Islands of the Eastern Mediterranean: A History of Cross-Cultural Encounters 9780755608331, 9781780766294

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LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Celine Dauverd is an historian of early modern Europe specialising in Renaissance and Mediterranean teaching at the University of Colorado-Boulder. Her research focuses on socio-cultural relations between Spain and Italy during the early modern era (1450– 1650). Akca Atac is Assistant Professor at the Department of Political Science and International Relations of C¸ankaya University, Ankara; her research interests focus on normativism and normative theories in international relations. Mark Fehlmann specialises in classic archaeology and on the relation between arts economy and markets. He is currently Director of the Museum Oskar Reinhart Museum in Winterthur. Fredrick Whitling who worked on the role Foreign Academies and the Swedish Institute in Rome, between 1935– 1953, is now a post-doctoral fellow at the Swedish Institute in Rome and engaged in the project of editing a history of institute between 1925 and 1950. Elektra Kostopoulou’s background in Turkish Balkan history has shaped her interest in the islands of the Aegean and Crete under Ottoman rule. She is a member of the Department of History of Rutgers University.

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ISLANDS OF THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN

Pinar S
enis
ik is a specialist of politics and identity in the late Ottoman Mediterranean. She currently teaches at Dog˘us
University in Istanbul. Elif Bayraktar Tellan works on the religious policies in the late Ottoman Empire. She currently works at the Tourism Faculty of Istanbul Medeniyet University.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

We owe many debts of gratitude to people who have helped and supported us in putting together this volume. First and foremost, the book relies upon the contributions of all the scholars who delivered their papers during the MedWorlds II Conference in Istanbul and were patient enough to go through the process of assembling the proceedings together with us. The editors and the contributors are, indeed, grateful to the Department of History of Istanbul S
ehir ¨ niversitesi for having hosted the Conference and to the University U of Salerno and Eastern Mediterranean University for having supported its organization. We would also express our gratitude to the members of the Scientific Board of MedWorlds II and in particular to Prof. Go¨khan C¸etinsaya and Dr. Abdu¨lhamit Kırmızı. We are grateful to the reviewers for the comments they had offered to each paper and to Dr. Sheelagh Frame for her passionate editing of the earlier draft of this volume. Finally, we would like to thank all the people who in the last five years have accompanied us through the five MedWorlds conference; it has been simply wonderful to be part of a continuously stimulating and warm scholarly environment.

CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION O¨zlem C¸aykent and Luca Zavagno

The Mediterranean is an intricately patterned kaleidoscope. Viewed through multiple intersecting prisms such as ethnicity, imperialism and historiography, the sea, its islands and shores reflect an elusive, ever-changing ‘reality’. The mass of water is sometimes regarded as a border and a site of violent cultural conflict, but alternately as a bridge or road, linking all those who live on its shores. These contradictory perspectives are as common among those who inhabit the region, as among those who define it from a cultural or scholarly distance – and there is abundant evidence for both perspectives. There is no doubt that today, as in the past, the Mediterranean countries share a hybrid structure of socio-economic and political constructions. There is also no doubt that many of the individuals and groups inhabiting its shores are fiercely defined by their differences. This has created an extraordinary range of interpretations, regional identities, life-world strategies, and symbolic constructions. Sometimes the image in the kaleidoscope is a stereotypical, touristic, romanticised view of the ‘Mediterranean’ as a homogenised culture area. This can generate dangerously simplistic, at times Eurocentric, views or discourses of ‘backwardness’.1 This book does not defend or attack any one perspective; instead, each chapter represents another twist of the kaleidoscope, revealing

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another pattern of interacting social and symbolic structures, of hybrid histories. This collection of articles on the history, cultures and historiography of the Eastern Mediterranean is composed of local histories and cross-cultural interactions centred on/in the Eastern Mediterranean during the early modern and contemporary periods. The essays originated as papers presented at the interdisciplinary Mediterranean Worlds Conference, which has been held every year since 2008. They include discussions on the literature, art, philosophy, politics, economic practices, religion and archaeology of the region. Geographically, the book focuses on the islands of the Eastern Mediterranean. In contrast to the romanticised, touristic view of islands as resort destinations, or idyllic paradises, these essays position the islands as centres of political and cultural fermentation. As Abulafia recently stressed,2 the history of regional interaction, from its earliest traces through the great civilisations of antiquity to the rival empires of medieval and modern times, is the history of the islands. Centrally located but with limited resources, dominating trade routes but facing fierce competition, the island cultures of the Mediterranean have frequently been at the centre of socio-political power struggles. In the early modern and contemporary period they were part of the emerging modern capitalist economy and politics. Therefore, although distinct, and distinctly vulnerable, the island cultures can offer valuable, refracted perspectives on these processes. This book depicts the most recent chapter of a long story of vulnerable islands adopting and adapting to the conflicting historical developments of the continental shores. We have examples of island cultures coping with a rising capitalistic economy and with politics migrating from imperial centres. The reader is, in fact, left with a sense of incompleteness; a question as to the extent to which the history of the islands reflects the nature of the shores. In other words, is the Mediterranean defined by its shores, or are the shores nurtured – fostered – by the Great Sea in a never-ending interaction with the islands scattered across its liquid essence.

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Like the conference, the book is unified by two distinctive research perspectives. First, it adopts an interdisciplinary approach, as it ‘takes outsiders to a field to reveal to us what we have missed because of the power of our own received narratives’.3 We have not, therefore, limited ourselves to particular topics or disciplines. Second, it dismantles the traditional dichotomies embedded in the dominant Mediterranean historical narrative: foreign vis-a`-vis local, national vis-a`-vis imperial, Muslim vis-a`-vis Christian. The book’s focus on human and historical building processes, and its acceptance of hybridity and contextualisation results in a richer, more comprehensive view of the cross-cultural traditions and stresses in Mediterranean history and culture. In fact, the volume can be seen as a historiographical debate on the idea, and the ideal, of ‘The Mediterranean’. The approaches applied and challenged range from the Pirennian disruption of Mohammed (vis-a`-vis Charlemagne), though the Braudelian concept of unity in the longue dure´e, to the recent ecological and geographical ‘Mediterraneanism’ proposed by Horden and Purcell.

Does ‘The Mediterranean’ Exist? Academic perspectives on the Mediterranean generally fall into three broad categories. First, there is the unitary approach best exemplified by Fernand Braudel’s Mediterranean World. Second, there is the view of the Mediterranean as a collection of distinct cultural spheres, a geographical region divided into autonomous parts. In the extreme form of this interpretation, ‘The Mediterranean’ becomes not much more than the sum of the records of all the surrounding countries.4 The third perspective integrates the first two approaches. It is pluralistic and acknowledges the interdependence and connectivity of Mediterranean histories and cultures. This approach yields a more nuanced understanding of the Mediterranean and Mediterranean history, such as that seen in The Corrupting Sea by Peregrin Horden and Nicholas Purcell and, with an added emphasis on human agency, in the work of David Abulafia.5

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The unitary perspective is deeply entrenched in the historical and anthropological literatures: ‘It is an area of civilisations and culture that shows its own history and must be regarded on the same level as other cradles of civilisations like Europe, India or China.’6 It is even sanctified as the birthplace of the three global monotheistic religions making it the ‘centre of Spiritual History’.7 In anthropology, the unitary perspective highlights regional similarities in the agrarian dualism of scale, patron-client relationships, the honour and shame syndrome, masculine/feminine dichotomies and gender specific moral values. However, other anthropologists caution that ‘something is wrong with the notion of the Mediterranean as a culture area’ and certainly there is a need to re-examine these concepts.8 The emphasis on the cultural unity of the Mediterranean is as ancient as History itself. In Herodotus’ Histories, the history of the Mediterranean and the history of Greek civilisation are intertwined and he presents Roman history as an extension of the same unification process, just as later historians have found in Herodotus the origins of the ‘West’.9 The Romans themselves saw the ‘Mare Nostrum’ (Our Sea) with the eyes of the imperial eagle: ‘the control of the sea at the centre of three continents presupposing the quest for the domination of the entire world’.10 This political domination emphatically depended upon the continuous circulation and blending of ideas, people, news and goods. More recently, the historian of the Mediterranean Fernand Braudel renewed the holistic view of the Mediterranean. In Braudel’s multilayered and multi-levelled analysis, climatic, seasonal, and historical evolutions are inter-connected: ‘The Turkish Mediterranean lived and breathed with the same rhythms as the Christian. . .the whole sea shared a common destiny, a heavy one indeed, with identical problems and general trends if not identical consequences.’11 Although his emphasis on commonality was more than most Mediterranean historians would now grant, his stress on ge´ohistoire, human activity, and to a certain extent his ability to consider human engagement with the environment and technology without falling into geographic determinism, are still useful for understanding influence, exchange and connectivity in the Mediterranean. His

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greatest legacy was to move history beyond its traditional emphasis on politics and diplomacy. Despite its historical roots and Braudel’s eloquence, the idea of the Mediterranean as a single region connected by the sea is not the only historical paradigm. An example of the ‘autonomous parts’ perspective mentioned above, is Hess’ pluralistic vision of the postfifteenth-century Mediterranean, increasingly divided into autonomous regions (the would-be Roman emperors, as Abulafia calls them12). From a different stand point, Herzfeld points out that the ‘desire to generalise about the “Mediterranean culture”’, created a reverse effect, bringing about the banishment of ‘the societies of the “sea in the middle of the earth” to the world’s political and cultural periphery’.13 However, it could be argued that this kind of power politics applied to the Mediterranean is itself a connecting force.14 Andrew C. Hess, in his seminal work on the Ibero-African frontier, points out that these two extreme views of the Mediterranean world sometimes co-exist in the same analysis: ‘Themes of unity and diversity run like broad bands of contrasting colour. . . Linked together by the sea, the inhabitants of the lands bordering this island-strewn inland body of water long ago developed a set of common cultural traits.’ However, mapping the sea from a perspective of power politics he highlights a contrasting factual point: ‘Yet with a perverse irony, Mediterranean peoples rejected the union the sea fostered and divided themselves into well-defined and oftentimes hostile civilizations.’15 Hess’ ‘bands of contrasting colour’ may be refracting through prisms of alternative sources and methodologies, as well as distinct paradigms. For example, it is commonly accepted that Braudel freed academic history from its political and diplomatic limitations. However, his history of the Mediterranean has also been criticised as very Habsburg-oriented, and lacking a good analysis of most of the Eastern Mediterranean. This is generally attributed to a scarcity of archival material and of histories of the region.16 This remains a significant obstacle to the writing of a holistic Mediterranean history. Sources are unevenly accessible, archival organisation varies widely between countries and institutions, and documents are written in a

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great variety of languages. Furthermore, the comparatively late rise of nation states on the eastern and southern shores of the Mediterranean has meant that fewer local historians in these regions have written histories of the modern period. Thus the poor fit between local/ autonomous and universal histories and historiographies of the Mediterranean needs to be viewed as a methodological issue, as well as a theoretical one. Indeed, Braudel made the same point himself. He tried to rectify some of these problems in the second edition of La Me´diterrane´e et le Monde Me´diterrane´en a l’e´poque de Philippe II. In the 1950s and 60s, in the years after the original publication of his book, there was a growing interest in writing the history of the Eastern Mediterranean, specifically Ottoman history. However, expected improvements in methodology and research results were remarkably slow.17 In his second edition Braudel noted that more literature from the region was now available and that these ‘revealed, if not everything we would like to know, at least enough to make discernible certain patterns and valid “models”, the essential condition being to distinguish carefully between different periods’.18 In 1950, a historian of the Ottoman Empire, O¨mer Lu¨tfu¨ Barkan, encountered the Annales School, centred on Braudel at the Paris Congress of History.19 As for many other contemporary historians, his encounter with this new school of thought was a mind-opening event. At the time, Annales historians such as Eric Hobsbawm were shifting the focus of historical studies, sometimes even arguing for the transformation of history into a ‘historical social science’.20 Barkan and Braudel’s meeting lead to a long-term intellectual exchange that enriched each other’s works; Barkan provided Braudel with the information on population, gold, silver and trade channels that was incorporated into the second edition of La Me´diterrane´e.21 Although there has been some further work done in these areas since 1966, it is still an under-researched area. Nicolas Vatin in his introduction rightly points out that dual sourcing is scarce and in most cases non-existent.22 These unresolved problems of uneven sources and different schools of research create a historiographical problem. Do we have enough

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information to even talk about the commonness or separateness of Mediterranean culture/history? On the separatist front, Archibald Lewis presents an engaging discussion in the preface to his book. He agrees with Hess that, ‘The Arab invasions of the seventh and eighth centuries and the Iconoclast heresy that followed on their heels did more than divide the Mediterranean world into three relatively distinct culture areas, Western European, Byzantine and Moslem’. He also points out that these political processes created a parallel division among historians; these three areas are distinct fields of historical research.23 Phillip Chiviges Naylor, looking at the sea from the south, similarly points to Braudel’s famous remarks and adds that ‘From the arrival of the Ottomans to the departure of Napoleon’s troops, several notable changes occurred in the transcultural relations between North Africa and its wider world’, and that these transformations need to be considered seriously. He argues that academics looking for a bonding and merging of people, will only find this ‘inside each region and within these limits it defie[s] all barriers of race, culture or religion’.24 These separatist approaches are reminders of the danger of oversimplification, but it is hard to deny that the connectivity of the region cuts across various civilisational thresholds and politicocultural discourses. Horden and Purcell propose the metaphor of the Mediterranean as a mosaic of regions that are themselves not necessarily internally homogenous: ‘Indeed, it is the variability and the consequences of adjusting to that that give Mediterranean societies their distinctive character.’25 It is indisputable that Mediterranean lands share some common history.26 ‘In terms of time [. . .] and space the aggregate movements of people and things fell into clear patterns’27 made of overlapping expansions and contractions. The ease of travel on the waters as well as the variety of products produced by its coastal regions gives much of the Mediterranean the characteristics of a single island. Indeed, as Davis has noted, ‘the people of the Mediterranean have been engaged in conquest, commerce, colonialism, connubium and conversation for about five millennia, and it is impossible to imagine that, in that period, they have not created common institutions’.28 However,

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regional comparisons still need to be contextualised and ‘universalistic categories of institutional description that we have inherited from evolutionist’ understandings of history should be avoided.29 The theoretical and methodological arguments for the unitary vs. autonomous regions approaches thus remain unresolved. Perhaps, as Herzfeld points out, the problem is not whether the Mediterranean is a culture area. The essential question may be whether that is a useful concept for analytical or descriptive purposes. Whether the Mediterranean is seen as a ‘soft-centre’, facilitating cultural and ethnic interplay, or whether we consider it a barrier separating civilisations and traditions, a close study of particular Mediterranean structures or events, though a variety of prisms can be revealing. The interplay of the similarities and differences can reveal new information about societies and inter-state relations. The aim is not merely to show that interpretations vary according to the theoretical, cultural or political position of the interpreter. We seek a truly hybrid approach, that can use the contradictions as the starting point not the conclusion of the analysis. Therefore, this volume embraces narratives of hybridity and its contextualisation in a variety of disciplines including cultural and social anthropology, history, art, and archaeology. Recognising that each discipline offers its own understanding of hybridity is only the starting point. If one agrees that Mediterranean values did not arise from differences but from the relationships between differences,30 the concept of hybridity (as intrinsic to the Mediterranean) can move beyond its first dimension, that of perception and construction by different individuals in order to maintain their privilege or status. In this analysis, the second and third dimensions of the concept of hybridity then come to the fore: ‘hybridity as a metaphor for a scientific approach that aims at deconstructing asymmetric power relations resulting from assumptions of cultural purity and as the basis for a methodological approach for the analysis of trans-cultural encounters’.31 This volume points to a hybrid outcome of old and new approaches in theory and methodology, and incorporates new related

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fields of study such as the work emerging from medieval hospitals and medreses out of zaviyas. A well-explored topic in most of the articles is the symbolic continuity in locations, concepts, titles, institutions, like ‘paradigmatic topos’ or perhaps ‘symbolic constants’. Like the kaleidoscope we began with, this volume clarifies the image for readers by paradoxically distorting directions, origins and distances: ‘the Mediterranean is not only geography: a place on the coast is not necessarily and totally Mediterranean’.32

Case Studies: Images from the Object Chamber The geographical range of the contributions stretches from Rhodes to Cyprus, Crete to the Cyclades. Together, they aim to re-construct the role and relevance of the islands as fertile territories for cross-cultural encounters across the political, religious and social spheres within their respective social, economic and political contexts. The articles are unified by their focus on perceptions, connections and the heritage of the Mediterranean. They examine the formation across connecting and dividing shores of politics of unities, through experiences of empires and along political aspirations/modern unions, or through commercial enterprises such as expanding trade routes or the illegal antiquities trade. Thus, connectivity and continuity in various aspects emerge as salient issues. Two main themes emerge from the diverse contributions to this volume. The first is the role of cross-cultural and multiregional connections in the political transformation of the Eastern Mediterranean islands (Senısık, Bayraktar Tellan, Yelce and Atac), and the centrality of these processes to the creation of Mediterranean cosmopolitanism. Examples of the formation and functioning of such cosmopolitanism include the Ottoman need for conquests, the uneasy relationships between Rum (Orthodox) and Frank (Western Christian) in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the advent of Imperialism and the rise of nationalisms and the newly emerging Mediterraneanism within the institutions of the European Union. The second theme examines the historical appropriation and even mystification of the past (Dauverd, Whitling, Fehlmann and

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Kostopoulou). This involves the use of antiquities and archaeology as instruments for appropriating and politically spending cultural heritage for ideological, political or commercial purposes. The volume starts with Celine Dauverd’s examination of the late fifteenth century; specifically, on Mehmed II’s desire to revive the (real or imagined) ancient Mediterranean empires. She argues that Mehmed wished to build not an Islamic Empire, but a multidenominational one. His model was the Roman Empire and Dauverd interprets Mehmed’s seizing of Constantinople and his anticipated march on Rome as a declaration to his Italian contemporaries that he was the rightful heir to the Roman Empire. Dauverd dwells on Mediterranean cultural connectivity, and argues that ‘the Sultan’s reading of classic Western culture and his interaction with Westerners inspired him to seek possession of a historical memory that was not his’ (Dauverd, xx). This ‘historical memory’ represented a past ‘truly and deeply’ Mediterranean, as it was rooted in the glory of Rome. This introduces one of the most powerful elements of the story of the Great Sea: the inheritance of Rome.33 The Roman Empire was the only power in history to rule over all its shores. This myth of Empire has resonated in the political ideology, ceremonial practices, cultural models and artistic perceptions of all subsequent Empires. To borrow from Abulafia, the pride of place among ‘would-be Roman Emperors’34 in the early modern Great Sea, can be given to the Ottoman Empire, which sought to shape the so-called Fourth Mediterranean (1350– 1830 C.E .). In the sixteenth century, Sultan Su¨leyman ushered in the ‘Battle for the Akdeniz’,35 which culminated in the conquest of Cyprus and the naval confrontation at Lepanto (1571). In that battle, islands played a prominent role: Zeynep Yelce’s article sheds light on the strategic and symbolic significance of one of these islands (Rhodes) in the eyes of the Ottomans. As in Dauverd’s contribution, Yelce explores both the fictional and real motives used to rationalise the occupation of the island by the army of the Sultan. Dynastic prowess, power politics, the quest for military glory and religious responsibility all played a role in shaping the symbolic character of Rhodes and in justifying its conquest in 1522. However, the occupation of Rhodes,

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and later that of Cyprus, also allowed the Ottomans to secure the sea routes to Egypt, the Levant and Istanbul and gave them full authority over the Aegean. The unification of the Eastern Mediterranean by the Sublime Porte can be fully appreciated if one examines the Aegean islands. These were brought under one administrative unit called in ‘a sheer compelling manner’, Islands of the Mediterranean. However, this administrative unification did not deprive them of the cultural and social richness derived from the coexistence of different peoples and religious communities. Elif Bayraktar Tellan explores some of the forms and nature of these relationships by focusing on interactions between the Greek Orthodox and the Latin Catholics within the larger historical context of the seventeenth and eighteenth-century Ottoman political domination. It was, indeed, ‘the revival of the Orthodox Church after the Latin interlude that played into the hands of the Ottoman rulers’ realpolitik as they conquered one piece of Catholic territory after another between the fifteenth and the eighteenth century’.36 Bayraktar Tellan’s contibution reveals the complexity of the islands’ multiple inheritances, including the Ottoman, European, Turkic and Islamic cultures, which resulted in innovative and flexible cultural forms that changed according to the economic, political and religious agendas of the hour. The transformation of political, ideological and religious discourses at the end of the Ottoman period (eighteenth century) is explored in Pınar Senısık’s contribution. The decline of Islamic power in the Mediterranean was intertwined with both the expansion of Western imperialism (France and England) in the Eastern Mediterranean, and the emergence of national identities. Here again, an island serves the purpose of illustrating a macro-historical discourse. Senısık examines the transformation of the local political and social structures in Ottoman Crete, paying particular attention to the Cretan revolt of 1896. Far from being liberation from a foreign political (and religious) yoke, the Greek Orthodox Christians’ insurgency was an attempt to reshape the multi-ethnic and multidenominational Cretan social dynamics. Senısık further argues that the involvement of European powers in local affairs not only

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complicated the local dynamics, but also threatened the survival of Ottoman rule on Crete. Although the Cretan Christians looked hopefully toward Europe, it did not establish order on the island; on the contrary, it contributed to the rising tensions between local communities. In the second section of the book, the focus is on key islands such as Rhodes, Crete and Cyprus, where local government, cultural activity and cross-denominational polities served as ideological justifications for multiple opposing factions. With the rise of Western European imperialism and local nation states (as discussed by Senısık) new fields such as archaeology became part of the political discourse. The rising nationalisms started literally excavating identities from the lands and minds in and around the Mediterranean. Elektra Kostopoulou demonstrates how the pompous Western rhetoric of modernism – as embedded in the archaeological investigation of the Cretan past – contributed to the expansion of European political interests at the expense of local histories and cultural heritage. During the late nineteenth century, this was illustrated in Crete by the difference between British and Ottoman archaeological practices and arguments. The archaeological narrative created by these archaeologies erases the self-evident Ottoman heritage from the history of Crete and creates a European narrative, which presents the Minoan past as part of a shared Western history. A further twist is added by the fact that ‘most European archaeologists represented and served the national and predominant interests of their countries of origins’ (Kostopoulou, xx). An ideological appropriation of the Mediterranean past on the part of the West de facto reversed the ‘Ottomanisation’ of the Roman Mediterranean and erased the former conquerors of Rome-Byzantium. From the nineteenth century onwards archaeological discourse gained an increasingly imperialistic tone. Western powers in particular were great beneficiaries of the new imperialistic versions of this discourse. Fredrick Whitling rightly points out that archaeology in the early twentieth century appropriated the Classical past and shaped ancient material culture to the projections and ideological

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expectations of Western Europe: ‘National traditions and identification with specific archaeological sites were evolving as an expression of nation-building process’ (Whitling, xx). The results of this process were not only the large Western excavation projects in the Eastern Mediterranean (like the Swedish expedition in Cyprus) that hinted at the notion of shared historical continuity between the ancient Mediterranean and Western Europe, but also a real appropriation of the cultural material that was being investigated. In Crete British archaeologists carried off antiquities in the name of the British public and the King, whereas in Cyprus more than half of the finds of the Swedish expeditions found their way to Scandinavia. It certainly needs to be added here that these artefacts were not usually illegally removed; permission to export the material was granted by the Ottoman Sublime Port. Commodifying antiquities and remapping the past went hand-inhand with the enclosure and re-definition of borders, as the consolidation of national authorities justified new types of wars. On these new battlefields, like Iraq in 2003 and Cyprus in 1974, archaeology was once again the victim and a ‘political tool to construct and legitimise cultural and ethnic superiority’ (Fehlmann, xxx). Indeed, Mark Fehlmann, by focusing on the problem of looted archaeological sites in Cyprus, stresses the idea that archaeological heritage – today, as in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries – can present ideologically manipulated fiction as politically dictated facts. This is clearly demonstrated in Cyprus where the battle over cultural heritage has been raging between the Greek and Turkish Cypriot communities since 1974. Here, unachievable and legally undefined political neutrality prevents archaeologists from protecting local sites from being looted and destroyed. The chain of historical memory and knowledge, which links the past and the present of the Great Sea, has been severed in Cyprus. The connection with a Classical past, which shaped Mehmet II’s ideology of conquest, has become the cultural property of only some of the Mediterranean’s inhabitants. In Cyprus, the two communities are at risk of losing their sense of a common past and, as a consequence, the opportunity to re-build their future.

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Fehlmann’s pessimistic view of the discourse on the contemporary Mediterranean is partially counterbalanced by Akca Atac. In the volume’s final chapter, he argues that just as cultural heritage can be used as a proxy war, as described by Fehlmann, it can also be an opportunity for a ‘politics-free discourse. . . to be created in the Mediterranean through infrastructural, environmental, and cultural projects’ (Atac, xx), that could lead to a resolution between conflicting parties. In fact, this argument is extraordinarily compelling in a time of revolution across the entire south and eastern coasts of the Mediterranean. These movements could, in turn, point to a contemporary revival of a Mediterranean polity, a union for the Mediterranean rather than of the Mediterranean, as in the Roman era. This could become a modern ‘mare nostrum’ or pan-Mediterranean political dimension that could balance or even dislodge the EU’s historical and mythical Mediterraneanism. The chronological framework of the book is shaped by the sources used. Here we illustrate one of the major obstacles when writing Mediterranean history: the problem of available/reachable sources and the ability of a single historian to read them. At the same time, the volume aims to apply an interdisciplinary approach to what have frequently been partisan and narrowly focused research issues such as the cultural heritage in conflict zones and the interaction of local cultures on Mediterranean islands. This could be perceived as a search for new perspectives on a globalising Mediterranean. Moving beyond the ‘verbosity of the Mediterranean discourse, often suffering from an excess of sun and sea and the rhetoric serving democracy or tyranny’,37 we propose a Mediterranean kaleidoscope of antagonisms and differences, but also of fusion and blending.

Notes 1 See De Pina-Cabral, J., ‘The Mediterranean as a category of regional comparison, a critical view’, Current Anthropology 30/3 (The University of Chicago Press, Jun. 1989), pp. 399– 406. 2 Abulafia, David, The Great Sea. A Human History of the Mediterranean (Oxford University Press: Oxford, 2011). 3 Bicchi, Federica, European Foreign Policy Making (Palgrave MacMillan: New York, 2007), p. xii.

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4 Although still seeing the Mediterranean as a connecting force, Andrew C. Hess argues that in the sixteenth century the Mediterranean was divided into distinct cultural spheres; Hess, Andrew C., The Forgotten Frontier, A History of the SixteenthCentury Ibero-African Frontier (Chicago University Press: Chicago, 1978). 5 Horden, P. and Purcell, N., The Corrupting Sea, A Study of Mediterranean History (Oxford, 2000); Abulafia, David: The Great Sea. 6 Guarracino, Mediterraneo. Immagini, Storie e Teorie da Omero a Braudel (Mondadori: Milan, 2007), p. 22. 7 Ludwig, Emil, La Me´diterrane´e, Destine´e d’une Mer, Vol. I (La Maison Francaise: New York, 1943), p. 11. 8 Ibid., p. 399; see on this also Harris, W. V., Rethinking the Mediterranean (Oxford, 2005); Herzfeld, Michael, ‘The horns of the Mediterraneanist dilemma’, American Ethnologist, 11/3 (1984), pp. 439 – 54; Quingley, C., ‘Mexican national character and the circum-Mediterranean personality structure’, American Anthropologist 75 (1973), pp. 319 – 22. See also Banfield, Edward C., and Banfield, Laura F., The Moral Basis of a Backward Society (Glencoe, IL, 1958); they criticise the perception that individuals’ interests, choices and activities are formed within the context of a nuclear family network and are unable to transcend this individualistic nature. This idea is most clearly put forward by Quigley (1973) in his discussion of the circumMediterranean personality. He argues, on the basis of his research in a village in southern Italy, that the backwardness of the community can be explained ‘largely but not entirely’ by ‘the inability of the villagers to act together for their common good or, indeed, for any end transcending the immediate, material interest of the nuclear family’. p. 10. 9 See Herzfeld, M., ‘“As in your own house,” Hospitality, ethnography, and the stereotype of Mediterranean society’, in David D. Gilmore (ed.), Honor and Shame and the Unity of the Mediterranean (American Anthropological Association: Washington, 1987), p. 88 and De Pina-Cabral, J., ‘Reply to Llobera’, Critique of Anthropology 7/1, pp. 92 – 6. 10 Guarracino, S., Mediterraneo. Immagini, Storie e Teorie da Omero a Braudel (Mondadori: Milan, 2007), pp. 68 – 71. 11 Braudel, Fernand, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, Vol. 1 (University of California Press: New York, 1972), p. 14. 12 See infra, p. 8. 13 Herzfeld, M. ‘The horns of the Mediterraneanist dilemma’, American Ethnologist 11 (New York, 1984), pp. 439– 54, 440. 14 Kienitz, Friedrich-Karl, Das Mittelmeer, Schauplatz der Weltgeschichte von den fru¨hen Hochkulturen bis ins 20. Jahrhundert (Mu¨nchen, 1976), pp. 13 – 20. 15 Hess: The Forgotten Frontier, p. 1. 16 Most of his sources came from the archives in Dubrovnik and he strongly emphasises that more needs to be done in his first edition. 17 Hess: The Forgotten Frontier, p. 2. For limitations because of sources and methodology see also A. Lewis, vii – ix.

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18 Braudel, Fernand, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Phillip II, Vol. 2 (University of California Press: New York, 1966), p. 719. 19 Inalcik, Halil, ‘Akdeniz ve Tu¨rkler,’ in Dog˘u Batı 9/34 (2005 – 6), pp. 133– 4. He mentions the IXe Congre´s International des Sciences Historiques Paris in 1950. 20 Torstendahl, Rolf, ‘Historical Professionalism. A changing product of communities within the discipline’, Storia Della Storiografia 56 (2009), pp. 19 – 20, and Erdmann, K. D., Towards a Global Community of Historians. The International Historical Congresses and the International Committee of Historical Science, 1898–2000 (Berghahn Books: New York and Oxford, 2005), pp. 206–7. 21 Inalcik, Halil, ‘Impact of the annales school on Ottoman studies and new findings’, Review, I/3– 4 (New York, 1978), pp. 69– 96; Lai, Cheng-Chung, Braudel’s Historiography Reconsidered (Lanham, Maryland, 2004), p. 42. 22 See sources in the introduction of Vatin, Nicolas, L’Ordre De Saint-Jean-De Jerusalem, L’Empire Ottoman et la Me´diterranne´e Orientale Entre Les Deux Sie´ges De Rhodes (1480 – 1522) (Peeters: Paris, 1994). 23 Lewis, Archibald R., Naval Power and Trade in the Mediterranean A.D. 500– 1100 (Princeton University Press: Princeton, 1951), p. vii. 24 Naylor, Phillip Chiviges, North Africa, A History for Antiquity to the Present (University of Texas Press: Austin, 2009), p. 138. 25 Kennedy, David, Gerasa and the Decapolis. A ‘virtual island’ in NorthWestern Jordan (Duckworth: London, 2007), p. 67. 26 Davis, John, The People of the Mediterranean: an Essay in Comparative Social Anthropology (London, 1977), pp. 5 – 6, 255; Gilmore, David D, ‘Anthropology of the Mediterranean area’, Annual Review of Anthropology 11 (University of California: San Diego, 1982), pp. 178– 9, 181. 27 McCormick, Michael, Origins of European Economy. Communications and commerce. A.D. 300–900 (Cambridge University Press: Cambridge-New York, 2001), p. 788. 28 Davis, John., ‘Family and state in the Mediterranean’, in Honor and Shame, pp. 22–3. 29 De Pina-Cabral points this out for Anthropology; however, the same is also applicable to history writing. De Pina-Cabral: ‘The Mediterranean as a category’, pp. 399– 406. 30 Matvejevic, Predrag, Mediterraneo: Un nuovo breviario (Garzanti: Milan, 1998), p. 99. 31 Stockhammer, P. W. (ed.), Conceptualizing Cultural Hybridization. A Transdisciplinary Approach (Heidelberg, 2012), p. 2. 32 Matvejevic: Il Mediterraneo, p. 18. 33 Wickham, Chris, The Inheritance of Rome (Penguin Books: London, 2009), p. 23. 34 Abulafia: The Great Sea, p. 373ff. 35 Abulafia: The Great Sea, pp. 428– 51. 36 Green, M., ‘Resurgent Islam’, in Abulafia, David (ed.), The Mediterranean History (Thames and Hudson & Co.: London, 2003), p. 233. 37 Matvejevic, Predrag, Brevario mediterraneo (Nuova Biblioteca Garzanti: Milan, 2004), p. 21.

CHAPTER 2 THE OTTOMAN CAESAR: MEHMED II'S STRATEGIES OF POSSESSION, 1453—81 Ce´line Dauverd

‘I thank Muhammad who has given this splendid victory; but I pray that he will permit me to live long enough to capture and subjugate Old Rome as I have New Rome.’ – Mehmed II upon conquering Constantinople in 1453 When the Senate of Venice heard of the fall of Constantinople in June 1453, dispatches were sent across Italy to tell the news of ‘the deplorable fall of the cities of Constantinople and Pera [Galata]’.1 Christian I, King of Denmark, described Mehmed II as ‘the beast of the Apocalypse rising out of the sea’.2 Pope Nicholas V characterised him as ‘the son of Satan, perdition and death’.3 A Georgian Chronicler declared ‘on the day when the Turks took Constantinople the sun was darkened’.4 The fall of Constantinople was considered the tragic end of the classical world, ‘a second death for Homer and Plato’.5 Christians witnessing the event shouted: ‘Mercy! Mercy! God send help from Heaven to this Empire of Constantine, so that a pagan people may not rule over the Empire!’6

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Gazing upon the spectacle of Constantinople’s fall after nearly two laborious months of siege, Mehmed quoted the distich of Persian poet Saadi:7 The spider is the curtain-holder in the Palace of the Caesars The owl hoots its night-call on the Dome of Afrasiab Many scholars have discussed Mehmed’s reaction to the fall of Constantinople, but relatively little attention has been given to Mehmed’s representation of himself as an Ottoman Caesar and his admiration for Western culture. The Caesars, the conquerors of ancient times, had exercised power throughout the Mediterranean. When Mehmed uttered his epitaph, Constantinople, the last remnant of Roman power, had been devastated. Urban disaster buried the splendid palaces that symbolised the emperors’ opulence. The curtain had indeed fallen on the spectacle Constantinople presented to the world. For Mehmed, however, Byzantine decadence had preceded his incursion into the empire. His aim was not to destroy the Roman heritage, but to substitute the spider’s web of corruption and decline with his visionary leadership. The owl’s night-call marked for the Ottomans an end to relentless warfare. The Sultan brought closure to one stage of the Roman Empire, but with the intention of restoring its greatness. He would be the one leading New Rome to its magnificence by bringing Constantinople back from the ashes. Night had descended upon the Byzantines only to allow Mehmed’s new era to dawn. When he announced ‘my throne is Istanbul’ in the new mosque of Hagia Sophia, the Sultan was declaring himself heir to the Roman Empire.8 This claim established the universality of his empire but also made its survival partly dependent on expansion. For a true Roman, possessing Italy was fundamental; through the ownership of Constantinople, Mehmed was making a claim on Rome. This essay scrutinises both the motivations and methods of Mehmed’s re-enactment of the Roman Empire, and the implications they had for the relationship between Ottomans and Italians following the fall of Constantinople. I develop a theory that I call

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‘nurtured possession’, because Mehmed’s desire to possess the Italian peninsula was rooted in his contacts with Italians during his youth and was gestated by his reading of classical works in Latin and Greek during the early years of his reign. Current historiographical approaches to Mehmed and early Ottoman imperialism can be divided into two categories. The first focuses on imperial representation. This approach considers Mehmed a typical Muslim ruler who proselytised all ethnic groups that came under his control, while seeking to learn about the culture and geography of territories he aimed to annex.9 According to this view, his knowledge was used merely for territorial expansion.10 The second approach usually represents Mehmed as a Renaissance ruler who read Persian, Arabic, Greek and Latin. He is depicted as an intellectual who valued knowledge, art, beauty, entrepreneurship, and so on, and encouraged their development at his court.11 The proponents of this interpretation have clearly established his attraction to learning, but they do not explore his attraction to Western culture. These two approaches are not mutually exclusive and can be reconciled through a deeper understanding of Mehmed. Mehmed is a hybrid figure, blending multiple cultural histories and traditions. He was a Muslim ruler – conquering territories in the name of Islam, setting up Koranic schools, building palace harems, perpetuating the janissary system – but his sense of antiquity and history built on the cultural traditions of the West. He was also a Renaissance ruler – furthering the arts, encouraging craftsmanship and cultural exchanges, scrutinising ancient learning – but his politics and lack of civil concern were clearly distinct from European systems.12 I suggest that to understand Mehmed we need to abandon both paradigms. He was not a quintessentially Muslim or Christian ruler. Neither picture really captures the man, his politics or the nature of his empire. He was someone who sought to appropriate the historical tradition of the Roman Empire to empower himself and to measure his achievements. Mehmed saw in his person a sultan able to combine the traditions of the Turkish, Persian, Islamic and Roman rulers.13 He was an ambiguous ruler and a cosmopole, and his different strategies of possession underscore this complexity. In fact,

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his claim to be the true heir of the Roman Empire was based on this hybridity.

Mehmed’s Background Mehmed’s exposure to Western culture as a boy translated into his predilection for Italian customs as a monarch. Mehmed’s reverence for the ancient world, especially for leaders such as Caesar and Alexander, led him to follow in their footsteps. He sought to learn from these ancient leaders, to possess their territories, and to surpass them. His attraction to Italian mores stemmed from his desire to be a Roman on the throne of the Caesars. In his youth Mehmed had contact with the Italian communities based around the Black Sea.14 The Genoese, Florentines, Amalfitans and Venetians were the only foreigners established permanently in the Levant.15 As a young man, he was immersed in Italian culture, literature and modus vivendi. When he seized Constantinople, he allowed the Italians posted around the Black Sea and the Bosphorus to stay16 and even wrote decrees that allowed the Italian community of Constantinople-Pera to benefit from their status as foreign subjects.17 He granted them the rights to trade, govern themselves and live by their own laws. 18 He also included the right to practise their religion freely and to maintain their churches.19 As a result of his contact with the Italians and their taste for figurative arts, the Sultan engaged in the depiction of people and animals, ignoring the Muslim interdict placed on such matters. Mehmed’s drawings evince a European influence that was unknown in the Islamic world.20 Unlike previous portraits in the Islamic tradition, which were stereotypical and symbolic, Mehmed’s were full of life.21 Among the sketches drawn in his youthful notebooks are ink-drawings of flowers, arabesques, faces of men with beards, some shaved, other with wavy hair, but also birds and horses. They all reflect a European influence, especially the portraits in the style of the Italian Renaissance.22 He quickly realised that knowledge was a necessary part of his imperial project to emulate and surpass the deeds of the ancients. In addition to experimenting with painting styles, the Sultan read

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Figure 2.1 Mehmed’s school book, 28.5 £ 21.5 cm, Topkapi Saray Museum, Istanbul (H 2324).

Greek and Latin literature as a boy. Mehmed’s affinity with the West was nurtured by his reading of epics and treatises. His tutor used to hit him to make him memorise the classics.23 Apparently an obstinate boy, he digested a plethora of Greek and Latin works and eventually became addicted to learning as an adult. Mehmed had Muslim, Latin and Greek tutors.24 They read to him daily from

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Laertius, Herodotus, Livy, Quintus Curtius, the Chronicles of the Popes, Emperors, Kings of France and Lombards. Isidore of Kiev, who witnessed the fall of Constantinople, commented that ‘every day he listens in Arabic, Greek, and Latin about the life of Alexander the Great’.25 He read the classics as had Alexander and Caesar before him. His intellectual immersion in the classics led him to associate himself with Caesar and Alexander. Mehmed’s library was the signifier of his ambition: to learn, possess and surpass. His collection reveals his attraction to the classical world and the knowledge he sought to draw from it. For the Sultan, the classics linked the past with the present and he nurtured this connection in his palace library. His scriptorium included works such as the Anabasis by Arrian (the story of Alexander the Great),26 the Olympics by Pindara (the creation of the Olympics), Works and Days by Hesiod (the dispute between two brothers in ancient Greece),27 the Halieutica by Oppian (an epic on humans and gods),28 and the Summa Contra Gentiles by Thomas Aquinas (arguments in favour of the Christian faith).29 In the palace library, the man of culture and the man of domination nourished each other’s ambitions. The books he possessed dealt invariably with conquest, struggle and expansion, whether territorial, mythical or spiritual. To make Istanbul the capital of his empire, his knowledge of the surrounding world needed to be vast and comprehensive. Mehmed’s interest in religion, history, geography, military art and architecture reflected his eclectic mind. Extensive libraries, like curio collections and displays of antiquities, were important instruments of statecraft during the Renaissance.30 They demonstrated the wealth and influence of princes, and were important learning vehicles for scholars. The Sultan held philosophical discussions with scholars at his court, in particular on Greek and Persian thinkers, displaying his cosmopolitan interests. While his library enabled Mehmed to maintain a temporal link with the past, it also afforded him a spatial relation with the present. His collection reveals his interest in warfare and military principles. These books were not only guides for rulers during the Middle Ages, but also suitable gifts for leaders. Nicolo` Ardinghelli, an affluent member of the Florentine colony in

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Constantinople, offered Mehmed a copy of the Commentaries of Aretino on the first book on the History of the Punic Wars by Polybius.31 In 1461 Mehmed asked Sigismondo Malatesta to send him De Re Militari by Vegetius.32 He also obtained a copy of the Iliad after he visited Troy.33 Mirrors of his interest in military history, these works were also a reflection of his desire to learn from the ancients in order to exceed them.

Figure 2.2

Cristoforo Buondelmonti, Liber Insularum Archipelagi (c. 1420).

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Mehmed had an acute eye for ancient works that would extend his knowledge of the geography of the Mediterranean. He possessed many works of history, geography, astronomy and theology, including different versions of the Bible, which he read on a daily basis. In 1466, the Cretan George Trapezuntios translated Ptolemy’s Almagest (a work of astronomy) from Greek into Latin while in Istanbul, and dedicated it to the Sultan.34 Mehmed also owned a copy of the Liber Insulam Archipelagi (the islands of the archipelago) published in 1420 by the Florentine geographer Cristoforo Buondelmonti.35 The book contained charts of the eastern Mediterranean and its hinterland, including the earliest extant map of Constantinople and the only one from before Mehmed’s conquest. Mehmed became particularly interested in Ptolemy’s Geographia.36 His panegyrist, Kritoboulos explained that: Mehmed ran across, somewhere, the charts of Ptolemy, in which he set forth scientifically and philosophically the entire description and outline of the earth. But he wanted to have

Figure 2.3

Ptolemy’s world map in Geographia (c. 150 CE).

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these, scattered as they were in the various parts of the work, and for that reason hard to understand, brought together into one united whole as a single picture or representation.37 Knowing was conquering. In fact, shortly before the attack on Otranto, Mehmed’s Italian counsellor recalled that he had asked the Italian painter Gentile Bellini to ‘make him a design of Venice’.38 An accurate knowledge of the topography of the Mediterranean was essential for territorial expansion because, for Mehmed, knowledge preceded possession.

Historical Memory I posit that the Sultan’s reading of the classics of Western culture and his interaction with westerners inspired him to seek possession of a historical memory that was not his. Many scholars have claimed that Mehmed II felt himself to be the legitimate heir of the Roman Empire.39 However, it is still unclear why he deemed himself heir of something that was not his in the first place. Why didn’t he claim to be the heir of Genghis Khan, the lord of the steppes? Or of Xerxes, the Persian hero? Why did he choose Constantinople over Cairo, Baghdad or Damascus, which were long-standing Muslim capitals?40 Both Rome and Byzantium shared a past that was Christian and Mediterranean, and very different from the nomadic Turkic traditions from the steppes of central Asia. I contend that Mehmed declared himself the Roman successor so as to inherit the cultural traditions he wanted to possess. Istanbul straddled the Ottoman traditions of the steppes and the Mediterranean traditions of Rome. He chose Constantinople over Cairo or Damascus precisely because of the city’s cultural heritage. He captured the cultural legacy of Constantinople in order to re-enact its magnificence under his new leadership. Despite its breadth, Mehmed’s learning was selective and his drive to possess created an impulse to fabricate historical memory. Drawing selectively from the past, he used epic literature as a storehouse of symbolic myths. He was almost deliberate in his misremembering of the past. These mistakes point to the vision he had of himself, and the

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place he wanted to occupy in memory. He elevated both himself and the great heroes of the past, and creatively reanimated the classic texts by making himself the link between the past and the present. For Mehmed then, knowing was itself a form of conquest. To be imperialistic meant to be worldly. This leads us to the conclusion that Rome, or new Rome, meant many different things for Mehmed, as he did not have an entirely cohesive vision of it. He made it up as he went along. It is therefore possible to argue that he destroyed the capital of the Byzantine Empire because he had his own vision for it.41 In fact, travellers who visited Constantinople before the conquest described it as down at heel.42 By moving the capital from Adrianople to Constantinople, Mehmed sought to restore the city’s prosperity. He also transferred the imperial quarters, as his chronicler remembered: ‘Mehmed created a new palace according to his own conception.’43 Thus, although Istanbul became the crux of an Eastern empire, I propose that what Mehmed built was not an Eastern capital, but a new Rome. The conquest of Constantinople perpetuated the continuity between the Byzantines and the Ottomans, and between the past and the present.44 Seizing the Byzantines’ past allowed Mehmed to possess their historical accomplishments. While contemporaneous Europeans legitimised their conquests with religious doctrines, Mehmed used historical lineage to validate his authority. His rebuilding of the city helped him legitimise his conquest by drawing a direct line from Rome to Constantinople to Istanbul. His connection with the classics transformed his sense of the past, which he used to sway the future. Kritoboulos claimed that when the Sultan set himself to rebuild the city, he did it in such a way that ‘he was reconstructing great edifices which were to be worth seeing and should in every respect vie with the greatest and best of the past’.45 His palace was a reflection of his ambition: to become the sovereign of two worlds, Europe and Asia. Caesar and Constantine had founded the first two Romes. Mehmed founded the third. But Mehmed’s Rome was to be a hybrid, carefully merging various historical and religious traditions in order to surpass them.46

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The Roman Empire was both a model and a standard the Sultan sought to exceed. The monarchs’ revival of antiquity was a process that was occurring across the European continent.47 Rome was the political model of legitimacy for many rulers, as it set a standard of achievement the European nations wished to surpass. Renaissance princes all used Roman expansion as their central political metaphor, but it was not until the early sixteenth century that pageantry mimicking the Roman triumphs was adopted in Europe. Mehmed was one of the precursors of this trend.48 Many Renaissance European rituals and festivals had medieval origins, but Charles V, Philip II of Spain, Charles of Anjou, Philip of Burgundy, Lorenzo the Magnificent, and many other rulers wanted to emulate the ancients, especially Caesar, Trajan, Constantine and Alexander, in their celebrations.49 Mehmed’s conquest of Constantinople also gave him authority and prestige in the Muslim world. Like the Byzantines, the Turks considered an imperial candidate to be the legitimate sovereign only when he had secured the capital or the region believed to be the abode of sacred power.50 In Muslim eschatology the city held a special position. His victory was that of Islam, too, because he was fulfilling the prophecy of Mohammed ‘you will certainly conquer Constantinople. Excellent will be the army and emir who will capture it.’51 The imperial, eschatological, and geographical prestige of the city enhanced the status of its conqueror in both the Muslim and Christian worlds.52 In a way, it is history itself that imparted this role to Mehmed. His duty was to fulfil it.

Possessing Italy Mehmed’s desire to possess Italian territories and his strategies of possession have parallels in the historiography of various early modern imperial strategies. Patricia Seed argues that European attempts to own the New World were built on ceremonial practices (gestures, banners, crosses, maps, silences), which reinforced their belief in their right to rule.53 These symbolic acts of possession overseas are mirrored by what Anthony Pagden defines as the

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‘principle of attachment’.54 The first New World conquerors translated various foreign practices into their own, ‘attaching’ unfamiliar actions to familiar ones. The action of detaching foreign practices from their contexts made them intelligible to Europeans, and thus made it possible for Europeans to own both the practices and the Amerindians. Thomas Metcalf looks at the intellectual justification, and thus the legitimisation, of British rule over India. He argues that throughout the years of British supremacy the imperial desire to possess the jewel of the Orient lead to an ideology that emphasised India’s difference from the rest of Asia.55 Finally, these acts of possession paralleled the Jesuits’ methods of accommodation in China. The Rites Controversy, which facilitated the European transformation of Chinese beliefs, allowed the Jesuits to negotiate their possession of indigenous traditions.56 Mehmed’s strategy of possession had two strands. The first strand grew out of his reading of the classics and his childhood relationships with Italians in the Levant. The second was spatial and involved a direct seizure of Italian territory. I call this strategy of possession ‘nurtured possession’, because his claim to Italian territory, whether by right of inheritance or by right of force, was nurtured by an entrenched relationship with Italian culture from youth to adulthood. Following Hannibal, Caesar and Alexander, the Sultan behaved like a conqueror in his wish to possess Italy, but he also acted as a humanist in his pursuit of knowledge. He sought possession of Italian culture in every sense, and his strategies included both conquest and duplication. On the one hand, he annexed Italian outposts out of imperial frenzy, while on the other hand he pursued diplomatic means to cultivate the Italians and subdue them. Mehmed’s explicit annexation of Italian territories and Italian cultural capital raises interesting questions about our understanding of pre-modern imperialism. His imperial aim was unequivocal, as it encompassed military and cultural possession of Italy. Most previous studies of imperial possession have concentrated on European expansion, but Mehmed’s nurtured possession presents an appealing counter-balance to these cases as it scrutinises the expansion of a non-European power into European territory. Mehmed is a unique

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figure because he was the first non-European monarch to claim Roman ancestry in pre-modern times, and he in turn inspired expansionist European ideologies. He preceded European powers in claiming the universality of the Roman Empire. For Mehmed, claiming the title of Caesar meant reproducing the universalism of Rome and ruling Italian territories. Hence, his nurtured possession allowed him to become the Western monarch of an Eastern empire. The dream of acquiring the Eternal City was part of the Turkish tradition, older than Mehmed. The one who conquered the ‘red apple’ (kizil elma), Rome, would be fulfilling a long anticipated prophecy.57 According to Ladislas Vetesius, the ambassador of King Corvinus at the court of Pope Sixtus IV, even before the Ottoman long troops had stepped on the Italian shore, their battle cry was ‘Roma, Roma!’.58 The seizing of the papacy was the long-term goal of the Grand Turk, the hope with which he encouraged his troops and the sublime goal of the conquest. The prophecy was a recurrent theme in numerous legends that saw the most supreme of Turks conquer the pagan countries and thus conquer the Red Apple and conserve it. In the same way as he had taken the daughter, old Byzantium, Mehmed was about to take possession of her mother, Rome. Clearly, even in Turkic traditions, Rome carried significance and weight. The reputation of the city preceded it, and Mehmed’s role was to subdue it.

Divide et Impera Mehmed’s imperial ambitions were helped by the internecine wars among the Italian city-states. In the fifteenth century, the Italian peninsula was dominated by the five great powers of Milan, Venice, Genoa, the Papal States and Naples. None had the capacity to defeat all the others, so the status quo was a tenuous balance of power. The year following Mehmed’s conquest of Constantinople witnessed the Peace of Lodi, which was an attempt to resolve their long-standing differences. However, both Mehmed and the European monarchs exploited the constant hostility between north and south. In this climate of distrust each Italian state sought separate alliances with other European powers and with Mehmed himself.

