Syria and Lebanon Under the French Mandate: Cultural Imperialism and the Workings of Empire 9781350988330, 9781838609207

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SYRIA AND LEBANON

French rule over Syria and Lebanon was premised on a vision of a special French protectorate established through centuries of cultural activity: archaeological, educational and charitable. Initial French methods of organising and supervising cultural activity sought to embrace this vision and to implement it in the exploitation of antiquities, the management and promotion of cultural heritage, the organisation of education and the control of public opinion among the literate classes. However, an examination of the first five years of the League of Nations-assigned mandate, 1920–25, reveals that French expectations of a protectorate were quickly dashed by widespread resistance to their cultural policies, not simply among Arabists but also among minority groups initially expected to be loyal to the French. The violence of imposing the mandate de facto, starting with a landing of French troops in the Lebanese and Syrian coast in 1919 – and followed by extension to the Syrian interior in 1920 – was met by consistent violent revolt. Examining the role of cultural institutions reveals less violent yet similarly consistent contestation of the French mandate. The political discourses emerging after World War I fostered expectations of European tutelages that prepared local peoples for autonomy and independence. Yet, even among the most Francophile of stakeholders, the unfolding of the first years of French rule brought forth entirely different events and methods. In this book, Idir Ouahes provides an in-depth analysis of the shifts in discourses, attitudes and activities unfolding in French and locally organised institutions such as schools, museums and newspapers, revealing how local resistance put pressure on cultural activity in the early years of the French mandate.

under the French Mandate

‘Ranging from classrooms and museums, to archaeological sites and vernacular journalism, in this richly evocative text Idir Ouahes reveals how Syrians contested the imposition of French mandate rule in the realms of cultural heritage, educational provision and print media.’ Martin Thomas, Professor of Imperial History, University of Exeter

Cultural Imperialism and the Workings of Empire

‘This excellent study is a welcome addition to the scholarship on the inter-war mandates of Syria and Lebanon.’ Patricia M.E. Lorcin, Professor of History and Samuel Russell Chair in Humanities, University of Minnesota Twin Cities

Idir Ouahes

Syria and Lebanon under the French Mandate Cultural Imperialism and the Workings of Empire

Idir Ouahes is Lecturer in History and International Relations at MIUC Spain. He received his PhD in History from the University of Exeter and also studied at SOAS, University of London. Cover image: General Maxime Weygand, Commander in Chief Levant, French mandate in Syria and Lebanon. Outside the church in Beirut, Lebanon, after a Te Deum sung in his honour. (Photo by Culture Club/Getty Images)

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Ouahes/Syria and Lebanon artwork.indd 1

Idir Ouahes

18/07/2018 17:12

Idir Ouahes is Lecturer in History and International Relations at MIUC Spain. He received his PhD in History from the University of Exeter and also studied at SOAS, University of London.

‘This excellent study is a welcome addition to the scholarship on the inter-war mandates of Syria and Lebanon. Ouahes focuses on the cultural institutions through which the French authorities imposed their rule, ably demonstrating the ways in which the mandate system was transformed into a political and cultural framework akin to colonialism. While tracing the disillusion and contestations that ensued, he nonetheless discusses the impact and disparate legacy of the period on both the French and the diverse populations of the two mandates.’ Patricia M.E. Lorcin, Professor of History and Samuel Russell Chair in Humanities, University of Minnesota Twin Cities ‘Resisting the imposition of French imperial control in 1920s Syria was never solely a matter of violent opposition. Ranging from classrooms and museums, to archaeological sites and vernacular journalism, in this richly evocative text Idir Ouahes reveals how Syrians contested the imposition of French mandate rule in the realms of cultural heritage, educational provision and print media.’ Martin Thomas, Professor of Imperial History, University of Exeter

SYRIA AND LEBANON UNDER THE FRENCH MANDATE Cultural Imperialism and the Workings of Empire

IDIR OUAHES

Published in 2018 by I.B.Tauris & Co. Ltd London • New York www.ibtauris.com Copyright q 2018 Idir Ouahes The right of Idir Ouahes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or any part thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Every attempt has been made to gain permission for the use of the images in this book. Any omissions will be rectified in future editions. References to websites were correct at the time of writing. Library of Middle East History 76 ISBN: 978 1 78831 097 0 eISBN: 978 1 78672 410 6 ePDF: 978 1 78673 410 5 A full CIP record for this book is available from the British Library A full CIP record is available from the Library of Congress Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: available Typeset in Garamond Three by OKS Prepress Services, Chennai, India Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

For my father, Rbah At-Mansu¯r. ˙ _ Among the last of the Atlas Lions.

CONTENTS

Map and Figures Preface Notes on the Text List of Abbreviations Introduction Cultural Institutions and the Struggle to Define the Mandate

1.

xi xiii xv xvii 1

Discursive and Political Opportunity Structures The Formative Mandate Years: 1920– 5 Historical Background Historiography of the Mandate The Shifts in Early Mandate Administration Structure of this Book

2 7 12 17 28 35

Antiquities Protection and Excavation

37

Antiquities, Orientalism and Cultural Imperialism Archaeological Activity in the Ottoman Period League of Nations and Law Protecting Antiquities French and International Excavations ‘And our antiquities, will they return?’ Antiquities in the Press Local Government Contestation of Claims of Culture Conclusion

38 42 44 47 52 55 61 63

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2.

3.

4.

5.

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Controlling Cultural Heritage: Museums, Tourism and Exhibitions

65

Museums and Mise en Valeur Organisation of Museums and Institution of Protection in the Early Mandate Compartmentalisation of Culture Tensions and Initiative in Local Preservation Efforts Tourism at the Outset of the Mandate Exhibitions in the Early Mandate The Beirut Fair and Mise en Valeur Conclusion

66

Classrooms, Curricula and Content

89

67 69 71 75 81 84 87

French Instruction: ‘The Most Certain and Efficient Way to Assure Our Influence’ Classroom Control The Fight for Arabic Higher and Technical Education Education and the Desire for Development Conclusion

89 96 103 107 112 115

The Politics of Pedagogy

117

Political Capital, Funding and Clientelism Organisation and Local Government Intervention Women’s Education Networks of Dissenting Education Instrumentalising International Networks Conclusion

117 122 126 127 132 136

Surveillance, Subsidies and Censorship: The Domestic Arabic Press

138

Open Source Intelligence: The Service de la Presse A Cantankerous and Informed Press Syrian Unity in the Press Censorship and Press Laws Opposition to the Press Laws Conclusion

139 141 146 151 153 161

CONTENTS

6.

7.

8.

ix

Subservience and Sanction? The Francophone Press

162

The Levantine Francophone Press Syro-Lebanese Press Activity in Europe The Republican and Right-Wing Metropolitan Press The Leftist Press The Colonial Lobby and Newspapers Conclusion

163 170 179 188 192 195

Internationalism: The External Press

196

Suspicion of the British Press Newspapers in the British Middle East Russian Influence The US-Based Press The Mahjar American Press The Regional Press Conclusion

196 198 202 204 209 217 223

General Conclusion

224

Implementing and Contesting Mandatory Methods through Cultural Institutions Competing and Changing Visions of the Mandate

224 225

Notes Select Bibliography Index

229 295 305

MAP AND FIGURES

Map Map 1.1 The Sykes– Picot Agreement of 1916 in regard to Syria and Palestine (held at the National Archives, Kew, MFQ 1/388/2).

14

Figures Figure 1.1 A local labourer looks over the cover of the sarcophagus of Ahiram in Jbeil supervised by Pe`re Raphae¨l Savignac (1923).

59

Figure 2.1 Temple of Baalbek from the air c.1925.

80

Figure 3.1 Tripoli from the air c.1925.

93

Figure 4.1 American University of Beirut (AUB), College Hall c.1920.

134

Figure 5.1 Beirut from the air c.1925.

142

Figure 6.1 Syro-Palestinian Congress meeting in Geneva from 25 August to 21 September 1921, q Hassan El-Taher.

175

Figure 7.1 Results of French bombardment of Damascus in 1925, q Hassan El-Taher.

205

PREFACE

French rule over Syria and Lebanon was premised on a vision of a special French protectorate established by centuries of cultural activity: archaeological, educational and charitable. This vision translated into a meaning of the mandate as colonial protectorate, integrated into the French Empire. Initial French methods of organising and supervising cultural activity sought to embrace this vision and to implement it in the exploitation of antiquities, the management and promotion of cultural heritage, the organisation of education and the control of public opinion among literate classes. However, in-depth examination of the first five years of the League of Nations-assigned mandate reveals that French expectations of a protectorate were quickly dashed by consistent and widespread contestation of their mandatory methods within cultural institutions, not simply among Arabists but so too among minority groups initially expected to be loyal clients. The violence of imposing the mandate de facto, starting with a landing of French troops on the Lebanese and Syrian Mediterranean coast in 1919 and followed by extension into Syria ‘proper’ in 1920, was followed by consistent violent revolt and rejection of the very idea of a mandate over local peoples. Examining the cultural institutions’ role reveals less violent yet similarly consistent contestation of French meanings ascribed to the mandate through challenges to methods of executing it. Tracing the mandate administrators’ and surveillance and diplomatic apparatus’ point of view, this analysis shows the significant pressure put on French expectations through contestation of such policies as the exportation of antiquities; the expansion of French instruction over Arabic learning;

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and the censorship of the press. This did not quite unite the infamously tapestry-like Syrian stakeholders into a nationalist or even antiimperialist framework. Yet there was a unity in contesting mandatory methods perceived to be wrecking the meaning of a League of Nations mandate. The political and de jure discourses emerging after the tragedy of World War I fostered expectations of European tutelages that prepared local peoples for autonomy and independence. Yet, even among the most Francophile of stakeholders, the unfolding of the first years of mandate rule brought forth, de facto, entirely different events and methods. In conjunction with the ongoing violent refusal to accept even the premise of a French mandate, this contestation, partly occurring through cultural institutions, ultimately contributed to a fundamental reduction of French expectations in the formative five years. An in-depth horizontal and synchronic analysis of the shifts in discourses, attitudes and activities unfolding in French and locally organised cultural institutions such as schools, museums and newspapers thus signals the need for mandate studies to give greater consideration to shifts in international and local meanings, methods and capacities rather than treating them as a single unit of analysis.

NOTES ON THE TEXT

For the flow of writing, certain interchangeable official names are rendered in alternative forms. For instance: Ministry of Foreign Affairs also appears as Foreign Ministry, Damascus State as State of Damascus, Alexandretta Sanjak as Sanjak of Alexandretta, Chamber of Deputies as Assembly, Lebanon Governor as Governor of Lebanon and so on. Certain numbers have exceptionally retained Arabic numeral forms in certain cases to ensure comprehension, particularly when referring to treaty articles (e.g., Article 11 of the League of Nations Covenant), for the ease of the reader. Though care has been taken to edit uncommon Arabic names and words according to appropriate phonetic transliterations, effort has equally been made to render Arabic nouns in accessible and popularly recognisable forms (i.e., Quran instead of al-Qurʾa¯n, Aleppo not Halab, Shia not Shı¯ʿah). ˙ Archival material is described in English except when the exact title in the original language is quoted in full. Certain situations, where an archive document’s title already declares its date, makes the need for listing a date redundant. Similarly, when a specific document is cited more than once, it takes a shortform version of: ‘Title [date]’. Shorthands and abbreviations are used throughout the text and notes after initial full spelling.

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS

People and Organisations

Archival Locations

Name in French Short (If Applicable) English Meaning

Short

Archive Name Archivo Historico de Espan˜a, Madrid Archives Nationales de France, PierrefitteSur-Seine Bibliothe`que de Documentation Internationale Contemporaine, Nanterre British Library (India Office Records), London Centre des Archives Diplomatique, La Courneuve

AL

Arme´e du Levant

Levant Army

AHE

BR

Bulletin de Renseignements

Intelligence Bulletin

AN-P

DA

De´le´gation du Haut Commissaire aupre`s de l’E´tat d’Alep De´le´gation du Haut Commissaire aupre`s de l’E´tat de Damas De´le´gation du Haut Commissaire aupre`s de l’E´tat Alawite

Delegation to State of Aleppo

BDIC

High Commissioner’s Delegation to the State of Damascus Delegation to the Alawite State

BL (IOR)

DD

DEA

CADL

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DGL De´le´gation du Haut Commissaire aupre`s de l’E´tat du Grand Liban

CADN

Centre des Archives Diplomatique, Nantes

DP

HCSC

Haverford College Special Collections, Haverford, PA Harvard University Archives, Cambridge MA

DSA

DSF

EdA

High Commissioner’s Delegation to the State of Greater Lebanon De´le´gation du High Haut Commissaire Commissioner’s a Paris Delegate in Paris De´le´gation du High Haut Commissaire Commissioner’s aupre`s du Sanjak Delegation to the d’Alexandrette Sanjak of Alexandretta De´le´gation du High Haut Commissaire Commissioner’s aupre`s de la Delegation to the Federation Syrienne Syrian Federation E´tat des Alaouites State of the Alawites

EGL

E´tat du Grand Liban

G-S

Secre´taire Ge´ne´rale

HC

Haut-Commissaire

H-C

Haute Commission

MAE Ministre des Affaires E´trange`res MFA Pre´sident du Conseil et Affaires e´trange`res/Ministre des Affaires

HU

MEC

St Antony’s College Oxford Middle East Centre Archives

NARA- National Archives and CP Records Administration, College Park MD State of Greater NYPL New York Public Lebanon Library Manuscripts (Government) and Archives Division General-Secretary PHS Presbyterian Historical Society Archives, Philadelphia PA High Commissioner RACRockefeller Archives (Beirut) RFR Centre-Rockefeller Foundation Records, Sleepy Hollow NY High Commission UNOG- United Nations Office (Beirut) ALON in Geneva-Archives of the League of Nations Foreign Ministry (Quai d’Orsay, Paris) Minister of Foreign YUMC Yale University Affairs (also the Manuscript Prime Minister Collections, New during the 1920s) Haven CT

INTRODUCTION CULTURAL INSTITUTIONS AND THE STRUGGLE TO DEFINE THE MANDATE

Examining cultural institutions operating during the formative years of the French–League of Nations mandate over Syria and Lebanon suggests that disparate imperial, national and communal factions were ultimately united in contesting mandatory means and methods. Examining the historically cohesive period between the 1920 French invasion and the 1925 Great Syrian Revolt provides a lens for horizontal and synchronic analysis of the shifting positions, opportunities and conditions producing contested meanings and implementation of mandate rule. Such shifts could be considered efforts probing and resulting from political and discursive ‘opportunity structures’. These shifts emerged through the efforts of varying stakeholders operating in stratified echelons. Such stakeholders consisted of a constellation of individuals who, acting together and through institutions, perceived themselves to have a stake in the meaning and method of unfolding mandate rule. Among these were particular groups of French, British and American politicians, lobbyists and publics, French and British colonial administrators, military officers, Lebanese communal leaders, Syrian newspaper editors and so on. These stakeholders operated internationally in cities with significant Syrian and Lebanese migrant communities such as New York, Rio de Janeiro, Buenos Aires, Santiago and Bogota. They were active in ideological centres such as Geneva, Moscow and Berlin. The metropolitan and

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imperial hubs of Paris and London were of evidently primordial importance. Regional locations such as Baghdad, Jerusalem, Istanbul and Cairo provided refuges for those opposed to the mandate while French colonial centres such as Marseille, Algiers and Rabat housed capitalists and administrators seeking its extension. Finally, the elemental sites were those hosting mandatory (Beirut), local (the Greater Lebanon, Damascus, Aleppo, Jabal Druze and Alawite regions) and provincial activity.

Discursive and Political Opportunity Structures Before introducing the specific subject to be examined, it is worthwhile to very briefly consider some conceptual framework underlying the present work. Classic historians tended to expect that history revealed itself untouched, thus making their mission one of ‘telling it as it was’. ‘Structural’ approaches, particularly those of Karl Marx and Max Weber, have been considered as examples of a shift from these narratives to analytical history: ones which subjugated the historical events to categories of rational analysis. The limits of such approaches were elegantly outlined by later historian Michel Foucault: The old questions of traditional analysis (what links to establish between events [. . .] questions about continuity [. . .]) are replaced [. . .] by another type of investigation [. . .] What type of logics [series] should be imposed? What criteria for periodisation for each of them? [. . .] let us say [. . .] briefly that traditional history undertook a ‘memorisation’ of the monuments of the past by transforming them into documents [. . .] in our times, history is the activity that transforms documents into monuments [. . .] a deployment of a mass of elements [archival documents] that require isolation, consolidation, making pertinent, putting into relationships, constituting together [i.e., analytical, or interpretive history].’1 Foucault’s answer to the problem of the biases inherent to overarching frameworks or narratives, which he claimed would accumulate into what he called ‘discourses’, was a combination of historical approaches that he termed ‘archaeology’ and ‘genealogy’. For Foucault, ‘archaeology’ in this

INTRODUCTION

3

historiographical sense sought out ‘discernible identities, analogies, sets of differences that must be described [. . . and, with this effort], an overall configuration emerged.’ Alongside this broader effort, there was a more microscopic effort at: ‘genealogy, or rather a multiplicity of genealogical researches, a painstaking rediscovery of struggles together with the rude memory of their conflicts’.2 These words were closely foreshadowed by Antonio Gramsci, an adherent of Marx’s method, who wrote that: Unity between ‘spontaneity’ and ‘conscious leadership’ or ‘discipline’ is precisely the real political action of the subaltern classes, in so far as this is mass politics and not merely an adventure by groups claiming to represent the masses [. . .] (‘spontaneous’ in the sense that they are not the result of any systematic educational activity on the part of an already conscious leading group, but have been formed through everyday experience illuminated by ‘common sense’ [. . .] what is unimaginatively called ‘instinct’, although it too is in fact a primate and elementary historical acquisition).3 In contrast to Foucault’s focus on discourse, however, Gramsci’s view of the historian’s task stressed the unearthing of the shifting political balance of forces between groups. He wrote that: The historical unity of the ruling classes is realised in the state [. . .] Unity [. . .] results from the organic relations between [. . .] political society [i.e., the state and its representatives] and civil society [cultural institutions, public institutions] [. . .] the subaltern classes, by definition, are not unified [. . .] Hence it is necessary to study: 1. The objective formation of the subaltern social groups [. . .] their quantitative diffusion and their origins in pre-existing social groups, whose mentality, ideology and aims they conserve for a time. 2. Their active or passive affiliation to the dominant political formations, their attempts to influence the programmes of these formations in order to press claims of their own, and the consequences of these attempts [. . .] 3. The birth of new parties of the dominant groups, intended to conserve the assent of the subaltern groups and to maintain

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control [. . .] 4. The formations which the subaltern groups themselves produce, in order to press claims of a limited and partial character.4 For Gramsci: The historian must record, and discover the causes of, the line of development towards integral autonomy [of dominant groups . . .] the history of the parties of the subaltern groups is very complex too. It must include all the repercussions of party activity, throughout the area of the subaltern groups themselves taken globally, and also upon the attitudes of the dominant group [. . .] the repercussions of the far more effective actions [. . .] of the dominant groups upon the subaltern [. . .] the history of subaltern social groups is necessarily fragmented and episodic. [. . .] Subaltern groups are always subject to the activity of ruling groups [. . .] only [seemingly] ‘permanent’ victory breaks their subordination [. . .] Every trace of independent initiative on the part of subaltern groups should therefore be of incalculable value for the integral historian. Consequently, this kind of history can only be dealt with monographically, and each monograph requires an immense quantity of material which is often hard to collect.5 These somewhat dense historiographical points can be more concisely considered by examining the political science literature on political and discursive opportunity structures. Following Sidney Tarrow, Bart Cammaerts defines the concept of a political opportunity structure as referring to ‘dimensions of the political environment that provide situations allowing people to undertake collective action by affecting their expectations for success or failure’.6 Cammaerts extends this definition to the sphere of the media, characterising this as a ‘discursive opportunity structure’. In a Gramscian and Foucauldian sense, this notion of ‘opportunity structures’ neatly summarises the way in which the historical process, including the one under present scrutiny, is the result of conflicting movements and periodic moments of dominant and subjugated actors. The concern to unearth both the dominant exercise of power, and the consequent resistance and contestation by local peoples, is particularly relevant to the analysis of imperial ventures. Echoing Foucault, Gyan

INTRODUCTION

5

Prakash notes that local peoples’ ‘“minor” knowledges and subjugated practice can be gleaned from archives by observing the “tenuousness” of colonial power [which] bears testimony to the pressure exercised silently by the subordinated’.7 This method, which emerged from Gramscian studies of British India (the so-called ‘Subaltern School’), was described by Gayatri Spivak as a ‘historical reinscription [strategy] the historian must persist in his efforts in this awareness that the subaltern is necessarily the absolute limit of the place in which history is narrativized [sic]’.8 In other words: the place where the colonial state’s gaze and memory leaves out the subjugated. A fellow post-colonial critic, Edward Said, equally channelled Foucault when discussing the role of culture as an avenue for imperial subjugation and subsequent contestation: By looking at culture and imperialism [. . .] we may discern the various forms [. . .] of the imperial experience [. . .] if the obdurately material natives are transformed from subservient beings into inferior humanity, then the colonizer is similarly transformed into an incisive scribe, whose writing reports on the Other and insists on its scientific disinterestedness and [. . .] the steady improvement [. . .] of primitives [. . .] For the colonizer the incorporative apparatus [that records colonial history, ethnographic ‘facts’ and subsumes the ‘subjugated’] requires unremitting effort to maintain. For the victim, imperialism offers these alternatives: serve or be [physically, psychologically, culturally] destroyed.9 Examining the initial five years of mandate rule through the prism of management and contestation of cultural institutions can provide insights into clashing meanings of the mandate: meanings that shifted as a variety of events unfolded, culminating with the Great Syrian Revolt of 1925. Defining, circumscribing and researching the cultural sphere or public sphere is inevitably open to a great deal of debate. The concept of a ‘public sphere’ has become a cachet in sociologically inspired historical investigation. Haim Gerber’s attempt to introduce it to the Ottoman Muslim world reveals how it can only awkwardly be imposed on nonEuropean developments: ‘the [. . .] public sphere, [. . .] may be loosely defined as the area of societal activity that is relevant to the social and

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political order in general [i.e., all activity! . . .] rather than just groups [. . .] these new approaches make the society itself the focus of study’.10 Such a loose definition results from an ex post facto attempt at imposing this concept on other societies. Yet its most convincing exposition, by Ju¨rgen Habermas, is resolutely rooted in the European early modern experience, and intrinsically tied to the shifts that a capitalist mode of exchange and circulation effected upon social orders in the European mercantile towns.11 Certainly, parallel or alternative shifts in social order could be discerned in Islamic, or other, societies. There is nevertheless a need for empirical and conceptual depth of the kind deployed by Habermas preceding any attempt at conceptualising a Muslim public sphere. Much the same can be said about any ‘cultural sphere’ that may exist. One major oversight prompted by discussions of such ‘spheres’ is that, though they provide a window into societal dynamics as Herber suggests, they also forget that the (colonial) state remains an active, and perhaps dominant, participant in the societal arena. As Theodor Adorno reminds us when discussing the cultural sphere: Whoever speaks of culture speaks of administration as well, whether this is his intention or not. The combination of so many things lacking a common denominator [. . .] the inclusion of the objective spirit of an age in the single word ‘culture’ betrays from the outset the administrative view, the task of which, looking down from on high [i.e. a state or societally organised hierarchy], is to assemble, distribute, evaluate and organize [. . .] At the same time, however [. . .] culture is opposed to administration. Culture would like to be higher and more pure [not] tailored [. . .] to any tactical or technical considerations.12 Despite these challenges, a degree of cohesion in examining the management of cultural affairs by French authorities in Syria and Lebanon is helpfully provided by the mandatory’s own administrative schemata; though such an approach must always bear in mind the selective interpretations inherent to the colonial administrative gaze and any archives it leaves behind. Focusing on institutions rather than spheres allows for an examination of the functional role of schools, museums and newspapers, their oversight by mandate authorities and use as platforms for voicing alternative visions of mandate rule.

