

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of Bolshevism.122 In contrast the communists, while adopting the Russian Bolsheviks’ programme, merely decided that the religious sentiments of the populace had to be treated with caution123 – a policy of not much improvement compared to the party’s policy in Baku since 1917. When the Persian Soviet Republic of Gilan was established, the Iranian communists were to defy and deny the Iranian experience. A ‘leftist’ Bolshevik by the name of Hormoz Mikaelian appeared on the scene in 1920 in Turkistan and Gilan offering to the Iranians what Lenin had offered to the Russians.124 Even for Mikaelian, however, there was no escaping from populism. In Turkistan the Iranian revolution was deemed to be primarily proletarian and yet the communists issued such proclamations ‘to the labourers of Persia’ as: In these times of revolution, it behoves every people or community to safeguard their existence and happiness against hostile rivals. No nation is worthy of the name unless it has independent control over its internal as well as external affairs. Persia with a great and glorious past is now quivering in the British talons and seems to be doomed to an early death and effacement. The real reason is that we, the Muslims, have ignored the real spirit of Islam, and have suffered slight differences to harden into deep cleavages, while other races and nationalities are jealous of their integrity. It is our sacred duty now to strive to rescue our motherland from foreign contamination, and the boat of Islam from the dreary vortex of ignorance and apathy. We should so act that our place in the great comity of nations be established and ensured.125

The myths of Islam and pan-Islamism (and even to some extent nationalism) were manufactured by both Iranian nationalists and Soviet historians and commentators. They somehow managed to conceal facts as well as mislead us as to the true spirits of the times. Kuchik Khan has indeed been condemned so that Soviet foreign policy could be justified. At the risk of insulting the intelligence of readers, it should be pointed out that numerous Iranians had begun their political careers as members of the clergy. One example is Hasan Taqizadeh, who became the leader of the first socialist party in Iran. Mohammad Khiyabani, the leader of the Tabriz Democrats, never abandoned his religious career and yet his movement was in no way Islamic. He persecuted the Tabriz communists in 1920126 and yet in Soviet historiography he remained a hero of Iranian national liberation. Anastas Mikoyan, the leader of the Baku Bolsheviks in 1919, had been a fully fledged priest up to 1915. Even the great leader of most Soviet commentators, Joseph Stalin, had himself been a theology student. Yet only the Jangalis, with their populist hats, carry the brunt of criticism. With the opening of the Russian archives, we now know that the most energetic source of Stalinist

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historiography on the subject, Hormoz Mikaelian, had himself been a priest. The inferior foreigner127 had completed the ecclesiastical seminary before taking up the job of village priest. All this in spite of the fact that his father was a Muslim.128 The Jangali movement was very heterogeneous both in its class composition and in the variety of political forces involved in it. As in the case of the Constitutional Revolution, the urban petty-bourgeoisie and the peasantry formed the revolutionary movement’s backbone. To these we could add the small developing proletariat, elements of the anti-imperialist lesser clergy as well as elements of the mercantile bourgeoisie. There were also elements of the rich peasantry and a few small landowners. Politically the Jangali movement excluded few forces. In fact we only know of two terrorist organizations that were suppressed by the Jangalis in 1917. At that time, the British acting vice-consul repeatedly reported that the Democrats of Gilan were ‘hand in glove’ with the revolutionaries. Later in 1919 both halves of Iranian communism were active in Gilan under the protective umbrella of the Jangalis: the ‘Adalat, now renamed the Iranian Communist Party, and the Revolutionary Party of Iran, which was part of the resurrection of the left wing of the Democrat Party.129 Some decades later a revolution was accomplished in Iran in the same style, but in all fairness it must be stated that the Jangali movement, while in existence, did not reject pluralism, as the 1979 revolution did.

9

The Council for International Propaganda and the Establishment of the Iranian Communist Party Oliver Bast This chapter is the result of a research trip to Moscow in pursuit of sources concerning Russo-Persian relations during the First World War and its immediate aftermath.1 When working in the archives of the Comintern2 I became aware of the particular role played by a so far little-known Bolshevik agency, the Council for International Propaganda (Sovet Internatsional’noi Propagandy – Sovinterprop).3 The following article traces the Sovinterprop’s activities in Persia, which in turn is directly related to the controversial issue of the early history of the Iranian Communist Party (ICP). Although the evidence is still fragmentary and opaque, a number of contradictions and inconsistencies emanating from the sources have led me to question a number of widely held beliefs and to suggest tentative conclusions, which might inspire further research. *** On 25 February 1920 Shalva Zurabovich Eliava,4 chairman of the Turkkomissiya5 based in Tashkent, sent a cable6 to the secretary of the Executive Committee of the Comintern (IKKI) informing him that: (1) the Council for International Propaganda (Sovet Internatsional’noi Propagandy) recently established by the Turkkomissiya was not 7 an organ of the Comintern. (2) the Sovinterprop would supervise the activities of both the Iranian Communist Party, named ‘Adalat,8 and the Bukharan Communist Party, as well as have additional propaganda sections for China, Turkey and Khiva. (3) the following comrades were members of the Council: Subhi,9 Sultanzadeh,10 Alikhanov,11 Broido,12 Heller and another person whose name is illegible. (4) Subhi was not 13 present in the Council in his capacity as a member of the IKKI. 163

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Since Eliava’s cable is the closest thing to documentary evidence that we have for the details of the founding of the Sovinterprop, there are a number of questions that spring to mind. When exactly and why was the Sovinterprop established? In view of the fact that the Sovinterprop’s members were predominantly foreigners and that its activities were aimed at countries beyond Russia’s borders, one would be inclined to suppose that the Sovinterprop was an organ of the Comintern. Therefore, one may ask, why is there such a strong emphasis on the explicit non-affiliation of the newly founded organ with the Comintern? Furthermore, by 1920 several other organizations meant to guide the revolutionary movements of the ‘peoples of the East’ were already in operation. Thus the question as to why the Bolsheviks felt it necessary to create a separate organ in the first place needs to be asked. The background: Bolshevik ‘consolidation’ in Turkistan: the Bolsheviks and the emergence of eastern communist movements The establishment of the Sovinterprop has to be viewed from two angles. On the one hand it must be linked to Moscow’s handling of the development of Turkistan’s internal situation in late 1919/early 1920. On the other hand, the creation of the Sovinterprop should be placed in the context of the interaction between the emerging eastern communist movements and several different Bolshevik agencies. ‘Consolidation’ in Turkistan14 In early September 1919, upon the imminent breakthrough of the Red Army into Central Asia, which would result in the re-establishment of a direct connection between Moscow and Tashkent,15 both the Soviet-Russian government (the Sovnarkom)16 and the leading organs of the Russian Communist Party (Bolsheviki) – RCP (B)17 turned their attention to the internal situation in Turkistan. They felt that immediate action from the centre was necessary in order to prevent the situation from getting out of control.18 A special mission of reconnaissance for Turkistan had been working out of Samara since February 1919, and their recommendations reflect clearly the problems that Moscow was facing. This commission had strongly emphasized the urgent need to fully integrate Turkistan into Soviet-Russian central government and central party structures. It had furthermore indicated a growing reluctance of the peoples of Turkistan’s neighbouring countries to share the zeal of their revolutionary brethren.19 Thus in September 1919 Moscow’s agenda was perfectly clear: by all means must Turkistan be kept within the frame of Soviet Russia.20

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Not trusting the local Soviet and party organs, Moscow finally decided to establish direct control over Turkistan. On 8 October 191921 Lenin, as chairman of the Sovnarkom, signed the decree for the formation of a special commission on the affairs of Turkistan (Komissiya po delam Turkestana – Turkkomissiya), which was to operate in the name of the Sovnarkom and the VtsIK.22 The euphemistic terms in Lenin’s mandate23 for the Turkkomissiya barely conceal its real purpose: the commission was to act as the Soviet government’s plenipotentiary in nominally autonomous Turkistan.24 In typical fashion, two days later, on 10 October 1919, the Turkkomissiya was made an organ of the Central Committee (CC) of the RCP (B) and given full authority to exercise party control over Turkistan communists. It remains unclear whether at this stage the Turkkomissiya ceased to be a Sovnarkom organ or if Moscow opted deliberately for a double affiliation. Eliava became chairman of the Turkkomissiya, which had five other members: Gileb Ivanovich Bokii,25 Mikhail Vasilevich Frunze (1885–1925), Filip Isaevich Goloshchekin (1876–?), Valerian Vladimirovich Kuibyshev (1888–1935) and Ian Ernestovich Rudzutak (1887–1938). Eliava, Bokii and Goloshchekin had previously been members of the above-mentioned special commission of reconnaissance operating out of Samara, whereas Frunze and Kuibyshev had been in command of the Red Army’s Turkfront. Rudzutak, who would later become the People’s Commissar for Foreign Trade, was an economics expert with special expertise in the textile industry.26 On 4 November 1919 Eliava and three other members, as well as the whole administrative apparatus of the commission, headed for Tashkent while Frunze and one other member stayed behind in Samara. By reading between the lines of the euphemistic accounts in Soviet secondary sources it becomes obvious that the Turkkomissiya had immediately launched a major operation of cleansing and reorganization. This in turn appears to have been met by fierce opposition on the part of the local Muslim communist leadership.27 In this context the establishment of an institution responsible for creating propaganda directed towards the relatively large Turkish, Persian, Bukharan and other foreign communities present in Turkistan figured high on the Turkkomissiya’s agenda. The commission’s related efforts resulted in the formation of a section for agitation and propaganda attached to its department of external relations.28 Meanwhile, throughout November/December 1919, the conflict between the Turkkomissiya and the local Muslim communists was continuing to smoulder.29 It reached its climax when the local Muslim communist leadership openly challenged the authority of the Turkkomissiya over the local

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party members. The leading organ of the local Muslim communists, the socalled Musbyuro,30 which was nominally attached to the Central Committee of the Turkistan Communist Party,31 declared itself the highest party organ in Turkistan.32 In January 1920,33 at the Fifth Conference of the Turkistan CP (TCP), the local Muslim communists, led by Turar Ryskulov (1894–1938),34 chairman of the Musbyuro, pushed their case even further. In his speech to the delegates of the Fifth TCP Conference Ryskulov explained the Musbyuro’s far-reaching claims. It wanted to transform the Turkistan Autonomous Soviet Republic into a ‘Turkic republic’ (Tiurkskaya Respublika). According to the Musbyuro’s plans this republic was to be inhabited by a ‘Turkic nation’ with no place for non-Turkic nationalities. Furthermore they called for the establishment of a Muslim army (musul’manskaya armiya) and requested the withdrawal of all non-Muslim troops from the territory of Turkistan.35 This seems to have been a veritable declaration of independence! Following Ryskulov’s proposal the Fifth Conference did indeed decide to change the name of the CP of Turkistan to the Turkic Communist Party (Tyurkskaya Kompartiya).36 It has to be said, however, that the Conference agreed to seek the Central Committee of the RCP (B)’s approval before taking action. Soviet historiography blames the Turkkomissiya members for being responsible for the Fifth Conference’s ‘wrong’ decision. Allegedly only one of them, Rudzutak, spoke out against this decision explicitly, whereas the chairman of the Turkkomissiya, Eliava, is even said to have supported the resolution. Frunze, of course, was absent.37 Taking into consideration Moscow’s instructions for the Turkkomissiya, the alleged laissez-faire approach seems rather odd. When the local communists reportedly started to translate into action the Conference’s decision without waiting for Moscow’s consent, this must have been seen as a major threat to the policy of keeping Turkistan within Soviet Russia. This situation cried out for the presence in the region of the Turkkomissiya’s strong man. On 22 February 1920 Frunze arrived in Tashkent. In a crucial Turkkomissiya meeting, held on 24 February 1920, he urged his colleagues to insist on the suspension of the name changes until the CC of the RCP (B) had reached a decision. It is within this context that the cable sent to Moscow by Eliava on 25 February 1920 must be interpreted. As we have seen, Eliava’s cable, the only extant document detailing the circumstances of the founding of the Sovinterprop, emphasized the non-affiliation of the newly established organ to the Comintern. It apparently took the presence of Frunze to make the Turkkomissiya understand that, in the present situation, it was out of the

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question to cede any authority over the recently founded propaganda organ to a, however nominal, international organization. Furthermore, in view of the local communists’ demand for a ‘Turkic republic’, Turkkomissiya (that is, Soviet-Russian) control over the Sovinterprop must have been regarded as even more vital because all but one of the émigré communist movements with which the council was to deal were ‘Turkic’. One wonders if Eliava’s staunch insistence on the Sovinterprop’s nonaffiliation to the Comintern does not betray a lack of clarity in the initial arrangements for the Sovinterprop. The Turkkomissiya had set up the Sovinterprop in the first place in late January/early February 192038 by reorganizing the above-mentioned section for agitation and propaganda.39 Matveev claims that the Turkkomissiya had decided to establish the Sovinterprop on 23 December 1919, but he fails to produce a source.40 The Bolsheviks and the emergence of eastern communist movements Three institutions claimed responsibility for the emerging communist movements in the states south of Russia’s borders in the immediate aftermath of the October Revolution. First of all, these communist movements fell, quite naturally, into the realm of the People’s Commissariat for Foreign Affairs (Narodnyy Komissariat Inostrannykh Del – Narkomindel),41 although the latter soon developed a clear preference to deal with governments.42 Another relevant Soviet government institution was the People’s Commissariat for Nationality Affairs (Narodnyy Komissariat po delam Natsional’nostey – Narkomnats) headed by Stalin. Alongside (sub-) commissariats for other nationalities, the Narkomnats also housed a Muslim (sub-) commissariat (Musul’manskii Komissariat – Muskom) established in February 1918.43 While the Narkomnats’ Muskom technically was only responsible for the Muslims of regions that were already part of Soviet Russia, its numerous regional branches (regional Muskoms) could include foreign Muslims who happened to be in the area, either as former POWs or émigrés.44 Besides these two state institutions there existed also a party-led structure: the Central Bureau for the Communist Organizations of the Peoples of the East (Tsentral’noe Byuro Kommunisticheskikh Organiszatsii Narodov Vostoka – Musbyuro). This (central) Musbyuro, which meant to organize the communist party among the Muslim population in Russia, was linked to the CC of the RCP (B). It was established in late 1918 as a result of the First All-Russian Congress of Communist Organizations of the Peoples of the East.45 The leading figures in the (central) Musbyuro were mainly Muslims from Russia, especially Tatars and Bashkirs, but foreign Muslims

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also participated in its activities. When in early 1919 the (central) Musbyuro established an international department it also included a Persian section.46 Mirroring the situation at the top, the central committees of regional (kraii-) party organizations of the RCP (B) in areas with a Muslim population – such as the central committee of the above-mentioned Turkistan CP – also had their respective (regional) Musbyuros attached to them. After the establishment of the Comintern in March 1919 the number of agencies claiming responsibility for the ‘peoples of the East’ grew further. Another propaganda institution aiming south of Russia’s borders was a socalled Council for the Liberation of the East (Sovet Ozvobozhdeniya Vostoka – SOV ) founded in Moscow in late 1918. More detailed information on this council is currently hard to come by, but branches of this council had apparently been operating in Turkistan since the spring of 1919. It is said to have significantly intensified its propaganda among the émigrés from eastern countries present in Turkistan towards November/December 1919. The possibility cannot be discounted that the SOV was somehow linked to the Comintern and was nominally not under the control of Turkistan’s Soviet and party structures, which would further explain the Turkkomissiya’s staunch insistence on the non-affiliation of its newly founded Sovinterprop to the Comintern.47 To complete the confusing tableau of organs involved in Eastern affairs, the politico-military authorities (Revolyutsionnyy Voennyy Sovet – Revvoensoviet) of the different corps of the Red Army in Transcaucasia, Transcaspia and Turkistan have to be mentioned as well.48 The confusion of competing agencies would reach a climax when the Caucasian Bureau of the RCP (B) (Kavbyuro)49 would be established in February 1920 and, in late April 1920, Azerbaijan would become an ‘independent’ Soviet republic with its own fully fledged party and government apparatus. In April/May 1919 the Narkomnats periodical, Zhizn National’nostey, played host to a fierce debate over the appropriate strategies and tactics to revolutionize the East.50 The main question that divided the participating Muskom theoreticians was whether the Eastern revolution should be launched via the Black Sea towards Anatolia or via Central Asia towards Persia. The supporters of the Central Asian/Persian approach developed a scenario that included the formation in Central Asia of a Muslim Red Army and a specific propaganda organ to agitate the ‘peoples of the East’. This scenario can be regarded as a kind of blueprint for the establishment of the Sovinterprop, which would indeed attempt to mobilize a Persian Red Army in Central Asia.

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It seems that at the level of the (central) Musbyuro, Heydar Khan (‘Amoghli)51 and others pressed for action among the foreign Muslims present in Central Asia,52 although he would ironically not become part of the Sovinterprop leadership. In June 1919 the Musbyuro of the CC of the Turkistan CP held the First Regional (kraii-) Conference of the Muslim Communists of Turkistan. This conference passed a fiery appeal to the ‘toiling Muslim masses’ of India, Afghanistan, Persia, China and Bukhara as well as those of the Near and Far East. Furthermore – as a gesture underlining the united front of all Eastern communists – the Turkistan Musbyuro also coopted the leaders of the Azerbaijani and Persian communist movements to its ranks. The Turkistan Musbyuro emphasized its claim for leadership and guidance regarding the communists of the neighbouring countries – and by doing so implicitly also its own independence – when in September 1919 the Second Regional (kraii-) Conference of Turkistan’s Muslim Communists styled Turkistan as ‘the revolutionary school for the whole East’.53 The strong tendency of selfdetermination, if not (red) nationalism, underlying these claims and resolutions has to be seen in connection with the already mentioned rejection by the Turkistan Musbyuro of the Turkkomissiya’s authority over Muslim communists. It now becomes clear why the Turkkomissiya felt such an urgent need to take the organization of propaganda directed at the population of the neighbouring countries and the foreign Muslims present in Turkistan firmly into their own hands by creating the Sovinterprop. The organizational structure of the Sovinterprop Even by comparing the scarce archival evidence against the Soviet secondary literature, it is difficult to discern the formal organizational structure of the Sovinterprop in its entirety. Confusion starts when it comes to the affiliation of the council. Matveev quite rightly states that the council came under the responsibility of the Turkkomissiya but then says that it therefore also fell ‘naturally’ under the authority of the Central Committee of the Turkistan CP. He then refers to a charter (polozhenie) for the Sovinterprop, supposedly elaborated in April 1920, which places the council not partly but exclusively under the authority to the CC of the Turkistan CP.54 In view of the role and position of the Turkkomissiya as described above, such a distribution of responsibility – in fact a supremacy of the Turkistan CP’s CC – would have been anything but ‘natural’. Given that the documents I have consulted link the Sovinterprop exclusively with the Turkkomissiya, it remains unclear whether the CC of the TCP actually ever enjoyed that

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supremacy. It might be that Matveev’s polozhenie was merely a proposal by council members who – resenting the imposition of the Turkkomissiya upon them – were attempting to shift more power to the local communist party. In this case the proposed polozhenie would have just been another result of the ongoing power struggle, which had emerged from the hierarchical imposition of the Turkkomissiya over Turkistan’s regional party and government institutions. There seems to be more evidence for this view if one looks at the leading bodies of the Sovinterprop. A plenum was supposed to be the council’s highest organ. According to Matveev the following ten individuals were to form that body: three representatives of the CC of the Turkistan CP, two representatives from the Persian ‘Adalat as well as one representative from each of the other foreign revolutionary movements, that is, from the Bukharan, Khivan, Chinese (Uigur), Turkish and Indian movements.55 What is striking is the total absence of Turkkomissiya representatives! An organizational chart shows the council’s structure at one point in spring 1920 as having 18 members in the plenum, but does not specify their names and organizational affiliation.56 However, another document57 makes it clear that, first of all, three representatives of the Turkkomissiya have to be added to the three representatives of the CC of the Turkistan CP. Furthermore, the ‘Adalat seems to have got three instead of two representatives. The Bukharan communists also apparently held three posts. Five more seats seem to have been allocated to the following groups: the Young Bukharan (Jadidist), Khivan, Chinese (Uigur), Turkish and Indian movements. This brings the number of allocated seats up to 17. The allocation of the remaining seat is not clear. It is conceivable, however, that Subhi, being the chairman, sat in the plenum ex officio, whereas another leading figure of the Turkish community represented the Turkish communists.58 Information concerning the council’s supreme executive committee is no less contradictory. It seems that a committee of six initially headed the Sovinterprop, as mentioned in the Eliava cable. A five-member executive bureau (ispolnitel’noe byuro) seems to have taken the place of this committee soon afterwards. In late March 1920/early April 1920 the report by Subhi gives the following names: Subhi, Sultanzadeh, Alikhanov, Heller and Troianovskii. That means that there was a foreign majority in the executive bureau. Nevertheless, contrary to archival evidence, Soviet historians claim a three-to-two majority of Turkkomissiya members over the foreign members, but fail to give names.59 The reason why Soviet historians tried to distort the evidence concerning the relations of power in the executive committee is currently not clear. There might have been a shift in the ratio

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of three-to-two in favour of the Turkkomissiya at a later stage – perhaps in early summer 1920, when Heller replaced Subhi in the chair after the latter and also the Persian leaders had left for Baku and Anzali respectively.60 Anyway, if nothing else, the contradictory picture emerging from different sources reflects the fact that relations between the various agencies and organizations involved in running the Sovinterprop were probably all but harmonious. When the council was fully established in spring 1920, it included three major sections: a main chancellery, an organizational section and a communications section. The organizational section comprised sub-sections for each of the mentioned revolutionary and communist groups.61 There is evidence for the activities of all of these (sub-) sections among the émigré population present in Turkistan.62 However, apart from the Sovinterprop’s activities in Persia, to be dealt with below, little63 is known about their outreach into the respective Eastern countries. A propaganda department belonging to the communications section was responsible for the publication of leaflets, brochures and a number of short-lived journals in different languages. The latter comprised the Russian Revolutsionnyy Vostok and the Turkish Yeni Dunya.64 There are also references to journals of the Bukharan communists and the Young Bukharans,65 but it is not clear whether any were actually ever published. This propaganda department also ran an academic unit and a school for agitators. In October 1920, 25 students, mainly Persians and Azerbaijanis, are said to have graduated from that school. The school apparently also offered what Matveev calls ‘short-term political and military’ courses for members of the foreign Muslim communities present in Turkistan. Nevertheless, details concerning the nature and the curriculum of these courses are currently unavailable.66 In addition to the headquarters in Tashkent, the Sovinterprop had official branches in Poltorazk (Ashgabat), Chardzhui, Merv, Andizhan, Krasnovodsk and Hisarkent.67 The Persian section of the Sovinterprop Sultanzadeh and the attempt to establish a genuine Persian communist party for Iran As already mentioned, Persian communist activists played a prominent role in the establishment of the Sovinterprop. There is, however, currently no clear answer to the following two questions: where did they move from to Tashkent, and who sent them there? Plastun, in an attempt to describe the formation of Iran’s CP as a smooth, straightforward process, claims that in January 1920 the leadership of the ‘Adalat in Baku had decided to send