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Mehmed succeeded in his strategies of possession by playing the important Italian city-states against each other. His imperialist expansion had negative economic implications for the Italian Mediterranean outposts. He captured Italian settlements throughout the Mediterranean, but especially those of the Maritime Republics. Venice and Genoa were the maritime capitals of medieval Europe whose outposts in the Mediterranean generated wealth for the European economy.59 The fiercest contest was with the Serenissima, which led to the Ottoman-Venetian war (1463– 79). This resulted in the Ottoman possession of Venetian territories in Greece, Albania, and in the Aegean and Mediterranean Seas. Moreover, while the Sultan was at war with Venice, he established trade agreements with Florence. The two strategies of possession were not mutually exclusive. The aim of the military conquest was clear, but the trade charters also signified possession. While conquering the peripheral areas was relatively easy, an invasion of the Italian peninsula required much more preparation. Mehmed’s strategy focused on first subduing the Asian territories then moving into Europe. From 1460 to 1480, ‘the Conqueror’ annexed most of the Balkan Peninsula and Greece, sending shockwaves through the Italian citystates. First he turned to the Balkans: Morea, Albania, Bosnia, Serbia, Macedonia and Hungary; then, he took most of the Aegean islands.60 In 1460 the Florentine Benedetto Dei, based in Constantinople-Pera, knew that the Italian states waned because of their lack of unity, which the Sultan exploited. Dei declared to Mehmed: ‘if the four powers Milan, Naples, Florence, and Venice, which have money, reputation and weapons as well as the other Italian principalities would unite their land and sea forces, the Italians today would become more powerful than their ancestors’.61 Mehmed’s reply reveals his reverence for the great heroes of the past, his hubristic sense of self, and his recognition of how Italian divisiveness maintained the balance of power in his favour: Florentine, I listen to you. I do believe all this. But I can also tell you that Italy is not able to bring back the great successes of

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the past. For these great successes they owed the power of the Romans. At that time they were the sole rulers of Italy. But today your country is split into twenty states and different powers. You fight against each other, and you are deadly enemies. I know how much that might support my plans. As I am very young and fortunate, I want to surpass Caesar, Alexander the Great, and Kay Kavus [mythological king of Iran].62

Mehmed’s Superiority Mehmed’s nurtured possession and knowledge of ancient heroes translated into a desire to possess their history and to surpass them. Mehmed was a conqueror who expressed his superiority even to those he revered. The Greek chamberlain George Sphrantzes, who witnessed the fall of Constantinople, described him in the following way: Sultan Mehmed is laborious and ardent in everything. He loves meritorious men and knowledgeable men. He also likes literature and reads unceasingly the lives of Alexander the Great, Augustus, Constantine, Theodosius, looking for every possible way to surpass them and push as far as possible the extent of his empire.63 For the Persians, Alexander was the conqueror of the world and founder of cities, but also the hero who went to the end of the world, driven by his passion for conquest, as well as a desire to learn and know. Mehmed declared that Alexander of Macedon had gone to Asia with few forces, but times had changed; whereas in ancient times Westerners marched to conquer the East, Mehmed was now advancing toward the West. Mehmed’s claim to superiority was noted by the Europeans who had contact with him. The knights of Rhodes claimed that Mehmed wanted to ‘equal and even surpass the exploits of Alexander of

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Macedon’. Giacomo de Languschi, one of the Venetian emissaries, described Mehmed in the following manner: He shows great tenacity in all his undertakings, and bravery under all conditions. He aspires to equal the glory of Alexander the Great, and every day has histories of Rome and other nations read to him. . .he says that Caesar and Hannibal were of no account compared with himself. In fact, Mehmed referred to himself as a ‘Trojan who had come to avenge the East from the injustice they had received from the West’.64 Thus, we can deduce that, despite his appreciation of Rome, his nurtured possession allowed him to imagine the revenge of the East, which would in turn reveal his superiority. The quotation at the beginning of this essay reveals Mehmed’s ambition to conquer the West, and especially Italy. Mehmed’s intention was not to annihilate it, but to conquer and surpass the Roman Empire. When he entered the city of Constantinople, Mehmed declared ‘I thank Muhammad who has given this splendid victory; but I pray that he will permit me to live long enough to capture and subjugate Old Rome as I have New Rome’.65 The mayor of the Italian community of Constantinople-Pera warned his brother back in Italy of Mehmed’s imperial ambitions: ‘he sees himself soon becoming master of the world, and swears publicly that before two years have passed he intends to reach Rome’.66 Likewise, Cardinal Bessarion (1399– 1472), a Byzantine who took refuge in Italy, warned his co-religionists: The Turk’s virtue matches that of Alexander, be it that his deeds of competition for glory, he came forth to overtake Alexander. . .He reads his deeds and it is all within him. He does not consider himself inferior to him, as he has the habit of usually bragging, and very often uses these words, that he is superior to Alexander, at least ten times. . .[Mehmed has] the same intention as Julius Caesar, who, after concluding his undertakings, reverted his forces against the civil blood of the country [Italy]. Whereas if the Turk conducts himself with the

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example of he who subdued Africa, Asia, and almost the entire world, and if he follows suit in enlarging the boundaries of the empire, he will not only match Caesar, but also surpass him.67 For Mehmed, as for Caesar, conquering Rome was the ultimate victory. Where others had failed, Mehmed would be successful; some Italians already portrayed him as heir to Caesar. George Trapezuntios, a visitor to Mehmed’s court and a pupil of Cardinal Bessarion in Rome, praised the Sultan for being a far greater ruler than King Cyrus of Persia, Alexander the Great or Julius Caesar. Soon after his return to Rome, Trapezuntios talked of the Sultan’s ‘Roman-ness’ and commented on his good fortune to have met the Sultan, whom he had praised to the Pope and the College of Cardinals as a just and intelligent ruler who was knowledgeable in Aristotelian philosophy and all the sciences. He described him in the following terms: Let no one doubt you are by right the emperor of the Romans. For he is the emperor who by right possesses the seat of the empire, but the seat of the Roman Empire is in Constantinople: thus he who by right possesses this city is the emperor. But it is not from men but from God that you, thanks to your sword, have received this throne. Consequently, you are the legitimate emperor of the Romans. . .and he who is and remains emperor of the Romans is also emperor of the entire earth.68 In 1480, Mehmed’s army marched into Otranto. Although shortlived, his dream was becoming reality. His successors would build upon his imperial vision and the Ottoman Empire would spread throughout much of the ancient Roman territories. Mehmed’s dedication to learning, absorbing, and reinventing the ancients served his imperial project to become the last Roman emperor.

Conclusion Examining the intellectual history of the early Ottoman Empire involves re-examining the role and legacy of the classical world in

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early modern Mediterranean societies. Sultan Mehmed’s life shines a light on the interaction between the past and the present and also on the interaction between the Eastern and Western Mediterranean. The principle of ‘nurtured possession’ enriches our understanding of Mehmed the Conqueror as an imperialist whose ambition was shaped by history, legend and intellectual affinity as well as by military strategy. This ambiguity is at the heart of Mediterranean history. Mehmed fashioned for himself a Mediterranean identity that borrowed from East and West, and from past and present. His hybrid personality matches the hybrid history of cross-cultural interaction. The Roman Empire was the last time when the Mediterranean world was unified. For Mehmed, understanding the past, especially the Western past, gave him control over it and, therefore, the ability to surpass it. In a way, his knowledge of his enemy’s history and culture enabled him to secularise his conquest. That is, while both Muslims and Christians invested time in sterile diatribes against one another, Mehmed prided himself on understanding what was foreign (and sometime considered irreverent) to him. The West was familiar to him, part of his personal world view, and perhaps easier to conquer for that reason. For him, old Rome and new Rome were two parts of one thing. By conquering the two he would make himself the centre of the Mediterranean world, a geographical, mental and temporal bridge. Conquering Rome was a way to project himself into the past and fulfil his goals for the future. His relationship with the Italians was shaped by his ambitions, and he did not seek peaceful relations with outside powers for their own sake. Mehmed used allies to learn, and he learned in order to conquer. This attitude is reflected in his reverence for classical figures. Caesar, Ptolemy and Alexander did not pursue diplomacy, but annexed people and territory for the greater glory of their empire. Mehmed was in many ways the last Roman emperor, although likely even the conquest of Rome would not have been enough. Like the ancient heroes he emulated, he was not defined by a piece of land or a campaign, but by his drive to possess and surpass. Being recognised as a peer of the conquerors of the past was a greater ambition than simply annexing territory. In that sense, he did not need the force of Islam, but simply the knowledge of the Mediterranean past.

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Notes 1 Ducas, Michael, Historia Turco-Byzantina (Madrid: Ant Machado Libros, 2006) 40, pp. 1–2. Michael Ducas was a historian who held a high office during the reign the last Byzantine emperor Constantine XII. I thank the Center for Humanities and Arts at the University of Colorado, Boulder for supporting the archival research for this paper as well as for making me a fellow of the Migration Seminar 2009–10. The Dean’s Fund for Excellence at the University of Colorado, Boulder awarded me a research travel grant to support this project. A research fellowship from the Graduate Committee on the Arts and Humanities at the University of Colorado, Boulder provided generous support for this scholarly endeavour. 2 Jensen, Janus Møller, Denmark and the Crusades, 1400 –1650 (Leiden: Brill, 2007), p. 79. 3 Nicolas V’s Crusading bull called Etsi Ecclesia Christi was issued on 30 September 1453. 4 Isidore of Kiev, Patrologia Graeca ( Paris: Edition J.P. MIGNE, 1866), CLIX, 953. 5 Piccolomini, Ennea Silvio, ‘Lettera al cardinale Nicola di Cuesi’, in Agostino Pertusi (ed.), La caduta di Costantinopoli (Mondadori: Milan, 1976), p. 54. 6 Barbaro, Nicolo, Diary of the Siege of Constantinople 1453, trans. John MelvilleJones (New York, 1969). 7 See U¨lgen, Ali Saim, Constantinople during the Era of Mohammed the Conqueror 1453– 1481 (Ankara: General Direction of Pious Foundations (EVKAF): 1939), p. 1. 8 See Inalcik, Halil, The Ottoman Empire: The Classical Age 1300– 1600, Trans. by Norman Itkowitz and Colin Imber (New York: Praeger Publishers, 1973), p. 26. 9 See for instance the classical account by Babinger, Franz, Mahomet II Le Conque´rant et son Temps 1432– 1481, trans. by H.E. Del Medico (Paris: Payot, 1954). See also Clot, Andre´, Mehmed II le conque´rant de Byzance (Paris: Perrin, 1990). 10 For a detailed account of Mehmed II’s campaigns see Imber, Colin, The Ottoman Empire: The Structure of Power, 1300– 1650 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002). See also Inalcik, Halil, The Ottoman Empire. 11 See for instance Agyoncu, Erhan, Ottoman Empire Unveiled (Istanbul: Yeditepe Yayinevi, 2007). See also Freely, John, The Grand Turk: Sultan Mehmed II – Conqueror of Constantinople, Master of an Empire and Lord of Two Seas (New York: I.B.Tauris, 2009). 12 He used a policy of forced migration to repopulate the capital, along with executions and random killings. However, some scholars argue that the political transformation of justice in the 1500s actually began in the Middle East and not in Europe. See Darling, Linda T., ‘Political change and political discourse in the early modern Mediterranean world’, Journal of Interdisciplinary History 38/4 (2008), pp. 505– 31.

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13 Afyoncu, Erhan, Ottoman Empire Unveiled (Istanbul: Yeditepe Yayinevi, 2007), p. 65. 14 See for instance Jacoby, David (ed.), Trade, Commodities and Shipping in the Medieval Mediterranean (London: Variorum, 1997). See also Balard, Michel, La Me´diterrane´e Me´die´vale: Espaces, Itine´raires, Comptoirs (Paris: Picard, 2006). 15 Throughout his reign, he ensured that the Italians ‘were able to come and go, export, practice commerce by land or by sea, as others will do in my country, without anyone preventing them to do so’. Archivio di Stato di Genova (ASG) 2774 D Materie politiche (negoziazioni e trattati con le potenze estere) Miscellanea, notizie politiche e del commercio del Levante e della Costa d’Africa. ‘Capitulatione fatta dall’Imperator Sultan Mehmet con li Perotti’. 16 Mehmed granted the Genoese colony of Constantinople-Pera an ahdname, which gave them the status of tributary subjects. Bibliothe`que Nationale de France (BNF), Ms. fond turc ancien 130, fol. 78r8-v8, Constantinople, 28 June – 17 July 1453. 17 The Genoese community, for instance, bargained for capitulations as soon as the Grand Turk gained power. In June 1453, they received an ahdname, a decree that granted them the status of foreign subjects. See ASG, 2774 A Materie politiche (negoziazioni e trattati con le potenze estere) Oriente e AfricaCostantinopoli. Mehmed II wrote in his decree: ‘I command with every faculty that the ships, furniture, entrepoˆts, vineyards, mills, possessions, galleys, merchandise, wives, sons, grandsons, daughters, and slaves be allowed to settle in their own way, without me preventing them to do so.’ See ASG, 2774 D Materie politiche (negoziazioni e trattati con le potenze estere) Miscellanea, notizie politiche e del commercio del Levante e della Costa d’Africa. ‘Capitulatione fatta dall’Imperator Sultan Mehmet con li Perotti’. 18 ASG, 2774 D Materie politiche (negoziazioni e trattati con le potenze estere) Miscellanea, notizie politiche e del commercio del Levante e della Costa d’Africa. ‘Capitulatione fatta dall’Imperator Sultan Mehmet con li Perotti’. Mehmed II promised that ‘from part of the people and the nobility of Pera and in demonstration of friendship they presented me with the keys of their land, and made themselves subjects I accept them in such condition that they can live, organise, and govern themselves’. 19 BNF, Ms. fond turc ancien 130, fol. 78r8-v8, Constantinople, 28 June– 17 July 1453. ‘The Genoese can maintain their churches and preach according to their laws and customs.’ 20 In Ottoman palace culture, the ruler proved his privileged position by ostentatiously violating the prohibitions on images which applied to ordinary mortals, allowing the inner circle of the royal household to enjoy miniatures representing hunting, ceremonies and battle scenes. See Grabar, Oleg, The Formation of Islamic Art (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1973). 21 Julian Raby, El Gran Turco: Mehmed the Conqueror as a Patron of the Arts of Christendom (Oxford: PhD Dissertation Art History, 1980).

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¨ nver, Fatihin cocukluk defter: Un cahier d’Enfance du Sultan Mehemmed Le 22 S. U Conque´rant “Fatih” (Istanbul, [s.n.], 1961). 23 See Raby, Julian, ‘A sultan of paradox: Mehmed the Conqueror as a patron of the arts’, Oxford Art Journal, 5/1 Patronage (1982), pp. 3 – 8. 24 On the ancient history lessons see Raby, Julian, ‘Cyriacus of Ancona and the Ottoman Sultan Mehmed II’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institute 43 (1980), pp. 242– 6. 25 See Isidore of Kiev, Patrologia Graeca, CLIX, 953. Isidore was sent abroad as envoy of the Byzantine emperor John VIII Palaeologus to arrange for a council to unite the Eastern and Western churches. Unsuccessful, he returned to Constantinople and in 1436 was named Patriarch of Kiev and of all Russia. He saw the taking of the city by the Turks on 29 May 1453, and only escaped the massacre by dressing up a dead body in his cardinal’s robes. The Sultan read Anabasis, the biography of Alexander, not in Arabic or Persian, but in Greek. The Greek language was of tremendous importance as correspondence with the Italian states was done in this language. There were 16 manuscripts in Greek found in Mehmed’s scriptorium. Fourteen are in Topkapi, one at the Bibliothe`que Nationale, and one in the Vatican. See Raby, Julian, ‘Mehmed the Conqueror’s Greek Scriptorium’ in Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 37 (1983), pp. 15 – 34. 26 Arrian of Nicomedia, was a Roman historian, public servant, a military commander and a philosopher in the second century. The Anabasis of Alexander is the account of Alexander the Great’s life. 27 Set in ancient Greece, Works and Days were poems, myths and fables written in the style of speeches and using a rhetorical tone to persuade the external audience to side with King Hesiod against his brother Perses. The nexus of the disagreement lay with the distribution of their father’s land. 28 Halieutica is a long epic made up of five books which deal with, among other subjects, fishing, the Gods and their influence on humans, the relationship between land, sea and air, Poseidon and the creation of men. 29 The Summa contra Gentiles was written around 1259 to show unbelievers certain philosophically compelling arguments in favor of the Christian faith. 30 See for instance Ga´ldy, Andrea M., Cosimo I de’ Medici as Collector: Antiquities and Archeology in Sixteenth-Century Florence (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2009). 31 Three major wars (264 BCE to 146 BCE ) erupted between Rome and the Carthaginian Empire, resulting in the victory of Rome. Polybius narrates that the Romans were waiting for an opportunity to go to war against Carthage, which the last Punic War provided when Carthage violated the terms of a peace treaty with Rome. 32 BNF, fond turc ancien, MSS. Latin fol. 200. This is the original epistolary of Mehmed II on this famous work on medieval warfare. It is a written version of De Re Militari that Malatesta offered to the Sultan by way of Robert Valturio through the artist Matteo de’ Pasti. The dedicatory letter to Mehmed is in

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38 39 40 41

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ISLANDS OF THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN fol. 175 and fol. 176 and reads: ‘Ad Illustrissimum et Excellentissimum Dominum Mahomet Bei Magnuni Admiratum et Sultanum Turchorum Roberti Valturii Ariminensis pro Illustri librorum et Magnifico Principe et Domino Sigismondo Pandulfo Malatesta, cum librorum rei juhusce militaris ac Mathaei Pasti veronensis transmissione, Epistola.’ Mehmed’s copy of the Iliad was made by John Dokeianos and can be found at the BNF. Dokeianos was tutor to Princess Helen, the daughter of the Despot of Morea, and acted as scribe at Mehmed’s court. According to Kritoboulos, Mehmed visited Troy in 1462. Dokeianos’s copy of the Iliad is dated to the subsequent year, 1463. Ptolemy’s Almagest is the most important source of information on ancient Greek astronomy. Geographer Cristoforo Buondelmonti was born in Florence about 1385. He promoted first-hand knowledge of Greece and its antiquities. The Liber Insularum Archipelagi (1420) combines geographical information and contemporary charts and sailing directions. Ptolemy’s Geographia is a treatise on cartography and a compilation of what was known about the world’s geography in the Roman Empire of the second century. Ptolemy mainly relied on Roman and Persian geographers. The first Latin translation was made in 1406, and was then translated into other languages. According to Kritoboulos, the maps described the whole of the Greek oecumenos, or inhabited world, extending from the Pillars of Hercules (the strait of Gibraltar) to India and China. See Kritoboulos, History of Mehmed the Conqueror, Trans. by Charles T. Riggs (Westport, CN: Greenwood Press, 1970), p. 209. George Amiroutzes recounts that he created a huge wall for Mehmed that combined all the individual maps in Ptolemy’s Geographia. BNF, MS. fond turc ancien, fol. 48. Giovan Maria Angiolello, Historia Turchesca. Mehmed used the title ‘Sovereign of the Two Lands’ to emphasise his hegemony over the Near East and the Mediterranean. See Inalcik, Halil, The Ottoman Empire, p. 30. See also Clot, Andre´, Le Conque´rant de Byzance, p. 82. The Mamluk sultanate of Cairo was powerful and prestigious. As rulers of the Holy Cities of Mecca, Medina and Jerusalem, the Mamluk sultans could claim first place among Islamic monarchs. See Imber, Colin, The Ottoman Empire, p. 27. There are many contemporary accounts about Mehmed’s destruction of the city of Constantinople. For instance, Bartolomeo de Giano, O.F.M. in J. P. Migne (ed.) Patrologia Graeca 158, cols. 1055– 1068 from MS 1130 in the Bibliotheca S. Michele, Venice; Letter of a Member of the Household of Archbishop Isidore of Kiev to Cardinal Dominico Capranica in La Caduta di Constantinopoli, 112– 19; Letter from Thomas the Eparch and Joshua Diplovatatzes in La Caduta di Costantinopoli, 234– 9. de la Brocquie`re, Bertrandon, The Voyage d’Outremer, Galen R. Kline (ed.), (New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 1988), p. 88. Beg, Tursun, The History of Mehmed the Conqueror, Halil Inalcik and Rhoads Murphy (eds), (Chicago: Bibliotheca Islamica: 1978), p. 37.

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44 Most authors mark the Golden Age of Ottoman history with Su¨leyman the Magnificent, but acknowledge the contribution of Mehmed as the ruler who bridged Byzantine and Ottoman history. See Mantran, Robert, La Vie Quotidienne a` Istanbul au sie`cle de Soliman le Magnifique (Paris: Hachette, 1990). 45 Kritoboulos: History of Mehmed the Conqueror, 77, p. 149. 46 Mehmed was a hybrid. He mixed past and present, Christian and Muslim beliefs, East and West because he saw himself as the centre of a new historical tradition. 47 Strong, Roy, Art and Power, Renaissance Festivals 1450– 1650 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), pp. 3 – 62. 48 For the revival of Roman triumphs in France see Bryant, Lawrence M., Parisian Royal Entry Ceremonies: Politics, Rituals, and Art in the Renaissance (Geneva: Librairie Droz, 1986), pp. 59 – 65, 83, 149. See also Bryant, Lawrence M., Ritual, Ceremony and the Changing Monarchy in France, 1350– 1789 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2010). 49 For Florence see for instance Trexler, Richard, Public Life in Renaissance Florence: Ritual and Society (New York: Academic Press, 1980), p. 452. 50 Inalcik: The Ottoman Empire, p. 76. 51 Imber: The Ottoman Empire, p. 27. 52 Ibid., p. 29. 53 Seed, Patricia, Ceremonies of Possession in Europe’s Conquest of the New World, 1492– 1640 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 54 Pagden, Anthony, European Encounters with the New World: From Renaissance to Romanticism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993). 55 Metcalf, Thomas R., Ideologies of the Raj (New York: Cambridge: 1995). 56 Rubie´s, Joan-Pau, ‘The concept of cultural dialogue and the Jesuit method of acculturation: Between ideology and civilization’ in Archivum Historicum Societatis Iesu 74/147 (2005), pp. 237– 80. 57 See Boratav, Paul, Encyclope´die de l’Islam, Vol. III, Annuaire de l’E´cole Pratique des Hautes E´tudes (1996), pp. 263– 4. 58 Italian Niccolo` Sagundino repeated the predictions to King Ferrante of Arago´n (ruler of Naples) in 1454. See Romanin, Samuele and Angelo Dalmedico (eds), Storia Documentata di Venezia, Vol. 11 (Venice: Tipografia P. Naratovich, 1861), book IV, p. 297. 59 According to a message sent in 1480 from the Venetian Council to its bailo in Istanbul, Battista Gritti, Mehmed’s urge and desire to take possession of Brindisi, Tarento, Otranto and Apuglia was actually legitimate as they had been possessions of the Byzantine empire at some point. See Babinger, Franz, Mahomet II le Conque´rant, p. 505. 60 Imber: The Ottoman Empire, pp. 185– 250. 61 Dei, Benedetto, La Cronaca fiorentina dall’anno 1400 all’anno 1500, in Roberto Barducci (ed.), (Firenze: Francesco Papafava ed., 1984). 62 Ibid.

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63 The Fall of the Byzantine Empire: A Chronicle by George Sphrantzes 1401– 1477, Trans. by Marios Philippides (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1980). 64 Afyoncu: Ottoman Empire Unveiled, p. 58. 65 Crowley: The Holy War for Constantinople, p. 241. 66 ASG, 2774 A Materie politiche (negoziazioni e trattati con le potenze estere) Oriente e Africa-Costantinopoli. Letter from Angelo Lomellino, Genoese podesta` of Galata, to his brother, 23 June 1453. 67 Scipione Ammirato, Orazioni del Signor Scipione Ammirato a diversi principi intorno ai preparimenti che s’avrebbero a farsi contra la Potenza del Turco. Aggiuntoni nel fine le lettere & orazioni di Monsignor Bessarione Cardinal Niceno scritte a Principi d’Italia (Florence: Filippo Giunti, 1598), 20. See also Kritoboulos, ‘History of Mehmed the Conqueror’ in Fragmenta historicorum graecorum (Paris: pars prior, 1870). 68 Angelo Mercati, ‘Le due lettere di Giorgio da Trebisonda A Maometto II’ in Orientalia Christiana Periodica 9 (1943), pp. 65 –99. See also Freely, John, The Grand Turk, p. 98.

CHAPTER 3 SECURITY OR GLORY? SOME SIXTEENTH-CENTURY VIEWS ON THE NECESSITY OF CONQUERING RHODES N. Zeynep Yelce

Sultan Su¨leyman ascended to the Ottoman throne in 1520 with elaborate ceremonies marking his acquisition of sovereign authority. With the throne he inherited from his father, he acquired not only sovereign authority supported by full-fledged military and administrative systems, but also a generic image. During the first years of his reign he consolidated the sovereign power in his person by building a personal reputation based on military prowess and the values attached to it. This study uses contemporary documentation to argue that his conquest of Rhodes in 15221 was part of the process through which he consolidated sovereign power in his person and promoted his personal reputation. By the early sixteenth century, the Ottomans openly acknowledged the strategic and symbolic significance of Rhodes, and modern scholarship has confirmed its strategic significance. Scholars argue that Su¨leyman’s decision to invade Rhodes was a continuation of Selim I’s conquests, pointing to the vulnerability of the Arab provinces to external provocation, especially after the Ghazali revolt

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in Syria.2 Other issues at stake were the revenue from Egypt and the tribute from Cyprus.3 Scholars agree that after the conquest of Syria and Egypt the possession of Rhodes was vital for the consolidation of Ottoman control over these areas. Securing the sea route was essential for a number of reasons, including imperial transportation, communication and commerce. The route in question was not only important for imperial and commercial traffic, it was also the maritime pilgrimage route through the Mediterranean, for which the Ottomans were now responsible.4 The most obvious threat to the safety of the route was corsair activity.5 The island’s central role in the gathering of intelligence, and its function as transit port and military base, were also significant.6 The island was conquered by the Hospitallers in the early fourteenth century (c. 1309– 10); they used it as a base for forays against the Syrian coast, to counter-check possible Latin blockades on Egyptian trade, and to protect the sea route from Turkish attacks. The ultimate goal of the Hospitallers was the recovery of the Holy Land.7 Thwarting Hospitaller intentions, Su¨leyman’s conquest of Rhodes gave the Ottomans an important naval base on the route. However, examining the ‘base’ function of the island, Svatopluk Soucek points out that the Ottomans did not efficiently use the island as a primary naval base. Underlining the absence of Ottoman patrols in the Mediterranean following the conquest of the island, Soucek argues that for Sultan Su¨leyman the conquest of Rhodes was about the acquisition of ‘a territory or of a renowned city rather than that of a strategic naval base’ and that the Sultan ‘may also have conceived of this conquest in another light: to start his reign by succeeding where his glorious great-grandfather, Mehmet the Conqueror had failed, namely Belgrade and Rhodes’.8 Serafettin Turan also draws attention to the motive of ‘honouring’ Mehmed II through capturing the island that the latter could not, and thereby winning himself repute and glory.9 The symbolic value of Rhodes, in other words the issue of glory, is a much larger concern in contemporary accounts than in modern scholarship. This should not come as a surprise, since early modern states were, to a large extent, military institutions. Among the titles

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that came with the Ottoman throne were those like cihaˆn-gıˆr and gıˆtıˆsitaˆn, meaning world-conqueror. No matter how rhetorical they may appear to modern eyes, the frequency with which these titles were employed in the sixteenth century suggests that they reflected certain real expectations. In a Machiavellian sense, as ‘power easily acquires titles but titles do not acquire power’,10 Su¨leyman seems to have felt the need to demonstrate that he actually deserved such accolades, especially during the first years of his reign. Unlike his predecessors, Su¨leyman did not have military experience when he ascended the throne. Although he fulfilled the customary princely governorship duty for a decade at Manisa and served as guardian of Rumelia twice, he had never participated in a campaign or set foot on a battlefield. Yet he inherited the titles associated with success as a conqueror. That he started his reign with two ambitious campaigns that resulted in resounding military victories – Belgrade (1521) and Rhodes (1522) – suggests that he intended to earn these titles for himself and build a reputation based on his own actions. A panegyric celebrating the conquest of Rhodes illustrates this point: The Opener and Benefactor [God] has cast you for conquest Each campaign you lead turns out a hundred conquests ... This conquest came to be in the month of Safar,11 so that There be a hundred conquests every day of the year until the end of time Let there be conquest of conquests day and night during your reign Let there be no lack of conquest night and day during your time12 However flattering these words may be, they also convey anticipation; in other words, such exalting phrases imply that the ruler is expected to possess military capability and to continually use it. As a panegyric is by definition intended to please its subject, it

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seems that Su¨leyman took pride in his designated role as conqueror and was willing to demonstrate his capability to fulfil it. Kemalpasazade’s account of the conquest of Rhodes, which seems to have been a model for later ones, starts with introductory verses, the last couplet of which expresses the desire of Sultan Su¨leyman to conquer another land, as he already had control of ‘Arab and Persian lands as well as Ruˆm and Saˆm’ – to become a world-conqueror through ‘lion-like’ might.13 According to Sa’di, Su¨leyman intended to wage another ghaza immediately after the conquest of Belgrade so that his glorious name would be remembered and he would become a legend around the world till the end of time.14 A similar ambition can be found in the above-mentioned panegyric.15 Su¨leyman’s appetite for glory was noted by non-Ottoman observers as well. Jacobus Fontanus, an eye-witness to the siege, reported that the Sultan, speaking to his soldiers, said: ‘I seek nothing for myself other than glory; to you I grant the benefits.’16 In the same account, Su¨leyman allegedly declared to Philippe Villiers de l’IsleAdam, Grand Master of Rhodes, ‘I do not make war to acquire gold, or riches; but for glory, for fame, for immortality, and to enlarge my imperio.’17 Su¨leyman’s decisive stance on Rhodes seems to have convinced foreign observers that the Sultan not only had the zeal for glory but also the means to achieve it. Writing from the besieged island of Rhodes in October 1522, Zuan Antonio di Bonaldi reported that Su¨leyman had enough forces to destroy not only Rhodes but the whole world.18 Reflections on Su¨leyman’s power appear in postRhodes pamphlets; in the reproduction of an alleged letter by King Louis II of Hungary to Charles V, dated 16 April 1523, the king declares his certainty of an attack by the ‘Tu¨rckisch Kayser’ after he has acquired such ‘a most strong state’ as Rhodes.19 Contemporary and near-contemporary accounts often described castles that were besieged or actually conquered, as impregnable. If the castle in question was captured, the extraordinary strength of the castle added to the glory of the deed; if not, then the same strength justified the failure. This narrative line is clearly observed in Ottoman descriptions of Rhodes. In the victory proclamation, Rhodes is defined as the ‘yearning of rulers’ [hasretu¨’lmu¨luˆk ]. In other

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words, although many mighty kings had desired it, none of them had been able to set foot on the island since the day Islam was born.20 The capture of such an impregnable stronghold became a tool of intimidation in the hands of the monarch. Su¨leyman’s victories at Belgrade and Rhodes were announced to Shah Ismail, the Safavi ruler, in a single letter that resembles a ‘proclamation of threat’ [tehditnaˆme ] rather than one of victory [ fetihnaˆme ]. The extraordinary strength of the fortifications of Rhodes and Belgrade was emphasised to connote the irresistible strength of Sultan Su¨leyman’s army. 21 The rhetoric of ‘the castle impregnable’, commonplace in Ottoman accounts of the conquest of Rhodes,22 seems to be part of a tradition inherited from earlier chronicles. Examples are seen in Murad II’s wish that God grant his offspring the unattainable fortress of Belgrade;23 in Mehmed II’s conquest of Constantinople, another target unattainable to previous contenders;24 and in Bayezid II’s conquest of Modon, an area never before captured.25 In this sense, references to an earlier failed attempt appear to be a conventional device to exalt the reigning Sultan. Contemporary accounts of the conquest of Rhodes do not merely make generic use of this rhetorical convention, they evoke the specific memory of the failed attempt of Mehmed II when he sent Mesih Pasa to capture the island in 1480.26 In this sense, Rhodes also challenged the memory of Mehmed II, who had come to epitomise the Ottoman dynasty.27 Mesih Pasa’s unsuccessful three-month naval siege of the island is described as an ‘embarrassment’ by Sultan Su¨leyman’s chroniclers. They present his victory as ‘washing away the stain of embarrassment’ of yet another failure, just as he made up for Mehmed II’s failure at Belgrade.28 When Kemalpasazade announces Sultan Su¨leyman’s ghaza destination to be Rhodes, he notes the failed attempt of Mehmed II and Su¨leyman’s will to ‘wash away that burden on honour’.29 Kemalpasazade’s exact words are repeated by Nasuh in the mid-sixteenth century and by Hasan Beyzade in the seventeenth century.30 Based on his father’s testimony, the late sixteenth-century writer Sadeddin expands this theme and relates how Selim I reminded his viziers of the ‘shame of Rhodes at the time of my great

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forefather Sultan Mehmed Han Ghazi’ and accused them of intending ‘to double that gloom’.31 These accounts are strikingly different from those of Mehmed II’s contemporaries, who were writing during the reign of Bayezid II. They did not see the 1480 siege as an embarrassment at all. This is exemplified by Tursun Beg˘’s praise of Mesih Pasa for destroying Rhodes and returning with plenty of booty.32 This change in perception regarding the withdrawal in 1480 suggests a deliberate effort to surpass Mehmed II and to become the Ottoman sultan. Mehmed II’s siege of Rhodes is evoked in non-Ottoman accounts of the 1522 siege as well. Paolo Giovio, a distant yet concerned observer of the Ottomans, mentions Su¨leyman’s decision to capture Rhodes against the advice of grand vizier Piri Pasa and other commanders who reminded him of the hardship suffered by Mehmed II in the same undertaking.33 The account of Fontanus suggests that Su¨leyman himself studied the 1480 failure in order not to repeat its mistakes. The author claims that the Sultan did not expect to fail as he believed that Mehmed II’s mistake was in calling Mesih Pasa back too soon.34 According to Fontanus, Su¨leyman [Il Turco ], described as a young man with excellent ability who seemed to possess more wisdom than would be expected of men of his age, anticipated that the Rhodians would oppose force with force and would not give in as easily as the Albanians [i.e., the inhabitants of Belgrade] did.35 At the same time, Fontanus also refers to the Sultan’s possible concerns regarding the failure of his predecessors through an alleged speech by the notorious Ottoman captain Kurdog˘lu. The captain reminds Su¨leyman of his predecessors’ failure to capture Belgrade, emphasising that Su¨leyman succeeded in conquering that fortress ‘regardless of the fact that it was stronger than ever’.36 The superiority of Sultan Su¨leyman over his enemies was demonstrated by the conquest of Rhodes. With this conquest, the Sultan also honoured and surpassed his predecessors by fulfilling their ambitions. In a poem inserted into his account, Nasuh makes note of the fact that capturing Rhodes was a duty passed on to Bayezid II from Mehmed II, then to Selim and finally to Su¨leyman.37 Through the words of Kurdog˘lu, Fontanus emphasises that Rhodes should

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have been dealt with years ago.38 Citing Sultan Selim’s preparations for the capture of the island, a non-Ottoman chronicler of the siege reports that Selim’s death influenced the plan. Identified as Jacques de Bourbon, a participant in the defence of the island, the writer claims to have seen Sultan Selim’s last will whereby he urged his son to capture Belgrade first and then Rhodes.39 The sixteenth-century Spanish historian Lopez de Gomera asserts that Su¨leyman attacked the most important bastions of Christendom – Belgrade and Rhodes – to prove that he was the strongest and most important ghazi of the dynasty.40 Su¨leyman’s conquest of Rhodes seems to have impressed Marino Sanuto, himself a very experienced observer of sixteenth-century politics, as he emphasises that neither Su¨leyman’s father nor his grandfather were able to succeed in this feat.41 Jacques de Bourbon is convinced that Su¨leyman’s interest in the island was not only to secure the seaway to Syria, but also to continue the tradition of bravery set forth by his forefathers Mehmed II, Bayezid II and Selim I. The author expresses Su¨leyman’s desire in the following way: He might followe the doings of his noble predecessours, and shewe himselfe very heire of the mightie and victorious lord Sultan Selim his father, willing to put in execution the enterprise by him left the yeere one thousand five hundred twentie and one.42 Invoking previous attempts to capture Rhodes, an Ottoman eyewitness, the court physician Tabib Ramazan, argues for Su¨leyman’s superiority over his predecessors: ‘Thanks be to God who granted these two conquests [Belgrade and Rhodes] not to prior caliphs like Selim, Halim [Bayezid II] and Sultan Mehmed Han but to Sultan Su¨leyman Han.’43 This author recalls yet another event calling for revenge, namely Cem Sultan’s captivity on the island. In that instance, the Rhodians imprisoned Su¨leyman’s great-uncle with no fear from his grandfather Bayezid II. This event was a source of sorrow for his predecessors because their inability to recover this member of the dynasty signified the success of infidels over

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Ottomans.44 Ramazan’s argument revolves not around the threat of a potential pretender, but once again around gloom in the face of failure and revenge. As the above-mentioned panegyric goes ‘Never was such revenge taken on the enemy.’45 Thus, the themes of the narratives become vengeance and superiority, reflecting the dual nature of Su¨leyman’s relationship with the dynasty: promoting the glory of the Ottoman dynasty, while at the same time rising above it. In his time, Su¨leyman was not unique in either his hurry to build himself a military reputation, or his ambition to live up to or surpass the memory of his forefathers. In this respect he was not much different from, for example, Henry VIII who upon his accession in 1509 felt obliged to pursue glory on the battlefield to achieve ‘true majesty’.46 When in 1513 he intended to lead the army in person against King Louis XII of France, his aim was to ‘create such fine opinion about his valour among all men that they would clearly understand that his ambition was not merely equal but indeed to exceed the glorious deeds of his ancestors’.47 Charles V seems to have felt the same way when in 1521 he explained his defence of the Church and the Faith against heresy as a task he inherited from his illustrious ancestors among whom were the ‘most Christian emperors of the noble nation of Alemania’, the Catholic kings of Spain, and the archdukes of Austria and Burgundy. He argued that it was his duty to imitate them both by nature and heredity.48 Similarly, Francis I invasion of Italy in 1515, within the first year of his reign, was a sort of continuation of the Italian wars begun by Charles VIII in 1494. Francis intended not only to recover the territories lost by his predecessors, but to vindicate the defeats they suffered.49 Su¨leyman’s major eastern counterparts had a similar vision. Both Shah Ismail and Babur Shah built themselves kingdoms through military prowess. It took Ismail only two years to gather an army, defeat the Aqqoyunlu, establish control over Azerbaijan, and proclaim himself Shah in Tabriz in 1501. By 1503, he was ready to move against the ‘enemies of state and religion’ and to destroy them.50 In India, moreover, Babur led a successful battle against the Afghans in 1526, gained control of a large part of India, and proclaimed himself Padishah.51

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In the sixteenth century view, the glory associated with the conquest of Rhodes stemmed not only from its impregnability and the previous failures to conquer it, but also from the perception that it was one of the keys to Christendom – the other being Belgrade.52 Su¨leyman’s long-expected – yet somewhat taken for granted – campaigns against the strongholds of Christendom almost as soon as he came to the throne can perhaps be regarded as an indication of a change of direction from the eastern emphasis of Selim’s reign, and a clear indication of his intention to re-enter the European theatre. As far as the Ottomans were concerned, Rhodes represented Christendom; the Rhodians were grouped along with all other Europeans under one title, Frenk.53 A chronogram by Dividdar Mehmed C¸elebi, as provided by Celalzade in his Tabakat, reads, ‘As the ghazi shah conquered Rhodes; rest assured that conquered is the entire European realm.’54 European observers seem to have shared this feeling through a collective notion of Christendom. Examples such as the contemporary Italian historian Guicciardini’s description of Rhodes as ‘a bulwark of Christian religion’,55 and the remark of Charles Lannoy, recently appointed viceroy of Naples, to Charles V reminding him of the island’s role as a ‘bulwark between the Turco and Christendom’,56 reinforce the mutuality of meaning, which appears also in Fontanus’s description of the Rhodians as ‘defenders of the borders of the Christian Empire in the East’.57 Contemporary accounts develop a second theme parallel to glory through conquest – the obligation of ghaza on the part of Sultan Su¨leyman. One of the clearest expressions of this idea is found in the proclamation of victory sent to the judges of the realm following the conquest of Rhodes. The document announces the God-given duty of the ruler to ‘conquer and remove the signs of unbelief [ku¨fr ]’ and ‘to remove and restrain the oppression of oppressors’. As Sultan Su¨leyman continuously put ‘his sword to ghaza and jihad against the infidels’ to fulfil this duty, he set out to ‘save’ Rhodes based on ‘pious kingly custom and accepted royal convention’ [adet-i hasene-i sahane ve su¨nnet-i merziyye-i hu¨srevaˆne ].58 Reporting on the post-conquest phase, the proclamation reflects on a ‘cleansing’ process and the conversion of the island to the ‘realm of Islam’. The text asserts that

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Rhodes was ‘filled with unbelief and corruption, but with the help of God and the efforts of the victorious soldiers of Islam, it was cleansed and purified [tathıˆr and tanzıˆf ]’. The ‘cleansing’ process was finalised with the conversion of the ‘temples of idolatry’ into ‘mosques of the Muslims’.59 A similar cleansing argument is found in the prisoners’ prayer of Ramazan, whereby Su¨leyman’s actions are associated with those of the Prophet by referring to Muhammad’s ‘cleansing Mecca from idols and gloom’.60 In the very beginning of his account of the conquest of Rhodes, Kemalpasazade explains that every ruler who ascends to the throne wishes to immediately engage in ghaza,61 thus establishing the idea of ghaza as the first and foremost occupation of a Muslim ruler, especially if he has recently been enthroned. According to another contemporary Ottoman, Sa‘di, Rhodes was chosen as target because it was the nest of the ‘vile’ infidels, as Su¨leyman intended to abolish unbelief from the face of the earth.62 Nisancı Mehmed Pasa also mentions Su¨leyman’s commitment to jihad and ghaza, and how he conquered infidel castles for this purpose.63 As such, the conquest of Rhodes and Belgrade promotes Su¨leyman as the champion of Islam, as the honour of transforming a region into a land of Islam through conquest was part of the collective Islamic mental vocabulary of the time.64 The proclamation of victory sent to Shah Ismail announced that Sultan Su¨leyman had succeeded in ‘liberating’ [istihlaˆs ] Belgrade and Rhodes. Thus ‘the centre of idolatry became part of the realm of Islam, temples of idols were turned into mosques of the believers, and unbelieving ways were toppled down’.65 Contemporary Ottoman accounts reflect the dual significance of ghaza as an opportunity for both spiritual and material rewards. According to Islamic political thought, a holy war can only be waged with the permission and supervision of the caliph or imam. Furthermore, according to prophetic tradition, ‘the warrior gets his reward [ajr ], and the giver of the wage [ ju’l ] gets his reward, plus that of the warrior’.66 In this sense, Su¨leyman seems to be responsible first for providing his individual subjects with the opportunity to wage holy war for their own personal salvation, and second to provide the community with the opportunity to perform the collective duty

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of jihad.67 According to Celalzade, for example, the soldiers as well as Su¨leyman wanted to pursue ghaza after returning from Belgrade.68 The dual nature of ghaza is clearly reflected in Ramazan’s account, which describes the spiritual reward of ghaza as similar to a holy day but also listing the material rewards promised by the Sultan. According to the author, remission of sins and exemption from interrogation on the bridge to Paradise await him who dies fighting,69 while the first man to breech the castle walls is to receive a district [sancak ] and those following are given leave to plunder.70 Ramazan’s speeches of encouragement promise a reward for everyone: hope of spiritual ghaza for the religious, promise of glory for the bold and ambitious, the prospect of goods and slaves for the poor and virgins for the rich.71 Pursuit of personal glory and dynastic aggrandisement through warfare in the name of religion may have been a noble deed on the part of any sixteenth-century ruler, but more concrete reasons needed to be presented as well, otherwise the ruler would risk being seen as an oppressor. In a practical sense, oppression – real or perceived – creates the risk of resistance from local populations. Thus, a ruler proposing a war needs to provide reasons or evidence of threats related to the security of his realm and people. Sultan Su¨leyman seems to have carefully and clearly justified his actions. The concrete reasons for the necessity of conquering Rhodes were the security of the realm, the sea, and the people. First of all, Rhodes was presented as a nest and shelter to ‘infidel’ pirates who attacked merchants. Celalzade starts his account of Rhodes with the obligation of ghaza incumbent on Sultan Su¨leyman, and also asserts that God chooses one man in each generation as an agent to ensure security and peace [vaˆsıta-yı emn u¨ aˆmaˆn ].72 He explains that Su¨leyman directed his attention to Rhodes instead of Hungary because the unrest caused by the Europeans [Efrenc ] on the seas worried him and he wanted to stop the damage being inflicted on trade.73 According to Kemalpasazade, Rhodes was home to the ‘infidel robbers who did not give in to anyone’.74 Bostan dwells on the mischief and harm caused by the ‘infidels of the island of Rhodes’ [cezire-i Rodos keferesi ].75 Sa’di also mentions that the islanders harmed merchant and pilgrim ships,

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taking away their possessions.76 The damage done by the islanders to the voyagers and the merchants is clearly stated in the proclamation of victory, sent to the judges of the realm, as a reason necessitating the conquest of the island.77 The proclamation sent to Venice also justifies the attack as a response to the misdeeds of the islanders, particularly hosting violent corsairs who harmed both Muslim and Christian ships.78 This justification is confirmed by the Venetian ambassador Piero Zen in his report dated December 1523. Describing the Sultan as a good ruler who favoured peace, Zen reports hearing from Su¨leyman that he took Rhodes and Belgrade by force because of the ‘insolences they committed against his subjects’.79 According to an account already in circulation in England by 1524, the subjects of the Sultan complained about the damage caused by Christian ‘men of war received into Rhodes’ and ‘he tooke conclusion in himselfe, that if he might put the seyde town in his power and subjection, that then he should be peaceful lord of all Levant, and that his subjects should complain no more to him’.80 Fontanus claims that it was the notorious captain Kurdog˘lu who informed the Sultan about the sufferings inflicted by the Rhodians, who robbed the people, plundered the towns and slaughtered the animals. The captain begged the Sultan, ‘in the name of the Prophet’ on behalf of the suffering people who had no power to fight back against those ‘Rhodian corsairs and segnati of the Cross’, to free his subjects from the ‘cruel enemy’ and slavery. The concluding remarks reflect the significance of the whole affair for the honour and reputation of the Sultan: Do not forget that it is not only people suffering, but your public honour and your name. Will you let some thieves and murderers destroy your camps, plunder your lands, kill your people and harass the whole of our sea?81 Employing the device of constructed speeches, Ramazan expresses his justification for the invasion by citing Sultan Su¨leyman’s main concerns. The island, too close to his territories, stands ‘in the middle

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of the conquests’ of his forefathers and with their the superior knowledge of the sea, the islanders find the opportunity to obstruct the routes of pilgrims and merchants, to take them prisoner, and to exploit and abuse them under miserable conditions.82 Another particularly important justification for Ramazan was the presence of Muslim prisoners on Rhodes.83 Earlier documents confirm this concern. After buying his way out of imprisonment on the island around 1503, a certain Ebu Bekir ed-Darani wrote to Bayezid II and expressed his amazement at the lack of reaction by the Sultan, as saving the prisoners was a ‘duty of his just like praying and fasting’.84 Another Ottoman prisoner who managed to escape wrote a letter to Selim I, probably in March 1513, informing him that the Muslim prisoners on the island hoped to be rescued by the Ottoman Sultan.85 Liberation of captives seems to have been an important motif in sixteenth-century rhetoric, and not only for Ottomans. Charles V’s freeing of the captives in the Tunis campaign, for example, was depicted in the tapestries with accompanying Latin inscriptions expressing the gratitude of the prisoners. A shoemaker of Nuremberg, Hans Sachs, wrote a poem in which he emphasised that the Emperor went to Africa in person, released Christian captives and ‘converted many heathen’.86 When talking about the Rhodes campaign, contemporary Ottoman sources not only dwell on the need to protect the realm and the people from ‘infidel pirates’ but also emphasise protection of the sea routes for trade and pilgrimages. This again is presented as a duty incumbent on Sultan Su¨leyman. In this sense, the conquest of Rhodes achieved three main objectives: securing Mediterranean trade, consolidating control over Syria and Egypt, and preparing the conditions for safer expansion. As Sa’di has it, Su¨leyman’s general intention was to provide for the security and safety of his subjects, and more specifically to shake off the constraints the Rhodians imposed on his Muslim commanders.87 A personal memory related by the merchant Gabriel Taragon reflects a similar perspective. Ahmed Pasa tried to persuade Taragon, an eyewitness to the siege of Rhodes and the aftermath, to continue residing on the island after the conquest. The merchant reports that Ahmed Pasa stressed the

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convenient location of the island between Syria, Cyprus, Constantinople, Candia and other places. Taragon repeats the vizier’s claim that the Sultan intended to move against Candia and Cyprus and that he did not want the presence of any other party on this sea. ‘When this happens’, argued Ahmed Pasa, ‘Rhodes will be very a comfortable and appropriate place for merchants’.88 In some Ottoman sources, while the protection and safety of the trade and pilgrimage route is not cited specifically as the reason of the campaign, it appears among the results. Ramazan underlines that Su¨leyman’s conquest opened the sea route for pilgrims, as Selim’s had opened the land route.89 Bostan, for example, emphasises that the route to the Holy Land was cleared, and merchants were saved from the harm caused by the islanders. The author mentions that not only Muslims benefited from this conquest, but all the people in the world.90 Bostan may not have been alone in his assessment, as Muslim seafarers were not the only victims of corsair activity on the Mediterranean. Guicciardini defines Rhodes as ‘a bulwark of Christian religion in those seas, although they were notorious for the fact that, spending all their days in piracy against the ships of the infidels, they also at times pillaged Christian vessels’.91 These statements point at a general concern for the general stability of the eastern Mediterranean sea routes. In conclusion, contemporary justifications for the conquest of Rhodes reflect three main arguments: dynastic pride and responsibility; religion; and protection of the realm and the people. In the early sixteenth-century political context, contemporary reflections on the conquest of Rhodes reveal a plethora of concerns relating to fiscal and physical routes, and to religious and imperial justifications. All these underlying motives seem to have been woven together to add to the glory of Sultan Su¨leyman, both as the Sultan and as Su¨leyman. The provocative speech by Kurdog˘lu, as re-created by Fontanus, perhaps summarises the issue best. The captain, speaking to the Sultan, says that all are ready to put their lives at stake to raise ‘our religion, your imperio and your name’.92

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Notes 1 For a factual summary of the 1522 campaign, see: Resimli-haritalı Mufassal Osmanlı Tarihi II (Istanbul: I˙skit Yayını, 1957), pp. 800– 8; Jorga, Nicolae, Osmanlı I˙mparatorlug˘u Tarihi II, trans. Nilu¨fer Epceli, trans. ed. Kemal Beydilli (Istanbul: Yeditepe Yayınevi, 2005), pp. 312– 5; Uzuncarsılı, I˙smail Hakkı, Osmanlı Tarihi II (Ankara: Tu¨rk Tarih Kurumu, 1949), pp. 301– 4. For contemporary Ottoman accounts of the 1522 campaign, see Avcı, Necati, Tabib Ramazan: Er-Risale el-fethiyye er-rodossiye es-Su¨leymaniyye (PhD Dissertation, Kayseri: Erciyes U¨niversitesi, 1993) (hereafter: Ramazan); Kemalpasazade (d.1534), Tevarih-i Al-i Osman X. Defter, ed. Serafettin Turan (Ankara: Tu¨rk Tarih Kurumu, 1991), pp. 127– 88 (hereafter: KPZ, X); Lu¨tfi Pasa (d.1562/3), Tevaˆrih-i Aˆl-i ‘Osman, ed. Kayhan Atik (Ankara: Ku¨ltu¨r Bakanlıg˘ı, 2001), pp. 248– 51 (hereafter: Lu¨tfi Pasa); Celaˆlzaˆde Mustafa (d.1567), Tabakaˆtu¨’l-Memaˆlik ve Derecaˆtu¨’l-Mesaˆlik (Geschichte Sultan Su¨leyman Kanunis von 1520 bis 1557), ed. Petra Kappert (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag GmbH, 1981), fols 74b –104a (hereafter: Tabakat); Feridun Ahmed Bey (d.1583), Mu¨nseatu¨’s-selatin (Istanbul: Daru¨ttıbaati’l-amire, 1858), pp. 529– 40 (hereafter: Mu¨nse‘at, I); Sa‘dıˆ b. Abd elMute’al, Selimnaˆme, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, R.1277, Muharrem b. Ramazan Hanefi Kadirıˆ (copyist), 1055 [1645], Halep, fols 143b– 159a (hereafter: Sa‘di); Bostan-zaˆde Mustafaˆ Efendıˆ Tirevıˆ (d.1560), Cu¨luˆs-naˆme-i Sultaˆn Su¨leymaˆn, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, R.1283, fols 34b–42a (hereafter: Bostan); Matrakcı Nasuˆh Silaˆhıˆ b. Karago¨z Bosnavıˆ (d.1563), Daˆstaˆnı Sultaˆn Su¨leymaˆn, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, R.1286, fols 63a –87a (hereafter: Nasuh). 2 Hess, Andrew C., ‘The evolution of the Ottoman seaborne empire in the age of the oceanic discoveries, 1453– 1525’, The American Historical Review 75/7 (Dec. 1970), pp. 1912– 14; Vatin, Nicolas, Rodos So¨valyeleri ve Osmanlılar: Dog˘u Akdeniz’de Savas, Diplomasi ve Korsanlık, trans. Tu¨lin Altınova (Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı, 2000), p. 314. 3 Hess: ‘Evolution of the Ottoman seaborne empire’, pp. 1912– 14. Hess argues that the agricultural and tax sources of Syria and Egypt were vital for the maintenance of Ottoman expansion throughout the sixteenth century. Also see Hess, ‘The Ottoman conquest of Egypt (1517) and the beginning of the sixteenth-century world war’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 4/1 (Jan. 1973), pp. 71 – 2, 75. 4 Brummett, Palmira, ‘The overrated adversary: Rhodes and Ottoman naval power’, The Historical Journal 36/3 (Sept. 1993), p. 518; Rodriquez-Salgado, Mia, ‘La Cruzada sin cruzado: Carlos V y el Turco a Principios de su Reinado’, in G. Galasso (ed.), Carlo V, Napoli e il Mediterraneo (Napoli: Societa` Napoletana di Storia Patria, 2001), pp. 228– 9; Soucek, Svatopluk, ‘Naval aspects of the Ottoman conquests of Rhodes, Cyprus and Crete’, Studia Islamica 98/99 (2004), p. 219; Turan, Serafettin, ‘Rodos’un Zaptından Malta Muhasarasına’, Kanuni

56

5 6 7

8 9 10 11 12

13 14 15

16

17 18 19

ISLANDS OF THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN Armag˘anı (Ankara: TTK, 1970), pp. 50 – 3; Vatin, Rodos So¨valyeleri ve Osmanlılar, p. 289. Brummett: ‘The overrated adversary’, p. 519; Turan: ‘Rodos’un Zaptından Malta Muhasarasına’, p. 50; Soucek: ‘Naval aspects of the Ottoman conquests’, pp. 220– 1. Brummett: ‘The overrated adversary’, p. 518. Luttrell, Anthony, ‘The Hospitallers of Rhodes confront the Turks, 1306– 1421’, in F. Gallagher (ed.), Christians, Jews and Other Worlds: Patterns of Conflict and Accommodation (Lanham: Atlantic Research and Publications/University Press of America, 1988), pp. 83, 88. [reprinted in: Anthony Luttrell, The Hospitallers of Rhodes and their Mediterranean World (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1992)]. Soucek: ‘Naval aspects of the Ottoman conquests’, pp. 224– 5. Soucek applies the argument to the conquests of Cyprus and Crete, observing similar inaction after these conquests as well; see p. 247 and p. 258. Serafettin Turan: ‘Rodos’un Zaptından Malta Muhasarasına’, pp. 50 – 3. Machiavelli, Niccolo, Discourses on Livy, trans. Julia Conaway Bondanella and Peter Bondanella (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), p. 94. The word Safar, other than indicating the second month of the year, means military campaign. Topkapı Palace Museum Archives, TSM E.845/15: ‘Fethe sebeb komıs seni Fettaˆh zevi’l-mennaˆn; Her bir sefer kim eylesen olır hezaˆr feth . . . Maˆh-ı Safer’de oldı mu¨yesser bu feth cu¨n; Her ruˆz-ı saˆl hasre dek ola hezaˆr feth; Feth-i fu¨tuˆh ola zamanında ruˆz (u¨) seb; Devrinde eksik olmaya leyl u¨ nehaˆr feth.’ KPZ, X:127: ‘Diler bir mu¨lki dahi ide teshıˆr, Ola sıˆraˆne ‘azm ile cihaˆn-gıˆr.’ Signifying former lands of the Eastern Roman Empire Ruˆm indicates Anatolia, whereas Saˆm – literally Damascus – indicates greater Syria. Sa’di, 144a: ‘. . . bir gazaˆ-yı ekbere niyyet idu¨b bir feth-i hu¨maˆyuˆn dahıˆ eyleye ki cihaˆn durdukca naˆm u¨ nisaˆn-ı ‘aˆlıˆ-saˆnı anınla yaˆd olınub iller dilinde yaˆd olınub hasre deg˘in dastaˆn ola.’ TSM E. 845/15: ‘Bu fethile kıyaˆmete deg˘in adın anıla; Naˆm-ı serıˆfinile ola naˆmdar feth . . . Yaˆd olına taˆ kıyaˆmete dek bu uluˆ gazaˆ; Anıla taˆ ebed kala bir yaˆdigaˆr feth’ On the same document, though separate from the main text, is a chronogram of the conquest of Rhodes. The same wish is repeated: ‘Sehaˆ naˆmınla bu feth-i mu‘azzam; Ola taˆ hasre dek ‘aˆlemde tarih.’ Fontanus, Jacobus, ‘Del Discorso della Guerra di Rhodi di Iacopo Fontano’, Dell’Historia Universale dell’Origine et Imperio de Turchi, ed. Francesco Sansovino, parte seconda (Venetia, 1560), 95a: ‘Io per me non cerco altro che gloria, a vuoi soli o compagni dono la utilita`.’ Fontanus: ‘Guerra di Rhodi’, 122a. Sanuto, Marino, I Diarii di Marino Sanudo (Bologna: Forni Editore, 1969) (hereafter: Sanuto), 33:515. Anon., Des Ko¨nigs von Hungern sendprieff an Kayserlich Statthalter und Regiment, Zugesagter hillf gegen Tu¨rkisher Tyrannei merung etc. (1523). Accessed through

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20 21

22

23 24 25 26 27 28

29

30 31 32

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Universita¨t Augsburg, Universita¨tsbibliothek Digitales Document Archiv [02/ IV.13.4.142angeb.03]. Mu¨nse‘at, I:523. Also see, Bostan, 31a: ‘Selaˆtin-i I˙slaˆmdan nice saˆhib-i sevket paˆdisaˆhlar defa’aˆtle techıˆz-i ‘asker idu¨b fethine zafer bulmayub, ibtidaˆ-yı dıˆnden ilaˆ’l-hezaˆyu¨l’i-hıˆn fethi daˆmeni kimseye mu¨sellem olmayub.’ Mu¨nse‘at, I:542. The conquest of Rhodes finds a rather neutral expression in Ahsenu¨’t-Tevaˆrih, a well-known contemporary Safavi chronicle. The author justifies the campaign on the grounds that the ‘Rhodian infidels kept defying the ruler of Rum Sultan Su¨leyman’. He supports his argument with a Quranic verse, Rahman, 19. Hasan Rumlu, Ahsenu¨t-Tevaˆrih: Sah I˙smail Tarihi, trans. Cevat Cevan (Ankara: Ardıc Yayınları, 2004), p. 221. KPZ, X:129– 131; Nasuh, 56a, 67b– 69a; Gelibolulu Mustafa Aˆlıˆ (d.1600), Ku¨nhu¨’l-Aˆhbaˆr, 4. ru¨kn: Osmanlı Tarihi (Ankara: Tu¨rk Tarih Kurumu, 2009), 275a; Ku¨cu¨k Nisancı Mehmed Pasa (d.1571), Tarih-i Nisancı Mehmed Pasa (I˙stanbul: Matbaa-i Aˆmire, 1290), pp. 217– 19. For a seventeenth-century reflection see, for example, Karacelebizade Abdu¨laziz Efendi (d.1658), Kitab-ı Su¨leymanname, ed. Sait Efendi (Bulak: Bulak Matbaası, 1248/1847), p. 47. Oruc Beg˘, Oruc Bey Osmanlı Tarihi 1288– 1502: Uc beylig˘inden du¨nya devletine ( Istanbul: C¸amlıca Basım Yayın, 2009), p. 61. See Tursun Beg˘, Taˆrih-i Ebu’l-Feth, ed. Mertol Tulum (Istanbul: Istanbul Fetih Cemiyeti, 1977), p. 43. Oruc Beg˘: Osmanlı Tarihi, p. 198. See, for example, Tabakat, 66b; Nasuh, 55b: ‘Nice salmıs sipeh Sultan Mehemmed; Ve lakin zeyl irmemis fethine yed.’ Venetian envoy to Constantinople in 1514, Antonio Giustiani, reports that Selim mentioned his great-grandfather Mehmed frequently and wished to imitate him. Sanuto: 17:539. For references to Mehmed II’s failure and embarrassment regarding Belgrade see, for example, KPZ, X:55 – 7; Tabakat, 48b– 49a. A foreign commentator of the time, Spandounes, also refers to the ‘embarrassment’ suffered by the Ottomans at Belgrade in 1456 mentioning that the ‘sultan withdrew in disgrace’. Spandounes, Theodore, On the Origin of the Ottoman Emperors, trans. Donald M. Nicol (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1997), p. 45. KPZ, X: 128: ‘Ol baˆr-ı naˆmuˆsı ve ‘aˆrı da yaˆrıˆ-yi Baˆri ile ortadan go¨tu¨rmeg˘e Hazret-i Hu¨daˆvendigaˆr-ı gerduˆn-iktidaˆr ‘azm-i cezm eyledi.’ In the later part of his account Kemalpasazade provides a summary of the 1480 siege, mentioning once more of the failure (KPZ, X: 155) as opposed to the success in 1522 under Sultan Su¨leyman. Nasuh, 55b; Hasan Beyzade Ahmed Pasa (d.1636?), Hasan Beyzade Tarihi 2, ed. Sevki Nezihi Aykut (Ankara: TTK, 2004), p. 19. Hoca Sadettin Efendi (d.1599), Tacu¨’t-Tevarih IV, ed. I˙smet Parmaksızog˘lu (Istanbul: Ku¨ltu¨r Bakanlıg˘ı, 1979), p. 353. Tursun Beg˘: Taˆrih-i Ebu’l-Feth, p. 180.