INTRODUCTION

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The Formative Mandate Years: 1920– 5 Violence established Franco-British control of the post-Ottoman Middle East. However, a new international sphere prompted by Bolshevik antiimperialist rhetoric and the subsequent Wilsonian moment required a dilution of imperial aims and methods.13 Though initial mandate sponsors and administrators in Paris and Beirut interpreted it as a Levantine protectorate, they soon encountered opposition emanating from local and international stakeholders. Local government actors intended to become clients for the mandate authorities used the League of Nations principle of tutelage to challenge French protectorate interpretations and colonial methods. French budgetary constraints meant that the scope for forceful intervention was restricted. Metropolitan and global public opinion also affected the capacity to deploy violence, as was demonstrated by the international outrage over French repression of the 1925 Great Syrian Revolt. Domestically, the metropolitan French election of a Cartel des Gauches socialist government in 1924 threw plans for a Catholic Levantine protectorate into disarray. The sardonic new Prime Minister, Edouard Herriot, nominated the secularist General Maurice Sarrail, who immediately sought to make a firmer intervention by the mandatory state.14 Ironically this both antagonised the previously favoured Catholic cultural institutions, such as the Jesuit missionaries and Maronite religious leadership, as well as awakening the ire of traditionally autonomous groups such as the Druze people of southern Syria. Alongside the constrictions and alterations forced upon governmental and administrative decision makers by international economic or political pressures, groups and individuals within the mandate territories overtly opposed French protectorate methods. This included non-violent contestation in cultural institutions such as the press, schools and museums. They organised associations, wrote petitions and letters, and undertook strikes and protests. Such activity reached the League of Nations’ Geneva headquarters as well as New York, Paris, Rio de Janeiro, Beirut, Damascus, Aleppo and Homs. Each chapter herein attempts to shed new light on the struggle over a French protectorate in what was termed a League of Nations mandate drafted, and in theory overseen, by a Permanent Mandates Commission.

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Defining the meaning of this mandate was thus a fundamentally political, and not simply a legal, matter. The meaning of the mandate was malleable according to who was doing the defining.15 Working with a singular definition of the mandate may be legally apposite but risks obscuring the historically complex and multiple meanings expressed by the overseeing powers, as well as by international competitors and transnational anti-imperial activists. Natasha Wheatley and Andrew Arsan have noted the role of petititons in crafting alternative meanings and expectations of mandate rule.16 Indeed, even if petitions did not reach the eyes and ears of the Permanent Mandates Commission in Geneva, they still represented a capacity to mobilise individuals and groups in order to challenge mandatory meanings and methods at the local level. From the French point of view, claims of cultural affinity and governmental competence were fundamental to their ability to gain and retain their League of Nations mandate. Many French civil and military officials in the Levant sought another French Mediterranean protectorate. This vision was rooted in a romantic-orientalist reading of history which sought to ‘resurrect’ and ‘conjure’ a forgotten past of Roman Mediterranean supremacy. This rhetoric encouraged, and was itself sustained by, long-embedded French cultural institutions in the region: archaeological research efforts and educational establishments.17 As the Ottoman Middle East broke apart and French planners eyed a stake in the region, claims of cultural attachment to the Levant were mobilised in order to gain another strategically placed and seemingly wealth-generating Mediterranean protectorate for the French Empire.18 Secret negotiations and public talk of a protectorate translated into the reality of a League of Nations mandate over Syria and Lebanon. French officials relied on the country’s long-established regional presence to buttress their vision of a Levantine protectorate. France’s influence on Levantine cultural institutions resulted from extensive engagement beginning with the first Ottoman capitulations.19 Traditional trade between Lyon, Marseille and the Holy Land, the French Catholic presence in Jerusalem and Lebanon, the 1860 ‘humanitarian’ intervention, and the opening of archaeological and educational establishments such as Jerusalem’s E´cole Biblique et Arche´ologique and Beirut’s Saint Joseph University were all interpreted by French publicists, lobbyists and politicans as material evidence of their primacy in the Levant.

INTRODUCTION

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The discussions among French cultural representatives, political appointees and mandate administrators reveal a romantic-orientalist mentality that fed the passion for acquiring Syria. A consistent level of distance, if not disdain, toward local peoples, even the seemingly favoured Maronites, is evident in administrative correspondence. Appropriating their pasts through the organisation of antiquities and the management of heritage served a double function; it both affirmed France’s claims of supremacy as a result of historic links and it afforded the mandate power the opportunity to boost its claims to singular governmental competence over ‘incapable’ local peoples. The French project for the Levant was a paternalist one that sought to forge ‘colonial citizens’ in countries envisioned by imperial diplomacy and imposed through violence.20 Yet scrutinising instances of this project’s execution in the cultural institutions reveals difficulties in its implementation, particularly in the formative five years when initial French aims and methods were successfully contested. This fundamental reality is continually evident in the case of attempts at controlling SyroLebanese communities in the Levant and abroad via cultural institutions such as museums, schools or newspapers.21 French publicists, planners and administrators faced difficulties translating talk of a Levantine protectorate into effective control over established and new clients.22 At the heart of clientelism lies a dialogue between patron and protectee. The very nature of this delicate process discourages long-term planning and, given the need for a client’s consent, can only be secured by careful calculation.23 An example of this concerns the leader of France’s most favoured minority, the Maronite Patriarch Monsignor Elias Hoyek. Hoyek was described by British authorities as ‘shrewd [. . .] ably supported by clever [. . .] Bishops, whose time is devoted more to temporal than to spiritual matters [. . .] Though primarily devoted to French interests, he has always shown a strong disposition to be on friendly terms with H[is] M[ajesty’s] Consul.’24 The clientelist dialogue was certainly one between unequals yet, in stark contrast to the tabula rasa methods employed by the military and colonial settlers in the early Algerian colony, it was premised on the recognition of dialoguing participants.25 This was particularly the case following the growth of an international arena and norms that, in theory, regulated imperial actions and brought previously obfuscated domestic affairs into broader consciousness.26 Alongside direct

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nationalist, violent or international disputes, clientelist contestation in the cultural institutions should not simply be considered as a set of granular and disparate fights over mandatory methods. They were in fact united, whether vocally or tacitly, by a protest against administrators’ interpretations of the mandate as a protectorate. Just six months into mandate rule over Syria and Lebanon, discussions in the French Parliament were outlining clashing views of the mandate mission. Orientalist and classicist scholar-turned-senator Victor Be´rard complained that the Syrian budget had doubled from 338 million francs in July 1920 to 611 million in December, while France’s post-World War indebtedness to the USA grew. Accused in the Senate of being defeatist by President Alexandre Millerand’s Prime Minister, Georges Leygues, Be´rard defended himself and denounced the initial policy as ‘Algerianisation’. Predicting that this policy would fail to meet France’s needs and anger local peoples, including communities seen as traditional Francophiles, Be´rard filibustered the Senate debate on renewing credits for the mandate administrators until he received reassurances.27 Georges Leygues’ government also faced opposition from Raymond Poincare´, the ex-French president and then a senator on a committee examining Syria. Poincare´ pointed out that even Francophile groups had complained about French enslavement, urging Leygues to reconsider aims and methods in the Levant.28 Evidence of such difficulties is available throughout the diplomatic and mandatory archives. One Syrian student, Badrih Talih, protested the ˙ ˙ violent French repression of the 1925 Great Revolt. Talih had headed an ˙ Arabist society at the American University of Beirut (AUB) and was 29 thereafter studying in Paris. Instead of becoming a model Francophile member of the elite, the American-educated Talih outlined his outrage. ˙ Talih explained that the: ˙ Druze revolt [. . .] its importance for the Christians and the diverse Muslims sects [. . .] was [. . .] a phase of the Syrian question. It is a significant manifestation of a general discontent [. . .] a misunderstanding has taken hold; this is proven by the fact that events in Damascus, protests in Beirut, and frequent agitations clearly reveal that the Revolt is not always limited to the Jabal [Druze]. Only France can respond to this malaise, but the Syrian youth that love her [France] and are educated by her have,

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I believe, the duty to become the interpreters of [Syro-Lebanese] public opinion for the French authorities. For Talih, High Commission general-secretary Robert De Caix had ˙ alienated originally open-minded local peoples who had accepted a mandate that would allow them to ‘collaborate with the [. . .mandatory] power’. Talih added that: ‘the different classes of the people equally ˙ asked for reforms, expressed their wishes, but the responses were not favourable [. . .] instead, the voices raised were strangled by exile, deportation and imprisonment. Censorship is so severe [. . .] that it has become a governmental bureaucracy [machine gouvernementale]’. The situation could be ameliorated if French authorities revised their approach to the meaning of their mandate; according to Talih: ˙ ‘all Syrians, without distinction, will believe in the termporary mandate principle, as an apprenticeship toward independence’. France could retain the status of tutor if it reformed the mandate towards autonomous development. This would include the unity of Syria, elections on a universal suffrage basis, the replacement of military high commissioners by civil ones and the election of a parliament.30 Three of these four demands would be met by 1928. In that same year, 1928, the diverging approaches to the mandate were acknowledged by intelligence officer Captain Maurice Gros De Vaud. Gros De Vaud noted that ‘the intellectuals in mandate territories have, from the outset, put into doubt the discussion of the scope of the mandatory [power]’s rights’. These ‘intellectuals’ wanted to ‘shake off the tutelage’ approach in favour of ‘making of their tutor a simple advice giver’. In contrast to this, French ideas of the mandatory power were ‘as per the letters and spirit of the mandate charter, not as an expectant mother, incapable of deciding [ personage expectant, incapable de vouloir], but as an aide, an active collaborator, and sometimes as a substitute with full powers’.31 Gros De Vaud believed that ‘future historians will recognise one day’ the nuances of the French approach and the League of Nations’ Permanent Mandates Commission’s ‘painstaking yearly controls’. Examining methods of mandatory control of cultural institutions undermine his expectation of historians’ conclusions. Officials managing cultural institutions nakedly emphasised promoting French claims of culture and governmental competency, thereby asserting their protectorate. This met significant local pressure and pushback as Gros De Vaud

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acknowledged. After outlining the challenges to French implementation of a protectorate in Syria, he wrote that: ‘from a less realistic point of view, and one which would accord more with our tradition, we can conceive a certain pride of maintaining in these regions the French language and culture of this “soft France” which, I hope, will one day become a second fatherland for Libano-Syrians – perhaps even all Syrians’.32

Historical Background The lengthy French engagement with the Levant forms a critical part of the formation of the modern Middle East. The now (in)famous Sykes– Picot Agreement is too often solely seen as the departure point for the modern Middle East. It can equally be understood to be a landmark for two centuries of Franco-British jostling in this keystone region linking the Mediterranean Basin with the greater Indian Ocean theatre. The ever-entrepreneurial British authorities were the first to establish ‘protectorates’ in the Persian Gulf region in the late eighteenth century.33 The Napoleonic invasion of Egypt and Syria in the late 1790s was a more direct statement of French interests.34 French interests in the Middle East matured from enlightenment-era adventurism to imperial domination in the nineteenth century, particularly after the 1860 deployment to Lebanon.35 One mandate-era report claimed that 1860 was ‘one of the best examples of France’s disinterested policy toward oppressed peoples [. . .] by affirming our role as protectors of Christianity [. . .] it gave us [. . .] priority [. . .] in Syria’.36 In truth, this intervention was undertaken at the height of Anglo-French sparring that accelerated after Germany’s entrance into the theatre in the 1880s.37 Anglo-French co-operation to contain German imperialism did not, for instance, translate on the subject of Ottoman debts.38 Germany’s growing influence over the Ottoman authorities nevertheless destabilised a somewhat placid French– British tension in the region.39 The German destabilisation invigorated an otherwise diplomatically hamstrung Ottoman government. Ironically, however, this Ottoman– Turkish irredentism (climaxing after the 1908 Young Turk Coup), sparked a fresh wave of ethno-nationalism.40 The break-up of the Ottoman Balkans in the decade prior to the World War foreshadowed a wave of post-Ottoman ethno-linguistic nationalisms: Arab, Kurd, Armenian and Zionist Jewish.

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The Ottoman entry into World War I sealed its fate. Despite early success at Gallipoli, the Ottoman offensive in Egypt was disastrous. It was followed by eventual British domination of Mesopotamia and the British– Hashemite push through the Sinai Desert into Palestine and Syria. French officers were present among this British– Arab army, seeking to stake France’s territorial claims. The Franco-British division of the spoils had been formally put to paper by two mid-level Foreign Office and Quai d’Orsay officials: Sir Mark Sykes and Franc ois GeorgesPicot. This (in)famous Sykes–Picot Agreement (see Map 1.1) also made provisions for Italy and Russia to hold spheres of influence in parts of today’s Turkey; though Bolshevik Russia revealed and renounced these imperialist designs, Italy kept a watchful eye on Asia Minor, which included the French-mandated Levant. The Sykes – Picot Agreement stood alongside two other ill-fated agreements. The first of these, the 1915 Henry McMahon – Sharif Hussein correspondence, which had motivated the Hashemite Arabs to revolt against Ottoman rule, was not a governmental agreement. It was a series of promises made by a local colonial bureaucrat in Cairo to the Hashemite Sharif Hussein, whose claim to represent the Arab nation was certainly disputable.41 The other significant diplomatic coup of the period was a formal statement of governmental intent at the cabinet level signed by the British Foreign Secretary Lord Arthur James Balfour. This November 1917 Balfour Letter, not an agreement either, ‘viewed with favour [. . .] a national home for the Jewish people’ in Palestine after months of Zionist lobbying in Whitehall, Philadelphia, New York and Paris. Indeed, the Balfour Letter was released months after a similar though buried letter was sent by French Foreign Ministry mandarin Jules Cambon to Zionist leader Nahum Sokolow: a letter that similarly promised France’s ‘sympathy’ for the Zionist cause. These conflicting promises were not resolved as ad hoc British and French military administrations were erected. This was organised by Britain as the Occupied Enemy Territory Administration (OETA). General Allenby’s forces held control in OETA South; Sharif Hussein’s Hejaz Army took over the eastern zone, based at Damascus. French military officers were placed in charge of the North (later renamed West) OETA zone. However, the small number of French military contingents accompanying Allenby meant that they could not effectively occupy

t; n ne i r i P nl o O on ur M lo o C

Map 1.1 The Sykes–Picot Agreement of 1916 in regard to Syria and Palestine (held at the National Archives, Kew, MFQ 1/388/2). Available online: https://images. nationalarchives.gov.uk/assetbank-nationalarchives/action/viewAsset;jsessionid ¼ 1D9BBEA8DE71D4F4E5ABA85DC77DD9D6?id¼43923&index¼60&total¼ 100&popularityId¼2.

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their regions, thus requiring integrated British troops and thereby subordinating the French officers to Allenby’s command. According to a retrospective French report, this meant their interests in the Levant and their mandatory authority was fundamentally undermined. leading to France’s first foray as mandatory power being perceived as the efforts of a ‘poor parent’ by local communities. The situation was made worse by the ‘occult work, later openly advertised, of English, Sherifian [sic, i.e., Hashemite] and other propagandists’.42 Further pressure on French claims in the region came from the USA’s King–Crane Commission.43 The report claimed that these various international and local pressures undermined France’s stock, especially among its favoured Catholic communities in Lebanon. French officers did not take kindly to the Hashemite King Faisal’s attempts at holding on to the Beqaa Valley, which had been given to the independent Arabs by Allenby as a result of France’s skeletal military presence. With the arrival of the Arme´e du Levant in Beirut and following the exchange of skirmishes in the Beqaa as well as accusations that Faisal harboured fugitives from French Lebanon in early 1920, the independent Arab Kingdom was swept aside in the summer at the Battle of Maysalu¯n. Yet, as French administrators acknowledged, their hold on the country remained tenuous since troops were needed in the north to fend off any incursion by Mustafa Kemal Atatu¨rk’s forces.44 The 1921 Ankara Accord recognising Turkey’s sovereignty and evacuating French troops from Cilicia was thus a means for French authorities to give up this agriculturally rich province in order to retain the strategically placed Syrian interior. A report on the internal organisation of Syria by a member of the intelligence service recalled that two fundamental events were the creation of autonomous Levant states in September 1920 and the organisation of a Syrian Federation in July 1922. The report’s author, the aforementioned Gros De Vaud, claimed that the separation of Syria into five states (Greater Lebanon, Damascus, Aleppo with the Sanjak of Alexandretta, the Alawite State and the Jabal Druze) had been a logical solution to the country’s centrifugal ethnic makeup. According to him, High Commissioner General Henri Gouraud had sought to create a Syrian Federation with the aim of uniting all five states as early as 1921. However, this project had met Lebanese and Druze disdain, given their newfound post-Ottoman autonomy from the Levant’s Sunni Muslim majority. He also claimed that this project was further harmed by the ‘rudimentary’ public opinion in

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Syria, a reference to the Aleppo-Damascus press’ rivalry (to be discussed later, in Chapter 5).45 Gros De Vaud traced the further developments of the Federation as it changed from being purely consultative to gaining governmental powers. The appointment of Subhi Barakat al-Khalidi, a Turcophone politician from Alexandretta who had been sentenced to death in absentia in 1920, as president of the Syrian Federation was another sign that France’s efforts at forging a facade of democratic politics were instead providing an arena for challenging mandate meanings and methods. Though Gros De Vaud glossed over this contestation in his schematic outline, other archives speak volumes of the important challenges enabled by this admittedly limited political arena, in conjunction with cultural institutions. Admitting the increasing encroachment of the Federation on the governmental competencies previously assigned to the states of Damascus and Aleppo (each with an ‘advisor’ acting as the French High Commissioner’s e´minences grises), Gros De Vaud described the decision by the third High Commissioner, General Maxime Weygand, to launch a Syrian Union. However, although the united State of Syria was announced on 1 January 1925, Gros De Vaud noted that these concessions only served to further encourage the ‘question of Syrian Unity, which had become the leitmotif of the Damascene intriguers of the 1925–26 rebellion [Great Syrian Revolt], and who had even succeeded in getting the approval of [Druze chieftain] Sultan [Al-]Atrash [. . .] who had, nonetheless, remained stubbornly independent [of Syrian-Arab nationalism] until then’.46

Historiography of the Mandate Mandate historiography can be considered as fitting along two broad axes: institutional or personal ‘biographies’ and thematic studies. Certain accounts trace personal or institutional legacies with great precision, yet they sometimes lack analytical criticism. Philippe Gouraud’s biography of his uncle, the second High Commissioner Henri Gouraud, presents developments in a matter-of-fact way that ignores the contestation behind alterations in mandatory methods. His book reiterates contemporary fears that an ‘Anglo-Saxon’ plot sought to undermine France’s stock with Syrians. It uncritically parrots French communique´s, such as one that claimed that Hama inhabitants had vigorously celebrated General Gouraud’s

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entry into the city. Such an approach also fails to understand the tensions at the heart of clientelism. When Philippe Gouraud discusses Rwalla Bedouin leader Nuri Shaalan’s positioning as a French client, for instance, he writes that Shaalan became ‘a loyal ally’ without noting that this was at a heavy financial cost and even this did not buy Shaalan’s continuing quiescence.47 The bulk of mandate studies are thematic, a result of the enormous archive, whose declassification in the 1970s, 1990s and 2000s has spurred fervent research.48 Jean-Davide Mizrahi’s examination of the French intelligence bureaucracy leads him to trace what he terms the ‘morphology’ of this indispensable mandate state institution. The Services des Renseignements’ deep presence in Syria was influenced by the North African precedent, and fit a broader imperial trend of increasing dependence on technocratic state mechanisms predicting, reacting to and steadying socio-political turmoil in the aftermath of the World War and before the further shock of the Great Depression. The intelligence services were thus critical for the High Commission to monitor and order affairs beyond the new state’s frontiers and within its territorial administration.49 Despite the depth of research, Mizrahi’s approach tends to emphasise the characteristics and vista of these intelligence services. This should be supplemented with an examination of their relations with Syro-Lebanese clients and informants in case-by-case examinations. As Martin Thomas explains, though this ‘information order’ theoretically promised an extension of imperial rule and stability, the very need for relying on security-intelligence apparatuses betrayed ‘a recognition of the limits of colonial state power [. . .] governed through systems of uneasy clientage’: what Fred Cooper termed the ‘long arms [imperial planning] and weak fingers [colonial realities]’ paradox.50 Nacklie´ Bou Nacklie´’s study of the Troupes Spe´ciales can be considered the sole study of auxiliary troops.51 Other cadres, such as the Le´gion Syrienne, Le´gion Arme´nienne or the Gendarmerie Mobile, remain little studied. The French Arme´e du Levant itself, and its colonial (Senegalese, Algerian and Vietnamese) troops, await comprehensive examination.52 Some work has looked into the specialist intelligence-military unit named the Controˆle Be´douin.53 Frenchlanguage institutional histories have been written about the antiquities service and French Institute in Damascus, though both tend toward