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Sultanzadeh, Alikhanov and a third Persian communist, Fathullaiev, to Tashkent in order to organize the party among the Persian émigré population in Turkistan.68 The tendency to describe the formation of Iran’s CP up to the constitutional First Party Congress at Anzali in June 1920 as an unproblematic process still prevails today.69 In 1995 even an author as critical as Chaqueri described the whole formation of the Iranian CP as a steady development of well-concerted actions on different regional stages (north Iran, Russian Azerbaijan, Central Asia) naturally crowned by the constitutional First Party Congress at Anzali in June 1920. For him it is only after this date that problems occur.70 However, this seamless portrayal of the formation of Iran’s CP is not very convincing. On the contrary, there seems to be evidence that not only the establishment of a Persian section of the Sovinterprop but the whole development of the Iranian CP in Tashkent happened independently of, if not in competition with, what was going on in Baku and elsewhere at the same time. In this context one has to note that, astonishingly, the Sovinterprop had no Azerbaijani section. The Azerbaijani absence is even more startling if one remembers that in June 1919 the Musbyuro of the Turkistan CP had precisely decided to create two more seats in the bureau and coopt the leaders of the Azerbaijani and the Iranian communist movements. Although it seems unlikely that at the time those seats had actually been taken, the Musbyuro’s gesture shows that the local (Muslim) communists of Turkistan, unlike the Sovinterprop and its leading Persian members, viewed the Azerbaijanis quite naturally as part of their network. The Azerbaijani non-representation at the Sovinterprop aside, there is other evidence suggesting a Baku–Tashkent rift. While in February 1920 the Persian communist leaders in Turkistan were busy not only getting the Sovinterprop up and running but also preparing their first regional (kraii-) party conference, at the same time in Baku the First Congress of the Azerbaijani CP (11–12 February 1920) brought an end to the organizational independence of the ‘Adalat and decided to incorporate the ‘Adalat into the structures of the Azerbaijani CP.71 Nevertheless this decision seems to have failed to impress the Persian communist leaders of the Sovinterprop in Tashkent. As if there were no Persian communist structures at all already existing in Baku, in late March 1920 a memorandum of the Sovinterprop called for the establishment of a branch in Baku, which would have had to coordinate communist activity in Persia and Turkey.72 Three Persian and one Turkish representatives of

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the Sovinterprop were to be sent to Baku immediately in order to establish the branch. When it comes to the question of the regional linkage of the proposed branch, the memorandum has no explicit reference to the Azerbaijani communists and their party as such. It proposes instead that three members of the Caucasian Regional (kraii-) Committee of the RCP (B) join the branch. Despite the involvement of this committee and the concession of certain autonomy of action, the memorandum makes it perfectly clear that the branch would receive its instructions from Tashkent! Although it seems that this proposal was never realized, its mere existence is highly significant. It indicates again that Sultanzadeh and his colleagues in the Sovinterprop could have hardly been the envoys of Baku to Tashkent. The evidence rather suggests that by consciously or unconsciously ignoring or even perhaps challenging the Azerbaijani connection, Sultanzadeh and his colleagues, backed by the Turkkomissiya, tried to create something new. It was in this same vein that they convened the first regional (kraii-) conference of the Iranian Communist Party (‘Adalat), which seems73 to have taken place in Tashkent on 1–3 April 1920. Despite the modest branding as a regional (kraii-) conference and the formal allegiance to the timehonoured term ‘Adalat, a brand new party seems to have been born at this conference. Indeed it looks as if Sultanzadeh and his comrades attempted to use the Sovinterprop as a springboard for the establishment of a genuine Persian communist party. As shown above they conceived of their organization as one communist party among others being responsible, if to anybody, directly to Moscow (in the form of Lenin and the Comintern) but by no means to Baku. There is further evidence for this strictly independent anti-Baku mindset of Sultanzadeh in documents recently unearthed by Chaqueri.74 Could it, at least partly, have been this quasi anti-Caucasian (antiAzerbaijani?) bias present in Sultanzadeh’s approach right from the start in Tashkent in spring 1920 that earned him the bitter hatred of the Azerbaijani CP (Nariman Narimanov75) and the men behind it at the Kavbyuro (‘Sergo’ Ordzhonikidze,76 Budu Mdivani,77 and eventually Stalin)? Was it in fact this antagonism, rather than Sultanzadeh’s alleged leftist deviations, that in autumn 1920 led to the heavy attacks on him and his eventual removal from the leadership of the ICP?78 Yet another factor that needs to be taken into consideration is the role played by Heydar Khan. Indeed Heydar Khan, who knew the men (Stalin, Narimanov and Ordzhonikidze) that would pit him against Sultanzadeh in autumn 1920 since his student days back in Tbilisi,79 had also been present in Tashkent in spring 1920.80

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Nevertheless Heydar Khan surprisingly held no prominent position in the Sovinterprop, nor is his name even mentioned in the documents relating to this organ. Furthermore, although he attended the first regional (kraii-) conference in Tashkent, he would not make it into the first CC of the ICP, elected by the ICP’s constituting Congress held in Anzali in June 1920. He would not even attend that Congress or, as Chaqueri put it, ‘was inexplicably absent’.81 Could it be that Heydar Khan had somehow been booted out temporarily by Sultanzadeh, Alikhanov and co.? Had they arrived in Tashkent early enough82 to take part in the crucial steps of the establishment of the Sovinterprop? Did they succeed in bringing the important positions under their exclusive control, thus preventing the late-arriving Heydar Khan from entering the inner circle of the Sovinterprop? Was this in turn a reason for Heydar Khan to seek revenge and to participate actively in the ‘Caucasian’ attacks that brought about Sultanzadeh’s removal from the leadership of the Iranian Communist Party in autumn 1920? These questions cannot yet be answered, but they are worth asking. It is also clear that the relationship between the two men in spring 1920 in Tashkent was so bad that it was perceived by contemporaries as severely hampering the revolutionary effort.83 When the constituting ICP Congress took place in Anzali, Heydar Khan seems to have been in Poltorazk with the Transcaspian military authorities. He is reported to have been a member of a mission established in Poltorazk on 28 June 1920. This mission was sent across the border into Khorasan on 1 July 1920 in order to meet with Allahverdi Khan Khadu (Khodaverdi Sardaru), a Kurdish bandit chief turned revolutionary leader.84 The leader of the Poltorazk Sovinterprop branch headed the commission.85 That means Heydar Khan had not only been excluded from the supreme leadership of the Sovinterprop (and eventually from that of the ICP), but here we witness him placed under the command of a simple branch head of the Sovinterprop. It is noteworthy, however, that Heydar Khan carried the impressive title of a plenipotentiary of the Revvoensoviet of the First Red Army.86 In the context of the possible Tashkent roots of the conflict between Sultanzadeh and Heydar Khan, another incident, which at first glance seems to be quite unimportant, might actually be of some significance. At their session of 10 July 1920 the Tashkent cell of the ICP, led by a certain Palatkhanov, denounced the so-called Association of Persian Citizens of Tashkent as a counter-revolutionary organization and asked the Turkkomissiya to dismantle it immediately.87 There is currently little information about this association. However, associations of this type existed in

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other places all over Soviet Russia. Initially they seemed to have been organized and supervised by the (central) Musbyuro, that is to say, by an organ of the RCP (B).88 Was the Tashkent Association of Persian Citizens really a counter-revolutionary organization? Or was this severe denouncement by the Persian communists in Tashkent yet another result of some power struggle or rivalry between different factions and agencies? Again, this question cannot be answered definitively. It is worth noting, however, that Heydar Khan had had links with the Association of Persian Citizens of Moscow back in 1919.89 To shed more light on the early roots of the conflict between Sultanzadeh and Heydar Khan it would be necessary to know more about their, and especially Sultanzadeh’s, whereabouts as well as about their personal and institutional affiliations before their move to Tashkent.90 Besides the local branch in Tashkent, the Persian section of the Sovinterprop claimed to have eight local branches all over Turkistan and Transcaspia: Poltorazk, Samarkand, Merv, Chardzhui, Novaia Bukhara, Kızıl Arbat, Andizhan and Kakhka.91 The mobilization of the Persian International Brigade Operating from this network, the Sovinterprop was also involved in a second major task, the formation of a Red Persian military unit, the socalled Persian International Brigade (Persidskiy internatsional’niy otryad). This unit seems to have been at least partly the brainchild of Heydar Khan, who reportedly advocated the project in a discussion with Frunze in early February 1920.92 It was nevertheless the Sovinterprop that on 11 March 1920 officially approached the command of the Turkfront with the project of establishing a Persian International Brigade. More than a month later the Turkfront command eventually ordered the immediate formation of the brigade.93 It was to be established by recruiting volunteers among the Persian émigrés in Turkistan. Apparently, initial plans foresaw the raising of a veritable Persian Red Army comprising of three to four infantry divisions.94 Echoing the propaganda claims of the Persian communists of the period, who spoke of a force of up to 30,000 men,95 as well as the alarming, yet rumour-based reports of Western diplomats of the time, Soviet historians,96 but also a decidedly anti-Soviet author like Chaqueri,97 have described the brigade as an important force. However, Persits’ recent study reveals that the attempt to mobilize a Red Persian Army in Turkistan ended in fiasco. The mobilizing campaign seems to have attracted mainly the dregs of the Persian émigré community in Turkistan. The unit is reported to have become a reservoir of dubious

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elements associated with drug abuse, theft and trafficking, gambling, AWOL and desertion. Several reports of political commissars and inspectors sent to supervise the establishment of the unit are full of complaints about the lack of discipline, the poor state of military training and the absence of any socialist revolutionary consciousness among the volunteers who harboured diffuse nationalist feelings at best.98 In early June 1920 the force then comprising of not more than 800 or so was transferred to Poltorazk.99 In September 1920, after the brigade’s political commissar had arrived at the disillusioned conclusion that in the short term the unit would not be able to carry out any ‘military and revolutionary’ operations,100 the plans for a Persian Red Army were eventually dropped. The existing force was reorganized as an infantry regiment with light artillery.101 In November 1920 the regiment was transferred to Krasnovodsk where it apparently became increasingly difficult to maintain the troops’ discipline and morale.102 In January 1921, alongside other units from the Caucasus and Turkistan, the remains of the Persian International Brigade were eventually sent to Gilan, where they reportedly made no significant impact on the course of events.103 The Poltorazk branch of the Sovinterprop targeting Khorasan Unlike the ill-fated Persian International Brigade, which would only reach Persia in early 1921 when the faction in the Bolshevik leadership favouring an agreement with the Persian central government had gained the upper hand, the Poltorazk branch of the Persian Sovinterprop section began directing operations into Persia as early as spring 1920. This branch, manned by 15 agents and led by Gabai Kalakov,104 concentrated its activities in Khorasan.105 It appears, at least according to their reports sent back to Tashkent, that this branch of the Sovinterprop was particularly successful. At some point in spring/summer 1920 the Poltorazk branch claimed that communist cells had been set up not only in most major cities of Khorasan such as Mashhad, Sabzevar, Torbat-e Heydariyeh, Qa’en, Khaf, Torbat-e Sheikh-e Jam and Quchan, but also in nearly every village of the Quchan region. The cells were supposed to be supervised from a couple of specially installed observation points located on the Russian side of the border.106 Indeed the map of Khorasan dotted all over with little red flags drawn up by the Sovinterprop bureaucrats in Tashkent looked very impressive. However, the apparent success of the Poltorazk branch was mainly the result of the branch’s cooperation with an infamous North Khorasan bandit chief posturing as revolutionary leader – Allahverdi Khan Khadu (Khodaverdi Sardaru).107

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After two agents of the Poltorazk Sovinterprop branch had met him twice at his fort in Khorasan in April 1920, Allahverdi Khan came to Poltorazk in mid-May 1920 to discuss with the Sovinterprop and the Transcaspian military authorities the launching of a revolutionary movement. Allahverdi Khan promised to immediately mobilize 3,000 armed fighters. He also claimed that he had many more followers all over Khorasan just waiting for him to give them the word to rebel. He asked the Russians to send him Muslim units and for the provision of artillery, machine guns and rifles. His requests were partly met and he finally left for Khorasan with three machine guns, 200 English rifles and 50,000 cartridges.108 Back home Allahverdi Khan, in a letter to his new Bolshevik friends, expressed his conviction that, with Allah’s help, the oppressed Muslims of the East would soon be liberated from the imperialistic yoke. Placing great expectations on Allahverdi Khan, the Poltorazk Sovinterprop branch sent very optimistic reports to Tashkent.109 Exaggerating these reports, the Tashkent headquarters in turn informed Moscow of the imminent outbreak of a large-scale uprising in Khorasan. After the Soviet landing at Anzali on 18 May 1920 and the proclamation of the so-called Socialist Soviet Republic of Iran110 the Sovinterprop portrayed Allahverdi Khan as nothing less than a second Mirza Kuchik Khan. Furthermore the Sovinterprop and Turkkomissiya drew up schemes to link the Khorasan movement with that of the Jangalis in Gilan, hoping to be able to set the whole north of Persia ablaze.111 Nevertheless the uprising collapsed, partly because Allahverdi Khan, facing unexpected opposition by the forces of Khorasan’s governor, was unable to live up to his revolutionary promises and partly because the military authorities in Poltorazk were unable to send the promised reinforcements. Accompanied by 80 of his men Allahverdi Khan fled to Poltorazk at the beginning of August 1920.112 Although the Sovinterprop agents seemed, at least for a while, to have remained faithful to Allahverdi and the idea of revolutionizing Khorasan, the Poltorazk military authorities quickly dropped their ally. They now regarded him simply as a bandit leader and wanted to get rid of him. Against the advice of the Sovinterprop leadership in Tashkent113 they sent Allahverdi Khan to Moscow at the beginning of September 1920. There his fantastic plans for the formation of a mixed Turkmen–Persian revolutionary army to be sent into Khorasan fell upon deaf ears at the Narkomindel, which was at that time already preparing an agreement114 with the Persian central government. After a couple of fruitless attempts to find supporters for his claims with other Bolshevik agencies in Moscow,

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Allahverdi Khan found himself packed off to Tashkent in December 1920.115 When in mid-February 1921 he appeared again in Poltorazk, he had become a major embarrassment for Moscow’s policy towards Persia. The Narkomindel urged his removal from the region and the Poltorazk military authorities denied him any support. Betrayed by his former allies, in late March 1921 Allahverdi Khan, with 29 of his men, surreptitiously slipped into Persian territory and continued his activities on his own account.116 In late April 1921 he was arrested and eventually executed.117 Following the flight from Persia of Allahverdi Khan in August 1920 the star of the Poltorazk Sovinterprop branch had also begun to sink. By the end of August the branch had basically shrunk to a one-man show. The distribution of propaganda material had stopped and communication with the majority of the ICP organizations allegedly existing all over Khorasan was cut.118 This last point makes one wonder if there had actually been that many communist organizations in the first place. Did the Poltorazk Sovinterprop exaggerate the number of communist cells? Did they amplify Allahverdi Khan’s claims in their reports to Tashkent? Is it possible that, Allahverdi Khan aside, various other people in various other locations, in order to get Russian support for their own ends, had just been pretending to be communists and to run whole communist cells but disappeared when the source of funding began to dry up? What about those who saw themselves as communists with the noblest of intentions – did they actually understand what the communist ideology implied? And finally, what did it actually mean if in 1920 somebody in northern Iran claimed to be a communist? All these questions should be borne in mind when it comes to a general assessment of the early days of the communist movement in Iran. It seems to become clear again that neither the embellished accounts by Persian activists and the competing Bolshevik organs and agencies behind them nor the alarming reports sent home from Persia by Western diplomats can be taken at face value. The same is true of Soviet historiography and of those authors elsewhere who are keen to prove the existence of a significant and genuine communist movement in the remotest parts of northern Persia even before the landing in Anzali of the Bolshevik fleet in May 1920.119 The end of the Sovinterprop: the removal from the scene of Sultanzadeh With the Bolshevik takeover of Azerbaijan on 27 April 1920 and the Soviet landing at Anzali on 18 May 1920 the gravitational centre of Bolshevik propaganda in the East gradually shifted towards Baku, leaving the

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Sovinterprop in Tashkent somewhat on the fringes. Already in May 1920 the Sovinterprop chairman Mustafa Subhi had left for Baku.120 As far as the Persian Sovinterprop leaders, Sultanzadeh and Alikhanov, are concerned they probably entered Persia following the Soviet fleet. Having properly assessed the situation while in Tashkent, they managed to get a leading position in the Central Committee of the Iranian Communist Party, which constituted itself in Persia in Anzali in late June 1920. Some believed that revolution could be triggered in the entire country through a bolshevization of the long-since smouldering movement in Gilan. The Bolshevik leaders at the Kavbyuro and their Azerbaijani associates at the top of the Azerbaijani CP seem to have ordered the Central Commitee of the ICP to radicalize the movement even at the price of alienating the initial leader of the Jangali movement, Mirza Kuchik Khan, and his faction. When in autumn 1920 it was becoming clear that this policy was a flop, they cast the blame on Sultanzadeh. During the First Congress of the Peoples of the East (1–8 September 1920) they established a new central committee of loyal men, which was to be led by Heydar Khan. Although Sultanzadeh defended his case strongly, his enemies eventually succeeded in getting rid of him. The new central committee took over and Sultanzadeh was transferred to Moscow in the capacity of a member of the IKKI.121 Yet one must look to the earlier rift between Sultanzadeh and the ‘Caucasians’, as described above, for a plausible explanation for shifting the blame entirely on Sultanzadeh by the Kavbyuro. By so doing they were able to kill two birds with one stone: on one hand they could present a scapegoat to cover the failure of their own policy, and on the other hand they could get rid of a troublesome rival. The holding of the First Congress of the Peoples of the East at Baku underlined the growing importance of Baku over Tashkent as the centre of propaganda activities directed at the ‘peoples of the East’. The Congress established a new propaganda organization, the Sovet Propagandy i Deystviya Narodov Vostoka (SPiDNV ).122 This organ is not to be confused with the Sovinterprop.123 The possibility cannot be discounted that this council was in some ways another result of the above-mentioned rivalries. In early autumn 1920 there was perhaps even open competition between the two councils. A proposal for a Persian section of this newly founded council, submitted by mainly Azeri Persian communists,124 seems to support this view, but there is currently not enough evidence for a definite answer. Be that as it may, by autumn 1920 the political circumstances in which the Sovinterprop found itself were undergoing significant changes. On the one hand, considerable results had been achieved. The Turkkomissiya had

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been successful in consolidating the situation in Turkistan. Furthermore the Khanate of Khiva (February 1920) as well as the Emirate of Bukhara (September 1920) had come under Bolshevik control. On the other hand, although the ideological convictions that had led to its establishment remained unchanged, the Sovinterprop’s propaganda and agitation into the remaining Eastern countries and especially into Persia were becoming more and more embarrassing for the Narkomindel’s diplomacy of negotiation – an approach that had finally gained the upper hand over the more ‘adventurist’ policies apparently still advocated by Stalin and Ordzhonikidze and their Azerbaijani associates at the time.125 This was true for Moscow’s negotiations with the Persian government, but even more so for the attempts to reach an agreement with Britain.126 One way for the Narkomindel to rebuff British approaches was to deny any direct involvement in the revolutionary movement of Gilan and the activities in Khorasan by simply attributing them to the nominally independent Soviet Republic of Azerbaijan or to the Comintern.127 It must have been in the same vein that the Turkbyuro of the CC of the RCP (B), the organ that had in the meantime replaced the Turkkomissiya, transferred the Sovinterprop into the (nominal) responsibility of the Comintern on 14 October 1920.128 If nothing else this decision perfectly illustrates the dynamism of the ongoing developments during this period. When the Sovinterprop had been established the Turkkomissiya explicitly excluded an affiliation with the Comintern. Ironically enough some eight months later this affiliation was considered necessary for the sake of Moscow’s negotiations with Persia and Britain.

Notes Chapter 1. The First World War, Great Power Rivalries and the Emergence of a Political Community in Iran 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

W.V. Blücher, Zeitenwende, Persian translation Safar-nameh-e Blucher (Tehran: Khwarazmi, 1984), p 37. For the details of the ultimatum see Ahmad Kasravi, Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh-e Azarbayjan, vol. 1, 9th ed. (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1978), pp 235– 40. R. Ramazani, The Foreign Policy of Iran (University Press of Virginia, 1966), pp 103–8. Ibid., p 15. Ibid., p 117. Kaveh 3, no. 29/30 (15 July 1918), pp 9–10. For details of these ethnic and communal conflicts see Ahmad Kasravi, Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh-e Azarbayjan, vol. 2, 9th ed. (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1978), pp 671–783. Ibid., p 674. Abdolhussein Agahi, ‘Shast Sal az Tarikh-e Ta‘sis-e Hezb-e Komonist Iran Gozasht’, Donya, no. 3 (1980), pp 48–9. Ahmad Kasravi, Tarikh-e Mashruteh-e Iran, p 216. A. Banani, The Modernization of Iran, 1921–1941 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1961), p 34. Ibid. See Touraj Atabaki, ‘Pan-Turkism and Iranian Nationalism’ in this volume.

Chapter 2. The Iranian Provisional Government 1.

2.

Invasion by Turkish forces occurred around Lake Urumiyeh with the help of local Kurdish tribes in December 1914. This in turn forced the Russians to bring back the notorious Shoja‘ al-Dowleh, who had governed Tabriz previously with great cruelty. The Turks claimed they were defending their frontiers and entered Tabriz in January 1915, but were later ousted by Russian troops. Turkish incursion into Iran was not limited to Azerbaijan, but they made an attempt to reach the oilfields of Khuzistan, which occasioned the invasion of Ahwaz by the British. In April 1915 Rauf Bey invaded western Iran. See Reza Qoli Nezam Mafi (ed), Ketab-e Sabz (Tehran: Nashr-e Tarikh-e 181

182

3.

4.

5. 6. 7.

8. 9. 10. 11.

12.

13. 14. 15.