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33 Giovio, Paolo, Commentario de le cose de Turchi, 1538, Diii. For Piri Pasa also see, Fontanus, ‘Guerra di Rhodi’, 95a. 34 Fontanus: ‘Guerra di Rhodi’, 95a. Fontanus’ judgment may be worth noting, as it took Su¨leyman six months to capture the island. 35 Fontanus: ‘Guerra di Rhodi’, 93a. 36 Fontanus: ‘Guerra di Rhodi’, 94a. 37 Nasuh: 55b. 38 Fontanus: ‘Guerra di Rhodi’, 94a. 39 ‘A Briefe Relation of the Siege and Taking of the Citie of Rhodes by Sultan Soliman the Great Turke’, in Richard Hakluyt (ed.), The Principal Navigations, Voyages, Traffiques, and Discoveries of the English Nation, Vol. 2 (London: 1599), p. 180. The work has been identified with the eyewitness account of Jacques de Bourbon, Le Grande et Marveilleuse et tres cruelle oppugnation de la noble cite de Rodes, initially printed at Paris in 1525. See Freeman, Arthur, ‘Editions of Fontanus, De Bello Rhodio’, The Library, 24/4 (1969), pp. 333– 6. The account was translated into English and put into circulation following the conquest, long before finding its way into Hakluyt’s compilation. 40 Rodriguez-Salgado: ‘La Cruzada sin Cruzado’, p. 229. Su¨leyman’s European counterparts also often invoked the memories of ancestors such as Charlemagne, Saint-Louise or Henry V of England. Richardson, Glenn, Renaissance Monarchy: The Reigns of Henry VIII, Francis I and Charles V (London: Arnold Publishers, 2002), p. 36. 41 Sanuto: pp. 34 –7. 42 ‘A Briefe Relation of the Siege’: p. 180. 43 Ramazan: p. 196. 44 Ramazan: p. 134. This is an interesting conception of Cem’s captivity as it reinforces an almost romantic view of the affair – that Bayezid always longed to save his brother. On the other hand, it also hints at a dynastic feud. 45 TSM E.845/15: ‘Ku¨ffaˆra hergiz olmadı bu nev’i intikaˆm; I˙tdin gazaˆ-yı ekber ey a kaˆm-kaˆr feth.’ 46 Raymond, James, Henry VIII’s Military Revolution: The Armies of Sixteenth-Century Britain and Europe (London and New York: Tauris Academic Studies, 2007), p. 17. 47 Polydore Vergil as quoted in Richardson: Renaissance Monarchy, p. 63. Also see, Raymond: Henry VIII’s Military Revolution, p. 17. 48 Sanuto, 30 pp. 214– 5. Also see, Brandi, Karl, The Emperor Charles V: Growth and Destiny of a Man and a World-Empire, trans. C.V. Wedgewood (London: Jonathan Cape, 1960), pp. 131– 2. 49 Knecht, Robert Jean, Renaissance Warrior and Patron: The Reign of Francis I, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), pp. 61 – 3. Also see, Tracy, James D., Emperor Charles V: Impresario of War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), pp. 41 – 2. 50 Hasan Rumlu: Ahsenu¨t-Tevaˆrih, p. 77.

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51 Lal, Kishori Saran, ‘Jihad Under the Mughals’, in Andrew G. Bostom (ed.), The Legacy of Jihad: Islamic Holy War and the Fate of Non-Muslims (New York: Prometheus Books, 2005), pp. 458– 9. 52 See, for example, Mustafa Aˆlıˆ, Ku¨nhu¨’l-Aˆhbaˆr, 4. ru¨kn, 275a: ‘Cezaˆ’ir u¨ Frengistan’ın kilidi veyahud bahr-ı ‘ummaˆnın dili idi’; a chronogram celebrating the conquest of Rhodes refers to it as ‘miftaˆh be-Frenk,’ [key of Europeans] see TSM E.845/5. 53 For Rhodians as Frenk see, for example, KPZ, X:128: ‘Frenk serkesleri’; Sa’di, 144a: ‘Taˆ’ife-i Frenk-i bıˆ-tenin . . . taht-ı tasarrufında olan hısn-ı hasıˆn Rodos’; Ku¨cu¨k Nisancı Mehmed Pasa, Tarih-i Nisancı Mehmed Pasa, 217: ‘Frengistan’a taˆbi’ cezaˆ’irde olan kal’alar fethi icu¨n.’ 54 Tabakat, 103a: ‘Saˆh-ı gaˆzi itdi cu¨n feth Rodosı; Bil ki feth oldı kamuˆ mu¨lk-i Frenk.’ 55 Guicciardini, Francesco, History of Italy, trans. Sidney Alexander (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1984), p. 334. 56 Rodriquez-Salgado: ‘La Cruzado sin Cruzado’, p. 230. 57 Fontanus: ‘Guerra di Rhodi’, p. 92; ‘difensori in Oriente de confini dell’Imperio Christiano’. 58 Mu¨nse‘at, I: 522. 59 Mu¨nse‘at, I:525. The ‘cleansing’ process can perhaps be associated with the Quranic verse associating unbelievers with impurity, Quran, 9:28. For the concept and Shiite emphasis see, Bostom, Andrew G., ‘Jihad conquets and the imposition of dhimmitude’, in Andrew G. Bostom (ed.), The Legacy of Jihad: Islamic Holy War and the Fate of Non-Muslims (New York: Prometheus Books, 2005), p. 32. 60 Ramazan: p. 97. 61 KPZ, X:127. Su¨leyman’s commitment to ghaza as soon as he ascends the throne reminds of Mehmed II’s immediate commitment upon his accession, as related by Tursun Beg˘: ‘lillah fi sebilillah kılıc kusandı. Hınk-ı azimet arkasına zıˆn-i himmet sahip, inaˆn-ı zafer-ıyaˆnı nahv-ı gazaˆya sarf eylemeg˘i kendu¨ye farz-ı ayn bildi.’ Tursun Beg˘: Taˆrih-i Ebu’l-Feth, p. 37. 62 Sa‘di: 144a. 63 Ku¨cu¨k Nisancı Mehmed Pasa, Tarih-i Nisancı Mehmed Pasa, p. 214. 64 Su¨leyman’s Mughal contemporary Babur, for example, after his success at Chanderi against Medini Rai, proudly announced having ‘converted what for many years had been a mansion of hostility, into mansion of Islam’. Zahiru’d-din Muhammad Babur Padshah Ghazi, The Babur-naˆma in English, trans. Annette Susannah Beveridge (London, 1922), pp. 579, 576. Also see, Lal, ‘Jihad Under the Mughals’, p. 459. 65 Mu¨nse‘at: I:542. 66 Bonner, Michael, Jihad in Islamic History: Doctrines and Practice, (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2006), pp. 50, 53. 67 Averroes, for example, dwells on the collective obligation dimension of jihad in his Bidayat al-Mudjtahid. The argument of compulsory and collective obligation

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68 69 70

71 72 73

74 75 76 77 78

79 80 81

82

ISLANDS OF THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN is supported with the Quranic verses 2:216, 9:112, 4:95. Averroes, ‘Bidayat alMudjtahid’, in Andrew G. Bostom (ed.), The Legacy of Jihad: Islamic Holy War and the Fate of Non-Muslims (New York: Prometheus Books, 2005), pp. 147– 8. See also, Khadduri, ‘The Law of War: The Jihad’, ibid. p. 309; Rudolph Peters, ‘Jihad: An Introduction’, ibid. p. 322. Tabakat: 65b– 66a. Ramazan: p. 152. Ramazan: p. 153. For calls for plunder also see, Tabakat: 94b; and Mu¨nse‘at: I:533. Mesih Pasa’s failure at Rhodes was often attributed to his banning plunder. See, for example, Mustafa Ali, in Hu¨dai Sentu¨rk (ed.), Ku¨nhu¨’l-ahbar: Faˆtih Sultaˆn Mehmed Devri (Ankara: Tu¨rk Tarih Krumu, 2003), p. 176. Ramazan: p. 154. Tabakat: 65a – b. Tabakat: 66a. In mid-seventeenth century, Celalzade’s opinion on the urgency of Rhodes over Hungary finds echo in the account of Karacelebizade, ‘deff’-i zarar-ı ‘aˆmm icu¨n teshıˆr-i Rodos’ı tedmıˆr-i Kral-ı menhuˆs-ı Engu¨ru¨s u¨zerine takdıˆmi tasmıˆm buyurub . . .’, p. 47. KPZ, X:129. Bostan, 31a: ‘haramilik kılub, Mu¨slu¨manların yollarına gelu¨b, gemilerin alub, ve derya vaˆsıtasıyla bilaˆd-ı I˙slaˆm’ın sevaˆhilinde dahıˆ fesaˆdları eksik olmayub. . .’ Sa’di: 144a. Mu¨nse‘at: I:523. For a translated copy, see Sanuto: 34:47 – 8. The letter is dated 29 December 1522 and Sanuto’s entry is dated March 1523. The Ottoman envoy, presenting the letter to the Doge on 27 March 1523, repeated in person the argument that ‘the Grand Master caused great damage’. Sanuto: 34:48. Sanuto: 35:258. ‘A Briefe Relation of the Siege’: pp. 179– 80. Fontanus: ‘Guerra di Rhodi’, 93b– 94a; Mu¨nse‘at: I:523: ‘madde-i ızraˆr-ı misaˆfiraˆn-ı behaˆr ve illet-i sefk-i dimaˆ-i tacaˆvuzvar olub . . .’ but nobody could dream of capturing it for it was very strong. Documentary evidence, put forth by Nicolas Vatin, confirms the harm given to Ottoman subjects and enslavement by corsairs much earlier than the accession of Su¨leyman. For the facsimile and transcription of a letter to the Palace in December 1518-January 1519 [TSM, E.6637], see Vatin, Rodos So¨valyeleri ve Osmanlılar, pp. 437– 40. Ramazan: pp. 133–5. Su¨leyman acting on the suffering and prayers of the prisoners at Rhodes brings to mind Asıkpasazade’s account of Mehmed II going to capture Mora upon hearing the sufferings of Muslim women there. Asıkpasaog˘lu, Tevaˆrih-i Aˆl-i Osman in N. Atsız C¸iftciog˘lu (ed.), Osmanlı Tarihleri I (I˙stanbul: Tu¨rkiye Yayınevi, 1947), p. 199: ‘Ol kisi dog˘rı Edreneye gelmis. Dahı padisaha bulısdı. Bu avratlarun habarların bildu¨rdi. Bu go¨rdu¨gi halları ona da aslıyile habar Verdi. Padisah bu habarı isidicek gayret-i islam galebe etdi. Heman dem cemi’ leskerini cem’etdi. Niyyet-i gazaˆ edu¨b Mora vilaˆyetine yu¨ru¨di.’

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83 Ramazan: p. 99. 84 Vatin: Rodos So¨valyeleri ve Osmanlılar, p. 321. 85 For the facsimile and transcription of the report on Muslim slaves at Rhodes dated March 1513 [TSM, E.5799], see Vatin, Rodos So¨valyeleri ve Osmanlılar, pp. 419– 22. For another incident of Rhodians taking prisoners, see Brummett, ‘The Overrated Adversary’, p. 526. Brummett dwells on the bargaining value of prisoners as Rhodians lack the power to exert political and/or military force on the Ottomans. 86 Burke, Peter, ‘Presenting and re-presenting Charles V’, in H. Soly (ed.), Charles V 1500– 1558 (Antwerp: Mercatorfonds, 1999), p. 434. 87 Sa’di: 144b. 88 Sanuto: 34:15. 89 Ramazan: p. 173. 90 Ramazan: p. 99; Bostan, 40a: ‘Haremeyn-i serıˆfeyn ve saˆ’ir arazi-yi mukaddesenin ve diyaˆr-ı ‘Arabın yolı acılub, tu¨ccaˆr u¨ zu¨vvaˆr melaˆ’in-i mezbuˆrenin ızraˆrından emıˆn olub, hakkaˆ ki bu feth-i ercu¨mendin fevaˆ’idi cumhuˆr-ı ehl-i I˙slaˆm ve zu¨mre-i havas u¨ ‘amm belki cu¨mle-i halk-ı ‘aˆleme saˆmil oldı.’ 91 Guicciardini: History of Italy, p. 334. For corsair activity related to Rhodes in the first two decades of the sixteenth century, see Vatin: Rodos So¨valyeleri ve Osmanlılar, pp. 282– 297, and Brummett: ‘The Overrated Adversary’, pp. 527–9. 92 Fontanus: ‘Guerra di Rhodi’, 94a.

References ‘A Briefe Relation of the Siege and Taking of the Citie of Rhodes by Sultan Soliman the Great Turke’, in Richard Hakluyt (ed.), The Principal Navigations, Voyages, Traffiques, and Discoveries of the English Nation, Vol. 2 (London: 1599). Anon., Des Ko¨nigs von Hungern sendprieff an Kayserlich Statthalter und Regiment, Zugesagter hillf gegen Tu¨rkisher Tyrannei merung etc. (1523). Asıkpasaog˘lu, Tevaˆrih-i Aˆl-i Osman in Osmanlı Tarihleri I, ed. N. Atsız C¸iftciog˘lu (I˙stanbul: Tu¨rkiye Yayınevi, 1947). Avcı, Necati, Tabib Ramazan: Er-Risale el-fethiyye er-rodossiye es-Su¨leymaniyye (PhD Dissertation, Kayseri: Erciyes U¨niversitesi, 1993). Averroes, ‘Bidayat al-Mudjtahid’, in Andrew G. Bostom (ed.), The Legacy of Jihad: Islamic Holy War and the Fate of Non-Muslims (New York: Prometheus Books, 2005). Bonner, Michael, Jihad in Islamic History: Doctrines and Practice (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2006). Bostan-zaˆde Mustafaˆ Efendıˆ Tirevıˆ (d.1560), Cu¨luˆs-naˆme-i Sultaˆn Su¨leymaˆn, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, R.1283. Bostom, Andrew G., ‘Jihad Conquets and the Imposition of Dhimmitude’, in Andrew G. Bostom (ed.), The Legacy of Jihad: Islamic Holy War and the Fate of Non-Muslims (New York: Prometheus Books, 2005).

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Brummett, Palmira, ‘The Overrated Adversary: Rhodes and Ottoman Naval Power’, The Historical Journal 36/3 (Sept. 1993), pp. 517– 41. Burke, Peter, ‘Presenting and Re-presenting Charles V’, in H. Soly (ed.), Charles V 1500– 1558 (Antwerp: Mercatorfonds, 1999). Celaˆlzaˆde Mustafa (d.1567), Tabakaˆtu¨’l-Memaˆlik ve Derecaˆtu¨’l-Mesaˆlik (Geschichte Sultan Su¨leyman Kanunis von 1520 bis 1557), ed. Petra Kappert (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag GmbH, 1981). Feridun Ahmed Bey (d.1583), Mu¨nseatu¨’s-selatin (Istanbul: Daru¨ttıbaati’l-amire, 1858). Freeman, Arthur, ‘Editions of Fontanus, De Bello Rhodio’, The Library, 24/4 (1969), pp. 333– 336. Giovio, Paolo, Commentario de le cose de Turchi (1538). Guicciardini, Francesco, History of Italy, trans. Sidney Alexander (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1984). Hasan Beyzade Ahmed Pasa (d.1636?), Hasan Beyzade Tarihi 2, ed. Sevki Nezihi Aykut (Ankara: TTK, 2004). Hasan Rumlu, Ahsenu¨t-Tevaˆrih: Sah I˙smail Tarihi, trans. Cevat Cevan (Ankara: Ardıc Yayınları, 2004). Hess, Andrew C., ‘The Ottoman conquest of Egypt (1517) and the beginning of the sixteenth-century world war’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 4/1 (Jan. 1973), pp. 55 – 76. Hess, Andrew C., ‘The evolution of the Ottoman seaborne empire in the age of the oceanic discoveries, 1453– 1525’, The American Historical Review 75/7 (Dec. 1970), pp. 1892 –919. Hoca Sadettin Efendi (d.1599), Tacu¨’t-Tevarih IV, ed. I˙smet Parmaksızog˘lu (Istanbul: Ku¨ltu¨r Bakanlıg˘ı, 1979). Fontanus, Jacobus, ‘Del Discorso della Guerra di Rhodi di Iacopo Fontano’, in Francesco Sansovino (ed.), Dell’Historia Universale dell’Origine et Imperio de Turchi, parte seconda (Venetia, 1560). Jorga, Nicolae, Osmanlı I˙mparatorlug˘u Tarihi II, trans. Nilu¨fer Epceli, trans. ed. Kemal Beydilli (Istanbul: Yeditepe Yayınevi, 2005). Kemalpasazade (d.1534), Tevarih-i Al-i Osman X. Defter, ed. Serafettin Turan (Ankara: Tu¨rk Tarih Kurumu, 1991). Karacelebizade Abdu¨laziz Efendi (d.1658), Kitab-ı Su¨leymanname, ed. Sait Efendi (Bulak: Bulak Matbaası, 1248/1847). Knecht, Robert Jean, Renaissance Warrior and Patron: The Reign of Francis I, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994). Ku¨cu¨k Nisancı Mehmed Pasa (d.1571), Tarih-i Nisancı Mehmed Pasa (I˙stanbul: Matbaa-i Aˆmire, 1290). Lal, Kishori Saran, ‘Jihad Under the Mughals’, in Andrew G. Bostom (ed.), The Legacy of Jihad: Islamic Holy War and the Fate of Non-Muslims (New York: Prometheus Books, 2005). Luttrell, Anthony, ‘The Hospitallers of Rhodes confront the Turks, 1306– 1421’, in F. Gallagher (ed.), Christians, Jews and Other Worlds: Patterns of Conflict and Accommodation (Lanham: Atlantic Research and Publications/University Press of America, 1988). Lu¨tfi Pasa (d.1562/3), Tevaˆrih-i Aˆl-i ‘Osman, ed. Kayhan Atik (Ankara: Ku¨ltu¨r Bakanlıg˘ı, 2001).

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Machiavelli, Niccolo, Discourses on Livy, trans. Julia Conaway Bondanella and Peter Bondanella (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1997). Matrakcı Nasuˆh Silaˆhıˆ b. Karago¨z Bosnavıˆ (d.1563), Daˆstaˆn-ı Sultaˆn Su¨leymaˆn, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, R.1286. Mustafa Ali, Ku¨nhu¨’l-ahbar: Faˆtih Sultaˆn Mehmed Devri, ed. Hu¨dai Sentu¨rk (Ankara: Tu¨rk Tarih Krumu, 2003). Oruc Beg˘, Oruc Bey Osmanlı Tarihi 1288– 1502: Uc beylig˘inden du¨nya devletine (Istanbul: C¸amlıca Basım Yayın, 2009). Raymond, James, Henry VIII’s Military Revolution: The Armies of Sixteenth-Century Britain and Europe (London and New York: Tauris Academic Studies, 2007). Richardson, Glenn, Renaissance Monarchy: The Reigns of Henry VIII, Francis I and Charles V (London: Arnold Publishers, 2002). Rodriquez-Salgado, Mia, ‘La Cruzada sin cruzado: Carlos V y el Turco a Principios de su Reinado’, in G. Galasso (ed.), Carlo V, Napoli e il Mediterraneo, (Napoli: Societa` Napoletana di Storia Patria, 2001), pp. 201– 37. Sa‘dıˆ b. Abd el-Mute’al, Selimnaˆme, Topkapı Palace Museum Library, R.1277, Muharrem b. Ramazan Hanefi Kadirıˆ (copyist), 1055 [1645], Halep. Sanuto, Marino, I Diarii di Marino Sanudo (Bologna: Forni Editore, 1969). Sertog˘lu, Mithat and Cezar, Mustafa (eds), Resimli-haritalı Mufassal Osmanlı Tarihi II (Istanbul: I˙skit Yayını, 1957). Soucek, Svatopluk, ‘Naval Aspects of the Ottoman Conquests of Rhodes, Cyprus and Crete’, Studia Islamica 98/99 (2004), pp.219– 61. Spandounes, Theodore, On the Origin of the Ottoman Emperors, trans. Donald M. Nicol (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1997). Topkapı Palace Museum Archives: E.845/5, E.845/15. Tracy, James D., Emperor Charles V: Impresario of War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). Turan, Serafettin, ‘Rodos’un Zaptından Malta Muhasarasına’, Kanuni Armag˘anı (Ankara: TTK, 1970). Tursun Beg˘, Taˆrih-i Ebu’l-Feth, ed. Mertol Tulum (Istanbul: Istanbul Fetih Cemiyeti, 1977). Uzuncarsılı, I˙smail Hakkı, Osmanlı Tarihi II (Ankara: Tu¨rk Tarih Kurumu, 1949). Vatin, Nicolas, Rodos So¨valyeleri ve Osmanlılar: Dog˘u Akdeniz’de Savas, Diplomasi ve Korsanlık, trans. Tu¨lin Altınova (Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı, 2000). Zahiru’d-din Muhammad Babur Padshah Ghazi, The Babur-naˆma in English, trans. Annette Susannah Beveridge (London, 1922).

CHAPTER 4 `

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THE CLASH OF RUM' AND FRENK ': ORTHODOX—CATHOLIC INTERACTIONS ON THE AEGEAN ISLANDS IN THE MIDSEVENTEENTH TO MIDEIGHTEENTH CENTURIES AND THEIR IMPACT IN THE OTTOMAN CAPITAL Elif Bayraktar Tellan

The Ottoman expansion into the Aegean islands from the fifteenth to the seventeenth centuries was the beginning of a new era in terms of the religious life of the Orthodox Christians on the islands. The islands were gradually brought under the administrative unit, eyalet of cezair-i bahr-i sefid [islands of the Mediterranean] founded in 1534, under the administration of Kapudan Pasa.1 The previous Latin rule had not recognised the authority of the Orthodox archbishops and the Orthodox priests were expected to acknowledge the supremacy of the Latin archbishops.2 In contrast, the Ottomans allowed the existence of Orthodox metropolitans appointed by the Orthodox Patriarchate of Istanbul.3 On Crete, the Orthodox Church, which had not

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functioned during the Venetian period, was re-established after the arrival of the Ottomans on the island; Neophytos Patelaros was appointed Metropolitan as early as 1651, that is during the Cretan War.4 On the Aegean islands of Chios, Naxos, Santorini, Milos, Andros and Sifnos, Latin and Orthodox archbishops and bishops coexisted.5

The terms ‘Rum’ and ‘Frenk’ as Used in the Ottoman Documents In Ottoman archival documents, the term Frenk was used for both foreign and resident Catholics, and the term Rum was used for Greek Orthodox. From a legal point of view, non-Muslims who agreed to pay the poll-tax [cizye ] were considered zımmi; they were tax-paying non-Muslims protected by the state. Non-Muslims from the dar-u¨l harb [abode of war] living in the Ottoman Empire were bound by a temporary safe-conduct [aman ] and were called mu¨ste’men.6 A document from Naxos, dated 1748, elucidates the status of zımmi Frenks and Rums. The document states that ‘There is no difference between the Latins who voluntarily agreed to pay cizye and became an Ottoman reaya during the conquest, and those Orthodox [Rum ] who settled later. The term Rum and Frenk is only an oral difference, and not a reason to prefer one to the other, both are reaya of the devlet-i aliyye.’7 On the other hand, both the foreign and resident Catholics were called Frenk. Another Ottoman document from 1765 informs us that, on Chios, the representative (kocabas) of the resident Catholics of Chios declared in the court that ‘we are called Frenks and our rites differ from the Orthodox. However, our residence on the island dates back to the pre-Ottoman period. We have been paying our cizye-i seriyye and other taxes, and abstain from acts contrary to the imperial will. We are different from those mu¨ste’men Frenks coming and going to the island.’8

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The Origin of the ‘Frenk’ Presence on the Islands and Catholic-Orthodox Relations The nature of the relationships between the Catholic and Orthodox Christians was not always one of conflict; it depended partly on the changing roles of the Frenks. To understand the evolving relationships between the two groups, it is necessary to understand the origin of the Frenks. The islands were under Venetian or Genoese control before the Ottoman arrival, and not all the Catholics left after the Ottoman conquest. Those who stayed agreed to pay the poll-tax [cizye ] and gained the status of zımmi. They were concentrated in the Cyclades, but there were also Catholic communities on Limni, Lesbos and Chios.9 Some of the problems between the Orthodox and the Catholics that occurred during the Ottoman period had roots in the religious and economic situation of the Orthodox during the previous Latin rule.10 Another group of Catholics were the merchants in the Levant. The traders settled in different parts of the Mediterranean, and they had close relationships with the indigenous Greek Orthodox and Armenian Christians.11 Although their states of origin did not approve of them acquiring estates and getting married, French and English merchants did get married and settled in the Ottoman Empire, as Suraiya Faroqhi demonstrates in her study.12 The relationships between the Orthodox residents and the foreign Catholics were not always hostile. For example, in 1734 a group of Orthodox inhabitants of the island of Paros had their testimony regarding a Frenchman, Giozes Ntalex, recorded by a notary. Ntalex had been an inhabitant of the island for a couple of years and was married to a local woman. While he was sailing to Mykonos for business to meet Captain Tzanpetros, he was abducted by pirates. According to the notary document written by Tzounes Protonotaras, the people testified that Giozes Ntalez had always been a respectable and well-behaved man, and did not harm or upset anyone. He was paying his taxes like a good and an obedient reaya. His neighbours wanted him to be permitted to come back and live with them again.13 In another record from the island of Chios, dated 1765, it

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was recorded that the Orthodox people did not have a problem with the resident, tax-paying Latin reaya. It was the efforts of the foreign Catholics to convert the Orthodox to Catholicism that were creating tensions.14 The division between the two groups was not always clear-cut. Throughout the Empire, the Orthodox reaya served the consuls of foreign countries as translators or servants, and they were either taxexempt or paid less tax. In the middle of the eighteenth century, the Ottoman administration was alarmed by the fact that the servants of Catholic foreigners were inclined towards the Frankish religion, and dressed in Frankish clothes. A ferman [imperial decree] sent to the local rulers of Crete in 1759, commanded that the berats of these reaya be taken away and that they be made to pay their taxes. What is more important, it strictly warned them not to accept the Frankish religion and dress in Frankish clothes.15 After the Counsel of Trent in 1546– 63, missions were sent to different parts of the world, including the Ottoman Empire. From the seventeenth century onwards, Catholic missionaries began arriving on the Aegean islands. The aim of the missionaries was to convert the Empire’s Gregorian Armenians, Orthodox, or Maronite subjects to Catholicism, or ‘at the least, make them recognise the pope as the head of the Christian churches while retaining their accustomed ecclesiastical rites’.16 The capitulations granted to France first in 1535, and renewed in 1569, facilitated missionary work in the Empire.17 The Catholic missionaries were institutionalised in 1622 under the organisation Propaganda Fide. From this point forward, Jesuit and Capuchin activities in Ottoman lands increased.18 Romanised Catholic Greeks mostly inhabited the islands where Catholic missionaries settled; i.e. Chios, Naxos and Santorini. According to the reports of contemporary travellers to the Aegean islands, on Tenos (Stendil), Naxos, Chios and Cythnos most Greeks were Roman Catholics.19 Chios was inhabited by Jesuits, Franciscans and Dominicans,20 and Naxos was inhabited by Jesuits and Franciscans.21 There were Capuchins on Milos and Cythnos, and Jesuits on Euboea.22 However, not all the islands were under Catholic influence.23 On Mykonos, Paros, Antiparos, Amorgos, Piskopia,

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Tenedos and other small islands, all the inhabitants were Greek Orthodox.24 In some cases, Muslims on the islands acted against the missionaries; Jesuits were expelled from Andros by Muslims.25 The Catholic missionaries were more effective on smaller Aegean islands than they were in Crete.26 Even so, the ecclesiastical situation on Crete was affected by the missionary activity.27 It was not only the Orthodox who converted; on Milos, Paros and Andros some Latins converted to Orthodoxy under Ottoman rule.28 Although the relationships remained diverse, there was a significant shift in the overall nature of the relationship between the Orthodox and Catholics on the islands between the seventeenth and the eighteenth centuries. In the seventeenth century, mixed marriages between the two groups were frequent; missionaries preached in Orthodox churches and heard Orthodox confessions, the two sides participated in each other’s services, they became godparents for each other’s babies, and Orthodox people frequently received communion from Latin priests.29 Thevenot mentions that the Latin bishop shared his income with the Orthodox bishop on Milos, and writes about the common feasts on Andros.30 However, in the eighteenth century instances of common service were less frequent, and disapproved of by the Orthodox population.31 That was partly the result of the religious policies of Venetian rule in the Peloponnesus during the 1685 –1718 period, on Chios in 1694– 95, and finally the success of Catholic propaganda.32 Tournefort, who visited the islands in 1700, notes that the relations were mostly negative on the islands.33 Relationships deteriorated as the Catholic priests and Latin missionaries became a threat to the Greek Orthodox rite. In the eighteenth century, the mechanism of complaint (sikayet) was in effect in the Ottoman bureaucracy.34 When problems arose between the Greek Orthodox subjects and the Catholics, the representatives of the Christian community expressed their problems through both the kadı court and the Patriarchate. The kadıs and the Patriarchs in turn forwarded the complaints to the Porte.35 Thanks to the official records of these complaints, we have an idea of the nature of the conflict between the resident Orthodox Christians on the islands, and

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the Catholics.36 For example, on Chios the kocabasıs and the representatives of the Rum taifesi [community] lodged a number of complaints between September and November 1755. They went to the kadı court and wrote a petition to the Patriarch complaining that ‘The Frenks of the island are converting the reaya of the island (Frenk idu¨b) and sending the children to Frengistan’, and that ‘Their children (youth) are leaving the Orthodox rite and following the Catholic religion.’37 The Orthodox reaya were disturbed when the Catholic priests performed masses in Orthodox churches. In December 1755, Patriarch Kyrillos asked for an imperial order to restrain the Catholics on the island of Kos. According to the complaint, the Catholics, although they had their own church, had performed a mass in the Orthodox Church of Panagia (Meryem Ana Kilisesi) thereby upsetting the Orthodox people.38 In January 1756, the Patriarch wrote another petition asking for a decree to prevent the Frenk taifesi on the island of Rhodes from doing the same.39 Mixed marriages were another thing that disturbed some of the Orthodox subjects and they urged the Patriarchate to take action against them. Again in January 1756, the Patriarch asked for another order claiming that the Orthodox women on the island of Rhodes were getting married to Armenian and Catholic (Frenk) men. The Ottoman answer stated that according to the rights of Patriarchs and metropolitans recorded in their berats, the priests performing marriage ceremonies contrary to the wishes of the Patriarchs and metropolitans were to be punished.40 In January 1778 there was again a problem between the Catholic and the Orthodox communities, this time on Naxos. Upon hearing the news, the administrator of the islands, Kaptanpasa Gazi Hasan, ordered the Catholic and Orthodox reaya of Naxos to stop fighting each other, and threatened the disobedient people with decapitation.41 The Orthodox inhabitants reacted against the remnants of Latin rule and Latin aristocracy on the islands. Travellers describe how the descendants of aristocratic families, like the Giustiniani family on Chios, discriminated against the simple villagers.42 Not only villagers, but prominent Orthodox families were sometimes in

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conflict with the Latin aristocracy. At the end of the seventeenth century, the island of Naxos was the scene of a vendetta, reminiscent of a Harlequin romance, between the Cocco and Barotzi families. Francesco Barotzi’s wife, the daughter of the French consul, was one day insulted by Constantine Cocco. Cocco was then murdered on Barotzi’s order. Cocco’s relatives retaliated by murdering the French consul, and then took refuge in the family monastery of Ipsili. The consul’s widow persuaded a Maltese adventurer, Raimond de Mode`ne, to bombard the Cocco family. Mode`ne had arrived on the island on a frigate belonging to the Knights of St John, and was in love with the daughter of the murdered Cocco, who had been one-year-old when her father was killed, and had married the son of her father’s murderer when she grew up.43 Interestingly, the family monastery of Ipsili had been founded according to the will of a Latinophile grandfather, Fragkisko Cocco. He had studied at the Greek College of Rome, served at the Ecumenical Patriarchate, and died at a young age. He had wanted the monastery to have a Latin chapel. The monastery was built, but the Latin chapel was not. Apparently, his family did not exactly follow his will.44 These apparently local issues on the Aegean islands during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were in fact a reflection of the relationship between the Patriarchate in Istanbul and the Ottoman administration. I propose that the reaction of the Patriarchate in Istanbul towards the Catholic issue was an important factor in Ottoman policies towards the Patriarchate. The attitude of the Patriarchate towards the Catholic influence over the Orthodox subjects was different in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, as was the Ottoman policy towards the Patriarchate.

The Ottoman Response and the Reaction of the Patriarchate The Ottoman response to Catholic proselytising among the Greek Orthodox and Gregorian Armenians was to try to keep each community within the boundaries of its own religious rite. Decrees ordered the Christian subjects to protect their own rites.45 The interpenetration of two Christian communities was not desired by

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Ottoman policy makers, for it threatened the order [nizam ] of the Empire. As Karen Leal demonstrates in her dissertation, the Ottoman administration considered the problem of the missionaries a threat, and this threat was named rebellion/riot [ihtilal ] in the bureaucratic terminology.46 Given this desire to keep the communities distinct, Ottoman policies towards the Patriarchate varied according to the Patriarchate of Istanbul’s attitude to Catholic dogma and Catholic influence over his Orthodox subjects. This attitude was different in the eighteenth century than in the seventeenth century.47 From the last quarter of the sixteenth century until the end of the seventeenth century, some of the Greek Orthodox Patriarchs of Istanbul and some metropolitans were positively inclined towards the Roman Church.48 They were, in some cases, influenced by Greeks educated in Western cities like Padua who had acquired positions in the Patriarchate and influenced the policies of the Patriarchs.49 The Protestant Church was also engaged in an attempt to win over the Orthodox Church. Especially during the first half of the seventeenth century, the ambassadors of the Catholic and Protestant states were very close to the Patriarchs in Istanbul. They were influential in the change of thrones between rival Patriarchs and were a factor in the execution of three Patriarchs in the first half of the seventeenth century: Kyrillos Loukaris, Parthenios II and Parthenios III.50 In the eighteenth century, the attitude of the Patriarchate towards the Western Churches became more negative. In 1706 Gabriel III wrote a letter to the inhabitants of Andros who had converted to Catholicism. In his letter, the Patriarch addresses the converts as follows: Why do you incline towards these false teachers? How do you accept the betrayal of your dogma and to be enslaved in the Latin-thinking religion? We heard this horrible rumour with great sorrow and we were very upset thinking ON the misery and the loss of the souls of all the people who joined. Remember the zeal and the religiosity of your forefathers and consider the brink on which you stand when you are apostates of the Eastern

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Church and deny the tradition and forefathers. Those who fool you laugh at you because you are ignorant, easily fooled.51 In 1710, Patriarch Athanasios requested an imperial order to exile a monk (in the Orthodox community) who claimed that he was a Catholic.52 Two Synods in 1722 and 1727 sent encyclicals to the Orthodox of Antioch against proselytising.53 In the middle of the eighteenth century, Patriarch Kyrillos Karakallos was the one who most explicitly expressed his anti-Catholicism. (His petitions against the Catholics on the islands of Chios, Rhodes and Kos have been mentioned above.) It is important to note that the Catholic missionary activities continued up until the third quarter of the eighteenth century. It was the attitude of the Patriarchs that changed, not the activities of the Catholic Church. Behind this change of heart were on-going problems with the Catholics, not only on the islands, but also and, with great intensity, in the jurisdictions of the Patriarchates of Alexandria, Antioch and Jerusalem, especially at Haleb and the Holy Places. The Venetian occupation of Morea and the rise of Moscow as a power were two more factors in the Orthodox Patriarchate’s change of heart towards the Catholic Church.54

Conclusion The co-existence of the Catholics and Orthodox on the Aegean islands dates back to Latin rule and their relationship was influenced by economic and religious circumstances. During the Ottoman period, after a friendlier seventeenth century, relationships deteriorated in the eighteenth century, especially in those places where Catholics posed a threat to the Orthodox religion in the form of foreign Catholics and missionaries. The Porte and the Patriarchate were aware of the tensions on the islands, and the events became a factor in the attitude of the Patriarchate and, in turn, the making of Ottoman religious policies. As the attitude of the Greek Orthodox Patriarch changed in the eighteenth century, so did the Ottoman policy towards the Patriarchate in Istanbul.55 There was visible progress in the

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relationship between the Patriarchate and the Porte on the bureaucratic level. The changing attitude can be seen in the gradual disappearance of the word ‘kefere’ [infidel] from Ottoman decrees addressing the Patriarchs and metropolitans. The jurisdiction of the Patriarchate in Istanbul expanded; the Patriarchates of Pec and Ochrid came under the authority of the Patriarchate in Istanbul in 1766 and 1767, respectively.56 As an example on the local level, the Church of Crete, was finally granted the basic rights it had been deprived of since its foundation. The punishments of Greek Orthodox Patriarchs of Istanbul in the eighteenth century were also mitigated; they did not go as far as the death penalty but only exile. Patriarchs stayed on their thrones for longer periods.57 In 1702, Kallinikos became the first Patriarch in 108 years to die on the throne.58 Kyrillos Karakallos, the Patriarch who had most explicitly spoken out against the Catholics, was supported by the Ottomans in his decisions against members of the Synod who were not as rigid as the Patriarch towards the Catholic influence. When Sultan Osman III heard about the turbulent relations between the Patriarch and the metropolitans in 1755 he commented that ‘In disputes concerning the Ottoman religion, the mu¨fti decides according to the teaching of Kuran. The Christians have the Patriarchate, so let the Patriarch decide according to the teachings of the Bible.’59 The Patriarchate in Istanbul was an institution that the Ottomans needed to rely on. In the eighteenth century, the Patriarchate’s decision to turn its back on the Catholic and Protestant ambassadors, and the increasing Phanariot influence were two of the factors that lead the Ottomans to more explicitly support the Patriarchate. Behind this change of attitude on the part of the Ottomans was the Patriarchate’s change of attitude. The relationships of Catholics and Orthodox on the Aegean islands, and the reflections of this relationship in the Ottoman capital, seem to be related to this bigger picture.

Notes 1 Emecen, Feridun M., ‘XV– XIX. yu¨zyıllarda Osmanlı idari teskilatı’ in I˙dris Bostan (ed.), Ege Adaları’nın I˙dari, Mali ve Sosyal Yapısı (Ankara: SAEMK,

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ISLANDS OF THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN 2003), pp. 7 – 31, Beckingham, C. F., ‘Djaza’ir-i bahr-i safid’ in Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edn, Vol. II, pp. 521– 2. See also Ku¨cu¨k, Cevdet (ed.), Ege Adalarının Egemenlik Devri Tarihcesi (Ankara: SAEMK, 2001). Frazee, Charles A., Catholics and Sultans (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), p. 39. The religious policies of Venice did not follow a straight line. For the situation on Crete, see See Detorakis, Teocharis, Istorίa th6 Krήth6 (Heracleia, 1990), pp. 198 –201, Maltezou, Chryssa A., H Krήth sth Diάrk1ia th6 P1riόdoy th6 b1n1tokratίa6 (1211 –1669) (Crete, 1990), p. 51. For the ecclesiastical situation under Latin rule on the Cyclades islands, see Slot, Ben J., Archipelagus Turbatus: Les Cylades entre Colonisation Latine et Occupation Ottomane c. 1500– 1718 (Istanbul: Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut, 1982), pp. 56 – 8. A list of bishoprics and archbishoprics on the islands, regardless of changes in time, includes Rhodes (Cycladic islands under Rhodes), Crete, Mytilene, Paronaxos, Chios, Limnos, Imbros and Karpathos; bishoprics of Santorini (under the immediate jurisdiction of the Patriarchate), Samos, Kos, Milos, Kymolos, Sifnos, Andros, Aeginas and Tinos. Some islands were dependent on the archbishopric of Athens and Larissas. Papadopoullos, Theodore H., Studies and Documents Relating to the History of the Greek Church and People under Turkish Domination (Hampshire: Variorum, 1990), pp. 106– 21. Changes occurred over time. Bayraktar Tellan, Elif, ‘The Orthodox church of Crete: 1645–1735, A case study on the relation between sultanic power and patriarchal will’, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 36/2 (September 2012), pp. 1 – 17. Yerasimos, Stefanos (ed.), Thevenot Seyahatnamesi (Istanbul: Kitap Yayınevi, 2009), pp. 40, 121, 139, et seq. On the Cyclades, only on Syros and Mykonos the Greeks were under the authority of the Latin archbishops (of Syros and Tinos) until 1617 and 1610, respectively. Slot: Archipelagus, p. 108. Schacht, Joseph, Introduction to Islamic Law (Oxford: Clarendon, 1964, 1998), p. 131. Cahen, C., ‘Dhimma’ Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edn, Vol. II, pp. 227– 31; Bosworth, Clifford Edmund, ‘The concept of dhimma in early Islam’, in B. Braude and B. Lewis (eds), Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire (New York: Holmes and Meier, 1982). Fikret Adanır proposes that this distinction, although it helps to distinguish non-Muslims from the Muslims, is merely formal. Adanır, Fikret, ‘C¸arlık Rusya’sı ve Habsburg I˙mparatorlug˘u arasında Osmanlı’da vatandaslık’, Toplumsal Tarih 182 (February 2009), pp. 54 – 63. ‘(. . .) hin-i fetihte cezire-i merkumede bulunub bi’t-tav ve’r-rıza kabul-i cizye-i seriyye ile reaya silkine mu¨nselik olan Efrenciyu¨’l-asl ehl-i zımmet ile sonradan cezire-i mezburede tavattun eden rumiler raiyyetten farkı olmayub ve beynlerinde vaki Efrenc ve rum tabiri mutlaka niza-i lafzi ve ahadu¨hu¨mayı ol cihetden tercihe bila mu¨raccaha kabilinden olub cu¨mlesi devlet-i aliyyem reayasından olmag˘la (. . .)’ Ku¨cu¨k: Ege Adalarının Egemenlik, pp. 157– 9, doc. no. 102 (BA. CBSD, no. 1, p. 86, Evasıt-ı Safer 1161/February 1748). The same

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expression is used also in another document in Ku¨cu¨k: Ege Adalarının Egemenlik, pp. 162– 3 (Doc. no. 107, Evahir-i Receb 1161, July 1748). ‘(. . .) amed sod eden mu¨ste’men efrenc taifesi misillu¨ bizler dahi Frenk tesmiye olunub ve egerci rum ayini ile ayinimiz bazen mugayyir olub ancak feth-i evvelden bu hengam-ı bi-men encama gelince bizler dahi cezire-i mezburede sakin ve mutavattın-ı kadimi cizyegu¨zar reaya og˘lu reaya olub ve beher sene u¨zerimize edası lazım gelen cizye-i seriyye ve evamir-i aliye ile irade olan tekalif-i o¨rfiyye ve mesarıf-ı beldeyi cu¨mle ile eda idegelu¨b ve an evvel ila yevmina haza hilaf-ı emr-i ali ve mugayyir tavr-ı raiyyet olacak mikdar-ı zerre hareketden ictinab u¨zere oldug˘umuzdan maada (. . .)’ Basbakanlık Osmanlı Arsivleri [Prime Ministry Ottoman Archives, hereafter BOA], C. ADL. 3/146 (10 Cemaziyu¨levvel 1179/24 November 1765). Also used by Dal, Dilara, ‘XIII. Yu¨zyılda Sakız Adası’nın Etnik Yapısı ve Ortodoks-Katolik Reaya Arasındaki I˙liskiler’, Tarihin Pesinde 1 (2004), p. 64. Ku¨cu¨k: Ege Adalarının Egemenlik, p. 55. Balta, Evangelia, ‘The insular world of the Aegean (15th to 19th century)’, in ¨ nsal and K. Emiroglu (eds), The Mediterranean World: E. O¨zveren, O. O¨zel, S. U The Idea, the Past and the Present (Istanbul: I˙letisim, 2006), p. 100. Latin rule on the islands was not always pleasant for the Orthodox people. Latin sovereignty meant big lands for the aristocracy. Not only the religious, but also the economic situation of the Orthodox population was a source of resentment. The aristocracy under Latin rule remained a foreign element among the Orthodox population of the islands despite a certain amount of conversion to Catholicism. It is possible to find information on this subject in the dissertations and studies written in Greece. Some examples of Greek scholars’ studies on the social and economic situation of the Aegean islands during the Ottoman rule are; Spiliotopoulou, Maria, H Santorίnh sthn Toy rkokratίa. Koinvnikέ6 kai oikonomikέ6 praktikέ6 sto plaίsio th6 oikogέn1ia6 (PhD diss., University of Crete, 2005); Zei, Elefteria, Paros dans l’Archipel Grec, XVIIe-XVIIIe sie`cles, les multiples visages de l’insularite´ (PhD diss., University of Paris, 2001); Dimitropoulos, Dimitris, H Mύkono6 ton 17 o aiώna. Gaiokthtikέ6 sxέs1i6 kai oikonomikέ6 sy nallagέ6 (Athens: EIE, 1997), idem, ‘Family and tax registers on the Aegean Islands during the Ottoman period’, The History of the Family 9 (2004), pp. 275– 86, idem, ‘Les socie´te´s insulaires de la mer Ege´e au temps de la domination Ottomane: Routes communes et trajectoires se´pare´es’, The Historical Review/La Revue Historique 1 (2004), pp. 113– 25. Mantran, Robert, ‘Foreign merchants and the minorities in Istanbul during the sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries’, in B. Braude and B. Lewis (eds), Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire, Vol. I, p. 130. See also Faroqhi, Suraiya, Ottoman Empire and the World Around it (New York: I.B.Tauris, 2004), pp. 147–8. Faroqhi: Ottoman, p. 175. Koukou, Eleni E., Ko in o tikoί Q 1 sm oί sti6 K y klάd 1 6 katά thn Toy rkokratίa: Anέkdota έggrawa (Athens, 1989), pp. 192– 3, Doc. 126, 24 February 1734. BOA, C. ADL. 3/146 (10 Cemaziyelevvel 1179/24 November 1765).