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description of their French bureaucrats.54 Several works have examined the ‘Anglo-Saxon’ and even German Christian missionary influence on education in Ottoman and French Syria.55 Other studies are thematic and include cross-sections of mandateera developments through the lens of a particular discipline, set of events or notion. Surveys of the international context have placed the mandate within broader questions of French – British rivalries, though they tend to focus on the outline and execution of imperial policies crafted by Paris and London.56 The USA’s nascent interests in the Middle East have been examined, primarily through its increasing conversion of educational and humanitarian networks into political assets.57 Italy has also received deserved attention given its role as the main Catholic adversary to France in the Levant, and its own lengthy engagement with the Ottoman Levant.58 The e´migre´ (mahjar) Syro-Lebanese community has been exhaustively studied in various locales as outlined in Chapter 7. A uniting theme of mahjar studies is the examination of the creation of ‘homes away from home’ in the Ottoman period which transited into confused, though politically fertile, communities. The clientelist relationship between the French diplomatic apparatus and mahjar leaders is examined in the current work. Surprisingly, given the popularity of these communities for academic research, the legal limbo in which mahjaris found themselves following Ottoman collapse and the Treaty of Lausanne’s provision for a choice between Syrian or French nationality is yet to receive attention. In terms of domestic policies, the classic works on the mandate, by British oilman Stephen Longrigg and Syrian-American historian Philip S. Khoury, stressed the political confrontation enacted by the precedence that the Sykes –Picot order took over the promise of Arab independence.59 Further studies refined this narrative of the Arab awakening (against Ottoman and European domination) to examine its protagonists. James Gelvin’s in-depth examination of the Faisalian inter-regnum (1918– 20) in Damascus, for instance, revealed how centrifugal mass politics in the streets, cafes, clubs and newspapers of Damascus actually pressured King Faisal and his Ottoman-trained Arabist bureaucratic clique into refusing to reach realpolitik agreements with France, leading to the violent downfall of an independent Arab Syrian state at the Battle of Maysalu¯n.60

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An examination of the theme of violence unites studies by Lenka Bokova, Michael Provence and Daniel Neep. Bokova’s work stressed the ideological stakes of the Revolt. She explains that the: ‘Syrian insurrection [. . .] found its roots in [. . .] The new division of the world, leading to and resulting from the First World War [. . .] The FrancoBritish rivalry continued [. . .] the United States made the Rights of Man their leading cause’.61 For Bokova, skirmishes over the meaning of the mandate as progressive tutelage or colonial carapace conjoined the effervescence of culturally and politically mature Arab urbanites and traditionally irredentist Druze and produced the 1925 Great Revolt. Provence’s study of the revolt seeks to reduce the influence of what he detects as an ‘Alawi-influenced nationalist narrative of Assadist Syria: a narrative that sees the Revolt as the greatest of several disruptions to mandate rule beginning with the 1919– 20 rebellion by Kurd Ibrahim Hanano and ‘Alawi Salih Al-Ali revolts as well as the failed spring 1922 ˙ uprising.62 Noting the Revolt’s impact in international as well as domestic political consciousness, a phenomenon recently examined by Reem Bailony, Provence disagrees with this view of the Revolt’s place in history. He argues that: ‘despite its [. . .] failure [. . .] [it did have] the lasting effect of [. . .] drawing disparate regions together under the idea of a Syrian-Arab nation’. However, according to him, this idea was put on hold in the aftermath of French repression in the late 1920s.63 Itamar Rabinovitch suggested a more pessimistic viewpoint, suggesting that the ‘close alliance [. . .] created by Sultan al-Atrash and [. . .] Syrian Arab nationalists [. . .] The political programme [. . .] was couched in Syrian and Arab nationalist terms [. . .] but the Druze [did not seek to] amalgamate [. . .] into the Syrian state [. . .] Since the Revolt ended in defeat the divergence of Druze and Nationalist outlooks hardly became manifest.’64 Detailed examination of the cultural institutions suggests that the Revolt was in fact a climactic rejection of mandatory methods that had already incited various parts of Syria from the outset, as Lenka Bokova intimated. Rejection, and particularly contestation, of the methods of mandate rule was undertaken in a range of political avenues including violent rebellion and cultural organisation. The post-Revolt reorganisation of Syria and Lebanon suggests that it was not a failed first effort but a mitigated and costly rejection of the first five years of protectorate-

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style style methods that had been widely understood to be a betrayal of the meaning of the mandate as a tutelage leading to autonomy. Also at stake was the definition of what Syria was supposed to represent; a Syrian state was still going through its birth-pangs as French and multiple stakeholders sought to contribute to its definition. Examining the mandate’s multiple violent confrontations, Daniel Neep emphasises the immediate ‘creative-destruction’ role of French violence while retaining the voice of Syrian rebels by noting how their asymmetric warfare forced rethinks by French military officers including the organisation of a gendarmerie mobile that could chase the guerrillas.65 Neep’s analysis of the role of violence in forging the modern Syrian state shows the continual implementation and contestation of the mandate by violent means.66 Even in the safer sphere of activity carved out by cultural institutions, French authorities ultimately relied on violent or repressive state apparatuses to coerce local populations. This included the imprisonment or exile of nationalist newsmen, the use of troops for the guarding and supervision of French excavation work, and the police repression and military-diplomatic surveillance of students’ activism. Autochthonous nationalism and nationalist notions of territoriality have nevertheless received a great deal of attention, though the internal political organisation of French Syria and Lebanon has been inexplicably less popular. Conceptualisations of what Syria signified have been scrutinised.67 The internal organisation of parliaments, constitutions and other administration has received some limited attention.68 Philip S. Khoury’s other contribution to mandate studies stressed the lineages of urban notable politics in the period leading up to the mandate, in parallel to Albert Hourani’s influential work.69 This expansion of the urban notables’ politics from late Ottoman-era familial-political intrigues to wider political awakenings are seen as evidence of an increasing affiliation to (supra)nationalist identities such as Westernism, pan-Arabism, pan-Islamism or anti-imperialism.70 Indeed, for Keith Watenpaugh, this change even encouraged the development of an amorphous and self-referential urban middle-class ‘modernity’ expressed through newspapers.71 Surveys exist that examine the development of economic and agricultural policies. Rural –urban relations were at the heart of Hanna Batatu’s extensive study of Syria’s peasantry. Michael Van Dusen’s framework for understanding Syria by emphasising the relation between

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the ‘hub’ cities of Aleppo, Damascus and Beirut with their agricultural and commercial ‘spokes’ merits in-depth examination for the mandate era.72 James Whitaker’s thesis looks at the role of agricultural policies in the longer term of Syrian state development, including a discussion of the mandate era.73 Elizabeth Williams’ study places French agricultural technocracy within the context of Ottoman precedent and French imperial scientistic rhetoric.74 Economic examinations of the mandate itself have often sought to frame the Syrian mandate within the question of France’s empire.75 Syria-centric studies have shifted this French-Empire lens. Nourredine Bouchair’s examination of what he terms that ‘merchant and moneylending class’, those rich members of the regional and urban Syro-Lebanese notability, provided an interesting addendum to the urban notable nationalism thesis outlined earlier. Bouchair reveals the significance of the mobilisation of financial means for contesting French capital.76 Geoffrey Schad’s study examined similar concepts within a framework of Syro-Lebanese demands for industrialisation as part of France’s mandatory obligations.77 Simon Jackson’s thesis traced similar tensions between French ‘concessionary capitalism’ and a wider field of Syro-Lebanese that included popular protestors, boycotters and strikers as well as an increasingly nationalist notable class.78 The provision of healthcare and welfare have seen increasing attention in recent studies. Robert Ian Blecher argues that healthcare entered the public sphere in late Ottoman Syria and became a defining political issue during French rule; French officials sought to use healthcare provision as a symbol of governmental competency while Arab nationalists and Bedouin traditionalists sought to preserve their own medical knowledge to sustain claims of their culture’s validity.79 Keith Watenpaugh’s study of US institutions such as Near East Relief is the first comprehensive study focusing on humanitarian welfare, though there is an increasing interest in the topic.80 In contrast to post-Independence Syrian nationalist narratives that have canonised and incorporated Kurd Ibrahim Hanano and Druze Sultan al-Atrash, ethno-religious angles have traditionally informed Lebanese communal histories. The Maronites’ proud independence has long fascinated observers of Lebanese politics and history. Earlier histories written by Maronites tended to seek a historically reasoned affirmation of their exceptionality. Thus one Maronite history described the end of

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Ottoman rule as ‘the end of the Turkish night’.81 The same account passed over wholesale the first five years of mandate rule, including the role of Maronite politicians and newspaper editors in pressuring French authorities to delegate further autonomy to Lebanon.82 It also ignored the clearly political role played by Patriarch Elias Hoyek, favouring the word ‘saint’, ‘apostle’ and ‘man of God’ to describe him. This entrenched a Maronite and French orientalist narrative emphasising this community’s victimhood and political innocence. Intellectuals such as Michel Chiha assimilated this picture of comparatively refined yet needy Maronites surrounded by imposing waves of Semitic-Islamic peoples: a thesis originating in French orientalist works and characterised as an attempt to ‘revive Phoenicia’ by Asher Kaufman.83 This emphasis on communal perspectives has seen more of a critical renaissance in recent scholarship. Extending Itamar Rabinovitch’s thesis, Benjamin Thomas White argues that the mandate state’s clientelist approach allowed the emergence of compact minorities as fully fledged political communities.84 The role of de facto and de jure clientelist mandate methods is evident in the organisation of states for the Druze and Alawites and favouritism toward the Maronite minority in Greater Lebanon. The policy of buttressing communal affiliations as political units is further examined by Nadine Me´ouchy.85 ‘Heterodox’ Islamic religious groups such as the Alawites and Druze have remained relatively less examined, perhaps owing to their securityminded self-imposed secrecy, though Michael Provence notes that some recent Arabic Druze accounts of the Great Revolt have sought to understand it as an ethno-communal uprising.86 Research on Kurds suggests that this community developed an ethno-nationalist consciousness only gradually, beginning with intellectual elaborations in the 1920s and reaching mass audiences through the Kurdish press in the 1930s and 1940s.87 The Shia community in south Lebanon has also been scrutinised. Max Weiss argues that the incorporation of the Ja‘fari Shia Sharia court system in the Jabal ‘Amil led to a degree of legal-communal autonomy while keeping an increasingly self-aware Shia community at a certain distance from Lebanese political debates over the 1920s and 1930s.88 However, this approach risks reducing Shia logics to religious affiliation. As Tamara Chalabi notes, and in keeping with the dialogic nature of

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clientelism, Lebanese Shias were negotiating their path between the Arab Sunni Faisalians and the French High Commission as early as 1918. Indeed, divisions within the Shia secular leadership allowed the French to encourage those among them seeking Shia religious autonomy and separation.89 Such ‘divided loyalties’, as well as a growing inter-communal contestation between the newly empowered Francophile Maronites and other south-Lebanese groups such as the Shia and Greek Orthodox, suggests that minorities could in fact be just as complex as they were compact.90 Even religiously akin communities could demonstrate different characteristics as Ottoman regionalism gave way to French clientelism. The Greek Orthodox communities of Beirut and Damascus, deeply involved with the Ottoman trade between these capitals, protested French policies that separated Greater Lebanon from Syria. Unlike the religiously organised Maronites, who invoked their concerns through their Patriarch Elias Hoyek, the Beirut-based Greek Orthodox Patriarch held less sway with his more commercially minded constituents who had developed a degree of financially induced autonomy.91 In contrast, traditionally Russophile Orthodox Armenians were mostly quiescent, even as they brought with them Communist ideas into their makeshift suburbs in Beirut, since they depended on French and Anglophone welfare.92 In fact, French-sponsored Catholic Armenians and Assyrian-Chaldeans were encouraged to settle in the northern parts of Syria in order to ‘dilute’ the Sunni Muslim population and thereby create Francophile Christian buffer zones separating Aleppo, Deir Ez-Zor and the new Turkish Republic: a policy that may have seemed like a good strategy on maps but actually fuelled intercommunal contestation in rural villages, as will be seen in the case of school budget disputes.93 Two studies of cultural politics in the mandate have been undertaken by Jennifer Dueck and Elizabeth Thompson in a welcome extension of the field of political activity to include cultural institutions such as cinemas, scouting groups, schools and newspapers. Jennifer Dueck’s study of the claims of culture makes a fundamental point regarding the role of claims of cultural appropriateness and dominance for French oversight of their mandate tutees. Dueck offers a functional approach to culture along institutional lines, writing that cultural politics encompasses: ‘the negotiations and networking [. . .] between public

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leaders [. . .] in cultural institutions [. . .] whether in a small community or on the [inter]national stage’.94 Dueck’s framework serves as the blueprint for the frequent reference herein to French claims of cultural affinity and consequent governmental competency in the Levant. However, the current work also complicates that of Dueck since her focus is on ‘the last decade of French mandate rule’, the 1930s. This distinction is not merely temporal; the meanings, conditions and expectations of mandate rule were under a great deal of contestation in the formative five years. By the 1930s, a negotiation between Syro-Lebanese stakeholders and their mandatory administrators may have replaced a previous political culture characterised by contestation; the combination of various controversies and centrifugal local, e´migre´, regional and international forces evident in cultural institutions as well as violent outbursts had spelt the death-knell of genuine French expectations of a Levantine protectorate. Elizabeth Thompson’s sweeping history of cultural institutions does cover the earlier period of the mandate. The gender-based analysis of the exercise of French paternalist power over what she terms constructed ‘colonial citizens’ is a welcome revision of uncritical histories that ignore women’s organising in cultural and political instiutions.95 Her core claim that the mandate period ‘was [. . .] seminal in laying the foundations of postcolonial states and citizenship’ is critical in encouraging a revision of imperial and nationalist narratives that portray it as a tragic and mistaken part of modern Syro-Lebanese and French imperial history.96 The mandate was not simply a blundered French effort to do good hampered by a budgetary crisis or a period of stifled communal or nationalist identity awaiting renaissance. It was formative in even conceptualising Syria and Lebanon: Syria without Lebanon and Palestine, Syria as democratic and unified, Syria as a pan-Arab or pan-Islamic province, and communal, territorial and religious disputes born with these states. However, Thompson’s suggestion that France created a political culture that constructed a ‘colonial civic order’ which embodied ‘norms and institutions’ that ‘expressed and continually renegotiated’ the ‘terms of citizenship’ may more properly apply to the later period of mandate rule, when local government functions, the notion of Lebanese and Syrian citizenship, and other basic state-societal frameworks had begun to be agreed upon.97 Thompson acknowledges this shift occurring in the

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1930s from what she characterises as ‘simple opposition to French rule’ to ‘attempts to transform the colonial civic order’.98 The opposition to French rule in the early years was not simple; it was a complex of alternative interpretations of what the French mandate, imposed by colonial violence, would mean and how it would be implemented. Syro-Lebanese individuals working through cultural institutions drawn up by colonial administrators mostly contested, rather than negotiated, the vision of a new French Mediterranean protectorate. Their efforts, supplementing consistent and costly violent rejections, emasculated initial French expectations. It is perhaps a sign of the difficulty of encapsulating the shifting mandate actors, intentions and circumstances that most histories tend to skip the formal dates of modern Syrian-Lebanese state development. The oft-recalled Sykes–Picot Agreement of 1916 was a culmination of Franco-British sparring for the Middle East stretching back centuries. Yet, though it signified a rethink of granting Arab nationalists independent sovereignty over the Levantine mosaic, it also signalled the beginning of a period of inter- (and intra-)imperial uncertainty that lasted at least until a treaty formalised British– French mandate borders in February 1922.99 Before this, a French High Commissioner was installed in Beirut to oversee the French OETA from 1918 to 1919. This oft-forgotten first High Commissioner was the selfsame Franc ois Georges-Picot who lent his name to the infamous 1916 accord. Picot’s symbolic presence and small staff were replaced by General Henri Gouraud and the Levant Army in October 1919. The year 1920, however, was when political talk of a French mandate was enforced as imperial reality. Following spring skirmishes, the San Remo Accord and the Arab defeat at Maysalu¯n in the summer allowed France to expand from its Lebanese foothold. Legally, however, France would wait until July 1923 before a League of Nations mandate charter was promulgated in Geneva. In short: culturally and economically, France was long established in what was termed the Echelles du Levant (Mediterranean Syria); diplomatically, France initially negotiated its stake in 1916; administratively, it was present in the littoral from 1918; militarily, France took over the rest Syria in 1920; legally, the mandate only began in July 1923. Domestically, alongside the sweeping aside of Faisal at Maysalu¯n and the outbreak of the Great Revolt of 1925, important internal

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uprisings occurred. The Ibrahim Hanano revolt in Aleppo in 1919 – 20 was but one of a chain of limited regional uprisings that succeeded the Faisalian attempt to forge an Arab state in Damascus. Prior to Hanano’s revolt, a major uprising occurred in Antioch, inspired by the Faisalians and supported by Kemalist forces in Anatolia. These uprisings may not have reflected a mature nationalist consciousness, yet they were certainly anti-imperialist ones that set the tone for fractious SyroFrench relations.100 Perhaps the most overlooked event in mandate studies is a set of revolts in spring – summer 1922 with striking similarity to the Great Syrian Revolt which could be considered as representing a Lesser Syrian Insurrection. Several accounts note the outbreak of violence at this time, but treat it as a disparate set of grievances. Philip S. Khoury describes these as ‘political disturbances’ that caused France to tinker with the political system.101 Lenka Bokova explains that spring 1922 witnessed what she terms ‘the Damascus protest movement’, following a French amnesty of exiled nationalists and the visit of Charles Richard Crane, the Chicago millionaire, Wilsonian surrogate and King– Crane Commission leader. At the same time, the protagonist of the Great Syrian Revolt, Druze Sultan Pasha Al-Atrash, actually first rebelled in July 1922 following disagreements with French authorities which had striking similarities to those he expressed in 1925.102 It is fascinating to note that this chronological division seems to be clearer in Arabic histories of the mandate. Lebanese nationalist Muhammad Jamil Beyhum’s account of Lebanon’s position agrees with the importance of the 1920– 5 encounters, though he stresses a divide between a period of delinquency between 1919 and 1923 and outright war from 1923 to 1925. Beyhum notes particularly that the heavy-handed French policing and repression had unveiled the mandate’s meaning as being unconcerned with emancipation. Interestingly, Beyhum’s phrase to refer to the contestation, both civilian and violent, is Al-Tandim Al-Madani (the civil organisation).103 ˙ Yusuf Al-Hakim’s history of the mandate provides an overview of the key characters that recognises the importance of the first five years prior to the Great Revolt. Hakim’s history, however, placed particular emphasis on the importance of individual leaders such as the Maronite Archbishop, French governors General De Lamothe and Billote, and Kurdish rebel Ibrahim Hanano.104 Shams Al-Din

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Al-Rifaii noted the great influence of the press protests in the initial years of the mandate.105 In her examination of the brothers Nabih and ‘Adel Al-Azmah, historian Khairiya Qasmiya makes a similar divide between the 1918–20, 1920– 5, 1925– 7 and 1927– 30 periods.106

The Shifts in Early Mandate Administration The need for mandate historians to connect seemingly disparate contestations, whether violent or civil, and the shifting nature of the mandate is made evident by contemporary bureaucratic historiographies. Two contemporary bureaucratic observers’ reflective accounts of the early mandate underline the consideration of the 1920–5 period as a distinct, formative bloc for determining initial visions and challenges to mandatory techniques. In 1924, Britain’s former military attache´ in Beirut, Major Callum, reflected on his four-year posting during a Royal United Services Institute conference in Whitehall. He summarised the initial French approach as being characterised by the patronage afforded to favoured local elites. A key part of this strategy was the division of Syria into four territories: Greater Lebanon, Damascus and the Druze State, Aleppo and Alexandretta and the Alawite territory. According to Callum, plans were made to unite the territories under a federation of Syrian states yet, as soon as these were announced, the Christian Lebanese had protested in fear of a retrogression toward a Sunni Muslim domination that had not even existed under the Ottomans. Lebanon was thus allowed to avoid incorporation into the federation. Major Callum also noted the difficulties found in accomplishing even the basic task of appointing a governor for Lebanon, given the country’s 31 non-Muslim sects. This led to the appointment of Frenchman Albert Michel Trabaud as Lebanese governor. Ironically and despite claims of particular French cultural attachment and governmental trust among the Lebanese Catholics, it was in the Syrian interior that locally sourced governors were first appointed. Further divisions of the interior states occurred, for instance, the separation of the Jabal Druze occurred in 1923 for a short period and the direct administration undertaken in the Alawite State. This was noteworthy for Callum because he had personally seen and been told by the ‘mountain warrior race’ Alawites of their fierce resistance to the French, and subsequent quiescence and indeed their disproportional conscription into the auxiliary Troupes

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Spe´ciales in the Levant Army. Callum intimated that this Alawite readjustment toward mandate authorities might have resulted from a recalculation of circumstances as they faced being dissolved into the Sunni-dominated Syrian Federation (1922 – 4), later becoming the Syrian state.107 A year after the outbreak of the 1925 Great Revolt, the architect of the early mandate, general-secretary Robert De Caix, wrote a reflective report that also emphasised the outlined period. He admitted that the Revolt had triggered the country’s reorganisation. His review nevertheless defended the claims of culture and competency by reiterating the ‘patrimoine that has to be defended in the Levant’. He expressed his surprise at finding Lebanon to be even more Francophone than fully colonised Algeria. De Caix claimed that in exercising the mandate, France was undertaking an onerous duty against her will. He added that none of those among the initial administrative corps in Syria really knew the Orient. Gouraud’s team thus had assumed that there was ‘a need to get a firm grip on Syria first, before they could “see” it [il fallait metre la main sur la Syrie et que l’ont verrais ensuite]’. In reality however, De Caix wrote, Syria very quickly revealed herself. Those French administrators advocating a ‘light’ mandate, ‘who expected real powers for local people’ soon realised the need for direct control. They had proposed finding a king to replace the deposed Faisal in the Syrian interior. Their case for ‘lighter[,] more distant’ French rule was given credence by Britain’s tactical master stroke which saw Faisal whisked away from Damascus to Baghdad. Furthermore, the Beirut authorities received ‘brutal’ budget reductions from Paris. De Caix claimed that Gouraud had been counselled by his fellow military topbrass, including the Levant Army’s chief of staff, to undertake this light mandate and, remarkably given the depth of French intrusion evidenced in the forthcoming chapters, De Caix claimed that this had been the initial policy.108 Instead of facing the facts of French interference, De Caix focused on British promotion of Arab nationalism as a framework for explaining the difficulties encountered in the first five years. According to De Caix, Britain encouraged an Arab nationalist opposition, manipulated by T.E. Lawrence ‘of Arabia’ and other officers.109 De Caix continued his conspiratorial tone by suggesting that British attempts at destabilising Syria had continued throughout. De Caix noted that Sultan Al-Atrash’s