IR AN AND THE FIRST WORLD WAR Iran, 1984). There were three political parties in the Third Majles, the Moderates, the Democrats and the ‘Elmiyyeh, which was composed of a number of religious deputies. None of these parties were large or well organized, but with the onset of war the Democrats gained a new lease of life. The agreement negotiated between Russia and Britain settled their disputes in Asia and Iran. The country was divided into spheres of influence and brought about Russo-British political cooperation which upset the old established rivalries between the two big powers. In 1915 the agreement was revised. Ulrich Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, Iran dar Siyasat-e Alman dar Jang-e Jahani-ye Avval, trans Parviz Sadri, 2 vols. (Tehran: Nashr-e Tarikh-e Iran, 1998), vol. 1, pp 65, 69, 120, 174. Ibid., pp 156–7; vol. 2, p 596n.423. In a letter Taqizadeh wrote to the German foreign ministry on 7 December 1915, he mentioned that the Iranian nationalists planned a revolution which should spread everywhere and be led by a Provisional Government and he suggested the need to propagate widely, to spend large sums of money and to boost nationalist and religious fervour. Then he goes on to give a step-by-step plan of how to proceed once the revolution began, which shows how ignorant of the real conditions of Iran he was at the time. Ibid., vol. 2, pp 887–8. Ibid., vol. 1, p 284; vol. 2, p 714n.565. Movarekh al-Dowleh Sepehr, Iran dar Jang-e Bozog, 1914–1918 (Tehran: Chaphkhaneh-e Bank-e Melli, 1957), p 70; Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 1, pp 78–9. W.J. Olson, Anglo-Iranian Relations during World War 1 (London and New York: Frank Cass, 1984), p 78. Farmanfarma claimed to be the first Anglophile of Iran. See Mansoureh Ettehadiyyeh and Sirus Sadvandian (eds), Gozideh’ as Majmu‘eh-ye Asnad-e ‘Abdolhosein Farmanfarma, 3 vols. (Tehran: Nashr-e Tarikh-e Iran, 1987), vol. 2, pp 406, 532. Rauf Bey prepared a force on the western borders of Iran in January 1915 and began to preach jihad, which did not meet with any success. He invaded Iran in March causing devastation and great loss of life. There are 92 reports about the conditions of western Iran during this time, written to the interior ministry and published by Bayat, which give first-hand accounts of Turkish behaviour and the ravages they were causing. See Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 1, pp 136–9; Kaveh Bayat (ed), Iran va Jang-e Jahani-ye Aval, Asnad-e Vezarat-e Kharejeh (Tehran: Sazeman-e Asnad-e Melli, 1990). For a description of the welcome accorded to Prince Reuss and the Austrian ambassador on arriving in Iran, see Sepehr, Iran dar Jang-e Bozorg, pp 161, 167–8. Olson, Anglo-Iranian Relationship, pp 96–112; Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 1, pp 272–3. Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 1, p 272.

NOTES 16. 17.

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Ibid., p 284. J.F. Moberly, ‘Amaliyat dar Iran, dar Jang-e Jahani-ye Aval, 1914–1919, trans Kaveh Bayat (Tehran: Shirazeh, 1990), p 164. 18. There are many eyewitness descriptions of the Russian march from Qazvin to near Tehran and the panic it occasioned in the capital. See Dowlatabadi, Yahya, Hayat-e Yahya, 4 vols, 2nd ed. (Tehran: Atarod va Ferdosi, 1983), vol. 2, p 292; Sepehr, Iran dar Jang-e Bozorg, pp 237–47 19. Bahar Malek-al Shu’ara, Tarikh-e Ahzab-e Siyasi-e Iran, 3rd ed. (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1978), pp 17-18. 20. Sepehr, Iran dar Jang-e Bozorg, p 235; Mansoureh Ettehadiyyeh, Ahzab-e Siyasi dar Majles-e Sevvom, 1333–1334 H.Q. (Tehran: Nashr-e Tarikh-e Iran, 1992), pp 170–1. 21. Mansoureh Ettehadiyyeh, Ahzab-e Siyasi dar Majles-e Sevvom, 1333–1334 H.Q., pp 170–1. 22. Sepehr, Iran dar Jang-e Bozorg, pp 240, 249–50. 23. Ibid. 24. Ibid., p 241. See also Michael J. Lustig, The Muhajerat and the Provisional Government in Kermanshah, 1915–1917, Conflict and Cooperation between the Political Parties, unpublished Ph.D. thesis (New York: New York University, 1987), p 187; Oliver Bast, Almaniha dar Iran, Negahi be Tahavolat-e Iran dar Jang-e Jahani-ye Aval bar Asas-e Manabe’-e Diplomatik-e Faranse, trans Hussein Bani Ahmad (Tehran: Shirazeh, 1998), pp 35–48. 25. Oliver Bast, Almaniha dar Iran, Negahi be Tahavolat-e Iran dar Jang-e Jahani-ye Aval bar Asas-e Manabe’-e Diplomatik-e Faranse, pp 35–48. 26. Gehrke describes Kaunitz as a romantic figure who lacked a real knowledge of the conditions of Iran and who calculated wrongly that there would be a general uprising in Iran. Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 1, pp 197–8, 201. 27. Reza Qoli Khan and his uncle Hussein Qoli Khan (he was the first Nezam Saltaneh, and his nephew, Reza Qoli Khan, inherited the title when the latter died in 1927) had both held governorships in Khuzestan (then called Arabestan) in the reign of Naser al-Din Shah. While there they tried to defend the interests of Iran against Britain’s growing dominance in the Persian Gulf. This caused the British authorities to ask the Iranian government not to give them any governmental posts in the south of Iran for five years. Later there were other instances of conflict between them and the British authorities. There exists no good biography of Reza Qoli Khan Nezam al-Saltaneh as yet, and his life and work have been overshadowed by his part in the Muhajerat. Ibrahim Safa’i in Rahbaran-e Mashrutiyat has written a version of his life, which is not complete, but he has the advantage of having interviewed Mohammad Ali Nezam al-Saltaneh’s eldest son who was with his father in Kermanshah and Istanbul. For more information see Hussein Qoli Khan Nezam al-Saltaneh, Asnad va Madarek Hussein Qoli Khan Nezam al-Saltaneh, 3 vols., eds Ma‘sumeh Mafi, Mansoureh Ettehadiyyeh, Sirus Sadvandian and Hamid Rampisheh (Tehran: Nashr-e Tarikh-e Iran, 1982), vol. 1, pp

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221, 327, and also George N. Curzon, Persia and the Persian Question, 2 vols., 2nd ed. (London and New York: Frank Cass, 1966), vol. 2, p 381. See also Ibrahim Safa’i, Rahbaran-e Mashrutiyat, 2 vols. (Tehran: Javidan, 1982), vol. 2, pp 151–224. After the submission of the present article for publication, the proceedings of the Provisional Government and an account of the political career of Reza Qoli Khan Nezam al-Saltaneh and a selection of his correspondence were published in three volumes. See Reza Qoli Khan Nezam al-Saltaneh, Zendegani Siyasi va Asnad-e Muhajerat, ed Mansoureh Ettehadiyyeh (Tehran: Nashr-e Tarikh-e Iran, 2000). 28. It seems that whenever Reza Qoli Khan Nezam al-Saltaneh felt exasperated with the slow response of the government or the Majles or was thwarted on certain issues, he made sarcastic remarks about democracy and the Majles. He once wrote to his eldest son, Mohammad Ali Salar Mo‘azam, who wanted to stand for election to the Majles as deputy from Luristan, without so much as having seen that constituency, that if all the deputies were like him, he would despair of his country. On another occasion when he travelled from Luristan to Fars in 1911, through impassable mountains and wild terrain, he wrote to him, saying he wished some of the gentlemen who sat in Tehran discussing democracy were there to see what the country was really like (private correspondence). 29. Sepehr, Iran dar Jang-e Bozorg, pp 285–93; Reza Qoli Qaemmaqami, Vaqay’-e Gharb-e Iran dar Jang-e Aval-e Jahani: Yaddasht-haye Nezami az Mah-e Sha‘ban 1333 ta Sha‘ban 1334 HQ (Arak: n.p., 1954), pp 47–52. 30. Reza Qoli Qaemmaqami, Vaqay’-e Gharb- e Iran dar Jang-e Aval-e Jahani: Yaddasht-haye Nezami az Mah-e Sha‘ban 1333 ta Sha‘ban 1334 HQ, pp 47– 52. 31. Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 1, pp 331–2; vol. 2, pp 901–3. 32. Ahmad Kasravi, Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh-e Azarbayjan, 6th ed. (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1972), p 657; Lustig, The Muhajerat, pp 213–15. 33. Lustig, The Muhajerat, p 227. 34. One year before, the central committee of the Democrat Party in Kermanshah was set up with the help of Shunemann, the German consul, who also prepared a force 700 strong which controlled the roads. He also forced the Russian and British consuls to leave the city. When the Muhajerin began to head to Kermanshah, the local governor who supported the central government was also ousted. See Hasan E‘zam Qodsi (quoting Nawab Razavi), Khaterat-e Man, ya Roshan Shodan-e Tarikh-e Sad Saleh, 2 vols. (Tehran: Abu Reyhan, 1971), vol. 2, p 340. 35. Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 1, p 359. 36. E‘zam Qodsi, Khaterat-e man, pp 326–42. 37. Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 1, pp 363–4. 38. Ibid., p 363, and Vahid al-Molk Sheybani, ‘Abdolhosein, Khaterat-e Muhajerat az Dowlat-e Movaqat-e Kermanshah ta Komit-ey Meliyun-e Berlin, eds Iraj Afshar, Kaveh Bayat (Tehran: Shirazeh, 1999), p 47.

NOTES 39.

185

Kaunitz disappeared on the morrow of the battle of Kangavar, where the Iranian forces suffered a great loss of life. Observers who had seen him suggest he felt depressed and took his own life, but his body was never recovered and his death is clouded in mystery. See Sepehr (quoting Nadolny), Iran dar Jang-e Bozorg, p 279, Dowlatabadi, Hayat-e Yahya, vol. 3, pp 319–20, and Qaemmaqami, Vaqay`e Gharb, pp 180–6. 40. Prince Reuss was held responsible for the exodus from Tehran, particularly for refusing to return, when the shah had not followed the Muhajerin to Qom, whereas the Ottoman ambassador had returned to Tehran. He also had a difference of opinion with Kaunitz and had advised caution until sufficient aid had been sent, especially as the general uprising Kaunitz had predicted did not materialize. Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 1, pp 424–6. Oliver Bast, who has studied the relationship between Germany and Iran during the war, thinks it was a mistake to have evacuated the capital (Bast, Almaniha da Iran, pp 76, 88). 41. For more information on the discussion in progress between Dr Vassel and Nezam, see E‘zam Qodsi, Khaterat-e Man, p 359, and Gerhke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 2, pp 785n.22, 782n.7; vol. 1, p 356. 42. Vahid al-Molk, Khaterat, p 144. 43. Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 2, p 909. 44. A number of writers have suggested that there were one or two plots in Qasr to murder Nezam, and apparently their instigator or the one who was to have carried it out was Heidar Khan Amuoghli, a revolutionary who joined the Muhajerin in Qasr. Nezam al-Saltaneh was warned and escaped. It seems that there was also a plot to this effect later in Kermanshah. See Safa’i, Rahbaran, pp 108, 187, and E‘zam Qodsi, Khaterat-e Man, pp 365, 379. 45. Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 1, pp 384–8. 46. Kazemzadeh thought Fevzi Bey, the members of the Moderate Party and the ‘Elmiyyeh were all to blame for having brought about this state of affairs. Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 2, pp 946–56, 962–9. 47. Enver Pasha treated the Iranians with great respect and invited them to the celebrations marking the victory of the Turks over the British. Adib alSaltaneh Sami’i, Hosein, Haj ‘Ez al-Mamalek Ardalan, Amanallah, Avalin Qiyam-e Moqas-e Melli dar Jang-e beyn al-Mellali-ye Avval (Tehran: Ebn-e Sina, 1953), p 31. 48. Apparently Vassel too had begun to doubt the effectiveness of the Democrats; see Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 1, pp 386–7; Lustig, The Muhajerat, pp 268, 270–81. 49. Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 2, pp 965–6. 50. E’zam Qodsi, Khaterat-e Man, pp 375–6. 51. Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 1, pp 388–93, 410. 52. Ibid., vol. 2, 916–22. 53. In order to come to the aid of the Iranian government, which suffered from financial bankruptcy during the war, and in order to control her government

186

54. 55.

56.

57. 58. 59.

60.

61. 62.

63.

IR AN AND THE FIRST WORLD WAR and because a loan would have needed the approval of the Majles, the Allies decided on a moratorium. This was an arrangement by which the Iranian government received a sum from the Allies in monthly instalments equivalent to the customs revenue. The Iranian government was also not required to pay interest on her previous loans. See Olson, Anglo-Iranian Relationship, pp 57, 173–5. Ibid., pp 143–52, 189–92. During the first weeks the names of each person who spoke was noted, then for a while only a summary of the discussions was recorded. But once again it was decided that each person should be named as he spoke and a summary of his speech be noted. However, it seems that discretion was used in this regard, and controversial and sensitive questions were not written down explicitly, which is reminiscent of the records of the Majles, which used the same discretion. ‘Abbas Mirza Salar Lashkar was governor of Hamedan and quitted that city ahead of the Russian attack and joined his father-in-law, Nezam alSaltaneh, with his family in Borujerd, in Luristan. He wrote a short memoir of the events of the Muhjerat, mentioning that at this moment of great danger for the country, he could not think it right to leave and so joined the national forces. Mansoureh Ettehadiyyeh, ‘Madarek-e Tazeh dar Bareh-ye Muhajerat’, Nashriyeh-ye Tarikh 1, no. 1 (1976). Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 1, pp 399, 430; vol. 2, p 123. Ibid. As it was forbidden to correspond in coded messages by telegram, the Muhajerin and the Germans sent their own emissaries with messages. The Muhajerin used a special code, of which the following are some examples: England=Aqa Sayyed Mohammad, the Iranian government=the company, Taqizadeh=‘Abdi, Ain al-Dowleh=Rajab, the deputies=mines, and so on. On one occasion when the members of the cabinet thought it was imperative to have a person in Tehran who could be trusted and who would speak for them, they proceeded to choose him by estekhareh, looking for an augury in the Koran, which Modarres undertook to do, and the name of Qavam alSaltaneh’s came out as best. The Turks feared a forthcoming attack on Baghdad and did not wish to advance too far off. There seems to be no doubt that the Democrats wished to oust Nezam and take the leadership from him, and they particularly opposed his dependence on the Turks. On the whole Nezam’s relationship with the Democrats was difficult and it is possible that they wished to eliminate him. Gehrke writes that Nadolny heard from one of the judges who tried the culprits accused of plotting the murder of Nezam that he had asked for the utmost punishment and ordered the guilty to be executed. However, this is not corroborated by the discussions of the cabinet. Nezam asked the members to decide, saying that for his own part he did not condone execution.

NOTES

187

64. Ardalan Sami’i, Avalin Qiyam-e Moqadas, p 37. 65. Gherke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 2, p 813. 66. Farmanfarma thought the Turks were far worse for Iran than the British, for they had their eyes on Iranian women and their religion, he said. Farmanfama, Majmu’eh-ye Asnad, vol. 2, p 738. 67. Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 2, p 813n.50. 68. Vahid al-Molk, Khaterat, pp 117, 127, 137. 69. Nezam Mafi, Reza Qoli. ‘Shamshir-e Heydari‘, Vahid (summer 1979), pp 35–9. See also Safa’i, Rahbaran, vol. 2, p 201. 70. W.V. Blücher, Safarnameh-ye Blucher, trans Keykavus Jahandari (Tehran: Kharazmi, 1984), pp 79–106. 71. Vahid al-Molk, Khaterat, pp 137, 140, 150, 182; Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 2, p 909. 72. Ibid., vol. 1, pp 380–8, 410–11. 73. Nadolny, who always had a negative opinion of Nezam, expressed doubts about the plot against Nezam’s life. Influenced by this view, Gehrke also expresses his doubts and writes that his dictatorial behaviour became apparent in the affair regarding the so-called plot of murder. Then he adds that this plot was hatched in order to weaken the Democrats, and a number of them were arrested. On Suleyman Mirza’s insistence they were tried on 22 December and were found guilty. Three were condemned to be executed. Others received prison sentences, and it was through Nadolny’s interference that the sentences were changed to banishment. 74. Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 1, pp 435–6, vol. 2, p 845nn.364–6. 75. Ibid., vol. 1, pp 426, 429. 76. Ibid., p 429. 77. Nezam’s family was allowed to go back to Iran by the British authorities at the end of the war. Nezam, who was not allowed to return, made his way to France, where he lived in great financial difficulties, as his estates in Iran were confiscated. At last in the summer of 1921, after much delay and many negotiations, the British and the shah agreed to his return. He was not allowed to cross western Iran, however, but rather go to Mohamareh and traverse a very difficult and mountainous country in the heart of summer in ill health. Apparently he was not allowed to enter Tehran either, but was sent as governor to Khorasan. He remained there for a year and a half and died in 1924 in Tehran. 78. Gehrke, Pish be Suy-e Sharq, vol. 1, pp 449–56. 79. The question of the treaty of Brest-Litovsk has remained something of a puzzle in most history books on the Muhajerat. Apparently at the time, Nezam alSaltaneh sent his son and two other of the Muhajerin to Berlin to meet with Taqizadeh, Vahid al-Molk and Nawab, no doubt in order to plead their cause with the Germans. News of the arrival of the Iranian delegation in Berlin was conveyed by the Iranian chargé d’affaires in Russia to Tehran, and apparently this has been interpreted wrongly as that an Iranian delegation was present at

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Brest-Litovsk. See Sepehr, Iran dar Jang, pp 462, 465, 470, 473. John W. Wheeler-Bennet, Brest-Litovsk, the Forgotten Peace, March 1918, 2nd ed. (New York: The Norton Library, 1966), pp 65–95, 383. 81. Sepehr, Iran dar Jang, p 465. 82. Kaveh, no. 27 (15 April 1918). 83. John W. Wheeler-Bennet, Brest-Litovsk, p 407. 84. Mozakerat-e Majles Chaharom, 5th session, 25th Ziqa’deh 1339/1960 HQ, p 35.

80.

Chapter 3. Going East: The Ottomans’ Secret Service Activities in Iran 1.

2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

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

Research for this chapter was made possible in part by a fellowship from St Antony’s College, University of Oxford (Hilary Term, 1998) and a research grant from the Dutch Academy of Sciences (NWO). The Turkish General Staff Military History and Strategic Studies (ATASE) in Ankara provided exceptional opportunity to access their archive. Undated leaflet distributed in Tabriz. ATASE First World War pamphlet collection. Serge A. Zenkovsky, Pan-Turkism and Islam in Russia (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1960), pp 127–8. Feroz Ahmad, The Making of Modern Turkey (London: Routledge, 1996), p 39. Philip H. Stoddard, The Ottoman Government and the Arabs, 1911 to 1918: A Preliminary Study of the Teşkilat-i Mahsusa, Princeton University Ph.D. thesis (Ann Arbor, Michigan: University Microfilm Inc., 1963), p 17. Jacob M. Landau, The Politics of Pan-Islamism, Ideology and Organisation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), p 106. Lal Baha, ‘Activities of Turkish Agents in Khyber’, Journal of Asiatic Society of Pakistan 14, no. 2 (1969), pp 185–92. The report was written by the Italian Admiralty on 16 October 1916. A copy can be found in Château de Vincent (Paris), Archives de l’Armée de Terre, Archives de la Guerre, 7N2104, in ‘French. Intelligence report, sent to the French ministry of war on 28 October 1916’. Rudolph Peters, Islam and Colonialism: The Doctrine of Jihad in Modern History (The Hague: Mouton, 1979), p 93; T.R. Sareen, Indian Revolutionary Movement Abroad (New Delhi: Sterling, 1979), pp 163–4. For a recent study on the Arab Revolt, see Efraim Karsh and Inari Karsh, ‘Myth in the Desert, or Not the Great Arab Revolt’, Middle East Studies 33, no. 2 (1997), pp 267–312. For an earlier account of Abdulhamid’s pan-Islamist agents’ activities in Central Asia, see Count K.K. Pahlen, Mission to Turkistan (London: Oxford University Press, 1964), pp 43, 49. Stoddard, The Ottoman Government, p 21. Ibid., p 1. Ibid., p 55.

NOTES 15. 16.

189

Ibid., p 58. Arif Cemil, I. Dünya Savaşinda Teşkilat-i Mahsusa (Istanbul: Arba Yayinlari, 1997), p 11. 17. Next to these intelligence organizations, one could add the intelligence department attached to the Ottoman General Staff. 18. Stoddard, The Ottoman Government, p 5. 19. Haci Sami Kuşçubaşizada, the younger brother of Eşref Kuşçubaşizada, who was one of the forerunner leaders of Teşkilat-i Mahsusa. Before the war he was sent by the Teşkilat-i Mahsusa to India. Following the outbreak of the war he was assigned to Russian Turkistan. After the war he met Enver Pasha and encouraged the latter to join the Basmachis. Following the death of Enver Pasha, for a while he continued his anti-Bolshevik guerrilla activities in the region; however, after being wounded he decided to return to Turkey, where in 1927 he was killed by Turkish gendarmes while attempting to cross the border. See Zeki Velidi Togan, Bugünkü Türkili Türkistan ve Yakin Tarihi (Istanbul: Enderun Kitabevei, 1981) pp 465–69; Şevket Süreyya Aydemir, Makedonya’ dan Ortaasya’ya Enver Paşa, Cilt III (Istanbul: Remzi Kitabevi, 1978), p 590; Hüsameddin Ertürk, Iki Perde Devrin Perde Arkasi (Istanbul: Remzi Kitabevi, 1964), pp 192–3. 20. For a detailed account of Dr Bahattin Şakir’s life, see Hikmet Çiçek, Dr. Bahattin Şakir – İttihat ve Terakki‘ dan Teşkilat-i Mahsusa‘ya Bir Türk Jacobeni (Istanbul: Declet Kitaplari, 1973). 21. For a biography of Ömer Naci, see Fethi Tevetoglu, Ömer Naci (Istanbul: Declet Kitaplari, 1973). 22. Ruşani Bey (later Ruşani Barkin) was born in Girit in 1884. After attending the Ottoman Academy of War he joined Teşkilat-i Mahsusa. His knowledge of Persian and Arabic made him a favourite candidate for pursuing Teşkilat-i Mahsusa’s activities in Iran. While accomplishing his activities in Iran, he entered into a deep dispute with other colleagues in Teşkilat as well as with the commanders of the Ottoman army stationed in Iran, which eventually made him leave Teşkilat-i Mahsusa. By the end of the war he returned to Istanbul and joined the pan-Turkist clubs in the city and became the most outspoken figure calling for the establishment of a greater homeland for all Turks. In the Republic of Turkey he formed a political party and joined the new Turkish parliament. Türkiye Büyük Millet Meclisi Albümü 1920–1991 (Ankara: TBMM, 1994). 23. Arif Cemil, I. Dünya Savasinda, p 13. 24. Şevket Süreyya Aydemir, Makedonya’ dan Ortaasya’ya, p 190. 25. Yusuf Zia Talibzadeh was born in Burchali in Georgia in 1877. His father was a high-ranking mullah in the Caucasus region. When Yusuf was a child his mother took him (together with his brother ‘Abdollah, later ‘Abdollah Sha’iq) to Mashhad in order to study. His teacher there was a dissident Anatolian Turk called Zia, after whom Yusuf adopted his middle name. After completing his elementary education in Mashhad, he travelled to Karbala,

190

26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42.

43.