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15 Stavrinidis, Nikolaos S., M1tawrάs1i6 Toyrkikώn Istorikώn Eggrάwvn: 1752– 1765 (1165 – 1179), Vol. V (Heracleia: 1985), Doc. 2649A, pp. 109– 11. 16 Faroqhi: Ottoman, p. 35. 17 Although the Habsburgs were also granted capitulations in 1616, which included articles concerning the Catholics in the empire, it was the French who assumed the protectory role for the missions and other Catholics, partly because of the diplomatic status quo. Faroqhi: Ottoman, p. 173. 18 Frazee: Catholics and Sultans, pp. 88 – 103, Argenti, Philip P., The Religious Minorities of Chios (Cambridge University Press, 1970), pp. 287– 364. Following Istanbul, I˙zmir and Salonica, the islands of Chios, Naxos and Santorini (Thira) were the most important centres of Catholic missionaries in the beginning of the eighteenth century. Vakalopoulos, Apostolos, Istorίa toy Nέoy Ellhnismoύ, Vol. IV (1669 – 1812) (Thessaloniki, 1973), p. 112. The reason the Catholic influence was more effective on certain islands and absent on others is beyond the scope of this study. 19 Randolph, Bernard, The Present State of the Islands in the Archipelago (Oxford, 1687). See also the travel accounts of Jean Thevenot (1656) and Joseph Pitton de Tournefort (1700). Yerasimos, Stefanos (ed.), Thevenot Seyahatnamesi (Istanbul: Kitap Yayınevi, 2009); Yerasimos, Stefanos (ed.), Tournefort Seyahatnamesi, (Istanbul: Kitap Yayınevi, 2005). 20 Yerasimos: Thevenot Seyahatnamesi, pp. 121– 33. 21 Jesuit priests had been on Naxos since 1642 and Franciscans since 1652, and one third of Greeks were Catholic on Santorini. Yerasimos: Tournefort Seyahatnamesi, p. 170. 22 Turks and Greeks lived on Kos (I˙stanko¨y), Mytelene, Samos (Sisam). Randolph: The Present State, pp. 1 – 65, passim. Randolph notes that the Capuchins on Milos were respected by the privateers and by most of the islanders Randolph: The Present State, p. 33. 23 For example, the population remained Orthodox on Skinos and Mykonos, but there was a Catholic priest in the consulate house on Mykonos. See Yerasimos: Tournefort Seyahatnamesi, p. 285. 24 Randolph: The Present State, pp. 1 – 65, passim. 25 Yerasimos: Tournefort Seyahatnamesi, p. 232. Muslims first settled on Limni and Mytilene from the sixteenth century on, and then mainly on Rhodes and Kos, with a smaller number in the Cyclades. Ku¨cu¨k: Ege Adalarının Egemenlik, p. 55. 26 Greene, Molly, A Shared World: Christians and Muslims in the Early Modern Mediterranean (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2000), p. 194. 27 Bayraktar, Elif, The Implementation of Ottoman Religious Policies in Crete 1645– 1735: Men of Faith as Actors in the Kadı Court (Unpublished MA Thesis, Bilkent University, 2005), passim. 28 Slot: Archipelagus, p. 109. 29 Ware, Timothy, Eustratios Argenti: A Study of the Greek Church under Turkish Rule (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1964), p. 17. For examples on the Aegean islands see p. 20.

30 31 32 33 34 35

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Yerasimos: Thevenot Seyahatnamesi, pp. 145 and 40. Ware: Eustratios Argenti, p. 23. Ware: Eustratios Argenti, p. 24. Yerasimos: Tournefort Seyahatnamesi, pp. 145, 168 and passim. See I˙nalcık, Halil, ‘Sikayet hakkı: Arz-ı hal ve arz-ı mahzarlar’, Osmanlı Arastırmaları VII – VIII (1988), pp. 33 – 53; Tas, Hu¨lya, ‘Osmanlı’da sikayet hakkının kullanımı u¨zerine du¨su¨nceler’, Memleket II/3 (2007), pp. 187– 204. The petitions used in this paper constitute a limited selection from the archive for the purpose of presenting some cases of the reaction of Orthodox subjects in the eighteenth century. For a more elaborate study on the subject, it is possible to find documents in the archive demonstrating the situation on the Aegean islands. The following examples from BOA KK 2540 were also used in my dissertation, Bayraktar Tellan, Elif, The Patriarch and the Sultan: The Struggle for Authority and the Quest for Order in the eighteenth-century Ottoman Empire (PhD diss., Bilkent University, 2011), pp. 216– 7. ‘(. . .) evladları dahi rum ayinlerini terk ile Frenk ayinlerine tabi’ oldukları (. . .)’ BOA, KK 2540, p. 103, 21 Zilhicce 1168/28 September 1755, BOA. KK 2540, p. 125, 7 Muharrem 1169/13 October 1755. BOA, KK 2540, p. 115, 10 Rebiu¨levvel 1169/14 December 1755. BOA, KK 2540, p. 120, 12 Rebiu¨levvel 1169/15 January 1756. BOA, KK 2540, p. 123, 2 Cemaziyelevvel 1169/3 February 1756. Koukou: Koinotikoί Q1smoί, p. 274, Doc. 187. Thevenot refers to the noble families claiming to be descendants of the Giustinianis on Chios, and states that they practised discrimination against the peasants and the noble families. Yerasimos: Thevenot Seyahatnamesi, p. 133. Miller, William, ‘Greece under the Turks, 1571– 1684’, The English Historical Review 19/76 (October 1904), p. 668. The Cocco family was one of the prominent Orthodox families of Naxos. The grandfather Frangkisko Cocco, who wanted the monastery to include a Latin chapel and to serve the reconciliation of the two Churches, was educated in the Greek College of Rome. As a brilliant student, he was summoned to Constantinople in the first decade of the seventeenth century by the Patriarch Rafael II, a Latinophile himself. However, the family apparently did not follow his will; the monastery was founded but the Latin chapel was not built. See Slot: Archipelagus, p. 128. For Frangkisko Cocco, see Gritsopoulos, Tasos A., Patriarxikή M1gάlh toy Gέnoy 6 Sxolή, Vol I. (Athens, 2004), pp. 148– 53. Just to give one example, an order to the vali of Sivas orders him to expel the Frenks who are trying to convert the subjects of the empire, BOA, C.DH, 6602/133, 29 Cemaziyelevvel 1120/16 August 1708. Leal, Karen A., The Ottoman State and the Greek Orthodox of Istanbul: Sovereignty and Identity at the Turn of the Eighteenth Century (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2003), p. 357.

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47 The missionaries were active in the Empire up until the third quarter of the eighteenth century. For a number of reasons, the Jesuits were suppressed after the 1760s and they were out of the scene until 1830. See Fremantle, Anne (ed.), The Papal Encyclicals in their Historical Context (New York: Mentor Books, 1956), p. 110, Frazee: Catholics and Sultans, p. 163. 48 Runciman, Steven, The Great Church in Captivity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968), pp. 230– 7; Ware: Eustratios Argenti, pp. 16 – 42; Frazee: Catholics and Sultans, pp. 28 – 30 and pp. 70 – 72. 49 Frazee: Catholics and Sultans, p. 29. 50 Bayraktar Tellan: The Patriarch and the Sultan, pp. 59 – 79. 51 Paschalis, Dimitrios P., ‘O 1k th6 nήsoy Άndroy Ayjέntio6 askhtή6’, Theologia 11 (1933), pp. 302– 18, 303. 52 Evail-i Zilhicce 1121/1– 10 February 1710, in Altınay, Ahmed Refik, I˙stanbul Hayatı: Hicri Onikinci Asırda: 1100– 1200 (I˙stanbul: Enderun Kitabevi, 1988), p. 44. 53 Stavridis, Vasilis Th., Istorίa toy Oikoym1nikoύ Patriarx1ίoy (Athens, 1967), p. 21. 54 ‘From the time of Peter the Great on (1689 – 1725) “Holy Russia” appeared as a major European power and as the preserver of the Christians, the hope of the reaya as their preserver and future freedom.’ Stefanidis, Vasilis K., Ekklhsiastikή Istorίa, 4th edn (Athens: Astir, 1978), p. 696. Ware lists a number of other reasons: the Ottoman policy of keeping the Orthodox and Catholics apart; the Protestant embassies in Constantinople; the Venetian rule in the Peloponnesus in 1685– 1718 and on Chios in 1694– 95, and finally the Catholic propaganda as mentioned above. Ware: Eustratios Argenti, pp. 23 – 33. For the problems in the Holy Places see Peri, Oded, Christianity under Islam in Jerusalem: The Question of the Holy Sites in Early Ottoman Times (Leiden, Cologne and Boston: E. J. Brill, 2001). 55 This idea is elaborated in my PhD dissertation The Patriarch and the Sultan. 56 Bayraktar Tellan: The Patriarch and the Sultan, pp. 240– 50. 57 For the change of Patriarchal seats in the seventeenth and the eighteenth centuries, see Stathi, Penelope, ‘Allajopatriarxί16 ston urόno th6 Kvnstantinoύpolh6 (17o6 – 18o6 ai.)’, Mesaionika kai Nea Ellinika 7 (2004), pp. 37 – 66. 58 Mertzios, Konstantinos D., Patriarxikά, ήtoi Anέkdotoi Plhroworίai Sx1tikaί pro6 toy 6 Patriάrxa6 Kvnstantinoy pόl1v6, apό toy 1556– 1702 (Athens: Akademia Athinon, 1951), p. 83. 59 Ventotis, Georgios (ed.), Meletios (Mitropolitis Athinon): Ekklhsiastikή Istorίa, Vol. IV (Vienna: 1795), p. 88; Koumas, Konstantinos M., Istorίa tvn Anurvpίnvn Prάj1vn, Vol. 10 (Vienna: 1831), p. 398.

CHAPTER 5 CHALLENGING AUTHORITY AND TRANSFORMING POLITICS: A NEW PERSPECTIVE ON THE MUSLIM AND NON-MUSLIM EXPERIENCES IN OTTOMAN CRETE, 1896—97 Pınar Senısık

Liah Greenfeld argues that although ‘every nationalism was an indigenous development’, at the same time ‘the development of national identities . . . was essentially an international process, whose sources in every case but the first lay outside the evolving nation’.1 To fully analyse the events that took place in Ottoman Crete in 1896, it is necessary to understand both the specific internal conditions of Cretan society and the ‘international process’ that these events were part of. At the end of the nineteenth century, nationalist movements were occurring not only in the Ottoman Empire but also in the Habsburg and Russian Empires, where their radical alteration of existing multi-ethnic structures lead to the establishment of nationstates. These imperial dynamics played a part in the negotiations and conflicts on the island of Crete. Unlike much of the existing literature, this article combines the Cretan story with the story of the

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world around it.2 To be more specific, I propose that the Cretan experience should be examined within the context of the late nineteenth century; a time when the eastern Mediterranean region became a highly contested place among the Ottoman Empire, Greece and other European powers. The Ottoman period in the Mediterranean basin in general, and on Crete in particular, has been regarded as a ‘source of cultural pollution’ and the Ottoman Empire has been perceived as nonWestern and Islamic. For the nineteenth-century Europeans, Turks symbolised ‘a monolithic image of oriental barbarism’, because ‘Turks polluted the Hellenic perfection’ by bringing elements of shiftiness, double-dealing and illiteracy to Greek culture.3 Within this context, Ottoman Crete was represented as a place of ‘violence’ and ‘murder’, and the Cretans were regarded as a ‘rebellious’, ‘warlike’ people, inclined to insurgency. During the final quarter of the nineteenth century, Bulgarian and Armenian nationalisms gained momentum in the Balkans and the eastern provinces of the Ottoman Empire.4 The negotiations and conflicts between the Cretan Christians and Cretan Muslims were intertwined with these apparently distant socio-political conflicts and I believe that these processes should be regarded as parallel and connected. At the local level, the Cretan Christian insurgents were attempting to transform the existing Cretan society into a new one in which Christians would be dominant. Thus, the Cretan Christians’ aim can be interpreted as a ‘hegemonic struggle’. Gramsci defined hegemony as ‘intellectual and moral leadership (direzione) whose principal constituting elements are consent and persuasion’.5 According to Gramsci, a social group or class with a hegemonic role articulates the cultural and ideological belief systems of a society. A revolutionary party attempting to transform society ‘conducts a hegemonic struggle to undermine the legitimating institutions of bourgeois society’.6 This ‘hegemonic struggle’ is an appropriate perspective for understanding the late nineteenth century in Crete. At this time, the subordinate group (the Christian community) was endeavouring to change the existing ideological belief system, aspiring to a new hegemonic role.

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The Cretan revolt of 1896 was an important step in the consolidation of the Cretan Christians’ hegemony and the exclusion of the Cretan Muslims. The exclusion and violence of the revolt created boundaries between Orthodox Christian and Muslim communities on the island.7 Cretan Christians demanded the nomination of a Christian governor, the restoration of the Halepa Convention, the convocation of the Cretan Assembly, the proclamation of a General Amnesty, and finally the withdrawal of Ottoman forces from the island. These demands and other actions contributed to the disintegration of the existing system. They fostered an emerging sense of ‘differences’ (dhiafores) between the Muslim and Christian communities, while integrating most of the Christian inhabitants of Ottoman Crete into a new unified identity. When Turhan Pasa was appointed Governor of the island of Crete in 1896, he immediately reported to Istanbul that the financial and social situation on the island was precarious. In order to put an end to the prevailing disorder and insecurity, the gendarmerie had to be paid soon.8 He asked the Sublime Porte for 50,000 liraˆs to solve the financial crisis, especially to restore order and security through the reorganisation of the gendarmerie.9 In a telegram stamped ‘important and very urgent’, Turhan Pasa reported that some of the Christians had hidden their ill intentions under the banner of patriotism and established the Reform Committee, the Epitropi.10 Turhan Pasa intended to take the necessary steps to re-establish order. He planned to arrest both Muslim and Christian troublemakers who were known to the police in the town. He appointed a Commission of Notables comprising both Muslims and Christians whose purpose was to urge their co-religionists to remain calm and to let them know that the government was taking the necessary measures to restore order. New orders were also issued for the troops to co-operate with the gendarmerie if necessary.11 Towards the end of May 1896, the tensions in the western provinces of Crete peaked. On 13 May the British Vice-Consul Trifilli reported to the British government that anarchy now prevailed in the province of Rethymnon. Six Muslim families migrating from Kordaki-Amari to Merona under the escort of three gendarmes had

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been attacked by the Epitropi. A 15-year-old boy had been shot dead and a gendarme wounded. These Muslim migrants were rescued by the Christian inhabitants of the neighbouring village of Anomeros. Furthermore, in the district of Aghios Vassilios, four Christians were fired upon while returning to their villages. The Muslim inhabitants of Amari and Mylopotamo started to move their goods to the villages near the town of Rethymnon. In this report, British Consul Biliotti detailed the murders committed in the province of Cydonia between 5 May and 12 May. In another report dated 17 May, Biliotti reported on the ill-treatment of the Muslim officers of the gendarmerie and of native gendarmes by Christians in Rethymnon. He noted that, cooperating with their co-religionists, the Muslim gendarmes had murdered some of the Christian inhabitants. According to the British consul, the existing Ottoman troops were quite insufficient to protect the civilian population and to control the island. For that reason, he argued, European warships should be sent to Chania to provide security.12 Here, it is safe to argue that the British consul was exaggerating the local conditions in an attempt to prepare the ground for European intervention in the internal conflicts of Crete. He presented these conflicts as clear-cut inter-communal clashes between the Cretan Muslims and Christians. The Ottoman troops were besieged by the Epitropi at Vamos, a district of Apokorono. This siege led to the killing of one battalion of Ottoman soldiers and was a major blow to military discipline and order all over the island.13 Between 1,000 and 1,200 Ottoman troops had been completely surrounded by 5,000 to 6,000 well-armed Christian insurgents. These troops had only had provisions for one or two days.14 The insurgents also set fire to the tower and the administration building at the fort.15 The Cretan Muslims gathered in downtown Chania to protest these developments. On the same day, when the cavass of the Russian Consulate, accompanied by four Christians, was on his way to Halepa, he was confronted by a gendarmerie officer who told him that it was not advisable to leave for Halepa. Angry words were exchanged. The Russian cavass fired his revolver, wounding the gendarmerie officer and killing an Arab. Immediately afterwards, the Russian cavass was killed by Muslim

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bystanders.16 This incident caused panic and fear among the people and street-fighting broke out between the Muslims and the Christians in Chania.17 Many people from both sides were killed within a very short time. Houses were burnt and plundered, olive gardens and farms were set on fire, and mosques and churches were destroyed. Every single shop in the bazaar was closed and the streets were deserted.18 The remarkably diverse contemporary interpretations of these events contributed to the emergence of a highly politicised public forum. Throughout 1896, the Greek press was full of news about events on the island. The Greek daily newspaper Akropolis, for instance, kept a close eye on the happenings. It argued that the annexation of Crete would be very easy and that the Greek navy should be sent to Crete, not only to rescue the Orthodox Christian women and children, but also to occupy the island and unite it with Greece.19 The Greek press pressured the Greek government to take active measures regarding the events on the island. Ottoman newspapers, on the other hand, took a different view of the Cretan revolt of 1896. A letter written by a Cretan Christian and published in the Ottoman newspaper Hakıˆkaˆt setting forth the Ottoman view is worthy of mention here: I am also a Christian! I am an honest man and always remember the defective opinions of shameless, unscrupulous Christians with hate. The outlaws wandering around in Sfakia and Apokorono have shown no signs of hesitation to oppress and attack the Muslim inhabitants . . . Because . . . the soldiers continuously attack on the Christian churches and the undermining of their rights . . . Some insurgents are not even ashamed of asking for help from the Great Powers’ consuls . . . Nevertheless, their true aim was to force the Muslims to migrate and to appropriate their real estate and properties at a minimum price.20 During the same period, the European press offered mixed views. For example, in Austria, there were those who insisted that the

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uprising on the island was a consequence of Greek involvement and intervention in the state affairs of Crete. Due to the Greek government’s financial bankruptcy, the best and in fact only way for it to take part in the internal affairs of Crete was to be directly involved in the revolt on the island. The aim was to convince Europe that Crete should be annexed by Greece.21 An Austrian daily, Pester Lloyd, noted that the Greek government could not intervene in the island due to its financial crisis. It also noted that if order was not restored, the revolt would spread to the other provinces of the Ottoman Empire.22 The Ottoman ambassador in Vienna reported that there were two different views in the Austrian press on how to put an end to the revolt on the island. On the one hand, it was argued that the Sublime Porte should be reminded of the necessity of removing the prevailing grievances; on the other hand, the Greek government should not encourage the delusions of the Greek revolutionary committees. Another article published in Pester Lloyd stated that the Greek government and the European governments could not prevent the Ottoman Empire from sending Ottoman troops to the island, and that no state should jeopardise the maintenance of peace and order by intervening in the Cretan issue for the benefit of the Cretan Christians. The British views were different. According to the reports of the British Consul Biliotti, the existing Ottoman troops were quite insufficient to protect the civilian population and to control the island. For that reason he argued that European warships should be sent to Chania to provide security.23 The British representative in Crete further reported to London that the state of affairs at Rethymnon was critical. Cretan Muslims coming from the villages were entering Christian houses in the town by force.24 In addition, many Muslim villages had been burnt down by Christians.25 It was this prevailing state of affairs that lead the European consuls in Chania to request their governments to send warships to Crete.26 In the Muslim quarter of Chania, according to the British consul, the shops had gradually reopened and people were now to be seen in the streets. Unlike the Muslims, the Christian inhabitants were shut up in their houses and hardly opened their shops. According to consul Biliotti,

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the Cretan Christians were trying to demonstrate that it was impossible for them to live with the Cretan Muslims under these circumstances, and they wished the European powers to intervene in the Cretan issue.27 It seems that the British consul in Crete reported to London that the atmosphere on the island was such that the ‘hatred’ between the Cretan Muslims and Christians deepened day by day. However, the above reports do not present a complete picture of the situation. I have found that the actual relationship between Cretan Christians and Cretan Muslims in late nineteenth century Ottoman Crete was considerably more complex and extended beyond religio-ethnic identity than the above interpretations suggest. The late nineteenth century is known to have been an era when Europe and the Mediterranean witnessed profound political and socioeconomic transformations. The interpretations of the events in Ottoman Crete given above not only keep us from fully understanding the local socio-political realities, but also prevent us from seeing the broader patterns and similarities that existed across the Ottoman Empire in the same period. The views outlined above disregard the class differences, complex networks and various interactions which tied the Cretans together.28 Here, my aim is to evaluate these relationships within the framework of the imperial dynamics in the nineteenth century. On 29 May 1896 Abdullah Pasa, the new Vaˆli and the Military Commander, arrived in Chania with 3,200 men from Salonica and Kosova garrisons. A further 2,400 troops arrived at the same time. In addition, two battalions arrived on 31 May 1896 from Alexandretta.29 On 3 June two more battalions under Osman Pasa arrived from Smyrna. Alongside the Ottoman troops, European warships began to arrive at Chania to ameliorate the situation on the island.30 Immediately after Abdullah Pasa’s arrival, the Vamos siege was relieved with the assistance of the two battalions from the Salonica garrison and with 2,000 troops from Kalives.31 In a report dated 14 June 1896, Consul Biliotti described the events that had taken place in the western part of the island. According to Biliotti, when the Ottoman troops began their retreat, a number of Christians had

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arrived in the area of Vamos, and a fierce fight ensued between the Ottoman troops and insurgents, lasting about five hours. In the end, the blockhouse was burned down by the Christians after they had pillaged everything the Ottoman troops had left behind. In addition, half of the houses in Vamos were burned down. The Ottoman troops were sent to rescue both Muslims and Christians who were surrounded by armed individuals of the other creed. Sixty-five Christians were rescued and sent to the monastery of Aghia Trias in Chania, and the Muslims who were surrounded in Voukolies, Nea Rumata, and Sembrona were also rescued.32 On 9 July 1896, Corci Berovic Pasa33 was appointed to Crete as Governor-General. Abdullah Pasa continued his role as the military commander-in-chief, and was promoted to the post of Mu¨sıˆr.34 On 13 July, 39 Christian and 22 Muslim deputies were present at the opening of the Cretan Assembly.35 From the very beginning of the session, a number of problems arose. The Christian deputies objected to the delivery of the opening speech in Turkish. Immediately after the Greek opening speech, the Christian deputies asked for a postponement of the session and the Assembly was adjourned.36 The Greek Minister of Foreign Affairs, Skouses, alleged that the Christian deputies were obeying the dictates of the European powers by attending the General Assembly. Yet, they had gained little in return since all the concessions given by the Sublime Porte to the Christians were only ‘illusionary promises’, such as the appointment of a Christian Vaˆli to the island, but with a military superior.37 Although it was announced that the Halepa Pact38 had been revived due to the diplomatic work of the Greek government and the insurgents, the Christian deputies did not hesitate to present a petition to the European consuls in Crete with various demands. The most important were the following. First, the Governor-General of the island would be a Christian. He would be appointed by the Ottoman Sultan, with the approval of the European powers. Second, Cretans employed in public service, including the members of the General Assembly and the Administrative Council, would be proportional to the population of the Christians and the Muslims on the island. Third, in the government offices, the use of two languages

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would be minimised as much as possible. Fourth, maintenance of order on the island and execution of the law would be carried out by a native gendarmerie including European officers from the rank of colonel to that of captain. Last, for the first five years, the president of the Court of Appeal and the Public Prosecutor would be a foreigner.39 Given that the Vaˆli (Governor) would be a Christian with extensive powers, appointed by the Ottoman Sultan but with the approval of the European powers, an analysis of the other points in this petition suggests that its aim was the transfer of the administrative status of the island from a privileged status to an autonomous region. By including the European powers and their representatives as guarantors in the application of the articles of this petition, and by giving them various rights and responsibilities in the enforcement of the articles, the legitimacy of the Sublime Porte as the sole power was undermined and the governance of Crete became more and more complex as the centralised power of jurisdiction was taken from the Sublime Porte. The news that the Halepa Pact would be revived led to resentment from the Cretan Muslims. The Muslim deputies presented a petition, bearing 21 signatures, to the consuls of the European powers in Crete, saying that the Halepa Pact had not had the expected results because of defects in the organisation of the gendarmerie and the administration of justice. If these two organs remained as they were, they would not provide equal rights for the Cretan Muslims and Christians, and would not guarantee the moral and material interests of the Muslim population. The writers of the petition expressed the hope that their rights and future would not be sacrificed for the radical requests of the Christians; they would rather be safeguarded by the European powers.40 The European representatives in Istanbul made a joint representation to the Sublime Porte, arguing that one of the main reasons for the recent revolt on the island was the preponderance of power given to the military authority as compared to the civil authority. The Ottoman troops, therefore, should be commanded by an officer who had a lower rank than Abdullah Pasa, and the Ottoman

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troops stationed on the island should be used for defence only.41 The Austrian Minister of Foreign Affairs, Count Goluchowski, told the Ottoman ambassador in Vienna that it was vital for the Sublime Porte to carry out the above-mentioned recommendations. He claimed that the military operations of Ottoman troops in Crete and the disputes between the governor and the military commander made it difficult to establish peace on Crete. He added that the European powers should continue to apply pressure to the Greek government, but the Ottoman Empire should also help them in their endeavors.42 Towards the middle of July 1896, an attack by insurgents from Amari Rethymnon in the south-western district of Candia alarmed the Muslim inhabitants there. The arrival of arms, munitions and volunteers from Greece on the northern coast of the island aroused the fears of the Muslim inhabitants, who began to emigrate.43 It became evident by the middle of July that, with the arrival of military supplies in districts like Lasithi and Sitia, where there had hitherto been no revolts, the problem had spread to the remote districts.44 On 22 July two sailing boats arrived at Lasithi and Sitia with arms and volunteers. These large shipments of arms and volunteers frightened the Muslims and led them to flee their villages for Candia. The Vaˆli, therefore, sent troops to prevent them moving to the town.45 This clearly indicates the insurrection was advancing from the western parts of the island to the east. The Ottoman Empire expressed its displeasure with these developments, saying that despite all the measures taken, the revolt was continuing and munitions were still being despatched to the island. As a result, the Sublime Porte decided to implement the reforms so as to prevent worse incidents, and reported this decision to the foreign representatives in Istanbul and the Ottoman representatives in Europe. As the Cretan Christians did not respect the authority of the Ottoman state, the Sublime Porte invited foreign states to execute and monitor the decisions. This decision was overseen by the Ottoman Ministry of Foreign Affairs.46 With the situation on the island deteriorating and no reply coming to the Christian deputies from the Sublime Porte, the Christian deputies sent another petition to the Vaˆli of Crete

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demanding that their previous demands be taken into consideration and that the problem be resolved in line with these demands. In this petition, the deputies complained about the local government, arguing that due to the deterioration of the local administration, peace and order had disappeared in many parts of the island. Daily business activities were completely disrupted. The Christian deputies requested an urgent end to this chaotic situation. If things carried on as they were, future intervention would be of no use.47 The deputies also complained about notices that had been posted in the streets of Rethymnon by the Muslims inviting their co-religionists to awaken and to defend their rights against the Christians.48 The requests of the Christian deputies of the General Assembly led to dissatisfaction among the Muslim deputies, who accordingly submitted a memorandum to the consuls, expressing their objections to each article of the Christian deputies’ petition. Among other objections, two points are worthy of mention here: according to the Muslim deputies, the right of appointing the Governor-General, whether Muslim or Christian, should belong solely to the Sultan. It seems clear that the Muslim deputies’ main concern was the sovereign rights of the Sultan. Moreover, the Muslim deputies believed that Muslims should not be excluded from this high function since ‘[this] make[s] religion a sufficient reason for exception in the distribution of official posts’.49 They also stated that representation in the General Assembly and the Administrative Council should not be proportional to the number of inhabitants, arguing that, although the Muslims were in the minority, property ownership should be given relatively more weight in the determination of the representative powers of the two elements.50 The European powers kept up their pressure for the removal of Abdullah Pasa from his post. On 18 July 1896, a telegram on the subject was sent to the Ottoman Embassy at Petersburg. The telegram reported a conversation between the first dragoman of the Russian Embassy in Istanbul and Sultan Abdu¨lhamid II. It said that the first dragoman suggested to the Sultan that Abdullah Pasa be removed immediately from office. The military authority should be given to the military commander who would act with the sanction of

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the Vaˆli. The dragoman told the Sultan that if Abdullah Pasa was not removed from his post, then a conference would be held to decide on Cretan independence.51 Since the administration of the island was in the hands of the governor, Abdullah Pasa was warned that if no counter action was taken by the insurgents, no military action would be taken. If need for military action arose, then decisions to this effect would be made after discussions were held with the governor.52 On 26 July 1896, a popular assembly met in Tzitzifes where it was decided to transform the Epitropi into an insurrectionary assembly. The new representatives of the committee would be elected from each province by popular vote, but the former members would have the privilege of sitting in the assembly without being elected. Kostaros Voloudakis was appointed provisional chairman.53 The volunteers who continued to come from Greece reinforced these activities. At the same time, 30 regular officers in the Greek army left Piraeus for Crete. A senior officer was sent by the Greek government to intercept them. Elections were held for representatives of the committee, and on 15 August 1896 the representatives, chiefs and their men, wearing festive costumes, assembled in Kambi in the province of Cydonia, and celebrated the dormition of the Virgin Mary.54 Meanwhile, Zihni Pasa, Governor-General of Bursa, and Ikiadis Efendi, Counsellor of the Court of Cassation, were sent to the island to negotiate with the Christian chiefs to adopt the necessary measures, on the basis of the Halepa Pact, required to restore peace on the island.55 When they arrived at Chania, Zihni Pasa and Ikiadis Efendi dispatched detailed reports describing the impressions they had gained from their inspections and the talks they had held with the European consuls. In a report dated 15 August 1896, they wrote that if the renewal of the Halepa Pact was offered to the Christians again and that if the demands announced in their petition were rejected by the Sublime Porte, then the Christian deputies would leave Chania. This would mean there would be no one left to engage in negotiations with the Sublime Porte. According to them, this would make matters worse; therefore, it would be wise to make certain modifications in their demands and accept reasonable offers. The report also mentioned that ammunition and volunteers were still

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arriving from Greece. Attempts to prevent them landing were inadequate because there were not enough personnel to keep an eye on the island’s long coastline. According to Zihni Pasa and Ikiadis Efendi, this de facto situation was encouraging insurgent activity. At this point the insurgents were attacking the Muslim villages in Candia. Zihni Pasa and Ikiadis Efendi suggested that in order to move matters forward, at the upcoming meeting, the unacceptable demands should be rejected and the acceptable ones negotiated.56 However, the Christian deputies refused to discuss their grievances with the Ottoman Commission without the mediation of the European consuls. The consuls asked the Sublime Porte whether it would accept the mediation of the consuls. In the Ottoman Cabinet meeting dated 13 August 1896 it was decided to permit mediation by the consuls and this was communicated to the relevant embassies.57 Once more, the Ottoman state admitted that the European representatives were the ‘legitimate’ representatives between the Ottoman government and the Cretan Christian subjects of the Ottoman Empire. The Ottoman Minister of Foreign Affairs, Tevfik Pasa, continued his initiative with the foreign ambassadors in Istanbul. He urged them to persuade their countries to fulfil their commitments without delay to prevent the deterioration of the situation in Crete. The ambassadors told him that the European representatives would hold a meeting and then report their common decision to the Ottoman government. If this decision was accepted by the Ottoman government, they would send a definite order to their consuls. They added that the Christians should not expect anything more than this.58 When the talks came to a halt, on 21 August 1896, the Sublime Porte, with a view to the re-establishment of order on the island and preservation of the European peace, accepted the proposal made by the representatives of the European powers, which was based on the requests of the Christian deputies.59 The Ottoman Sultan requested the help of the European representatives to reach some agreement that would satisfy the Christian insurgents and safeguard his sovereign rights.60 The European ambassadors replied that they were

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waiting for the approval of their respective governments. Once this approval had been granted, the proposals for action would be submitted for the approval of the Sublime Porte. If they were approved, the consuls in Chania would be instructed to tell the Cretan Christians that they could not expect anything beyond this agreement.61 The programme presented by the European representatives in August was based on the Christian deputies’ demands, and the Ottoman government was forced to accept it. In other words, it was a fait accompli as far as the Ottoman government was concerned. However, British consular reports tried to create the impression that this arrangement was not imposed by the European governments on the Ottoman government in order to satisfy the Europeans’ colonial and imperial demands. Rather, they argued that the implementation of the so-called reform programme would put an end to the ‘primordial confrontation’ and ‘hatred’ between the Muslim and Christian communities on Crete. The foreign representatives in Istanbul, upon receiving instructions from their respective governments, submitted the proposal to Sultan Abdu¨lhamid II. On 25 August 1896 Sultan Abdu¨lhamid II accepted the document unconditionally; with one or two verbal alterations it was accepted by all sides, and on 27 August the document called the ‘August Arrangements’ was sanctioned. It was then sent to the consuls in Crete for submission to the Christian deputies. Both the Christian and Muslim deputies accepted the agreement, and the Christian insurgents returned to their villages. During the autumn of 1896 and the first months of 1897, various attempts were made to transform the judicial and security units of the island into a more efficient structure, because the August Arrangements were found to be insufficient to rectify all the difficulties. This process was followed by the Cretan revolt of 1897. The Greek occupation of the island triggered the next phase and led to the military intervention of the European powers. Their intervention undermined the Ottoman administration and culminated in the establishment of a new, autonomous administration on the island.

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Conclusion Crete lies on the crossroads of the Eastern Mediterranean and, as a well-formed and protected point of intersection for different civilisations, it created its own distinct way of life. The Cretan experience in the late nineteenth century was also located in the middle of the transformations and changing practices of the Eastern Mediterranean region. The participation of the local Cretan Christians in the ‘national project’ played a conspicuous role in changing the internal dynamics of Ottoman Crete. The local Cretan Christians voiced their grievances and played an important role in the ‘popularisation’ of the political and national ideology. The privileges given to the Cretan Christians caused considerable resentment among the Cretan Muslims, who thought that their moral and material interests were being sacrificed in favour of the Cretan Christians. For that reason, the Cretan Muslims made efforts to preserve their position as one of the dominate groups on the island and demanded to be treated as such. They made repeated references to their material possessions to counter-balance their demographic weakness. The involvement of European powers in the Cretan issue also had crucial consequences for Cretan history. The European powers played an increasingly important role in the internal affairs of the island by defining their duty as protection of the Christian inhabitants only. The so-called ‘Cretan Question’ became a central part of the ‘Eastern Question’, which European powers used to legitimise their intervention; they presented themselves as protectors of their coreligionists and as their role as halting the inter-religious tension and re-establishing order and peace on the island. They created an atmosphere where the ‘solution’ of the ‘Cretan Question’ depended upon the European governments. Ironically, at the very beginning of the Cretan revolt of 1896, European representatives argued that the on-going clash was not an overall revolt, but was a conflict between the Muslim and Christian communities. They forced the Ottoman state to grant privileges to the Cretan Christians and hindered the Ottoman state from sending additional troops to the island. Later on, they insisted that Cretan Muslims and Christians could no longer live

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together. For precisely that reason, the Muslims were forced to flee from the island. The European powers’ representatives on the island of Crete understood and described the revolt in ethno-religious terms and instituted and dictated certain projects according to these terms. In other words, according to the European powers, the Cretan revolt was the expression of the ‘old religious conflicts’ of the ‘savage’ and ‘warlike’ Cretans. These typologies ‘othered’ the island of Crete as a place of violence. While the standard historical view considers the murder and violence in Crete the result of ‘primordial religious hatred’ between the Cretan Christian and Muslim communities, it is clear that the conflict and violence were not simply the outcome of these ‘primordial hatreds’. The nation-state perspective that presents a society polarised between Muslims versus Christians is an oversimplifying cliche. It is important to remember that the Cretan experience cannot be understood by either over-emphasising the ‘differentness’ of the Cretan history and describing the events from the standpoint of a clear-cut distinction and mutual conflict between the Muslims and non-Muslims, or by exaggerating the degree of tolerance and co-existence between the various communities.

Notes 1 Greenfeld, Liah, Nationalism: Five Roads to Modernity (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993), p.14. 2 For the travel accounts see: Pashley, Robert, Travels in Crete, 2 Vols (Cambridge: Pitt Press, 1958); Sieber, F.W., Travels in the Island of Crete (London: Sir Richard Philips & Co, 1823); Miller, William, Travels and Politics in the Near East (New York: Frederick A. Stokes Company Publishers, 1899); Combes, Paul, L’ıˆle de Cre`te: E´tude Ge´ographique, Historique, Politique et Economique (Paris: J. Andre´, 1897); Edwards, Charles, Letters from Crete (London: R. Bentley and son, 1887); Perrot, G., L’ıˆle de Cre`te: Souvenirs de Voyage (Paris: L. Hachette et cie., 1867); Skinner, Hilary J., Turkish Rule in Crete (London, New York: Cassell, Peter & Galpin for the Eastern Question Association, 1877); Spratt, Thomas Abel Brimage, Travels and Research in Crete, 2 Vols (London: J. van Voorst, 1865); Tancoigne, J.M., I˙zmir’e, Ege Adalarına ve Girit’e Seyahat: Bir Fransız Diplomatın Tu¨rkiye Go¨zlemleri (1811 – 1814) (translated by Ercan Eyu¨bog˘lu), (Istanbul: Bu¨ke Yayınları, 2003); de Tournefort, Joseph, Tournefort Seyahatnamesi (translated by Ali Berktay) (Istanbul: Kitap Yayınevi, 2005).

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3 4 5 6 7

8 9

10 11

For the Western European academic literature that has conceptualised the events in Ottoman Crete in terms of the ‘Cretan Question’ see: Ballot, Jules, Historie de l’insurrection Cre`toise (Paris: L. Dentu Librarire-Editeur, 1868); Dutkowski, Jean Stanislaw, L’occupation de la Cre`te (1897 – 1909): Une Expe´rience d’administration Internationale d’un Territoire (Paris: A. Pedone, 1952); Vaillant, M., Les Origines de l’Autonomie Cre`toise (Paris: L. Larose, 1902); Couturier, Henri, La Cre`te sa Situation au point de vue droit International (Paris: A. Pedone, 1900). For the Greek nationalist perspective, for example, see: Marcoglou, Emmanuel E., The American Interest in the Cretan Revolution, 1866– 1869 (Athens: National Centre of Social Research, 1971); Tatsios, Theodore George, The Megali Idea and the Greek-Turkish War of 1897: The Impact of the Cretan Problem on Greek Irredentism, 1866– 1897 (New York: East European Monographs, 1984), pp. 142, 140.); Tatsios, Theodore George, The Cretan Problem and the Eastern Question: A Study of Greek Irredentism, 1866– 1898 (Ann Arbor: University Microfilms, 1967); Detorakis, Theocharis E., History of Crete (translated by John C. Davis), (Iraklion: 1994). For the Turkish national historiography, see: Enver Ziya Karal, Osmanlı Tarihi, Vol. VIII (Ankara: Tu¨rk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, 1995), p. 121.); Mithat Isın, Tarihte Girit ve Tu¨rkler (Ankara: Askeri Deniz Matbaası, 1945. For an important study on late nineteenth-century Ottoman Crete in the Turkish language see: Adıyeke, Ayse Nu¨khet, Osmanlı I˙mparatorlug˘u ve Girit Bunalımı (1896 – 1908) (Ankara: Tu¨rk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, 2000). Ayse Nu¨khet and Nuri Adıyeke’s collected essays were published as Fethinden Kaybına Girit (Istanbul: Babıali Ku¨ltu¨r Yayıncılıg˘ı, 2006). Herzfeld, Michael, Anthropology through the Looking-glass: Critical Ethnography in the Margins of Europe (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1987), pp. 28–9. O¨zbek, Nadir, ‘Policing the countryside: Gendarmes of the late 19th century Ottoman Empire (1876– 1908)’, International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40, (2008), pp. 47– 67. Fontana, Benedetto, Hegemony and Power: on the Relation between Gramsci and Machiavelli (Minneapolis, London: University of Minnesota Press, 1993), p. 140. Ibid., p. 148. In this respect, it is important to remember Fredrick Barth’s notion of social boundary mechanisms between different groups. For details see Barth, Fredrick (ed.), Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Difference (Oslo and London: Allen and Unwin, 1969). BOA Y.PRK.UM., 34/66, 1313 L 10. BOA I˙.MTZ.GR., 29/1090, 1313 Za 16. It was also mentioned that 50,000 liraˆs was to be sent to the island urgently and that the gendarmerie were quitting their duties and delivering their arms to the government. BOA Girid Gelen Giden Defterleri, No. 26, and 35, 10 Nisan 1312, 18 Nisan 1312. BOA I˙.MTZ.GR., 29/1089, 1313 Za 16. PRO: FO, 195/1939, No. 16, Biliotti to Salisbury, 31 March 1896, pp. 52 – 6; Turkey No. 7 (1896), No. 99.

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12 Turkey No. 7 (1896), Nos 133, 135 and 121. BOA, Girid Gelen Giden Defterleri, No. 37, 24 Nisan 1312. 13 BOA Y.EE., 114/78, 1314 B 18. 14 Turkey No. 7 (1896), No. 224. 15 Prevelakis, Pandelis, The Cretan (translated by Abbott Rick, Peter Mackridge), (Minneapolis: Nostos, 1991), p. 205. 16 The reports on this incident are contradictory regarding who fired first. For further information see Turkey No. 7 (1896), Nos. 205 and 234, Enclosure 1 in No. 354; BOA Y.PRK.MYD., 17/57, 1313 Z 8. 17 BOA Y.PRK.MYD., 17/57, 14, 1313 Z 28; PRO: FO, 195/1939, No. 30, Biliotti to Salisbury, 2 June 1896, pp. 144– 5; Turkey No. 7 (1896), No. 269. 18 Turkey No. 7 (1896), No. 205, 121. It was alleged that 23 people died and 4 were wounded in Chania. BOA Y.PRK.ASK., 111/56, 1313 Z 13. 19 ‘Ti wroneίo ko6 D. Pάllh6’, Akrόpoli6, No. 5128, 19 May 1896. 20 ‘Haksinaˆs Bir Hıristiyan I˙mzaˆsıyla’, Hakıˆkaˆt, No. 32, 25 Saban 1313, 28 Kanunıˆsaˆnıˆ 1311, 9 February 1896, Thursday, p. 3. 21 BOA Y.PRK.TKM., 37/44, 1313 Z 17. 22 BOA HR.SYS., 191/40, 1896 5 27. 23 Turkey No. 7 (1896), Nos 133, 135 and 121. BOA, Girid Gelen Giden Defterleri, No. 37, 24 Nisan 1312. 24 Turkey No. 7 (1896), No. 121. 25 BOA Y.PRK.ASK., 111/56, 1313 Z 13. 26 Turkey No.7 (1896), Nos. 125 and 148. 27 PRO: FO, 195/1939, No. 31, 10 June 1896, pp. 162– 64; Turkey No. 7 (1896), No. 234. 28 Adıyeke, Ayse Nu¨khet, Osmanlı I˙mparatorlug˘u ve Girit Bunalımı (1896 – 1908). 29 PRO: FO, 195/1939, No. 21, Biliotti to Salisbury, 2 June 1896, pp. 132– 3; Turkey No.7 (1896), No. 205. 30 PRO: FO, 195/1939, No. 22, Biliotti to Salisbury, 4 June 1896, p. 134; Turkey No. 7 (1896), No. 179. 31 PRO: FO, 195/1939, No. 37, Biliotti to Salisbury, 14 June 1896, p. 198; Turkey No. 7 (1896), No. 269. 32 Turkey No. 7 (1896), No. 269. 33 Corci Berovic Pasa was a descendent of the Scutari Dynasty. He was literate in Turkish, French, Italian and Slavic and even understood some Albanian. He was among the guards of the Sultan in the Maˆiyyet-i Seniyye-i Saˆhaˆne Silaˆhsoraˆnı. When this organisation was liquidated after three years, he was released by being given the fourth rank. He worked as a governor in various sancaks of the Ottoman Empire. He was also the Bey of Sisam. In certain periods he was accused of abusing his administrative powers and was even sued. BOA DH.SAI˙D., 14/398, 1259 Z 29. 34 Mu¨sıˆr was the highest rank in the Ottoman military. For details see Mehmet Zeki Pakalın, Osmanlı Tarih Deyimleri ve Terimleri So¨zlu¨g˘u¨, Vol. II (Istanbul: Milli Eg˘itim Bakanlıg˘ı Yayınları, 1993), p. 300. The current Vaˆli of Crete was of lower rank than Abdullah Pasa and had no control over the military forces, as by

CHALLENGING AUTHORITY AND TRANSFORMING POLITICS 97

35

36 37 38

39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61

the Halepa Convention no such power was given to the civil governor. Turkey No. 7 (1896), No. 317, Enclosure 1 in No. 406. Ibid., No 123. Some of the Muslim deputies attending the Assembly were as follows: Edhem Bey, Vecihi Efendi from Rethymnon, Hu¨snu¨ Bey and Murad Bey from Candia, and Behcet Pasa, Kavurizade Hasan Bey, Hu¨seyin Bey, Kandiyeli Fazıl Bey, Sohtezade I˙brahim Bey, Dolmazade Ahmed Bey, Bedrizade I˙brahim Bey, Petnaki Mehmed Efendi, Nesimi Efendi from Chania. BOA Y.PRK.ASK., 112/33, 1314 M 12. Tatsios: The Megali Idea, p. 77. Turkey No. 7 (1896), No. 349. The Halepa Convention was signed and ratified by imperial decree in 1878. According to this convention, the Governor-General of Crete could be a Christian, the General Assembly had to have 49 Christian deputies and 31 Muslim deputies, and a Cretan gendarmerie was to be set up. Between 1878 and 1889, the island was ruled under the provisions of this convention and became one of the most privileged provinces of the Ottoman Empire. PRO: FO, 195/1939, No. 63, Biliotti to Salisbury, 16 July 1896, pp. 279– 81; Turkey No. 7 (1896), Enclosure in No. 385. See also BOA Y.MTV., 143/102, 1314 M 28. Ibid. Turkey No. 7 (1896), No. 350; BOA Y.A.Hus., 355/66, 1314 2 11. BOA Y.A.Res., 80/80, 1314 2 8. Turkey No. 7 (1896), Nos. 351, 371 and 499. Turkey No. 7 (1896), Nos. 374, 365 and 213. Ibid., Nos. 374, 365 and 213. BOA Y.A.Res., 80/107, 1314 2 23. BOA Y.PRK.MS., 6/48, 1314 S 25. Ibid. Turkey No. 7 (1896), Enclosure in No. 349. Ibid. ‘Girid’in istiklaˆlini taht-ı karaˆra almak u¨zere bir konferansın in’ikaˆdı,’ BOA Y.PRK.ESA., 24/94, 1314 S 26. Ibid. BOA Y.PRK.UM., 35/86, 1314 Ra 30. See Turkey No. 7 (1896), No. 575. Prevelakis: The Cretan, p. 242. These developments were also reported by Corci Pasa to the Sublime Porte. See BOA Y.A.Hus., 357/63, 1314 3 8. BOA Y.A.Res., 81/10, 1314 3 5; PRO: FO, 195/1939, No. 96, Biliotti to Salisbury, 13 August 1896, pp. 369– 70. BOA Y.PRK.UM., 35/86, 1314 Ra 30. BOA Y.A.Res., 81/10, 1314 3 5. BOA Y.PRK.HR., 22/21, 1314 Ra12. BOA Y.PRK.HR., 22/21, 1314 Ra 12. Turkey No. 7 (1896), No. 538. Ibid., Enclosure 1 in No. 603.

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References I. Unpublished Archival Sources A. Basbakanlık Osmanlı Arsivi, I˙stanbul (I˙stanbul Prime Ministry Archive) (BOA)

Yıldız Esas Evrakı (Y.EE) Yıldız Peraˆkende Askerıˆ Maruzat (Y.PRK.ASK) Yıldız Peraˆkende Hariciye Nezareti Maruzatı (Y.PRK.HR) Yıldız Peraˆkende Mesihat Dairesi Maruzatı (Y.PRK.MS) Yıldız Peraˆkende Tahrirat-ı Ecnebiye ve Maˆbeyn Mu¨tercimlig˘i (Y.PRK.TKM) Yıldız Peraˆkende Umum Vilayetler Tahriratı (Y.PRK.UM) Yıldız Peraˆkende Yaˆveran ve Maiyet-i Seniyye Erkaˆn-ı Harbiye Dairesi (Y.PRK.MYD) Yıldız Sadaret Resmıˆ Maruzat Evrakı (Y.A.Res) Yıldız Sadaret Hususıˆ Maruzat Evrakı (Y.A.Hus) I˙rade Eyalet-i Mu¨mtaze Girid (I˙.MTZ.GR) Hariciye Siyasi (HR.SYS)

B. Great Britain Public Records Office; Foreign Office, London (PRO: FO)

PRO: FO 195/1939.

II. Published Documents British Parliamentary Papers

Accounts and Papers. Turkey No. 7 (1896), Correspondence Respecting the Affairs of Crete (London: 1896).

III. Journals Akropolis Hakıˆkaˆt

IV. General Sources

Adıyeke, Ayse Nu¨khet, Osmanlı I˙mparatorlug˘u ve Girit Bunalımı (1896 – 1908) (Ankara: Tu¨rk Tarih Kurumu, 2000). Adıyeke, Ayse Nu¨khet and Nuri Adıyeke, Fethinden Kaybına Girit (I˙stanbul: Babıali Ku¨ltu¨r Yayıncılıg˘ı, 2006). Ballot, Jules, Historie de l’insurrection Cre`toise (Paris: L. Dentu Librarire-Editeur, 1868). Barth, Fredrick (ed.), Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Difference (Oslo and London: Allen and Unwin, 1969). Combes, Paul, L’ıˆle de Cre`te: E´tude Ge´ographique, Historique, Politique et Economique, (Paris: J. Andre´, 1897). Couturier, Henri, La Cre`te sa Situation au point de vue droit International (Paris: A. Pedone, 1900).

CHALLENGING AUTHORITY AND TRANSFORMING POLITICS 99 Detorakis, Theocharis E., History of Crete (translated by John C. Davis) (Iraklion: 1994). Dutkowski, Jean Stanislaw, L’occupation de la Cre`te (1897– 1909): Une Expe´rience d’administration Internationale d’un Territoire (Paris, A. Pedone, 1952). Edwards, Charles, Letters from Crete (London: R. Bentley and Son, 1887). Fontana, Benedetto, Hegemony and Power: on the Relation between Gramsci and Machiavelli (Minneapolis, London: University of Minnesota Press, 1993). Greenfeld, Liah, Nationalism: Five Roads to Modernity (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993). Herzfeld, Michael, Anthropology through the Looking-glass: Critical Ethnography in the Margins of Europe (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1987). Isın, Mithat, Tarihte Girit ve Tu¨rkler (Ankara: Askeri Deniz Matbaası, 1945). Karal, Enver Ziya, Osmanlı Tarihi, Vol. VIII (Ankara: Tu¨rk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, 1995). Marcoglou, Emmanuel E., The American Interest in the Cretan Revolution, 1866– 1869 (Athens: National Centre of Social Research, 1971). Miller, William, Travels and Politics in the Near East (New York: Frederick A. Stokes Company Publishers, 1899). ¨ zbek, Nadir, ‘Policing the countryside: Gendarmes of the late 19th century O Ottoman Empire (1876– 1908)’, International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 40 (2008), pp. 47 – 67. Pakalın, Mehmet Zeki, Osmanlı Tarih Deyimleri ve Terimleri So¨zlu¨g˘u¨, Vol. II (I˙stanbul: Milli Eg˘itim Bakanlıg˘ı Yayınları, 1993). Pashley, Robert, Travels in Crete, Vol. I (Cambridge: Pitt Press, 1958). Perrot, G, L’ıˆle de Cre`te: Souvenirs de Voyage (Paris: L. Hachette et cie., 1867). Prevelakis, Pandelis, The Cretan (translated by Abbott Rick, Peter Mackridge), (Minneapolis: Nostos, 1991). Sieber, F.W., Travels in the Island of Crete (London: Sir Richard Philips & Co., 1823). Skinner, Hilary J., Turkish Rule in Crete (London, New York: Cassell, Peter & Galpin for the Eastern Question Association, 1877). Spratt, Thomas Abel Brimage, Travels and Research in Crete, 2 Vols (London: J. van Voorst, 1865). Tancoigne, J.M., I˙zmir’e, Ege Adalarına ve Girit’e Seyahat: Bir Fransız Diplomatın Tu¨rkiye Go¨zlemleri (1811 – 1814) (translated by Ercan Eyu¨bog˘lu) (I˙stanbul: Bu¨ke Yayınları, 2003). Tatsios, T.G., The Megali Idea and the Greek – Turkish War of 1897: The Impact of the Cretan Problem on Greek Irredentism, 1866– 1897 (New York: East European Monographs, 1984). ——— The Cretan Problem and the Eastern Question: A Study of Greek Irredentism, 1866– 1898 (Ann Arbor: University Microfilms, 1967). Tournefort, Joseph de, Tournefort Seyahatnamesi (translated by Ali Berktay) (I˙stanbul: Kitap Yayınevi, 2005). Vaillant, M., Les Origines de l’Autonomie Cre`toise (Paris: L. Larose, 1902).

CHAPTER 6 THE MINOANS, THE OTTOMANS AND THE BRITISH: THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN AS AN IMPERIAL SPACE Elektra Kostopoulou

The nature and degree of Western influences on the Ottoman Empire has become a controversial issue in late Ottoman studies. Scholars from different theoretical perspectives have reached a variety of different conclusions. Until recently, the view that most of the ‘modernity projects’ of the late Ottomans were realised in a forced attempt to imitate the West was the preponderant one.1 However, recent studies of change and transformation in the Ottoman world are challenging this long-unquestioned assumption, suggesting that socioeconomic developments in the late Ottoman Empire were much more complex than once thought.2 From this point of view, examining late Ottoman history exclusively by contrasting it to or by drawing parallels with well-established models of Western historiography is seen as an unproductive approach. At the same time, for some specific topics, comparisons between the Ottomans and the West are inevitable. One such topic is Ottoman archaeology.