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1922 rebellion had been sustained with the help of a Transjordan-based British officer.110 These officers had been the agents of a British policy that saw Syria as an intolerable blight on an otherwise coterminous British Asian Empire. The 1925 ‘Druze insurrection’ was seen as another result of such British agitation. These ‘political officers’ had had the advantage of having been trained in the Orient, as opposed to French specialism in North African affairs. For De Caix, French administrators too often relied on North African colonial habits. The minorities in each of these Syrian states were seen as a bridge into ruling the territory, just as the European settlers had been in North Africa. Cognisant of the dialogue at the heart of clientelism, De Caix noted that this organisation bound France to assuring the autonomy of these clients. However, there was a need to unite the various territories that emerged in order to assure the flow of commerce between the new ‘states’. Since the French government had ruled out a monarchy, High Commissioner Gouraud had announced the Syrian Federation in May 1921. Unlike Major Callum’s schematic outline, De Caix acknowledged that the Federation resulted from nationalist pressure who argued that Syria’s division had contravened the League’s mandate. De Caix complained that this solution had also come under instant criticism from an ill-informed metropolitan French parliament and press. De Caix added that, though Christians in Lebanon had a clearer communal conscience, there were evident moments of doubt about French policy even among Maronites, for instance, when Faisal was beginning to take over in Damascus. De Caix quipped that this communal political opportunism should come as no surprise since the sunflower (a flower that turns toward the power of the sun over the day) was the most common plant in the Levant. Alongside this, there was a need to win over the opinion of the mass of indifferent Sunni Muslims who were being misled by opportunist nationalists. De Caix again admitted the role of the nationalists in pressuring the authorities to move from Federation to Syrian Union. This had led to a commission convening in May 1924 at the French Foreign Ministry (the Quai d’Orsay) with High Commissioner Weygand to outline plans for union. Peculiarly, given his own penchant for micro-management, De Caix complained that a majority of the French bureaucrats serving him had never understood the limited intervention intended by the mandate framework. Echoing some of the Lebanese press’ criticism, De Caix

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claimed that bureaucrats were driven by self-interest, particularly in terms of privileges such as the use of automobiles. Local bureaucrats posted to the states were able to benefit from the confusion over budgets and personnel organisation to gain greater funds for various projects and salaries for employees through special central bursaries. De Caix also criticised the confusion of military and civil roles for the early high commissioners. In particular, the Services des Renseignements had excercised a ‘megalomaniac interest in political affairs, outside of its proper role’ and the high commissioners had too often depended on it to fulfil governmental tasks that should have been undertaken by civil authorities. Rather, they had given themselves a remit that went much wider than the mandate, with coverage of Turkey, Iraq and Palestine. They had flooded the High Commissariat with endless ‘information notes that were supposed to keep it up to date with an endless stream of indigenous intrigues, intrigues that had not lasted longer than the ink written on the notes had taken to dry out’. De Caix was outlining the shifting power structure of the colonial bureaucracy in the mandate. France primordially imposed its plans on the country through the force of the metropolitan and colonial toops of the Arme´e du Levant (Levant Army) and a range of auxiliary forces such as the Syrian Legion, Troupes Spe´ciales, Gendarmerie Mobile and Controˆle Be´douin, as well as a ‘judicial’ apparatus composed of military tribunals, local police forces and a renovated Ottoman prison complex. The defeat of the erstwhile anti-Ottoman allies and Faisal-led independent Arabs at Maysalu¯n in 1920 was but one of many resistances, rebellions and revolts met with Senegalese goums, Algerian and Vietnamese tirailleurs, French me´haristes, howitzers, airplanes, ethnic-minority auxiliary troops, death sentences, years of hard labour, house arrests and exile. Civil policy was outlined by the High Commission at Beirut’s Residence des Pins with the approval of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, located at the Quai d’Orsay in Paris, on important decisions. Ultimately, the state-building functions of the mandate authorities were at the mercy of the French Parliament’s approval of budgetary submissions made on behalf of Beirut by the Quai d’Orsay, a significant fact since the skeletal post-World War I French economy led to immediate reductions in finances beginning in 1922. The high commissioners, their

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general-secretaries and the various functional central departments (for instance, for public works, education or healthcare) in Beirut extended their oversight of the various local ‘states’ in the Levant through advisors and attache´s. Parallel to this initially formed political apparatus that generally approached the mandate as a protectorate in internal and external discussions, there was a vast intelligence apparatus filling up the Beirut offices with endless, minute and often sober notices of developments at na¯hiyah (village) qada¯ʾ (district), muha¯faza, mutasarifiyah, sanjak ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ (municipal or provincial), dawliyah (state) and intra-state levels. This was undertaken by the Services des Renseignements: primarily composed of the Levant Army’s intelligence bureaucracy usually referred to as the Deuxie`me Bureau, but also inclusive of the Service des Renseignements Central, housed in Beirut. Intelligence documentation, including weekly selective summaries of press articles and reports from informants, form the pillar of French mandate archives. Inevitably, these sources had a fundamentally French bias, beginning in the possibility of accuracy of intent and meaning being lost in translation but also in the orientalist and hierarchical mentalities that shaped intelligence officers. As Michael Provence has noted, there was a tendency for French officials to seek explanations of Syro-Lebanese developments within a framework that reiterated French claims of cultural dominance and governmental competency; in contrast to Arabic language sources that demonstrate much greater reflexivity.111 Similarly, Caesar Farah notes how non-Arabophone Ottoman press censors tended to assume that complex Arabic poetry republished in Damascus and Beirut was encouraging pan-Arabism. Their harsh crackdowns on the press ironically encouraged Syro-Lebanese disloyalty.112 However, there needs to be an acknowledgement of the division of attitudes between officials like Robert De Caix, who staked their political fortune on successfully realising their projects for a French Levant protectorate worthy of metropolitan investments, and intelligence officers whose success was judged in their ability to control and contain Syro-Lebanese developments. As a result of their smaller scale of concentration, the depth of overlapping documentation they produced, their recruitment and use of local Arabic-speaking dragomans and informants and their success being judged on accurate reporting, these intelligence officers offered less idealistic depictions.

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Priya Satia’s characterisation of British intelligence gathering seeks to counter such an emphasis on bureaucratic regularity by highlighting the romantic-orientalist impulse guiding officers like Harry St John Philby and Captain William Shakespear. This means that British success in the region during and after World War I resulted from a flexible bureaucracy that allowed locally grounded specialist officers to gain ‘a particular epistemological framework for knowing and governing the Middle East’.113 Inevitably, if Satia’s account is correct, then much of this intelligence gathering was thereby due to contingent knowledge, making the documentation of the colonial archive particularly treacherous. Though this is certainly a major obstacle to unearthing accurate information, an examination of French and British methods reveals that Satia’s own reliance on individual romantic-orientalist adventurer officers may have led to oversights concerning the ongoing bureaucratisation of information gathering, a phenomenon especially evident in the massive surveillance bureaucracies of the mandate administrations. As Martin Thomas explains, this web of local, colonial and imperial intelligence apparatuses was seen as a fundamental source of control and prediction of potential pitfalls.114 Indeed, the French did have their own Lawrences and Bells, and after the War many of these culturally embedded experts became part of the mandate bureaucracies, as is shown here.115 It is equally worth noting that, even when the ‘expert’ orientalist-romantic adventurers such as Philby and Lawrence distanced themselves from their wartime roles, the interwar British and French information-gathering machines rolled on unperturbed. A deeper challenge posed by heavy reliance on colonial archives has been noted by Ann Laura Stoler, who, reflecting on her experiences with the Indonesian material, explains how archives were not simple documentations of events. Rather, they were built by bureaucrats with deep biases that affected their information gathering. Stoler particularly notes the importance of internal colonial administrators’ reflections, often in the form of ethnographic mises-en-e´tat, meaning that: ‘Documents honed in the pursuit of prior issues could be requisitioned to write new histories, could be reclassified for new initiatives’.116 By seeking out instances of a breakdown in colonial logics, which she summarises as ‘epistemic practices’, Stoler proposes to flesh out patterns of colonial administrative mentalities, and the legacy effects they had on history and history-writing.

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She looks in particular at instances where the complex social fabrics of colonial territories challenged administrators’ rationalities: Colonial agents constantly sought new ways to secure the qualities of social kinds – most clearly when assigned attributes fell short of differentiating the gradations of exclusions and exemptions that new colonial administrations sought to make. Such reassessments called into question the epistemic habits on which they were based [. . .] these were not passive inhabitings but achieved, anticipatory states [. . .] As such, these archives are not simply accounts of actions or records of what people thought happened. They are records of uncertainty and doubt in [. . .] a changing imperial world. Not least they record anxious efforts to ‘catch up’ with what was emergent and ‘becoming’ in new colonial situations.117 To reduce the risk of misinterpretation, it is thus important to examine overlapping sets of French reports and summaries of local press commentary. By using US and British consular reports to confirm or contradict French interpretations, trends can be discerned even if details and specific cases cannot be fully accurate. It is to be noted that many of the newspapers of this era are lost to posterity. Though (primarily USbased but also Latin American) e´migre´ newspapers of the 1920s have been conserved, Levantine newspaper archives for the early 1920s are scanter.118 When considering Syrian voices through French press summaries, the accumulation of dozens of summaries drawn from various newspapers serves to underscore the general sentiment being expressed, even if there are inaccuracies of specific interpretation. Indeed, unearthing the voluminous mandate surveillance of cultural institutions underlines administrators’ clear awareness of the opening of political and discursive opportunity structures through peaceful activity within French and Syro-Lebanese organised institutions. Ann Laura Stoler suggests that by examining ‘unorthodox’ situations emerging in the colonial archive as challenges to colonial logics we can reach the kind of ‘minor history’, or ‘subaltern’ voices that Foucault and the Indian historians were seeking. Stoler explains that: ‘such histories should not be mistaken for trivial ones. Nor are they iconic, mere microcosms of events played out elsewhere on a larger central stage. Minor history [. . .] marks a

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differential political temper and a critical space. It attends to structures of feeling and force that in “major” history might be otherwise displaced’.119 With a closer look at Gramsci’s discussion, and his much more specific use of the term ‘subaltern’ as outlined previously, one can flip Stoler’s formula on its head; we can also read archives against the grain. Finding moments of clashing ‘subaltern’ and colonial administrative logics certainly provides illuminating insights to flesh out the limits of colonial thinking and practice. Yet a comprehensive and granular history, as Gramsci recommended, can provide us ‘structures of feeling and force’ that incorporate both the dominating and subjugated discursive and political dynamics within emerging and diminishing opportunity structures. The following account of the first five years of the Mandate seeks to achieve such a history. Administrators drew up various services within the High Commission which would direct dependent services in local governments. Civil services included: the Service du Habous to oversee waqfs (Muslim mortmain perpetuities), the Service du Cadastre looking into property ownership, the Services Speciaux set up after 1925 to attempt to retain administrative oversight over increasingly autonomous local governments, a Service Technique for engineering works, a Service des Travaux Publiques for road and water provision and a Service de la Sante´ Publique for healthcare. Oversight of cultural institutions was undertaken by the Service des Antiquite´s, examining the excavation of antiquities and managing museums; the Office du Tourisme; the Service de l’Instruction Publique overseeing education; and the Service de la Presse, an open source intelligence bureau housed in the High Commission that complemented the covert intelligence officers’ efforts.

Structure of this Book Each chapter herein is structured to consider French attempts at establishing and consolidating their claims to particular attachment to the Levant and claims of governmental competency through these institutions. Each chapter equally considers how international and SyroLebanese stakeholders responded through communal action, local government and the press as well as regional and international channels. Chapter 1, on antiquities protection and preservation, examines the organisation of an antiquities service intended to buttress French claims

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to an historic protectorate over the Levant that were key elements to securing mandatory rule. The chapter examines foreign nations’ and local peoples’ contestation of these methods, particularly the Lebanese press’ campaign against French exportation of antiquities to foreign museums. Chapter 2, dealing with controlling cultural heritage through organisation and oversight of museums, tourism and colonial exhibitions, shifts the discussion to three cultural institutions that were more informally administered by the French authorities and local governments. The same theme is pervasive: the attempt to utilise the creation of museums, the promotion of tourism and the exhibition of French action in the Levant as cultural ‘claims’ to exercise a protectorate. Chapter 3 examines content, curricula and classrooms. A further chapter on the politics of pedagogy (Chapter 4) moves the discussion toward more overt political-cultural activity. The chapter looks at ‘political grants’ for study in Lebanon and metropolitan France. The analysis then shifts to the role of schools as a site of domestic political opposition to French mandatory methods, followed by a consideration of the international element. Chapter 5, on surveillance, subsidies and censorship of the domestic Arabic press, begins by introducing the press service which monitored and condensed press commentary. This is followed by an overview of the Arabic press in the various Syrian states at the outset of the mandate. The chapter discusses the increasing dependence on censorship as these first years unfolded. Chapter 6, ‘Subservience and Sanction?’, shifts the analysis to the Francophone press, both in the Levant itself and the Francosphe`re. Surprisingly, to the French themselves in fact, several French-language newspapers proved to be willing to contest French methods. The discussion shifts to cover Syro-Lebanese exiles and e´migre´s in Geneva and Paris and the metropolitan French press, demonstrating the range of pressures facing administrators in Beirut and Paris. The final chapter (Chapter 7), on internationalism, extends the scope of analysis to what is considered the ‘external press’ showing how French administrators recognised the political importance of contestation to their methods in the international and regional press.

CHAPTER 1 ANTIQUITIES PROTECTION AND EXCAVATION

As a new era of mandatory rule began in 1920, the historical artefacts and fortifications covering the cities, tell mounds and deserts of Syria and Lebanon were the subject of renewed battles. The first five years of mandatory rule over Syria and Lebanon witnessed a casual and ultimately vague formulation of antiquities law. There was a deep-rooted orientalism present in French, and even international, scholarly and regulatory circles. This combined to impede effective encouragements of local concern for the conservation and promotion of antiquities. Efforts were certainly made to protect archaeological resources by the newly organised Service des Antiquite´s. Yet, despite rhetorical aloofness, French administrators largely adopted Ottoman approaches to antiquities regulation. Although the League of Nations’ mandate charter had included a general stipulation requiring protection of antiquities, precise details remained undefined. The French therefore relied on continuing an Ottoman-era law that provided for a split allowing half of all items found at excavations to go to foreign, especially French, missions. Widespread excavations had already occurred before World War I and the mandate encouraged (particularly French) archaeologists to undertake further digs. By affording the new mandatory authorities the ability to establish themselves as protectors of a forgotten ancient, and even Islamic, past, such activity conveniently buttressed claims to a civilising mission. Yet local opinion, in the local government apparatus

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and press, did not idly allow French dominance of these antiquities. This phenomenon of political use of malleable claims of culture was thus well established in the first five years of the mandate, before the later mandate period.1 French encouragement of archaeological activity for the consolidation of cultural claims bolstering the mandate was not unique in the region.2 Yet whereas the Iraqi and Palestine mandates’ archaeological past have been subjected to scrutiny, analytical accounts of mandate Lebanon and Syria’s antiquities service are few.3 The fate of antiquities was subject to cultural claims from the outset of the mandate. Newspapers in France covered developments in Syrian archaeology, though not with the verve shown in Anglophone reporting on British exploits in Egypt and Iraq.4 Finally, the local government bureaucracy of early mandate government, one of several facets of early French rule grounded on Ottoman foundations, provided a space for contesting exclusively French cultural claims.

Antiquities, Orientalism and Cultural Imperialism A storied French engagement with the Levant’s antiquities certainly gave weight to claims of cultural affinity with the region. France’s engagement with the Orient was centuries old. Antiquities exploration during the French occupation of Egypt clearly served to underpin Napoleon’s political ambitions.5 His expedition to Syria sparked a flurry of European scholarly and governmental interest in the region. A key component of this Napoleonic orientalism was the assumption that local peoples had neither an interest in their ancient past, nor the capacity to preserve it. This was the result of orientalist prejudices rooted in a rationalist attempt to categorise, and thus control, the past for the purposes of present governance, an approach directly in opposition to the understanding of ancient relics expressed by Islamic philosophers and Egyptian governors.6 As the French cultural and economic presence in West Asia became firmly established over the course of the nineteenth century, orientalist presumptions crystallised. Central to Egyptian reformer Muhammad ‘Ali’s push for modernisation was his patronage of orientalists such as the Saint-Simonian Barthe´lemy Prosper Enfantin.7 Napoleon’s nephew Louis Bonaparte also gazed eastward, sending Ernest Renan on a mission alongside French troops during France’s intervention in the 1860

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Lebanese civil war.8 Demonstrating burgeoning military-savant ties, Renan collaborated with the expeditionary army’s topographical brigade to secure maps of Lebanon for his ethnographic studies.9 French interest in Mediterranean antiquity resurged during the Third Republic (1870– 1940), in the face of German and British competition for the strategic region.10 Such activity fit within the broadly described phenomenon of orientalism best outlined by Edward Said’s eponymous book, which evidences how the romantic-era European scholarly and governmental gaze eastward tended toward dispossession and control by creating an imagined division.11 The orientalism thesis has subsequently been critiqued and refined by historians who stressed Said’s lack of attention to particular empirical evidence from certain parts of the world and across historical periods.12 European cultural arrogation through a ‘resurrection’ of locally forgotten, formerly glorious, pasts was eminently possible in the nineteenth century. A range of contemporary archaeological bulletins demonstrated this cultural imperialism. In an article on Phoenicians, renowned British archaeologist Leonard Woolley suggested a revision to previous French accounts of Phoenician development. Woolley suggested race-based distinctions between Oriental (Asiatic) and Western (Greek) influences; an Aegean Phoenician civilisation had first developed in contact with Ancient Greece, before being ‘subject to an Asiatic influx’. Woolley finished by explaining that it was this confusion of Asiatic and Aegean Phoenicia that had led Greek histories to ‘falsely attribute to the Phoenicians, thanks to the Aegean base [. . .] the great roles [in fact] played by peoples of pure race’.13 By researching bygone glories that had seemingly been ignored by local peoples, Europeans and, from the mid-nineteenth century onwards, an increasing number of US scholars, laid claim to ownership of an ancient and foreign past. They were also delimiting what Said noted were the ‘pure’ and ‘impure’ ‘images of a privileged, genealogically useful past [. . .] in which we exclude unwanted elements’.14 This was neither dispassionate nor malevolent research. Despite the bias, archaeologists (often working in difficult circumstances and driven by researchers’ passions) made fundamental contributions to human knowledge. Despite France’s interest in making political gains from cultural claims and a rich archaeological tradition in the region, antiquities exploitation was constrained by structural limits to

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mandatory methods. These limits were imposed by dual pressure from domestic Syro-Lebanese organisations and the principles of tutelage and an ‘open door’ that the League of Nations oversight required. The words of Talal Asad on anthropologists’ colonial encounters resonate with archaeological activity: The basic reality which made pre-[Second World] war social anthropology a feasible and effective enterprise was the power relationship [. . .] the colonial power structure made the object of anthropological study accessible and safe [. . .] [yet it is too simplistic to view anthropology] as primarily an aid to colonial administration, or as the simple reflection of colonial ideology [. . .] bourgeois consciousness [. . .] has always contained within itself [. . .] the potentialities for transcending itself.’15 The deep imprint that orientalist narratives of the ancient world left upon the official, often classically trained, minds points to the dialogic relationship between imperial power-holders and researchers. The notion of ‘official minds’ has been discussed in various imperial contexts. Classic studies emphasised the political strategies, or their lacunae, among Whitehall and Quai d’Orsay decision makers. More recent commentary has absorbed the influence of cultural histories to consider the mentalities shaping the multiple views of imperial planners, regional administrators and local assimilators.16 Such ‘epistemic habits’, as Ann Laura Stoler terms them, can be recovered by reading the archives critically.17 To give one example of such orientalist mindsets, consider the comments made by high-placed US official Colonel Edward M. House, an influential member of Woodrow Wilson’s post-World War I Inquiry and an Ivy-League-educated Texan. He wrote that ‘while Europe was bleeding [. . .] in every mosque, in every market place there was a quiet exultation that Western Civilization seemed bent upon destroying itself [. . .] we of the West are prone to think of those of the East as inactive dreamers [. . .] we sometimes fail to reckon on that fierce courage which, when aroused, will dare death and destruction [. . .] there is one advantage the East has over the West, its people know how to wait. Time is as nothing to them. Their History stretches through the centuries.’18 Echoes of these orientalist and romantic mentalities were equally present among policy-makers in Paris and mandate executors in the

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Levant. In February 1919, the then foreign minister and future president of the Republic, Alexandre Millerand, spoke of a ‘centuries-old [French] Protectorate’ in Syria, originating in the Crusades, one which continued via protection of Christians, charitable works and the provision of relief and education.19 In another note, he added that: ‘[France] brought the benefits of civilisation [. . .] if France was able to achieve such a result, she owes it, it is true to say, to the activity of her national missionaries, professors and merchants who acted in conjunction to her political activity and in constant liaison with her’.20 Key military administrators in Beirut and Damascus evinced similar convictions. In 1920 General Mariano Goybet, fresh from the Maysalu¯n victory, asked for more information about the renovation of indigenous arts and industries.21 Five years earlier, General Henri Gouraud, who would soon become the second High Commissioner, was reputed to have ordered an archaeological dig in the backline while sending troops to the disastrous frontline at Gallipoli.22 Upon his appointment as High Commissioner, Gouraud also gave funding for a French dig at Sidon by Georges Contenau ‘as soon as the political situation allowed it.’23 Publicly, Gouraud boasted of the ‘permanent interest that the ancient and beautiful land of Syria offers to history, archaeology’. In private discussions, Gouraud did not hide his belief in the political importance of antiquities and scholarly activity for justifying France’s mandate.24 French archaeologist Georges Contenau reported that Gouraud’s successor, General Maxime Weygand, was an equally assiduous protector of antiquities.25 A report sent to the French intelligence services by Joseph Tyan, likely a descendant of an eighteenth-century Maronite Patriarch, outlined a history of the Levant that closely conformed to orientalist and simplistic narratives of a civilising occident and stale orient. Tyan assimilated and echoed a rehearsed theme that emphasised the struggle between the sedentarised and civilised coastal peoples and the restless Bedouins. He wrote that: There can be no doubt that the formation of the current Syrian mentality owes itself to the ancient times [. . .] when laws were transmitted from father to son. This can be seen in the domain of customs [. . .] from this point of view, the nomads occupying the vast Syrian desert offer a snapshot of the patriarchal life of

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Abraham [. . .] In contrast with the restlessly errant nomads, the [. . .] sedentarised factions [. . .] suffered the shock of invasions and wars, and furthermore, the inevitable consequences on their mentalities [. . .] that is to say that already in primitive times, the influences that pushed spirits differed completely between East and West [. . .] the Roman domination [. . .] imposed the first principles for a Bedouin policy [. . .] a chain of fortresses’.26 Multiple imperial, colonial and cliental mentalities propagated orientalist dispossession of local peoples from the ancient past, conveniently allowing for politically significant claims of culture and consequent governmental competency.