IR AN AND THE FIRST WORLD WAR where he entered an Islamic seminary and eventually became a mullah. Returning to Baku in 1899, he began a career as a translator in the service of Haj Zainol‘abedin Taqiov. At the behest of Taqiov, he translated Kashf al-Haqa‘ iq into Azerbaijani, copies of which were presented to the shah of Iran, the emir of Afghanistan and the Ottoman sultan. Yusuf Zia presented the sultan’s copy in person, and while in Istanbul in 1907 he joined Ittihad ve Terakki. Subsequently he joined the Ottoman army in 1912 and fought bravely in the Balkan War, for which he received the title of Pasha. After the Balkan War, he spent some time as the Ottoman secret service agent in Iranian Azerbaijan. Following the Bolshevik takeover of the Caucasus he temporarily joined the Bolsheviks and lived for several months in Nakhjivan. Later he joined Enver Pasha in Turkistan and became his deputy. Following the death of Enver, he drowned in Amu Darya while attempting to escape to Afghanistan. For Yusef Zia’s personality, see ATASE, K. 1829, D. 56/7, F.1–43. Arif Cemil, I. Dünya Savasinda, p 32. Ibid. Ibid., pp 33–4. Orbay, R, ‘Hatiralar’, Yakinn Tarihimiz, Cilt I (Istanbul: no publisher, 1963), pp 16–29. ATASE, K. 1828, D. 14/1, F. 1–6, F. 1–30. For details of these decrees see Mohammad Hasan Kavusi ‘Araqi and Nasrollah Salehi (eds), Jahadiyyeh: Fatawi-e Jahadiyyeh-e ‘Olama va Maraji‘-e ‘Izam dar Jang-e Jahani-e Aval. (Tehran: Asnad, 1996). FO248/1113, Mashhad Diary, no. 6, 6 February 1915. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. ATASE, K. 1848, D. 111/140, F. 1–3, D. 32/25, F. 33. ATASE, K. 3649, D. 213, F. 31–6. ATASE, K. 3649, D. 213, F. 31–4. ATASE, K. 3649, D. 213, F. 15. Ibid. ATASE, K. 1831, D. 8035/17, F. 43 ATASE, K. 4276, D. 53/584, F. 47. Mohammad Ali Gilak, Tarikh-e Enqelab-e Jangal. Be Ravayat-e Shahedan-e ‘Ayni (Rasht: Gilakan, 1992), pp 24–9. Chaqueri, in his book on the Jangalis, dates the first contacts between Jangalis and the Germans as late as summer 1917. Furthermore he argues that ‘there is absolutely no mention of any collusion between Kuchik Khan and the Germans in Tehran’ prior to summer 1917. See Cosroe Chaqueri, The Soviet Socialist Republic of Iran, 1929–1921, Birth of the Trauma (London: University of Pittsburg Press, 1995), pp 129– 30. ATASE, K. 835/17, F. 1–43.

NOTES

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44. According to Ibrahim Fakhra’i, Hussein Efendi was an Iranian Azerbaijani from Tabriz who studied at Istanbul University and later joined the Ottomans fighting with the Russians in Kurdistan. Following the delivery of arms and ammunition to Kuchik Khan, Hussein Efendi stayed with the Jangalis and took part in their military actions until he was killed in one of the attacks the Jangalis made against the Russian garrison in Khomam. Ibrahim Fakhra’i, Sardar-e Jangal (Tehran: Elmi, 1972), pp 90–1. 45. ATASE, K. 4283, D. 63, F. 5–12. 46. Ibid. 47. Ibid. 48. ATASE, K. 4287, D.89/626, F. 5. 49. ATASE, K. 378, D. 842/1055, F. 18. 50. ATASE, K. 1837, D. 44/41, F. 1–26. 51. Serge A. Zenkovsky, Pan-Turkism, p 125. 52. One such call was Mohammad Amin Rasulzdeh’s article, ‘Maktab va Madreseh’, published in consecutive issues of Açiq Söz, demanding reform in the educational system. See Açiq Söz, 133, 134, 135, 138, 143, 147 (15–31 March 1916). 53. Ibid. 54. ATASE, K. 1834, D. 32/25, F. 33. 55. ATASE, K. 378, D. 842/1055, F. 18. 56. Journal of the Asiatic Society of Pakistan, no. 2 (August 1969), pp 185–6. 57. FO248/1113, Mashhad Diary, no. 3, 15 January 1915. FO248/1142, Mashhad Diary, no. 8, 19 February 1916. 58. FO248/113, Mashhad Diary, no. 12, 20 March 1915. 59. Ibid. 60. Ibid. 61. FO248/1173, Intelligence Summary, no. 3, 20 January 1917. For a detailed report on the movement of German and Ottoman agents in the region, see FO248/1173, Mashhad Memorandum, 11 May 1917. 62. ATASE, K. 1644, D. 27/28, F. 8–8. For the later activities of the Ottomans in Tashkent see ATASE, K. 3663, D. 129/276. 63. ATASE, K. 2922, D. 512. 64. ATASE, K. 193, D. 698/138, F. 24–5. 65. FO371/ 4358, 1918. 66. ATASE, K. 1859, D. 88/142, F. 1–25. K. 3663, D. 129/276, F. 22–5. 67. ATASE, K. 1859, D. 88/142, F. 1–20. 68. ATASE, K. 1848, D. 30/99, F. 1–59. 69. ATASE, K. 50, D. 714/239, F. 21. See also Ahmad Kasravi, Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh-e Azarbayjan, vol. 2, 9th ed. (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1978), p 749. 70. ATASE, K. 50, D. 714/239, F. 21. 71. Ahmad Kasravi, Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh-e Azarbayjan, p 749. 72. ATASE, K. 3818, D. 91/2. 73. Ibid.

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192

74. 75.

Ibid. Ibid., 3.

Chapter 4. Iranian Nationalism and the Government Gendarmerie 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20.

21.

The best account of the Government Gendarmerie is Lt-Col. Parviz Afsar, Tarikh-i Zhandarmiri-yi Iran (Qum, 1332/1956); also useful is Jahangir Qa’im Maqami, Tarikh-i Zhandarmiri-yi Iran (Tehran, 1355/1976). For the Cossack Brigade in this period see Stephanie Cronin, The Army and the Creation of the Pahlavi State in Iran, 1910–1926 (London and New York, 1997). Said Amir Arjomand, The Turban for the Crown: The Islamic Revolution in Iran (Oxford, 1988), p 35. Ibid., p 45. Afsar, Tarikh-i Zhandarmiri, p 31. Iskandari and Musavat later organized and led the Socialist Party. In 1942 Iskandari chaired the Tudah Party. Annual Report, 1912, Townley to Grey, 18 March 1913, FO371/1728/15876; Annual Report, 1913, Townley to Grey, 18 February 1914, FO371/2073/10393. Major Steel, Report on Visits to the HQ of the 1st and 2nd Regiments and Officers and NCO schools, 4 February 1914, FO371/2066/10374. Afsar, Tarikh-i Zhandarmiri, p 74. P. Nyström, Fem Ar i Persien som Gendarmofficer (Stockholm, 1925), pp 27– 8. Hassan Arfa, Under Five Shahs (London, 1964), pp 51–2. Abstract of Budget of Government Gendarmerie, 22 March 1914–21 March 1915, Major Steel, 12 April 1914, FO371/2066/19612. O’Connor to Townley, 22 May 1914, FO371/2071/24903. Ahmad Ali Sipihr, Muvarrikh al-Dawlah, Iran dar Jang-i Buzurg 1914–1918 (Tehran, 1362/1983), p 210. See, for example, the Diary of Dr Zugmayer, dated 13 March 1915 (trans), FO371/2982/177904; McDouall to Marling, 28 August 1915, FO248/1112/171/15. Arfa, Under Five Shahs, p 52. Shuster, The Strangling of Persia (New York, 1912), p 190. Marling to Grey, 24 June 1915, FO371/2433/83699. Hjalmar Pravitz, Frau Persien i Stiltje och Storm (Stockholm, 1918), p 148. Ibid., p 167. W.J. Olson, Anglo-Iranian Relations during World War 1 (London, 1984), p 29. Olson provides the clearest account of the war years in Iran. Also useful is Houshang Sabahi, British Policy in Persia 1918–1925 (London: Frank Cass, 1990). German activities in Iran and German relations with the Democrats are dealt with by Ulrich Gehrke, Persien in der deutschen Orientpolitik während der Ersten Weltkrieges (Stuttgart, c.1960), 2 vols. Olson, Anglo-Iranian Relations, p 25.

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22. Sir William F.T. O’Connor, On the Frontier and Beyond: A Record of Thirty Years’ Service (London, 1931), p 212. 23. Korrespondenzblatt, 15 December 1916 (trans), IOL/P&S/10/585/p 322. 24. Cowan, Qazvin, to Marling, 30 November 1915, FO248/1106. 25. See, inter alia, Sir P. Cox, Basra, to Govt. of India, 11 April 1915, IOL/ P&S/10/484/p1389; O’Connor to Marling, 12 April 1915, IOL/P&S/10/484/ p 1434. 26. Ahmad Akhgar is the only Gendarme officer to have left a personal account of these events. See Sarhang-i Ahmad Akhgar, Zindigi-yi Man dar tul-i Haftad Sal-i Tarikh-i Mu‘asir-i Iran (Tehran, 1366/1987). 27. Marling to Grey, 5 December 1915, FO371/2733/19857. 28. For the Third Majlis see Mansurah Ittihadiyyah, Ahzab-i Siyasi dar Majlis-i Sivvum (1333–1334 H.Q.) (Tehran, 1371/1992). 29. Olson, Anglo-Iranian Relations, p 115. 30. Marling to Grey, 30 November 1915, IOL/P&S/10/585/p 83. 31. Iraj Tanhaten Nasseri, The Muhajirat and the National Government of Kermanshah 1915–17, Ph.D. thesis (Edinburgh: University of Edinburgh, 1980), p 252. 32. These committees were generally known as Committees of National Defence, as was the principal body then at Qom. 33. Afsar, Tarikh-i Zhandarmiri, p 96. 34. Ibid., p 98. 35. Ibid., pp 130–1. 36. For a discussion of the rebellion led by Colonel Pasyan in 1921 and its general significance, see Stephanie Cronin, ‘An Experiment in Revolutionary Nationalism: The Rebellion of Colonel Muhammad Taqi Khan Pasyan in Mashhad, April/October 1921’, Middle Eastern Studies 33, no. 4 (October 1997), pp 693–750. 37. Cowan, Qazvin, to Marling, 30 November 1915, FO248/1106. 38. Afsar, Tarikh-i Zhandarmiri, passim. 39. For a British acknowledgement of the competence of the Gendarme component of the National Army, see Marling to FO, 11 June 1917, FO371/2983/145843. 40. See, for example, the shabnamah distributed in Qasr-i Shirin and reproduced in Yahya Dawlatabadi, Tarikh-i Mu‘asir ya Hayat-i Yahya, 4 vols. (Tehran, 1328–1336/1949–1957), vol. 3, pp 366–9. 41. Afsar, Tarikh-i Zhandarmiri, p 168. 42. Ibid., pp 101–5. 43. For the SPR see Floreeda Safiri, The South Persia Rifles, Ph.D. thesis (Edinburgh: University of Edinburgh, 1976); Olson, Anglo-Iranian Relations, pp 153–213. 44. ‘First Impressions of the Fars Gendarmerie’, Brigadier-General Sir Percy Sykes, Shiraz, 9 December 1916, FO371/2987/50207. 45. Sir Percy Sykes, A History of Persia, 2 vols. (London, 1921), vol. 2, p 472.

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46. Safiri, The South Persia Rifles, pp 251–2. 47. Sir Wolseley Haig, Reminiscences, Private Papers (Oxford: Middle East Centre, St Antony’s College, University of Oxford), ch. 9, p 19. 48. See, for example, the scheme outlined by the prime minister, Ala al-Saltanah, in July 1917. Memorandum from Ala-us-Saltaneh (sic) to Marling, 30 July 1917, FO371/2981/200656. 49. Arfa, Under Five Shahs, p 89. 50. Report of the Anglo-Persian Military Commission, FO371/4911/ C197/197/34. 51. Afsar, Tarikh-i Zhandarmiri, pp 247–8. 52. Major Lahuti, who later became a famous poet in the Persian-speaking Soviet Republic of Tajikistan, led a Gendarme rebellion against the rising power of Riza Khan in January 1922. This rebellion, in Tabriz, developed in an extremely radical direction, drawing ideological inspiration from Bolshevism and support from the ‘Adalat Party as well as local Democrats. See Stephanie Cronin, ‘Iran’s Forgotten Revolutionary: Abulqasim Lahuti and the Tabriz Insurrection’, in Stephanie Cronin (ed), Reformers and Revolutionaries in Modern Iran: New Perspectives on the Iranian Left (RoutledgeCurzon, 2004), pp 118–46; Kaveh Bayat, Kudita-yi Lahuti: Tabriz, Bahman 1300 (Tehran, 1376/1997). 53. Entsiklopediyai Soveti-Tojik (Dushanbe, 1983), pp 159–68. 54. On the Anglo-Persian Military Commission see Kavih Bayat, ‘Qarardadi 1919 va Tashkil-e Qushun-i Muttahid al-Shikl dar Iran’, in Tarikh-i Mu‘asir-i Iran, Majmu‘ah-i Maqalat, 5 vols. (Tehran, 1369/1990), vol. 2, pp 125–40. 55. Report of the Anglo-Persian Military Commission, FO371/4911/ C197/197/34. 56. Chargé d’Affaires, Tehran, to Simla, 10 September 1919, FO371/3865/p 347. 57. Although the British demurred from this interpretation, it has been largely accepted by Iranian sources. See, inter alia, Muhammad Taqi Bahar, Malik al-Shu‘ara’, Tarikh-i Mukhtasar-i Ahzab-i Siyasi-i Iran, 2 vols. (Tehran, 1371/1992), vol. 1, p 40; Arfa, Under Five Shahs, pp 91–2; Afsar, Tarikh-i Zhandarmiri, pp 201–5. 58. Captain Sayyar, Major Kayhan and other Gendarme officers were, for example, involved in the Kumitah-i Ahan (the Committee of Iron), an association of moderate reformers headed by Sayyid Ziya. See Husayn Makki, Tarikh-i Bist Salah-i Iran, 8 vols. (Tehran, 1945), vol. 1, pp 188–9. 59. Afsar, Tarikh-i Zhandarmiri, p 272.

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Chapter 5. A Kurdish Warlord on the Turkish–Persian Frontier in the Early Twentieth Century: Isma‘il Aqa Simko 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

An earlier version of this article was published as ‘Kurdish tribes and the state in Iran: The case of Simko’s revolt’, in Richard Tapper (ed), The Conflict of Tribe and State in Iran and Afghanistan (London: Croom Helm, 1983), pp 364–400, and reprinted in my Kurdish Ethno-Nationalism versus NationBuilding States. Collected Articles (Istanbul: The Isis Press, 2000). A.C. Wratislaw, A Consul in the East (Edinburgh and London: Blackwoods, 1924), pp 213–14, 229–32; W.E.D. Allen and P. Muratoff, Caucasian Battlefields. A History of the Wars on the Turco-Caucasian Border 1818–1921 (Cambridge University Press, 1953); Ahmad Kasravi, Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh-e Azerbayjan (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1968). J. Joseph, The Nestorians and their Muslim Neighbors (Princeton University Press, 1961); K.P. Matiyef (Bar-Mattay), Asurlar: modern çağda Asur ulusal sorunu (Södertälje: Bet-Froso Nsibin, 1996); Surma d Bayt Mar Samcun, Doğu Asur kilise gelenekleri: Patrik Mar Samcun’un katli (Södertälje: BetFroso Nsibin, 1993). Two Kurdish emirates under Ottoman suzerainty, Bitlis (as of around 1650 AD) and Baban (as of 1820), are described in detail and analysed in my Agha, Shaikh and State: The Social and Political Structures of Kurdistan (London: Zed Books, 1992), pp 161–73. For the Baban emirate this is nicely illustrated in C.J. Rich’s diary, Narrative of a Residence in Koordistan … (London: Duncan, 1836), vol. 1, passim. Some time after Rich’s visit in 1820 the ruling Mir, Mahmud Pasha, an unwilling vassal of Baghdad, did in fact switch loyalties and submit to the Iranian heir apparent, Abbas Mirza, thereby precipitating a war between the two empires. Mulla Mustafa Barzani, who among recent contemporary Kurdish leaders was the one most representative of the tribal milieu, was in contact with both powers as early as 1946. He spent 11 years (1947–58) in exile in the USSR, and in the Kurdish war in Iraq, in spite of all vicissitudes, remained in contact and received Soviet support until 1972, when he received definite promises of substantial aid from America. Before that date he had on many occasions attempted to elicit American support, even declaring his willingness to join the USA as the 5lst state. Since 1991, the two major Iraqi Kurdish parties had been highly dependent on the USA for protection against Saddam Hussein, until his fall. The PKK (of Turkish Kurdistan) has depended much on Syrian patronage and has vied – largely unsuccessfully – for Soviet and later Russian support. For instance, the Bilbasi confederacy in the emirate of Bitlis had, according to the Sharafnameh, come from the Hakkari district before the emirate was established; Amir Sharaf Khan Bidlisi, Sharafnameh: Tarikh-e Mofassal-e Kurdistan, ed M. ‘Abbasi (Tehran: Elmi, 1965). For these events and the situation in Botan after the collapse of the emirate,

196

9. 10.

11. 12.

13.

14. 15. 16. 17.

18. 19.

IR AN AND THE FIRST WORLD WAR see van Bruinessen, Agha, Shaikh and State, pp 177–82. Missionary activity in central Kurdistan is excellently described in Joseph, The Nestorians and, more extensively, in Hans-Lukas Kieser, Der verpasste Friede: Mission, Ethnie und Staat in den Ostprovinzen der Türkei 1839–1938 (Zürich: Chronos, 2000). See Richard Tapper, ‘Introduction’, in R. Tapper (ed), The Conflict of Tribe and State in Iran and Afghanistan (London: Croom Helm, 1983). A highly amusing but true account of how a shrewd sheikh manipulated conflict between two rival chieftains and thereby appropriated part of their power as well as their property was written for Basile Nikitine by his Kurdish teacher, the former secretary of the sheikh concerned, Mohammad Seddiq of Nehri. See B. Nikitine and E.B. Soane, ‘The tale of Suto and Tato. Kurdish text with translation and notes’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental Studies, 3, 1 (1923), pp 69–106. For an extensive discussion of the political role of sheikhs in Kurdistan, see van Bruinessen, Agha, Shaikh and State, pp 220–57, 296–9. See the more detailed analysis in van Bruinessen, Agha, Shaikh and State, pp 192–5; also M. van Bruinessen, ‘Les Kurdes, États et tribus’, Études kurdes 1 (Paris, 2000), pp 9–31, esp. pp 11–14. B. Kodaman, Sultan II. Abdulhamit devri Dogu Anadolu politikasi (Ankara, Türk Kültürünü Arastirma Enstitüsü, 1987), pp 21–65; S. Duguid, ‘The politics of unity: Hamidian policy in Eastern Anatolia’, Middle Eastern Studies 9 (1973), pp 139–56; van Bruinessen, Agha, Shaikh and State, pp 185–9. According to Allen and Muratoff, Caucasian Battlefields, p 296, in the first war year the Ottoman Kurds were organized into four Kurdish tribal cavalry divisions. They proved to be so ineffective that two of them were demobilized again. F. Barth, Principles of Social Organization in Southern Kurdistan (Oslo: Jorgensen, 1953). On the Heverkan, see van Bruinessen, Agha, Shaikh and State, pp 101–5; Asiretler Raporu (Istanbul: Kaynak Yayinlari, 1998), pp 234–5. The career of a chieftain who applied these methods with great success, Hajo of the Heverkan confederacy (fl. c.1920–30), is described in some detail in van Bruinessen, Agha, Shaikh and State, pp 101–5. B. Nikitine, Irani keh man shenakhtam (Tehran: Ma’refat, 1951), p 229; W. Eagleton, Jr, The Kurdish Republic of 1946 (Oxford University Press, 1963), p 7. Nikitine was the Russian consul in Urumiyeh at the time; his memoirs are therefore a major primary source. e.g. Rich, Narrative, p 88; C. Sandreczki, Reise nach Mosu1 und durch Kurdistan nach Urmia (Stuttgart: Steinkopf, 1857), vol. 2, p 263. See G. Wiessner, Hayoths Dzor – Xavasor. Ethnische, ökonomische und kulturelle Transformation eines ländlichen Siedlungsgebiets der östlichen Türkei seit dem 19. Jahrhundert (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1997). This is an excellent micro-history of the ‘Valley of the Armenians’ (the Khoshab valley south

NOTES

197

of Van). The early occupation of Van by Russian troops saved most of the inhabitants of this valley from the deportations and massacres of 1915. Many fled during the war; those who remained were forced out by Kurdish tribes after the withdrawal of the last Russian troops in 1917 and fled across the Persian border. 20. The term ‘Nestorian’, which refers to their religious affiliation, was at the time the most common; the communities themselves prefer the name ‘Assyrian’, which includes also the Chaldaeans (East Syrians recognizing the authority of the Church of Rome) and, for the nationalists among them, the West Syrians (‘Jacobites’) as well. Cf. Joseph, Nestorians, pp 3–21. 21. Joseph, Nestorians, pp 33–7; M. Chevalier, Les montagnards chrétiens du Hakkâri et du Kurdistan septentrional (Département de Géographie de ‘l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne, 1985), pp 90–7, 206–20. 22. In 1843 and 1846, Nestorians of central Kurdistan; in 1894–96, Armenians; in 1915, Armenians, followed by all Christian groups. 23. Nikitine, Irani, pp 229–36; Nikitine, Les Kurdes, Étude Sociologique et Historique (Paris: Klincksieck, 1956), pp 216–23. 24. Kamal Madhar Ahmad, Kurdistan during the First World War (London: Saqi, 1994), p 90–2, 130, based on a variety of Russian sources. 25. Joseph, Nestorians, pp 107–13; W. Jwaideh, The Kurdish Nationalist Movement: Its Origins and Development, unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, (Syracuse University, 1960), pp 212–39; van Bruinessen, Agha, Shaikh and State, pp 328–9. 26. Joseph, Nestorians, pp 109f. 27. Malmisanij, Cezira Botanli Bedirhaniler ve Bedirhani Ailesi Dernegi’nin Tutanaklari (Stockholm: Apec, 1994); van Bruinessen, Agha, Shaikh and State, pp 275–9. 28. J. Khaznehdar, Ruznameh-negari dar Kurdistan, trans (from Kurdish) by A. Sharifi (privately published, Mahabad, 1978), p 5. This is not confirmed by Celil or any other source. 29. Abdulrazzaq’s adventures are detailed in Celile Celil, Jiyana Rewsenbiri u Siyasi ya Kurdan (Uppsala: Jina Nu, 1985), pp 114–51; Kamal Madhar Ahmad adds that ‘twenty-nine pupils enrolled in the first class, in which they received instruction in the Kurdish language, using the Cyrillic alphabet in writing, and studied Russian language and literature. The school had also a small hospital attached to it.’ (Ahmad, Kurdistan, p 61). 30. A telling passage in the memoirs of the Kurdish nationalist Zinar Silopi (pseudonym of Jamil Pashazadeh Qadri Beg) relates to his failure to find willing ears for his propaganda among Kurdish officers, because of the prevailing pan-Islamic feeling; Z. Silopi, Doza Kürdüstan (Beyrouth: Stewr, 1969), pp 38–9. 31. Celil, Jiyana Rewsenbiri, pp 150–1; J. McCarthy, Death and Exile: The Ethnic Cleansing of Ottoman Muslims, 1821–1922 (Princeton: The Darwin Press, 1995), p 184.