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This chapter examines some of the differences between late nineteenth-century British ‘colonial’ and late Ottoman ‘imperial’ ideological practices through the lens of archaeological politics in the Mediterranean island of Crete after the Crimean War (1853– 56). The above choice of two different terms is deliberate, as the intention of this analysis is to employ archaeology as an illustrative example of the practices and arguments that in the second half of the century led to the cultural exclusion of the Ottomans from the West. It will be argued that the temporal character of this exclusion can be better comprehended by examining how, at a theoretical level, Western colonialism gradually developed into a force not only different from, but also often rival to, older ideals of dynastic empires. The Ottoman dynasty, at the same time, tried to respond to the changing discourses of the era without compromising its ruling position. Thus the Ottoman dynasty remained relatively and tragically strong at a time when developments in Western Europe were moving towards different forms of power. The socio-political transformations in Europe during that time allowed the emerging public sphere to redefine itself as a matrixcommunity of nations characterised by enduring historical bonds. The above process required new European narratives about the past and triggered a specific shift in the articulation of historiographical discourses produced by archaeologists. The present chapter is concerned with this shift and the choice of focus is not a random one. In the late nineteenth century, European archaeologists were central to the reconstruction of a new history that delineated the West as a shared civilisation with a much longer history than its constituent dynasties could ever claim individually. This process was complex and contested. For instance, by the end of the century the Classical world, which had previously been a model for dynastic Europe, had become an inspiration for movements that called for political change and revolution against the ‘old regime’. Furthermore, despite its unification around the concept of Europe as a historical continuation of an ancient civilising force, European archaeology was not monolithic. True, through its claims to unity, archaeological discourse was asserting an established historical right to expand

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control over non-European lands. In practice, however, there were obvious conflicts of interest among the different individual, social, and political forces that made up and defined Western Europe. Most European archaeologists active in the eastern Mediterranean during the time in question represented and predominantly served the interests of their respective countries of origin in the name of their ‘people’.3 In contrast, the Ottomans were one of the last European regimes struggling to survive as a dynasty and had limited interest in using Mediterranean antiquity as the source of an imagined Ottoman ‘nation’. Instead, nineteenth century Muslim-Ottomans created linear narratives about their origins through reference to the House of Osman and Islam. Western thought, at the same time, aggressively claimed the ancient civilisations of the eastern Mediterranean in the name of the abstract history of the European people. As a result, archaeology represented a conspicuous conceptual boundary between the Ottomans and the West. Ottoman archaeological strategies had two main characteristics. First, they developed quite late. Second, their orientations remained strictly dynastic. The first Ottoman antiquities laws were drafted in the second half of the nineteenth century (in 1869, 1874 and 1884), and the first Imperial Ottoman Museum was founded in Istanbul in 1869.4 By that time, a number of important antiquities found in Ottoman territories had already been exported by foreign archaeologists, or had become symbols of national movements contesting Ottoman rule. In this respect, Istanbul’s interest in antiquities appeared to be a delayed response to foreign challenges. Moreover, drafting the regulations and efficiently enforcing them in the provinces proved to be two completely different tasks.5 In Ottoman Crete, for example, the local Christians were much more actively engaged in claiming antiquities than the Imperial regime. The regime’s apparently paradoxical failure to retain antiquities found in its own lands is less mysterious if one considers the direct intellectual patronage of the Greek state and the significant support provided to the Christians by numerous Western intellectuals.6 Although Crete was diplomatically recognised as

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part of the Ottoman territories, in European popular narratives about Crete the Ottomans were represented as culturally foreign occupiers of ancient Hellenic lands.7 The Christians were identified as the ‘native people’, whereas Muslims represented the ‘dynastic regime’. Even after the proclamation of Cretan autonomy in 1898, when the Muslim administrative elite was replaced by the Greeks and the Imperial army retreated from Crete leaving behind only Muslim civilians, history continued to overshadow the present.8 In other words, it seemed to be commonly accepted that only the Christian Cretans were truly of a local origin and had descended from the ancient Cretans. The Muslims were viewed as a case of cultural minority-ness, with no continuity in time before the Ottoman conquest of Crete. As a result, although Muslims were recognised as members of the local community whose lives and property should be protected, no right to claim archaeological findings as part of their collective past was ascribed to them. More importantly, Cretan Muslims never considered asserting such a right.9 At the same time, the local Christians, with the support of European intellectuals, dynamically claimed even the pre-Hellenic past of the island. Thus when at the turn of the century, archaeologists excavated the remains of the impressive Bronze-Age palace of Knossos, which was associated with the mythical pre-Hellenic Cretan king Minos, the discovery was celebrated as the most important archaeological undertaking in Crete and as a triumph of Greek nationalism. In fact, the Minoans were treated in the scholarly literature of the time as a pre-Hellenic, Cretan population, linguistically and culturally foreign to the Hellenes. Even in Greek mythology, King Minos is presented as the great rival of ancient Athens. Furthermore, numerous scholars have suggested that Minoan civilisation had been influenced by ‘Libya’. ‘Egypt’, ‘Arabia’ and ‘neighbouring Oriental lands’.10 None of these characteristics stopped the incorporation of the Minoans into the linear history of the Greek nation and, by extension, of Europe. In European narratives, the Minoans replaced the Athenians as the ancient cradle of Western civilisation and Cretan Christians honoured them as their oldest ancestors. In this way, the

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Cretan past was romanticised via an imaginary reconstruction of Hellenic-Mediterranean glory. Moreover, the historical process was imbued with a metaphysical essence, leading to the conclusion that the Ottomans and the Muslims were destined to collapse. The above political approach to the history of the island had little to do with the actual results of the excavation. One cannot help but wonder, therefore, why the Muslim-Ottomans did not themselves try to identify with the Minoans. It seems that while European archaeology was becoming the intellectual vehicle for European expansion into the lands of an imagined Western Empire, the Ottomans were preoccupied with trying to control the provinces still within their existing political borders. To my knowledge, they never used antiquity to legitimise their presence in a foreign country.11 The obvious problem with the ‘new’ historical narrative is that ‘foreign’ and ‘local’ are not themselves objective categories. As we have seen, the Ottomans were considered ‘foreign’ occupiers in some of their own provinces, such as Crete. Yet rather than keeping a convenient distance from the locals, the regime of the time struggled – quite unsuccessfully – to inspire in them a sense of ideological solidarity with the central state. However, the ambiguity of Ottoman discourses of belonging and the complexity of the empire’s cultural profile did not allow for any correlation with nationalism. The practices of the successive nineteenth-century Ottoman regimes remained clearly attached to the legacy of the dynasty, despite the obvious desire and various attempts to express the above legacy in a modern guise.12 As for the multifarious forces of the Western intellectual thought and policies, when tended to include Crete in their foreign projects, they treated the island as an ideological colony of cosmopolitan Europe and not as part of their respective ‘nations’. In spite of this restraint, the broader Western recognition of Christian Cretans as part of the Greek nation afforded Europe the self-bestowed right to claim affiliation not with the island’s present, but with its past. My specific use of the term late nineteenth-century ‘ideological colonialism’, therefore, aims to describe the process through which the military, economic and diplomatic power of the West used

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claims of historical continuity to support the spread of local nationalisms under the supervision of Western Europe and at the expense of Ottoman sovereignty rights. Hence, while archaeologists working in Crete linked archaeological sites to the making of a distant modern West and the ‘rebirth’ of a local Greek nation, the Ottomans failed to establish a popular ideological link with the area’s ancient past, despite the fact that they still claimed Crete as one of their provinces. This suggests that the self-justification of Western expansion in the name of antiquity constituted a historical situation significantly different from any Ottoman argument for imperial legitimacy.13 Minoan archaeology is a clear illustration of the above arguments. The restored palace of this pre-Hellenic civilisation and the famous ‘labyrinth’ are today among the most visited archaeological sites in the world, and have a glorified place in Greek national narratives. It seems to be of little – if any – importance that these sites were excavated while Crete was still part of the Ottoman Empire, as excavations on the island were led by foreign archaeologists with the support of the local Christians. Although until 1899 Ottoman officials were the only authority empowered to allow or to forbid such undertakings, the Ottomans were rarely actively engaged in affairs of that nature.14 The personal biography of Arthur Evans, the British archaeologist who excavated Knossos and gained international recognition as the inventor of ‘the Minoans’, may help us better understand the issues at stake in the Ottoman Mediterranean of the time. Evans visited Crete for the first time in 1894.15 His first short visit was followed by long exploratory excursions in 1895, 1896, 1898 and 1899.16 As a result, Evans happened to be present at, and became directly involved in, the making of autonomous Crete. The archaeologist, who was also a journalist with a Liberal political agenda and a Keeper of the Ashmolean Museum of Oxford, took an active political stance towards his contemporary reality, writing about Crete both as a scholar and as a reporter. The variety of sources he left behind render Evans a historical actor with significant visibility. For instance, Evan’s detailed journal from March 1894 records his worries and fears

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when he first reached the island. Evans was particularly worried by the widespread rumours that the Ottoman archaeologist Osman Hamdi Bey was planning to excavate the already famous site of Knossos.17 Evans’s fears did not materialise and Osman Hamdi Bey directed his interests elsewhere. Yet, this instant of archaeological rivalry deserves some consideration. The indirect antagonism between the Ottoman capital and the Ashmolean Museum – which Arthur Evans was trying to enrich with artefacts from the island – over the legendary Bronze-age palace of Crete constitutes a telling metaphor for the issues discussed in this chapter. Arthur Evans, representing an institution almost three centuries old, was standing on one side of the debate and Osman Hamdi Bey, representing the Ottoman regime, on the other. The former was one of the numerous British archaeologists traveling in the eastern Mediterranean at that time, carrying off thousands of antiquities to the United Kingdom’s collections in the name of the British public and the British realm. The latter was one of the few – and perhaps the only well-known – Ottoman archaeologists that, as late as in the second half of the nineteenth century, had begun to elaborate a ‘defensive archaeology’, trying to prevent the various representatives of European institutions (such as Evans’s himself) from plundering the empire’s antiquities.18 Moreover, Osman Hamdi was the first Muslim Ottoman to hold the position of Director of the Istanbul Imperial Museum after the death of Anton De´thier in 1881; an appointment that was in perfect harmony with the orientations of the Hamidian regime.19 The ironic significant difference between the two with regard to Crete was that while Arthur Evans, together with other European archaeologists, was very much supported by the locals (the Christians at least), the representative of the Ottoman capital was considered a foreign force, trying to exploit the island’s treasures.20 In the archaeological sphere in late nineteenth-century Crete, therefore, despite its efforts, the Ottoman regime was de facto denied its sovereignty rights. Furthermore, the personal characteristics of Osman Hamdi mirrored the problems that prevented Ottoman

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archaeology from developing. Some biographical information can be used to further elucidate this argument. Osman Hamdi was the son of Edhem Pasha, a high-ranking Ottoman bureaucrat and one of the most Western-oriented officials in the empire. When still a young boy, Osman Hamdi was sent to study law in Paris where, despite his mediocre performance as a student, he managed to perfect his knowledge of French, marry a Frenchwoman, and develop a creative interest in conjectural arts and, in particular, painting. Though enchanted by Paris and the French way of life, Osman Hamdi returned to Istanbul in 1869; a decision that may well have been the result of Edhem Pasha’s persuasion rather than Osman’s own will. In any event, Osman Hamdi was able to conflate very successfully his newly acquired knowledge of European arts with his father’s high-level administrative positions and acquaintances. In other words, he was soon to establish himself as the empire’s most well-known painter, museum administrator, modernist artist, respected intellectual, active archaeologist, trainer of the younger generation of archaeologists, legislator in matters of antiquities, and director of the Imperial Museums. Osman Hamdi Bey became, in this sphere, the link between the Ottomans and Europe, in as much as his religious identity and social profile made him the most celebrated personification of the broader Ottoman attempt to transform the empire into a modern Muslim-European state. Nevertheless, the fact that the whole Imperial archaeological project appeared to be ‘one man’s story’ perfectly illustrates the many drawbacks to such an undertaking.21 For example, in Crete, despite the development of well-reasoned Ottoman legislation on antiquities and archaeological sites, the gap between theory and reality could not easily be bridged. The delayed enforcement of relevant regulations in the late nineteenth century meant that conflicting practices were already established in the provinces. As a result, the new regulations caused a series of European and provincial reactions, forcing the regime to abandon its rights on numerous occasions. Furthermore, the absence of any kind of authority to enforce the regulations, along with the inability of the central administration to oversee actual practices in the provinces

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made is easy for foreign archaeologists to ‘overlook’ Ottoman regulations. Last but not least, it was quite difficult for the Ottomans to claim, appropriate, and protect antiquities found in Imperial territories, due to the lack of an obvious historical narrative that related the findings at stake to a common Ottoman history.22 One should not forget that, in the second half of the century, the visits of foreign explorers and scholars to Crete had become quite frequent. Specifically, many Europeans were attracted to the opportunities for excavation and plunder. After the amateur digging attempts of a Greek local, Minos Kalokairinos, had brought to light the first ancient artefacts at the site of Knossos, the impression that great opportunities for excavating and plundering were offered in Crete became even stronger, attracting European pioneers from different countries. As a result, while Minos Kalokairinos himself was left in the shadows, his discoveries and direct assistance to European archaeologists drew some academic celebrities to the island. The excavations and publications of the latter brought the Cretan past to the attention of a growing European audience. The publication of the early discoveries attracted the famous archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann to Crete. Schliemann had developed a formidable reputation after his excavation of Mycenae in Greece and the site he took to be the Homeric city of Troy (the site of Hisarlık overlooking C¸anakkale, in modern Turkey). His alleged discovery of mythological Troy was seen by Schliemann and many others, as evidence that Homeric narratives were not merely myths, but had historical validity. In fact, Schliemann’s analysis was heavily attacked by a number of contemporary scholars, as there was no indication the ruins he excavated had anything to do with Troy. Nevertheless, Schliemann was ardently supported by numerous intellectuals throughout Europe. The archaeologist’s indisputable charisma fascinated his supporters. This chapter, however, is interested particularly in the ideological support his work received from the Gladstonian branch of the British Liberals, in as much as late nineteenth century archaeological issues were undoubtedly politically coloured.23

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It seems that European intellectuals who passionately believed in the prehistoric roots of an eternal clash of civilisations between Europe and Asia considered Schliemann’s excavations the proof of this. By and large, such archaeological interpretations appeared to be spontaneous. Yet, they provided the political enemies of the Ottoman Empire with powerful arguments against the Empire and Islam, based on an imaginative synthesis of democracy, nationalism, antiquity and – more often than not – Christianity.24 One of Schliemann’s great supporters, for instance, was the leader of the British Liberals and mentor of the archaeologist Arthur Evans, W. E. Gladstone. Gladstone, a former churchman, who had migrated to the British Liberals from conservative circles, had been the most prolific Victorian commentator on the Homeric corpus, and had published a number of studies on the Bronze Age.25 Being also a publicly proclaimed enemy of the Ottoman regime, Gladstone found reason in interpreting the Trojan Wars as the ultimate collision between ‘masculine’ Greeks and ‘feeble’ Anatolians-Trojans.26 Although Schliemann’s intention to excavate the Knossos site failed to materialise, the visit he paid to Crete in 1886 was very important when viewed as a sign of the island’s integration into a much broader archaeological debate, one with profound political connotations.27 It was in this context, almost 20 years after Minos Kalokairinos’ first excavations in the 1870s, that the conditions were right for Arthur Evans to succeed where everybody else had failed. Specifically, Arthur Evans found himself in Crete during the crisis of 1897– 99; a crisis that aligned the Ottomans against the Greeks, and the British Liberals against the British Conservatives. The Conservative British government of the time firmly opposed the island’s annexation by Greece, as this would offend the dogma of Ottoman integrity, destabilise the Balkans once again and put the entire region at risk. The Gladstonian opposition, at the same time, rose up passionately against the Ottomans. W. Gladstone himself, who had by then withdrawn from active politics to his country estate, burst back into the public limelight for the last time. Almost up until his death in 1898, Gladstone served the anti-Ottoman campaign addressing a clarion call to Britain to help the Christians

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against the Muslims, to unite the West against the East, and to ‘liberate’ Crete.28 It is not surprising, therefore, that the archaeologist Arthur Evans, who was a well-known Gladstonian Liberal, provided active support to the Christian insurgents of Crete in 1897, both as an archaeologist and as a reporter for the Manchester Guardian. Furthermore, he publicly ridiculed the Ottoman ‘legitimate heirs’ argument regarding antiquities, characterising the Ottomans not as a legitimate authority but as an occupying force.29 His behaviour at the time may have been considered inappropriate by the British authorities.30 Nevertheless, when Evans’s radical liberalism in favour of the Greeks was generously rewarded after the proclamation of autonomy – a little too generously perhaps – Conservatives and Liberals alike in Great Britain called Arthur Evans a genius.31 In 1899, to be more specific, certain archaeological sites were secured for British archaeological exploration, including the by then coveted site of Knossos. Evans celebrated this development, together with the proclamation of autonomy, as the triumph of nationalism against the old regime, despite the fact that Crete was still under Ottoman sovereignty. At the same time, Evans’s excavations served the interests of Britain in two ways: literally, in as much as a number of Cretan antiquities were sent to British museums with the compliments of the local Greeks; and metaphorically, in as much as the archaeologist insisted on describing, with very little evidence, Bronze-Age Crete as the centre of the naval Empire of Minos, King of the Cretans and Master of the Seas. To conclude, the example of Crete suggests that in the archaeological politics in the eastern Mediterranean at the turn of the century, archaeology and nationalism nursed the self-glorification and colonial interests of a number of European forces against the Ottomans. True, when the contemporary tourist visits the empire’s former lands today, it seems like the excavations carried out by European archaeologists in the late nineteenth century bestowed on the Ottomans a number of legendary sites, the most well-known of which may be those of Troy and Cretan Knossos. Yet a careful analysis of the era’s sources indicates that, in fact, at a political-theoretical

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level, European archaeology laid at the feet of the Ottomans a number of ideological Trojan horses.

Notes 1 By the ‘West’ I mean mainly central and western Europe, perceived here more as a symbolic system of practices and thought rather than an actual geography. True, such a monolithic and overly simplified description of the territories in question misrepresents their actual complexity and diversity. Nevertheless, this description is in harmony with the articulated self-representation of the concerned communities during the late nineteenth century. From this point of view, I think that talking about the West as a specific historical identity – that does not necessarily correspond to any historical reality – is useful for the present discussion. 2 On the relevant literature, see the following examples: Davison, Roderic H., ‘Westernized education in Ottoman Turkey’, Middle East Journal 15/3 (Summer 1961), pp. 289– 301; Go¨
cek, Fatma Mu¨ge, ‘Ethnic segmentation, Western education, and political outcomes: Nineteenth-century Ottoman society’, Poetics Today 14/3 (Autumn 1993), pp. 507– 38; Go¨
cek, Fatma Mu¨ge, Rise of the Bourgeoisie, Demise of Empire: Ottoman Westernization and Social Change (US: Oxford University Press, 1996); Quataert, Donald, ‘Clothing laws, state, and society in the Ottoman Empire, 1720 –1829’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 29/3 (1997), pp. 403– 25; Deringil, Selim,‘ “They live in a state of nomadism and savagery”: The late Ottoman Empire and the post-colonial debate’, Comparative Studies in Society and History 45/02 (2003), pp. 311– 42; Hamadeh, Shirine, ‘Ottoman expressions of early modernity and the “inevitable” question of westernization’, Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 63/1 (March 2004), pp. 32– 51; Somel, Selc
uk Aks
in, The Modernization of Public Education in the Ottoman Empire, 1839– 1908: Islamization, Autocracy, and Discipline (LeidenBoston-Ko¨ln: Brill, 2001). 3 For some interesting comparisons, see Sjo¨qvist, Erik, ‘The Swedish Institute in Rome and the Swedish Cyprus Expedition’, in this volume. 4 See Goold, E., Catalogue Explicatif, Historique et Scientifique d’un Certain Nombre d’ Objets Contenus dans le Muse´e Impe´rial de Constantinople fonde´ en 1869 sous le Grand Vezirat de son Altesse A ’Ali Pacha (Constantinople, 1871); Aristarchi, Grigorios N., ‘Re`glement sur les Objets Antiques (Mars1869) - Re`glement sur les Antiquite´s (Le 20 Sefer 1291- 24 Mars 1874)’, in Le´gislation Ottomane, ou Recueil des Lois, Re`glements, Ordonnances, Traites, Capitulations et autres Documents Officiels de 1’Empire Ottoman (Constantinople: Imp. Nicolaide`s Fre`res Bureau du journal Thraky, 1873– 1881). 5 This chapter agrees with the well-supported view of a number of scholars that both archaeology and history constitute ideologically loaded disciplines coloured, most of the time, by specific political and ideological agendas.

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ISLANDS OF THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN Therefore, discussing the above disciplines without parallel reference to the socio-political context of their creation and gradual development is very problematic. From this point of view, the active involvement of French, British and Italian archaeologists in Cretan archaeology and in Cretan politics, becomes more comprehensible when viewed in the light of two factors: first, that all of them were acting in the name of their country of origin; and, second, that the most active among them had a clearly liberal political profile. In this respect, whilst nineteenth-century Ottoman archaeology maintained a dynastic character, Western archaeology was identified indirectly with colonialism and more directly with ‘freedom’, ‘independence’, ‘nationalism’ and ‘progress’. For an interesting discussion of similar issues see, Dı´az-Andreu, Margarita, A World History of Nineteenth-Century Archaeology: Nationalism, Colonialism and the Past (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2007). One of the most telling examples was that of Victor Hugo. His imaginative work entitled ‘La Cre`te’, for example, constitutes as good an example as any of the contemporary discourses; see Hugo, Victor, ‘La Cre`te’, in Actes et Paroles. Collection Documents (2 Decembre 1866) at http://www.inlibroveritas.net. ‘The way in which Western colonial powers have valued Greek (Greek-Cretan) culture as their own’, see, Papadopoulos, J., ‘Inventing the Minoans: archaeology, modernity and the quest for European identity’, Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 18/1 (2005), pp. 87 –149, 4. On the crisis of 1895– 1897, see Documents Diplomatiques: Conflit Gre´co-turc, Avril-Septembre 1897 (Athenes: Constantinides, A, 1897); Notes Addressed by the Representatives of Great Britain, Austria-Hungary, France, Germany, Italy, and Russia to the Turkish and Greek Governments in regard to Crete (London: Harrison and Sons, 1897); Reports on the Situation in Crete (London: Harrison and Sons, 1897); Further Correspondence Respecting the Affairs of Crete (London, 1897); Correspondence Respecting the Negotiations for the Conclusion of Peace between Turkey and Greece (London: Harrison, 1898); von Strantz, Victor, The Greco-Turkish War of 1897: from official sources/ by a German staff officer, trans. F. Holton (London: Swan Sonnenschein, 1898); Pre´liminaires de Paix, Signe´s a Top-Hane´, le 6/18 sept.1897, entre le Ministre des Affaires e´trange`res de Turques et les Ambassadeurs des Grandes Puissances, et Traite´ De´finitif de Paix, Conclu le 22 nov. /4 de´c.1897, entre la Turquie et la Gre`ce (Constantinople: Osmanie, 1898). See also, Sύntagma th6 Krhtikή6 Polit1ίa6 (¼Constitution of the Cretan State) (En Haniis: tip. tis Kritikis Politias, 1899). The limited attempts of Ottoman officials to have Cretan antiquities transferred from the island to Istanbul did not seem to enjoy the support of the Muslim locals. At the same time, although the existence in Crete of a number of Christian archaeological associations and private collections is well documented, I failed to find any indication of similar archaeological activities realised by the local Muslims. Case, Janet, ‘Cretan excavations’, The Classical Review 22/3(May, 1908), pp. 74 – 9; Levi, Doro, ‘Gleanings from Crete’, American Journal of Archaeology 49/3

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(Jul.– Sep., 1945), pp. 270– 329; Windekens, A. J., Le Pe´lasgique. Essai sur une Langue Indo-Europe´enne Pre´helle´nique (Louvain: Institut Orientaliste, 1952); Dow, Sterling, ‘Minoan writing’, American Journal of Archaeology 58/2 (Apr., 1954), pp. 77 – 129. Even in the context of our contemporary Greek primary education, Minoan civilisation is still presented as an indisputable part of the history of the nation, although it is certainly less loaded with nationalistic meanings than Classical Greece; see Simandiraki, Anna, ‘Minvpaidiέ6: the Minoan civilization in Greek primary education’, World Archaeology 36/2 (Apr., 1954.), pp. 177–88. For an extremely interesting discussion of Ottoman legitimacy structures in and out of the Ottoman lands, see Deringil, Selim, ‘Legitimacy structures in the Ottoman state: The reign of Abdulhamid II (1876– 1909)’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 23/3 (August 1991), pp. 345– 59. For a comprehensive study of the late Ottoman Empire, see Quataert, Donald, The Ottoman Empire, 1700– 1922, New approaches to European history (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2000). For a few indicative examples of such attempts to ideologically legitimise the Ottoman regime, see Abu-Manneh, Butrus, ‘The Sultan and the bureaucracy: The anti-tanzimat concepts of Grand Vizier Mahmud Nedim Pasa’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 22/3 (August 1990), pp. 257– 74; Deringil, Selim, ‘Legitimacy structures in the Ottoman state: The reign of Abdulhamid II (1876– 1909)’, International Journal of Middle East Studies 23/3 (August 1991), pp. 345– 59; Abu-Manneh, Butrus, ‘The Islamic Roots of the Gulhane Rescript’, Die Welt des Islams 34/2, New Series (November 1994), pp. 173– 203. As accurately pointed out by Ussama Makdisi, some significant aspects of nineteenth-century Ottoman imperial practices were very similar to the relevant practices of the colonial West. This essay, at the same time, focuses not on similarities but on the differences that led to the ideological exclusion of the Ottomans from the West; see Makdisi, Ussama, ‘Ottoman Orientalism’, The American Historical Review 107/3 (June 2002), pp. 768– 96. Hamilakis, Y., Labyrinth revisited: Rethinking “Minoan” archaeology (Oxford: Oxford Books, 2002). As suggested by Alexandre Farnoux, the active involvement of British archaeologists in the first excavations associated Great Britain with Minoan Crete both in theory and in practice. In his work, Farnoux has implied that the conceptualisation of the Cretan past by British archaeological imagination served the British regime better than the scholarly community; see Farnoux, Alexandre, Cnossos, l’Arche´ologie d’un Reˆve (Paris: Gallimard, 1993). Furthermore, as noted by Papadopoulos, the creation of the specific term ‘Minoan’ to describe Bronze-Age Crete, was realised by Arthur Evans and his generation of scholars. Despite the fact that this approach has come under growing criticism, Evans’s terminology is still the dominant one in the context of British, French, Italian, German, American and Greek scholarly discourses; see Papadopoulos: Inventing the Minoans, pp. 4 – 5.

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16 Brown, Ann and Keith Bennet (eds), Arthur Evans’s Travels in Crete, BAR International Series 1000 (Oxford: The University of Oxford, Ashmoleum Museum, 2001), Introduction. 17 At the time, it was rumoured that the French archaeologist A. Joudin was negotiating with the proprietors of the Knossos fields and that he had in fact managed to come to an agreement with one of them. Joudin cooperated with Osman Hamdi Bey in the creation of the imperial collection in Istanbul. Therefore, it was widely believed that the French mission was preparing the field for the representative of the Ottoman capital to undertake action in Crete. Nevertheless, as Evans has noted in his journal ‘Greeks here are much averse to Joubain having any finger in the pie now he has become Turkish employe´ and an underling of Hamdi Bey’, see Evans (1894) pp. 3 and 37 in Brown: Arthur Evans’s Travels. The French e´cole d’ Athe`nes, founded in 1846, was one of the first institutions to become engaged in archaeological excavations in Anatolia, or ‘Gre`ce de l’Est’ as the French called it. Initially staffed with the partisans of the anti-Turkish French party of Athens, the institution was intent on expanding the scope of its activities in Ottoman Anatolia. During the Crimean War, some of the administrative members suggested that the institution should be transferred from Athens to ‘Constantinople’. Eventually, the liaison between Athens and Istanbul – or, to put it differently, between Islam and Western Christianity – was realised when Osman Hamdi Bey became the Director of the Ottoman Imperial Museums (1881 – 1910). One should not forget that Osman Hamdi Bey was hardly a typical Ottoman statesman. His European colleagues treated him as a unique savant Turk (wise Turk), differentiating between him and the rest of Muslim Ottomans. In this respect, the fact that they cooperated with him did not mean necessarily that they approved of the Ottoman regime. See, for example, the following quotation: ‘(Osman Hamdi Bey) Ve´ritable Europe´en, francophile et francophone, il s’entoura d’Athe´niens au muse´e d’Istanbul (Salmon Reinach, Andre´ Joubin, Gustave Mendel) et accorda libe´ralement aux membres de l’Ecole des autorisations de publication’. See Le Roy, Christian, ‘L’E´cole franc
aise d’Athe`nes et l’Asie Mineure’, Perse´e 120/1 (Anne´e 1996), pp. 373– 87, 375. On the cooperation between A. Joubin and Osman Hamdi Bey at the Museum of Istanbul, see Pitarakis, Brigitte and Pinar Bursa, ‘A group of bronze jugs in the Istanbul Archaeological Museums and the issue of their Cypriot origin’, Antiquite´ Tardive 13/13 (1 October 2008), pp. 29 – 36. See also Joubin, Andre, Muse´e I˙mpe´rial Ottoman (The New Museum). Catalogue des Scluptures Grecques, Romaines, Byzantines et Franques (Constantinople, 1893). 18 Deringil, Selim, The Well-Protected Domains: Ideology and the Legitimation of Power in the Ottoman Empire, 1876– 1909 (London; New York: I.B.Tauris; New York: In the USA and Canada distributed by St Martin’s Press, c. 1999, n.d.); Potts, D.T., ‘The Gulf Arab States and their archaeology’, in L. Meskell (ed.),

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Archaeology Under Fire: Nationalism, Politics and Heritage in the Eastern Mediterranean and Middle East (London and New York: Routledge, 1998); Shaw, Wendy K., Possessors and Possessed: Museums, Archeology, and the Visualization of History in the Late Ottoman Empire (California: University of California Press, 2003), pp. 31 – 131; Maffi, Irene, ‘The emergence of cultural heritage in Jordan: The itinerary of a colonial invention’, Journal of Social Archaeology 9/5 (2009), pp. 5 – 35. For some biographical information on Osman Hamdi Bey, see Cezar, Mustafa, Mu¨zeci ve Ressam Osman Hamdi Bey ( ¼ Musiologist and Painter Osman Hamdi Bey) (Istanbul: Turk Kulturune Hizmet Vakfi, 1987); Cezar, Mustafa, Sanatta Batiya Ac
ılıs
ve Osman Hamdi I ( ¼ The Western Opening in Arts and Osman Hamdi Bey) (Istanbul: Erol Kerim Aksoy Kultur ve Egitim, Spor, ve Saglik Vakfi Yayini, 1995); Shaw: Possessors and Possessed, pp. 90– 108. For instance, when the Italian Vittorio Simonelli visited the Museum of Candia in 1893, he asked the local curator about the progress of the undertaking. Upon this question, the curator answered him that the locals preferred to leave Cretan antiquities underneath Cretan soil rather than to excavate them and have them exposed in Istanbul’s archaeological museum; see, Simonelli, V., Candia: Ricordi di Escursione (Illustrati Con fotografie e Disegni dell’autore) (Parma, 1897). In 1881, for example, it seemed to be very difficult to find a Muslim Ottoman qualified for the position of the Director of the Museum. The Ottoman Ministry of Education, therefore, tried to find the late Director’s replacement among European archaeologists and scholars, in close cooperation with the Germans. One cannot help wondering, therefore, what would have been the state of Ottoman archaeology if Edhem Pasha had not sent his son to study in Paris. The profile and personal experiences of young Osman Handi are wonderfully presented in an extraordinary article by Edhem Eldem. According to the very interesting – and well supported by primary sources – arguments of Edhem Eldem, it was in Paris that Osman Hamdi learned to appreciate European art and (probably less willingly) to consider it a patriotic duty to serve the Ottoman Empire. See Eldem, Edhem, ‘An Ottoman archaeologist caught between two worlds Osman Hamdi Bey (1842– 1910)’, in D. Shankland (ed.), Archaeology, Anthropology and Heritage in the Balkans and Anatolia. The Life and Times of F.W. Hasluck, 1878– 1920 (Istanbul: Isis Press, 2004). Also, Eldem, Edhem, ‘Quelques Lettres d’Osman Hamdi Bey a` son Pe`re lors de son Se´jour en Irak (1869 – 1870)’, Anatolia Moderna: Yeni Anadolu 1/1 (1991), pp. 115– 36. Iraq, for instance, constitutes an interesting comparison to Cretan realities, see Bernhardsson, Magnus Thorkell, Reclaiming a Plundered Past Archaeology and Nation Building in Modern Iraq (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2005), pp. 86, 125. Unlike Arthur Evans, Heinrich Schliemann seemed to be more interested in amateur archaeology than politics – at least initially. However, the pursuit of this particular activity in Italy, Greece and the Ottoman Empire brought him into close contact with men who appeared to have a clearly liberal political

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ISLANDS OF THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN agenda, such as the famous archaeologist Ginseppe Fiorelli and W.E. Gladstone. See Schliemann, Henry, ‘Recent discoveries at Troy’, The North American Review 135/311 (October 1882), pp. 339– 62; Lehrer, Mark, David Turner and Heinrich Schliemann, ‘The making of an Homeric archaeologist: Schliemann’s diary of 1868’, The Annual of the British School at Athens 84 (1989), pp. 221– 68. It is important to clarify, at this point, that my discussion of Liberalism and Liberals concerns the actions and statements of some specific historical actors, who described themselves as ‘Liberal’, rather than a well-articulated, specific ideological movement. In this respect, one should not forget that a number of ‘anti-liberal liberalisms’ were as present in the nineteenth century as they are today. For a fascinating discussion of similar issues, see. Ruprecht, Louis A, Afterwords: Hellenism, Modernism, and the Myth of Decadence (New York: SUNY Press, 1996). Parry, Jonathan Philip, Democracy and Religion: Gladstone and the Liberal Party, 1867– 1875 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986); Ramm, Agatha, William Edwart Gladstone (Cardiff: GPC Books, 1989); Bebbington, D. W., ‘Gladstone and the classics’, in Lorna Hardwick, and Christopher Stray (eds), A Companion to Classical Receptions (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing Ltd, 2008), pp. 86 – 97. In the words of Gladstone himself, the weakness of the Trojans was physical, moral and political, since they presented a much less developed capacity for political organisation than the Greeks. See, W.E. Gladstone, Studies on Homer and the Homeric Age, in three volumes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1858), III: 206, 245– 6. On Victorian discourses about Troy, see Pearsall, Cornelia D. J., Tennyson’s Rapture: Transformation in the Victorian Dramatic Monologue (New York: Oxford University Press, 2008). See, also, Schliemann, H., Mycenæ: a Narrative of Researches and Discoveries at Mycenæ and Tiryns (New York: C. Scribner’s Sons, 1880), Introduction. Castleden, Rodney, The Knossos Labyrinth: A New View of the ’Palace of Minos’ at Knossos (London; New York: Routledge: 1990), pp. 23 – 40. Hayes, Carlton J. H., A Political and Cultural History of Modern Europe; a Century of Predominantly Industrial Society since 1830 (New York: The MacMillan Company, 1939), pp. 335– 40. Momigliano, N., ‘Federico Halbherr and Arthur Evans: An Archaeological Correspondence (1894 1917)’, Studi Micenei ed Egeo-Anatolici 44/2 (2002), pp. 263– 318. For instance, the director of the British School of Archaeology at Athens, D.G. Hogarth, appeared to be somewhat annoyed by Evans’s extreme opinions against Ottoman sovereignty rights. In fact, he appeared to be as negative towards the ‘Greeks’ as Evans was towards the ‘Turks’. See, for instance, the following quotation: ‘The Admirals should have known Greeks better than to trust them on such vicarious parole as was given by caps and black hats, whether on the heads of chiefs or no. No Greek may answer surely for any other Greek, since individualism and intolerance of discipline are in the blood of the race. In the

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stormy history of Levantine religious warfare you may note one unvaried law of consequence. Where the Moslem have prevailed, the votaries of the two creed have resumed peaceful life as of old, the Christian knowing that Moslems act under the orders as one man, and that when Islam is triumphant its Gibeonites are secure of their lives. But if Christians gain their freedom, the Moslem leaves the land of his birth. For whatever pledges the new authorities may give, he knows for his part that, since Eastern Christianity supplies no social discipline, each Christian will act on occasion as seems best in his own eyes’, in Hogarth, D. G., Accidents of an Antiquary’s Life; with Forty Illustrations From Photographs Taken by the Author and His Companions (London: Macmillan and Co., 1910), p. 25. 31 ‘In the spring of 1899 I accompanied the future explorer of Cnossus on my fourth visit to Crete. Arthur Evans had long laid his plans, and, with the forethought of genius, cast his bread on troubled waters by buying a Bey’s part share of the site of the Palace of Minos. He seemed to waste labour and money; for under the Ottoman law his title could not be made secure, and in the end his partnership lapsed to a partner. But when others, who coveted Cnossos [sic ], put forward moral rights, he alone could argue the convincing claim of sacrifice, and the Cretans, for whom he had done much in their hour of danger, upheld his cause in their hour of freedom’, ibid., p. 64.

CHAPTER 7 `

THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURES OF THE SWEDISH CYPRUS EXPEDITION': EINAR GJERSTAD, ERIK SJÖQVIST, THE SWEDISH INSTITUTE IN ROME AND THE CYPRUS EXPEDITION 1 Fredrick Whitling The Swedish Institute and the Foreign Academies in Rome This essay discusses the Swedish Cyprus Expedition (SCE, 1927– 31), the Swedish classical archaeologists Einar Gjerstad (1897– 1988) and Erik Sjo¨qvist (1903– 75), and the role of the latter as director of the Swedish Institute in Rome (SIR) from 1940 – 48. The SIR was established in 1925; its activities in Rome commenced in 1926. Among its predecessors were l’E´cole francaise de Rome (EFR, established in 1873), the American Academy in Rome (AAR, established in 1894), the British School at Rome (BSR, established in 1901) and the oldest archaeological foreign academy – used here as a generic term – in Rome, the Deutsches Archa¨ologisches Institut Rom (DAIR, established in 1871). The DAIR was in turn preceded by the international venture of the Istituto di corrispondenza archeologica (ICA, established 1829).

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The genesis of the foreign academies in Rome was a conglomerate of savants and scholars at the Institute of Archaeological Correspondence (ICA), a private international enterprise that had evolved alongside the gradual professionalisation of c lassical archaeology. The ICA in turn harked back to the (German) Hyperborei association in Rome (1823) and earlier antiquarian organisations such as the (British) Society of Dilettanti (1732). The ICA was funded by donations and subscriptions and was (analogous with the Royal interest in the establishment of the SIR almost a century later) supported by Prussian Crown Prince Friedrich Wilhelm; its funding was taken over by the Prussian government in 1871, which led to its conversion into the Imperial German Archaeological Institute (in essence the DAIR) in 1873–74. The E´cole francaise de Rome (EFR) was established in 1873, partly as a reaction to the establishment of the DAIR. The foreign scholarly presence in Rome naturally predated the ICA; most notably through national collegiate organisations, four of which were established during the sixteenth century. These were in turn predated by Mediaeval ‘hospitals’, offering foreign nationals food and lodging. One of the main ‘profane’ predecessors of the nineteenth-century foreign academies in Rome was the Acade´mie de France, established as a French centre for the arts in Rome by Louis XIV in 1666.2 The aim of this chapter is not to offer institutional histories of each respective institution;3 instead, it examines the intellectual history of the study of antiquity and the classical tradition, a field of research which has expanded in recent years.4 In the Swedish case, the establishment of the SIR to some degree drew on the experiences of two men: Vilhelm Lundstro¨m (1869– 1940), professor of Latin in Gothenburg, who organised a course on Roman topography and epigraphy for Swedish students in situ in Rome in 1909; and the philologist and politician Johan Bergman (1864– 1951), who had been teaching similar courses in Italy since 1898.5 Swedish Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf (1882– 1973, later King Gustaf VI Adolf) was a key figure in the establishment of the SIR. As a keen archaeologist, he took an active role in its establishment, and

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had a genuine interest in the institution. He was in effect the chairman of the board of the SIR for 25 years (1925–50). When Gustaf Adolf discussed the possibility of a common ‘Scandinavian’ (Swedish– Danish) research institute in Italy or Greece in 1924 with Danish archaeologist and art historian Frederik Poulsen and Swedish professor Martin P. Nilsson, the original intention was to place the planned institution in Athens rather than in Rome. Rome was ultimately considered more accessible; the presence of established foreign academies in the city, in combination with the scholarly resources of the Vatican, contributed to this decision. A Swedish institute in Athens was eventually established in 1948.6 The Swedish Institute in Rome was the only foreign academy in the city to remain operational during the Second World War. The main focus of this article is the role of Erik Sjo¨qvist, director of the SIR from 1940– 48. Sjo¨qvist was an influential intermediary actor in the shift from national ‘competition’ towards international collaboration among the foreign academies in Rome after the war. This collaborative shift was in part manifested in the establishment of the two post-war organisations: AIAC (Associazione Internazionale di Archeologia Classica), established at the SIR in 1945; and the Unione of Roman academies (Unione Internazionale degli Istituti di Archeologia, Storia e Storia dell’Arte), established in 1946.7 The latter organisation was established for the pragmatic purpose of working towards the return of the four so-called ‘German libraries’ to Italy (the libraries of the DAIR, of the Deutsches Historisches Institut, and of the Bibliotheca Hertziana – all in Rome – and the Kunsthistorisches Institut in Florence). These libraries had been removed during the German evacuation of Italy in early 1944. The laborious and drawnout process leading to the restitution of the libraries was eventually concluded in 1953. These libraries were considered essential to the Roman world of scholarship – domestic as well as foreign. The drawn-out issue of their return was also linked with the issue of respect for German scholarship and the legacy of the discipline of Altertumswissenschaft.8 In the pre-war context of scholarly activity at the foreign academies in Rome, the study of the Roman past and the Roman

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Figure 7.1 Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf and the Swedish consul Luki Z. Pierides in Larnaca. Einar Gjerstad is standing behind the Crown Prince (to his left), Erik Sjo¨qvist is sitting.

inheritance was considered to be of international (global) interest, with Rome as patria omnium. National paradigms were the starting points, in every sense, for the foreign academies in Rome, but each national scholarly context was seen as contributing to the perceived greater whole. Manifestations of so-called collective memory often confuse memory with myth; the distinction between memory and history rests on a crude binary opposition between ‘authentic’ memory and ‘ideological’ history.9 The classical tradition is often perceived as a monolith – as a fixed set of core values. This approach does not take into account the changing fashions in its reception and interpretation among, for example, eighteenthcentury republicans, nineteenth-century nation-builders or twentieth-century fascists.

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Historicising Classical Archaeology An understanding of archaeology as a science and a historicising approach to the multifaceted concept of heritage gradually emerged in the second half of the eighteenth century, partly through the legacy of Johann Joachim Winckelmann (1717– 68), who can in many ways be seen as the first professional classical archaeologist and art historian with outspokenly scientific ambitions. Winckelmann’s empirical and positivist scholarly endeavours were preceded by an established interest in ancient history and antiquarianism, a tradition that, until Winckelmann, had been maintained by domestic and foreign savants, collectors and amateur archaeologists. As librarian to Cardinal Alessandro Albani, as well as in his role of papal antiquary (from 1763), Winckelmann exercised considerable influence in contemporary savant circles in Rome. Even today, Winckelmann’s legacy continues to shape and influence the field of classical archaeology. The young Italian nation established laws after 1870 that virtually prohibited foreign excavations in Italy or in its colonies. This, together with Winckelmann’s appraisal of Greece and its unification, strongly influenced a transition of the epicentre of c lassical archaeology from Rome to Greece, as the Greek state allowed limited foreign excavations (although the export of antiquities had been prohibited). The immediate post-war period (1945– 48) was not characterised by large-scale excavation projects in Italy due to the rupture caused by the Second World War and to the slow process of opening Italy to foreign excavations after the fall of Fascism. However, the collaborative turn of the mid-1940s lead to a decade (after 1950) of intense excavation.10

The Swedish Cyprus Expedition A Swedish archaeological expedition under the patronage of H.R.H. the Crown Prince of Sweden has been working in Cyprus since August 1927. Settlements, temples and tombs from

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different epochs and in different parts of the island have been excavated in order to obtain a complete series of monuments and finds from the remotest times of Cypriote prehistory and down to the Hellenistic period. These monuments and finds will serve as material for a general study on the development of the Cypriote culture during these periods.11 Turning to the eastern Mediterranean, the Swedish Cyprus Expedition (1927– 31) was connected in several ways to the group of scholars involved in the preliminary discussions regarding the Swedish Institute in Rome. In 1923, Luki Z. Pierides, the Swedish Consul in Larnaca, invited the aspiring classical archaeologist Einar Gjerstad to Cyprus to investigate the possibility of conducting excavations on the island.12 Upon his return to Sweden, Gjerstad published his Studies on Prehistoric Cyprus in 1926. A committee was simultaneously formed for the administration of a planned Swedish archaeological expedition under the chairmanship of Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf; this venture had been preceded by the establishment of the Swedish Institute in Rome the previous year (1925).13 Private donors – probably including the Crown Prince himself, as well as the

Figure 7.2

SCE excavation sites (1933).

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tycoon Ivar Kreuger (the Match King) – provided generous contributions for the planned Cypriot expedition. Additional expenses were to be covered by the Swedish state after the excavations had come to an end.14 The SCE departed for Cyprus in September 1927. It included the archaeologists Einar Gjerstad, Alfred Westholm and Erik Sjo¨qvist, as well as the architect John Lindros. None of them were more than 30 years old at the time.15 The purpose of the excavations was to establish a chronology for Cypriot archaeology. The c hronological scope of the expedition eventually widened to encompass, in the words of Gjerstad, ‘. . . all of Cypriote cultural history from the Stone Age to the Roman period’. Gjerstad characterised the SCE as an ‘ambulating expedition . . . Its area of excavation was all of Cyprus.’16 The SCE thus proceeded to excavate on a large scale throughout the island. During the remarkably short period of only four years they investigated some 21 sites. Gjerstad had himself already excavated four further sites in 1923 and 1924.17 The results were published in The Swedish Cyprus Expedition (Vols I–IV:3, 1934–72). According to the prevailing law, the finds from the SCE were divided between Cyprus and Sweden at the end of

Figure 7.3 Erik Sjo¨qvist in tomb 306, Lapithos (left); Erik Sjo¨qvist with SCE pottery (right).

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the excavations in 1931; Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf was personally involved in the negotiations. The colonial authorities thus allowed the excavators to export more than half of the finds to Sweden.18 In his approach to ancient Cyprus, Einar Gjerstad, later sometimes referred to as the ‘father of Cypriot archaeology’,19 was influenced by contemporary methods used in Scandinavian archaeology. A number of Scandinavian archaeologists and scientists from related fields had started expeditions and excavations in the Mediterranean area and in the Near East (as well as in China and South America) during the 1920s, in an attempt to understand the development of Sweden’s cultural heritage from a comparative (global) perspective.20 One such excavation was that of Asine in Greece, initiated by the renowned Scandinavian archaeologist Oscar Montelius, among others. The Asine excavations were led by Axel W. Persson and Otto Fro¨din (the latter was appointed by the Asine Committee to supplement Persson as field archaeologist – they did not get along well). Einar Gjerstad was one of the students who learned excavation techniques at Asine.21

Figure 7.4 The SCE, from left to right: John Lindros, Alfred Westholm (‘Alfiros’), Erik Sjo¨qvist and Einar Gjerstad (left); John Lindros taking measurements at Vouni (right).

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In his book Ages and Days in Cyprus, Gjerstad illustrated the potential of the practice of archaeology: ‘. . . an archaeological expedition is not all excavation. It also includes conversations with people living near the excavation sites . . . acquiring a thorough knowledge of the lives of the peasants today ought to enable us to have a psychological understanding of [prehistoric] events and to understand thoughts which have no written documents to explain them.’22 This illustrates an anthropological perspective based on perceptions of historical and ethnic continuity. Erik Sjo¨qvist’s SCE diaries have unfortunately not yet been located; apart from his doctoral thesis, his personal observations regarding the SCE remain unclear.23

Figure 7.5 Einar Gjerstad and ‘Volvo’, Nicosia (left); Sjo¨qvist, ‘Alfiros’ and ‘Volvo’, Nicosia (right).

The SCE illustrates the local, national and global perspectives of the archaeology of the 1920s. In a similar way, the foreign academies in Rome can be seen as containing an anthropological dimension; the classical world served as a mirror for the scholars’ respective national contexts. Recent critiques of classical archaeology have portrayed the discipline as an instrument allowing Western society to appropriate the Greek and Roman past, shaping ancient material culture to the projections of Western Europe and substantiating claims of a glorious imagined past and common roots.

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Figure 7.6 The only known image of Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf excavating in Cyprus (at Stylli, 1930).

Figure 7.7 camera).

SCE group picture (Lindros is missing, possibly behind the

Western (European) governments – as well as that of the USA – made long-term sponsorship commitments to large-scale excavation projects, primarily in Greece and in the eastern Mediterranean, with a focus on the architectural remains of what were considered to be important urban or religious centres. The conservative operational structures of this evolving ‘big dig’ paradigm exerted a strong influence on the development of classical archaeology before the Second World

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Figure 7.8

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Sjo¨qvist and Gjerstad with priest.

War. National traditions and identification with specific archaeological sites within the field of classical archaeology were evolving (such as Germany and Olympia, France and Delphi, the USA and the Athenian agora), partly as an expression of the nineteenth- and twentieth-century European nation-building processes, with a degree of national (cultural) rivalry as one of many consequences.24 In archaeological terms, Italian nation-building culminated in 1937-38 – the zenith of the Fascist identification with the concept of romanita`. This was manifested in the large-scale exhibition celebrating the two thousandth anniversary of the birth of Roman Emperor Augustus, the Mostra Augustea della Romanita` (organised by archaeologist Giulio Giglioli), at the Palazzo delle Esposizioni on Via Nazionale in Rome. Actual archaeological work by foreign scholars in Italy was rare before the Second World War. The policy of reserving archaeological sites for Italian archaeologists was reinforced by the Fascist regime. The foreign academies and foreign

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Figure 7.9 Einar Gjerstad, John Lindros, Erik Sjo¨qvist and Alfred Westholm during one of the surveys run in Cyprus between 1927 and 1931.

archaeologists in Italy at the time were thus mainly confined to surveys and to topographical and material studies. The opening of Italy to foreign excavation after the Second World War represented an important paradigm shift in classical archaeology. Italy was forced to leave its recent (Fascist) past behind, with archaeological allotments offered to the foreign academies. The sudden increase in archaeological opportunities partly explains the booming industry of large-scale (national) foreign excavations in Italy during the 1950s, with the necessity of national funding in each specific context. The EFR excavations at Bolsena (from 1946) initiated a post-war focus on Etruscan archaeology at the foreign academies in Rome (cf. for example the SIR legacy of the 1950s and 1960s);25 this was partly because sites of prime national interest, such as the Roman Forum or Pompeii on the whole remained reserved for Italian scholarship.

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Figure 7.10

Famagusta 1931. SCE finds waiting to be shipped to Sweden.

Post-War International Scholarly Collaboration Erik Sjo¨qvist had only recently defended his doctoral thesis, after having worked for six years at the Royal Library in Stockholm, when he took up the directorship of the SIR in its new premises in Valle Giulia in 1940. As the director of the only foreign academy in Rome in operation throughout the war, Sjo¨qvist carried out a number of tasks. He was, for example, a member of the board of the Scandinavian Society for Artists and Scholars in Rome; temporary guardian of the DAIR (the library catalogue) and of the Biblioteca Hertziana; executive board member of the Association to the Memory of Keats and Shelley; Chairman of the cooperation committee for the scientific libraries of Valle Giulia; member of the mixed commission for the investigation of the reasons for the burning of the Nemi-ships; and Chairman of ‘the provisional committee for the preparation of an international archaeological institute in Rome’ (i.e. AIAC). Sjo¨qvist at times struggled to operate within the restricted freedom offered by Swedish neutrality. The scholars and countries involved in the establishment of the AIAC and the Unione– that is to say the directors of the academies of

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predominantly Britain, France, the USA, Italy and Sweden – were faced with the question of how to deal with the important legacy of the German scholarly presence in Rome, fundamental in the sense that it represented the foundation of institutionalised foreign academic activity in Rome. Research libraries can be said to represent scholarly hardware. There was a multitude of reasons for the Unione to stress the post-war return to Italy (under its control) of the four German libraries discussed above. Most significantly, the scholarly activities of its member institutions, and also of the Unione itself, to a large extent depended on these libraries. The four libraries did indeed return to Italy. However, the Unione failed to successfully influence the negotiations of a treaty in 1949 regarding the continued Allied administration of the libraries until 2048. This failure can be attributed to a combination of a lack of representational mandate, insufficiently elaborated funding structures and to divergent views within the Unione and its academies regarding the legacy of German scholarship.26 Contacts between the Unione and UNESCO (also established in 1946) generally took place on an individual rather than an institutional level. As stated above, for Erik Sjo¨qvist and the SIR, active involvement in the Unione was complicated by the issue of Swedish neutrality, and by the deep involvement of Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf in the SIR. Sjo¨qvist’s engagement with the AIAC and the Unione of institutes in Rome in 1945–46 was, on the whole, regarded with suspicion by parts of the board of the SIR. Einar Gjerstad, for example, insisted that the SIR excursion to Greece, part of the annual archaeological course initiated by him in the 1930s and suspended by the war, should be reinstated in 1947. When it emerged that the excursion would coincide with the UNESCO meeting in Paris that Sjo¨qvist had been asked by the Unione to attend as its representative, Gjerstad and the board felt that the excursion to Greece was more important. One reason for this was probably to sustain momentum for the planned Swedish Institute at Athens (SIA), which was established the following year (1948). However, it is not impossible that Gjerstad, and to some extent the board of the SIR, also wanted to emphasise who was in charge (the board), and that the SIR teaching activities in Rome

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and Athens were to be c onsidered more important than cultural diplomacy at the UNESCO meeting in Paris.

Conclusion The maintenance of structures (traditions as well as organisations) is to a considerable extent dependent on the actions of individuals. Such structures are filtered through individual and collaborative efforts within the framework of institutions and organisations, which are in turn shaped by the individual interpretations and expectations of these structures and traditions. There is an inherent risk of overemphasising the role of the individual in this discussion of the role of individual academic diplomacy in mediating opinions and interests; analyses arguably need to take the in-house traditions of an institution as well as individual voices into account. This academic diplomacy in relation to the foreign academies in Rome and to Italian and primarily German scholarship was to a large extent constructed around notions of national and international prestige. Erik Sjo¨qvist, for example, referred to the maintenance of the favourable position of the SIR, in the context of the fraternity of foreign scholarly institutions in Rome; the foreign academies were to some extent competing with each other, and collaborated only when it was in the common interest to do so. Issues related to funding and notions of prestige remain obstacles to collaboration and mutual understanding, which still provide the basis for scholarly c ollaboration. National and institutional scholarly prestige have arguably often gone together, albeit seldom officially. Historically contextualised self-reflective and critical perspectives of the foreign academies in Rome and ventures such as the Swedish Cyprus Expedition could enrich the rich palimpsest of the cultural heritages – deliberately in the plural – of academic traditions vis-a`vis the Greco-Roman ancient past, as well as the (romanticised) pan-Mediterranean perspectives of how this past has been perceived. The Cyprus Expedition illustrates the contemporary perceptions of the Mediterranean world as a cultural entity in and of itself. The intellectual legacy of the foreign academies in Rome, Athens, Istanbul and elsewhere, is in the process of being contextualised,

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historicised and redefined, and is in many ways a legacy grounded in myths of the Mediterranean.