Archaeological Activity in the Ottoman Period Despite cultural claims seeking to dispossess local peoples of their ancient past, a distinct governmental approach to antiquities research had certainly already been introduced during the Ottoman period.27 Several key figures and institutions of French orientalist archaeology operated in the Levant in the late Ottoman period. In Palestine and Transjordan, the Dominican-run E´cole Biblique Archae´ologique, established in the late nineteenth century, had a preponderant role and some of its scholars would build connections to the French military during World War I. French activity would maintain close ties with the antiquities service in Syria.28 In Beirut the Saint Joseph University’s oriental faculty had been established in 1902 to support the general trend toward scientistic study of the religious past.29 Though diplomatic actors required cultural institutions to substantiate their claims of culture, institutions such as the Dominican school in Jerusalem were able to exercise more agility in negotiating the multiple imperial benefectors competing for a Near East presence, as well as having a degree of intellectual affinity with fellow archaeologists that cut across national divides. For instance, William Albright, the director of the American School in Jerusalem, reported that the Dominicans had given his institute free access to their library.30 After World War I, additional French archaeological missions were set up in Istanbul to compete with Germany’s postwar cultural resurgence. This supplemented the French presence in Rhodes, Athens

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and Cairo.31 The mandate antiquities service was thus not set up in a French vacuum. Neither was the French antiquities service the first such institution in the region. The initial director of the Frenchinstituted antiquities service, Joseph Chamonard, described the nineteenth-century director of Ottoman antiquities, Osman Hamdi Bey, as a ‘capable, intelligent and active creator of a service of surveillance and protection.’32 Hamdi Bey had himself been educated in France and undertaken excavations at Sidon alongside French archaeologists such as Franz Cumont.33 In fact, Chamonard’s replacement as overseer of mandate antiquities in 1920, the professional archaeologist and E´cole Franc aise d’Athe`nes affiliate Charles Virolleaud, had also participated in Ottoman digs under the aegis of Osman Hamdi Bey.34 Despite this earlier collaboration, however, Chamonard’s mandate-era account of the French antiquities service sought to portray Hamdi Bey as being primarily interested in enriching his Istanbul museum. Chamonard’s claims are given a degree of credence by recent scholarly research that has detected an ‘internal orientalism’ in the gaze cast upon the Fertile Crescent’s archaeological riches by Istanbul’s Ottoman intellectuals.35 Chamonard noted in his 1920 report that, during the Ottoman years, foreign museums acquired objects without listing their provenance, which negatively affected their scientific value. He claimed that Syria was the least regulated of all the Ottoman provinces despite being among its richest.36 Chamonard admitted that: ‘In the hands of a man like Osman Hamdi Bey [. . .] this [Ottoman] law provided [. . .] all that one could expect of it. It was neither better nor worse than any such law being applied in another country at the time.’37 However, he warned that: ‘this law was nevertheless undermined by those skilled enough to know how to put to sleep the vigilance of the Kaymakams and Wa¯lis [local administators]’.38 Chamonard avoided explaining who ‘those skilled’ people were, perhaps because he was referring to fellow foreign archaeologists. Careful study of the 1884 and 1906 legislation validates the strength of the Ottoman regulations on paper, if not in practice. In fact, only the initial Ottoman antiquities law, in 1874, allowed for a distribution of antiquities between the Istanbul museum and foreign excavators. The later 1884 law enacted national ownership of all artefacts with subsequent partitions to be judged on a case-by-case basis: a stricter

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regulation, though it still allowed for their distribution as personal favours. Another loophole allowed the retention of a share of antiquities found by private landowners. This was exploited by foreign archaeologists who promised lucrative sums for landowners, thus encouraging private excavations.39 Mandate administrators reiterated Chamonard’s criticism of Hamdi Bey, criticisms that provided convenient political cover for French mandatory methods that maintained expropriations. A 1925 intelligence report noted, for instance, that Osman Hamdi Bey had transported two bas-reliefs from Syria to the Imperial Museum in the Ottoman capital.40 Despite this rhetoric, it is noteworthy that French administrators, fully aware of the failures of Ottoman legislation, maintained the status quo. Chamonard, by his own admission, accepted that the mandatory approach essentially continued Ottoman practice. Mandate authorities in fact established a departure from Ottoman legislation, which had required the hoarding of ‘national’ artefacts by instituting a minimum 50 per cent ratio on antiquities to remain in the territory. This was made possible by vague League of Nations legislative oversight.

League of Nations and Law Initial regulation of antiquities, from 1918 to 1922, was subject to ad hoc martial law regulations before the formal implementation of the League’s mandate. The administration of antiquities was nevertheless addressed in Article 14 of the mandate charter. The article failed to stipulate specific requirements, leaving this decision to the mandatory power. Article 14 of the charter stated that: The mandatory shall draw up [. . .] a law of antiquities [. . .] this law shall ensure equality of treatment in the matter of excavations and archaeological research to the nationals of all states members of the League of Nations [. . .] (1) ‘Antiquity’ means any construction or any product of human activity earlier than the year 1700 AD [. . .] (2) the law for the protection of antiquities shall proceed by encouragement rather than by threat. Any person who, having discovered an antiquity without being furnished with the authorization [. . .] shall be rewarded according to the value of the

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discovery [. . .] (5) no clearing of ground or digging with the object of finding antiquities shall be permitted under penalty of fine, except to persons authorized [. . .] (7) authorization shall be only granted to persons who show sufficient guarantees of archaeological experience. The mandatory shall not [. . .] act in such a way as to exclude scholars of any nation without good grounds [. . .] (8) The proceeds of excavation may be divided between the excavator and the competent department in a proportion fixed by that department.41 Indeed, the mandatory statute favoured excavations by citizens of French, British and other League of Nations member states in the ‘most liberal spirit’, though this meant the exclusion of non-League members such as Germany and Soviet Russia. An exception was made for the USA following the signing of a 1924 bilateral agreement that granted the USA the same privileges as League members.42 The emphasis on prioritising foreign excavators’ rights was consistently expressed in charter drafts. An early draft of the charter written by Lord Robert Cecil, an architect of the League and British diplomat, emphasised researching rights among League member states’ citizens.43 A later draft resulting from exchanges between British, French and US specialist delegates to the 1919 Paris Peace Conference talks nevertheless reveals certain differences with the final mandate charter. The definition of antiquities as being ‘any construction, any product of human activity, dating from before 1700’ made the final cut in the 1922 mandate charter. However, though this 1919 draft law gave the mandate authorities flexibility regarding the acquisition and sale of antiquities, as maintained in the finalised charter, it also established a system of export permits that did not appear in the final version. In another instance, the draft expressly criminalised the destruction of antiquities, whether through deliberate action or neglect, and limited excavations to those with authorisation from the antiquities department. When making any such decisions on authorisations, the mandatory power was not allowed to discriminate against foreign countries’ archaeologists.44 American archaeologist and delegate to the Paris Conference Howard Crosby Butler’s report summarised the 1919 negotiations’ objectives as seeking to provide:

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Amply for the protection of historical monuments, for a degree of international control through the British, French and American schools of archaeology by representation on an advisory board, for the encouragement of scientific research by competent and suitably equipped scholars regardless of nationality, for the establishment of a national museum [in each mandate state] [. . .] for equitable division of movable objects discovered between the national museum and the excavator, for suitable rewards to be given to native finders of antiquities, and for the regulation of exportation, possession and sale of antiquities by dealers.45 The League’s final mandate charter emphasised freedom of antiquities exploitation while dropping potential protections. Provision for the equitable division of movable objects on a site-by-site basis was present, representing a gain for international excavators by diminishing Ottoman laws requiring central governmental oversight. National museums were set up by French administrators, as well as harsh restrictions on unregulated dealing in antiquities. Stipulation 7 of Article 14 enabled an interpretation of the mandate in direct contravention of the spirit of tutelage. Stipulation 7 required that mandatory powers handle access to antiquities fairly and recognised the freedom to conduct archaeological work. Yet it also required that: ‘authorisation to excavate shall only be granted to persons who show sufficient guarantees of archaeological experience’. By its very premise, this created an emphasis on European archaeologists, allowing for the neglect of improving local archaeology.46 Other stipulations in Article 14 that left the evaluation of excavation bids to the mandate authorities gave them the manoeuvring space to favour French excavators over those from other League countries. The initial organisation of antiquities evaluation survived the military rule period and was formalised after 1922. For instance, though antiquities decisions were nominally in the hands of the Service des Antiquite´s, the Acade´mie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres in Paris remained the ultimate evaluator of excavation bids. This mechanism allowed administrators to circumvent the ‘open door’ internationalism at the heart of the mandate mechanism.47 Several records attest to the trial of locals for their illegal handling of antiquities. This was in direct contravention with the mandate charter’s requirement that ‘the law [. . .]

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shall proceed by encouragement rather than by threat’. If the ‘stick’ of repressing private excavations was wielded with fervour, the ‘carrot’ of encouraging the development of local antiquities expertise was rarely evident.

Protecting Antiquities Antiquities director Chamonard presented a different narrative. He wrote that, from the outset of the military occupation, the Levant’s antiquities were protected. Specialist officers were selected to be inspectors of antiquities, including the archaeologist Count Robert Du Mesnil Du Buisson and Le´once Brosse, an architect who had undertaken research at Qinnasrin near Aleppo in 1919.48 Captain Raymond Weill was joined by two British captains, Reginald Engelbach and Lieutenant Ernest J.H. Mackay, in undertaking surveys of the state of Syrian antiquities.49 The civil executive agency enforcing antiquities law was initially headed by Chamonard, before archaeologist Charles Virolleaud took over between 1920 and 1929. Although notionally an auxiliary agency, the Service des Antiquite´s was ultimately managed by the High Commission. The Service’s decisions on antiquities were also subject to oversight by the Acade´mie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres in Paris. The Acade´mie had the power to choose its director although the choice had to be approved by the High Commissioner. Regardless of their source of funding, all proposed digs had to go through the Acade´mie or the High Commission.50 The Acade´mie’s experts, headed by its president Rene´ Dussaud, made decisions on submissions for proposed excavations. For instance, when William H. Albright, director of the American School for Oriental Research (ASOR) in Jerusalem, applied to undertake a dig at Tel Dan, antiquities director Charles Virolleaud had to wait for a green light from the Acade´mie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres.51 Virolleaud, who was supposed to both encourage excavations and protect antiquities, derived his authority from the Acade´mie, which drew up the regulations for this mission.52 The antiquities service did begin to develop a more autonomous structure in July 1921 under Virolleaud, in anticipation of the formal promulgation of the mandate charter a year later.

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Claude Prost, a military officer who had participated in the Arab Revolt and was now an inspector of antiquities, outlined the aims of Virolleaud’s revised Service. These were to: a) establish an inventory and classification of the historical monuments in Syria [. . .] b) ensure the conservation of these monuments [. . .] c) prepare a general antiquities law and, more particularly, regulations targeting the commerce and export of antiquities [. . .] d) to organise the archaeological museum in Beirut and create museums in Damascus and Aleppo [. . .] e) to administer the Archaeological Mission in Syria, founded at the behest of the Acade´mie Des Inscriptions Et Des Belles-Lettres [. . .] to publish the results of these works in the Bulletin of the Service of Antiquities [. . .] Syria.53 Mathilde Gelin’s organisational history noted that the Service had a dual role of public administration of antiquities and promoting research.54 It is clear that the authorities did successfully protect antiquities in several instances, for example, by refurbishing the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus.55 The French Institute for Arab and Islamic Arts in Damascus undertook analysis of archaeological remains, such as a cenotaph for Khalid Ibn al-Walid.56 The existence of limits on transferring antiquities is evidenced in a notice on exports appearing in the Algerian commercial newspaper, Le Mercure Africain. However, the notice equally informed its colonial-capitalist readership that they could be given exemptions allowing the export of Syrian antiquities.57 Illegal dealing in antiquities was prosecuted in certain cases, although this focused on small-scale local smuggling. In October 1924, at He´racle in the qada¯ʾ of Raqqa, during a dig led by French archaeologist Eustache de ˙ Lorey, an intelligence officer in charge of Raqqa province ordered the arrest of certain Aleppine merchants and 30 locals who had been undertaking unauthorised excavations. French administrators were unhappy with the ‘minimal’ fine imposed on this group by the local court, a derisory fine, they claimed, that would not discourage illegal digs.58 Circulars stressing the need for protection were distributed to local state administrations. One such circular emphasised the need for protection of antiquities and the prohibition of illegal digs.59 A note sent by the Lebanese state reminded the mutassarıf (regional) and state

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administrators that both the 1906 Ottoman Law and the High Commissioner’s January 1924 Order had prohibited the destruction or deliberate neglect of antiquities. The note also encouraged local administrators to prevent clandestine excavations.60 Given both the mandate authorities’ and mandate charter’s emphasis on vetting digs, local excavators were carefully scrutinised. One case concerns an Iraqi antiquities dealer living in Paris, J. Elias Gejou. He boasted that he was a ‘procurer for the major museums of Europe and America’.61 In May 1922, he contacted the Acade´mie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres asking for approval to excavate some Elamite artefacts. Gejou sought to convince them by suggesting that he had ‘gained from the ruling Prince [of Iraq, Faisal] [. . .] a concession for archaeological excavations [in Iraq] in favour of France’. He had already undertaken excavations in the mountains of Loristan province (in Iran) and was hoping to descend onto the plateau of Susa.62 Gejou’s attempt to gain the Acade´mie’s approval failed.63 Protection of antiquities from small-scale digs was enforced by the mandate authorities with greater vigour than had been the case under the Ottomans. One reported incident described the implementation of security measures by various museums to avoid thefts, after the looting of four vases and a sacrificial bowl.64 Damascus authorities also reported that Bedouins had damaged a lion statue of ‘exceptional importance’ in Al-Shaykh Sa‘ad in the Jaulan.65 In another case at Tell Medjel, near Ras Al-‘Ayn in Syria’s north-east, members of the Baqqarah Bedouins were caught undertaking excavations of marble rocks to be used in building a wealthy Christian resident’s path. Although the materials in question were judged to be of no importance, their excavation was judged to contravene prohibitions on illicit digging.66 Yet numerous formal exemptions allowed those with ‘special authorisation’ to dig as much as they liked. Officials, particularly military figures, were free to take objects for their personal collections. The extent of this activity was displayed by the ease with which officers such as General Bigault de Granrut, once head of the occupying troops in Syria, passed on some of their spoils, in his case a Phoenician bronze statuette taken from Beirut to the National Museum Council’s Oriental Antiquities department in France.67 On another occasion a local citizen in As-Suwayda, capital of the Jabal Druze region, decided to ‘donate’ a Roman statue to the local museum after being encouraged to do so by

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locally posted medical officer Etienne-Marie Deyrolle.68 Paul Perdrizet’s mission in Antioch and As-Suwayda was described in a report as having entailed the collaboration of Captain Picquet-Pellorce, the head of French intelligence in the Sanjak of Jarabulus.69 A subtler, if pervasive, element that undermined the protection of antiquities was the orientalist mentality framing authorities’ approaches. As with the influence of orientalist influences on official minds in Paris, local officers’ reports betray an attempt to link glorified ancient pasts to mandate methods. One description of mandate-era Homs in an intelligence report explained the city’s role as a strategic military outpost in antiquity.70 An order sent out by the authorities in the Alawite State remarked that the orientalist works of Baron Emmanuel Rey would be distributed to advisors in each of the State’s aqdya¯ʾ (districts) to help them identify crusader castles. The order noted ˙ that similar analyses would be provided for other periods of history once the necessary documents became available.71 The orientalist disdain that informed mandatory methods for organising, preserving and exploiting antiquities ironically rested on its own deep-set, unchanging foundations. Earlier orientalist Ernest Renan, for instance, had described local peoples with similar disdain in his Mission en Phe´enicie. On several occasions, Renan related, the locals reportedly preferred to smash monuments rather than surrender them to him. To Renan this was indicative of the utter folly of these peasants.72 It is worth noting that such infractions by local diggers followed a pattern established under Ottoman rule. Its root cause was the great appetite of European and US museums and collectors, which continued apace during the mandate. For instance, between July and September 1926, foundation work on a building near the port of Beirut led to the discovery of a prized sphinx of Pharaoh Amenemhat IV.73 The sphinx somehow found its way to a mystery antiquities dealer who subsequently sold it on, two years later, for around £500.74 In 1928, H.R. Hall reported the acquisition of the artefact on behalf of the British Museum by the National Arts Collection Fund.75 Instead of acknowledging this deep-rooted cause for illicit private digging, scholars and experts emphasised oriental incapacity as a means to justify even greater expropriation. Famed US archaeologist James Henry Breasted, for instance, wrote in 1919 that: ‘native vandalism, and illicit excavation for profit by natives [. . .] [who] are much too ignorant

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to feel any respect or reverence for the venerable association among which they live, and a vast amount of destruction is constantly going on at their hands without any conscious purpose to destroy on their part [. . .] The buildings on the fringes of the mound covering the great Syrian city of Kadesh on the Orontes have long been going block by block to feed the neighbouring limekilns of the natives.’76 Breasted had nothing but praise for the introduction of what he deemed the ‘modern’ (mandate) state regulation and heightened economic activity to the area.77 Breasted’s classic orientalist rhetoric of a timeless local people finding themselves being renewed by European intervention was echoed in an article in French politician Georges Clemenceau’s radical-republican newspaper L’Homme Libre. It noted the increase in regular transport routes throughout the French Empire in celebratory tone and highlighted in particular: ‘Syria, that ancient land so rich in historical souvenirs and now criss-crossed by automobiles [. . .] where in times past [. . .] the camel driver would navigate his slow caravans, now, the din of the petrol driven machine is heard [. . .] is this not proof of the work we have accomplished?’78 Some commentators were less haughty. The aforementioned archaeologist and Paris Peace Conference delegate Howard Crosby Butler, commented that ‘any law which would guarantee protection [. . .] would be acceptable [. . .] but it may not be too optimistic to hope that we shall see a law [. . .] which shall not only insure the safety of the monuments, but shall render them accessible’.79 Yet the majority of voices tended toward a self-assured orientalist narrative that fundamentally shaped and buttressed mandatory attitudes toward antiquities. Original antiquities service director Chamonard, for instance, suggested that the traditional public-facing role of an antiquities service and attached museums was not easy to replicate in Syria. According to him, unlike the Greek peasant proud of his civilisation, and the Egyptian fellah (peasant), ˙ who supposedly ignored the great monuments, the Syrian peasantry 80 actively pillaged ancient artefacts for building material. Further, ‘the mix of races and religions in Syria’ meant that the ‘popular imagination’ suffered because Syrians were unappreciative of antiquities.81 Orientalist disdain was not confined to scholarly opinion. An early mandate report expressed disappointment at the ‘deplorable state’ in which Tyre was found. This was followed by a lengthy report on the city’s glorious ancient past, a juxtaposition that emphasised the

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irresponsibility and ignorance of the city’s current inhabitants.82 Another report in Damascus decried the damage done to mosaics by local peasants who had left them out in the rain.83 Yet views among mandate officials differed just as they did between the two US scholars, Breasted and Crosby Butler. Other administrators were less contemptuous and more reflexive. A 1924 report from the Alawite State noted the digs at Yahmour had been disappointing because many of the artefacts had been pillaged by locals over the centuries. Yet the report’s author also made note of the fact that the Crusader states had themselves pilfered ancient ruins as material to build their fortifications.84

French and International Excavations There were genuine scholarly instincts and a passion for Syrian antiquity among such figures as Chamonard, Virolleaud and Rene´ Dussaud. Yet political incentives for expropriation of antiquities worked in tandem with a long-standing French tradition of ‘appropriating’ the Levant to encourage Francocentric approaches to excavations.85 French metropolitan institutions provided the resources to ensure that these claims of culture were being fully established in what was seen as a new French overseas possession. A state-directed effort at exploiting Syrian antiquities brought together the Ministries of Education, in charge of the Acade´mie Des Inscriptions; Foreign Affairs, in charge of the mandate’s budget and High Commission; and War, whose Armee´ du Levant supplied the troops and gendarmerie needed to protect excavations. In 1919, a memorandum addressed to a senior civil servant at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs by Alfred Coville, the Director of Higher Education at the Ministry of Education, noted the ‘preponderant role’ played by France in Syrian, Palestinian and Mesopotamian archaeology. Such was the extent of this influence that it could be construed as part and parcel of ‘our [French] political activity’. Coville noted the requirement to ‘safeguard this [French] scientific legacy’, and that this was guaranteed in Syria since a special service [for Antiquities] was being organised.86 Archives testify to the evident disorganisation of overlapping departments and functions. The level of confusion in organising and funding excavations is evidenced in one 1921 letter from the Minister of Public Instruction to the French Foreign Minister. The former explained

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that he had asked for details of the archaeological missions to be funded by his department and had only received superficial replies. The Education Minister added that the Commission for West Asian Antiquities, which he had created within his Department in agreement with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the High Commission in Beirut, should have been informed of the details regarding prospective archaeological missions to be funded, just as they had been when the regulations on antiquities were being drawn up.87 Peter Magee has also noted the degree of competition among archaeologists within the antiquities service, for instance suggesting that a tension between Charles Virolleaud and Rene´ Dussaud over the deciphering of the Ugaritic language had led to the former’s sacking. He makes the important point that excavations during the mandate represented a personal means for career advancement in the scholarly fields of these experts. However fierce these disputes may have been, they were confined to these specialists’ spheres and did not spill over into broader methods of antiquities management.88 Another important feature was the intimate proximity of individuals leading institutions intended to protect antiquities and those interested in exploiting them. For instance, the French Association of Friends of the Orient’s interests were looked after by Eustache de Lorey, the head of the antiquities service in Damascus State who was noted by the US consul as seeking a political opportunity for ‘occidental propaganda in the Orient.’89 This assessment is confirmed by Renaud Avez’ later research in the Institut Franc ais d’Arche´ologie et d‘Art Musulmans’ Damascus archives.90 Close relations between metropolitan institutions and the antiquities service continued throughout the 1920s. To give a trivial example, in 1927 Mirreille Cavalier, the daughter of the Director of Higher Education at the Ministe`re de l’Instruction Publique, was engaged to inspector of Syrian antiquities Maurice Dunand.91 Such proximity paid off. Some excavations, such as that of Maurice Pe´zard at Tell Nebi Mend in 1922, modern-day Qadesh, were given emergency funds from the Ministry of Education.92 Metropolitan institutions also played a role in promoting a Francocentric agenda. The Socie´te´ Ernest Renan savant association in Paris delivered messages to the Minister of Foreign Affairs in Paris expressing ‘concern to maintain French scientific activity in the Orient’ and encouraging the dig undertaken by Georges Contenau at Sidon.93