198

32.

33.

34. 35. 36.

37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42.

43.

44. 45.

46.

IR AN AND THE FIRST WORLD WAR It was especially Wilson’s ideas on self-determination that had an impact on the Kurds. Lenin’s and Stalin’s theses on the same subject were as yet not influential and only became part of Kurdish political discourse in the 1950s and 1960s. H. Arfa, The Kurds. An Historical and Political Study (Oxford University Press, 1966), p 48; M.J. Mashkur, Nazari be Tarikh-e Azarbayjan va Asare Bastani va Jam’ iyatshenasi-ye an (Tehran: Anjoman-e Asar-e Melli, 1971), p 190: A. Dehqan, Sarzamin-e Zardasht. Ouza’-e Tabi’ î, Siyasi, Eqtesadi, Farhangi, Ejtema`i va Tarikhi-ye Reza’ iyeh (Tehran: Ebn Sina, 1969), p 60. Ghilan, ‘Les Kurdes persans et 1’invasion ottomane’, Revue du Monde Musulman, 5 (1908), pp 7, 10, 14. Nikitine, Les Kurdes, p 79. Lists in Ghilan, ‘Les Kurdes’, passim; Mashkur, Nazari, p 190; Dehqan, Sarzamin, p 60; V. Minorsky, ‘Shikak’ EI, lst ed., 4, 1, p 290; Central Asian Review 7 (1959), p 179 (after Sovremennyj Iran); and in Prof. Wolfgang Rudolph’s fieldnotes, which he kindly showed me. Ghilan, ‘Les Kurdes’, p 14. O. Blau, ‘Die Stämme des nordöstlichen Kurdistan’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 12 (1858), p 593. V. Minorsky, Somai, EI, lst ed., 4, 2, p 482; Ghilan, ‘Les Kurdes’, pp 10– 13. A. Sharifi, Ashayer-e Shikak va Sharh-e Zendegi-ye Anha be Rahbari-ye Isma’ il Aqa Simko (Mahabad: Sayyedian, 1970), pp 10–11. Some sources suggest that Ja’far and Isma’il were ‘Ali Aqa’s sons; others make them his grandsons and give their father’s name as Mohammad. Ghilan, ‘Les Kurdes’, pp 7–9, 14; other accounts of Ja’far Aqa’s killing in Wratislaw, Consul, pp 207–9; Nikitine, Les Kurdes, p 79; Sharifi, Ashayer, p 12; G. Moradi, Ein Jahr autonome Regierung in Kurdistan: Die MahabadRepublik 1946–1947 (Hochschule Bremen, 1992), pp 161–2. Ghilan, ‘Les Kurdes’, p 7, p 9n.; M. Aghasi, Tarikh-e Khoy (Tabriz: Faculty of Arts, 1971), pp 312–13. A possible reason why Simko may have attacked the constitutionalists voluntarily is the fact that the latter saw the Turkish invasion of 1906, in which many Kurds took part, as directed against themselves and in support of the shah. ‘Anti-Kurdish sentiment flared, and there was rioting against members of the Sunni sect’, R. Cottam, Nationalism in Iran (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1964), pp 68–9. Kasravi, Tarikh, pp 454–5. These were Teymur Jang and Mohammad Sharif Aqa of the village of Somay. See L.W. Adamec (comp.), Historical Gazetteer of Iran, Part I. Tehran and Northwestern Iran (Akademische Druck- und Verlaganstalt, Graz, 1976), entry ‘Somay’, quoting Voennyj Sbornik. Sharifi, Ashayer, p 17. On Sayyed Taha and other descendants of Sheikh Ubeydullah mentioned in this article, see M. van Bruinessen, ‘The Sâdatê Nehrî or Gîlânîzâde of Central Kurdistan’, Journal of the History of Sufism 1–

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2 (2000), pp 79–91, reprinted in van Bruinessen, Mullas, Sufis and Heretics: The Role of Religion in Kurdish Society (Istanbul: The Isis Press, 2000). 47. Eagleton, Republic, p 7. 48. J. Khaznehdar, Ruznameh-negari dar Kurdistan, p 5. This was not Simko’s only involvement in Kurdish publishing. Later in his career, in 1921, he had a bilingual newspaper of a Kurdish nationalist nature published in Urumiyeh; this was called Kurd dar Sa1-e 1340, and was edited by Mulla Mohammad Tarjani of Mahabad; see M. Tamaddon, Tarikh-e Reza’ iyeh (Tehran: Islamiyeh, 1971), p 371, quoted in A. Sharifi, Shureshha-ye Kurdane Mukri dar Doran-e Saltanat-e Dudman-e Pahlavi (Tabriz: Shafaq, 1978), p 6. Oriente Moderno, 1, 9 (15 February 1922), p 548, mentions a paper, Il Kurdistan indipendente, published in Savoj Bulagh, which is probably the same paper. 49. Kasravi, Tarikh, p 829; Aghasi, Tarikh, pp 352–3; Sharifi, Ashayer, pp 18– 19. 50. H. Arfa, Under Five Shahs (London: Murray, 1964), p 122. 51. Kasravi, Tarikh, pp 725–33, 829; Arfa, Kurds, pp 50–4; Joseph, Nestorians, pp 138–44; Aghasi, Tarikh, pp 384–8; F.G. Coan, Yesterdays in Persia and Kurdistan (Claremont: Saunders, Col., 1939), pp 264–70. 52. Ibid., pp 270–2. 53. Kasravi, Tarikh, pp 830–2; Sharifi, Ashayer, pp 19–20, 30–6; M. Bamdad, Sharh-e Ha1-e Rejal-e Iran (Tehran: Zawar, 1968), vol. l, p 136; Jwaideh, Nationalist Movement, pp 401–2. 54. Précis of Affairs in Southern Kurdistan during the Great War (Baghdad: Government Press, 1919), p 14; Jwaideh, Nationalist Movement, p 403. 55. FO371/1919: No. 58/89585/512. A later denial of this by Simko himself (in a letter to the British consul-general at Tabriz) is enclosed in FO371/1919: W 34/88614/7972. For the rumours about the repatriation of the Nestorians and their effects, see also Jwaideh, Nationalist Movement, pp 413–15. 56. Kasravi, Tarikh, pp 839–41, pp 851–2; Arfa, Kurds, p 57. 57. See Kasravi’s rather unsatisfactory explanation, Tarikh, 854f.; the similar one in Aghasi (implicating Prime Minister Vosuq al-Dowleh), Tarikh, pp 440–4; and Sharifi’s suggestion of British pressure, Ashayer, pp 47–8. 58. Dehqan, Sarzamin, pp 574–6. 59. These estimates are given in FO371/1921: E 6185/ 100/93; Arfa, Kurds, p 58; FO371/1921: E 13470/100/93; and Arfa, Shahs, p 136, respectively. 60. FO371/1920: E 15670/11/44; 1921: E 13470/l00/93. 61. Arfa, Kurds, p 59. 62. FO371/1922: E 2402/96/65. 63. FO371/1921: E 13470/l00/93. 64. FO371/1922: E 8437/6/34; A.J. Toynbee, Survey of International Affairs 1925, Part I. The Islamic World since the Peace Settlement, (Oxford University Press, 1927), p 539; Jwaideh, Nationalist Movement, p 410. 65. Toynbee, Survey, pp 538–9.

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66. The military campaigns of 1921 and 1922 are described in detail in Arfa, Shahs, pp 118–41; Arfa, Kurds, pp 58–63; Dehqan, Sarzamin, pp 585–94; and in the report by the British military attaché at Tehran enclosed in FO371/1922: E 12242/1076/34. 67. C.J. Edmonds, Kurds, Turks, and Arabs. Politics, Travel and Research in NorthEastern Iraq 1919–1925 (Oxford University Press, 1957), pp 305–7. 68. On Simko’s last years, see Jwaideh, Nationalist Movement, pp 410–13; Arfa, Kurds, p 63. On his killing, see A.M. Hamilton, Road Through Kurdistan (London: Faber and Faber, 1937), pp 162–4; Sharifi, Ashayer, pp 64–71. 69. FO371/1922: E 8437/6/34. 70. Arfa, Shahs, p 141. 71. Aghasi, Tarikh, pp 457–8. Simko was, however, informed and put Amr Khan under surveillance at Chahriq. After Simko’s defeat the government arrested Amr Khan and imprisoned him for several years. 72. Sharifi, Ashayer, pp 64–5. 73. The following is an excerpt from a letter sent by Simko to Babakr Aqa, in which he asks him to demand British support on his behalf: ‘I am aware that my reputation is one of treachery and deceit in dealing with Governments and I therefore address you who have a standing credit in the eyes of the British Government upon the following matter: my recent actions and all my actions have no hostile intention with respect to the British Government. On the contrary, I have a sincere desire to be on friendly terms with that Government on my behalf for the purpose of arranging some mutual understanding’ (enclosed in FO371/1921: E 11773/43/93). 74. Claimed by Aghasi, Tarikh, p 458, and, in a different version, by Sharifi Ashayer, p 59. I have found no further confirmation of these claims. Chapter 6. Ahmad Kasravi on the Revolt of Sheikh Mohammad Khiyabani 1.

A large number of primary and secondary sources may be cited in relation to Iranian history during the First World War. See, for example, Homa Katouzian, ‘The campaign against the Anglo-Iranian Agreement of 1919’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 1, 24 (1997), and ‘Liberty and licence in the Constitutional Revolution of Iran’, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 2, 8 (1998); Mokhber al-Saltaneh (Mehdiqoli Hedayat), Khaterat va Khatarat (Tehran: Zawar, 1984); Abdollah Mostowfi, Sharh-e Zendegani-ye Man, vol. 2 (Tehran: Zawar, 1964); Yahya Dawlat-Abadi, Hayat-e Yahya, vols. 3 and 4 (Tehran: Attar & Ferdawsi, 1983); Ahmad Kasravi, Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh-e Azerbayjan (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1992); Poet-Laureate Bahar, Tarikhe Mokhtasar-e Ahzab-e Siyasi dar Iran, vol. 1 (Tehran: Jibi, 1978); William J. Olson, Anglo-Iranian Relations during World War I (London: Frank Cass, 1984); Javad Shaikholeslami, Sima-ye Soltan Ahmad Shah, vol. 1 (Tehran: Nashr-e Goftar, 1989); Floreeda Safiri, The South Persian Rifles, unpublished Ph.D. thesis (Edinburgh: University of Edinburgh, 1976); Malcolm E. Yapp, ‘The last years of the Qajar dynasty’ in Hussein Amir Sadeghi, assisted by

NOTES

2. 3.

4.

5.

6. 7. 8.

9.

201

R.W. Ferrier, Twentieth Century Iran (London: Heinneman, 1977); Ervand Abrahamian, Iran between Two Revolutions (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982); Nikkie R. Keddie, Roots of Revolution (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1981); Homa Katouzian, The Political Economy of Modern Iran (London and New York: Macmillan and New York University Press, 1981); and The State and Society in Iran: The Eclipse of the Qajars and the Rise of the Pahlavis (London and New York: I.B.Tauris, 2000). See, for example, Kasravi, Mokhber al-Sataneh, and Dawlat-Abadi in note l above, Mostofi, Sharh-e Zendegani-ye Man, vol. 3; and Hooshang Sabahi, British Policy in Persia, 1918–1925 (London: Frank Cass, 1990). See the text of Modarres’ speech in the Sixth Majles, where he fully explained the reasons for his campaign to bring Vosuq to power as well as his opposition to the 1919 agreement, quoted in Hussein Makki, Tarikh-e Bist Saleh-e Iran, vol. 4 (Tehran: Elmi, 1995). Kasravi, Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh is a good source, especially on the Nayeb Hossein gang and their dispersal by Vosuq. See also Abolqasem Kahhalzadeh, Dideh-ha va Shenideh-ha, Khaterat-e Abolqasem Kahhalzadeh, ed Morteza Kamran (Tehran: Nashr-e Farhang, 1984). For a detailed study of the genesis of the agreement, see William J. Olson, ‘The genesis of the Anglo-Persian Agreement of 1919’, in Elie Kedourie and Sylvia G. Haim (eds), Towards a Modern Iran (London: Frank Cass, 1980). For a wider discussion of British policy see Sabahi, British Policy in Persia, 1918–1925; see also Katouzian, State and Society in Iran. See Katouzian, ‘The campaign against the Anglo-Iranian Agreement of 1919’; Olson, ‘The Genesis of the Anglo-Persian Agreement of 1919’; and Javad Shaikholeslami, Sima-ye Ahmad Shah, vol.1. See Katouzian, ‘The campaign against the Anglo-Iranian Agreement’, and State and Society, chapters 4 and 5. There are now a large number of primary as well as secondary sources on the history of the Jangali movement, for example, Ibrahim Fakhra’i, Sardar-e Jangal, Mirza Kuchik Khan (Tehran: Javidan, 1978), and Cosroe Chaqueri, The Soviet Socialist Republic of Iran, 1920–1921: Birth of the Trauma (Pittsburgh: Pittsburgh University Press, 1995), and the references therein. But for the specific point in hand about Vosuq’s appeasement policy towards the Jangalis in late 1919 and early 1920, see especially Major C.J. Edmonds’ reports to Cox for the months of October 1919 to May 1920, The Edmonds Papers (manuscripts in Oxford: The Middle East Centre, St Antony’s College). See Katouzian, ‘The campaign against the Anglo-Iranian Agreement of 1919’. The conversations and correspondence between Vosuq, Cox, Firuz and Curzon over ‘the Bolshevik menace’ are extensively documented in British Documents on Foreign Diplomacy. On the delegation sent to Baku for an agreement, see also Edmonds’ reports to Cox for the months of November 1919, February 1920 and March 1920, and his special report of 19 April 1920 on his meeting with Sayyed Zia al-Din (Iran’s chief delegate to Baku en route

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back to Tehran) in Qazvin, The Edmonds Papers. See the Curzon–Cox correspondence in BDFP, Vol. iv; Fakhra’i, Sardrar-e Jangal; Chaqueri, The Soviet Socialist Republic of Iran; Aryeh Y. Yodfat, The Soviet Union and Revolutionary Iran (London: Croom Helm, 1984); Martin Sicker, The Bear and the Lion: Soviet Imperialism in Iran (New York: Praeger, 1988). Edmonds’ report for April and May, 1920, The Edmonds Papers; General Hassan Arfa‘, Under Five Shahs (London: John Murray, 1964); Katouzian, ‘The campaign against the 1919 Agreement’. 11. See Ahmad Kasravi, Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad Khiyabani, ed and introd Homa Katouzian (Tehran: Nahsr-e Markaz, 1997). 12. See Sharh-e Hal va Eqdamat-e Sheikh Mohammad Khiyabanii, no. 14 (1926), reprinted in Entesharart-e Iranshahr (Tehran: Eqbal, 1972). 13. Ibid., pp 32–3. The name of Biverling has been transliterated back from the Persian into the Latin script, as it has not been possible to find his name mentioned anywhere in its original European form. But it is likely that the transliterated rendering is close to the original. 14. See Kasravi, Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad, p 90. In his Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh-e Azarbayjan, Kasravi describes and discusses Khiyabani’s revolt, but he does not give an extensive account of the man, the background to the revolt, and so on. He is also somewhat less extensive and less outspoken in his criticisms of Khiyabani’s policies and style of leadership, perhaps because by that time the myth of Khiyabani had become too well entrenched. There is more on his personal relationship with Khiyabani in his autobiography Zendegani-ye Man (Tehran: Nashr va Pakhsh-e Ketab, 1944, 1976). 15. Kasravi, Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad, p 98. 16. Ibid., p 104. 17. Ibid., p 106. 18. Ibid., pp 113–14. The discussion of the terrorist committee is extensive and sometimes detailed in the manuscript. In Zendegani-ye Man, p 88, there is just a fleeting reference to it, and the role of Khiyabani is submerged in a couple of words such that the reader who has not read the manuscript would not be able to discern it. In Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh, pp 690–703, the names and political inclinations of many of the victims are mentioned, but the account is intermingled with the description of other events. More significantly, there is just a brief reference, p 692, to the fact that the Democrat Party leadership was suspected of being behind the terror, but no names are mentioned. 19. See Abdollah Bahrami, Khaterat-e Abdollah Bahrami, vol. 1 (Tehran: Bahrami, n.d.) (the date of the preface is July 1965). 20. Kasravi, Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad, p 128. 21. Ibid., chapter 3. 22. There is an extensive (though rather uncritical) discussion of Taqi Raf‘at as a literary critic, and his literary debates with Bahar, in Yahya Arianpur, Az Saba ta Nima (Tehran: Zavvar, 1993). 23. Kasravi, Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad, chapter 3. 10.

NOTES

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24. Ibid., p 107. 25. Ibid., chapter 5. 26. See Kasravi, Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh, part 3, chapter 16, and part 4, chapter 6. 27. See Edmonds’ report for December 1919, The Edmonds Papers. 28. Mozaffar A‘lam turned out to be a man for all seasons. In 1923 he made a signed confession to the police that he had tried to organize the assassination of Reza Khan on behalf of Qavam al-Saltaneh when the latter was prime minister. The circumstances and details of the confession make it unlikely that the charge against Qavam was true, but perhaps it served its purpose in enabling Reza Khan both to become prime minister and to exile Qavam. Far from receiving any punishment for his active role in organizing the alleged assassination plot, A‘lam became an important state official under Reza Shah. In August 1953 he was ambassador to Baghdad, where Mohammad Reza Shah flew after the failure of his first coup against Mosaddeq. Under express instructions from the Iranian foreign ministry, A‘lam did not receive the shah in Baghdad as the Iranian head of state, and therefore lost his post and the court’s favour after the second and successful coup of 19 August. 29. Ernest Bristow, ‘Report on Azerbaijan during 1920’, The Edmonds Papers. 30. See Edmonds’ report for January and February, ibid. 31. See Edmonds’ report for April and May, ibid. 32. Kasravi, Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad, chapter 4, pp 137–8. 33. Ibid., pp 139–40. 34. Ibid., chapter 5. 35. Most of his speeches have been published – over 200 pages – in Ali Azari, Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad Khiyabani dar Tabriz (Tehran: Safi‘alishah, 1983), pp 288–488. A few remaining speeches have been published in Iranshahr, no. 14. For an analysis of the speeches see Homa Katouzian, ‘The revolt of Shaikh Mohammad Khiyabani’, IRAN, XXXVII (1999). 36. The communiqué is not mentioned in the manuscript, but has been quoted fully in Kasravi, Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh, p 868. 37. Ibid., p 845. He makes the same point repeatedly and much more elaborately in Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad. 38. See Tarikh-e Hijdah Saleh, p 846. 39. Ibid., p 873. 40. Kasravi, Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad, chapter 5, pp 151–4. 41. Ibid., pp 147–9. 42. C.J. Edmonds, ‘Note on an interview with Sheikh Mohammad Khiyabani’ on 1 May 1920, sent together with a memorandum, on 12 May 1920, to the British minister in Tehran, the British civil commissioner in Baghdad and assistant political officer in Tabriz, The Edmonds Papers. 43. Edmonds’ report for April and May, 1920, The Edmonds Papers. 44. Evidence from both Turkish and Russian archives have confirmed that their agents in Tabriz at the time also saw Khiyabani and his movement in this

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light. See also Katouzian, ‘The revolt of Sheikh Mohammad’. 45. Edmonds, ‘Note on an interview’, The Edmonds Papers. 46. Kasravi, Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad, pp 158–9. 47. See also Katouzian, ‘The campaign against the Anglo-Iranian Agreement of 1919’. 48. See also Katouzian, State and Society, chapter 6. 49. Ibid. 50. Kasravi, Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad, p 163. 51. See also Katouzian, State and Society, chapter 6. 52. The three sources in which – at different lengths – Mokhber relates and discusses the fall of Khiyabani are his Khaterat va Khatarat, Gozraresh-e Iran (Tehran: Noqreh, 1984), and the little-known booklet, Bar Man Cheh Gozasht. This was recently reprinted in Ayandeh under the title, ‘Nokteh-ha’i dar Tarikh-e Mashrutiyat’ (January–March 1993). The figures for the money sent by Moshir to Khiyabani are quoted in this last source, p 966. In Khaterat va Khatarat, he mentions one payment of 20,000 tuman only, although it is clear from the context that that was not necessarily the only money Moshir sent to Khiyabani. 53. Ibid., p 313. 54. Ibid. 55. Ibid., pp 313–14. 56. Kasravi, Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad, p 165. 57. See Khaterat va Khatarat, pp 315–16. The point about using the two consuls as intermediaries is also in ‘Nokteh-ha’i dar Tarikh’, p 966. 58. See Khaterat va Khatarat, p 316. This is repeated more briefly in ‘Nokteh-ha’i dar Tarikh’, p 967. 59. Kasravi, Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad, p 161. 60. Khaterat va Khatarat, p 317. 61. See Badamchi, ‘Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad’, Iranshahr, no. 14, p 38. 62. See ‘Nokteh-ha’i dar Tarikh’, p 968. 63. Khaterat va Khatarat, 318, no. 1. 64. ‘Nokteh-ha’i dar Tarikh’, p 968; Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad, pp 167–8. 65. See Iranshahr, no. 14, p 38. 66. ‘Nokteh-ha’i dar Tarikh’, p 969, and ‘Khaterat va Khatarat’, p 319. 67. See Kasravi, Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad, p 168. 68. See Khaterat va Khatarat’ p 320, and ‘Nokteh-ha’i dar Tarikh’, p 968. 69. In the Persian original: ‘Gar khun-e Khiyabani-ye mazlum bejushad/ Sartasare Iran kafan-e sorkh bepushad. For the complete poem, see Mohammad Malekzadeh (ed), Divan-e Bahar, vol. l (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1956), pp 313– 15. 70. Ibid. In the Persian original: ‘Kosht an Hasan az bahr-e vatan gar do seh Kashi / Kosht in Hasan ahrar-e vatan ra cho mavashi’. 71. See Kasravi, Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad, pp 169–70. In Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh only the latter point, about Bahar’s earlier criticism and Khiyabani’s

NOTES

72. 73.

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angry reaction to it, has been mentioned. See p 883. See Malek al-Sho‘ara Bahar, ‘Tarikh-e Mokhtasar-e Ahzab-e Siyasi dar Iran’ (Tehran: Jibi, 1978), p 54. See Kasravi, Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad, p 170.