Notes 1 The quote in the title is from a lecture given by Einar Gjerstad on 4 May 1977 in commemoration of the fiftieth anniversary of the initiation of the Swedish excavations in Cyprus. Cf. Vassos Karageorghis, Carl-Gustaf Styrenius and Marie-Louise Winbladh, Cypriote antiquities in the Medelhavsmuseet, Stockholm (Stockholm, 1977), p. 12. The author would here like to take the opportunity to thank Dr Kristian Go¨ransson and Mrs Marie-Louise Winbladh for their valuable assistance and helpful suggestions. 2 Cf. Whitling, Frederick, ‘The Western way. Academic diplomacy: Foreign academies and the Swedish Institute in Rome, 1935– 1953’, European University Institute, 2010, pp. 64 – 171. 3 For institutional histories of the foreign academies in Rome, see for example Whitling: ‘The Western Way’; Bittel, Kurt, et al. (eds), Beitra¨ge zur Geschichte des Deutschen Archa¨ologischen Instituts 1929 bis 1979, vol. 1 (Mainz, 1979); Cools, Hans and Hans de Valk, Insitutum Neerlandicum MCMIV-MMIV. Honderd jaar Nederlands Instituut te Rome (Uitgeverij Verloren: Hilversum, 2004); Deichmann, Friedrich Wilhelm, Vom internationalen Privatverein zur preussischen Staatsanstalt, in Zur Geschichte des Instituto di Corrispondenza Archaeologica, Das Deutsche Archa¨ologische Institut, Geschichte und Dokumente, Band 9 (Philip von Zabern: Mainz, 1986); Goldbrunner, Hermann M., Von der Casa Tarpea zur Via Aurelia Antica. Zur Geschichte der Bibliothek des Deutschen Historischen Instituts in Rom, Das Deutsche Historische Institut in Rom 1888-1988 ( Niemeyer: Tu¨bingen, 1990); Linker, Wayne A. and Jerry Max (eds), American Academy in Rome. Celebrating a Century (New York, 1995); Magnusson, Bo¨rje (ed.), Humanist vid Medelhavet. Reflektioner och studier samlade med anledning av Svenska Institutet i Roms 75-a˚rsjubileum ¨ stenberg, Carl Eric (ed.), Svenska Institutet i Rom (Rubicon: Stockholm, 2002); O 1926-1976 (Multigrafica Editrice: Rome, 1976); Styrenius, Carl-Gustaf, ‘De svenska instituten och medelhavskulturen: Fo¨rha˚llandet mellan Sverige Och medelhavsla¨nderna i dessa organisationer’, in Margareta Bio¨rnstad, Nanna Cnattingius and Helmer Gustavson (eds), Forntid och framtid. En va¨nbok till Roland Pa˚lsson (Riksantikvariea¨mbetet och Statens historiska museer: Stockholm, 1987); Scott, Russell T., Paul Rosenthal, and Vittorio Emiliani, The Academy & the Forum. One Hundred Years in the Eternal City (American Academy in Rome: New York, 1996); Thoenes, Christof, ‘Geschichte des Instituts’, in Ulrike Emrich (ed.), MaxPlanck-Gesellschaft. Berichte und Mitteilungen (Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht: Rome, 1991); Valentine Lucia N. and Alan Chester Valentine, The American Academy in Rome, 1894-1969 (University Press of Virginia: Charlottesville, 1973); Vian, Paolo (ed.), Speculum Mundi. Roma centro internazionale di ricerche umanistiche

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4

5

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(Arnold Esch: Rome, 1993); and Wallace-Hadrill, Andrew (ed.), The British School at Rome. One Hundred Years (British School in Rome: London, 2001). Cf. the two Blackwell anthologies A Companion to the Classical Tradition, edited by Craig W. Kallendorf (Blackwell: Malden, MA & Oxford, 2007), and A Companion to Classical Receptions, edited by Lorna Hardwick and Christopher Stray (Blackwell: Malden, MA & Oxford, 2008). The work of Stephen L. Dyson provides necessary and fruitful steps towards a bridging of the gap between classics and history, even though this field remains scantily explored. A selfreflective history of classical archaeology is provided in Dyson’s In Pursuit of Ancient Pasts. A History of Classical Archaeology in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries (Yale University Press: New Haven & London, 2006). Salvatore Settis,’ The Future of the ‘Classical’ (Blackwell: Cambridge & Malden, MA, 2006) offers wide-ranging discussions regarding the notion of the ‘Classical’ and the legacy of the classical tradition. Cf. also Whitling: ‘The Western Way’. Cf. Blennow, Anna and Frederick Whitling, ‘Italian dreams, Roman longings. Vilhelm Lundstro¨m and the first Swedish philological-archaeological course in Rome, 1909’, Opuscula. Annual of the Swedish Institutes at Athens and Rome 4, (2011), pp. 143 – 58. Cf. for example Whitling, Frederick, ‘Mare Nostrum: Einar Gjerstad och Svenska Institutet i Athen, 1945–1948,’ Hellenika 133 (2010), p. 14. Similar institutions in Istanbul and Alexandria were later to follow the institute in Athens. For AIAC and the Unione, see for example Billig, Erland, ‘Habent sua fata libelli. Swedish notes on the problem of the German scientific libraries in Italy 1943– 1948’, Opuscula Romana XVIII/14 (1990); Billig, Erland, Carl Nylander, and Paolo Vian (eds), ‘Nobile munus’. Origini e primi sviluppi dell’Unione Internazionale degli Istituti di Archeologia Storia e Storia dell’Arte in Roma (1946 – 1953). Per la storia della collaborazione internazionale a Roma nelle ricerche umanistiche nel secondo dopoguerra (Unione Internazionale degli Istituti di Archeologia, Storia e Storia dell’Arte in Roma: Rome, 1996); Vian, Paolo (ed.), ‘Hospes eras, civem te feci’. Italiani e non Italiani a Roma nell’ambito delle ricerche umanistiche (E´ditions de l’Universite´ de Bruxelles: Rome, 1996); Vian, Paolo (ed.), Speculum Mundi; Ward-Perkins, John Bryan, ‘The International Union of Institutes of Archaeology, History and History of Art in Rome and the International Association for Classical Archaeology’, in Aspectes des Etudes Classiques. Actes du Colloque del la F.I.E.C. (Bruxelles, 1977); Whitling, Frederick, ‘The Unione in 1946: Reflections on academic diplomacy and international collaboration’, Unione Internazionale degli Istituti di Archeologia Storia e Storia dell’Arte in Roma. Annuario 50 (2008), pp. 203– 18; Windholz, Angela, ‘Et in academia ego. Accademie straniere a Roma come luoghi di personale ricerca artistica e rappresentazione nazionale (1750 – 1914)’, Unione Internazionale degli Istituti di Archeologia Storia e Storia dell’Arte in Roma. Annuario 50 (2008), pp. 197 – 201; and Windholz, Angela, Et in Academia Ego. Ausla¨ndische Akademien in Rom zwischen ku¨nstlerischer Standortbestimmung und nationaler Repra¨sentation (Schnell-Steiner: Regensburg, 2008).

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8 Cf. for example Frederick Whitling, ‘Relative Influence: Scholars, Institutions and Academic Diplomacy in Post-War Rome. The Case of the German Libraries (1943 – 53)’, The International History Review, 33, 4 (December 2011), 645– 68; as well as Arnold Esch, ‘Die deutschen Institutsbibliotheken nach dem Ende des Zweiten Weltkriegs und die Rolle der Unione degli Istituti: Internationalisierung, Italianisierung - oder Ru¨ckgabe an Deutschland?’, in Michael Matheus (ed.), Deutsche Forschungs- und Kulturinstitute in Rom in der Nachkriegszeit (Niemeyer: Tu¨bingen, 2007), pp. 67– 98. See also Whitling: ‘The Western Way’, pp. 258 – 323 and 392 – 544. 9 Cf. for example Whitling, Frederick, ‘Memory, history and the classical tradition’, European Review of History: Revue europe´enne d’histoire 16 (Taylor and Francis: 2009), pp. 235 – 53; and Whitling, Frederick, ‘Damnatio Memoriae and the power of remembrance. Reflections on memory and history’, in Malgorzata Pakier and Bo Stra˚th (eds), A European Memory? Contested Histories and Politics of Remembrance, (Berghahn Books: New York & Oxford, 2010), pp. 87–97. 10 Cf. Whitling: ‘The Western Way’, pp. 27–30 and 172–90. 11 ‘Summary of the Swedish excavations in Cyprus’ (n.d.), Bernadotteska Arkivet (The Bernadotte Archives), Gustaf VI Adolfs arkiv I. Volym 164. Svenska orientsa¨llskapet (1921 – 32) Cypernkommitte´n (1927 –66). 12 The initiative in part sprung from when Axel W. Persson had lent Pierides some money at a railway station in Serbia in 1922. Pierides proposed that a Swedish archaeologist be sent to Cyprus for archaeological research; Persson chose Gjerstad, who conducted excavations on the island in 1923 and 1924. This initiative and these excavations provided the impetus for the SCE. See for example Karageorghis, Styrenius & Winbladh: Cypriote antiquities, p. 12. 13 The Swedish Cyprus Committee (Cypernkommitte´n) was established on 4 April 1927. Cf. Bernadotteska Arkivet (The Bernadotte Archives), Gustaf VI Adolfs arkiv I. Volym 164. Svenska orientsa¨llskapet (1921– 32) Cypernkommitte´n (1927 – 66). Handwritten note by Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf: ‘Cypernkommitte´n bildad Apr. 4. 1927, Medlemmar: GA [?] ordf. Hellner skattma¨stare Curman A.W. Persson sekr. M. Nilsson. Donatorer: Direkto¨r ErikA˚qvist 15.000 – [kr.] Direkto¨r ErnstA˚qvist 10.000 – Direkto¨r TorstenA˚qvist 10.000 – Direkto¨r L.E. Larsson 10.000 – Ingenjo¨r Ivar Kreuger 1.500– Apotekare Enell 1.000 – Ingenjo¨r Alex [sic ] Kleist ho¨gst 5.000– Vetenskapssamfundet Lund 3.000 – Donatores in spe: Grosshandl. Adolf Lindgren 5.000-10.000– Ing. Magnus Ta¨cklind 5.000 – Direkto¨r Knut Heinecke 10.000-20.000– ’. The Cyprus Committee consisted of Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf (chairman), director-general of the Swedish National Heritage Board (Riksantikvarie) Sigurd Curman (secretary), former judge of the Supreme Court (justitiera˚d) Johannes Hellner (treasurer), professor Martin P. Nilsson and professor Axel W. Persson (the latter was referred to by Gjerstad as the ‘ultima ratio’ of the expedition, based on his encounter with Pierides – cf. above). Cf. Gjerstad, Einar, Sekler och dagar. Med svenskarna pa˚ Cypern 1927–1931 (Petterson: Stockholm, 1933), p. 11.

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14 Gjerstad furthermore negotiated the loan of one of the first 500 Volvo automobiles (production began in 1927), returned to the company four years later (the car was referred to as, simply, ‘Volvo’ during the expedition. Cf. Karageorghis, Styrenius & Winbladh: Cypriote antiquities, p. 12; Gjerstad: Sekler och dagar, p. 11. 15 For the SCE, see for example Gjerstad: Sekler och dagar, Gjerstad, Einar Ages and Days in Cyprus, Vol. 12, SIMA-Pocketbook (Go¨teborg, 1980); A˚stro¨m, Paul et al., (eds), The Fantastic Years on Cyprus. The Swedish Cyprus Expedition and its Members, Vol. 79, SIMA-Pocketbook (Unknown Binding: Jonsered, 1994); Westholm, Alfred, ‘De fantastiska a˚ren pa˚ Cypern’. Brev till fo¨ra¨ldrarna 1927– 1931, SIMALitteratur (Paul A˚stro¨ms: Sa¨vedalen, 1996); Gjerstad, Einar (ed.), The Swedish Cyprus Expedition, Vol. I-IV:3 (Petterson: Stockholm & Lund, 1934– 72); Houby-Nielsen, Sanne ‘Preface’, in The Swedish Cyprus Expedition on Tour. Medelhavsmuseet visits Bucharest (Medelhavsmuseet: Stockholm, 2005); Rystedt, Eva (ed.), The Swedish Cyprus Expedition: The Living Past, Vol. 9, Memoir (Medelhavsmuseet: Stockholm, 1994); Slej, Karen, ‘The sites of the Swedish Cyprus expedition’, in The Swedish Cyprus Expedition on Tour. Medelhavsmuseet visits Bucharest (Medelhavsmuseet: Stockholm, 2005); Winbladh, Marie-Louise (ed.), An Archaeological Adventure in Cyprus. The Swedish Cyprus Expedition 1927– 1931. A story told with contemporary photographs and comments (Medelhavsmuseet: Stockholm, 1997); and Winbladh, Marie-Louise, ‘The Swedish Cyprus Expedition 1927 – 1931’, in The Swedish Cyprus Expedition on Tour. Medelhavsmuseet visits Bucharest (Medelhavsmuseet: Stockholm, 2005). Archival resources at the Medelhavsmuseet, Stockholm (correspondence, field diaries, as well as newspaper articles and clippings) relating to the SCE have not been taken into account here, but offer a rich potential for further study. Regarding the establishment of the Medelhavsmuseet, cf. ‘Beta¨nkande anga˚ende uppra¨ttandet av ett arkeologiskt museum i Stockholm’, 29 August 1951. Bernadotteska Arkivet (The Bernadotte Archives), Gustaf VI Adolfs arkiv I. Volym 158. Handlingar ro¨rande arkeologi 1929– 67. Cf. also Bernadotteska Arkivet (The Bernadotte Archives), Gustaf VI Adolfs arkiv I. Volym 164. Svenska orientsa¨llskapet (1921 – 32) Cypernkommitte´n (1927 – 66). (1) ‘Protokoll vid Cypernkommitte´ns sammantra¨de den 4 juli 1953 i Vitterhetsakademien. [Bilaga 1] 5. Museiutredningen. Personalens lo¨nefo¨rha˚llanden. I slutet av 1951 utkom Sigurd Curmans Beta¨nkande med utredning och fo¨rslag anga˚ende sammanfo¨rande och organisation av i Stockholm befintliga arkeologiska samlingar fra˚n Medelhavsla¨nderna, Fra¨mre Orienten och O¨stasien (Statens offentliga utredningar 1951:55). Fo¨resta˚ndaren [Olof Vessberg] fungerade som sekreterare i utredningen efter att tidigare, enligt departementschefens fo¨rordnande, ha bitra¨tt densamma sa˚som expert’; (2) Olof Vessberg (‘Cypernsamlingarna’) to Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf, 31 March 1949): ‘Eders Kunglig Ho¨ghet! Ha¨rmed fa˚r jag o¨versa¨nda kopia av en rapport [. . .] som professor H.P. L’Orange bett mig fo¨rela¨gga Eders Kunglig Ho¨ghet sa˚som Medelhavskommitte´ns ordfo¨rande’. Cf. also Volym 216: ‘Cypern-utsta¨llningen’

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(1972). For the scholarly and archaeological legacy of Einar Gjerstad, cf. for example correspondence in Samling Gjerstad, Einar, Lund University Library, Sweden; as well as the Einar Gjerstad research papers, the Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles, Special Collections. For the SCE, see also Bernadotteska Arkivet (The Bernadotte Archives), Gustaf VI Adolfs arkiv I. Volym 164. Svenska orientsa¨llskapet (1921 – 32) Cypernkommitte´n (1927– 66). Cf. for example (1) ‘Protokoll vid Cypernkommitte´ns sammantra¨de hos H.K.H. Kronprinsen pa˚ Stockholms slott den 15 februari 1929. Na¨rvarande: ordf. H.K.H. Kronprinsen. skattma¨staren, Justitiera˚det Hellner. Riksantikvarien Curman samt Docenten Gjerstad’; (2) ‘P.M. Arbetsprogram fo¨r Cypernexpeditionen mars 1929 – juli 1930’; (3) Letters from Einar Gjerstad to Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf (for example 9 October 1927: ‘Eders Kunglig Ho¨ghet[!] Efter en la˚ng ma˚nad av fo¨reberedelser ha nu a¨ntligen utgra¨vningarna kommit i ga˚ng i Lapithos och i Karovastassi, det antika Soli, vid va¨stkusten. Jag har vid na¨rmare eftertanke [. . .] valt Soli, da˚ det a¨r f.n. den ba¨sta platsen pa˚ Cypern, da¨r man kan va¨nta sig att finna klassisk grekisk konst, och Cyperns klassiska kultur just var en av huvudpunkterna i expeditionens arbete’); (4) Martin P. Nilsson to Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf, 9 July 1928: ‘Docenten Gjerstads brev, rapport och fotografier a˚terga˚ ha¨rmed. Rapporten a¨r utma¨rkt fo¨r synnerlig klarhet och underha¨ftighet. [. . .] En ur publik- och museisynpunkt viktig omsta¨ndighet a¨r, att man kanske kan ha fo¨rhoppning om att fa˚ hem en del av fynden; om jag ej misstager mig a¨r detta fallet a˚tminstone med keramik. Men ha¨rom vet G[jerstad] sa¨kert besked. Eders Kunglig Ho¨ghets med undersa˚tlig vo¨rdnad tillgivne Martin P. Nilsson’. Cf. also the Personal Archives (Personarkiv) in Gustaf Adolfs arkiv I of (1) Erik Sjo¨qvist, (2) Axel W. Persson, and (3) Axel Boe¨thius. 16 ‘Sa˚ sma˚ningom utvidgades [emellertid] arbetsprogrammet da¨rha¨n, att till slut hela den cypriska kulturhistorien fr. o. m. stena˚ldern t. o. m. romersk tid kom inom underso¨kningsrayonen. [. . .] Expeditionen blev alltsa˚ en ro¨rlig, en ambulerande expedition. Dess utgra¨vningsomra˚de var hela Cypern’. Gjerstad: Sekler och dagar, p. 11. 17 The sites excavated by the SCE for example include Marion, Idalion, Kition, Ayia Irini, Mersinaki, Enkomi, Kythrea, Lapithos, Oura, Paleskoutella, Petra tou Limniti, Soloi, Stylli, Trachonas, Vouni, Amathus and Ayios Iakovos. Cf. Slej: ‘The Sites of the Swedish Cyprus Expedition’. 18 Cf. a 1930 ‘MEMORANDUM Regarding antiquities found by Swedish Mission to Cyprus, 1927– 1930. ALLOCATION. [List regarding the division of finds between the Cyprus Museum and Sweden]. All other finds from the Swedish excavations to be divided as provisionally agreed between Messrs. Markides, Gunnis and Gjerstad. OTHER DISPOSITIONS. [. . .] 2. Temple of Isis to be excavated by Mr. Westholm with a maximum Swedish liability of L80. All finds to go to the Cyprus Museum. All rights of publication to Sweden. Right of publication of Arsos excavation to Sweden. 3. Entire undivided Stylos tombs to Sweden. 4. Antiquities purchased by Swedes for subscribers to be allowed

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export. 5. Swedish Mission to distribute its share of finds as it likes to Swedish institutions: less important objects may be given to subscribers. All this on condition that nothing is sold. 6. All the pottery fragments go to Sweden, except sherds belonging to tombs adjudicated to Cyprus Museum, which may be desired by Cyprus Museum. 7. For the purpose of having good electro-types made of certain metal objects allotted to Cyprus Museum, such objects may be sent on loan to Sweden. Costs to be born by the Swedish Committee. 8. Scarabs allotted to Cyprus Museum may be temporarily sent to Professor Newberry for decipherment. 9. Skulls to be sent so Professor Fu¨rst, Lund, Sweden, for study. Then to be returned to Cyprus Museum. Ronald Storrs [. . .] B. Munier D. Severis L.Z. Pierides Rupert Gunnis N. Paschalis M. Markides Gustaf Adolf Einar Gjerstad John Lindros Alfred Westholm Erik Sjo¨qvist 27 X 30.’ Bernadotteska Arkivet (The Bernadotte Archives), Gustaf VI Adolfs arkiv I. Volym 164. Svenska orientsa¨llskapet (1921 – 32) Cypernkommitte´n (1927 – 66). For the division of the finds between Cyprus and Sweden (more than half of the total number of approximately 18,000 finds were exported); cf. Winbladh: ‘The Swedish Cyprus Expedition 1927 – 1931’, pp. 13 – 15. 19 Cf. Winbladh: An Archaeological Adventure in Cyprus, p. 6. During Gjerstad’s excavations in 1923 –24 (at Frenaros), ‘the Cypriote stone age was discovered for the first time’, for example. Karageorghis, Styrenius & Winbladh: Cypriote antiquities, p. 12. 20 Cf. for example the investigations of Eurasian cross-cultural connections and influences by the Swedish archaeologists Ture J. Arne and Johan Gunnar Andersson. For Arne, cf. for example Go¨ransson, Kristian, ‘T.J. Arnes utgra¨vningar i Iran’ (Proceedings of the conference Iranistiken i Sverige, Medelhavsmuseet & The Royal Swedish Academy of Letters, History and Antiquities, Stockholm, 12 November 2010 (forthcoming, 2012). Cf. also Arne, Ture J., Excavations at Shah Tepe´, Iran, Reports from the Scientific Expedition to the North-Western Provinces of China under the Leadership of Dr. Sven Hedin – The SinoSwedish Expedition (Stockholm, 1945); as well as Bernadotteska Arkivet (The Bernadotte Archives), Gustaf VI Adolfs arkiv I. Volym 164. Svenska orientsa¨llskapet (1921 – 32) Cypernkommitte´n (1927 – 66). The ‘Swedish Orient Association’ (Svenska orientsa¨llskapet) was established in 1921; Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf was intimately involved in this initiative, along with T.J. Arne, Sven Hedin, Harald Hja¨rne, Oscar Montelius, Martin P. Nilsson et al. The association worked towards the establishment of an institute for Swedish research in the Orient; early plans included a possible Swedish Institute in Istanbul (Constantinople; c f. ‘Redogo¨relse fo¨r Svenska Orientsa¨llskapets verksamhet 1921-1922’. T.J. Arne Sekreterare, 29 April 1922). For Andersson, cf. for example Magnus Fiskesjo¨ and Chen Xingcan, China Before China: Johan Gunnar Andersson, Ding Wenjiang, and the Discovery of China’s Prehistory (Museum of Far Eastern Antiquities monograph series, No. 15), Stockholm 2004; as well as Bernadotteska Arkivet (The Bernadotte Archives), Gustaf VI Adolfs arkiv I, volumes 159-162.

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21 Erik Sjo¨qvist also participated in the Asine excavations (cf. photographs in the box ‘“Livet kring en utgra¨vning” [. U]tsta¨llning om Asine, Dendra/Midea och Berbati i samband med institutets 50-a˚rsjubileum 1998[.] Foton ur Asinearkivet samt Bernadottearkivet. ASINE DENDRA’ in the Swedish Institute at Athens (SIA) archive. For Asine, cf. Bernadotteska Arkivet (The Bernadotte Archives), Gustaf VI Adolfs arkiv I. Volym 163. Asine-kommitte´n 1920– 37 (for example Anders Hernmarck to Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf, 14 March 1921, and ‘Protokoll ha˚llet vid Asine-kommitte´ns sammantra¨de pa˚ Kungl. Slottet i Stockholm fredagen den 25 november 1921’. See also the box ‘(Nauplion) Arkiv inko¨pt 1994’ in the Swedish Institute at Athens (SIA) archive (this material – originally from the archaeological Ephoria in Nauplion, most likely dispersed during the Second World War – was legally purchased from a private collector in Athens by the SIA in 1994 – cf. for example a letter addressed to the archaeological authorities written by Axel W. Persson (in October 1922), signed by Gustaf Adolf on behalf of Asinekommitte´n). For Gjerstad at Asine, cf. (professor) Lennart Kjellberg to Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf, 5 December 1921: ‘Da˚ jag ka¨nner honom [Gjerstad] som en utma¨rkt sympatisk ung man, bega˚vad och med grundliga kunskaper – han a¨r den utan all fra˚ga ba¨ste la¨rjunge jag haft – kan jag pa˚ det varmaste fo¨rorda hans anha˚llan’. Bernadotteska Arkivet (The Bernadotte Archives), Gustaf VI Adolfs arkiv I. Volym 163. Asine-kommitte´n 1920-37. This volume furthermore contains correspondence (with Crown Prince) regarding Asine to and from Oscar Montelius, Martin P. Nilsson and Axel W. Persson. The discussions regarding a (new) Swedish excavation in Greece can be traced back to 1920; cf. Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf to Jean N. Svoronos (director of the Numismatic Museum in Athens), 9 November 1920 (sketch): ‘M. le Professeur, Revenant sur noˆtre conversation de l’autre jour au sujet de la possibilite´ de faire des fouilles en Gre`ce, je vous prie de bien vouloir eˆtre l’intermedie`re [sic ] pour ce qui suit. Comme je vous ai de´ja` dit au cours de notre entretien je voudrai taˆcher d’organiser de la part de la Sue`de des fouilles dans voˆtre pays. Comme but de ces recherches scientifiques, qui seraient d’ailleurs confie´es a` un arche´ologue compe´tent, il me semble que le site d’Asine pre`s de Nauplie pre´senterait un intere`t [sic ] tout spe´cial. Pourrai-je vous donc prier de bien vouloir arranger que ce site soit re´serve´ pour des fouilles de la part de la Sue`de, organise´s sous mes auspices’. Regarding the division and distribution of the Asine finds (discussed contemporaneously with the SCE finds in 1931), cf. Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf to [Baron?] Alstro¨mer (Swedish Legation, Bucharest), 18 September 1931; as well as a sketched letter from the Crown Prince to Alan Wace (director of the British School at Athens), 8 January 1923: ‘[. . .] as to the question of being allowed to export some of the things, the position has altered considerably since I last wrote. We soon found that the Greek authorities would most likely only allow us to take away a very few and unimportant things. We therefore applied all our energy on trying to secure a license for the loan of all the finds for 3 years, so as to be able to go through them, arrange and mend them and publish a

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prelim. Report. Having no archaeological institution in Greece it would have been extremely difficult to do this work by means of our sending Persson down to Athens or Asine, and besides very expensive. After some delay the G[reek] authorities very kindly agreed to our wishes, of course on condition that we undertook to send the whole lot of finds back at the end of 3 years. But we still very much hope and believe that we shall ultimately get a certain number of things items for our public collections when our finds are more numerous and thus there is a greater choice. All this of course alters our proposed exchange of duplicate finds, as for the next few years we shall not have anything to change with.’ For the Asine Committee, cf. for example Carl-Gustaf Styrenius, ‘Gustaf VI Adolf i Grekland’, Hellenika 138 (2011), p. 7. For the Asine excavations, cf. for example Styrenius, Carl-Gustaf, Asine. En svensk utgra¨vningsplats i Grekland. A Swedish excavation site in Greece (Stockholm, 1998); Wells, Berit, Life around an excavation: He¯ zo¯e¯ gyro¯ apo mia anaskaphe¯: Aithousa techne¯s Naupliou 24.10 – 14.11.1998 / [exhibition and catalogue: Berit Wells] (The Swedish Institute at Athens, 2008); as well as Yvonne Backe-Forsberg, ‘Asinesamlingen i Uppsala go¨rs tillga¨nglig fo¨r forskningen. Gamla fynd ger ny kunskap’, Hellenika 32 (1985), pp. 4 – 10. Gjerstad: Ages and Days in Cyprus. Cf. Gjerstad: Sekler och dagar. Erik Sjo¨qvist’s doctoral thesis was published by the SCE as Problems of the Late Cypriote Bronze Age (Stockholm, 1940), simultaneously with Sjo¨qvist’s Reports on Excavations in Cyprus. Revised Reprint from the Swedish Cyprus Expedition. Finds and Results of the Excavations in Cyprus 1927-1931 Vol. I. (Petterson: Stockholm, 1940). Cf. Dyson: In Pursuit of Ancient Pasts, pp. 111– 2 & 131– 2. See for example Whitling: ‘The Western Way’, pp. 124-5 & 529; and Axel Boe¨thius (ed.), San Giovenale. Etruskerna, landet och folket. Svensk forskning i Etrurien (Malmo¨, 1960). Cf. Whitling: ‘Relative Influence’, pp. 652 – 3, 658 and 661–2.

References Arne, Ture J., Excavations at Shah Tepe´, Iran, Reports from the Scientific Expedition to the North-Western Provinces of China under the Leadership of Dr. Sven Hedin – The SinoSwedish Expedition (Elanders boktryckeri aktiebolag: Stockholm, 1945) A˚stro¨m, Paul, et al. (eds), The Fantastic Years on Cyprus. The Swedish Cyprus Expedition and its Members, Vol. 79, SIMA-Pocketbook (Jonsered, 1994). Backe-Forsberg, Yvonne, ‘Asinesamlingen i Uppsala go¨rs tillga¨nglig fo¨r forskningen. Gamla fynd ger ny kunskap’, Hellenika 32 (1985), pp. 4 – 10. Billig, Erland, ‘Habent sua fata libelli. Swedish notes on the problem of the German scientific libraries in Italy 1943–1948’, Opuscula Romana XVIII/14 (1990). Billig, Erland, Nylander, Carl, and Paolo Vian (eds), ‘Nobile munus’. Origini e primi sviluppi dell’Unione Internazionale degli Istituti di Archeologia Storia e Storia dell’Arte in Roma (1946 – 1953). Per la storia della collaborazione internazionale a Roma nelle

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ricerche umanistiche nel secondo dopoguerra (Unione Internazionale degli Istituti di Archeologia, Storia e Storia dell’Arte in Roma: Rome, 1996). Bittel, Kurt, et al. (eds), Beitra¨ge zur Geschichte des Deutschen Archa¨ologischen Instituts 1929 bis 1979, vol. 1 (Philipp von Zabern: Mainz, 1979). Blennow, Anna, and Whitling, Frederick, ‘Italian dreams, Roman longings. Vilhelm Lundstro¨m and the first Swedish philological-archaeological course in Rome, 1909’, Opuscula. Annual of the Swedish Institutes at Athens and Rome 4 (2011), pp. 143 – 58. Boe¨thius, Axel (ed.), San Giovenale. Etruskerna, landet och folket. Svensk forskning i Etrurien (Allhems Fo¨rlag: Malmo¨, 1960). Cools, Hans, and de Valk, Hans, Insitutum Neerlandicum MCMIV-MMIV. Honderd jaar Nederlands Instituut te Rome (Uitgeverij Verloren: Hilversum, 2004). Deichmann, Friedrich Wilhelm, Vom internationalen Privatverein zur preussischen Staatsanstalt. Zur Geschichte des Instituto di Corrispondenza Archeologica, Das Deutsche Archa¨ologische Institut. Geschichte Und Dokumente, Band 9 (Verlag Philipp von Zabern: Mainz, 1986). Dyson, Stephen L., In Pursuit of Ancient Pasts. A History of Classical Archaeology in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries (Yale University Press: New Haven & London, 2006). Esch, Arnold, ‘Die deutschen Institutsbibliotheken nach dem Ende des Zweiten Weltkriegs und die Rolle der Unione degli Istituti: Internationalisierung, Italianisierung – oder Ru¨ckgabe an Deutschland?’, in Michael Matheus (ed.), Deutsche Forschungs- und Kulturinstitute in Rom in der Nachkriegszeit (Max Niemeyer Verlag: O¨stasiatiska Museet, Tu¨bingen, 2007), pp. 67– 98. Fiskesjo¨, Magnus, and Xingcan, Chen, China Before China: Johan Gunnar Andersson, Ding Wenjiang, and the Discovery of China’s Prehistory (Museum of Far Eastern ¨ stasiatiska Museet: Stockholm, 2004). Antiquities monograph series, No. 15), (O Gjerstad, Einar, Sekler och dagar. Med svenskarna pa˚ Cypern 1927– 1931 (Albert Bonniers Fo¨rlag: Stockholm, 1933). ———, (ed.), The Swedish Cyprus Expedition, vol. I-IV:3 (Stockholm & Lund, 1934– 1972). ———, Ages and Days in Cyprus, vol. 12, SIMA-Pocketbook (Paul A˚stro¨ms Fo¨rlag: Go¨teborg, 1980). Goldbrunner, Hermann M., Von der Casa Tarpea zur Via Aurelia Antica. Zur Geschichte der Bibliothek des Deutschen Historischen Instituts in Rom, Das Deutsche Historische Institut in Rom 1888– 1988 (Max Niemeyer Verlag: Tu¨bingen, 1990). Go¨ransson, Kristian, ‘T.J. Arnes utgra¨vningar i Iran’ (Proceedings of the conference Iranistiken i Sverige, Medelhavsmuseet & The Royal Swedish Academy of Letters, History and Antiquities, Stockholm, 12 November 2010, forthcoming, 2014). Hardwick, Lorna, and Stray, Christopher (eds), A Companion to Classical Receptions (Blackwell Publisher: Malden, MA & Oxford, 2008). Houby-Nielsen, Sanne, ‘Preface’, in The Swedish Cyprus Expedition on Tour. Medelhavsmuseet visits Bucharest (Medelhavsmuseet: Stockholm, 2005). Karageorghis, Vassos, Styrenius, Carl-Gustaf, and Marie-Louise Winbladh, Cypriote antiquities in the Medelhavsmuseet, Stockholm (Medelhavsmuseet: Stockholm, 1977). Kallendorf, Craig W. (ed.) A Companion to the Classical Tradition (Blackwell Publisher: Malden, MA & Oxford, 2007).

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Linker, Wayne A. and Max, Jerry (eds), American Academy in Rome. Celebrating a Century (American Academy in Rome: New York, 1995). Magnusson, Bo¨rje (ed.), Humanist vid Medelhavet. Reflektioner och studier samlade med anledning av Svenska Institutet i Roms 75-a˚rsjubileum (Rubicon: Stockholm, 2002). ¨ stenberg, Carl Eric (ed.), Svenska Institutet i Rom 1926-1976 (Svenska Institutet i O Rom: Rome, 1976). Rystedt, Eva (ed.), The Swedish Cyprus Expedition: The Living Past, vol. 9, Memoir (Medelhavsmuseet: Stockholm, 1994). Scott, Russell T., Rosenthal, Paul, and Vittorio Emiliani, The Academy & the Forum. One Hundred Years in the Eternal City (American Academy in Rome: New York, 1996). Settis, Salvatore, The Future of the ‘Classical’ (Politi Press: Cambridge & Malden, MA, 2006). Sjo¨qvist, Erik, Problems of the Late Cypriote Bronze Age (The Swedish Cyprus Expedition: Stockholm, 1940). ———, Reports on Excavations in Cyprus. Revised Reprint from the Swedish Cyprus Expedition. Finds and Results of the Excavations in Cyprus 1927– 1931 Vol. I. (The Swedish Cyprus Expedition: Stockholm, 1940). Slej, Karen, ‘The Sites of the Swedish Cyprus Expedition’, in The Swedish Cyprus Expedition on Tour. Medelhavsmuseet visits Bucharest (Medelhavsmuseet: Stockholm, 2005). Styrenius, Carl-Gustaf, ‘De svenska instituten och medelhavskulturen: Fo¨rha˚llandet mellan Sverige Och medelhavsla¨nderna i dessa organisationer’, in Margareta Bio¨rnstad, Nanna Cnattingius and Helmer Gustavson (eds), Forntid och framtid. En va¨nbok till Roland Pa˚lsson (Riksantikvariea¨mbetet och Statens historiska museer: Stockholm, 1987). ———Asine. En svensk utgra¨vningsplats i Grekland. A Swedish excavation site in Greece, Medelhavsmuseet, Skrifter 22 (also included in the series Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology and Literature, Pocket-book 151 (Paul A˚stro¨ms Fo¨rlag: Stockholm & Jonsered, 1998). ———, ‘Gustaf VI Adolf i Grekland’, Hellenika 138 (2011), p. 7. Thoenes, Christof, ‘Geschichte des Instituts’, in Ulrike Emrich (ed.), Max-PlanckGesellschaft. Berichte und Mitteilungen (Max-Planck-Institut: Rome, 1991). Valentine, Lucia N., and Valentine, Alan Chester, The American Academy in Rome, 1894– 1969 (Charlottesville, 1973). Vian, Paolo, (ed.), Speculum Mundi. Roma centro internazionale di ricerche umanistiche (Roma centro internazionale di ricerche umanistiche: Rome, 1993). ———, (ed.), ‘Hospes eras, civem te feci’. Italiani e non Italiani a Roma nell’ambito delle ricerche umanistiche (Unione Internazionale degli Istituti di Archeologia, Storia e Storia dell’Arte in Roma: Rome, 1996). Wallace-Hadrill, Andrew (ed.), The British School at Rome. One Hundred Years (The British School at Rome at The British Academy: London, 2001). Ward-Perkins, John Bryan, ‘The International Union of Institutes of Archaeology, History and History of Art in Rome and the International Association for Classical Archaeology’, in Aspectes des Etudes Classiques. Actes du Colloque del la F.I. E.C. (Bruxelles, 1977). Wells, Berit, Life around an excavation: He¯ zo¯e¯ gyro¯ apo mia anaskaphe¯: Aithousa techne¯s Naupliou 24.10 – 14.11.1998 / [exhibition and catalogue: Berit Wells] (The Swedish Institute at Athens, 2008).

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Westholm, Alfred, ‘De fantastiska a˚ren pa˚ Cypern’. Brev till fo¨ra¨ldrarna 1927– 1931, SIMA-Litteratur (Unione Internazionale degli Istituti di Archeologia, Storia e Storia dell’Arte in Roma: Sa¨vedalen, 1996). Whitling, Frederick, ‘The Unione in 1946: Reflections on Academic Diplomacy and International Collaboration’, Unione Internazionale degli Istituti di Archeologia Storia e Storia dell’Arte in Roma. Annuario 50 (2008), pp. 203– 18. ———, ‘Memory, history and the classical tradition’, European Review of History: Revue europe´enne d’histoire 16 (2009), pp. 235 –53. ———, ‘Damnatio Memoriae and the Power of Remembrance. Reflections on Memory and History’, in. Malgorzata Pakier and Bo Stra˚th (eds), A European Memory? Contested Histories and Politics of Remembrance (Berghahn Books: New York & Oxford, 2010), pp. 87–97. ———, ‘The Western Way. Academic Diplomacy: Foreign Academies and the Swedish Institute in Rome, 1935– 1953’, European University Institute, 2010. ———, ‘Mare Nostrum: Einar Gjerstad och Svenska Institutet i Athen, 1945– 1948,’ Hellenika 133 (2010), p. 14. ———, ‘Relative Influence: Scholars, Institutions and Academic Diplomacy in Post-War Rome. The Case of the German Libraries (1943 – 53)’, The International History Review, 33/4 (December 2011), pp. 645– 68. Winbladh, Marie-Louise (ed.), An Archaeological Adventure in Cyprus. The Swedish Cyprus Expedition 1927– 1931. A story told with contemporary photographs and comments (Medelhavsmuseet: Stockholm, 1997). ———, ‘The Swedish Cyprus Expedition 1927–1931’, in The Swedish Cyprus Expedition on Tour. Medelhavsmuseet visits Bucharest (Medelhavsmuseet: Stockholm, 2005). Windholz, Angela, ‘Et in academia ego. Accademie straniere a Roma come luoghi di personale ricerca artistica e rappresentazione nazionale (1750-1914)’, Unione Internazionale degli Istituti di Archeologia Storia e Storia dell’Arte in Roma. Annuario 50 (2008), pp. 197 –201. ———, Et in Academia Ego. Ausla¨ndische Akademien in Rom zwischen ku¨nstlerischer Standortbestimmung und nationaler Repra¨sentation (Verlag Schnell & Steiner GmbH: Regensburg, 2008).

CHAPTER 8 LOOTING AND LOSING THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL HERITAGE OF CYPRUS Marc Fehlmann*

The looting of cultural artefacts as an international industry has been increasingly condemned since the creation of the UNESCO Convention on the Means of Prohibiting and Preventing the Illicit Import, Export and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property in 1970.1 In recent years, the revelation that the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Getty Museum, the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, the Louvre and other museums, as well as private US collectors, have dealt in looted antiquities has led to several high profile cases of repatriation.2 I would like to thank O¨zlem Caykent and Luca Zavagno for inviting me to the Istanbul Colloquium. I am particularly grateful to Charalampos Chotzakoglou, Tom Davies, Nathan Elkins, Sam Hardy, Uwe Mu¨ller and Joseph Sermarini for providing me with valuable information and advice. I would also like to thank Mrs Dale Tatro from the Classical Numismatic Group, Inc., the owner of a Salamine stater minted under Pnytagoras mentioned in this chapter (Figure 8.9), for providing valuable information and for granting me permission to publish it. I also would like to thank the Swiss private collector of a Bronze Age chalice from Cyprus for providing me with an image of his piece (Figure 8.7). And finally, I am most grateful to Mustafa Incirlı for patiently counting Cypriot antiquities in auction catalogues from all over the world and to Francesca Cauchi for her critical eye. By the time this chapter goes to print, the political situation in Northern Cyprus may have shifted in a direction that might undermine some of my arguments. *

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Nonetheless, neither developments have really entered the consciousness of the general public, and the looting of archaeological sites is still mainly a battlefield between archaeologists on the one side and lawyers, dealers, auction houses, museum curators and their trustees, and private collectors on the other. In Cyprus, however, looting is also a political issue, at the core of which lies the Cyprus conflict. As is well known, this conflict dates back to 1878 when the British received the island as a protectorate from the Ottoman Empire. Since then, there have been ethnic clashes between the Greek and Turkish population that were at times actively nurtured by Britain’s imperial power. In 1960 Cyprus gained its independence from the United Kingdom, but all subsequent attempts to solve persisting ethnic disputes have met with failure. In 1974, after the Turkish military intervened in response to a Greek military junta-backed coup d’e´tat, the island became partitioned into the Greek area under the effective control of the Republic of Cyprus, comprising about 59 per cent of the island’s area, and the de facto independent state of the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (hereafter TRNC) in the remaining territory. When in 1988 reports on the recovery of Byzantine mosaics that had been stripped from the church of Panagia Kanakaria (hereafter Kanakaria) in the village of Lythrangomi – today’s Boltaslı in Northern Cyprus – made international headlines, the founder and first president of the TRNC, Rauf Denktas, is said to have been furious, because news of the destruction of cultural heritage in the Northern part of the island was bad for the reputation and credibility of the aspiring young republic.3 The mastermind behind this theft was Turkish national Aydın Dikmen, who had been notorious since the 1950s for looting, smuggling and forging antiquities in Turkey. The mosaics of Kanakaria, dating to the sixth century A.D ., were one of only a few mosaics surviving from the pre-iconoclastic period. The mosaics, which were reported stolen in 1979, were well published and their iconography unique in Byzantine ecclesiastical art.4 When the mosaics appeared for sale in the United States in 1988, the Church of Cyprus sued the American dealer who held them at the time, and won the case. The mosaics were returned in two parts over a six-year period.5 Aydın Dikmen, was not arrested until 1997 when

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German authorities had sufficient evidence for a case of illegal possession of stolen art and antiquities; however, the statute of limitations had expired and so he was released after having been held in Munich for a few months.6 This kind of event might be frustrating for those who oppose looting, yet more astonishing is the fact that neither the Turkish Cypriot nor the Turkish authorities have ever indicted Dikmen for the theft of the Byzantine mosaics from Kanakaria or of any other Cypriot antiquity. What is today a cause ce´le`bre, the looting of Kanakaria, was followed by more cases of destruction, looting and illegal exportation of cultural property from Northern Cyprus, which makes the TRNC authorities look incompetent at best and corrupt at worst. Furthermore, despite the TRNC having implemented in 1986 Turkish legislation regarding its cultural heritage, such legislation has proved ineffectual as the ratification of any international conventions and bilateral agreements on the protection and transfer of cultural property such as the aforementioned UNESCO Convention is impossible, because de jure the TRNC is still not a recognised state.7 In comparison, the Republic of Cyprus has taken several steps to protect its artistic and archaeological heritage since the armed conflict of 1974. It ratified the above-mentioned UNESCO Convention of 1970 in 1979; it ratified the European Convention on the Protection of the Archaeological Heritage Council of Europe of 1969 in 1997; it ratified the Second Protocol for Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict, the so-called Hague Convention of 1999, in 2001; and in the same year it established a special unit within the police force to deal with stolen artefacts.8 The Republic of Cyprus has also successfully sued in international courts for the repatriation of archaeological and religious artefacts, and in 1997, it even forced the United States to impose an emergency ban on the importation of Cypriot cultural property under section 304 of the Cultural Property Implementation Act of 1982 in compliance with the UNESCO Convention.9 In 1999, the Republic of Cyprus signed a bilateral agreement with the United States prohibiting the importation of any Byzantine ecclesiastical and ritual ethnological material from the island into the United States without a permit from the Republic of Cyprus. In 2002, the Republic

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Figure 8.1 A looter’s hole at Latsi, North West of Poli Crysochous, Paphos District. Photo by the author taken in October 2008.

signed a memorandum of understanding (MOU) with the United States regarding the same issue, protecting pre-classical and classical antiquities, and in 2006, the United States amended the 2002 MOU to include import restrictions on both categories of materials. In July 2007, the MOU was extended for another five years with the addition of an import ban on Cypriot coins or coins of Cypriot type.10 Nonetheless, looting of archaeological sites in Cyprus still continues in the North as well as in the South (Figures 8.1–8.3). The present chapter does not consider the material consequences of looting and collecting archaeological material from Cyprus; in other words, it does not explore the damage to the archaeological record. It does, however, attempt to trace the political notion that looting and losing archaeological material in Cyprus is inevitable. It shows how politics shape the attitudes of the TRNC and the Republic of Cyprus towards their common cultural heritage. In support of this claim, I will show how the looting of archaeological sites is used in the

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Figure 8.2 A multi-chamber Iron Age tomb to the West of Ayia Irini, today’s Akdeniz, Morphou-/Gu¨zelyurt District, that was looted in March 2009. Photo by the author taken in May 2009. The tomb is situated in clear view of the village, ca. 3 metres underground. The looters had to dig two trenches to get to it, and had erected a camp with heavy equipment near the site; the farmers living at Akdeniz must have noticed what was going on.

Cyprus conflict as an extended political tool to construct and legitimise cultural and ethnic superiority. By exposing the propagandist methods and the hypocrisy of many who are responsible for cultural heritage on the island, I want to show that the debate about looting and losing the archaeological heritage of Cyprus is more than just an issue of ownership and restitution, the loss of scientific data and the destruction of archaeological sites. It is a matter of facts and fiction, and as political neutrality is unachievable in this situation it can no longer be advocated by archaeologists and all those involved in the field. To fully understand the repercussions of the cultural property dilemma in Cyprus it is necessary to consider the current state of looting on the island.

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Figure 8.3 A looter’s hole northeast of Taύro6, today’s Pamuklu, March 2010, Famagusta-/Gazimag˘usa- District. Photo by the author.

In the North In May 2010, the Greek Cypriot tabloid Cyprus Mail reported the discovery of an undisturbed grave from the Hellenistic or Roman period at Protaras, in the area of Paralimni to the south of Famagusta.11 After having praised the importance of the find, the paper then launched one of those attacks against the TRNC that are published every day in Greek Cypriot papers: ‘This find is especially important after a frenzy of tomb robbing in the last two centuries destroyed thousands of burial sites all over the island leaving them stripped of their treasures. In the North, many were left devastated in the feverish hunt for antiquities.’12 Continuing with a brief description of looting, the paper then cites the new Director of the Antiquities Department, Maria Hadjicosti, as saying: ‘Tomb raiding happens in most countries of the world. Here [i.e., in the Republic of Cyprus], it was prevalent in the 1800s and last century, but not now. Obviously I cannot speak for

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what happens in the North.’13 This is the standard view of the northern part of the island fostered by government bodies and the media in the Republic of Cyprus: ‘Over there, all the bad things happen, but not here in the safe Greek South.’14 Hadjicosti acknowledged that looting occurs throughout the world, wherever there are remains from past human activities, whether in countries that are traditionally perceived as being economically privileged like the United States or Britain, or in nations that are considered to suffer from political, social and/or economic challenges such as Egypt, Turkey or Greece. Looting and tomb robbing has been called the second oldest profession, and we know that already in ancient Mesopotamia the Elamites plundered Akkadian antiquities (1250 B.C .) that were by then over 1,000 years old. Incidents of looting are numerous in Classical antiquity; for example, the Greeks of Phocaia looted the sanctuary of Delphi in 356 B.C ., and Lucius Mummius, while conquering Corinth for the Roman Empire in 146 B.C ., let his troops loot the cemeteries of the ancient city. Cicero even prosecuted Gaius Verres for plundering and looting antiquities when the latter was Governor of Sicily.15 Grave robbing has always been a source of treasures that could be sold for financial gain. In Cyprus, the earliest account of looting was given by Swiss traveller Joseph von Meggen, who, in 1542, reported that the tombs of Salamis were rich in gold.16 The notorious treasure hunts of Luigi Palma di Cesnola and his brother Alessandro yielded thousands of ancient Cypriot artefacts in the 1860s and 1870s.17 As a result, in 1874, the Ottomans, who still owned the whole island at that time, introduced a law to protect archaeological monuments and antiquities, and to regulate their export from Cyprus.18 According to this law, one third of the excavated artefacts belonged to the government, one third to the owner of the land where the antiquities were found, and the remaining third was given to the excavator. This law was also liberal regarding the export of antiquities from the Empire’s territory. In 1905, and more substantially in 1935, the British implemented amendments to the existing legislation and allowed the partition of archaeological finds between foreign

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missions and the local authorities, and – needless to say – the export of antiquities from Cyprus.19 It was not until 1964, after Cyprus had gained its independence, that it revised its old Antiquities Law and abolished the division of the excavation finds between foreign projects and the Department of Antiquities. However, dealing, collecting and exporting antiquities was still allowed for those who had a licence, thus facilitating the creation of several major private collections in those years. This explains why the looting of archaeological sites never stopped. The Department of Antiquities even bought from looters, and its annual reports from the 1960s and 1970s are full of acquisitions of recently surfaced artefacts that did not come from official excavations.20 In fact, these came from illegal digs, which means that they were extracted from the ground in non-scientific ways that ignored the archaeological context. An archaeological context refers to the exact physical location of an artefact in the ground, its relationship to other artefacts and to the stratigraphic layers around it. From this information it is possible to determine its relative date and considerable information about its practical use and cultural significance. Furthermore, the context allows the understanding of its relationship to the entire archaeological site at which it was found, to other sites related to its find spot, and to the historic landscape and civilisation to which it belongs. Ripped out of this context, it loses much of its meaning and can never be properly identified or appraised. All it keeps is the aesthetic and financial value applied to it by our current market- and status-oriented society. Yet many who collect or deal in antiquities argue that a purely aesthetic appreciation of an archaeological object is fully satisfactory.21 The British archaeologist Sam Hardy has done excellent research on Cypriot private and public collecting activities before 1974, and he has shown how the Department of Antiquities under the directorship of Vassos Karagheorgis allowed and in some cases even fostered private collecting by following a policy of double standards, condoning the systematic looting and illegal trade to provide material for private collectors. Hardy found proof that in at least one case of a well-known

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collector in the Famagusta district, looters were contracted by this man to obtain rare antiquities of a specified date. As a consequence, numerous tombs were plundered and important archaeological evidence was destroyed forever – with the blessing of the Department of Antiquities and its then director, Vassos Karagheorgis.22 Hardy has also shown that by 1974 more than 1,250 new private collections were added to the insignificant number created prior to 1960. According to Sophocles Hadjisavvas, of those, ‘all antiquities acquired were illegal in the sense that they all came from illegal excavations’.23 In addition, until 1996, the export of antiquities from the Republic of Cyprus was permitted as long as the Department of Antiquities had provided a licence. Thus, the then director of Antiquities of the Republic of Cyprus, Vassos Karagheorgis, allowed thousands of antiquities to leave the island – sometimes as diplomatic gifts, sometimes for private collectors such as members of the Severis family.24 In the North, the export of any object older than 100 years has been banned since 1986, although based on the Turkish law of 1983 private citizens are allowed to keep their collections of antiquities if they were registered by 1996. Clearly, the situation regarding the looting and losing of archaeological material was already chaotic before the island’s partition in 1974. There are, however, two other factors that have to be considered. Until the 1960s, the global trade in classical antiquities was small compared to today, and limited to a happy few; the damage done by chance finds and the few professional looters who were active at the time was rather small. In the first generation after the Second World War, about 25 major antiquities dealers in Europe and the United States, some of them authentic scholar-dealers, controlled the global market in antiquities and provided items to a small, educated elite and to the expanding museums in the Western world. However, the Metropolitan Museum’s decision in 1972 to publicly announce the $1 million acquisition price of the Euphronios Krater changed the trade.25 Suddenly, finding and selling antiquities became a potentially easy source of income for people in the source countries, and an attractive trade with high profits for those on the consumer side. In addition, in the 1970s, metal detectors became common and proved

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Figure 8.4 An ebay-offer from Israel made in spring 2010: Roman earrings for US$3,490. The internet opened boundless opportunities to transact with an ever-growing number of people. Sales of looted and illegally exported antiquities increased within the opaque global market on the world wide web, while national laws continue to lag behind the changes in technology.

to be handy tools for finding coins and metal objects in the ground. Since the 1990s the internet has allowed literally thousands of players to dabble in the globally expanding antiquities trade (Figure 8.4). These factors changed the market dramatically, and today it is practised at an industrial and therefore ever more destructive scale. Most of the transactions occur within the so-called black market, which means that the trafficking and circulation, marketing and consumption of ancient artefacts follows the same illegal channels as the drug market and arms trade. The demand that it creates causes the continuous looting and destruction of archaeological sites around the world.26 Archaeological finds and their circulation are regulated by national laws and by binational agreements that prohibit unofficial and unprofessional excavations as well as the import and export of archaeological material without a permit from its country of origin; the UNESCO Convention provides further suggestions, but has no legal power.27 Hence, there are legal frameworks that prevent looting – in theory. However, if all those universally implemented tough laws on drug trafficking and all those international

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co-operations regarding the drug trade that politicians like to celebrate really worked there would no longer be drugs on the streets. This is clearly not the case. International drug trafficking organisations have never respected, or accepted national boundaries or laws. So, we may ask, why should those trafficking antiquities be any different?