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During the years prior to the formal declaration of the mandate (1919 – 22), administrative preference could be given to French archaeological missions, regardless of the spirit of Article 14 of the mandate charter. The extent to which French excavations were favoured by the Foreign Ministry in these liminal years is evident in correspondence. Every one of the three sites of archaeological importance identified in 1920 were handed to French researchers. The work to be done at Sidon had already been accorded to Georges Contenau in 1914 and this Ottoman-era authorisation was renewed.94 At Tartus, Simon Balard, the director of the Museum of Comparative Sculpture at the Trocadero, was given the job. In Qadesh, Maurice Pezard, an Iranologist who was then working at the Louvre, took charge of the dig.95 High Commissioner Gouraud had hastily sought official sanction for these excavations, after being advised by his general-secretary and civil administration supremo, Robert De Caix, of possible rival British excavations in Tyre.96 In 1921, senior Foreign Ministry mandarin Peretti De La Rocca wrote a note requiring priority be given to the Acade´mie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres over US missions. It was only when the Acade´mie notified him that it was not interested in excavating Tell el-Gadi that he relented, saying that his department ‘would not object to conceding these excavations to the American School [of Beirut, hereafter AUB]’.97 Clearly, antiquities were a source of contestation between rival powers’ missions. Yet competition between Britain and France was somewhat mitigated by the cultural complementarity between excavations in the Palestine and Syrian mandates.98 On New Year’s Eve 1925, the Foreign Ministry wrote to the Rector of the University of Paris requesting that the he send a delegation to an upcoming Archaeological Congress. This congress was to be held at Beirut, Damascus and Jerusalem as part of a joint project sponsored by the British and French Mandate administrations.99 High Commissioner Henri De Jouvenel had asked for a university delegation to represent the national interest. In the event, three professors were selected for their expertise and joined the official delegation.100 Nevertheless, the rights innate to the League’s model meant that French attempts at arrogating antiquities activity to themselves were open to challenges. Researchers from other League member nations undertook archaeological missions. A 1924 Czech mission is a case in

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point. The mission was headed by Professor Bedrˇich (Friedrich) Hrozny´, attached to the University of Prague.101 In the same year Hrozny´ proceeded to Al-Hassakah on Syria’s north-east border with Turkey.102 He also undertook excavations at Tell Rifaat, near the south-western town of Al-Shaykh Saad.103 In another instance Danish archaeologists took part in Maurice Dunand’s excavation at Palmyra.104 That Hrozny´ was later celebrated as an external associate of the Acade´mie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres upon his death in 1952 denotes the professional affinities that archaeological experts retained, regardless of state competition.105 On another occasion, Belgian archaeologists were praised in Mouseion for their excavations near the Orontes River, some of which were transported to the Brussels Royal Museum of Art.106 However, when local government powers sought to limit foreign excavations, the principle of tutelage was undermined by the primordiality of Article 14 of the mandate charter. An attempt by Syrian Federation president Subhi Barakat al-Khalidi to excercise local government powers to block the Czech mission on the basis that they were employing a foreign team to unearth antiquities failed as a result of Article 14’s protections.107 Ultimately, Le Matin reported that the Czech mission had found a great number of small statues; they had legal rights to bring half of these back to Prague.108

‘And our antiquities, will they return?’ Antiquities in the Press The French press, whose role in sanctioning claims of a civilising mission in Syria will be revisited in a later chapter, consistently legitimised France’s antiquities activity. The Catholic newspaper La Croix recounted the perceived splendour of the Orient under Christian rule. It reminded its readers of: Sidon, mother of Tyre and Carthage. This city, under the Roman Emperors, had maintained its importance thanks to its open iron works. Tyre was born of Sidon [. . .] and surpassed the grandeur of its mother [. . .] in its art of dying the silk purple [. . .] Lyon had inherited one of Tyre’s glories [. . .] [famed geographer Elise´e] Reclus explains [. . .] how this Orient was once the centre of the

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world when Europe was a region of shadow [. . .] Indeed the night has fallen on the Roman Asia which Christianity illuminated’.109 Another article in La Croix outlined ‘the resurrection of Palmyra’ underway as a result of antiquities efforts led by the University of Strasbourg’s Albert Gabriel. He led a team that had ‘minutely restored’ the ancient town’s central forum.110 La Croix’s report ignored Harald Ingholt’s near-simultaneous Danish expedition at Palmyra, though his work was acknowledged in internal reports.111 The colonial press in Algeria, also to be revisited in a later chapter, was equally devoted to reporting excavations. A May 1924 article in L’Afrique Du Nord Illustre´e celebrated a discovery by Charles Virolleaud, to which ‘the major press, all fixated on Tutankhamun and the British digs, has not paid enough attention’.112 Public approbation was not confined to right-wing newspapers. The popular magazine Le Monde Illustre´ also published an expose´ of archaeological activity at the beginning of the mandate. It suggested that the High Commission’s investment in supporting excavations had been repaid by the results achieved in 1921. Among the excavations profiled were those of Eustache De Lorey at Oum el-Amad and Tyre alongside Maurice Pe´zard’s excavation at Tell Nebi Mend (Qadesh), near Homs. Le Monde Illustre´ ’s profile explained that ‘from the outset of his mandate in Syria, High Commissioner General Gouraud demonstrated himself to be preoccupied with continuing, at a much greater scale, the magnificent effort already begun in earlier times by such archaeologists as [Ernest] Renan and [Melchior] De Vogue´’.113 In June 1925, Clemenceau’s liberal L’Homme Libre praised Rene´ Dussaud’s voyage to Syria, despite having been outdone yet again by Albion’s analogous discoveries in Egypt’s Valley of the Kings.114 A journalist for the Le Matin, Jean D’Orsay, admitted that French finds in Syria had received little publicity in contrast to British Lord Carnarvon and Sir Howard Carter’s excavations of the Valley of the Kings, leading to the unveiling of the tomb of Tutankhamun. D’Orsay lamented the lack of interest from French academicians and the public in the efforts of French archaeologists such as Georges Contenau, Franc ois Thureau-Dangin and Maurice Pe´zard. The newsman ended his intervention by noting the importance of money from different state actors in encouraging antiquities activity: ‘The English, who have teams

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already ready, have already asked to take our place [. . .] [As well as] [. . .] “poor” Germany, who inundates the world with her resplendently edited studies on prehistory and ethnography’.115 His words on a resurgent German presence foreshadowed later official French concerns about the reappearance of famed archaeologist, and World War I spy, Baron Max Von Oppenheim, in 1926.116 Press commentary within the mandate territory, to be examined in depth in a later chapter, featured consistent concern for antiquities in contrast to aloof savant and official orientalism. Sections of the local press actually praised the authorities’ actions and French excavations. One report in the Lebanese press noted that the local government had offered an antiquity as a gift for the Louvre and had set up a fund of 3000 Syrian Pounds (S£) to encourage further expeditions.117 A French administrator noted that archaeological work had been greeted positively by the Lebanese Assembly, which voted in summer 1924 to offer the French government twice the number of objects unearthed in the Lebanese territory.118 In February 1923, Maronite priest Damien R. Raphael, living in Beirut’s Hotel New York, sent a letter to the French Foreign Minister expressing the ‘eternal attachment of the Lebanese, and especially the Maronites, to France’. He also added a clipping of an article he had written for local newspaper Le Re´veil in which he praised the greatness of Ernest Renan.119 Warm words in the domestic press for antiquities management methods were far from being commonplace. Antiquities exportation was usually carefully scrutinised. The Arabic Beiruti newspaper, Al-Hurriya, published an article thanking the authorities for leaving some antiquities in place, as they had been found, but also bemoaned the export of antiquities to France, claiming that they were the sole property of Lebanon.120 Fellow newspaper Sada al-Ahwal (Echo of the Circumstances) ˙ ˙ openly questioned how antiquities were being parsed and divided up by the authorities.121 Another item in the newspaper expressed concerns that: ‘the forgers of the mandate [. . .] saw nothing more than antiquities in our country’.122 One newspaper, discussing the antiquities found at Jbeil, wrote that ‘it is said that they will never return and if they do return they will be faked’.123 These opinions were later echoed in a protest note sent by famed anti-imperialist Emir Shakib Arslan to the League’s Permanent Mandates Commission in Geneva.124 He wrote that the: ‘French in our

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country act as though the country belongs to them [. . .] thus almost all the gold that existed in the country was gathered and sent to France to buttress the Franc [. . .] The same can be said of antiquities. We demand a detailed enquiry on the subject, and the immediate restitution of these treasures of inestimable value to our museums’.125 An article in the Beiruti press appearing in March 1924 directly targeted the power given to the Acade´mie des Inscriptions et BellesLettres to oversee antiquities policy, rhetorically asking: ‘what is the attitude of the Academy of Sciences [sic ] in France [?] [. . .] is it utterly uninterested, seeking only gains for science [?]’.126 The article demanded more effective antiquities laws, noting that the mandate regulation was based on Ottoman legislation. This request was repeated by several other Beirut newspapers, including Lisan al-Hal (Word of the Latest, literally ‘Latest Tongue’) and Sada al-Ahwal.127 The ˙ ˙ press also published ‘digs’ at the Service des Antiquite´s. Al-Ahrar ˙ deplored the confused manner in which the mandate’s authority over antiquities had been complicated by Francocentrism. It wrote that: ‘we never knew who had been formulating policy, Mr. [Pierre] Montet [head of the 1923 excavation of the Jbeil Royal Necropolis] or the Government’. The newspaper compared Pierre Montet’s freedom in the Byblos excavation with that of Howard Carter, the famed Egyptologist. It alleged that Carter’s digs in Egypt had been suspended when he had invited English ladies to visit the tombs. The newspaper contrasted this with a vague situation in the French mandates, opining that: ‘Either the [local Lebanese] government has the right to have a direct hand in [administering] antiquities which are in Lebanese territory [. . .] or the authorisation given to the Academy of Antiquities [Acade´mie Des Inscriptions] [. . .] is not covered by the law, if it is the latter then we are lost for words’.128 Al-Ahrar followed up on the Montet affair by reprinting a question ˙ put to the British prime minister in the House of Commons asking what support the British government had given to the archaeologist Howard Carter in his excavations of Tutankhamun’s tomb. The prime minister replied that no support had been given to Carter’s private enterprise. The article was entitled ‘Let Mr. Montet read this discussion’.129 In a continuing focus that highlighted the difference between British and French approaches to antiquities governance, Sada al-Ahwal wrote that: ˙ ˙

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Figure 1.1 A local labourer looks over the cover of the sarcophagus of Ahiram in Jbeil supervised by Pe`re Raphae¨l Savignac (1923). Available online: http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b10101092w.r¼ Pe`re %20Raphae¨l%20Savignac?rk¼128756;0.

[British archaeologist in Egypt] Lord Carnavon incurred huge costs [. . .] yet the Egyptian government did not pay him [. . .] Here [in Lebanon] we have no laws on antiquities other than the Ottoman law, as modified by General Gouraud’s order [. . .] We ask the mandatory power to rapidly pass this [new antiquities] law so that the country can keep track of the increasing number of excavations. We will benefit greatly [. . .] From our antiquities, not only in terms of memories but as objects that attract the visits of foreigners.130 Al-Ra’y al-‘Am (The Public Opinion) reported what it said were words ‘from the mouth of [archaeologist Pierre] Montet’. Montet apparently expressed surprise at his luck in having ‘taken all [the antiquities] that I discovered to Paris’, whereas the British archaeologists who had discovered Tutankhamun’s tomb ‘had not kept even one object’.131 When Al-Maʻrad (The Exposition) learned that Montet would not return ˙ to Syria following his promotion to the Acade´mie des Sciences et des

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Belles Le`ttres, it asked its readers, ‘and our antiquities, will they return?’132 The newspapers were not solely protesting French methods; they vociferously proposed alternative ways of ensuring the protection of antiquities. The press campaigned for the development of local expertise and appreciation. One newspaper wrote: ‘it is regrettable that our country, which has so many antiquities, does not have [Lebanese] archaeologists. Yet foreign archaeological missions come to us from everywhere’.133 Al-Maʻrad reproduced an article concerning the antiquities found at ˙ Jbeil as written in the French newspaper L’Excelsior. Al-Maʻrad was ˙ astonished that local people were not encouraged to increase their knowledge of antiquities whereas French magazines were writing about it ‘as if we were foreigners in our own country’.134 Al-Ahrar expressed ˙ the possibility of making use of great power rivalries to ensure the conservation of these antiquities. It informed readers that the Lebanese government had deputised bureaucrats to shadow US archaeologist and dean of the US Presbyterian Mission George Ford, in the hope that he might contribute money for conservation. Al-Ahrar supported the ˙ action, expressing its hope that the government would not send the antiquities to France as had been the case with the Pierre Montet affair. Al-Ahrar reported that a digger who had been working on the Jbeil ˙ excavations had tried to sell a golden statue. It called on the Lebanese government to keep watch on such irregularities.135 The government responded by informing Al-Ahrar that it was searching for the thief. The ˙ newspaper later reported that the authorities had recovered the stolen Jbeil statue and called on the government to prevent a recurrence.136 Sada al˙ Ahwal noted that another stolen statue that had been in the midst of being ˙ auctioned in Beirut had been identified. The thief was a local man who stood guard for French archaeologist Pierre Montet’s excavation of the ancient city of Byblos. He was found to be hoarding a variety of other items upon his arrest.137 A few days later, Al-‘Arz decried the transfer of a sarcophagus found in the Byblos excavation away from Lebanon, which it claimed would be to the detriment of the tourist economy.138 A month later, in March 1924, Lisan Al-‘Arab (Mouthpiece of the Arabs) reported another theft in Tyre and called on the local government to improve security.139 In this case, the plot thickened. Two days after the theft, Sada al-Ahwal published a new report citing a local doctor named ˙ ˙ Ziadeh who said he had excavated the Su¯r sarcophagus. He claimed to ˙

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have had permission from the High Commissioner and explained that he would offer the sarcophagus to the Beirut Museum if it was deemed to be of great worth.140 In response to this relevation, Al-Ahrar encouraged ˙ the devolution of antiquities-related responsibilities to local government and the sending of Lebanese gendarmes to guard the excavations.141 The newspaper also published an article questioning the method of administering antiquities, which it claimed ‘did not accord with the spirit of the mandate.’142 Al-‘Arz called on the Lebanese local government to clarify its relationship to archaeological missions.143

Local Government Contestation of Claims of Culture Such protests had their impact in governmental circles. An internal note explained the transport of the Su¯r sarcophagus and added that: ‘it is ˙ worth noting [. . .] all the attention that the Lebanese population is dedicating to antiquities’. Demonstrating a concern for countering public disapproval, the note encouraged spreading awareness of French help given to Lebanese aims toward a museum in Beirut, which will be explored in the next chapter.144 The mandate framework’s insistence on tutelage provided an important avenue for contesting French methods of antiquities management through local government structures. In 1921, French archaeological work on Hittite remains sparked protestations spearheaded by famed Arabist and Damascus State Education Minister, Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali. Kurd ‘Ali demanded that any antiquities found in the territory of Damascus State should remain there. These protests were echoed by the Druze State local government.145 Commander Catroux, then acting as the High Commissioner’s delegate to Damascus State, admitted that the Hittite excavation had not gained local administrative approval, thus making Kurd ‘Ali’s stance ‘understandable’. Catroux’s suggested solution to this quandary revealed the deep biases pervasive in administrative circles. To circumvent the demands for sovereignty over antiquities found in Syria, the delegate sought to assign Kurd ‘Ali and the local authorities to the Islamic antiquities, proposing to bring all Islamic-era objects to a central museum in Damascus while another museum would host pre-Islamic antiquities from the Hittite, Assyrian, Chaldean and Greco-Roman stages of Syrian history.146 This compartmentalisation of culture was an important theme of museum organisation, as will be seen in the

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following chapter. It also reflected a particularly French engagement with Islamic archaeology. France had been the first official sponsor of Islamic site excavations when Paul Blanchet excavated the capital of the Bani Hammad Berber dynasty in Algeria in 1898.147 Working within these limitations, Kurd ‘Ali succeeded in creating an epigraphical and numismatic museum in his Damascus Arab Academy’s library.148 His efforts in restoring the Medrese-i Milliye, an eighteenth-century Ottoman school, to house the Damascus museum were praised even by French intelligence.149 Kurd ‘Ali’s complex insider – outsider engagement with French administrators demonstrated how, despite formal subservience, local authorities could contest certain issues, particularly when acting in concert with press commentary. When Nemer Mansour Frayha writes that in Lebanon the Fine Arts department was attached to the Ministry of Public Instruction and headed by a Lebanese inspector, but under the control of the French advisor, this can only provide an organisational picture of early mandate cultural control.150 Even those areas under more direct French control ultimately relied on clientelist, if unmistakeably paternalistic, administration. Antiquities became entangled with regional politics in the Jabal Druze, for instance. In October 1923, the secularist and Republican Captain Carbillet, then the head of As-Suwayda intelligence and future ill-fated governor of the Jabal Druze State, asked the High Commissioner’s delegate in Damascus if he had received his updates on antiquities work. His letters evidence his infamous interference with Druze governance that are now widely judged to have sparked the uprising at the heart of the 1925 Great Revolt. The unhappy Carbillet particularly highlighted one unanswered letter that he had sent to the Damascus delegate. In it, he had asked for official thanks to be sent to a Jabal Druze notable who had ‘offered a relatively interesting bas-relief to the As-Suwayda museum’. Carbillet noted this particular notable might be irritated if he were not given the same praise as other Druze notable donors. Following a lack of replies from Damascus, Carbillet sought to circumvent the delegate by directly contacting French Institute director Eustache De Lorey. He asked De Lorey to supervise the newly created museum in As-Suwayda alongside the Damascus museum. De Lorey returned a diplomatic rejection, saying that such an ‘annexation [. . .] does not seem possible to me, that is why I think you might [instead]

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suggest to the Druze to make occasional gifts [of antiquities] to the Maison de France [museum in As-Suwayda]’. In reply, Carbillet noted that there was a ‘political interest’ for French authority in the region if Druze donations of antiquities were recognised by the authorities. ‘For me,’ Carbillet wrote, ‘here, archaeology is a political means like any other’.151 Carbillet’s fervour had a clear impact. In February 1925, just a few months ahead of the outbreak of the Great Syrian Revolt, a French intelligence report noted that antiquities in the Jabal Druze were now almost fully excavated and known to French researchers.152 A level of consensus between the High Commission, states and local administration was evident in other cases: for instance, when antiquities were found in Sidon in 1923. These were found on the land of a man named Michel Bustany, located in ‘vast underground tombs’ near a royal necropolis at the Bzaz cave near Aadloun, halfway between Tyre and Sidon: a site which had already been examined by nineteenth-century researchers such as Ernest Renan.153 The excavation had begun in Ottoman times and was continued during the mandate by Georges Contenau. The first expedition had been made possible by funds from the French Education Ministry and in collaboration with the Ottoman Service for Imperial Museums, thus ensuring some of the antiquities found were transported to Istanbul.154 Antoine Privat-Aubouard, then the French governor of Lebanon’s representative, telephoned the mutasarrıf of South Lebanon district to order that the antiquities be protected. He also assigned a member of his own staff to ensure the protection of the antiquities and informed the High Commission of his actions.155 In 1925 archaeologist Paul Geuthner described how, when researchers from Chicago’s Oriental Institute made their own significant finds in Sidon, the Lebanese government decided to forswear claims to the hoard in order to appease both US researchers and the Lebanese national museum in Beirut.156

Conclusion In the context of orientalist predispositions and political interest in cultural claims that could bolster French dominance in Syria, the early mandate’s organisation of antiquities protection and expropriation had mixed results. On paper, the League of Nations-derived law did not even improve on Ottoman precedent, though French efforts to protect

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antiquities are evident. Benefits from the organisation of local museums to counteract the hoarding of Syrian antiquities to Istanbul were mitigated by a vivacious effort at excavating and exporting Syro-Lebanese antiquities at the earliest opportunity. The extent to which the shock of the 1925 Revolt at the end of the period under study had a role in reducing French domination of antiquities is somewhat unclear. The disparity between claims of protection and continuing excavation continued. In 1929 Ernest Schoeffler, who had been a secretary for High Commissioner Gouraud and was now governor of the Alawite State, sent 23 Palmyrene tesserae and ‘an important lot of diverse objects’ emanating from Ras Shamra to the Louvre.157 In 1934, a specialist magazine was praising Rene´ Dussaud for his ‘admirable enrichment’ of the Louvre thanks to discoveries in Syria and further afield.158 In 1935, Lieutenant-Colonel Paul Jacquot, delegate at the excavations at Deir Ez-Zor and Aleppo, was encouraged to donate a Parthian vase to the Council of National Museums.159 Simultaneously, evidence points to the growing impact of press protest and local government after the fundamental shock to initial mandatory methods incurred by the 1925 Great Revolt. Asher Kaufman describes the late 1920s appointment of Maurice Che´hab as the conservator of the Lebanese National Museum as a watershed moment for modern Lebanese cultural history symbolising the beginning of the transfer of cultural management from French to Lebanese hands.160 Che´hab had already become the director of antiquities for the state of Lebanon by 1926.161

CHAPTER 2 CONTROLLING CULTURAL HERITAGE:MUSEUMS, TOURISM AND EXHIBITIONS

French methods of organising cultural heritage were equally contested as the first formative years unfolded. Museums were organised by French authorities to reflect a compartmentalisation of culture as mentioned in the previous chapter. This approach sought to categorise and divide the various cultural artefacts according to specific cultural claims. For instance, the Damascus museum was intended to house artefacts from the Islamic period while the Aleppo museum was expected to focus on pre-Islamic history. Yet French plans did not go unchallenged, even among the ‘favoured’ minorities such as the Maronites. Led by Maronite Jacques Tabet, Lebanese public figures organised fundraising for a national museum in Beirut of their own volition and met financial requirements by lobbying Syro-Lebanese communities. Tourist activity was similarly complicated by local people’s efforts to independently organise their country’s cultural development. While mandate authorities sought to promote tourism in an overbearing manner reminiscent of colonial tourism in the French Maghreb, local government tourism committees and the press did not easily acquiesce to French methods. Finally, colonial exhibitions showcased mandate territory artefacts. French mandatory authorities found that such exhibitions provided them with an equanimous medium to make cultural claims to a civilising mission. Despite this rhetoric, planning for exhibitions featured an interpretation of development, or mise en

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valeur (literally meaning ‘making valuable’), that prioritised French commercial interests over international businesses and tutelage of local industry. Yet any success they may have had was aimed at convincing metropolitan, rather than Levantine, public opinion, and even the former was hard-won, as later chapters will show.