Chapter 7. Pan-Turkism and Iranian Nationalism 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

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

An earlier version of this chapter was published in W. van Schendel and E.J. Zürcher (eds), Identity Politics in Central Asia and Muslim World (London: I.B.Tauris, 2001). E.J. Hobsbawm, Nation and Nationalism since 1780: Programme, Myth, Reality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), p 102. K. Renner, Staat und Nation, p 89, quoted in E.J. Hobsbawm, ibid., p 101. For the details of the ultimatum see A. Kasravi, Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh-e Azarbayjan, vol. 1, 9th ed. (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1978), pp 235–40. R. Ramazine, The Foreign Policy of Iran (Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1966), pp 103–8. Ibid., p 115. S.A. Zenkovsky, Pan-Turkism and Islam in Russia (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1960), pp 127–8. R. Orbay, ‘Hatiralar’, Yakinn Tarihimiz, Cilt I (Istanbul: Türkpetrol, 1963), pp 16–29. B. Lewis, The Emergence of Modern Turkey (London: Oxford University Press, 1962), p 338. Mehmet Amin, Türkçe Şirler, 1897, cited in B. Lewis, Modern Turkey, p 337. The name ‘Turk’ in Turkish usage, as well as in Persian, had always connoted a barbarian, robber, plunderer, vagabond and an ignorant person. See F. Steingass, Persian–English Dictionary (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1977), p 296. Akçuroğlu Yusuf, Üç Terz-i Siyaset (Cairo: Matba`eh-i Qadr, 1909), pp 11– 12. Akçuroğlu Yusuf (ed), Türk Yılı 1928 (Istanbul: Yeni Metba`a, 1928), p 396. Lewis, Modern Turkey, p 343. M. Arai, Turkish Nationalism in the Young Turk Era (Leiden: Brill, 1992), p 20. Ibid., p 344. Lewis, Modern Turkey, p 345. Zia Gökalp, Türkçülük Esasları (The Principle of Turkism) (Leiden: Brill, 1968), p 17. Ibid. Türk ‘Alemi Türk Yurdu, Birici Cilt 1327–1328 (Istanbul: Tanin Matba‘asi, 1328/1912), p 16. ‘Iran Türkleri’, Türk Yurdu, Birici Cilt 1327–1328 (Istanbul: Tanin Matba‘asi, 1328/1912), pp 106–11, 428–32, 551–6, 648–56, 670–2, 755–60. See for example, Şalalé (17 January 1914).

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22. See for example, Açiq Söz (20 August 1917). 23. Açiq Söz (18 October 1917). Among the founders of Turk Ocağı was Abdollah Sha’iq, the younger brother of Yusuf Zia. For a biography of Yusuf Zia Talibzadeh, see Chapter 3, note 25. 24. Zenkovsky, Pan-Turkism and Islam in Russia, p 262. 25. FO371/4358, 1918. 26. Açiq Söz (17 January 1918). 27. On the process of self-identification, see Thomas Hylland Eriksen, Ethnicity and Nationalism: Anthropological Perspectives (London: Pluto Press, 1993), pp 9–10. 28. Mohammad Khan Tarbiyat was the founder of the Democrat Party’s Baku Committee and the director of the Iranian Ettehad school in Baku. Other members were: Mirza Mahmud Khan Parvaresh, Mirza ‘Abdollah ‘Abdolahzadeh, Sheikh Baqer Shirazi, Azhdar ‘Alizadeh, Hussein Khayyat, Hussein Mahmuzadeh, Mir Hussein Motazavi, Mirza ‘Aliqoli (from Ashgabat, who later became the editor of the newspaper Azarbayjan, Joz’-e Layanfakk-e Iran), Mir Jafar Javadzadeh Pishavari, Haj Mo‘alem Ja‘farzadeh Khalkhali, Mirza Aqa Valizadeh, Sayfollah Ibrahimzadeh, ‘Aliakbar Osku’i (founder of Iranian guild, labour’s executive committee). Because of his political activities Parvaresh had to leave Baku in 1916; he went illegally to Iran. After the Russian Revolution of February 1917, the Democrat Party began to operate legally. See S. Javid, Iran Sosyal Demoktar (‘Adalat) Firqasi Haqinda Khataralarim (Tehran: Lithography, 1980), pp 9–10. The other Iranian societies and organizations in Baku included the Iran Independent Party, a pro-Iranian government party (Javid, p 11), Sanduq-e Ta`avon-e Madreseh-e Ettehad-e Iraniyan-e Baku (Javid, p 13), Jam‘ iyat-e Ma‘aref-e Iran (an ‘Adalat Party front) (Javid, p 17), and Ejtema‘ iyun-Enqelabiyun (SosyalRevolusiyoner). ‘Ali Bayramov, was killed by the Musavatists during their reign (Javid, p 19). Furthermore, the Iranians had two schools: Ettehad in the city centre and Tamadon in the Sabunchi district. In March 1918, following the conflict between the Musavatists and the Baku Commune, almost all Iranian societies were liquidated (Javid, pp 14–15). 29. Javid, Iran Sosyal Demoktar (‘Adalat) Firqasi Haqinda Khataralarim, p 10. 30. On the origin of reconstructing Iran’s pre-Islamic history in the nationalist discourse, see M. Tavaqoli-Targhi, ‘Contested memories: narrative structure and allegorical meaning of Iran’s pre-Islamic history’, Iranian Studies 29, nos. 1–2 (1996), pp 149–75. 31. Azarbayjan Joz’-e Layanfakk-e Iran, nos. 2 and 3 (2 and 6 February 1918). 32. I. Gershoni, ‘Imagining and reimagining the past: the use of history by Egyptian nationalist writers, 1919–1952’, History and Memory, 4, no. 2 (Fall/Winter 1992), p 7. 33. T. Nipperdey, ‘In search of identity: romantic nationalism, its intellectual, political and social background’, in J.C. Eade (ed), Romantic Nationalism in Europe (Australian National University, 1983), p 11.

NOTES

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

FO371/4358, 1918. For a biography of Yusuf Zia Talibzadeh, see Chapter 3, note 25. FO371/4358, 1918. Ahmad Kasravi, Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh-e Azarbayjan, p 749. Ibid. Ibid., p 872. Ali Azari, Qiyam-e Sheikh Mohammad Khiyabani dar Tabriz (Tehran: Safi’alishah, 1983), p 299. 41. FO371/6342, 1921. 42. J.J. Linz, and A. Stepan, Problems of Democratic Transition and Consolidation: Southern Europe, South America, and Post-Communist Europe (London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996), p 25 43. ‘Türk Ocaginda Konfirans’, Yeni Mecmu’a 81 (2 August 1923), pp 317–18. On the biography of Ruşani Bey see note 22 of my other chapter in this volume, ‘Going East: The Ottomans’ Secret Service Activities in Iran’. 44. See for example, Ayandeh, no. 1 (1925), no. 8 (1926) and Iranshahr, no. 2 (1923). The magazine Iranshahr was first published in Berlin in June 1922. The editor, Hussein Kazemzadeh, maintained close contact with intellectuals in Europe who were involved with Iranian studies, and his magazine was soon exercising a powerful influence in political and intellectual circles in Iran. During the five years of Iranshahr’s existence, 48 issues appeared and special attention was often paid to Azerbaijan. Indeed there were nine long articles devoted to the subject. 45. M. Afshar, ‘Aghaz-nameh’, Ayandeh, no. 1 (1925). 46. M. Afshar, ‘Khatar-e zard va siyah’, Ayandeh, no. 24 (1927). 47. Nipperdey, ‘In search of identity’, p 15. Chapter 8. The Populists of Rasht: Pan-Islamism and the Role of the Central Powers Abbreviations: AA: Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amts (Berlin) NA: The National Archives (London) 1.

A. Sultanzade (Hormoz Mikaelian), Sovremennaya Persiya (Moscow: Narodnyi Komissariat po delam Natsional’nostey, 1922); Irandust (Vladimir Osetrov), ‘Voprosy Gilianskoy revolyutsii’, Istorik Marksist 5 (1927); R. Abikh, ‘Natsional’noe i revolyutsionnoe dvizhenie v Persii (vospominanya Ekhsan-Ully-Khana), Novyy Vostok, pp 23–4 (1928), pp 26–7 (1929), p 29 (1930); Mikhail S. Ivanov, Enqelab-e Mashruteh-e Iran (Tehran: Jibi, 1979), and Tarikh-e Novin-e Iran (Tehran: Tufan, 1977); Maria N. Ivanova, Natsional’no-osvoboditel’noe dvizhenie v Irane v 1918–1922 gg. (Moscow: Izdatel’stvo, 1961). The Soviets have had their Iranian disciples too. For one example, see Sirus Bahram Akhundzadeh, ‘Khaterat-e Rafiq Sirus Bahram (Mirza Mohammad Akhundzadeh)’, in Donya, nos. 1 and 2 (1973).

208

2.

3.

4. 5.

6. 7. 8. 9.

IR AN AND THE FIRST WORLD WAR Ibrahim Fakhra’i, Sardar-e Jangal, 10th ed. (Tehran: Javidan, 1982); Mahmud Payandeh, Doktor Heshmat-e Jangali (Tehran: Sho‘leh-e Andisheh, 1989); Pour Reza et al, Bozorgmardi az Tabar-e Jangal: Yadnameh-e Ibrahim Fakhra’ i (Tehran: Talayeh, 1989); Mustafa Sho’aian, Negahi be Ravabet-e Showravi va Nehzat-e Enqelabi-e Jangal (Florence: Mazdak, 1970); Mohammad J. Tahiri, Sho‘ leh-e Sham’-e Jangal (Rasht: Tahiri, 1980); Mohammad Hasan SaburiDeylami, Negahi az Darun be Enqelab-e Mosallahane-e Jangal (Tehran: n.p., 1979); Sadeq Kuchikpour, Nehzat-e Jangal (Rasht: Gilakan, 1990); Mohammad Ali Gilak, Tarikh-e Enqelab-e Jangal (Rasht: Gilakan, 1992). We could add the following professionals to the list: Mahmud Ketabi, Kuček Han und die ‘Ğangali Bewegung’: Darstellung und Analyse der persischen Bewegung Ğangal (1915–1921) (Heidelberg: Dissertation, 1972); Ahmad Mahrad, Iran auf dem Weg zur Diktatur-Militarisierung und Widerstand, 1919–1925 (Hanover: SOAK Verlag, 1976); Shapur Ravasani, Sowjetrepublik Gilan: Die Sozialistische Bewegung im Iran seit Ende 19.Jh. bis 1922 (Berlin: Basis Verlag, 1973). Hamid Grogan, Hemaseh-e Mirza Kuchik (Tehran: Vezarat-e Farhang va Ershad-e Islami, 1985); F. Keshavarz (ed), Nehzat-e Jangal va Ettehad-e Islam (Tehran: Sazman-e Asnad-e Melli-e Iran, 1993). The first of these is published by the Revolutionary Guards and contains no original research. The second is a collection of documents that is said to have been compiled by a nationalist in the service of the Islamic Republic. The documents are chosen to emphasize (however absurdly) Islam in 1917–18 and the conflict between the Jangalis and the communists in 1920. See Ganjineh-e Asnad XI, no.3 (Fall 2001), pp 136–57. The most comprehensive account of the activities of the Emigrants can be found in Ulrich Gehrke, Persien in der deutschen Orientpolitik während des Ersten Weltkrieges (Stuttgart: Dissertation, 1960). For a military analysis of the First World War in Iran see L.E. Miroshnikov, Iran dar Jang-e Jahani-e Avval (Tehran: Farzaneh, 1978). Indispensable to those interested in German activities is the diary of the first secretary of the German legation: Movarekh al-Dowleh Sepehr, Iran dar Jang-e Bozorg, 2nd ed. (Tehran: Adib, 1983). Informative on Iranian politics of the time is Ahmad Kasravi, Tarikh-e Hejdah Saleh-e Azarbayjan, 12th ed. (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1978). See also the fragmentary story by Malek al-Sho‘ara Bahar, Tarikh-e Mokhtasar-e Ahzab-e Siyasi, Enqeraz-e Qajariyeh (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1944). The entire text of the Russkoe Slovo article has been reproduced elsewhere. See Pezhmann Dailami, ‘Bravin in Tehran and the origins of Soviet policy in Iran’, Revolutionary Russia 12, no. 2 (December 1999), pp 65–6. Isma‘il Jangali, Qiyam-e Jangal (Tehran: Javidan, 1979), p 88. See Mehrdad Kia, ‘Pan-Islamism in late nineteenth-century Iran’, Middle Eastern Studies 32, no. 1 (January 1996), pp 30–52. Iraj Afshar (ed), Mobarezeh ba Mohammad Ali Shah (Tehran: Elmi, 1980), pp 23–4.

NOTES 10. 11. 12.

13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36.

209

Ibid., p 64. Jangali, Qiyam, p 56; Ibrahim Fakhra’i, Gilan dar Jonbesh-e Mashrutiyat, 3rd ed. (Tehran: Jibi, 1977), p 144; Rabino to British ambassador in Tehran, 11 January 1909, FO248/940 (NA). Mansoureh Ettehadiyyeh, Peydayesh va Tahavvul-e Ahzab-e Siyasi-e Mashrutiyat (Tehran: Gostareh, n.d.), pp 235–7 and (ed), Maramnameha va Nezamnameha-e Ahzab-e Siyasi-e Iran dar Duvvumin Dowreh-e Majles-e Showray-e Melli (Tehran: Nashr-e Tarikh-e Iran, 1982), pp 133–44. Ettehadiyyeh (ed), Maramnameha, pp 231–2. Mohammad Turkaman (ed), Asnadi Darbare-e Hujum-e Engelis va Rous beh Iran (Tehran: Motale’at-e Siyasi, 1991), pp 474–5. See A. Amin, Turkey in the World War (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1930), pp 174–86. Sepehr, Iran. See Ra’in’s introduction to Jangali, Qiyam, p 18. ‘Resht News’, no. 5 (14 March 1915); Assim, ‘Recht de Tehran’, 20 May 1915, in FO248/1117 and 1118 respectively (NA). Maclaren, 22 September 1915, FO248/1117 (NA). Fakhra’i, Sardar, p 35. Freydoun Adamiyet, Fikr-e Demokrasi-e Ejtema‘ i dar Nehzat-e Mashrutiyat-e Iran, 3rd ed. (Tehran: Payam, 1985), p 23. ‘Ataollah Tadayyon, Tarikh-e Gilan va Naqsh-e Gilan dar Nehzat-e Mashrutiyat-e Iran (Tehran: Foroughi, 1974), pp 300–1. Fakhra’i, Gilan, see third photograph between pages 160 and 161. Fakhra’i, Sardar, p 244. S.L. Agaev and V.N. Plastun, ‘Iz istorii razrabotki i taktiki Iranskoy Kommunisticheskoy Partii v 1920–1921 gg.’, Narody Azii i Afriki, no. 3 (1976), p 31. For the activities of the Anjoman-e Abbasi see H.L. Rabino, Mashruteh-e Gilan, edited by Mohammad Roshan (Rasht: Ta’ati, 1973). Pezhmann Dailami, ‘The Bolsheviks and the Jangali revolutionary movement, 1915–1920’, in Cahiers du Monde russe et soviétique XXXI, no. 1, (January–March 1990), pp 44–5. Gilak, Tarikh-e Enqelab, pp 10–13. Fakhra’i, Gilan, p 146. Fakhra’i, Sardar, p 40. Fakhra’i, Gilan, pp 250–1. Hussein Makki, Tarikh-e Bist Saleh-e Iran: I, Kudeta-e 1299 (Tehran: Amir Kabir, 1945), p 319. Jangali, Qiyam, p 68. See Adamiyet, Fekr-e Demokrasi, p 73. Fakhra’i, Sardar, p 96. M. Mirza-Bala, Milli Azerbaycan hareketi: Milli Azerbaycan Musavat Firkasinin Tarihi (Berlin, 1938), p 203.

210

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Iraj Afshar, ‘Asnad-e Gereftari-e Mohsen Khan Amin al-Dowleh dar Jangal’, in Yadigarnameh-e Fakhra’ i (Tehran: Nashr-e No, 1984), pp 363–4. 38. See the proclamation of 13 February 1921 by the Revenue Council of Gilan in FO248/1336 (NA). 39. Keshavarz (ed), Nehzat-e Jangal, pp 117–19. 40. Maclaren, no. 41 (28 December 1917), FO248/1168 (NA). 41. No. 87 (12 August 1917), R19151 (AA). 42. Ibid. 43. For Turkish adventures in the Caucasus see W.E.D. Allen and P. Muratoff, Caucasian Battlefields (London: Cambridge University Press, 1953), pp 457– 96. 44. Khalil Pasha’s letter to Kuchik Khan, 23 September 1917, FO248/1244. This letter and a number of others from prominent Turks and Germans were found in Kuchik’s house by the British in 1919 when the movement was in decline. 45. Roever to Berlin, 17 December 1917, A53160 (AA). 46. For Enver Pasha’s activities and his ‘Army of Islam’ see C.W. Hostler, Turkism and the Soviets (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1957), pp 149–55. 47. Enver Pasha’s letter to Kuchik Khan, March 1918, FO248/1244 (NA). 48. Gilak, Tarikh-e Enqelab, p 68. 49. See Kaveh Bayat (ed), Iran va Jang-e Jahani-e Avval: Asnad-e Vezarat-e Dakheleh (Tehran: Sazman-e Asnad-e Melli, 1990), pp 275–7. 50. The German minister stated in a report of 7 December 1917 that Ubeydullah Effendi, the Turkish ambassador to Afghanistan, was agitating in an open and careless manner (A2624/18 (AA)). The British referred to Ubeydullah as the ‘Turkish master spy’ and later stated ‘his own embassy here has for the past eight months been anxious to get rid of him as he does Turkish cause more harm than good’ (Marling to FO, 11 September 1918, FO248/1209 (NA)). 51. Ubeydullah Effendi to Kuchik Khan, 16 February 1918, FO248/1203 (NA). 52. Kuchik Khan to Ubeydullah, 21 February 1918, ibid. 53. Ubeydullah to Kuchik Khan, 7 March 1918, ibid. 54. Mansoureh Ettehadiyyeh, Ahzab-e Siasi dar Majles-e Sevvom (Tehran: Nashr-e Tarikh-e Iran, 1992), p 43. 55. See Houshang Sabahi, British Policy in Persia, 1918–1925 (London: Frank Cass, 1990), p 11. 56. See my doctoral thesis: Nationalism and Communism in Iran: The Case of Gilan, 1915–1921 (University of Manchester, 1994), pp 103–6. 57. Kuchik Khan to Ubeydullah, 7 March 1918, FO248/1203 (NA). 58. Ubeydullah to Kuchik Khan, 13 March 1918, ibid. 59. Sommer, 31 March 1918, A7572/18 (AA). 60. Military report of 3 May 1918, A53160 (AA). 61. Berlin, 17 December 1918, A5311690 (AA).

NOTES 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97.

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See communication of 30 July 1918, A31701/32191 (AA). See letter of Dr Klan, 12 July 1918, A297854 (AA). Stokes, Qazvin, 30 May 1918, FO248/1203 (NA). See report of 27 July 1918, A32375 (AA). Report of 17 October 1918, A43744 (AA). Tabriz, 22 September 1918, A44958 (AA). Berlin, 27 August 1918, A327977 (AA). General Kress to Kuchik Khan (found in Kuchik´s house in 1919), undated letter in FO248/1244 (NA). See undated communication (17–27 August 1918), A34839 (AA). Hughes (Sevastopol) to Kress, 26 August 1918, A18741 (AA). 12 September 1918, I Js 17554 (AA). 18 September 1918, A39084 (AA). ‘Statement of Hoven the German prisoner’, 2 May 1919, in FO248/1243; Mustafa Khan’s letter to Kuchik Khan, 12 October 1918; and Galip Bey’s letter to Kuchik Khan, undated, in FO248/1244 (NA). Kress, 27 August 1919, A23657 (AA). Kress to Kuchik Khan, 18 September 1918, FO248/1244 (NA). Kress, 5 October 1918, A39350 and report of 29 October 1918, A42020 and A42595; Nikito to Kress, 21 September 1918, A39084 (AA). Kress, 27 August 1919, A23657 (AA). Report no. 94, 14 September 1917, R19151 (AA). Wustrow to German foreign ministry, 13 June 1918, A25629 (AA). Bernstorf to AA, 1 July 1918, A28281 (AA). Maclaren, decode 78, 8/9 May 1918, FO248/1212 (NA); see also military report of 3 May 1918, R19152 (AA). Maclaren, 21/22 May 1918, FO248/1203 (NA). Hughes (Berlin), telegram of 18 June 1918, A22569/A23310 (AA). See report of 19 July 1918, A30084 (AA). Ubeydullah Effendi to Kuchik Khan, 7 August 1918, FO248/1202 (NA). Dunsterforce, Qazvin to military attaché, 25/27 August 1918, FO248/1209 (NA). Werner Zürrer, Kaukasien, 1918–1921: Der Kampf der Grossmächte um die Landbrücke zwischen Schwarzem und Kaspischen Meer (Düsseldorf: Droste Verlag, 1978), p 65. Ibid., pp 89–90. Ibid., pp 99–100. Ibid., pp 102–5. Ibid., pp 105–10. 7 June 1918, A24126 (AA). Nadolny, 19 August (1918), A34836 and A34839 (AA). See report of 10/12 October 1918, A42860 (AA). Ibid. Kennion (Qazvin), 25 October 1918, FO248/1203 (NA).

212

98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105.

106.

107. 108. 109. 110. 111. 112. 113. 114. 115. 116. 117. 118. 119.

IR AN AND THE FIRST WORLD WAR Berlin to von Hintze, 18 October 1918, A43258/156605; Wustrow reported a similar story; see also A4286 (A2058) (AA). Ibid., pp 159–60. G.O.C. Northern Persia Force to Aqa Mirza Kuchik Khan, 9 November 1918, FO248/1203 (NA). Wustrow (Kress), 27 November 1918, A154015 (AA). Wustrow to Kuchik Khan, 28 December 1918, FO248/1244 (NA). See communication of 18 May 1916, A13132 (AA). Kress, 6 August 1919, in A23657 (AA). For the Jangalis’ relationship with the Bolsheviks see Pezhmann Dailami, ‘The Bolshevik Revolution and the genesis of communism in Iran, 1917– 1920’, in Central Asian Survey, 11 (1992), pp 51–82; and ‘The Bolsheviks’, pp 43–60. See Kaveh, no. 4 (14 March 1916), p 2; no. 12 (15 September 1916), pp 1–4; no. 15 (1 December 1916), pp 1–2. For the circumstances of Taqizadeh’s relations with the Germans see Ilse Itscherenska, ‘Taqizadeh dar Alman-e Qeysari’, Iran Nameh, nos. 1 & 2 (spring–summer 2003), pp 49–75. Heydar’s telegram to Haj Isma‘il Amirkhizi (Berlin to Kermanshah), 25 November 1915, A34170 (AA). Dailami, ‘Bravin’, p 73. For Lenin’s contacts with the Germans see Willi Gautschi, Lenin als Emigrant in der Schweiz (Cologne/Zurich: Benziger Verlag, 1973). Jangali, Qiyam, p 125. C. von Hahn, ‘Der Kaukasus und die Revolution in Persien’, in Asien VIII, no. 8 (May 1909), pp 117–18. See Mohammad Mehdi Sharif-Kashani, Vaqe’at-e Ettifaqih-ye dar Rouzegar, edited by Mansoureh Ettehadiyyeh and Sirus Sadvandian (Tehran: Nashr-e Tarikh-e Iran, 1983), p 345. T.A. Ibrahimov (Shahin), Peydayesh-e Hezb-e Kommonist-e Iran (Tehran: Gunesh, 1981), p 93. As quoted in Mangol Bayat, Iran’s First Revolution: Shi’ ism and the Constitutional Revolution of 1905–1909 (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), p 103. See Cosroe Chaqueri in which a French consular report is reproduced: L’Union soviétique et les tentatives de soviets en Iran (Paris: author, 1984), p 14. Effendiev, Zhizn‘ Natsional‘nostey, no. 19 (27) (25 May 1919). Political Officer (Qazvin) to British minister (Tehran), 6 May, 1919, in FO248/1243 (NA). ‘Extract From Resht Situation Report’, no. 2 (20 February 1919), FO248/1243 (NA). ‘Resht Situation Report’, no. 4 (27 February 1919), FO248/1260; Eldrid (Rasht), Decypher no. 28, 26/27 February 1919; Norperforce Summary no. 40 (1 to 28 February 1919), FO248/1243 (NA).