Numbers In January 2010, headlines triumphantly announced that Greek Cypriot police had cracked a gang of looters and antiquities smugglers on the island.28 Based on a Greek Cypriot source, the media reported that police had seized antiquities worth e11 million! This valuation is obviously nonsense, but it is part of a specific Cypriot pattern that tends to exaggerate and dramatise. If Cypriot police forces are successful, their chief constables always exaggerate the market value of the items seized. As Cypriot artefacts have never commanded the same prices as Greek or Roman antiquities on the international art market, e11 million of Cypriot antiquities would constitute several truckloads of sculptures, pottery and other objects. Common Red Polished Bronze Age pottery, regularly offered by major auction houses in the United Kingdom and the United States, rarely costs more than a couple of hundred pounds sterling a piece, and Early Iron Age Bichrome ware usually remains below £1,000, while archaic or classical terracotta or limestone sculptures rarely make over £10,000.29 There is also no basis for the repeated claim by the Republic of Cyprus that since the 1974 partition, 60,000 antiquities have been smuggled out of Northern Cyprus, for which the Turkish forces in the North are blamed.30 To evaluate the validity of this claim, it may be helpful to consider a few statistics. At the Eastern Mediterranean University, in the half of Famagusta situated in North Cyprus, students from the Cultural Heritage Management course of 2009– 10 analysed all antiquities sales from Sotheby’s and Christie’s between 1988 and 2008 in order to establish an approximate volume of all Cypriot antiquities traded on the open market. These two companies were chosen because they had the largest annual turnover

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of antiquities within this time frame, notwithstanding the fact that, since the early 2000s, the sales of Gorny and Mosch in Munich and those of Bonham’s in London have gained substantially in terms of volume and importance. In the absence of direct information on transactions in source countries and in view of the traditionally clandestine nature of the art market, auction houses are the best resource for establishing an estimate on market value and trade volume because of their transparency; they openly publish their offers in catalogues containing detailed descriptions and illustrations of the art works for sale, and they publish their auction results. These data enable a proper analysis of market value and volume by source country and/or history of previous ownership. The aforementioned analysis could only take into account material that had an undisputed or likely Cypriot origin – that is to say, artefacts that were produced in Cyprus, even if they might have been found elsewhere. This included Bronze Age pottery such as Base Ring, Red Polished and White Slip ware, Bichrome ware from the early Iron Age, and terracotta and limestone sculptures that were indisputably Cypriot in style and making. It was recognised that this selection was somewhat arbitrary as the find spots of such material did not need to be Cyprus. It is well-known, for example, that at Heraion of Samos excavators found hundreds of Cypriot limestone sculptures in the votive pits,31 and that Cypriot pottery and sculptures have also been found in Italy, Greece, Turkey, Syria, Lebanon, Israel, the Gaza strip and Egypt.32 Mycenaean pottery was also included, but only when the item was in an unmistakably Cypriot shape and style. This was the case with a chalice that was sold at Sotheby’s in 1988; its shape is only known from examples that were found in Cyprus, Syria and Israel, but not from mainland Greece (Figure 8.5).33 One might argue that this selection was biased and that ordinary stirrup-jars and other common Mycenaean vessels should also have been included. It was felt, however, that this was not possible in view of the current debate on the origin of Mycenaean pottery and the unreliability of the available data.34

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Figure 8.5 A Late Helladic Pottery Chalice from Cyprus, LH III B1, 1300– 1220 B.C ., attributed to the so-called Protome Painter B. This is a rare example of a well-documented Cypriot artefact that has been repeatedly published since 1931, that was on loan to the British Museum for nearly 40 years and that was sold at Sotheby’s in 1988. Private collection, Switzerland. q Archa¨ologisches Institut der Universita¨t Zu¨rich, photo: Silvia Hertig.

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3%1% Egyptian, Near Eastern and Claaaical anticuitiex: 52101

95%

Cypriote antiquities without a history of previous ownership/ provenance:1465 Cypriote antiquities with a history of previous ownership beginning before 1970: 377

Figure 8.6 The volume of Cypriot material sold by Sotheby’s and Christie’s between 1988 and 2008 as a percentage of all antiquities sold by these two companies within the same time span. Source: Frank Tomio, Archa¨ologisches Institut der Universita¨t Zu¨rich, University of Zurich, Switzerland.

In all the sales held by Christie’s and Sotheby’s in London, New York and elsewhere between 1988 and 2008, there were on offer a total of 52,482 antiquities (Figure 8.6).35 Of these, only 1,842 items (4 per cent) could be identified as being of Cypriot origin according to the aforementioned definition. Among the 1,842 Cypriot artefacts, 377 had a provenance or previous history of ownership that dated back to the time before 1970, and 15 of these could even be traced back to Palma Luigi di Cesnola – they were put on the market in the 1920s, when the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York was de-accessioning large quantities or artefacts from the Cesnola collection. The estimate of 60,000 classical and pre-classical artefacts that, according to the Greek Cypriot authorities, left Northern Cyprus illegally after 1974 is an implausible number for another reason. If 60,000 artefacts had been channelled through the international art market since 1974, this volume would have caused the collapse of prices for Cypriot antiquities, which would have been in no one’s interest. A more likely estimate of the numbers of antiquities that have left Northern Cyprus illegally since 1974 is a few thousand, although this does not minimise nor eliminate the problem of looting. It is a fact that apparently well-informed gangs regularly plunder archaeological remains in the North of the island and discover ancient

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Figure 8.7 Headline in the Turkish Cypriot newspaper ‘Kibris’ reporting the arrest of looters on 5 December 2009.

sites that are not known to the Department of Antiquities. It is also a fact that these gangs and their middlemen are rarely caught and that the damage they cause cannot be determined (Figure 8.7). Yet, one must also ask who is willing to buy these finds? Who is buying the distinctively Cypriot material such as Red Polished ware and Cypro-archaic limestone sculptures?

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It was noted that dealers and auction houses in London, New York, Chicago, Paris, Munich and Geneva rarely sell Cypriot artefacts because there is so little international demand for them. Hence, the collectors of such material must be found somewhere else. It is plausible to suppose that the majority of potential collectors of Cypriot antiquities are based in Cyprus. A statistical analysis of private collection publications can assess this proposition. The publications of the private collections of the Severis, the Giabra-Pierides and Thanos Zentilis36 were accordingly scrutinised and analysed, following the methods established by David Gill and Christopher Chippindale.37 These three catalogues include roughly 1,500 Cypriot antiquities.38 Of these, 3 per cent have a history of previous ownership that can be traced back to before 1974, 2 per cent are given a find spot in Northern Cyprus, and 19 per cent have a find spot in the South, such as Paphos, the Limassol area, or the Larnaca district (Figure 8.8). Looking at these numbers, it is hard to credit the estimate of 60,000 antiquities that, according to Greek Cypriot propaganda, were taken from Northern Cyprus after 1974. Nevertheless, the problem remains, and it will continue to exist as long as responsible

3% without provenance 19% provenance before 1974

3% 75%

ndspot in the Republic of Cyprus ndspot in the TRNC

Figure 8.8 Find spots and previous history of ownership (provenance) of Cypriot antiquities in the Severis, Giabra-Pierides and Zentilis collections.

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government bodies fail in their duty and apply double standards when certain individuals involved in looting and trafficking antiquities are caught. The problem will also remain as long as individual greed is stronger than a sense of collective ownership and pride. Yet, antiquities have, as is well known, also a political dimension, and to illustrate this let us turn to the issue of ancient coin collections.

Coins As mentioned above, to combat the looting of archaeological sites in Cyprus, a MOU between the US Government and the Republic of Cyprus concerning the imposition of import restrictions on archaeological, ecclesiastical and ethnological material from Cyprus was implemented in 2002, and renewed for another five years in 2007; this agreement included coins of Cypriot origin or Cypriot type. The renewal was in compliance with article 9 of the 1970 UNESCO Convention, and was felt to be necessary as the United States continues to be the largest market for illegally excavated and exported antiquities from so-called source countries such as Cyprus, Turkey, Greece, Italy, Egypt, Bulgaria, Syria, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran and Iraq. The import restriction for coins is noteworthy because the United States had never before placed restrictions on ancient coins, but it was arguably an arbitrary decision because ancient Greek, Roman or Islamic coins might just as easily deserve such protection. Moreover, it is unrealistic to expect a customs inspector to be able to differentiate between a Cypriot coin, a Greek coin, and a Roman coin, or even to differentiate between a coin struck in the name of Alexander the Great in Macedonia and another minted in Cyprus.39 Even for specialists, it is difficult to single out the Cypriot specimen that must not be brought to the United States without an export permit issued by the Government of the Republic of Cyprus from the over 4,000 different coins of the same type that were struck by dozens of mints in huge quantities in the name of Alexander the Great.40 That is why this import restriction is so striking in its unintended breadth and potential impact on both the coin market and customs control. Yet reality shows that despite the 2007 import restrictions,

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North American dealers in ancient coins continue to offer dozens of Cypriot coins. To cite but one recent example, the US company Forum Ancient Coins, which has a very informative and useful website for researchers and interested individuals, had for quite some time a lot of 81 bronze coins on offer that are catalogued as coming from Paphos.41 What is intriguing is the fact that these Cypriot coins did not have any documented history of ownership. We may never know when they entered the United States, although mentioning the history of previous ownership of these coins would surely increase their market value, particularly if this would prove that they had come to the United States prior to 2007, or even prior to the 1970 UNESCO Convention. In an e-mail to the author of this paper on 25 May 2010, Joseph Sermarini, Director of Forum Ancient Coins, kindly revealed the following information regarding the history of previous ownership: All the coins I have had of the type you describe were received from the same US numismatist. He did a study on Cypriot coinage in 2004 and he purchased many coins for his study. In 2007 we discussed the import restriction and he stated that he did not plan to buy more coins from Cyprus. [. . .] Almost all of the coins I have come from US collectors or dealers and very few (almost none) come with any sort of purchase history. If anything, a coin might have an old dealer or collector’s tag, but unless it was in an auction, any old tag it might have is probably not dated. Since we get most coins from the USA, I am usually unaware of the date a coin was imported. [. . .] Not directly related to your question, but I have never received any coins directly from Cyprus (or Turkey). So the question remains how and when these coins were discovered and how and when they entered the United States. We know that there are several licensed metal detectorists in the Republic of Cyprus hunting for coins and valuable artefacts. In 2008, one with the pseudonym Achilleas gave a blunt and honest interview to the Cyprus Mail – to the astonishment of the Greek Cypriot authorities. He detailed all the aspects of his activities and said: ‘I keep or sell whatever I find. Belt

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Figure 8.9 A very rare Gold stater minted at Salamis under Pnytagoras, circa 351/0 – 332/1 B.C . Sold by the Classical Numismatic Group Inc. in New York at the Triton Sale XIII on 5 January 2010. Private collection, q Classical Numismatic Group Inc., Lancaster, PA.

buckles, lead shot, nails and pottery, I will keep or give to friends as nice souvenirs, but I have had some very interesting objects pass through my hands and they all got out of the country.’42 Asked what find would ‘make his day’, the metal detectorist replied: ‘I would love to find a gold coin minted during the time of Pnytagoras of Salamis 351–332 B.C . This is the King who helped Alexander the Great at the siege of Tyre in 332 B.C . It has a bust of Aphrodite wearing a turreted crown.’43 In January 2010, this Greek Cypriot metal detectorist could have bought such a coin from the Classic Numismatic Group (CNG) in New York, only three years after the US import regulations for Cypriot coins were implemented (Figure 8.9). This specimen was published with a detailed catalogue entry, though without a previous history of ownership.44 The numismatist Nathan Elkins has described the ways and means of the trade of ancient coins in the United States.45 He describes CNG – the company that sold the gold coin from Salamis in 2010 – as one of the largest corporations dealing with ancient coins worldwide; in 2007 alone they sold well over 22,000 ancient coins at auction. Of these, 1.9 per cent were documented prior to 1973, meaning that fewer less than 2 per cent of their coins had a documented history of previous

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ownership that would be acceptable to members of the Archaeological Institute of America when they were offered for sale by CNG.46 It is therefore plausible to suspect that many of the remaining coins were fresh material entering the market after 1973 through channels in Turkey, Bulgaria, Romania and Greece, which were brought to the United States after a brief stopover in Munich, Frankfurt, Geneva or Zurich.47 Elkins has estimated the trade of ancient coins in North America, including all eBay and online sales, at one million pieces per year.48 Of course, not all of these are of the quality and rarity usually offered by CNG; most are of a quality similar to the aforementioned 81 bronze coins from Paphos. Nevertheless, archaeologists and officials from so-called source countries deplore this situation. The Department of Antiquities of the Republic of Cyprus has joined this chorus and bitterly laments the looting of Cypriot coins.49 It does not, however, complain when the Bank of Cyprus Cultural Foundation (BOCCF) buys recently surfaced Cypriot coins that have no documented history of previous ownership. This might appear contradictory to the Foundation’s mission statement, which reads: ‘The Foundation was born out of the Bank’s growing concern [sic] to assist in the rescue of the island’s cultural heritage, which has been pillaged or stolen by the Turkish forces from the occupied areas, and to promote the Hellenic culture of Cyprus at a professional and scholarly level.’50 How does one recent acquisition conform to such a noble cause? In 2002 the BOCCF purchased a siglos struck under King Evagoras I of Salamis, but did not reveal its provenance, i.e. its history of previous ownership or its source.51 In its new publication on its collection of Cypriot coins, and on its online database,52 the BOCCF does not provide the coins’ history of previous ownership. It is the Foundation’s right not to disclose the sources from which it buys its coins, but concealing them could be considered suspicious. Hence, some observers might be tempted to assume that the BOCCF does what many other collectors and dealers of undocumented antiquities do: foster the looting and illegal export of ancient artefacts from Cyprus for selfish interests. Even more surprisingly, the authorities of the Republic of Cyprus tolerate such collecting activities by a private institution, although under Cypriot law, the BOCCF must register

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the coins once they enter Cypriot territory. This toleration is, to say the least, not inconsequential, because a looted coin from Cyprus that has lost its archaeological context will never regain that context, whether it is put into a Cypriot bank or not. There is another side to the coin issue. Peter Tompa, president of the Ancient Coin Collector’s Guild, board member of the American Numismatic Society, and attorney practising in Washington, D.C., as well as a collector of ancient coins, accused the State Department in the past ‘of using import restrictions as a quid pro quo for other issues’.53 He claimed that: former Undersecretary of State Nicholas Burns could not give Greek and Greek Cypriot advocacy groups what they really want – unqualified support for their position on the divided Island. On the other hand, Burns could easily dictate that these groups receive import restrictions on ancient Cypriot coins, no matter what procedures had to be broken in the process. State would have likely viewed import restrictions as a ‘no cost’ concession at the time. Moreover, import restrictions on coins would certainly garner applause from an important stakeholder as far as the Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs is concerned – namely the archaeological community. Certainly, State does not have to enforce such unpopular restrictions – US Customs does.54 There may well be some truth in this; if import restrictions on ancient Cypriot coins cannot be sustained in reality, they can at least provide an excellent diplomatic tool with which to calm Cypriot and Greek interest groups in the United States.

Conclusion The looting of archaeological sites in Cyprus is endemic on both sides of the Green Line separating North and South Cyprus, whether Greek and Turkish Cypriot officials choose to admit it or not. In their attitude towards private collecting and preserving the archaeological heritage of the island, they share the pretence of virtue, idealism, and

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concern for the problem of looting – often used to further selfish ends. The Bank of Cyprus Cultural Foundation, for example, pretends to rescue the cultural heritage of Cyprus by acquiring coins that possibly came out of the ground or left the country in an illegal way – all to increase its collection. Vassos Karagheorgis and his successors denounce the trade of antiquities from Cyprus and constantly attack the TRNC for not putting an end to the looting of archaeological sites in the North, and yet they too have either fostered and legalised the very same trade, or simply turned a blind eye. As long as Greek Cypriot officials continue to applaud as a patriotic act the collecting activities of Thanos Zentilis, the Severis family and others, who might have bought recently surfaced material from illegal digs, they are failing in their national duty. To accuse the TRNC of neglecting a common cultural heritage while ignoring its own failure is hypocrisy. To disseminate exaggerated figures about looting that do not stand scrutiny is propaganda. And to blame and shame the enemy as a means of confirming one’s own superiority is an abuse of the cultural heritage for political ends. None of these practices help to protect archaeological sites from being looted. TRNC officials are also culpable. They have failed to punish those who facilitate the trafficking of antiquities and to allocate sufficient funds for preserving cultural heritage in the North. For the TRNC to maintain that it cannot afford to invest in ways to prevent the looting of archaeological artefacts is an unacceptable defence as the allocation of funds is always a reflection of the priorities of those in power. This is why cultural heritage under Turkish Cypriot control is not, as local politicians like to make everyone believe, just another victim of an unresolved conflict. It is also a victim of political incompetence, lack of will, and a refusal to take responsibility for their own actions and for those of their compatriots. Differences of opinion are intrinsic to debate, and there is no obvious solution that both suits all parties and confounds all prejudices. Nevertheless, we must be aware that the issue of looting and losing the archaeological heritage of Cyprus, to follow Bernard Knapp and Sophia Antoniadou, ‘will never be politically innocent’.55

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Notes 1 The full text of this document is available here: http://www.un-documents.net/ cppiiecp.htm. 2 The literature dealing with issues surrounding cultural property, looting and the antiquities market is vast. See the ‘Looting Question Bibliography’ compiled by Hugh Jarvis at Buffalo University: http://wings.buffalo.edu/anthropology/Docum ents/lootbib.shtml, accessed 5 October 2010, and David Gill’s list with publications on ‘Archaeological Ethics’ under: http://www.worldcat.org/profiles/ ¨ zet, M. Aykut, Go¨zu¨m, DavidWJGill/lists/69597. To this I would like to add: O U¨mit Yasar et al., Yitik Miras’ın Do¨nu¨s O¨yku¨su¨ (Yapi Kredi Publisher: Istanbul ¨ zgen, ‘Turkey’s War on the Illicit Antiquities 2002); Rosen, Mark and Azar, O Trade’, in K. D. Vitelli (ed.), Archaeological ethics (AltaMira Press: Walnut Creek, CA 1996), pp. 71–89; Azar, O¨zgen, ‘The Looting of History in Usak and Afyonkarahisar between 1959 and 1969’, in: L. Summerer and A. von Kienlin (eds), Tatarli. The Return of the Colours (T.C. Ku¨ltu¨r ve Turizm Bakanlıg˘ı: Istanbul 2010), pp. 47–61. Unfortunately, Sharon Waxman’s Loot: The Battle over the Stolen Treasures of the Ancient World (Times Books: New York, 2008), is partially racist and biased. 3 Jansen, Michael, War and Cultural Heritage. Cyprus after the 1974 Turkish Invasion (University of Minnesota: Minneapolis 2005), pp. 47 – 8. 4 Knapp, Bernard A. and Antoniadou, Sophia, ‘Archaeology, Politics and the Cultural Heritage of Cyprus’, in L. Meskell (ed.), Archaeology Under Fire (Routledge: London 1989), p. 25. 5 See e.g., Hofstadter, Dan Goldberg’s Angel: An adventure in the Antiquities Trade, (Farrar Straus & Giroux: New York, 1994), and Chotzakoglou, Charalampos G., Religious Monuments in Turkish-Occupied Cyprus. Evidence and Acts of continuous Destruction (Museion Hieras Mone¯s Kykku: Nicosia, 2008), pp. 95 – 9. On the court decision see here: http://www.uniset.ca/microstates/917F2d278.htm (last accessed 25 November 2010). 6 Jansen, Michael, ‘The Byzantine Bust’, Art & Auction 21 (1998), pp. 52 – 7. 7 United Nations Security Council Resolution (UNSCR) 541 of 1983 calls upon all UN member states not to recognise any Cypriot state other than the Republic of Cyprus, UNSCR 550 (1984) reiterates the call upon all states not to recognise the purported state of the TRNC set up by secessionist acts and calls upon them not to facilitate or in any way assist the TRNC. 8 Hadjisavvas, Sophocles, ‘The Destruction of the Archaeological Heritage of Cyprus’, in N. Brodie et al. (eds), The Trade in Illicit Antiquities: The Destruction of the World’s Archaeological Heritage (McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research: Cambridge, 2001), pp. 133–9. 9 Bachman, Caroline V., ‘An Introduction to the issue of Preserving Cultural Heritage’, Brown Classical Journal 17 (2005), accessed 5 October 2010: http://www.brown.edu/Departments/Classics/bcj/15-07.html. See also ‘Interview of Jessica Dietzler with Pavlos Fluorentzos’, SAFE, 10 December

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15 16 17

18 19 20

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2007, accessed 5 October 2010: http://www.savingantiquities.org/feature_ cyprusinterview.php.htlm. Federal Register 67, No. 139, Friday July 19, 2002, 47447. Cf. ‘Cyprus’, US Department of State, accessed 5 October 2010, http://exchanges.state.gov/heri tage/culprop/cyfact.htlm. Morley, Nathan, ‘The tomb the raiders missed’, Cyprus Mail, 23 May 2010, accessed 5 October 2010. http://www.cyprus-mail.com/features/tomb-raiders-missed/ 20100523. Morley: ‘The tomb the raiders missed’. Maria Hadjicosti in Morley: ‘The tomb the raiders missed’. Admittedly, when describing the situation in the North, former Director of Antiquities, Professor Dr Sophocles Hadjisavvas, tends to be cautious in his various statements while his successors appear to more often reflect an official government position, at least in their public statements. Miles, Margret, Art as Plunder (Cambridge University Press: Cambridge, 2009), pp. 16 – 8, 37, 105– 133. Marangou, Anna, ‘Salamis before Salamis’, in V. Karageorghis (ed.), Excavating at Salamis in Cyprus 1952–1974 (Leventis Foundation: Athens, 1999), p. 172. Karageorghis, Vassos, in collaboration with Mertens, Joan R. and Rose, Marice E., Ancient Art from Cyprus: the Cesnola Collection in the Metropolitan Museum of Art (Metropolitan Museum of Arts: New York, 2000), pp. 3–10. See also Balandier, Claire, ‘Cyprus, a new archaeological Frontier in the XIXth Century: the struggle of European Museums for Cypriot antiquities’, in V. Tatton-Brown (ed.), Cyprus in the 19th Century A.D. Facts, Fancy and Fiction (Oxbow Books Ltd: Oxford, 2001), pp. 3–11. Stanley-Price, Nicholas, ‘The Ottoman law of antiquities (1874) and the founding of the Cyprus Museum’, in Tatton-Brown (ed.), Cyprus in the 19th century A.D., pp. 267–75. Colonial Reports-Annual, No. 1778. Annual Report for the Social and Economic Progress of the People of Cyprus. Report for 1935 (HMSO: London 1936), p. 51; Hadjisavvas: ‘The Destruction of the Archaeological Heritage of Cyprus’, p. 134. See e.g., Republic of Cyprus, Annual Report of the Directorate of the Department of Antiquities for the Year 1964 (Department of Antiquities of Cyprus: Nicosia 1965), p. 12, and Republic of Cyprus, Annual Report of the Directorate of the Department of Antiquities for the Year 1970 (Nicosia, 1971), pp. 24–5. The debate about the ethical use- and harmfulness of archaeological ‘context’ is ongoing. See e.g., Alderman, Kimberley, ‘The Ethics of Context’, ARCA Journal of Art Crime (Fall/Winter 2010), pp. 93 – 4. For a position against the need of archaeological context see Cuno, James, Who Owns Antiquity? Museums and the Battle Over Our Ancient Heritage (Princeton University Press: Princeton, 2008), pp. xxxiii, 9, 24. Hardy, Sam, ‘Cultural heritage ethics in a divided Cyprus’ (paper presented at the 6th World Archaeological Congress, Dublin, Republic of Ireland, held 29 June – 4 July 2008). Available at Human Rights Archaeology: cultural heritage in

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conflict,12 July 2008, http://human-rights-archaeology.blogspot.com/2008/07/ cultural-heritage-ethics-in-divided.html, accessed 5 October 2010. Hadjisavvas: ‘The Destruction of the Archaeological Heritage of Cyprus’, p. 135. To name but one example: the bichrome ware amphora sold at Sotheby’s New York, 6 June 2006, Lot 1, was a present by Archbishop Makarios to the wife of Angier Biddle Duke, then Chief of Protocol, US Department of State. Sophocles Hadjisavvas, who succeeded Vassos Karageorghis as director of Antiquities, was responsible for changing the liberal export regulations. The relevant law allowing the export of antiquities from the island was amended in 1996. Hadjisavvas: ‘The Destruction of the Archaeological Heritage of Cyprus’, p. 138. On the export of large parts of the Severis collection see Vandenabeele, Frieda, Chypre. 8000 ans de civilisations entre trois continents (Muse´e Royal de Mariemont: Morlanwelz 1982), p. 7. Gavrili: Nostoi, p. 58, and Silver, Vernon, The Lost Chalice. The Epic Hunt for a Priceless masterpiece (Harper and Collins: New York, 2009), with references to the discoveries of Suzan Mazur and others. The literature on this is vast, see above note 1, see also Fiedler, Wilfried, and Turner, Stefan, Bibliographie zum Recht des Internationalen Kulturgu¨terschutzes/ Bibliography on the Law of the International Protection of Cultural Property (DeGruyter: Berlin, 2003). The best survey on cultural heritage policy documents is not given by UNESCO but by the Getty Conservation Institute: ‘Cultural Heritage Policy Documents’, Getty Conservation Institute, accessed 5 October 2010, http://www.getty.edu/ conservation/research_resources/charters.html. ‘Cyprus antiquities smuggling ring broken up’, BBC News (Europe), 25 January 2010, accessed 5 October 2010, http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/8478886.stm. The sale result of US$37,000 for a limestone figure of a votary at Sotheby’s New York, 5 December 2007, lot 47, is an exception and can partially be explained with the fact, that it was in the same sale as the famous Guennol Lioness which was sold for $57,161,000, then the highest price paid at auction for a sculpture of any period. The limestone figure has since been with the same London dealer and was last seen unsold at the Masterpiece fair in London in July 2011. E.g., ‘Destruction of Cultural Heritage’, Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Republic of Cyprus, accessed 5 October 2010, http://www.mfa.gov.cy/mfa/m fa2006.nsf/cyprus07_en/cyprus07_en?OpenDocument. Schmidt, Gerhard, Kyprische Bildwerke aus dem Heraion von Samos (Rudolf Habelt: Bonn, 1968). On sculpture see: Kourou, Nota, Karageorgis, Vassos, et al., Limestone Statuettes of Cypriote Type Found in the Aegean (Leventis Foundation: Nicosia, 2002). Sotheby’s London, Antiquities, Monday 11 July 1988, lot 143. I would like to thank the current owner for granting me permission to publish this piece and for providing an image of it. Stubbings, Frank H., Mycenæan pottery from the Levant (Cambridge University Press: Cambridge, 1931), proposed that most Mycaenean material found in Cyprus and the Levant was produced in Cyprus, while Catling, Hector W.,

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37 38 39

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‘Pottery of Aegean type in Cyprus, the Levant and Egypt,’ in R. E. Jones (ed.), Greek and Cypriote Pottery. A Review of Scientific Studies (Athens, 1986), pp. 589– 609, and Steel, Louise, ‘The Social Impact of Mycenaean imported pottery in Cyprus’, Annual of the British School at Athens 93 (1998), pp. 285– 96, believe that most Mycenaean material was produced in mainland Greece and exported to Cyprus. De Miro, Ernesto, ‘Recenti ritrovamenti micenei nell’Agrigento e il villagio di Cannatello’, in E. De Miro, et al. (eds), Atti e memorie del secondo congresso internazionale di micenologia. Rome-Naples, 14–20 October 1991, 3 Vols (Gruppo editoriale Internazionale: Roma 1996), Vol. 3, p. 999, however, could prove that Mycenaean pottery found in Sicily originated in Cyprus, while Vassos Karageorghis supports the view, that most Mycenaean pottery found in Cyprus was imported from Greece. Karageorghis, Vassos, Early Cyprus. Crossroads of the Mediterranean (J. Paul Getty Museum: Los Angeles 2002), pp. 43–7. The debate goes on. We did not include country house sales that might have offered antiquities, but limited ourselves to auction catalogues published by the respective antiquities departments at Sotheby’s and Christie’s. Karageorghis, Vassos, Ancient Cypriote Art in the Severis Collection (Oxbow Books: Athens, 1999); Karageorghis, Vassos, Ancient Art from Cyprus in the Collection of George and Nefeli Giabra Pierides (Kapon Editions: Bank of Cyprus Cultural Foundation, Nicosia, 2002); Lubsen-Admiraal, Stella M., Arxaia Kgpriakh I1xnh Sgllogh Qanoy N. Zintilh (Mouseio Kykladikes Technes: Athens/ New York, 2004). Gill, David, and Chippindale, Christopher, ‘Material and intellectual consequences of esteem for Cycladic figures’, American Journal of Archaeology 97/3, 1993, pp. 602– 73. The initial Severis collection created by Demosthenes Severis held well over 3,500 objects: Vandenabeele: Chypre. 8000 ans de civilisations entre trois continents, p. 7. To understand the challenge, compare a tetradrachm of Alexander the Great minted at Salamis in the Collection of the Bank of Cyprus Cultural Foundation: Zapiti, Eleni, and Michaelidou, Lefki, Coins of Cyprus from the Collection of the Bank of Cyprus Cultural Foundation (Bank of Cyprus Cultural Foundation: Nicosia, 2008), p. 109, 6, inv. BCCF 2002-02-01, with a tetradrachm of Alexander the Great minted at Amphipolis, now in the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford: Robinson, Edward St G., Sylloge Nummorum Graecorum, Ashmolean Museum Oxford, Vol. IV/V (OUP/British Academy: London 1951), No. 0503-2525. On the vast variety of coins struck in the name of Alexander the Great see Price, Martin Jessop, The Coinage in the Name of Alexander the Great and Philip Arrhidaeus: A British Museum Catalogue, 2 Vols (British Museum Press: London/ Zurich 1991), who lists 4,070 varieties of coins. ‘Lot of 81 Bronze Coins, Paphos, Cyprus, Time of Cleopatra VII, c. 35 B.C. (LT38166.)’, Forum Ancient Coins, accessed 20 May 20 and again 5 October 2010, http://www.forumancientcoins.com/catalog/roman-and-greekcoins.asp?param¼38166q00.jpg&vpar ¼ 1345&zpg¼48891&fld¼http://www. forumancientcoins.com/Coins2.

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42 Mackay: ‘Tomb raider opens crypt on why he’s breaking the law’. 43 Ibid. 44 ‘CYPRUS, Salamis. Pnytagoras. Circa 351/0 – 332/1 B.C. AV Stater (8.31 g, 12 h). Persic standard’, Classical Numismatic Group, Sale Triton XIII, 4 January 2010, lot 217, accessed 5 October 2010: http://www.cngcoins.com/Coin.aspx? CoinID¼152999. I would like to thank Mrs Dale Tatro from the Classical Numismatic Group, Inc., for all the information she provided on this coin, and for granting me permission to publish it. My thanks are extended to the lucky owner of this coin for likewise granting me permission to publish it. 45 Elkins, Nathan T., ‘A Survey of the Material and Intellectual Consequences of Trading in Undocumented Ancient Coins: a Case Study on the North American Trade’, Frankfurter elektronische Rundschau zur Altertumskunde 7 (2008), pp. 1 – 3. Available online: http://www.fera-journal.eu [FeRA 7 (2008)]. 46 The AIA’s Resolution on the Presentation of Undocumented Antiquities of 1973, as well as the AIA’s Resolution Concerning the Acquisition of Antiquities by Museums of 1973 decided that AIA members should refrain from announcing or publishing ‘any object in a public or private collection acquired after 30 December 1973, unless its existence can be documented prior to that date, or it was legally exported from the country of origin’. The AIA established its Code of Ethics on 29 December 1990, and amended it in 1997, according to which under § 2 ‘Members of the AIA should refuse to participate in the trade in undocumented antiquities and refrain from activities that enhance the commercial value of such objects. Undocumented antiquities are those which are not documented as belonging to a public or private collection before 30 December 1970, when the AIA Council endorsed the UNESCO Convention on Cultural Property, or which have not been excavated and exported from the country of origin in accordance with the laws of that country.’ 47 Elkins: ‘A Survey of the Material and Intellectual Consequences of Trading in Undocumented Ancient Coins’, p. 4. 48 Ibid. 49 ‘Interview of Jessica Dietzler with Pavlos Fluorentzos’, SAFE, 2007. 50 ‘About BOCCF’, Bank of Cyprus Cultural Foundation, accessed 5 October 2010, http://www.boccf.org/main/default.aspx. 51 Zapiti and Michaelidou: Coins of Cyprus, p. 47, 6, inv. BCCF 2002-01-01. 52 Ibid. 53 Tompa, Peter, 28 March 2010, ‘Voice of Greece on Cyprus Coin Lawsuit’, Cultural Property Observer, accessed 5 October 2010, http://culturalpropertyobs erver.blogspot.com/2010/03/voice-of-greece-on-cyprus-coin-lawsuit.html. 54 Ibid. 55 Knapp and Antoniadou: ‘Archaeology, Politics and the Cultural Heritage of Cyprus’, p. 32.

CHAPTER 9 THE SEA THAT BINDS US: THE EU'S PROBLEMATIC NORMATIVE CAPACITY AND THE UNION FOR THE MEDITERRANEAN C. Akc
a Atac
*

The Union for the Mediterranean (hereafter UfM) was created in 2008 by the EU and 16 Mediterranean states with the aim of establishing a zone of peace, stability and environmental protection. The current situation of the UfM is similar to that of a Jane Austen heroine – a single woman of no ‘family, connections, or fortune’ with ‘upstart pretentions’.1 The Mediterranean member states of the EU seem to have disowned this latest phase of the EU’s Mediterranean policy; the non-Mediterranean members do not much care for it and no extra funding has been allocated to it. Despite this indifference and even outright distrust, the UfM has not completely failed. It continues to propose concrete projects that have the potential to have a positive, measurable impact on the lives of the peoples of the * Assistant Professor of Political History, Department of Political Science and International Relations, C¸ankaya University, Ankara. E-mail: [email protected]

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Mediterranean. NGOs, scholars and researchers must appeal to the EU decision makers to salvage the UfM. The Arab Spring, blossoming since 2010, has frozen the initiatives aimed at restructuring and rehabilitating the Mediterranean. As the mist of instability and uncertainty rises in the Arab members of the Club Med, the UfM is in danger of being declared void. This is unfortunate, as the Arab revolutions present historic opportunities for the EU and for European normativism. Thomas Spencer, a former MEP and the former leader of the UK Conservatives delegation to the European Parliament, aptly speculates that Fernand Braudel would have, in fact, ‘appreciated every nuance of the current situation’, as the Arab Spring is about ‘a crisis of capitalism, a new focus on the Mediterranean, and a global power shift, all happening simultaneously’, implying a new beginning for the region. This is not the time for the EU to step back and become a passive audience.2 The UfM, which is the newest phase of the 15-year-old Barcelona Process, has implications not only for the future of the EU’s Mediterranean policy, but also for discussions on European normativism. The EU claims to be a normative actor with the capacity to define what is normal in its external affairs. However, the actors that are subject to the EU’s external dealings do not share the EU’s self-image of normativeness. Therefore, the EU’s claims to be a normative actor are problematic and these shortcomings further cripple the UfM. This chapter seeks to discuss the UfM within the context of European normativism and to demonstrate the importance of the Euro-Mediterranean Partnership’s tangible success. It discusses normativism, Mediterraneanism, the current situation of the UfM and, of course, the Cyprus question.

Normativeness and the EU When Ian Manners coined the term ‘normative power’ to define the EU’s raison d’eˆtre in 2002, the Union was already perceived as the incarnation of normative ethics in the international system.3 Using its acquis communautaire, institutionalism and discourse to provide an ethical and normative framework, the EU aspires to provide a soft

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leadership on the global level; a leadership based on the power of its norms and values and not on the hard power of military force. Given the EU’s subsequent militarisation in the name of overhauling its Common Foreign and Security Policy, Manners has revisited his 2006 proposal to call the EU a normative power, but discussions about the normative attributes of the EU still permeate the global intellectual agenda.4 In one of his articles, Manners grounds the EU’s normative power in its success in changing ‘the norms, standards and prescriptions of world politics away from the bounded expectations of state-centrity’.5 In this way, it has altered, for the better, ‘what passes for “normal” in world politics’. The EU and its ability to transform the existing conceptions of ‘normal’ deserves considerable praise. Having celebrated its 50th anniversary, the EU institutions and member states have warmed up to the idea of ‘the representation of Europe as a force for well-being’.6 The institutional and discursive framework created by the intergovernmental EU Council and the supranational European Commission have served as the backbone of Europeaness, which is normatively defined through free trade, good governance, democracy, rule of law and respect for human rights. In the design of its foreign policy in general, and enlargement and neighbourhood policies in particular, the EU has established compliance with its norms and values as the prerequisite for further enhancement of its external relations. As a leader in conflict management, peace promotion, sustainable development projects and negotiation tools, the EU has developed a norm-based identity and has thus distinguished itself from other global actors. It has been viewed by some scholars as ‘a new form of international actor, which has defied categorization’.7 However, the EU’s normativeness seems to be confined to rhetoric; it is a self-image that is often not commensurate with external perceptions of the EU. To reach its ambitious aspirations, the EU should not simply claim to be normative, but should instead work in its imperfect normative capacity. In his attempts to understand and describe the normative attributes of the EU, Manners attributes the sustainability of normativeness to the perceptions of the actors ‘who practice and experience it’.8 As it is impossible to calculate the

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normative impact of an action, normativeness requires the recognition of the actors who are subject to the normatively intended actions. If normative power is not recognised as normative by those subjected to it, the power suffers irreconcilable legitimacy problems. Outsiders have not yet responded to the EU’s aspirations to be acknowledged as a normative actor in the way that the EU desires. In fact, the persistence of the European claim to normativism is problematic. As will be discussed below, Europe’s problematic perceptions of normativeness also appear in the context of the UfM.9 Normativeness is based on the supposition that the promoted norms are universally valued and accepted. The critiques of normativism challenge this assumption of universality on the grounds that norms are artificially, nationally, legally and culturally constructed.10 The norms being promoted by the EU are subject to criticism of a similar sort. One of the reasons that the EU is not externally perceived as a normative actor is a widespread doubt about the universality of its norms. It is in this context that Diez’s proposition to put the ‘European norms and values’ under ‘continuous deconstruction through the exposition of contradictions’ merits attention. Such an endeavour could indeed ‘rescue normative power from becoming a self-righteous, messianistic project that claims to know what Europe is and what others should be like’.11 Engagement with the deconstruction and reconstruction of the universal should be pursued outside as well as within the European context. The effectiveness of the EU’s normative policies strictly depends on the member states’ input into those policies. Without sufficient support from the member states normativeness cannot survive. Normative institutionalism pre-supposes the member states’ solid commitment to norms, in spite of their widely diverse national interests.12 On the one hand, in areas such as trade, the fight against global warming and, of course, enlargement the member states have demonstrated a commitment to norm-diffusion unprecedented in European history. On the other hand, the reluctance of the member states to act normatively in the conduct of their external relations has been demonstrated on countless occasions. As long as the competition between ‘norm-driven’ and ‘interest-driven’13 policies continues, the normative effectiveness of the EU will remain highly undependable.

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Additionally, a normative actor needs to not only create or define norms, it needs to actively foster the desired outcome at the end of the normative action. Of course, current international relations lack an ideal observer who can judge an action’s consequences. Therefore, the judgement of the people who have been directly affected by the action should determine whether that action is right or wrong, normative or not. Manners contends that ‘[t]he ethics of the EU’s normative power’ is enshrined in its ‘ability to normalise a more just, cosmopolitical world’ – in other words, to produce the intended consequences. Grounding his argument of cosmopolitics in the comprehensive discussions of Cheah and Robbins, Manners embraces the definition of cosmopolitics as the moral force ‘empowering people in the actual conditions of their lives’.14 From this perspective, if an EU policy fails to empower people and to better the socio-economic and political conditions in which they live, this failure is a reason to question the global actorness of the EU and its cosmopolitan capability. Despite all the negativities and discouraging discourse associated with it, the UfM, for the reasons explicated below, has the potential to overhaul the normative capacity of the EU. Its focus on concrete projects could result in desired outcomes in terms of sustainable development, the fight against environmental degradation, renewable energy, tolerance building and eventually conflict resolution; hence, it could visibly improve people’s living conditions. The tangible outcomes of concrete projects could create the external perceptions of the EU as a normative global actor. To proceed in that direction, the EU’s institutional and discursive power, with the committed support of the member states, should be invested in the idea that there is no ‘intelligible alternative’ to normativism.15 Regardless of the UfM’s fate, the EU is obliged to assess its errors and learn from them. In the following discussion, I attempt to demonstrate the validity of the concept of the Mediterranean as an identity construct and discuss the lessons offered by the UfM to a normative actor.

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Mediterraneanism and the Mediterranean as a Construction This article’s support for the UfM and its hope for the triumph of normativism in the Mediterranean is not based on a romantic nostalgia for the ‘Mare Nostrum’. This chapter is by no means an attempt to live up to a Braudelian vision, nor does it envisage the Mediterranean as a valid category of common identity, reconciliation or peace promotion. The Mediterranean is a construct that has been imagined in a variety of ways since antiquity. Although it has become a weary, uninspired idea, the UfM, as a region-building venture, could benefit from this myth of vitis vinifere and olea europaea – the vineyards and olive trees unifying the peoples of the Sea.16 Therefore, before proceeding with an analysis of the latest phase of the EU’s Mediterranean saga, it is useful to take a closer look at Mediterraneanism and the Mediterranean as a construct. Mediterraneanism, according to W.V. Harris, is ‘the doctrine that there are distinctive characteristics which the cultures of the Mediterranean have, or have had, in common’.17 Obviously, a monolithic Mediterranean has been non-existent since the end of the region’s commercial boom between 300 B.C. and 500 A.D. Subsequent to the rise and fall of the Islamic Ummayad and Abbasids dynasties, according to the Belgian historian Henri Pirenne, the Mediterranean Sea has become a barrage liquid, separating the two basins from each other and, according to the French grand-narrative historian Ferdinand Braudel, the geography has left the surrounding cultures ‘permanently handicapped, unable to expand and ill-equipped for daily life’.18 The discourse on the unity, continuity and distinctiveness of the Mediterranean has been weak and repeatedly disproved by history, archaeology, anthropology and economics. Even Braudel’s holistic approach acknowledges the ‘self-contained’ existence of two worlds in the Mediterranean.19 Notwithstanding the consensus on the disparity between the different worlds around ‘our sea’, Mediterraneanism insists on a distinctive Mediterranean spirit, identity, culture, gastronomy and ecology created by the continuous interaction between the developed and underdeveloped, fertile and infertile, and Christian and Muslim

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parts of the region. It is true that ‘the very uneven distribution of resources’ rendered ‘a system of long-distance exchange’ almost mandatory.20 The ‘physical barriers such as the Alps and the Pyrenees’,21 remembering Braudel again, may have delayed the arrival of the Renaissance, the Enlightenment and industrialisation in the Mediterranean. Romanticism has categorised ‘the Mediterranean region’ as ‘a world set apart from that of northern Europe’.22 For whatever reason, geographical necessity or convenient preferences, constant movement of resources and on-going exchange within and throughout the Mediterranean have contributed to an awareness of co-dependence defined mostly by crops harvest and market forces. Such an emphasis is neither surprising nor problematic. As Michael Herzfeld states, the Mediterranean geography and climate have intensified the inherent dilemma of the actors trying to make sense of an environment in which they are often chastised for the very characteristics that have also allowed more powerful countries to control them.23 The strong and weak, Christian and Muslim, belligerent and pacifist, imperialist and colonised, rich and poor and finally developed and underdeveloped have all co-existed in this selfcontained territory whose borders have not remained fixed. Such duality is to a great extent responsible for the varied and contradictory perceptions of the Mediterranean. Although after hundreds of years and numerous setbacks it may be popularly perceived as ‘a recipe for boredom’,24 this Mediterranean saga continues to play a role in contemporary politics. The Mediterranean has not yet exhausted its potential of ‘creating new alliances and agglomerations to generate novel and interesting heuristic options’.25 When it is not ideological or overly romantic, the Mediterranean is a useful intellectual construct, which, if well-managed, could form a microcosmos of stability, sustainable development and brotherhood that could grow into larger circles of peaceful co-existence. The UfM does not promise ground-breaking success in the near future, but the EU does not have the luxury of putting the UfM back on the mouldy shelves of the Barcelona Process either. The UfM, currently on the brink of failure, has already been launched and is already contributing to external perceptions of the EU, questioning

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its normative power. Rescuing the UfM would not only enhance the EU’s normativism, but also reinvigorate a benign Mediterraneanism as an identity construct. First, however, all the faux pas committed at the beginning of the process must be undone.

Why the Union for the Mediterranean? Up until the Renewed Mediterranean Policy of 1989, the EU’s Mediterranean policies had been a combination of bilateral agreements shaped by the Global Mediterranean Policy. The problematic areas were preferential trade, financial and economic co-operation and immigration.26 Today the Euro-Mediterranean Partnership is still searching for substantive resolutions to these same issues, along with many new ones that have become important. This is an indication of the complexity and interdependence of Mediterranean politics. It is important to acknowledge how little progress has been made in untangling this web of compatibility and incompatibility. The chance of progress remains slim, as many initiatives such as the Conference on Security and Cooperation in the Mediterranean, an inter-parliamentary union, and the Mediterranean Forum for Dialogue and Cooperation, have either stalled or failed. Despite these problems, some steps were taken to create an integrated European policy on the Mediterranean, eventually leading to the launch and advance of the Barcelona Process.27 The Barcelona Process was crafted in 1995 to balance the EU’s regional cooperation plans, which had been focused on Eastern Europe. The aim was to create, with the help of the EuroMediterranean Partnership, a happy ending for the Mediterranean. However, its capacity for problem-solving was stymied by thick piles of dossiers with labels such as conflict avoidance, political dialogue, mutual economic interdependence, free trade zone, economic mutual survival, ecological mutual survival, twinning of cities, student exchanges etc. This grand library of dossiers outlined confidencebuilding measures for political and military purposes, partnershipbuilding measures for economic, ecological and social purposes and tolerance-furthering measures for cultural purposes that would all,

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eventually, lead to the long-awaited outcomes.28 The European Neighbourhood Policy, created in 2000, had overlapping policy areas and concurrent member states with the Barcelona Process and provided some support for the process. Despite this focus on a EuroMediterranean Partnership, the tangible consequences have unfortunately remained rather unimpressive. Michelle Pace correctly argues that ‘the EU doesn’t seem to have a clear idea of what the Mediterranean represents’.29 The same confusion, I shall submit, is what clouds the future of the UfM today. It would not be fair to present the Barcelona Process, reinvigorated by the Neighbourhood Policy, as a complete failure. In particular, it deserves significant recognition for the unprecedented involvement of the European Commission and the European Investment Bank.30 Nevertheless, Barcelona hasn’t infused structural dynamism into the southern Mediterranean markets, nor has it cured unemployment, poverty or environmental degradation. Entangled in the association agreements of free trade and political transition, and embedded in a framework of flexible cooperation among 27 EU member states and 11 partner states, all under the supervision of more than a dozen divisions of the European Commission, the Barcelona Process became ‘too cumbersome and bureaucratic’.31 The impressive number of meetings (bilateral and multilateral) and overlapping parliamentary sessions led to underwhelming results and disappointed the Mediterranean public. The Process’s smaller divisions, such as Dialogue 5 þ 5, which brings together five Maghreb countries and five EU member states, have remained unofficial and therefore unproductive. The limited success of the Barcelona Process can be explained by the participants’ reluctance to defy their own internal dynamics and fully engage with the process, rather than by the shortcomings of the process itself. Scholars, researchers and journalists seem to agree on this matter.32 The convergence of the commercial markets, financial institutions and legislation in the EU and non-EU states of the Mediterranean has facilitated the development of a free trade zone within the EuroMed Partnership; this has been successful because furthering economic integration and twinning the markets is in the

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states’ interests. Nevertheless, even in commercial issues the EU’s restrictions on some agricultural products for which the southern Mediterranean countries have a comparative advantage has limited the free exchange of goods.33 Despite the EU’s official discourse, attempts to solve thornier problems such as immigration, youth unemployment, environmental degradation and conflict resolution have received even less input from participating states. The southern basin of the Mediterranean has become disillusioned by their partnership with the EU. The sincere believers in European normativism, therefore, must find a way to convince the non-Mediterranean members of the EU that a robust European engagement with the Mediterranean issues of poverty, sustainable development, clean water, renewable energy and peaceful co-existence requires more than financing the pet projects of France, Italy or Spain. If norms and values for sustainable life in the Mediterranean can be established, the southern EU member states should not be the only ones to benefit. In the meantime, the reception of the EU’s Mediterranean policies among the non-EU states of the Mediterranean remains highly problematic. In their eyes, the institutional and discursive framework of the EU policies suggest an incessant attempt to ‘redefine, reorganise, administer’, and to ‘transform this area’ in a way to provide ‘one specific usefulness for Europe’.34 In other words, the actors subject to the EuroMed policies have a hard time believing that the EU’s implementations really address their needs. The EU has given the impression that the Barcelona Process and its predecessors were designed to remodel the Mediterranean so that it will be useful to the EU and its member states. This highlights a grave error of the EU’s communication department, which has misrepresented the EU policies; this misrepresentation has become an obstacle to the ideals of European normativism. Another obstacle that the Barcelona Process has faced is the incoherence among the Mediterranean states and the chronic unresolved conflicts that ‘divide the partners that are supposed to cooperate’.35 In the midst of uncertainty, indifference, hostility and misgovernment, the non-EU states of the Mediterranean have not

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fully engaged with the possibilities represented by the EuroMed concept. There are few reasons to contradict Michael Emerson’s description of the southern Mediterranean as ‘one of smarter authoritarianism, co-opting elites with business interests, allowing some token political pluralism while repressing any potentially serious opposition movement.’36 In light of this accurate observation and the current Egyptian and Tunisian riots, we may surmise that decision makers in the southern Mediterranean states do not always espouse the policies that create sustainable life and peace. As a result, the input of the non-EU states of the Mediterranean into the Barcelona Process also falls short of expectations. On the eve of its 50th anniversary, it is time to wind up the Barcelona Process, which has not borne the intended results but has instead been limping along with negligible outcomes. The new phase of the Euro-Mediterranean Partnership must unload the heavily bureaucratic, overstretched, too multi-layered, politically challenged, unexciting and consequence-barren Barcelona Process. This is what the UfM was designed to do. The former Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak, having co-presided at the UfM Summit on 13 July 2008, assured the audience that it was a ‘new body’ focusing ‘on practical projects’ in parallel with other conflict-resolution efforts. This new emphasis on practicality promised ‘better chances of success’ than all the previous cooperation schemes.37 Within this framework, the UfM has applied the principle of practicality to six topics: depollution of the Mediterranean, a civil protection network, boosting solar energy, reconstruction and rehabilitation of land and sea motorways, empowerment of small and medium-sized business, and finally the founding of a EuroMed university.38 Once the outcomes of these projects begin to have an impact on welfare, unemployment and renewable energy production, the disenchantment with the Mediterranean project could be replaced by an actual, rational and non-romantic enchantment. The UfM also restructures the institutions, secretariat and presidency of the Euro-Mediterranean Partnership. According to the new scheme, ‘a rotating co-presidency with one EU President and one President representing the Mediterranean partners’39 will be in

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charge of the administration. The fact that the first SecretaryGeneral, Ahmed Masa’deh, was from Jordan has been seen by the Mediterranean states outside the EU as a goodwill message promising a balanced say between the two basins in this phase of the region-building. Furthermore, hoping to contribute to the Middle Eastern peace negotiations, two of the six General Deputy Secretaries were selected from Israel and Palestine. The secretariat is established ‘outside the communitarian framework’ of Barcelona with the hope of ‘raising funds for a new type of cooperation project’.40 Lastly, to secure equal participation from all basins, the new Mediterranean university will be founded in Slovenia. In addition to institutional novelty, on the principal level, ‘coownership’ and ‘co-management’ of concrete projects have also been introduced as new.41 Although the design suggests a new, much more practical, confined and tangible approach to the Euro-Mediterranean Partnership, the popular perceptions of the UfM are still that it is an unpromising venture, doomed from the outset. On the popular level, the UfM is perceived alternatively as an impulse of the capricious and overambitious French president Nicolas Sarkozy; a move to sweep Turkey off the path to full membership; an imperial discourse to justify the re-colonisation of the southern Mediterranean; or another still-born baby of the exhausted dream known as Mediterraneanism. The prevalence of such perceptions is a reflection of the poor job the EU has made of presenting the UfM to the European and Mediterranean publics. To thrive, normativism requires accurate representation and thorough communication of the proposed policies. At the launch of the UfM, this aspect of normativism was undermined when the whole process was ‘kidnapped’42 by the French President. For those who desire to see the EU as a normative power, the current status of the UfM offers invaluable lessons. The following section discusses the normative lessons that can be learned from this last episode of the Euro-Mediterranean Partnership.