Museums and Mise en Valeur Museologists have recently increasingly focused on the societal and political contexts in which museums developed, and their cultural consequences.1 As was discussed in the previous chapter, the discovery and storage of antiquities gave dominant colonial actors a claim to ownership of the cultural artefacts they were uncovering. The importance of racial difference through (dis)possession of cultural artefacts has equally been detected in the British Raj and Palestine mandate.2 As Zainab Bahrani has demonstrated in the case of Britishmandated Iraq, nineteenth-century orientalist rhetoric that claimed to ‘conjure’ a civilised past for now ‘decadent’ peoples was a common trope reiterated by twentieth-century policy-makers.3 In both French colonial and metropolitan contexts, race and religion must be considered as lenses of distinction.4 French mandatory authorities reproduced such cultural claims, which conveniently were enmeshed with the concept of mise en valeur. This term had been forged by French colonial intellectuals and administrators as a means to reinvent the romantic-orientalist nineteenth-century mission civilisatrice rhetoric in a more ‘modern’, technocratic, garb.5 Mise en valeur thus provided a framework of measurable and practical progress undertaken in scientific language while satisfying increasing calls for economic penetration from capitalist circles seeking new markets.6 The mise en valeur concept was greatly popularised by ex-Minister of Colonies and imperial investment advocate Albert Sarraut in his 1923 book of the same title. Sarraut criticised hitherto disjointed approaches to colonial policy – a result, he claimed, of metropolitan lack of interest.7 His focus, though, was primarily on French Africa. Sarraut only mentioned Syria once in his review, when he lamented the annexation of the rich Cilicia province by the Turkish Republic in 1921. Yet other elements of French public opinion did not dismiss the territory and expressed a belief that Syria could be mise en valeur. Catholic

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newspaper La Croix explained in 1921 that: ‘days for motoring shows have just occurred in Aleppo. They were organised by the High Commission [. . .] in order to give a strong encouragement to the development [mise en valeur] of the country and initiate its [local] property owners to employ new methods’.8 The management of cultural institutions such as museums was organised within this context.

Organisation of Museums and Institution of Protection in the Early Mandate It is clear that the French did seek the foundation of new museums in Syria and Lebanon. Museums, some of which originated as little more than houses for storing antiquities, were created at Beirut, Damascus, Aleppo, Lattakia and elsewhere. From the beginning of the organisation of French Lebanon in 1919, antiquities director Chamonard undertook a study of museums which included analysis of contemporary practices in France and Greece.9 As per Chamonard’s findings, authorities sought the setting up of regional museums. Chamonard claimed this approach would foster Syria’s cultural independence.10 In July 1922, High Commissioner Gouraud inaugurated a small museum in Beirut to house antiquities from Tyre and Sidon.11 By 1924 four museums were being built in Jabal Druze at As-Suwayda, Qanawat, Al-Kafr and Salkhad.12 A Lattakia museum was established by Alawite State Governor Schoeffler in the late 1920s.13 A museum was also eventually established in Aleppo in 1932 within the grounds of the Al-Naoura Palace.14 The antiquities service also organised the storing of significant objects for the planned museums. The museum at As-Suwayda had more than 130 objects set aside for it by early 1924.15 The initial organisation of Jabal Druze antiquities under the supervision of Captain Carbillet assured that many objects were stored in various small villages in the Jabal Druze, ahead of the formation of the As-Suwayda museum.16 The authorities undertook preservation work at the Aleppo Citadel and there was an attempt at organising a Society of Friends of the Citadel. One intelligence summary noted that more than 500 artefacts were provisionally stored in the Lyce´e des Garc ons, ahead of the creation of the Aleppo Museum, which would take years beyond the period under study.17 The findings of a dig at Salhiya, north-east of Deir Ez-Zor in ˙ 1924, including potteries and coins, were all sent for safekeeping in the

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provisional Aleppo museum.18 Objects from the 1925 Paul Perdrizet and Bedrˇich Hrozny´ excavations were also deposited in the makeshift Aleppo museum until they could be ‘presented to an appropriate locale’.19 The previously discussed Institut Franc ais d’Archaeologie et d’Art Musulman was founded in Damascus in October 1922. Thanks to a 500,000-franc High Commission grant, the institute was housed in the remarkable eighteenth-century ‘ablaq-style ‘Azm Palace. 20 The institute housed Islamic antiquities and participated in preservation efforts in Aleppo and Damascus. Annexed to the museum was an E´cole des Arts De´coratifs, to be examined in a later chapter. In 1924, the Damascus museum was gifted a sixteenth-century Persian manuscript by the French consul in Jaffa.21 In the same year the institute, which oversaw the Damascus museum, gave a report on its work.22 The institute also undertook the conservation of Muslim artefacts, including the transcribing of an inscription by Al-Malik Al-Kamil (also known as Meledin, the nephew of famed Kurdish Muslim leader Salah Al-Din al-Ayyubi), copied from a local stele.23 Among the institute’s members were such figures as Rene´ Dussaud, the influential archaeologist and founder of the Syria archaeological review.24 In October 1922, this archaeological review received a subsidy of 5000 francs from the High Commissioner.25 Those involved in the running and activity of the institute were usually French or European, leaving little scope for local Syro-Lebanese intellectual development.26 The first volume of Syria set the tone for this Francocentric and orientalist method of cultural heritage management. It published an article by Dussaud on a Greek bronze statue in the Lebanese magnate Charles Sursock’s collection; an article by Gabriel Contenau outlining his excavation at Sidon in 1914; an article by French specialist on Islam, Gaston Migeon, on a mosque lamp; and another article of Dussaud’s examining the legacy of French painter Georges Montfort in Syria. The volume began with an editorial which noted that Syria had, ‘of all the lands of the Orient’, been that with the closest ties to France. It explained that Syria’s agenda was to ‘develop the taste for art and antiquities in Syria [. . .] [and] improve knowledge of the Syrian arts from every era’.27 French orientalists thus became mandate cultural managers who were organising the country’s histories in an order familiar to their needs and

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knowledge. Their assignation of antiquities according to compartmentalised regions could be considered as attempts at ‘conjuring’ Assyria, Roman Syria, even the Ummayads. Aside from these particular interventions, however, the central government’s Service des Antiquite´s offered only minimal subventions for local museums to accumulate artefacts. Local museums in Beirut, Damascus, Aleppo, Lattakia, Souweida and Antioch (in the Sanjak of Alexandretta) had to depend on their local governments’ budgets – ultimately drawn from taxation and other irregular income.28

Compartmentalisation of Culture The mandate regime’s cultural managers compartmentalised the museums according to their expectations of the subjugated local peoples’ interests. The initial organiser of the antiquities service, Chamonard, believed that two major museums at Beirut and Damascus would meet local needs. The museum at Damascus would have an Islamic and Arabic emphasis, while Beirut would focus on antiquity.29 As plans expanded, a museum at Aleppo was expected to store pre-Hellenic antiquities as opposed to the post-Hellenic material in Damascus. In Cilicia, the Adana museum had already gathered a number of artefacts thanks to the efforts of the Governor Colonel Normand; this effort would be short-lived given the surrender of the territory to the Turkish Republic in 1921.30 In keeping with compartmentalisation, the Institut Franc ais founded in Damascus in October 1922 focused on post-Hellenic and Islamic history. The institute evidently safeguarded antiquities yet the tone of official discussions suggests it was more a site of private passions than public promotion.31 It apparently ‘recruited students who were educated by way of courses and archaeological visits to the diverse Damascene monuments and on the ground at excavations such as Bab al-Sharqi’.32 The institute believed this would allow ‘students to study the beautiful specimens of their predecessor’s artistic production’.33 Renaud Avez notes that contemporary characterisations of the institute by journalists and high commissioners alike sought to describe it as an independent body fulfilling a range of functions such as being a ‘school of Syrian art’, ‘a centre for Muslim studies’ or an ‘Arab antiquities museum’. Avez correctly challenges these characterisations for omitting

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the direct ties between the institute and the mandate authorities, including gaining information on excavations directly from intelligence services officers.34 However, the institute did recruit local Muslim Damascene elites into its schools, such as Jamil al-Kawakibi, son of jurist Massoud al-Kawakibi. It also recruited Al-Bahsa school art ˙ Professor ‘Abd al-Wahhab Abu al-Saud as an instructor and local 35 Damascenes for secretarial work. The schema of regional museums also encouraged imbalances in the distribution of collections. Several reports from the southern Hawra¯n ˙ region noted the movement of objects to Damascus despite the existence 36 of local museum projects. One report admitted that, of all the Syrian states, it was ‘the Hawra¯n which had provided the greatest contribution ˙ to the museum [of the French Institute in Damascus]’.37 There were occasions when antiquities were sent to the Jabal Druze museum.38 Yet even by 1925, an overview of mandatory antiquities activity noted that the Damascus museum was receiving material from Al-Shaykh Saad near Dar‘aa, Al-Mushrefa near Homs and Tell Nebi Mend as well as Palmyra.39 Another report betrayed the overtly patronising approach to Muslim visitors of the Damascus Institute who were said to ‘manifest a great surprise’ when they saw Hawra¯n coins that displayed figures deemed un˙ Islamic. Such coins showed the prophet Muhammad with crosses around him, or some Byzantine rulers with halos, traits that were typical of the feverish early spread of Islam. The report wryly added that the ‘orthodox’ passions of the Muslim visitors were better satisfied by the presence of rather unrealistic foliages of Salah Al-Din. In short, singular-minded Muslim visitors did not have the capacity to appreciate the scientific treasure that the pre-Islamic coins represented.40 Compartmentalisation was not limited to the mandate territory. Though French administrators and archaeologists had a free hand to roam the Syrian land, Syro-Lebanese peoples had the most limited of access to European collections. An account by Louvre curator Gaston Migeon in 1920 hailed French archaeological activity in disingenuous terms. He claimed that putting a mosque on display at his museum would: ‘reveal to the great Syrian public the monuments of ancient Asia that have long been housed in our old European museums’.41 In reality, his museum was busily acquiring Syrian antiquities. In 1929, the Aleppo museum acquired a replica of an Assyrian statue found in north

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Syria; the real object was on display at the Louvre.42 The method of cultural heritage management forged in the initial mandate ensured that a Syrian museum visitor could gain compartmentalised snippets of their past without appreciating the vista that their ‘civiliser’ had provided for metropolitan audiences. Indeed, it is worth noting that the process of organising museums in the metropole meant that a variety of disparate objects were presented for visitors. This meant that the museums of London, Berlin and Paris, though paeans to the acquisitions of their respective empires, were demonstrating objects outside of the contexts in which they were found. An example of this is the division of Egyptian from Syrian artefacts, despite the cross-fertilisation evident in archaeological sites. Metropolitan audiences aside, Syrian museum visitors could not be aware of the pottery remains discussed by archaeologists affirming links between ancient Syrian communities and Persia, Mesopotamia and even as far afield as Afghanistan.43 In contrast, such knowledge permeated the French learned print media. For instance, a piece in Le Temps in 1918 outlined discoveries made by French archaeologist Franc ois ThureauDanging at Al-Amarna, on the Nile, which it reported had confirmed diplomatic correspondence between Egyptian Pharaohs and governments in Ancient Palestine and Syria.44

Tensions and Initiative in Local Preservation Efforts Despite the rhetoric of mise en valeur and appropriation of cultural heritage, local preservation efforts by Islamic, local government and entrepreneurial means maintained consistent challenges to French claims of culture and paternalist oversight. Preservation of cultural heritage was evidently not a French invention. Ancient buildings, such as the bimaristan (a traditional rest house on the highways linking the Silk Road) of Nur al-Din Zangi, were preserved under the waqf system. This Islamic legal mechanism, mortmain perpetuities with absolute or relative inalienability, acted as a collective trust for Islamic social preservation.45 Specific Lebanese institutions such as the Maqa¯sid Benevolent Society in Beirut, and others to be explored herein, were providing educational and welfare support during the early mandate.46 As one administrators’ report admitted, the French attempts at conserving such monuments did not consult the preexisting waqf framework.47

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This lack of recognition for certain Islamic claims to culture and competency over cultural heritage led to contestation of French methods. This was evident in the case of the refusal by the waqf holders of the Souq Sahat al-Miskiyah market, near the Great Ummayad Mosque in Damascus, to grant permission for what the French authorities described as a ‘reconstruction’ of ‘parasite’ buildings (annexes) adjoining the mosque.48 In the same Souq al-Miskiyah case, attempts by the authorities to maintain a Byzantine arcade by erecting a wall alongside it were resisted by inhabitants in the area.49 In Tripoli, a litany of archeological treasures caused tensions between the new French administration and the pre-existing order for conservation.50 Such refusals of actions undertaken by French authorities in the name of a mise en valeur prerogative were not limited to avenues enabled by the Islamic legal framework. Local government provided another channel for potential consolidation or contestation of French cultural heritage methods. However, there was a degree of control, allowing bureaucrats to retain decision making privileges. According to antiquities regulations, each mandate state government had to maintain a register of inventories and classify objects. They also had to conserve these objects and build museums if these did not damage potential archaeological sites, liaising with the largest towns of each state.51 This structure meant that, whereas the director of antiquities at the Beirut High Commission had an overview of foreign and French archaeological missions in each locale, local notables who did become absorbed into local government roles had circumscribed knowledge and powers. They were secretaries or, in cases such as that of Charles Corm with respect to the Lebanese National Museum, curators. In the 1930s, the Aleppo museum’s director was the Viscount Pioix de Rotrou, assisted by two local men, Subhi Saouaf, the antiquities inspector, and Cesar Ke´bbe´, the secretary.52 Despite such limits, it is clear that certain Syro-Lebanese local government figures were active in founding museums and ensuring the preservation of cultural artefacts. Influential Arab nationalist thinker and Ottoman-era bureaucrat Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali was described by French intelligence as ‘intelligent, not brave, meticulous, [and someone who] loves archaeology’.53 Kurd ‘Ali was intransigently active in encouraging parallel cultural institutions such as the Arab Academy in Damascus.54 Despite his best efforts, the Arab Academy found itself on

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the losing side of a competition for antiquities with the better-resourced French Institute in the ‘Azm Palace; the latter had the ability to draw on High Commission, local government and waqf funds and sent its representatives to various excavations to directly extract some of the finds.55 Entrepreneurial efforts also demonstrate the capacity of SyroLebanese elites to undertake the work of preserving their past. Emir Said Al-Jazairi, a descendant of exiled Algerian revolutionary Emir Abdelkader Al-Jazairi, established a museum in Damascus dedicated to his famed forebear.56 A retrospective report written in 1925 noted that the Damascus museum thereafter developed thanks to the zeal of its curator Emir Jafar ‘Abd al-Qadir, another of the Jazairis who had been educated at the E´cole du Louvre’s archaeology school.57 By the late 1920s, the museum had become a national Syrian museum. A Lebanese national library was set up in Beirut in July 1921 by the Syriac-Catholic Viscount Philip De Tarrazi. Tarrazi flirted with all kinds of intellectual movements, negotiating a Levantine cultural space without simply submitting to French cultural claims. De Tarrazi’s history of Lebanon provoked the ire of Maronite historians because it was perceived to have downplayed the Maronite role in the earliest Lebanese history.58 Yet by other accounts, De Tarrazi was close to famous Maronite Phoenicianists Charles Corm and Michel Chiha, who sought to tie Maronite identity to the exploits of that ancient merchant civilisation.59 The degree to which Maronite and other Catholic Lebanese communities sought to distance themselves from their fellow SyroLebanese in the aftermath of Ottoman collapse is unclear.60 Amata Martin-Fernandez’s careful study of Lebanese cultural and political discourses during the mandate has found that: ‘Phoenician images did not take root into the [Maronite] society until late in the mandate period [. . .] It had been an ideology almost exclusive to the educated elites with French background [. . .] developed around urban centers [. . .] and had little influence in the mountainous areas’.61 Certainly De Tarrazi did not confine himself to Lebanese affairs, as shown in his support for Muhammad Kurd Ali’s Arab Academy in Damascus.62 Such cooperation evidences a certain level of horizontal inter-communal dialogue that did not fit with French attempts at instituting the vertical and compartmented paternalism identified by Elizabeth Thompson.63

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Initiated in 1923, the Lebanese National Museum was the highestprofile entrepreneurial effort at preserving the past.64 The Lebanese museum was eventually opened in mid-1926.65 The effort was led by Maronite author Jacques Tabet, who organised a Committee for the National Museum.66 Presided over by Greek Orthodox magnate and antiquities collector Charles Sursock, the Socie´te´ Syrienne d’Arche´ologie also played a part in the establishment of the national museum.67 Sursock had begun the effort for a Lebanese museum in 1921, gathering objects and grants, and his private collection eventually coalesced into an eponymous private museum that opened in the 1960s.68 The effort is of interest because of its wide outreach and the fact that French authorities complied by helping to raise funds. This could be considered an example of a local organisation ‘re-appropriating’ claims of culture and competency for cultural heritage that has been discussed in other contexts such as the committee for an Arab museum in Khedivial Cairo.69 Contributions to the national museum’s fundraising effort arrived from the immigrant Syro-Lebanese, mahjar, communities in the Americas.70 Syro-Lebanese, and particularly Maronite, identities had been retained in Latin America, for instance in Brazil.71 The Lebanese Syrian Society of Bahia (Salvador) state was founded on 27 July 1921 with evident ties to Lebanese cultural heritage. Its logo, for instance, was the classic Lebanese cedar tree aligned with the ruins of Baalbek. An entire section of the society’s founding document was dedicated to Lebanese cultural heritage.72 The movement quickly became the subject of internal discussions within the French government. French official minds were already sympathetic toward Maronite cultural claims, unlike the suspicion that automatically fell on Sunni initiatives such as those of Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali.73 Officials recognised that their support of the project would gain public approbation for mandatory methods. A 1925 circular sent to all diplomatic attache´s by the Minister of Foreign Affairs described the ‘appreciation that the public has for the task [of building a museum] which has great scientific and national implications’.74 The circular made its way through most French consulates in the Americas, from Bahia to New York. The circular note replicated the call of the Comite´ du Muse´e National seeking to give Beirut a ‘museum worthy of its archaeological treasures’.75 In Bahia the president of the Lebano-Syrian society, Khalil Alexander Maalouf, sent

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his thanks to the French consul and encouraged further information to be sent about the museum venture.76 From Bahia the news of this fundraising effort spread out to other Brazilian states such as Pernambuco to the north.77 The French consular agent in Pernambuco, for instance, sent R$ 150,000 (422.85 francs) to the consul in Bahia. French support was not limited to information sharing; it also facilitated money transfers.78 The consul sent High Commissioner Henri De Jouvenel 1000 francs in addition to Pernambuco’s 422 francs to be handed over to Jacques Tabet.79

Tourism at the Outset of the Mandate Another arena of cultural heritage management that became a focus of French efforts concerned the promotion of tourism. Following a long history of travels to and from the Middle East, ‘modern’ tourism emerged in the region as an activity following private adventurers’ and travellers’ eighteenth- and nineteenth-century encounters with colonial and foreign territories.80 What distinguished the traveller from the tourist was that for the former, the ends (destinations, experiences) justified the means (travel through individual effort), whereas for the latter the means (accessible travel) justified the ends. In the words of Ellen Furlough: The tourist industry underscored [. . .] differences in order to fuel desires for colonial travel with its promises of viewing ‘timeless’ peoples and landscapes [. . .] these differences were predicated as well upon positioning elite French tourists within ideological hierarchies of race [. . .]. These notions [. . .] could thereby serve to reflect back upon a metropolitan-centered notion of ‘Frenchness’ [. . .] tourism to the colonies thus contained [. . .] the potential to reinforce [. . .] French national identity as imperial and to foster expectations, experiences and practices of touristic consumption [. . .] that [. . .] wilfully erases [. . .] the touristically irrelevant.81 Aside from the personal journeys made by adventurers and tourists, the institution of tourism as an organised activity carried inherent political and economic importance. It supported colonial activity by reinforcing the dyadic discourse that entrenched orientalist visions of imperially

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subjugated peoples and affirmed cultural claims of a civilising mission. In French Algeria, tourism had been intertwined with both the ethnographic effort and the colonial administration.82 Tourism in the European colonies was equally intertwined with semi-professional research and exploitation of antiquities. The earliest tourist guides were, in effect, travellers’ accounts. In 1920, the Trustees of the British Museum published a book entitled How to Observe in Archaeology which brought together many of the stars of British archaeology, such as F.G. Kenyon, D.G. Hogarth and Flinders Petrie, in order to ‘provide information for the guidance of travellers in the Near and Middle East who are interested in antiquities without being trained archaeologists’.83 The aim was to encourage tourists to recognise the significance of any objects they came across, a kind of archaeological subcontracting.84 In 1919 the Chicago Oriental Institute’s James Henry Breasted bemoaned the ‘presence of increasing crowds of tourists [. . .] [which] have long since brought forth an evil generation of native antiquity dealers whose shops are largely replenished by illicit digging’.85 Tourism was thus already in existence in the Syrian historical experience at the outset of the mandate. One mandate-era surveillance report relates a story told by a Bedouin sheikh named Ghasswan, who recalled that in Ottoman times a French aristocratic lady traveller who had visited a relative of his held at Homs’ prison, Ghasswan claimed that her petition had secured his relative’s release.86 Ottoman Syria had seen plenty of European travellers, from famous travellers like Johann Burckhardt and Gertrude Bell to lesser-known figures.87 Nevertheless, mandate authorities introduced a co-ordinated economic impetus to tourism promotion. Authorities saw in tourism a means to prove that the country was being developed (mise en valeur) according to the League of Nations requirements for a tutelage. An early sign of this was that tourist affairs were initially handled by the Office Commerciale Franc aise in Beirut, which put out a monthly Bulletin Economique full of financial and industrial statistics.88 The Commercial Office opened up galleries for samples of French products in Beirut, Aleppo and Adana.89 There were initial difficulties. In January 1921, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs warned the High Commission that there were only 500 hotel rooms available in Beirut, ahead of the beginning of the showcase Beirut Fair to be examined below, a demonstration of the

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limits to promoting tourism in a country with an as-yet-informal hotel industry.90 Yet even in these early years, tourism could generate income. Adverts for hotels, such as the Kaouan Villa in Ras Al-‘Ain, began appearing in ‘highbrow’ publications such as La Syrie.91 In June 1922 an information office for visitors arriving in Beirut was created.92 In 1924, a report noted that 318 out of 395 (presumably official) cars circulating in Beirut were set aside for tourists.93 In 1924 the High Commissioner organised an economic office for Syria in Lyon to parallel existing efforts in Madagascar and Morocco.94 Eventually a small but dedicated tourism office was created in April 1925, though it continued to operate alongside the Office Commerciale.95 Unfortunately, the new tourism office was created just months ahead of the outbreak of the Great Syrian Revolt which saw tourism in the country drastically reduced as a result of instability. The efforts had some success in gaining appreciation for inaugural mandatory methods, at least in the metropolitan French press. The newspaper La Croix advertised tours undertaken by the French civil shipping company, the Me´ssageries Maritimes, that would reach Syria.96 Colonial newspapers such as Algiers’ Le Mercure Africain informed readers of cruises to the Orient that included Syria on their itinerary.97 As part of preparations for the 1921 Foire de Beyrouth a tourist guide was written by Myriam Harry (French journalist and writer Maria Rosette Shapira).98 Le Matin praised the administration’s tourism activity. Its item sought to counter ‘unjust’ critiques of the state of Syrian agriculture and industry. It noted that it was the country’s ‘charming’ practices and locales that ‘draw the tourists’ attention’.99 Other metropolitan commentators suggested that the burgeoning tourist industry owed a debt to French archaeological efforts. An early review in a Paris-based arts journal emphasised the Napoleonic heritage in Egypt ending with the hope that ‘curious and educated voyagers will come [. . .] and that Syria will become what, thanks to French efforts, Egypt was before her, a country of archaeology, art and tourism seen by all’.100 It is clear that tourism was supported by the central mandate authorities and even the Arme´e du Levant. The army had, in one instance, provided its marching band to greet foreign visitors at the busiest Lebanese train stations. The army cinema also contributed by showing movies for the visitors.101