NOTES 120. 121. 122. 123. 124.

125. 126. 127. 128. 129.

213

Political Officer (Qazvin), 10 February 1919, FO248/1243 (NA). Fakhra’i, Sardar, p 58. Sabahi, British Policy, p 93. Iranskaya Kommunisticheskaya Partiya (bol‘shevikov), Programma Persidskoy Kommunisticheskoy Partii (bol’shevikov) (1920). See Pezhmann Dailami, ‘The First Congress of the Peoples of the East and the Iranian Soviet Republic of Gilan, 1920–1921’, in Stephanie Cronin (ed), Reformers and Revolutionaries in Modern Iran (London and New York: RoutledgeCurzon, 2004), pp 98–9. See my thesis, pp 365–6. Dailami, ‘The Bolshevik Revolution’, pp 73–6. Dailami, ‘The First Congress’, p 99. Vladimir Genis, Krasnaya Persiya: Bolsheviki v Giliane, 1920–1921 (Moscow: MNPI, 2000), pp 121–2. Dailami, ‘The First Congress’, pp 87–106.

Chapter 9. The Council for International Propaganda and the Establishment of the Iranian Communist Party 1.

2.

3.

I am indebted to Professor Saleh M. Aliev of the Oriental Institute of the Russian Academy of Sciences (Moscow) who made my research stay possible. I am grateful to the Studienstiftung des Deutschen Volkes (Bonn) for supporting my work in Moscow by a travel grant. Furthermore I would like to express my gratitude to Natasha Ibragimova, who introduced me to the archives of the Comintern, as well as to Professor Bert G. Fragner and Dr Reinhard Eisener whose expert advice on Central Asian affairs in the early twentieth century was most welcome when I tried to establish the context of my archival findings. Last but not least, I would very much like to thank Sara Yildiz for her many valuable comments on my initial draft of this paper. Archives of the Comintern at the Russian Centre for the Preservation and Study of Documents of Most Recent History (Rossiyskiy Tsentr Khraneniya i Izucheniya Dokumentov Noveyshey Istorii – RTsKhIDNI). I take this opportunity to thank all the helpful and friendly staff at the RTsKhIDNI for their cooperation and efficiency. In the Western secondary literature concerning the early history of the Iranian communist movement the Sovinterprop is hardly ever mentioned. There is no mention at all in the classic by Sepehr Zabih, The Communist Movement in Iran (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1966). George Lenczowski, Russia and the West in Iran, 1918–1948: A Study in Big-Power Rivalry (Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 1949), p 40, has one murky reference to a ‘Tashkent propaganda centre organized by Broido’. Mikhail Volodarsky, The Soviet Union and its Southern Neighbours, Iran and Afghanistan, 1917–1933 (Ilford: Frank Cass, 1994), p 43, mentions propaganda activities in Tashkent but makes no explicit reference to the Sovinterprop. Cosroe Chaqueri gives two references to the council in his comprehensive study, The Soviet Socialist

214

4.

5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

IR AN AND THE FIRST WORLD WAR Republic of Iran, 1920–21: Birth of the Trauma (Pittsburgh and London: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1995). At one stage he refers to a propaganda leaflet of the Sovinterprop as a ‘declaration issued by the “International Council of the East” … signed, by amongst others, two prominent communist leaders from Iran and Turkey, Sultanzade and Subhi’ (pp 174–5). As will be shown below, Sultanzadeh and Subhi were the top leaders of this council, which was of course not the ‘International Council of the East’ but the Council of International Propaganda. In another context, Chaqueri mentions a report to Stalin by Avenir Avysalumovich Khanukaev and refers to him as ‘formerly commissar in charge of Turkistan Sovinternprop [sic] (International Propaganda Council)’ (p 426). However, throughout the short-lived existence of the Council it was headed first by Subhi and then by Heller (see below) but Khanukaev had never been ‘commissar in charge’ of it. Nevertheless one must note that in the preface to his 1995 study, Chaqueri informed the reader of his intention to incorporate a more detailed analysis of the Russian material into his forthcoming study of the history of the ICP between 1917 and 1940. Secondary literature in Russian has slightly more information on the Sovinterprop. Nevertheless the most informative source so far, an article by A.M. Matveev, ‘Deiatel’nost’ “Soveta internatsional’noi propagandy na Vostoke” v Srednei Azii (1919–1920gg.)’, Narody Azii i Afriki 5 (1978), pp 45–53, has several shortcomings (as discussed below). Furthermore, Matveev, who did not use the Moscow archives, admits himself that the sources at his disposal were insufficient for a comprehensive description (p 45). See also Vladimir Genis, Krasnaya Persiya: Bolsheviki v Giliane, 1920–1921 (Moskva: MNPI, 2000), p 123. Shalva Zurabovich Eliava (1855–1937) had been a member of the Revvoensoviet of the Turkfront. He would become the chairman of the Sovnarkom of nominally independent Soviet Georgia in spring 1921. See Kh. Tursunov, Natsional’naia politika kommunisticheskoi partii v Turkestane (1917–1924 gg.) (Tashkent: Uzbekistan, 1971), p 179, and Jeremy Smith, The Bolsheviks and the National Question, 1917–1923 (Basingstoke and London: Macmillan, 1999), p 229. See below for details on this institution acting as Moscow’s plenipotentiary in nominally autonomous Turkistan. Eliava to Berzin, Tashkent, 25 February 1920 (cc Lenin, Trotski, Zinoviev, Krestinskii, Kamenev, Klinger), RTsKhIDNI, fond 544, opis’ 1, del 7, f°1. Emphasis added by author. The Persian word ‘adalat means ‘justice’. For an overview of what is known so far on the organization called ‘Adalat, which is said to have been founded in Baku in 1916, see Chaqueri, Soviet Socialist Republic, pp 153–7. Mustafa Subhi (1883–1921) was the person behind the establishment of the Turkish Communist Party. For some, however incomplete, biographical information see Alexandre A. Bennigsen and S. Enders Wimbush, Muslim National Communism in the Soviet Union: A Revolutionary Strategy for the

NOTES

10.

11.

12.

13. 14.

15. 16.

17.

18.

215

Colonial World (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1979), p 207. Avetis Mikailian (1889–1938), known as Sultanzadeh, was one of the founding fathers of the Iranian communist movement. His role will be discussed below. For biographical information see Chaqueri, Soviet Socialist Republic, p 476 and Taline Ter Minassian, Colporteurs du Komintern: l’Union soviétique et les minorités au Moyen-Orient (Paris: Presses de Sciences Po, 1997), pp 112–14. It is important to note, however, that there are still a number of gaps, especially concerning Sultanzadeh’s whereabouts during 1918–19. He was also known as ‘Alikhanzadeh. Biographical information on him has been so far hard to come by. In early August 1920, after the leftist coup against Mirza Kuchik Khan, he would become a member of the new government of the so-called Socialist Soviet Republic of Iran in Gilan. In a conversation in Paris, 4 April 2001, Cosroe Chaqueri told the author that Alikhanov’s name had actually been ‘Alikhanzadeh and that he had been of Armenian origin. Grigorii Isaakovich Broido (1885–1956), initially a socialist revolutionary, had been heading the Tashkent Soviet back in 1917; see Richard Pipes, The Formation of the Soviet Union: Communism and Nationalism, 1917–1923, revised ed. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1964), p 89. From 1921 to 1923 he would be vice-commissar of the Narkomnats under Stalin. For more biographical details see Ter Minassian, Colporteurs, p 72. Emphasis added by author. This account is predominantly based on official Soviet publications, namely Instituty istorii partii pri TsK KP Kazakhstana, Kirgizii, Tadzhikistana, Turkmenistana, Uzbekistana – Filialy Instituta Marksizma-Leninizma pri TsK KPSS (eds), Istoriia kommunisticheskikh organizatsii Srednei Azii (Tashkent: Uzbekistan, 1967) (hereafter Istoriia) and Tursunov, Natsional’naia politika. One has to note, however, that on the surface, these two volumes tell a story that is completely different from the following account. It is only by reading carefully between the lines that it has been possible to get the necessary information out of these works. This connection was finally established by 13 September 1919 when the Red troops of the Turkistan and the Aktiubinsk fronts met, Tursunov, Natsional’naia politika, p 179. The Sovnarkom discussed the affairs of Turkistan in at least two meetings: on 2 September 1919 and on 23 September 1919. At the first meeting the Sovnarkom established a working party, which was to prepare the formation of a special commission for the affairs of Turkistan, Istoriia, p 372. A joint meeting of the Politbyuro and the Orgbyuro discussing Turkistan in mid-September 1919 was followed by a session of the Central Committee dedicated to the developments in Turkistan, which took place on 26 September 1919, ibid., p 372. Among the main problems were the ongoing power struggles between different Soviet and party institutions operating in Turkistan and the weakening

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of the local (kraii-) communist party through the infiltration with allegedly reactionary elements, ibid., p 371. 19. Ibid., p 371. 20. A letter by Lenin addressed to the ‘Comrade Communists of Turkistan’ in early November 1919 (involuntarily) reveals much of Moscow’s anxieties. After having underlined the great importance of the development of the ‘right relations’ between the Russian Socialist Federative Soviet Republic and the peoples of Turkistan, he implored the ‘comrades in Turkistan’ to strictly obey the directives from Moscow. Nevertheless, at the beginning of his letter, Lenin emphasized that he was writing to them not in his capacity as chairman of the Sovnarkom but as a simple fellow party member. The fact that Lenin apparently thought it necessary to play down his role as head of the Russian central state when he appealed to the ‘comrades in Turkistan’ indicates that the question of the degree of autonomy that Turkistan was going to enjoy in the future was an extremely sensitive matter at that time. Ibid., pp 374–5. 21. Ibid., p 374. 22. Ibid., p 373. VTsIK = Vse-rossiyskiy Tsentral’ny Ispolnitel’niy Komitet, the AllRussian Central Executive Committee. 23. Ibid., p 373. 24. On the autonomy of Turkistan see Smith, Bolsheviks and the National Question, pp 45–7. 25. However, Bokii is not mentioned as a member by Tursunov who gives the total membership as five only. See Tursunov, Natsional’naia politika, pp 180– 1. 26. Istoriia, pp 373–4. 27. Ibid., pp 375–6, 378. For the term ‘Muslim’ this article follows the convention of the period under study. In that period the Bolsheviks used the term ‘Muslim’ (musul’man) as an ethnic category. It was a denomination for the vast majority of the indigenous population of Central Asia regardless of their ‘actual’ ethnic background, as manifest for instance in their different languages and facial features. Therefore the reference to ‘Muslim communists’ (musul’manskie kommunisty) or a ‘Muslim communist party’ (musul’manskaya kompartiya) is by no means the contradiction in terms that it appears to be at first glance. On the complex issue of the (self-) denomination of the non-Slavic, non-Jewish, and non-Buddhist population of Central Asia see Adeeb Khalid, The Politics of Muslim Cultural Reform: Jadidism in Central Asia (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1998), pp 184–215. 28. Matveev, ‘Deiatel’nost’ Soveta’, p 47. 29. Istoriia, pp 378–83. 30. On the institution Musbyuro see below. 31. The Turkistan CP was technically a regional (kraii-) organization of the Russian Communist Party (Bolsheviki).

NOTES

217

32. Istoriia, p 378. 33. The conference was held on 12–18 January 1920, Istoriia, p 383. 34. For biographical information on him see Benningsen and Wimbusch, Muslim National Communism, pp 205–6. 35. Istoriia, p 386. See also Tursonov, Natsional’naia politika, pp 189–92 for details of the Musbyuro’s considerations for a ‘Turkic Republic’. 36. Istoriia, p 386; Tursunov, Natsional’naia politika, p 188. 37. See Istoriia, p 387 and Tursunov, Natsional’naia politika, p 189. 38. Broido to Karakhan, Tashkent, 3 February 1920, RTsKhIDNI, fond 544, opis’ 1, del 7, f°2. In this cable Broido informs the Narkomindel of the establishment of the Sovinterprop by the Turkkomissiya. One has to note, however, that there are a lot of gaps in the telegram, making it almost unintelligible. 39. Istoriia, p 389. 40. Matveev, ‘Deiatel’nost’ Soveta’, p 47. Matveev refers to Istoriia, p 389, but there can be found no reference to the alleged resolution of 23 December 1919. 41. For the relevant structures within the Narkomindel see Ter Minassian, Colporteurs, pp 85–8. 42. For the approach of the Narkomindel and the resulting conflicts with other Soviet and party institutions see Volodarsky, Soviet Union and its Southern Neighbours, pp ix–xii, 40–1. 43. Smith, Bolsheviks and the National Questions, pp 41–3. 44. See for instance V.N. Plastun, ‘Uchastie iranskikh trudiashchikhsia v grazhdanskoi voine v Rossii’, Narody Azii i Afriki 2 (1972), pp 44–63, for the regional Muskom in Astrakhan. 45. Bennigsen and Wimbush, Muslim National Communism, p 61. 46. Stephen Blank, ‘Soviet politics and the Iranian Revolution of 1919–1921’, in Cahiers du Monde russe et soviétique 21, 2 (1980), pp 173–94. 47. Matveev, ‘Deyatelnost’ Soveta’, pp 45–6. 48. The political section (politotdel) of the Revvoensoviet of the Turkfront in Tashkent had its own Eastern department (vostochniy otdel) catering to the foreign Muslims in Turkistan. Ibid., p 52. 49. In spring 1920 the Kavbyuro even created a special sub-bureau to supervise the Iranian communists, the Iranbureau. The six-member body comprised of two representatives of the Kavbyuro, two members of the CC of the Azerbaijani CP and only two Iranian communists. See Chaqueri, Soviet Socialist Republic, p 602n.27. 50. Blank, ‘Soviet politics’, p 175. 51. For biographical information on Heydar Khan ‘Amoghli (Cheragh Barqi) (Tariverdiev) (1880–1921) see Chaqueri, Soviet Socialist Republic, pp 462–3. 52. Plastun, ‘‘Uchastie iranskikh trudiashchikhsia’, pp 61–3. 53. Matveev, ‘Deyatelnost’ Soveta’, p 46. 54. Ibid., p 48.

218

55. 56.

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Ibid. RTsKhIDNI, fond 544, opis’ 1, del 7, f°43. The document is undated but internal evidence suggests that it was written in spring 1920. 57. ‘Report by comrade Subhi on the establishment and activities of the Sovinterprop’, RTsKhIDNI, fond 544, opis’ 1, del 7, f°14 and f°15. The document is undated but internal evidence suggests that it is from late March/ early April 1920. 58. Matveev names ‘Abid‘alim and Amiroghli among Subhi’s closest colleagues, Matveev, ‘Deyatelnost’ Soveta’, p 49. One cannot completely exclude the possibility that the Khiveans had two seats: one communist and one Jaddidist. 59. Istoriia, p 389; Matveev, ‘Deyatelnost’ Soveta’, p 48. 60. Ibid. 61. Information taken from the organizational chart, RTsKhIDNI, fond 544, opis’ 1, del 7, f°43. 62. Matveev, ‘Deyatelnost’ Soveta’, pp 48–53. 63. After mid-February 1920 the Red Army had occupied the khanate of Khiva. The Sovinterprop seems to have supported the establishment of a communist party there, the foundation of which was eventually announced at the beginning of July 1920. Ibid., p 49. 64. Ibid., p 51. 65. Information taken from the organizational chart, RTsKhIDNI, fond 544, opis’ 1, del 7, f°43. 66. Matveev, ‘Deyatelnost’ Soveta’, p 52. 67. Information taken from the organizational chart, RTsKhIDNI, fond 544, opis’ 1, del 7, f°43. 68. Plastun, ‘Uchastie iranskikh trudiashchikhsia’, p 58. 69. See for instance Pezhmann Dailami, ‘The Bolshevik Revolution and the genesis of communism in Iran, 1917–1920’, Central Asian Survey 11, 3 (1992), pp 51–82 (pp 78–9), and Ter Minassian, Colporteurs, p 113. 70. Chaqueri, Soviet Socialist Republic, pp 153–61. Chaqueri, however, asserts that Sultanzadeh & co. had been sent to Tashkent from Moscow by the Soviet leadership (p 476). 71. Plastun, ‘Uchastie iranskikh trudyashchikhsiya’, p 58. 72. RTsKhIDNI, fond 544, opis’ 1, del 7, f°19. 73. The date of 1–3 April 1920 has widely gained currency. See for instance Chaqueri, Soviet Socialist Republic, p 157, However, Plastun (‘Uchastie iranskikh trudyashchikhsiya’, p 59) writes that the conference had taken place on 20 March 1920, but oddly enough his reference is to the Tashkent Izvestiia of 24 February 1920!? This might be a misprint (in Plastun’s article the months are given as Roman numerals, so III could have easily become II) or perhaps the conference had initially been scheduled for 20 March 1920 and the Tashkent Izvestiia of 24 February 1920 was announcing this schedule. Be that as it may, this detail again shows how murky the evidence for the early history of the Iranian communist movement still is.

NOTES 74.

219

It seems that later in 1920, after the Iranian Communist Party had constituted itself in Persia in June, the Kavbyuro and the CC of the Azerbaijani CP were outraged by Sultanzadeh’s excellent connections with Moscow. The CC of the ACP and the Kavbyuro reportedly even ‘categorically forbade’ the ICP to enter into direct contact with Moscow, threatening to otherwise withdraw their support for the ICP. Hence Sultanzadeh’s journey there in July 1920 in order to participate in the Second Congress of the Comintern and to consult. Lenin is reported to have provoked a ‘tempest of indignation’ among the ‘Caucasians’, Chaqueri, Soviet Socialist Republic, p 413. For evidence concerning the ICP’s rejection of attempts by Nariman Narimanov and the CC of the ACP to establish control over the Persian communists, see ibid., pp 416, 418. 75. Nariman Narimanov (1870–1933), an Azeri from Tbilisi, had been the leader of the Azerbaijani communists since March 1917. For biographical information see, among others, Bennigsen and Wimbusch, Muslim National Communism, pp 203–4. 76. Grigorii Konstantinovich Ordzhonikidze (1886–1937). 77. Budu Mdivani (d. 1937) was an Old Bolshevik and leader of the Georgian Communist Party. For biographical information see, among others, Bennigsen and Wimbusch, Muslim National Communism, pp 202–3. 78. See below for the details. 79. Chaqueri, Soviet Socialist Republic, p 462. 80. Plastun, ‘Uchastie iranskikh trudyashchikhsiya’, p 60. 81. Ibid., p 463. Emphasis added by the author. 82. It seems conceivable that Sultanzadeh and Alikhanov moved to Tashkent with the bulk of the Turkkomissiya in November 1919 (see above). Mentioned in Eliava’s cable as founding members of the Sovinterprop, they must have been in Tashkent at least at the moment of the establishment of the Sovinterprop in late January/very early February 1920 (see above). It is also clear that Heydar Khan only arrived there when the Sovinterprop had been already established. On 12 February 1920 Heydar Khan must have been still in Samara from where he wrote a letter to the Central Musbyuro in Moscow on his discussions with Frunze about the mobilization of a Red Persian military unit in Turkistan; see Plastun, ‘Uchastie iranskikh trudyashchikhsiya’, pp 62–3. Thus he might have come to Tashkent together with Frunze on 22 February 1920. 83. See Genis, Krasnaya Persiya, pp 122–7. 84. See below for a more detailed discussion of the cooperation between the Poltorazk Sovinterprop branch and this Kurdish chief. 85. Vladimir Leonidovich Genis, ‘Popytka “sovetizatsii” Khorasana v 1920 godu’, Voprosy istorii (1996), pp 5–6, 141–53 (p 145). 86. Ibid. This affiliation to the Revvoensoviet suggests that during the summer of 1920 Heydar Khan was strongly involved in the attempted mobilization of a Persian International Brigade, which, as will be shown below, had

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been indeed a cherished project of his at least since the beginning of 1920. Nevertheless in late summer Heydar Khan must have abandoned the ill-fated endeavour because he seems to have been present at the Baku Congress; see Chaqueri, Soviet Socialist Republic, p 462. 87. RTsKhIDNI, fond 544, opis’ 1, del 14, f°7. 88. Plastun, ‘Uchastie iranskikh trudyashchikhsiya’, p 61. 89. Ibid. 90. Nothing concrete is known about Sultanzadeh in this period and only very little on Heydar Khan. The latter cooperated with the Germans during the First World War. After having come to Germany for the first time in October 1915 he had been sent towards Persia in November 1915. However, he only got as far as Baghdad. After the Muhajerin had been driven out of Persia by the Russian offensive of the winter of 1915/16 he returned to Germany in autumn 1916. He left Germany for Denmark in May 1917. See Ilse Itscherenska, ‘Heydar Khan, Das Berliner Persische Komitee und die Deutschen. Interkulturelle Begegnungen im Ersten Weltkrieg’, in Gerhard Hopp and Brigitte Reinwald (eds), Fremdeinsätze: Afrikaner und Asiaten in europäischen Kriegen, 1914–1945 (Berlin: Akademieverlag, 2000), pp 57–78. How and when he reached Russia (probably St Petersburg, where he had relatives) remains unclear, but he had not been in Lausanne in early 1917 and thus did not follow ‘the trail of the sealed train which took Lenin and his comrades to Russia in the wake of the February Revolution’, as asserted by Dailami, ‘The Bolshevik Revolution’, p 67. After the Bolshevik Revolution he seems to have been associated with the Central Musbyuro in Moscow (Plastun, ‘Uchastie iranskikh trudyashchikhsiya’, pp 61–2). According to Chaqueri, however, he worked for Stalin’s Narkomnats, which would partly explain why he had been championed so much by Stalin’s lieutenant Ordzhonikidze in autumn 1920 (Chaqueri, Soviet Socialist Republic, p 463). Nevertheless it is conceivable that Heydar Khan was active in both organs at the same time. See Blank, ‘Soviet politics’, p 174 on Mir-Said Sultangaliev who had been a leading figure in both, the (central) Musbyuro and the Muskom of the Narkomnats. 91. Information taken from the organizational chart, RTsKhIDNI, fond 544, opis’ 1, del 7, f°43. Nevertheless it is impossible to know whether all those supposed branches had actually been staffed. 92. See above, note 83. 93. Moisei Aronovich Persits, Zastenchivaia interventsiia: o sovetskom vtorzhenii v Iran i Bukharu v 1920–1921 gg. (Moscow: Muravei-Gaid, 1999), p 48. I would like to thank Professor Boris Prutkovskii who kindly provided me with a copy of Persits’ study. 94. Ibid., p 52. 95. Ibid., p 53. 96. See for instance Plastun, ‘Uchastie iranskikh trudyashchikhsiya’, pp 62–3. 97. Chaqueri, Soviet Socialist Republic, p 152.