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Lessons for a Normative Actor Its official discourse promises that ‘while maintaining the acquis of its predecessor, the Barcelona Process’, the UfM will offer ‘more balanced governance, increased visibility to its citizens and a commitment to tangible, regional and transnational projects’.43 This focus on tangible projects that have a clear impact on quality of life provides a better opportunity for the EU to be a normative actor. Water access and management and irrigation projects, in particular, together with extensive solar plant construction could initiate a region-building process in spite of the contested ‘definition of the Euro-Mediterranean space’.44 The Mediterranean identity has been wished for so hard and long that it has grown into a simulacrum with a utilitarian quality. With the UfM, water and renewable energy could build on this simulacrum to create a zone of functionalist cooperation and sustainable development. Remembering Gordon Brown’s praise of the region as having the potential to grow into ‘a global hub for low-carbon solutions’, we may believe in and work for the ‘sun farms’ as a part of ‘the need identified by the International Energy Agency for up to 215 m of additional square metres of solar panels each year to 2050’.45 World Bank consultant Jean-Franc
ois Jamet writes for the Foundation Robert Schuman that ‘water and energy can be the Mediterranean’s coal and steel’.46 And he is not an eccentric visionary. A considerable number of experts interested in the rehabilitation and integration of the Mediterranean region have welcomed the UfM’s practical focus and the opportunity for spill-over; cooperation on water and energy may have an effect on other issues. The World Wildlife Fund (WWF), for instance, appealed to the EU decision makers not to discard the UfM on the grounds that its ‘flagship projects’ are concerned with ‘sustainable development, environment or natural resource management and energy’.47 Their concern for ‘the preservation of the priceless Mediterranean natural capital and the social and economic benefits it represents for future generations’48 sounds genuine and so does their appeal to nourish the UfM. Similarly, the Euro-Mediterranean Anna Lindh Foundation, focusing

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on regional peace and harmony, emphasises ‘the urgency of the need for the Union for the Mediterranean’.49 Giving the UfM a serious thought, Jean-Baptiste Buffet warns that ‘if the EU is to seize this moment – or, at least, to test its potential – it needs to improve its approach’.50 Therefore, rather than dwelling on the possibility of dismissing the UfM, the EU needs to correct its initial mistakes and enhance the capacity of its Mediterranean policy. Because the impact of and interest in the Euro-Mediterranean Partnership had been ‘waning’,51 this new Mediterranean initiative is timely. The UfM agenda could boost other initiatives on ‘energy (Mediterranean Solar Plan), water (Mediterranean Water Strategy) and depollution (Horizon 2020)’.52 As Rosa Balfour aptly underlines, the UfM was designed to fit intergovernmental politics ‘where the role of national governments is strengthened at the highest and most centralized level’.53 This pivotal and exclusive role appointed to the states renders the UfM highly dependent on the states’ participation in the process. Given that the EU’s normative power is weakened by the tendency of member states’ to prioritise national interests, the normativeness of this exclusively intergovernmental initiative will remain limited. The UfM was structured intergovernmentally as a result of the erratic attitude of the French President Sarkozy. His announcement of his vision of a Mediterranean Union during his presidential election campaign, and the inauguration of a watered-down version of this new union’s original blueprint, alarmed the pivotal member states. He gave the impression that he was aspiring to be the President of the EU and that he had the authority to offer privileged partnerships to the candidate states. Furthermore, his adviser Henri Guaino overemphasised France’s yearning for ‘a dominant position in the Mediterranean’.54 Fearing an overassertive France, other EU member states developed a defensive position against a possible fait accompli in the EU’s Mediterranean policy. Germany accused France of reviving its historical ‘zone of influence’.55 The new eastern member states, particularly Poland, Czech Republic and Hungary, perceived Sarkozy’s Club Med as antagonistic to the Eastern Partnership.56 Libya’s Muammar Qadhafi,

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who dismissed the initiative as the EU’s ‘Mediterranean Partnership or something like that’,57 found the UfM reminiscent of French colonialism and hence ‘frightening and dangerous’.58 Sarkozy’s attempt to drag Turkey’s EU bid into the context of the UfM, and in that way derail it, is another un-normative story that deserves particular attention. Turkey, as a candidate state in which Euroscepticism has been on the rise despite some obvious outcomes of Europeanisation, was extremely vexed by the impolite comments on its non-Europeanness and its suitability as a Mediterranean Union member rather than an EU one. Although Sarkozy would later have to retreat from his biased position, and the declaration issued by the UfM states that the UfM will remain ‘independent from the EU enlargement policy, accession negotiations and the pre-accession process’,59 Turkey, from the outset, has been uninterested in anything that could possibly be communicated through the UfM’s institutional and discursive practices. It is the wish of this author to see Turkey, despite the unfair treatment it received at the outset, reengage in the process and take part fully in the six proposed project areas. Another misstep in the lead-up to the UfM was, of course, the budgetary failure. No tangible outcomes are possible without constant, stable and sufficient financing. The UfM was announced after the problematic 2006– 13 budget had already been finalised and it was not possible to earmark any additional money for the Euro-Mediterranean Partnership. Germany, the ‘EU’s paymaster’, refused to allocate further funding to the EU’s Mediterranean budget, if the UfM would serve France’s national interests.60 This financial shortcoming is largely responsible for the reception of the UfM as ‘unwieldy and close to irrelevant right from the start’.61 Until 2013, the UfM can be sustained only through the regional projects funding that amounts to approximately 90 million Euros annually. The Barcelona Process, which received only 1.66 billion Euros over its entire 15 years, was not drowned in the generous donations of the member states and it is unlikely that the UfM will be.62 The fact that it has been launched with no money has harmed the UfM’s

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credibility, capacity and normativeness. Although Sarkozy launched the campaign ‘Invest in Med’ to find additional funding of up to 14 billion Euros from European businesses, the flagship projects of the UfM today still lack ‘financing and ownership’. The European Commission urges the Euro-Med states ‘to attract the interest of private sector actors (be they the banks or investors in general) and to create the minimal indispensable conditions for their participation in this great scheme’.63 An encouraging budgetary move is the Inframed Infrastructure Fund of 385 million Euros raised through the conjoint contributions of the European Investment Bank (EIB), France’s Caisse des De´pots, Italy’s Cassa Depositi e Prestiti, Morocco’s Caisse de De´pot et de Gestion, and Egypt’s EFG Hermes. The fund, which aims to invest in ‘greenfield projects, compliant with minimum requirements with respect to environmental protection, social impact, transparency and procurement’,64 demonstrates how the more willing states proceed and the unwilling ones do not. The voluntary participation in the Inframed could also be taken as an example of what Barbe´ and Surralle´s identify as a requirement of ‘differentiation and flexibility’65 in the Mediterranean region-building attempt. Nevertheless, in addition to voluntary non-participation, a lack of communication and the spread of misinformation could result in further differentiation and lead to undesirable outcomes. Believing in the necessity of engaging Turkey in the UfM, I hope for a Turkish contribution to the Mediterranean infrastructure projects – particularly within the area of energy. Turkey’s participation in ‘infrastructure and interconnection’ development will be welcomed by the EU as the beginning of ‘an Eastern Mediterranean energy hub’.66 The exclusively intergovernmental character of the UfM has diminished the prospect of bringing together the conflicting parties in the Mediterranean. At its inauguration dinner, the UfM was praised for its success in gathering Syrian, Palestinian, Turkish and Greek Cypriot leaders around the same table.67 Unfortunately, under the influence of realpolitik, this structure became rocky immediately subsequent to Israel’s Gaza embargo. Sarkozy’s rhetoric, suggesting that the UfM would help people ‘learn how to love each other in the

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Mediterranean, instead of continuing to hate and wage war’68 was evidently unconvincing and insufficient to restore stability in the region. However, the regional interstate balance of power and interests shifts from night to day in the Middle East and the intergovernmental UfM will inevitably take a blow each time the balance changes. Turkey, for instance, was at first commended for its mediator role between Israel and Syria.69 From May 2010 onwards, however, after Israel’s attack on a flotilla of ships organised by a Turkish NGO that aimed to end the Gaza embargo, Turkey and Israel have no longer been on good terms. The widespread international discontent with Israel and its Gaza politics is, in fact, a problem that affects the future success of the UfM. So are the uprisings in Egypt and Tunisia. The water conference held on 13 April 2010, which was the first significant meeting to summon the UfM states, was stalled because of the disagreement between the Palestinians and the Israelis over the wording of the documents. Despite the pressing need to lower ‘the consumption of water between now and the year 2025 to a level 25 per cent below that of 2005’,70 a water-management strategy for the Mediterranean, could not be negotiated. It is unreasonable that the presence of one exceptionally controversial figure such as Israel’s Foreign Minister, Avigdor Liberman, or controversial wording can derail concrete projects for sustainable development and renewable energy.71 As long as the realpolitik eclipses the UfM’s decision-making process, the Mediterranean peoples’ chances ‘to save water for urban and agricultural use and to reuse it’ will remain slim.72 As Buffet very rightly suggests, ‘if the people at the top of the Union are too politicised, there is a risk of constant blockage’ and for that reason, we need to ‘depoliticise and apoliticise this structure’ repeatedly.73 Such a goal could underpin any engagement in deconstruction and reconstruction of the universal; hence the long-desired enhancement of normativisim. Otherwise too many will agree with comments stressing that ‘[t]he EU, for its part, is caught in the middle – stuck not for the first time, with a foreign policy initiative that didn’t look well-conceived in the first place and is now making the Europeans seem more ineffectual than ever’.74

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The Cyprus Question and the UfM The UfM’s treatment of the Cyprus conflict is critical to its success. There is no doubt that the role of the EU in the Cyprus question has been addressed by many able hands. Nevertheless, as the problem persists, the debate is not exhausted. It appears repeatedly in discussions of the EU’s enlargement policies, conflict-management abilities, and, of course, of its normative actorness. It has inevitably made its way into discussions on the future of the UfM. The prolonged dispute between Turkey and the Greek Cypriot government may stall the decision-making process. On the other hand, a politics-free discourse based on infrastructural, environmental and cultural projects in the Mediterranean could facilitate a resolution between the conflicting parties. When the EU offered the prospect of membership to the Greek Cypriot administration, European officials, experts and academics seemed to be convinced that the membership negotiations would have, what Diez called, ‘a catalytic effect on the Cyprus conflict’, which would accelerate a working and permanent solution on the island. However, the EU has not yet had a catalytic effect on this frozen conflict. Since the opening of the membership negotiations with Cyprus in March 1998, the EU has abandoned its role as an outsider and reconstructed its position, despite its contrary claims, as a ‘part of the conflict’.75 To be more exact, it has assumed a dual role as both a neutral mediator and a partial entity guarding the interest of its members, Greece and the Greek Cypriot government. Given the awkwardness of the situation and its inherent inability to facilitate desirable outcomes, the EU has taken part in the conflict as both an enthusiastic and a hesitant, reluctant actor, taking one step forward and two steps back. To a certain degree, this incoherent attitude has contributed to the perpetuation of the problem. Mathias Albert, Thomas Diez and Stephen Stetter argue that in the cases of frozen conflicts, the integration process could in fact have ‘the effect of intensifying conflict discourse’.76 In the aftermath of the Annan Plan referenda in Cyprus, such an intensification occurred, along with the spectacular disappointment of those who had invested their hopes in a

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EU-promoted solution. The involvement of the EU in the Cyprus question has not solved the problem, but has transformed it – and not for the better.77 European integration was expected to create a bridge between the Greek and Turkish parties in the Cyprus conflict through ‘the legal and normative framework of the EU’, which would work to ‘delegitimise previously dominant positions’.78 It is true that the EU membership prospect has shifted the ground on which the conflicting parties stood and that some positions have been reposited. What is striking is that the EU has never treated the ill fate of the Annan Plan as one of its own shortcomings or as a failure of its conflict management policy. On the day after the double referenda on the island, it took refuge in its traditional role as an outsider and restored the Cyprus deadlock to the UN agenda. Today, the leaders of Greek and Turkish Cypriots bilaterally come together on a regular basis to work out the solution yearned for by all parties for decades. The Greek Cypriot’s recent insistence on offshore oil exploration has created a new source of tension in these negotiations. The re-launch of the UfM with a concentration on projects involving co-ownership and co-management could convince the negotiating parties to sit at the same desk without pre-conditions. In this way, the EU would again become a credible actor capable of empowering not only the Greek but all Cypriots in the actual conditions of their lives. As Turkish Foreign Minister Ahmet Davudog˘lu states, ‘[a] solution’ in the island ‘will bring real peace to the eastern Mediterranean and truly unite Europe’.79 The record of the Cyprus talks demonstrates that the solution will not come easily. While waiting for the peace, the UfM could enhance the sense of co-existence among the Cypriots by reminding them that they have a common environmental, infrastructural, developmental and cultural agenda.

Conclusion The double postponement of the first UfM summit since its inauguration in July 2008 has received negligible attention from the French public and press and almost none from Turkey. As a consequence of the rapid decline in interest in this topic, the UfM has

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become invisible to the peoples of the Mediterranean. How the UfM is perceived by the actors who are subject to it has implications for European normativism. Although Mediterraneanism is grounded in the thin concept of identity, the Mediterranean can be a useful constructed category through which the peoples of the region can nourish an affinity. The lack of attention to the UfM and its lack of credibility can be attributed to the erratic actions of the French President in June 2008, the overcrowded membership system, and its intergovernmental structure. The UfM’s potential to establish norms and values for sustainable life in the Mediterranean is real and can be achieved through less politicised participants and concrete projects. The creation of substantive strategies for water, energy, immigration and free and fair trade within the framework of common regulation, spearheaded by more willing states and civil society will help the region meet the targets for ‘the preservation of the priceless Mediterranean natural capital and the social and economic benefits it represents for future generations’.80 The first step in this scheme is unfortunately to fight against absenteeism. According to sources close to the Spanish Presidency in January 2010, the second-ever summit of the UfM was postponed because of Spain’s fear of ‘a low turnout by the Mediterranean leaders’.81 For this reason, the construction of a new, more inclusive discourse is imperative if large countries such as Turkey are to become re-engaged in the EuroMed projects. Normativism is based on such a constant cycle of deconstruction, reconstruction and redefinition. The peoples of the Mediterranean must take the implications of migration, climate change and environmental degradation seriously. The UfM, on paper, offers them concrete projects based on coownership and co-management that can tackle their pressing problems and empower them in the actual conditions of their lives; however, in practice it suffers from a lack of credibility, insufficient funding and realpolitik. The failure of this phase of the Euro-Mediterranean Partnership will strike a heavy blow to European normativism. In order to prevent the collapse and disappearance of yet another EU policy, the decision-makers, while assessing and correcting their erratic steps, should listen to the suggestions of the NGOs, scholars and

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researchers. In this way, the EU could enhance its capacity to create desirable, tangible outcomes and also to implement norms and values.

Notes 1 Morrison, Robert (ed.), Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice: A Sourcebook (New York: Routledge, 2005), p. 154. 2 Spencer, Thomas, ‘Reflections on the Arab Revolutions’, Euractiv (2011), http:// www.euractiv.com/global-europe/reflections-arab-revolutions-analysis-505518. 3 Manners, Ian, ‘Normative Power Europe: A Contradiction in Terms?’, Journal of Common Market Studies 40/2 (2002), pp. 235– 58. 4 Manners, Ian, ‘Normative Power Europe Reconsidered: Beyond the Crossroads’, Journal of European Public Policy 13/2 (2006), pp. 182– 99. 5 Manners, Ian, ‘The Normative Ethics of the European Union’, International Affairs 84/1 (2008), p. 45. 6 Diez, Thomas, ‘Constructing the Self and Changing Others: Reconsidering “Normative Power Europe”’, Millennium: Journal of International Studies 33/3 (2005), p. 620. 7 Bretherton, Charlotte, and John Vogler, The European Union as a Global Actor (London and New York: Routledge, 2006), p. 22. 8 Manners: ‘Normative Ethics’, p. 46. 9 Fioramonti, Lorenzo and Arli Poletti, ‘Facing the Giant: Southern Perspective on the European Union’, Third World Quarterly 29/1 (2008), pp. 167– 80. 10 Turner, Stephen, Explaining the Normative (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2010), pp. 181– 8. 11 Diez: ‘Constructing the Self’, pp. 636 –7. 12 Thomas, Daniel C., ‘Explaining the Negotiation of EU Foreign Policy: Normative Institutionalism and Alternative Approaches’, International Politics 46/4 (2009), p. 343. 13 de Zutter, Elisabeth and Francisco Toro, ‘Normative Power is in the Eye of the Beholder: An Empirical Assessment of Perceptions of EU Identity at the WTO’, UNU-Merit Working Papers, (2008), http://www.merit.unu.edu/publications/ wppdf/2008/wp2008-074.pdf. 14 Manners: ‘Normative Ethics’, p. 47. 15 Turner: Explaining the Normative, p. 184. 16 Harris, William V., ‘The Mediterranean and Ancient History’ in Harris (ed.), Rethinking the Mediterranean (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), p. 4. 17 Ibid. p. 11. 18 Mehdi Mozaffari, ‘Islamic Civilization between Medina and Athens’ in Mozaffari, Mehdi (ed.), Globalization and Civilizations (London: Routledge, 2002), p. 203. 19 Fernand Braudel, Memory and the Mediterranean (New York: Vintage Books, 2001), p. 15.

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20 Harris: ‘Mediterranean and Ancient History’, p. 5. 21 Salzmann, Ariel, ‘The Moral Economies of the Pre-Modern Mediterranean. Preliminaries to the Study of Cross-Cultural Migration During the Long 16th Century’ in Vera Constantini and Markus Koller (eds), Living in the Ottoman Ecumenical Community: Essays in Honour of Suraiya Faroqhi (Leiden: Brill, 2008), p. 460. 22 Horden, Peregrine and Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000), p. 28. 23 Harris: Mediterranean and Ancient History, pp. 62 – 3. 24 Ibid. p. 1. 25 Peregrine, Horden and Nicholas Purcell, ‘Four Years of Corruption: A Response to Critics’ in Harris (ed.), Rethinking the Mediterranean, p. 355. 26 ‘The Euro-Mediterranean Partnership’, http://ec.europa.eu/external_relations/ euromed/index_en.htm. 27 Brauch, Hans G. and Antonio Marquina and Abdelwahab Biad, ‘Introduction: Euro-Mediterranean Partnership for the 21st Century’, in Brauch, Marquina, Biad and Liotta (eds), Euro-Mediterranean Partnership for the 21st Century (London: MacMillan, 2000), p. 19. 28 Brauch, Hans G., ‘From Confidence to Partnership Building Measures in Europe’ in Brauch, Marquina, Biad and Liotta (eds), Euro-Mediterranean Partnership for the 21st Century, p. 53. 29 Pace, Michelle, ‘The Ugly Duckling of Europe: The Mediterranean in the Foreign Policy of the European Union’, Journal of European Area Studies, 10/2 (2002), p. 195. 30 Corm, Georges, ‘Foire d’Empoigne Autour de la Me´diterrane´e’, Le Monde Diplomatique (June 2008), www.monde-diplomatique.fr/2008/07/CORM/ 16060. 31 Emerson, Michael, ‘Making Sense of Sarkozy’s Union for the Mediterranean’, CEPS (Centre for European Policy Studies) Policy Brief No. 155, 2008, http://shop. ceps.eu/BookDetail.php?item_id¼1624, pp. 5– 6. 32 Ibid. p. 11. 33 Corm: ‘Foire d’Empoigne’ and Emerson: ‘Making Sense of UfM’, p. 4. 34 Pace: ‘Ugly Duckling’, p. 209. 35 ‘Sommet de l’Union pour la Me´diterrane´e, une Corde´e Mal Assure´e’, Le Monde Diplomatique, 11 June 2008, www.monde-diplomatique.fr/carnet/2008-07-11-s ommet-de-l-Union-pour-la. 36 Emerson: ‘Making Sense of UfM’, p. 3. 37 Charlton, Angela, ‘Sarkozy Launches Union for Mediterranean Region’, The Boston Globe, 14 July 2008, http://www.boston.com/news/world/europe/articles/ 2008/07/14/sarkozy_launches_union_for_mediterranean_region/. 38 ‘Paris Summit Inaugurates “Mediterranean Union”’, Euractiv, 14 July 2008, http://www.euractiv.com/en/east-mediterranean/paris-summit-inaugurates-m editerranean-union/article-174213.

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39 ‘The Euro-Mediterranean Partnership’, http://ec.europa.eu/external_relations/ euromed/index_en.htm. 40 Soler i Lecha, Eduard and Garcia, Irene ‘The Union for the Mediterranean: What Has It Changed and What Can Be Changed in the Domain of Security?’, Centre for European Policy Studies, No. 4 (2009), http://www.ceps.eu/book/union-medi terranean-what-has-it-changed-and-what-can-be-changed-domain-security. 41 Behr, Timo, ‘What Future for the Union for the Mediterranean’, Finnish Institute of International Affairs, FIIA Comment 1/2010, http://www.upi-fiia.fi/ en/expert/73. 42 Ghiles, Francis, ‘The Union for the Mediterranean Fails to Provide a New Tool Box for the Region’, Opinion CIDOB, No: 73 (2010), http://www.cidob.org/es/ publicaciones/opinion/mediterraneo_y_oriente_medio/the_union_for_the_m editerranean_fails_to_provide_a_new_tool_box_for_the_region. 43 Euro-Mediterranean Partnership. 44 Barbe´, Esther and Surralle´s, Anna H., ‘Dynamic of Convergence and Differentiation in Euro-Mediterranean Relations: Towards Flexible RegionBuilding or Fragmentation?’, Mediterranean Politics 15/12 (2010), p. 131. 45 Traynor, Ian, ‘Love Tops Agenda as Sarkozy Launches Mediterranean Union’, The Guardian, 14 July 2008, http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2008/jul/14/ france.eu. 46 ‘The Barcelona Process and the Mediterranean Union: Possibilities for the Future’, Euractiv, 10 July 2008, www.euractiv.com/en/priorities/barcelonaprocess-mediterranean-union-possibilities-future/article-174128. 47 ‘Is the Union for the Mediterranean Paving the Way for Sustainability?’, WWF (2010), http://wwf.panda.org/about_our_earth/all_publications/?193827/Is -the-Union-for-the-Mediterranean-paving-the-way-for-sustainability, p. 3. 48 Ibid. p. 8 49 ‘The Foundation’s Advisory Council Endorsed A Number of Actions to Help Civil Society in the Region’, Anna Lindh Euro-Mediterranean Foundation for the Dialogue Between Cultures (2009), http://www.euromedalex.org/news/foundati ons-advisory-council-endorsed-number-actions-help-civil-society-region. 50 Buffet, Jean-Baptiste, ‘Build Step-by-step Links with the Mediterranean’, European Voice, 27 May 2010, http://www.europeanvoice.com/article/imported/ build-step-by-step-links-with-the-mediterranean/68064.aspx. 51 Calleya, Stephen C., ‘The Union for the Mediterranean: An Exercise in Region Building’, Mediterranean Quarterly, 20/4 (2009), p. 50. 52 ‘Way for Sustainability’: p. 9. 53 Balfour, Rosa, ‘The Transformation of the Union for the Mediterranean’, Mediterranean Politics, 14/1 (2009), p. 103. 54 Traynor, Ian, ‘Germany Pours Cold Water on Sarkozy Union’, The Guardian, 14 March 2008, http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2008/mar/14/france.eu. 55 Traynor: ‘Love Tops Agenda.’ 56 Cianciara, Agnieszka K., ‘The Union for the Mediterranean and the Eastern Partnership: Perspectives from Poland, Czech Republic and Hungary’, Report of

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64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74

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75 Diez: ‘Constructing the Self’, p. 147, 139. 76 Albert, Mathias, Diez, Thomas and Stetter, Stephan ‘The Transformative Power of Integration: Conceptualising Border Conflicts’, in T. Diez (ed.), The European Union and Border Conflicts: The Power of Integration and Association (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), pp. 13 –32. 77 Tu¨rkes
, Mustafa,‘Cycles of Transformation of the Cyprus Question’ in Nurs
in Ates
og˘lu Gu¨ney (ed.), Contentious Issues of Security and the Future of Turkey (Hampshire: Ashgate, 2007), p. 163. 78 Albert, Mathias, et al.: ‘Transformative Power of Integration’, p. 27. 79 ‘Turkey Wants Island Reunification Ahead of Cypriot EU Stint’, Euractiv, 11 July 2011, http://www.euractiv.com/enlargement/turkey-wants-island-reunifi cation-ahead-cypriot-eu-stint-news-506444. 80 ‘Way for Sustainability’, p. 8. 81 Vogel: ‘UfM Summit Postponed’.

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Bretherton, Charlotte and John Vogler, The European Union as a Global Actor. (London and New York: Routledge, 2006). Buffet, Jean-Baptiste, ‘Build Step-by-step Links with the Mediterranean’, European Voice, 27 May 2010, http://www.europeanvoice.com/article/imported/buildstep-by-step-links-with-the-mediterranean/68064.aspx. Calleya, Stephen C., ‘The Union for the Mediterranean: An Exercise in Region Building’, Mediterranean Quarterly 20/4 (2009), pp. 49 – 70. Charlton, Angela, ‘Sarkozy launches Union for Mediterranean Region’, The Boston Globe, 14 July 2008, http://www.boston.com/news/world/europe/articles/2008/ 07/14/sarkozy_launches_union_for_mediterranean_region/. Cianciara, Agnieszka K., ‘The Union for the Mediterranean and the Eastern Partnership: Perspectives from Poland, Czech Republic and Hungary’, Report of the Institute of the Public Affairs. Poland, 2008. http://www.isp.org.pl/files/ 20428018440644117001255085245.pdf. Corm, Georges, ‘Foire d’Empoigne Autour de la Me´diterrane´e’, Le Monde Diplomatique, July 2008, www.monde-diplomatique.fr/2008/07/CORM/16060. de Zutter, Elisabeth and Francisco Toro, ‘Normative Power is in the Eye of the Beholder: An Empirical Assessment of Perceptions of EU Identity at the WTO’, UNU-Merit Working Papers, 2008, http://www.merit.unu.edu/publications/ wppdf/2008/wp2008-074.pdf. Diez, Thomas, ‘Last Exit to Paradise? The European Union, the Cyprus Conflict and the Problematic ‘Catalytic Effect’, in T. Diez (ed.), The European Union and the Cyprus Conflict, Postmodern Union (Manchester and NY: Manchester University Press, 2002), pp. 139– 62. ———, ‘Constructing the Self and Changing Others: Reconsidering “Normative Power Europe”’, Millennium: Journal of International Studies 33/3 (2005), pp. 613– 36. Emerson, Michael, ‘Making Sense of Sarkozy’s Union for the Mediterranean’, CEPS (Centre for European Policy Studies) Policy Brief No. 155 (2008) http://shop.ceps. eu/BookDetail.php?item_id¼1624. Escribano, Gonzalo, ‘Convergence towards Differentiation: The Case of Mediterranean Energy Corridors’, Mediterranean Politics, 15/2 (2010), pp. 211– 29. Fioramonti, Lorenzo and Arli Poletti, ‘Facing the Giant: Southern Perspective on the European Union’, Third World Quarterly, 29/1 (2008), pp. 167– 80. Fu¨le, Stephen, Speech: Union for the Mediterranean ‘For “UM” Meeting, Marseille, 27 May 2010, http://www2.ccimp.com/forum/DiscoursFule.pdf. Ghiles, Francis, ‘The Union for the Mediterranean Fails to Provide a New Tool Box for the Region’, Opinion CIDOB, No. 73 (2010), http://www.cidob.org/es/publi caciones/opinion/mediterraneo_y_oriente_medio/the_union_for_the_medi terranean_fails_to_provide_a_new_tool_box_for_the_region. Harris, William V., ‘The Mediterranean and Ancient History’ in Harris (ed.), Rethinking the Mediterranean (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), pp. 1 – 42. Horden, Peregrine and Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000). ———, ‘Four Years of Corruption: A Response to Critics’ in Harris (ed.), Rethinking the Mediterranean (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), pp. 348– 75. ‘Invest in Med’ Annual Conference (2009) http://www.eurochambres.eu/content/ default.asp?Pagename¼Index&incFile¼Index_164_1890.htm.

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‘Summit Approves Union for the Mediterranean’, Euractiv, 14 March 2008, http:// www.euractiv.com/en/priorities/summit-approves-union-mediterranean/article170976. ‘The Barcelona Process and the Mediterranean Union: Possibilities for the Future’, Euractiv, 10 July 2008, www.euractiv.com/en/priorities/barcelona-process-medi terranean-union-possibilities-future/article-174128. ‘The Euro-Mediterranean Partnership’, http://ec.europa.eu/external_relations/eurom ed/index_en.htm. ‘The Euro-Mediterranean Partnership/Barcelona Process’ http://www.eu-ldc.org/ themes/regionalfocus/regfocus_policy7.php. ‘The Foundation’s Advisory Council Endorsed A Number of Actions to Help Civil Society in the Region’, Anna Lindh Euro-Mediterranean Foundation for the Dialogue Between Cultures (2009), http://www.euromedalex.org/news/foundati ons-advisory-council-endorsed-number-actions-help-civil-society-region. Thomas, Daniel C., ‘Explaining the Negotiation of EU Foreign Policy: Normative Institutionalism and Alternative Approaches’, International Politics 46/4 (2009), pp. 339– 57. Traynor, Ian, ‘Germany Pours Cold Water on Sarkozy Union’, The Guardian, 14 March 2008, http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2008/mar/14/france.eu. ———, ‘Love Tops Agenda as Sarkozy Launches Mediterranean Union’, The Guardian, 14 July 2008, http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2008/jul/14/ france.eu. ‘Turkey Wants Island Reunification Ahead of Cypriot EU Stint’, Euractiv, 11 July 2011, http://www.euractiv.com/enlargement/turkey-wants-island-reunificationahead-cypriot-eu-stint-news-506444. Turner, Stephen, Explaining the Normative (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2010). Tu¨rkes
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og˘lu Gu¨ney (ed.), Contentious Issues of Security and the Future of Turkey (Hampshire: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 159– 76. Spencer, Thomas, ‘Reflections on the Arab Revolutions’, Euractiv, 9 June 2011, http://www.euractiv.com/global-europe/reflections-arab-revolutions-analysis505518. Vogel, Toby, ‘Union for the Mediterranean Summit Postponed’, European Voice , 25 May 2010, http://www.europeanvoice.com/article/2010/05/union-for-the-mediterranean-summit-postponed/68043.aspx.

INDEX

Abdullah Pas
a, 85 – 87, 89 – 90, 96 Abdu¨lhamid II, 113 Abulafia, David, 2 – 3, 5, 10, 14 – 16 Administration, 11, 41, 64, 67, 70– 71, 82, 86 – 96, 107, 123, 131, 182, 188 Administrative elite, 103, 114 Adrianople – polis, 26 Africa (n), 5, 7, 15 – 16, 33, 36, 40, 53 Agean Islands, 11, 30, 64 – 5, 67 – 73, 75 – 77 Aghia Trias, 86 Aghios Vassilios, 82 Ahmed Pas
a, 53 – 57 Akropolis, 83 Albania (n), 30, 46, 96 Alexander – the Great, 20, 22, 27 – 8, 31 – 34, 37, 160, 162, 169 Alexandria, 72, 134 Amalfitan, 20 Ambassadors, 29, 52, 71, 73, 84, 88, 91 American Academy in Rome, 118, 133 Amorgos, 67 Anabasis, 22, 37 Ancient history, 37, 122, 191– 2 Ancient heritage, 167 Ancient hero, 31, 34 Ancient coins, 160–3, 164, 169– 170 Ancient Cyprus, 125, 150, 169

Ancient Mezopetemia, 150 Ancient City, 150 Andros, 65, 68, 71, 74 Annales School, 6, 16 Anti-Catholicism, 72 Antioch, 72 Antiparos, 67 Antiquity, 2, 16, 19, 27, 102, 104–105, 109, 119, 146, 150, 167, 176 Antagonism, 14, 106 Antoniadu, Sophia, 165– 66 Apokorono, 82 –83 Arab invasions, 7 province, 41 revolutions, 172, 192 Spring, 172 Arabic, 19, 22, 37 Archaeologist British, 13, 105–6, 113, 151 European, 12, 101– 2, 106, 108, 110, 115 Ottoman, 106, 115 Scandinavian, 125 Archaeology classical, 118, 123 Cypriot, 124, 125 defensive, 106

200

ISLANDS OF THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN

European, 101, 104, 111 Ottoman, 100, 112, 115 Ardinghelli, Nicolo´, 22 Aretino, 23 Armenian, 66 –7, 69 – 70, 80 Ashmolean Museum of Oxford, 105, 106, 169 Asine, 125, 139– 140 Associazione Internazionale di Archeologia Classica, 120 Athens, 74 – 8, 95, 103, 114, 116, 120, 131– 4, 139– 140, 167, 169, 191 August Arrangements, 92 Augustus, 31, 128 Austria(n), 48, 83, 84, 88, 112 Authentic memory, 121 Babur Shah, 48, 59 Baghdad, 25 Bank of Cyprus Cultural Foundation, 163, 165, 169, 170 Barcelona Process, 172, 177– 183, 185, 193 Barotzi, Francesco, 70 Battle of Akdeniz / Lepanto, 10 Belgrade, 42, 43 – 47, 49 – 52, 57 Bellini, Gentile, 25 Bergman, Johan, 111 Bayezid II, 45 – 7, 53, 58 Counsel Biliotti, 82, 84, 85, 95 – 97 Black Sea, 20 Boltaslı, 145 Bosnia, 30 Braudel, Fernand, 3 –7, 15 – 6, 172, 176, 177, 191, 195 British conservative, 109, 110, 172 liberals, 108– 9 Public, 13, 106 representative, 84 British School at Athens, 139, 116, 169 at Rome, 118, 134

Bronze Age, 103, 106, 109– 110, 113, 140, 144, 154, 155 Buondelmonti, Cristoforo, 23 –24, 38 Burgundy, 27, 48 Bursa, 90, 114 Byzantine, 7, 18, 26, 27, 32, 35, 37, 39– 40, 74, 114, 146, 166 ecclesiastical art, 145 mosaics, 145– 6 Cairo, 25, 38 C¸anakale, 108 Candia, 54, 88, 91, 97, 115 Capuchins, 67, 76 Cardinal Bessarion, 32 – 3, 40 Catholic Greek, 67 Catholic propaganda, 68, 78 Catholic church, 72 Catholic priest, 68 –9, 76 Catholic dogma, 71 Cavass, 82 Ceasar, 18, 20, 22, 26 – 9, 31 – 34 Ottoman, 17 –18 Cesnola collection, 150, 157, 167 Cezair-i Bahr-i Sefid (Islands of the Mediterranean), 64 Chania, 82 –6, 90, 92, 96 – 7 Charlemagne, 3, 58 Charles V, 27, 44, 48 – 49, 53, 58 Charles VIII, 48 China, 4, 28, 38, 125, 138 Chios, 65 – 9, 72, 74, 76 – 8 Christian I, 9, 17 Christian captives, 53 Cretan, 103– 104 deputies, 86, 88 – 92, 97 empire, 49 Orthodox, 11, 64, 66, 68, 81, 83 ships, 52 vessel, 54 Christianity, 78, 109, 114, 117 Chronicles, 17, 22, 26, 40, 45, 47, 57 Chippindale Christopher, 159, 169

INDEX Civilization Minoan, 103, 113 Cizye, 65 – 66, 74 – 5 cizye-i
seriyye, 65,74 Cocco, 70, 77 Co-existence, Catholics and Orthodox, 72 Colonialism, 7, 101, 104, 112, 185 Commerce, 7, 16, 36, 42 Conquest, of Constantinople, Modon, Rhodes, Crete Constantine, 17, 26, 27, 31, 35, 70 Constantinople, 10, 17 –18, 20, 23 – 28, 30 – 33, 35 – 40, 45, 54, 57, 77, 78, 111, 112, 114, 138 Converts, Christian, Muslim, Jewish, 71 Corci Berovic
Pas
a, 86 Correspondence, 37, 112, 116, 119, 136, 137, 139 Councel of Trent, 67 Council, 39, 86, 89, 146, 166, 170, 173, 193 Count Goluchowski, 88 Court of Appeal, 87 Cretan Assembly, 81, 86 Christian, 12, 80 – 5, 87, 91 – 4 independence, 90 Muslim, 80 –2, 85, 87, 93 – 4 Revolt, 81, 92, 93 – 4 War, 65 Crete, 9, 11 – 13, 55, 56, 64, 67, 68, 73 – 75, 79 – 97, 101– 110, 112– 114, 117, 171, 175, 182, 187, 190 Crimean War, 101, 114 Cross-cultural traditions, 3 Culture Islamic, 11 Mediterranean, 5, 7 Turkic, 11 cultural property, 13, 144, 146, 148, 166– 168, 170

201

Cyclades, 9, 66, 74, 76 Cydonia, 82, 90 Cypriot antiquities, 144, 154– 5, 159, 167 artefacts, 150, 157– 9 coin, 147, 161– 4 expedition, 124, 111, 118, 122– 3 Greek, 1, 8, 9 Turkish, 13, 146, 158, 164, 165, 189 Cyprus, 9– 13, 42, 54– 56, 118– 140, 144–170, 172, 189 church of, 145 conflict, 188, 189 prehistoric, 123 question, 188, 189, 195 Cythnos, 67 Damascus, 25, 56 Dar-u¨l harb, 65 Dei, Benedetto, 39 Denktas
, Rauf, 145 De´thier, Anton, 106 Deutsches Archa¨ologisches Institut Rom, 118 Deutsches Historisches Institut, 120 Devlet-i aliyye, 65, 74 Dikmen Aydın, 145 Dividdar Mehmed C¸elebi, 49 Dominicans, 67 Dragoman, 89 – 90 Dynastic, 10, 51, 54, 58, 101– 103, 112 Eastern Question, 93 – 95 Ebu Bekir ed-Darani, 53 E´cole franc
aise de Rome, 118– 119 Egypt, 11, 42, 53, 55, 103, 150, 155, 157, 160, 169, 186– 187 England, 11, 52, 58 Epitropi (Reform Committee), 81 – 82, 90 Ethnicity, 1 Euphronios Krater, 152 Eurocentric, 1

202

ISLANDS OF THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN

Euro-Mediterranean Anna Lindh Foundation, 183 Euro-Mediterranean Partnership, 172, 178– 179, 181– 182, 184– 185, 190, 192– 193 Europe, Western, 7, 12 – 13, 95, 101– 102, 105, 111, 126 European Commission, 173, 179, 186 European regimes, 102 European Union (EU), 9, 191– 192, 194– 195 Evans Arthur, 105– 106, 109– 110, 113– 117 Famagusta, 130, 149, 152, 154 Florence, 30, 37 –40, 120 Florentine colony, 22 Fourth Mediterranean, 10 Fragkisko, 70 France, 11, 22, 36, 39, 48, 67, 112, 119, 128, 131, 180, 184– 186 Francis I, 48, 58 Frank, 9, 157 Fransiscans Frenk, 49, 59, 64 Friedrich Wilhelm, 119, 133 Fro¨din Otto, 125 Gabriel III, 71 Gabriel Taragon, 53 Galata, 17, 40 General Assembly, 86, 89, 97 Genghis Khan, 25 Genoa, 29 – 30 Genoese, 20, 36, 40, 66 George Sphrantzes, 31, 40 George Trapezuntios, 24, 33 German, libraries, 120, 131, 135 Ghazali – revolt, 41 Giabra-Pierides collection, 159 Gjerstad, Einar, 135– 137 Giozes Ntalex, 66 Giglioli, Giulio, 128 Giustiniani, 69, 77

Gladstone W. E., 109, 116 Gramsci, Antonio, 57, 195 Grand Turk, 29, 35 – 36, 40 Greece, 22, 30, 37 – 38, 75, 77, 80, 83– 84, 88, 90– 91, 108– 109, 112–113, 120, 122, 125, 127, 131, 139– 140, 150, 155, 160, 163, 169– 170, 188 Greek government, 83, 84, 86, 88, 90, 112 Mythology, 103 nation, 95, 104, 105 nationalism,103 occupation, 92 Orthodox, 11, 65 – 6, 68, 70 – 3, 77 state, 102, 122 Greenfeld Liah, 94 Gregorian Armenian, 67, 70 Guicciardini, Francesco, 59, 62 Gustaf Adolf, Crown prince, 119– 121, 123, 125, 127, 131, 135– 139 Habsburg, 5, 74, 76, 79 Hadjicosti, Maria, 149– 150, 167 Hakıˆkaˆt, 83, 96 Halepa Convention, 81, 97 Halepa Pact, 86 – 87, 90 Hamidian regime, 106 Hannibal, 28, 32 Hardy, Sam, 167 Hatred, 85, 92, 94 hegemonic struggle, 80 Hellenic, world, lands, culture, 80, 103–105, 163 Hellenistic, period, 123 Henri Guaino, 184 Henry VIII, 48, 58 Heritage, cultural, archaeological, 9– 10, 12 – 14, 18, 25, 115, 122, 125, 132, 135, 144– 149, 151, 153– 155, 157, 159, 161, 163–170 Herodotus, 4, 22 Herzfeld, Michael, 15, 95

INDEX Hesiod, 22, 37 Hess, Andrew, 15, 55 Hisarlık, 108 Hobsbawm, Eric, 6 Holy Land, 42, 54 Homer, 17, 116 Horden, Peregrin, 192 Hospital, 9, 119 Hospitallers, 42, 56 Hungary, 30, 42, 51, 60, 112, 184, 193 Hybridity, 3, 8, 20 Hyperborei, 119 Ideological colonialism, 104, I˙deology, political, national, Ottoman, 10, 13, 28, 39, 93, 114 Ikiadis Efendi, 90 – 91 Iliad, 23, 38 I˙mperial (ism), 1 – 4, 9, 11 – 12, 19– 20, 26 – 30, 32 – 34, 42, 54, 65, 67, 69, 72, 79, 85, 92, 97, 100– 103, 105– 108, 113– 114, 119, 145, 177, 182 Imperial German Archaeological Institute, 119 Imperial legitimacy, 105 Imperial Ottoman Museum, 102 India, 4, 28, 38, 48 Institute of Archaeological, 119 international system, 172 I˙psili, Monastery, 70 Iraq, 13, 115, 160 I˙sidore of Kiev, 22, 35, 37 – 38 I˙slamic, 10 – 11, 19 – 20, 36, 38, 50, 55, 59 – 60, 74, 80, 113, 160, 176, 191 Istanbul, 11, 18, 21 – 22, 24 – 26, 35 – 37, 39, 55, 57, 64, 70 – 77, 81, 87 – 89, 91 – 92, 94 – 96, 102, 106– 107, 112, 114– 115, 132, 134, 138, 144, 166 Istanbul Imperial Museum, 106 Istituto di corrispondenza archeologica, 118

203

I˙talian, 10, 18 –20, 25, 27 – 30, 32 – 34, 36– 37, 39, 48 – 49, 96, 112– 113, 115, 122, 128– 129, 132, 134–135 Italy, 15, 17 –18, 27– 28, 30 – 32, 48, 59, 112, 115, 119– 120, 122, 128–129, 131, 134, 155, 160, 180, 186 Ivar Kreuger (the Match King), 124, 135 Jacobus Fontanus, 44 Jacques de Bourbon, 47, 58 Jerusalem, 16, 38, 72, 78 Jesuit, 39, 67, 76 Jesuits, 28, 67 –68, 78 Kadı, court, 68 – 69, 76 Kalives, 85 Kambi, 90 Kapudan Pas
a, 64 Karagheorgis Vassos, 151– 152, 165 Karakallos, Kyrillos, 72 – 73 Kay Kavus, 31 Kemalpas
azade, 44 – 45, 50 – 51, 55, 57 King Corvinus, 29 Knapp Bernd, 165– 166, 170 Knossos, 103, 105– 106, 108– 110, 114, 116 Kocabas
, 65, 69 Kordaki-Amari, 81 Kos, 69, 72, 74, 76 Kritoboulos, 24, 26, 38– 40 Kyrillos, Patriarch, 69, 71 – 73 Kurdog˘lu (Ottoman captain), 46, 52, 54 Ladislas Vetesius, 29 Laertius, 22 Lannoy, Charles, 49 Larnaca, 121, 123, 159 de Languschi, Giacomo, 32 Lasithi, 88

204

ISLANDS OF THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN

Latin, 11, 19, 21 – 22, 24, 37 – 38, 42, 53, 64 – 72, 74 – 75, 77, 119 archbishop, 64, 74 aristocracy, 69 – 70, 79 bishop, 68 Catholics, 11 reaya, 67 rule, 64, 66, 69, 72, 74 – 5 Lepanto, Battle of 10 Levant, 11, 20, 28, 52, 66, 168–169 Libya, 103, 184, 194 Limassol, 159 Lindros John, 124– 125, 127, 138 Livy, 22, 56 Lombards, 22 London, 16, 36, 58 –59, 84– 85, 94 – 95, 112, 115– 117, 134, 155, 157, 159, 166, 167– 169, 191– 192 looting, 144–153, 157, 160, 163– 166 Louis II, 44 Louis XII, 48 Loukaris, Kyrillos, 71 Luigi Palma di Cesnola, 150 Luki Z. Pierides, 121, 123 Lythrangomi, 145 Macedonia, 30, 160 Malatesta, Sigismondo, 23 Mare Nostrum, 4, 14, 134, 176 Marino Sanuto, 47 Maronite, 67 Marriage, mixed, 68, 69 Mediterranean Ancient, 10, 13 identity, 34, 183 islands, 9, 14 policy, 171– 2, 178, 184 region, 80, 93, 177, 183, 186, 192 union, 184, 185, 192, 193 Mediterraneanism, 3, 9, 14, 172, 176, 178, 182, 190 Medrese – koranic school, 9 von Meggen, Joseph, 150

Mehmet (d) II, the Conqueror, 10, 17, 25, 34, 35 – 40, 42, 45 – 47, 57, 59– 60 Merchant, 51, 53 Merchants, French, English, Arab, 51– 54, 66, 75 Merona, 81 Mesih Pas
a/Pasha, 45 – 46, 60 Mesopotamia, 150 Migrating, migration, 2, 35, 81, 190, 192 Milan, 15, 29 – 30, 35 Milos, 65, 68, 74, 76 Minoan, 12, 103, 105, 113 Minos Kalokairinos, 108– 109 Missionaries – Catholic, Latin, 67 – 68, 71– 72, 76, 78 Missionary, 67 – 68, 72 Modernism, 12, 116 Mohammed, 3, 27, 35 Montelius Oscar, 125, 138, 139 Morea, 30, 38, 72 Mosque, 18 Mostra Augustea della Romanita`, 128 Mubarak, Hosni, 181 Murad II, 45 Muslim, 3, 19 – 21, 25, 27, 39, 50, 52– 54, 60, 79, 81 –84, 86 –89, 91– 94, 97, 102–104, 106–107, 112, 114– 115, 176– 177 Mu¨ste’men, 65 Mycenae, 108, 116 Mykonos, 66 – 67, 74, 76 Mylopotamo, 82 Naples, 29 –30, 39, 49, 169 Napoleon, 7 Nasuh, 45 – 46, 55, 57 – 58 National paradigms, traditions – identity – narrative, 121 Nationalism, 12, 79, 94, 103– 104, 109–110, 112, 115 Navy, 83 Naxos, 65, 67, 69, 70, 76 – 77

INDEX Neighbourhood Policy, 179 Neophytos Patelaros, 65 Nilsson, Martin P., 120, 135, 137– 139 Nis
ancı Mehmed Pas
a, 50, 57, 59 normative power, 172– 175, 178, 182, 184, 191 Normativism, European, 172, 178, 180 Northern Cyprus, Turkish Republic of, 144, 145, 146, 154, 157, 159 Ochrid, 73 old regime, 101, 110 ¨ mer Lu¨tfu¨ Barkan, 6 O Oppian, 22 Orient, 28, 138 Orthodox – Greek, archbishop, priest, metropolitan, patriarchate Rite, 68 – 9 church, people, population Osman Hamdi Bey, 106–107, 114–115 Osman III, 73 Osman Pas
a, 85 Otranto, 25, 33, 39 Ottoman Administration, 67, 70 – 1, 92 Commission, 91 Crete, 11, 79 – 1, 85, 93, 95, 102 Discourses, 104 Empire, 6, 10, 33, 35, 36, 38 –40, 65 –67, 74, 77, 79 – 80, 84 –85, 88, 91, 95, 96, 97, 100, 105, 109, 111, 113, 114, 115, 145 regime, 104, 106, 109, 113– 114 representatives, 88 rule, 12, 68, 75, 102 troops, 82, 84 –88 Sovereignty, 105, 110, 116 Ottomanisation, 12 Panagia Kanakaria, 145 Panagia, Orthodox Church, 69, 145 Papal States, 29 Paphos, 147, 159, 161, 163, 169 Paralimni, 149

205

Paros, 66 – 68, 75 Parthenios II, III, 71 Patriarch, 37, 69, 71 – 73, 77 – 78 Patriarchate, 64, 68 – 74 Peace of Lodi, 29 Pec, 73 Peloponnesus, 68, 78 Pera, 17, 20, 30, 32, 36 Persia, 33 Persian, 18 – 19, 22, 25, 37 – 38, 44 Persson, Axel, 125, 135, 137, 139 Pester, Lloyd, 84 Petersburg, 89 Phanariot, 7 Philli Chiviges 3, Naylor Pierides Luki, 121, 123, 138 Piero Zen, 52 Pilgrem, 51, 53 –54 pigramage, 42, 53 – 54 Pindara, 22 Pirates, 51, 53, 66 Pirenne(ian), 3 Pirenne, Henri, 176 Piri Pas
a, 46, 58 Piskopia, 67 Plato, 17 Poll-tax, 65 – 66 Polybius, 23, 37 Pope Nicholas V, 17 Pope Sixtus IV, 29 Poulsen, Frederik, 120 Purcell, Nicholas, 3, 15, 192 primordial confrontation, 92 Pro¨din, Otto Propoganda Fide, 67 Proselytise, 19 Proselytising, 70, 72 Proxy war, 14 Ptolemy, 24, 34, 38 Qadhafi, Muammar, 184 Quintus Curtius, 22 Raimond de Mode`ne, 70

206

ISLANDS OF THE EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN

Realpolitik, 11, 186– 187, 190 Reaya, 65– 67, 69, 74 –75, 78 Rebellion, 71 Red Apple – kızıl elma, 29 Renaissance, 19 –20, 22, 27, 39, 58, 177 Repatriation, 144, 146 Representatives, Ottoman, European, British Republic of Cyprus, 145– 147, 149– 150, 152, 154, 159– 161, 163, 166– 168 Rethymnon, 81 – 82, 84, 88 – 89, 97 Revolt, on the islands, Cretan, 11, 41, 83 – 84, 87 – 88, 92 – 94 Rhodes, 9, 10, 12, 16, 41 – 60, 69, 72, 74 Grand master, 44 Riot, 71 Roman, empire – culture, heritage, church, 10, 18 – 20, 25, 27, 29, 32 – 34, 38, 56, 150 Romanita`, 128 Rome, 10, 12, 16 – 18, 25 – 27, 29, 32 – 34, 37, 70, 111, 118– 123, 126, 128– 135, 169 Royal Library in Stockholm, 130 Rumelia, 43 Sachs, Hans, 53 Sa’di b. Abd el-Mute’al, 55 Saadi, poet, 18 Safavi, 45, 57 Salamis, 150, 162– 163, 167, 169– 170 S
am, 44, 56 Santorini, 65, 67, 74, 76 Sarkozy, Nicolas, 182, 184 –186, 192– 193 Sea route, 11, 42, 53 – 54 Schliemann, Heinrich, 108– 109, 115– 116 Segnati of the Cross, 52 Selim I, 41, 45, 47, 53 Serbia, 30, 135

Sfakia, 83 Shah Ismail, 45, 48, 50 Sifnos, 65, 74 Sjo¨qvist, Erik, 111, 116, 120– 121, 124–126, 130–132, 137–140 Sitia, 88 Skouses, 86 Smyrna, 85 Social dynamic, 11 Storia e Storia dell’Arte, 120, 134 Sublime Porte, 11, 81, 84, 86 –88, 90– 92, 97 Su¨leyman, Sultan, 45, 49 Svatopluk, Soucek, 55 Sweden, 122– 125, 130– 131, 137–138 Swedish Cyprus Expedition, expedition, 111, 118– 119, 121– 125, 127, 129, 131– 133, 135– 140 Swedish Institute in Athens, 120 Swedish Institute in Rome (SIR), 111, 118, 120, 123, 133 Symbolic construction – symbolic structure, 1 Syria, 42, 47, 53 – 56, 155, 160, 187 S
erafettin Turan, 42 Tabib Ramazan, 47, 55 Tabriz, 48 Tenedos, 68 Tevfik Pas
a, 91 Thevenot, 68, 74, 76 – 77 Thomas Aquinas, 22 Tolerance, 94, 175, 178 Trojan Wars, 109 Troy, 23, 38, 108, 116 Tunisia, 187 Turkey, 95 – 97, 108, 111–112, 145, 150, 155, 160– 161, 163, 166, 182, 185– 190, 195 Tu¨rkisch Kayser, 44 Tzanpetros, Captain, 66 Tzounes Protonotaras, 66

INDEX

207

UNESCO, Convention, 131– 132, 144, 146, 153, 160– 161, 168, 170 Union for the Mediterranean (UfM), 14, 171, 178, 184, 192–194 Unione, Internazionale degli Istituti di Archeologia, 120, 130– 131, 134– 135

Villiers de l’Isle-Adam Philippe, 44 Violence, 80 – 81, 94 Voloudakis, Kostaros, 90

Vali, Vaˆli, 77 Vamos (Siege of), 82, 85 – 86 Vegetius, 23 Venetian, period, merchants, 23 Venice, 17, 25, 29 – 30, 38 – 39, 52, 74 Vienna, 78, 84, 88 Vilhelm Lundstro¨m, 119, 134

Xerxes, 25

Western powers, 12 Westholm Alfred, 124– 125, 136– 138 Winckelmann Johann, 122

Zaviya, 9 Zentilis, Thanos, 159, 165 Zihni Pas
a, 90 –91 Zımmi, 65 – 66 Zuan Antonio di Bonaldi, 44