NOTES 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110.

111. 112. 113. 114. 115. 116. 117. 118. 119.

120. 121.

221

Persits, ‘Zastenchivaia interventsiia’, pp 52–3. Ibid., pp 52, 56. Ibid., p 56. Ibid., p 52. Ibid., p 56. Ibid., p 57. Gabaidulla Ishmuratogly Kalakov was a locksmith from the Ural region; Genis, ‘Popytka ‘sovetizatsii’ Khorasana’, p 141, 144. Organizational chart of the Poltorazk branch, RTsKhIDNI, fond 544, opis’ 1, del 7, f°35. Map of northeast Persia illustrating the activities of the Poltorazk branch of the Sovinterprop, RTsKhIDNI, fond 544, opis’ 1, del 7, f°36. For biographical information on Allahverdi Khan Khadu (Khodaverdi Sardaru) (c.1890–1921) see Genis, ‘Popytka ‘sovetizatsii’ Khorasana’, p 142. Ibid., pp 142–3. For the account by a British observer of those activities see L.V.S. Blacker, On Secret Patrol in High Asia (London: Murray, 1922), p 265ff, cited in Lenczowski, Russia and the West, p 65. Genis, ‘Popytka ‘sovetizatsii’ Khorasana’, p 143. For the most up-to-date account of the Bolshevik intervention in May 1920 up to the coup against Mirza Kuchik Khan at the end of July 1920 based on so far inaccessible Russian sources, see Vladimir Leonidovich Genis, ‘Les bolcheviks au Guilan: la chute du gouvernement de Koutchek Khan’, Cahiers du Monde russe 40, 3 (1999), pp 459–96. Genis, ‘Popytka ‘sovetizatsii’ Khorasana’, p 144. Ibid., pp 144–7. Ibid., p 149. Volodarsky, Soviet Union and its Southern Neighbours, p 45. Genis, ‘Popytka ‘sovetizatsii’ Khorasana’, pp 150–1. Ibid., p 151. Ibid., p 152. Ibid., p 150. For such a view see for instance Pezhmann Dailami, ‘The Bolsheviks and the Jangali revolutionary movement, 1915–1920’, Cahiers du Monde russe et soviétique 31, 1 (1990), pp 43–59, especially pp 53–5 and his article ‘The Bolshevik Revolution’, pp 66–77. Matveev, ‘Deyatelnost’ Soveta’, p 49. For the events in Gilan and the consequent booting out of Sutanzadeh in autumn 1920, see Chaqueri, Soviet Socialist Republic, pp 227–68, 419–21. Chaqueri demonstrates that the ‘unduly’ radical nature of the rebellion in Gilan (mainly the communist coup d’état against Mirza Kuchik Khan in late July 1920), which had been blamed on the allegedly extreme leftism of Sultanzadeh by the Azerbaijanis and the Kavbyuro behind them, had actually been ordered by nobody other than the CC of the Azerbaijani CP and the Kavbyuro people themselves, ibid., pp 413–16 (Kavbyuro) and pp 432–3

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(CC of ACP). 122. Blank, ‘Soviet politics’, p 187. 123. The similarity of the names and aims of the two councils does not help to prevent confusion; neither does the fact that the documents relating to these two different institutions are kept under one heading and without any further explanation in the RTsKhIDNI, namely Sovet Propagandy i Deystviya Narodov Vostoka, fond 544, opis’ 1–4. 124. ‘Project for a Persian branch of the Sovet Propagandy i Deystviya Narodov Vostoka’ submitted shortly after the Baku Congress (internal evidence), RTsKhIDNI fond 544, opis’ 3, del 7, f°5. The proposed branch was an ambitious project involving 54 people who were to be paid three months in advance. There were further claims for the need for an initial funding of 25,000 tuman. Local communication points were to be established all over northern Persia but also in Isfahan and in Kurdistan. Much emphasis was laid on involving the tribes. Here even a people as southern as the Qashqa’i were targeted. Ideologically the proposal’s wording is extremely anti-British and in favour of a united front, whereas purely communist references are much more rare. There is currently no information as to whether or not this branch of the Sovet Propagandy i Deystviya Narodov Vostoka had been put into operation. Nevertheless, in view of the considerations made in connection with the dozens of alleged ICP cells all over Khorasan triumphantly claimed by the Poltorazk Sovinterprop branch (see above) some suspicion springs to mind here. Did the authors of the proposal truly believe in the feasibility of the large-scale operation they proposed? Perhaps they were idealistic, romantic revolutionaries and therefore did indeed deem it possible to realize their claims. However, the proposal’s ideological diction that is perfectly in tune with the tone set by the Baku Congress as well as the important and detailed financial claims seem to allow a somewhat more cynical interpretation. It looks as if the authors made a great effort to please ideologically their Bolshevik associates simply in order not to miss out on the new funding opportunities that seemed to have arisen with the establishment of yet another Bolshevik agency supposed to agitate the ‘peoples of the East’. 125. See Blank, ‘Soviet politics’, pp 187–9 and Volodarsky, Soviet Union and its Southern Neighbours, pp 40–1. 126. See Richard H. Ullman, Anglo-Soviet Relations 1917–1921, Vol. 3: The AngloSoviet Accord (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1972), pp 395–417. 127. See Lenczowski, Russia and the West, p 53 and Volodarsky, Soviet Union and its Southern Neighbours, pp x–xi, 47–8, 53. 128. Matveev, ‘Deyatelnost’ Soveta’, p 53.

Index

Abdulhamid II, 31, 76, 81–82, 125 Adib al-Saltaneh, 17–18, 20 Afghanistan, 9–10, 12, 16, 27, 29, 31, 33, 38–39, 50, 52, 71, 124, 148, 157, 169 Ahmad Shah, 2, 9, 145, 156–157 Ain al-Dowleh / Ayn al-Dawlah, 10–11, 54, 104, 107, 111, 113 Ali Ihsan Bey, 17, 22, 35, 37, 40 Anglo-Persian Agreement (1919), 62– 64, 96, 109 Anglo-Persian military commission, 63–65 Anzali, 4, 11, 97, 110, 112, 171–172, 174, 177–179 Arfa, Hasan, 47–49, 61 Armenians, 2–3, 41, 80, 87–88, 123, 128, 131 Armistice, 4, 26, 31, 41, 87, 102, 132, 155 Army of Islam, 38, 147, 153–154, 156– 158 Asia, Central, vii, 29–32, 124, 126, 131, 133, 135, 164, 168–169, 172 Assyrians, 2–3, 80, 84, 97, 102, 123 Atabaki, Touraj, vii, 1, 29, 121 Austria, 9, 34, 47, 126 Azerbaijan / Azarbayjan, vii, xii, 2–5, 10, 34–35, 39–40, 70, 82, 85–87,

89, 95, 97–105, 107, 109, 111–114, 118, 122–123, 126–135, 148, 150, 152, 154, 168, 172, 178, 180 Badamchi, Mohammad Ali Aqa, 41, 98, 114–116, 131 Baghdad, 15–16, 18, 22, 24, 35, 37, 57, 88, 148, 153 Baku, 4, 29, 37–38, 41, 110, 124, 127– 133, 143, 146–148, 150–155, 157, 159–161, 171–173, 178–179 Baku Commune, 130, 146, 157 Baluchistan, 29, 107 Bast, Oliver, vii, 163 Bedirkhan, Abdulrazzaq, 82–83, 86 Berlin, 10, 15–16, 19–21, 23–24, 26, 31, 58, 98, 134, 151–153, 158 Black Sea, 29, 124, 128, 150, 168 Blücher, W.V., 1, 22 Bolsheviks, 4, 26, 61, 63, 97, 109, 111– 112, 130, 132, 137–138, 142–143, 145–146, 148, 153–154, 157–161, 164, 167 Britain, 1, 9, 13, 17, 44–46, 48–53, 56, 61, 66, 69, 72, 79, 96, 123, 141, 155, 180 British forces, 152–153, 155 Bruinessen, Martin van, vii, 69 Bukhara, 39, 126, 169, 175, 180

223

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Caspian Sea, 4, 36, 129, 137 Caucasus, vii, 4, 29–31, 33–34, 37–38, 40–41, 79, 93, 97, 99, 101, 124– 125, 127–129, 131–133, 135, 143, 145, 147–155, 159, 176 Central Asia, vii, 29–32, 124, 126, 131, 133, 135, 164, 168–169, 172 Central Powers, 19, 24, 35, 41, 50, 52– 53, 57, 137–139, 142, 152, 155–157, 159 chargé d’affaires, 11, 15–16, 20, 23, 26, 40 China, 126, 163, 169 Christians, 35, 70, 73, 80–81, 84, 87 Comintern, 163–164, 166–168, 173, 180 Committee of Union and Progress (CUP) / Ittihad ve Terakki, 5, 29– 30, 32–33, 39, 41, 124, 127, 131– 132, 135, 140–141, 145 Confederacy, 72–74, 77–79, 83–85, 89–90, 93 Constitutional Code, 1, 5 Constitutional Movement, 5–7, 33, 49, 51, 63, 70, 126, 135–136 Constitutional Revolution, viii, 3, 5, 12, 27, 43, 66, 85, 106–107, 119, 122–123, 130, 140, 142–143, 145, 149, 156, 159, 162 Cossack Brigade, 17, 43, 46, 65, 95 coup d’état, 6, 32, 52, 54–56, 58, 61– 62, 64–67, 77, 90, 95, 99, 119, 122, 125, 143, 153 Cox, Percy, 58, 108 Crimean ports, 29, 124 Cronin, Stephanie, viii, xii, 43 Curzon, George N., 96–97, 112 Dailami, Pezhmann, viii, 137 Edmonds, C.J., 91, 97–98, 103–104, 107–111 Effendi, Ubeydullah, 33, 148–149, 153 Egypt, 30–31

Eliava, Shalva Zurabovich, 163–167, 170 Emigrants, 12, 54, 139, 143, 156–158 Emirates, 71–74, 76 England, 18, 51, 109 Entente, 2–3, 31, 51, 123, 138–139, 141, 144–145, 156, 158 Entezar, Sardar (Mozaffar A‘lam), 88– 89, 92, 103, 105, 107, 111–112, 118 Enver Pasha, 15–16, 22–23, 29, 31–33, 36–37, 41–42, 70, 123–124, 139, 147 Erzurum, 33–34, 124, 152 Ettehad-e Islam /Ittihad-i Islam, 3, 36, 40–41, 144–146, 156, 158, 160 Ettehadiyyeh, Mansoureh, viii, 9 Farman, 2, 123 Farmanfarma, 10, 12, 17–18, 53–54, 101 Fars, 45–46, 48, 53, 58 Fars regiment, 58–60 Ferqeh-e Adalat / Firqah-i Adalat, 4, 63, 162–163, 170–173 Fevzi, Ömer, 20, 22–23, 35–37, 39–40 Filipov, 88–89, 92, 103 First Majles / Majlis, 44 First World War, viii, 1–4, 6–7, 9, 27, 29–30, 32, 43, 48–49, 61–62, 64, 66–67, 69–70, 77, 79–80, 83, 86, 95, 99, 122–124, 131, 135, 138– 141, 144, 146, 156–159, 163 France, 18, 47, 141 Georgia, 79, 133, 150, 153–154 German High Command, 9, 26 Germany, 2, 9, 13, 24, 29, 34–35, 38, 47, 50–51, 57–58, 109, 123, 130, 147, 150, 152–155 Gilan, viii, 4–5, 36–38, 95, 97, 110– 112, 133, 137, 139–154, 156–162, 176–177, 179–180 Gleerup, 60, 64 Goltz, Von Der, 10, 15

INDEX Government Gendarmerie, 43–45, 47, 49, 58, 60, 62, 66 Hamedan / Hamadan, 13, 17–20, 22, 25, 36, 52, 55–56, 62, 148 Herat, 38–39, 150 Hey’at-e Namayandegan, 14, 18, 25 Heydar Khan, 169, 173–175, 179 historiography, vii, 118, 121, 135, 137, 161–162, 166, 178 Hjalmarson, H.O., 44–45, 48 India, 2, 9–10, 12, 16, 29–31, 38, 50, 96, 124, 169–170 Iran, vii–ix, 1–6, 9–13, 15–17, 19, 22– 24, 26–27, 29–31, 33–38, 40–44, 46–48, 50–52, 54–56, 58, 60–64, 66, 69–70, 80–81, 83, 91, 93, 95– 98, 105, 116, 118, 121–143, 145– 150, 152–153, 155–162, 171–172, 177–178 Iranian Communist Party (ICP), 63, 162–163, 172–174, 178–179 Iranian democrats, 3, 36, 128–129, 131 Iranian nationalism, 43, 50, 66–67, 121–122, 138 Iranian Provisional Government, 3, 9, 14, 17–24, 27, 53–54, 56–58, 60, 63, 139 Iranshahr, 98, 100, 115, 117, 134 Iraq, 15–17, 56, 58, 77, 90–91 Isfahan, xii, 13, 45, 49, 54, 56, 59, 63 Islam, vii, 3, 10, 29–31, 34, 41, 126, 131, 139, 145, 147, 158–159, 161 Istanbul, 16, 26, 31, 33, 38, 47, 58, 63, 82, 117, 125–127, 134 Jangali movement, 4, 137–139, 141– 142, 144, 149–150, 152–153, 156, 158, 160, 162, 179 Jangalis, 36–38, 42, 61, 95, 97, 137– 139, 141, 143–162, 177 Jews, 73, 80

225

Jihad, 4, 10, 29, 34–35, 82, 124 Kars, 31, 41, 128, 131 Kasravi, Ahmad, 22, 95, 97–108, 110– 117 Katouzian, Homa, ix, 95 Kaunitz, Count, 12–14, 21–23 Kavbyuro, 168, 173, 179 Kemalist Republic, 1 Kerman / Kirman, xii, 61 Kermanshah / Kirmanshah, 3, 13–14, 17–26, 35–36, 53, 83, 129 Khalil Pasha, 15, 35, 39, 101, 147 Khiva, 126, 163, 170, 180 Khiyabani, Sheikh Mohammad / Shaykh Muhammad, 40–41, 62, 95, 97–108, 110–119, 131–133, 161 Khorasan, 5, 38–39, 133, 174, 176–178, 180 Kress, Von, 151–154, 156 Kuchik Khan, Mirza, 4, 36–37, 97, 111–112, 137–138, 141–144, 147, 151–158, 161, 177, 179 Kurdish nationalism, 72, 77, 81–82, 93 Kurdish tribes, 69–71, 73–74, 80–81 Kurdistan, vii, 13, 17, 20, 22, 35, 69– 73, 75, 79, 81–83, 86, 88, 91–93, 107 Kurds, vii–viii, 2–3, 34, 70, 72–76, 78–82, 87–90, 92–93, 123, 134 Lenin, 27, 63, 137, 158, 161, 165, 173 lesser despotism, 5, 122 Luristan, 12, 17, 20, 90, 107 Majles / Majlis, viii, 3, 6, 10–12, 14, 18–20, 27, 44, 53–54, 66, 98–99, 101, 103, 105, 109, 112, 141, 145 First, 44 Second, 12, 43, 99, 112, 141 Third, 3, 6, 12, 14, 18, 20 Mashhad, 35, 38–39, 46, 60, 176 Middle East, vii–viii, xi–xii, 30, 47, 135

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Mikaelian, Hormoz, 137, 161–163, 170–175, 178 military authorities, 168, 174, 177–178 military modernization, 43–44 Modarres, Sayyed Hasan / Mudarris, Sayyid Hasan, 16, 18–19, 21, 25– 26, 64, 96 Mohammad Ali Shah, 6, 99, 143, 159 Mokhber al-Saltaneh, 23, 113–116, 118 Moshir al-Dowleh / Mushir al-Dawlah, 6, 10, 53, 111–113, 116–118 Mostofi al-Mamalek / Mustawfi alMamalik, 2, 6, 10–11, 15, 17–18, 25, 53, 123 Moscow, 18, 97, 128, 137, 147, 163– 166, 168, 173, 175, 177–180 Mosul, 26, 57, 69–70 Muhajerat / Muhajirat, viii, 12–13, 27, 43, 53–56, 58, 66 Muhajerin / Muhajirin, 12–22, 24–27, 54–55, 139 Musavat Party, 37, 41 Musavatists, 38, 128–132 Musbyuro, 166–169, 172, 175 Muslims, viii, 2–3, 10, 29, 32, 34–35, 38, 70, 80, 87, 123–124, 128–129, 141, 145, 161, 167, 169, 177 Nadolny, Rudolf, 15–17, 20–26 Najaf, 34–35, 117 Narimanov, Nariman, 159, 173 Narodnyy Komissariat Inostrannykh Del (Narkomindel), 167, 177–178, 180 National Defence Committee, 3, 12– 13, 16, 54 nationalism, 6–7, 30, 62–63, 82–83, 93, 121–122, 130, 132, 134–136, 145, 160–161, 169 Nestorians, 70, 80, 84, 87 Nezam al-Saltaneh / Nizam al-Saltanah, viii, 12–16, 18, 20–22, 25–26, 35, 56–57, 62–63, 85

Nobari, 40–41, 100–103, 131 Nyström, P., 47, 51, 58 Odessa, 29, 124 Ordzhonikidze, Sergo, 142–143, 159, 173 Ottoman Empire, 29, 32–33, 40, 83, 123–125, 127, 135, 141 Ottoman forces, 2, 29, 77, 123–124 Ottoman state, 32, 42, 71, 74–75, 81 Ottomanism, 30, 32, 125 Pan-Islamism, 4–5, 30–32, 34, 81, 125, 133, 137–141, 144–145, 156, 158–161 Pan-Turkism, 4–5, 30–32, 40, 50, 121, 123–127, 131, 134–135, 139, 154 Persia, 17, 35, 51–52, 55, 59–60, 69– 70, 85, 97, 109–110, 147–148, 150, 152, 154–156, 161, 163, 168–169, 171–172, 176–180 Persian Gulf, 52, 58 political community, 1, 5 Poltorazk, 168, 174, 177–178 Provisional government, 3, 9, 14, 17–24, 27, 53–54, 56–58, 60, 63, 139 Qajar, 1, 9 Qasr-e Shirin / Qasr-i Shirin, 14–16, 19–20, 57 Qazvin, 3, 36, 45–46, 54, 57, 62, 64– 65, 97–98, 150, 153 Qom, 3, 11–14, 54–56 Rasht, 18, 36, 46, 70, 97, 112, 137, 140, 159–160 Rasulzadeh, Mohammad Amin, 38, 127 Rauf Bey, 10–11, 33 Red Army, 164–165, 168, 174–176 Reuss, 11–12, 14 revolt, 5, 13, 31, 37, 55, 62, 75, 90, 95, 97–99, 101–105, 107, 114, 117–119, 133

INDEX Reza Khan / Riza Khan, 64, 66–67, 90–91 Reza Shah, 7, 121, 135 Russia, 4, 9, 13, 17, 26–27, 29, 31, 38, 44–46, 48, 50–51, 53, 65, 70, 72, 79, 82, 86, 96, 99, 109, 123–124, 126–127, 130, 133, 139, 141, 144– 146, 150, 153–154, 156, 164, 166– 168, 175 Russian Empire, 1, 4, 125, 127–128, 131, 135, 143, 148 Russian forces, 2–3, 9, 11, 25, 99, 101, 123, 144 Russian Revolution, viii, 3–4, 26, 39, 46, 62, 99, 124, 126, 128, 131, 143 Said Halim Pasha, 30–31 Second Majles / Majlis, 12, 43, 99, 112, 141 Secret Service, 29, 32, 38–39, 42, 131 Sepahsalar / Sipahsalar, 17, 54, 102, 143 Shikak, 69, 77, 79, 83–86, 89–90, 92– 93, 103 Shiraz, 45, 48, 50–51, 55, 58–59 Shuster, Morgan, 44, 49, 51 Simko, Ismail Aqa, 5, 61, 69–71, 83– 93, 103, 109 South Persia Rifles (SPR), 17, 59–61 Soviet Internatsional’noi Propagandy (Sovinterprop), 163–164, 166–180 Soviet Republic of Gilan, viii, 137, 144, 159–161 Soviet Russia, 153, 164, 166–167, 175 Sovnarkom, 164–165 Stalin, 159, 161, 167, 173, 180 Suleyman Mirza, 12–13, 15–16, 18–19, 23–24, 27, 116 Sultanzadeh, Sultanovich, 137, 161– 163, 170–175, 178 Sur-e Israfil, Qasem Khan, 18, 20, 159 Sweden, 51, 58, 60 Tabriz, 4, 6, 34, 39–41, 46, 60, 62, 70,

227

85, 87–89, 91, 95, 97–108, 110–114, 116, 122, 124, 127, 129, 131–132, 140, 150–155, 157, 159, 161 Taha, Sheikh Sayyed, 86–88, 91, 93 Tajaddod, 98, 101, 105, 109 Talat Pasha, 32–33 Taqizadeh, Sayyed Hasan, 10, 16, 157, 161 Tashkent, 38, 163–166, 171–179 Tbilisi, 128–129, 143, 150–153, 155, 157 Tehran, vii–viii, 3, 11, 17, 19–21, 26– 27, 35–40, 44–45, 48, 53–56, 58– 63, 65, 88, 96–98, 101, 103–105, 107–108, 110–112, 116, 118, 122, 127, 134, 137–141, 147–150, 153, 155, 158 Teşkilat-i Mahsusa, 32– 42, 131, 134 Third Majles / Majlis, 3, 6, 12, 14, 18, 20 Transcaspia, 154, 168, 175 Transcaucasia, 97, 131–132, 150, 168 Tsarism, 60, 63 Tsarist government, 1, 123 Turan, 32, 34, 126, 154 Turkey, vii, 1, 9, 19, 23, 26, 31, 35, 38, 41, 69, 77, 83, 90–92, 109, 126, 131, 133–134, 139–141, 153, 155– 157, 163, 172 Turkistan, 33–34, 38–39, 42, 126, 135, 143, 150, 161, 164–166, 168–172, 175–176, 180 Ulama, 10, 22, 45, 96 Urumiyeh, 69–70, 82–83, 85–91, 102 Vahid al-Molk, 15, 22–24 Vosuq al-Dowleh / Vusuq al-Dawlah, vii, 17, 60, 64, 95, 98 Wustrow, Kurt, 110–111, 155 Young Turks, 5, 127, 140–141, 154