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On the question of tourism, local government figures reached an otherwise rare consensus with mandate authorities. A letter from the Jabal Druze’s assembly of notables praised the museum in As-Suwayda discussed earlier as a site that would allow ‘tourists to realise the care with which we protect the relics of the past’.102 The Lebanese president of the Commission for Tourism and Resorts (‘Ville´giature’) wrote to the governor of Lebanon outlining a variety of bureaucratic barriers and poor standards afflicting visitors to Lebanon. He wanted to reduce the exploitation of voyagers by scheming local opportunists, which could be done by installing a tourist information point at the dock in Beirut. The governor reportedly promised to enact such reforms by 1925. In spite of these challenges, a report dating from September 1924 celebrated a ‘particularly brilliant’ saison d’estivage: a term referring to the summering of local tourists from the Lebanese coast, Syria and Egypt to the cool mountains. Such success was ultimately assured by the country’s natural characteristics. A report on Zahlah written in early 1921 ˙ outlined one ‘charming corner which deserves to grab the attention of tourists [. . .] it is a much-frequented rendezvous for Zahlawis and a ˙ number of visitors [e´stiveurs]; the nights are particularly fresh and the landscape is truly beautiful in the moonlight’.103 Another report celebrated Lebanon’s spas ‘where inhabitants [. . .] from the hot plains of Egypt, Iraq and the Palestinian coast will come to revive their health’. The report also noted that an Egyptian surgeon, Dr Ali Ibrahim, had arrived with 70 Egyptian doctors to study various centres of e´stivage and to measure their therapeutic properties in the hope of sending sick Egyptians to the Lebanese mountains.104 A report from summer 1924 talked of ‘over 10,000 foreign pastoral workers [who] have come to taste the slopes of Lebanon; the delicate climate and all sorts of charms available to tourists: beautiful sites, a road network in perfect condition’. The report added that a Cairene newspaper, AlBashı¯r, had published an account of ‘a voyage to Lebanon’ in which it celebrated the country’s natural beauty.105 The Lebanese print media equally promoted tourism. French-owned La Syrie ran a piece encouraging the organisation of a ‘Touring Club’, modelled after the French Touring Club set up in 1890, which would be to ‘the profit of our country [. . .] the French authorities and big corporations in Paris will surely facilitate this development’.106 A Touring Club de Syrie was eventually organised and involved itself

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in arranging the arrival and lodging of visitors to the 1921 Beirut Fair. The press provided a platform to encourage improvements to tourists’ experiences. Sada al-Ahwal suggested that the Beirut Museum of ˙ Antiquities be built next to the tourism office.107 Lisan al-Hal wrote of the windfall in profits created by Egyptian tourism and urged the government to undertake all necessary steps to increase their numbers.108 Lisan al-Hal followed up with a call for a train line linking Beirut and Haifa as well as improvements to hotels in Beirut to encourage visitors. On the other hand, when the government announced a project to build a hotel in Beirut, Al-‘Arz rebuked the efforts as a misuse of public money that overlooked more pressing requirements such as mountain roadworks.109 Al-Ahrar praised the setting up of a local office, the Socie´te´ de ˙ Ville´giature du Mont-Liban, intended to encourage summer pastoral workers. It had attracted 800 such workers to Lebanon in 1922 and 2,600 in 1923 through an advertising campaign in Egypt. Alongside this was the Comite´ de Tourisme et d’E´stivage which was intended to further encourage recreational visits to Lebanon, though it came under fire from Al-Ahrar for its sluggish action in contrast to the Socie´te´ de ˙ Ville´giature which had brought thousands of guest workers who were spending ‘enormous sums’ in the country.110 Despite these achievements, satirical newspaper Al-Dabbour mocked a government policy which granted 5,000 francs through the Comite´ du Tourisme et d’E´stivage to the Socie´te´ de Ville´giature while giving 3,000 francs to the Societe´ des Courses de Chevaux. ‘In the eyes of our Government’, it wrote, ‘horses are preferable to Lebanese people’!111 International tourists became increasingly common visitors to Lebanon. In February 1924 Al-Barq reported that a US billionaire, possibly Henry Ford (transliterated into French by Beirut press service dragomans as ‘Hand Zort’) whose Dearborn factory employed 555 Syrians in 1916, had visited ruins at Jbeil and told its reporter he had found it difficult to access the exposition of antiquities since the wooden staircase leading up to it was not solid enough.112 In April 1924, a US tourist declared to Al-’Arz that he had been happy with his trip to Lebanon, noting that it was perfectly peaceful. He added that he would be keen to return with a number of his friends, so long as efforts were made to improve the condition of the roads.113 A US tourist, interviewed by the newspaper Al-Balagh a few months later, explained

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his satisfaction with conditions in Syria.114 French reports noted that 120 US tourists travelled from Qunaitra to Tiberias on 7 August 1925. Another 50 arrived at Baalbek two days later.115 By January 1928, the US consul in Damascus wrote to Washington informing the State Department of ‘the experience of Dr. Charles W. Young, an American [. . .] professor [. . .] Together with two British subjects, in crossing the Syrian Desert.’ It was an experience that prompted the consul to suggest taking steps to improve the regulation of the desert itinerary.116 The ‘unfortunate’ professor had nearly died on the crossing as a result of a ‘drunk and refractory’ driver.117 The professor and his British passengers, one a lady and the other an ‘Oriental’, had been stuck in the desert after the driver lost the road and were only found by chance by a search party. Another interesting case of foreign tourism further underlines the inherent allure of the country’s heritage and landscapes. The small, 40odd, expatriate ‘White’ Russian community in Damascus organised themselves in 1923 into a Socie´te´ Lite´raire Russe de Damas, based in the Bab Touma district.118 Its president, Professor Alexis Bogolioubsky, published an account of bicycle tourism in Syria and Lebanon in 1924 in

Figure 2.1 Temple of Baalbek from the air c.1925. Available online: http ://catalogue.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/cb403670765.

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the society bulletin. In it, he noted that tourism by bicycle remained rare in the country, despite the freedom it offered. It was a great opportunity for young people to learn more about their country during the long summer holidays. President Alexis took a schoolboy from the Colle`ge des Lazaristes along with him to go for a tour of Syria and Lebanon.119 This personal account, alongside the US professor’s unfortunate desert experience, demonstrates the genuine enthusiasm for tourist discovery of Syria among expatriates and international travellers. Such enthusiasm was not limited to foreigners. Kirsten Scheid has demonstrated how Muslim scouting groups led various tours around the country. One scout leader, Muhi Al-Din Al-Nsuli took 28 of his scouts to a place he described as having ‘the most beautiful scenery in all Syria’.120 From these trips there developed an active scout tourism in conjugation with French authorities’ promotion of tourism leading to what Scheid has described as ‘making landscapes Lebanese’.121 As Scheid writes, the initiative in promoting tourism emanated largely from local Lebanese. It took until the 1930s for a Paris-based group, the Comite´ de Propagande Libano-Syrienne, to promote tourism in France itself. Nevertheless, the aforementioned Socie´te´ de Ville´giature’s efforts represent an immediate organisation of cultural institutions that could contest French inaction in tourism development. The combination of an ever-vocal press, and local government organisation of tourism led by Lebanese associations fundamentally undermined any French attempts to arrogate to themselves tourist promotion efforts as an exceptional mise en valeur of the country by a civilised patron.

Exhibitions in the Early Mandate A final area of cultural activity that was intrinsically tied to museum and tourist promotion was that of colonial exhibitions and expositions. Exhibitions had begun with the 1851 Crystal Palace Exhibition and the French had followed up on this with an exhibition in 1855 in Paris.122 British imperial exhibitions continued throughout the interwar period, with such exhibitions as that of an ‘African village’ at the 1924 British Empire exhibition.123 French twentieth-century exhibitions were a means to vaunt the mise en valeur, and thereby to undergird the ‘civilising mission’.124 Ellen Furlough describes this as ‘Francocentric framing’; relating a range of cultures from around the Empire that were tied

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together by their ease of access to metropolitan citizens at exhibitions. Just as visitors to the Louvre and other museums were able to ‘appropriate’ the cultures on display before them, so too did colonial exhibitions like that of Vincennes in 1931 provide ‘simulated travel’.125 A series of exhibitions of Syro-Lebanese cultural heritage began even before the mandate was officially declared in 1922. In January 1919, the Marseille Chamber of Commerce hosted a congress on Syria with talks by archaeological and cultural experts, including one by Count Henri de Ge´rin-Ricard. The Count produced two letters from Charles I of Naples, founder of the Capetian House of Anjou, that had been sent from Marseille to confirm the city’s privileges in Acre commerce.126 The special ties between Marseille and the Holy Land were clearly not simple rhetoric. Indeed, the Arabic name for Marseille, marsilya, echoes the Greek-derived town name of massalı´a but curiously also contains the dual Arabic words for port (marsa) and the seventh-century name for Jerusalem (Iliya¯’), drawn from the Roman Aelia. In 1921, an international congress of art history was held in Paris. Presentations on Syria were given by Maurice Pezard, a member of the Louvre, and Gaston Migeon, the Louvre’s curator of medieval art. Alongside them was archaeologist and director of the Damascus institute for Islamic art Eustache De Lorey, who presented the discovery of Damascene artefacts.127 In the same year, Syria and Lebanon were represented at the Bordeaux fair. Ships from the French Navy were used to provide transport and participants were given a 20 per cent reduction on travel fees to participate.128 On 18 March 1922, General Gouraud and Paul Le´on, the director of France’s Ministry for the Beaux-Arts, inaugurated an exposition of French research in Syria at the Louvre. Some of the great names of mandate archaeology, such as Pierre Montet and Eustache De Lorey, were present.129 In the same year, a pavilion dedicated to the Levant was present in the Marseille colonial exhibition.130 A proclivity for promoting French business interests is evident in High Commission notes preparing for Marseille’s exhibition. This echoed the mise en valeur approach to flaunting the mandate’s cultural management methods at the 1921 Beirut Fair.131 The High Commissioner’s delegate in Paris, Pierre Terrier, was charged with preparing Syro-Lebanese participation. Some 25,000 francs were set aside to ensure a successful representation of French methods in Syria to the Marseille exhibition audience.132

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The Ministry of Foreign Affairs also asked the mandate economic service to undertake a propaganda campaign among commercial and industrial circles in Syria ‘to spread certain technical publications in French and facilitate the development of our colonial exports’.133 Exposition of the mandate continued in the early 1920s. The organisers of a 1922 Louvre exhibition compared Syria’s large population in antiquity to the 3 million Syrians of the early 1920s to promote a theme of civilisational decline: an argument reminiscent of claims of a resurrected ‘granary of Rome’ in French colonial North Africa.134 In 1923 the Museum of Decorative Arts in Paris held an exhibition of the Damascus Institut Franc ais’s work intended to ‘help with the renaissance of the Syrian arts’.135 Famed archaeologist Re´ne´ Dussaud praised the exhibition in the Bulletin des Muse´es de France as an effort ‘destined [. . .] to testify to the gratitude deserved by our archaeologists [. . .] who are the true agents of this enrichment’.136 In 1924, future civilian High Commissioner Henri De Jouvenel, then the Minister for Instruction Publique in France, attended a Paris exhibition of artefacts found at Byblos.137 Syro-Lebanese participation in these exhibitions was limited though not non-existent. A conference held at the American University in Beirut in 1924 was attended almost exclusively by local scholars, to the extent that one newspaper bemoaned the use of French-language invitation letters to the conference as being a waste of resources.138 However, another conference held in Beirut in 1926 was attended by Lebanese high society.139 In the same year, Lebanese newspaper Al-Ahrar ˙ praised plans to include Lebanese products at an exhibition in Lyon, though it also asked authorities if the labelling on the products being showcased would reflect ‘the inhabitants of the country [. . .] according to their regions’.140 In 1924, the authorities prepared for the admittance of Libano-Syrian material to the 1925 Exposition des Arts De´coratifs Modernes. The administration of this exhibition was delegated by the High Commissioner to the head of the Institut Franc ais in Damascus, leaving the Syro-Lebanese with no role in their country’s cultural representation. Far from being tutored as future decision makers and managers of their cultural heritage and portrayal, Syrian craftsmen were not even trusted to produce the furniture required for the exhibition because they were ‘incapable of, despite their abilities and craftsmanship, re-imagining

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their art anew’. These craftsmen were thus given models with precise instructions for how to construct the furniture: French models to portray Syrian furniture to a European exhibition.141

The Beirut Fair and Mise en Valeur The Beirut Fair of 1921 demonstrates the clear link between French claims of protection over cultural heritage and the economic interests tied to mise en valeur rhetoric. In May 1920, Gouraud wrote to Paris to explain that he had ‘decided [. . .] [upon] the organisation, in Beirut [. . .] of a fair [. . .] in the mould of those that had such success at Fez and Rabat’.142 Plans for the Fair went off to a bad start, however, after the telegram sent to Paris by general-secretary Robert de Caix had given the impression that the figure Beirut was requesting for its budget was in francs, when in fact it was in the lower-valued Syrian piasters!143 The organising committee for the Beirut Fair of 1921 was based in Paris and presided over by former Minister and technocracy advocate Etienne Cle´mentel.144 By the time the Fair had begun in April 1921, Gouraud had secured prestigious French elites to add to the committee as it was arriving in Beirut. Famed composer Gabriel Faure´ and Senator Fernand David were well received in Beirut.145 Senator David also visited Damascus. French authorities described the welcome he was given by the city’s authorities, notables and population as ‘a great manifestation of celebration’ in a press release. The authorities also claimed that Damascus Governor Haqqi Bey Al-‘Azm146 and the Lebanese president of the Beirut Fair’s Syrian section had ‘expressed [. . .] gratitude [. . .] and joy to see the opening up of a period of economic prosperity under France’s enlightened mandate’.147 A 1923 internal intelligence report openly discussed the real commercial interests behind mise en valeur rhetoric at the Beirut Fair. The report explained the Fair was ‘an economic manifestation’; it had a dual benefit of informing ‘French public opinion of the encouraging foreseeable results’ for French mandatory methods while allowing the ‘French participants to extend [. . .] commercial action in the Levant.’148 In a press release, Gouraud extolled the fair as an opportunity for ‘the economic development [mise en valeur] of Syria through the creation of solid commercial links’.149 Another press release celebrated the Fair as a gathering of ‘more than 1200 French companies, an important number

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of indigenous companies in the face of an extremely weak foreign participation, [that] has produced an excellent impression on the Syrian populations and encouraged the creation of solid business links between French and indigenous merchants’.150 Gouraud noted that a pump-selling firm had secured several million francs of business. He added that the local peoples were satisfied with ‘French products utterly unknown in the Orient’, owing to ‘centuriesold traditions attached to commerce’, a reference that drew the ties between a ‘Phoenicianist’ cultural heritage narrative and economic benefits. Among the Fair’s advisory board was advisor to the Office Nationale du Commerce Exte´rieure, Alexis Charmeil, who described his institution’s mission in terms of protecting French business. Alongside Charmeil was Ste´phane Adolphe Derville´, a renowned industrial lobbyist and executive with the Chemins de Fers de Paris a´ Lyon et a´ la Me´diterrane´e.151 Among the Fair’s sponsors were capitalist companies such as the Banca Di Roma as well as French North African institutions such as the Cre´dit Foncier d’Alge´rie et de Tunisie.152 French commerce was fully involved in the execution of the Fair itself. For instance, the Maison Adrien offered to supply furniture for the fair at reduced rates.153 Pierre Lyautey, the son of the famed orientalist Resident-General in Rabat and himself a member of the mandate administration working on cultural affairs, reported from the Fair. He wrote that people ‘from all over Asia Minor [arrived] [. . .] to admire this unique event in the annals of Syria: Aleppo merchants, rich Damascenes, Bedouins of the great desert, Kurds from the Upper-Euphrates, Circassians, Lebanese Maronites, ‘Alawi Turcomans’. 154 Lyautey celebrated General Gouraud’s efforts at ‘encouraging our [French] artistic expansion’ in the Orient with the help of a collaborator who had organised similar exhibitions in Morocco; presumably a reference to himself.155 Lyautey further noted that the exhibition was encouraging French interior decoration to replace the influence of Viennese and Berliner styles in Syria, painting this as a civilising effect: ‘Gouraud [. . .] wanted above all else [. . .] to contribute to the intellectual development of the populations who had asked for the French mandate [. . .] a great task of the future has just begun which will put great French taste and art in the limelight’.156 Lyautey added that:

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[Gouraud] thought that the exhibited products should represent all parts of our national industry [. . .] Syrians and Lebanese will be in debt [to Gouraud] for having brought a little bit of the atmosphere of their beloved Paris. Tomorrow they will ask French architects to construct [. . .] villas.157 Despite these Francocentric and orientalist accounts, Syro-Lebanese stakeholders were certainly involved in the Fair. Algerian colonial newspaper Le Mercure Africain reported the Beirut Fair as having occasioned an ‘intense activity [. . .] [which had] provoked the curiosity and interest of the Syrian populations’.158 The Socie´te´ de Bienfaisance Musulmane, a waqf-based Islamic charity, provided its terrace, overlooking the port of Beirut, to the Fair where a French restaurant and a pavilion for agriculture would be set up.159 A French company, Giraud and Co., acquired all three of the fair’s pavilion-building contracts. However, it should be noted that the French company offered lower costs than the Lebanese competitors: Aftimus & Hacho and Abdelnour.160 Of the 400 stands that were eventually made available a few months before the Fair’s opening, only 80 were to be rented out by French or Syro-Lebanese businesses. De Caix’s note admitted that ‘certain circles of indigenous businessmen’ had initially been ‘indifferent or hostile to the fair’, though he claimed they were now working ‘with zeal and interest toward its success’.161 Another 20 were reserved for foreign businesses while Paris, through the Comite´ Franc ais des Expositions, ensured the remaining 280 stands would be for metropolitan businesses.162 A Francocentric approach to the Beirut Fair was further evidenced in French officials’ approach to foreign business interests. Already in 1919, an article in the Journal Ge´ne´rale de l’Alge´rie et la Tunisie et du Maroc resentfully reported an Italian proposal to organise a floating exhibition of Italian goods on a boat docked at Beirut. The editors lamented this guileful Italian tactic, explaining that ‘yet again a French idea that foreigners have come up with before us’.163 As the Beirut Fair was being organised in early 1921, requests for free participation sent to Gouraud by the British and Dutch Consuls prompted him to seek approval from Paris that the Fair was to be of a ‘purely Franco-Syrian character’.164 In reply, the Quai d’Orsay informed Gouraud that the precedent set by the San Remo accords, in which

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Britain had acquiesced to a US government demand for free economic participation in the mandates, meant that it was not possible to ‘get rid of [. . .] foreign firms’ in the Beirut Fair.165 Italian commercial interests in the Levant, already well established by the beginning of the mandate, provided another challenge to French attempts to protect their commerce during the Fair. Robert De Caix, who had encouraged a French mandate as a Union Economique lobbyist and L’Asie Francaise editor, intentionally ‘delayed replies’ to Italian car-maker Fiat’s desire to have a presence at the Fair.166 Underlining the difficulties posed to a protectorate approach in a League of Nations mandate situation, De Caix wrote that he felt stuck between the Fair’s purported international outreach and a need to ‘discourage the work of [foreign] commercial propaganda which our budget would be paying for’.167 The difficulty of blocking foreign commerce in the postWorld War internationalist era (when France faced austerity at home) was further demonstrated in an interesting predicament involving a Syrian merchant who was acting as a commercial representative for the Imperial and Royal Austrian Commercial Museum. He had approached the High Commission to participate in the 1921 Fair. De Caix passed up the case to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, noting that the Austrians were still technically banned from commercial activity under the conditions of the 1919 Treaty of Saint GermainEn-Laye and the Armistice with the Ottoman Empire. De Caix nevertheless noted the poor impression on Austrian public opinion that a continuation of the ban would entail.168 A month later, in March 1921, the Quai d’Orsay’s Europe and Asia directorates studied the issue, leading to a diplomatic dilemma. The European branch recommended maintaining the Austrian ban since any relaxation of the rules on their commerce would entail consequent relaxation of a parallel German ban, yet the Asian branch disagreed.169 The mandate form was creating dilemas and disputes in relation to French protectorate-style methods at managing cultural institutions seeking commercial gains.

Conclusion Even in those spheres of cultural activity where French claims of culture were most mature and credible as a result of a centuries-long engagement with the Levant, namely the institutional organisation of

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antiquities, museums, tourism and exhibitions, there remained a continual level of contestation of mandatory methods that failed to provide tutelage and local development. No section of the League’s mandate charter had made direct provisions for the preservation of cultural heritage. French administrators, often academic specialists with a personal stake in antiquities preservation, clearly made efforts at housing artefacts in makeshift museums in the early years. Often critical press commentary nevertheless reminded administrators of the difficulty in establishing their claims to a particular competence for cultural heritage management. Similarly, the slow efforts at promoting tourism in the naturally appealing Lebanese countryside were soon contested in the press and by local government bureaucrats. Colonial-style exhibitions like the Beirut Fair were intended to be showcase events for the promotion of metropolitan French capital goods to be used in what was termed the mise en valeur of the Levant, a term masking intentions for acquiring new markets for French technological products. However, international stakeholders, upholding the ‘open door’ policy that the US had insisted upon as a raison d’eˆtre of the League of Nations, challenged visions of a protectorate, meaning only the metropolitan expositions of French claims of culture and governmental competency were able to encounter minimal opposition.

CHAPTER 3 CLASSROOMS, CURRICULA AND CONTENT

Debates over the meaning and aim of curriculum content for schools in the mandate states revealed fundamentally contradictory visions of SyroLebanese education and development. French administrators also tended toward preferential treatment for preferred compact minorities. Yet each of these French designs, discussed internally as a means to secure their socio-political grip on the mandate territories but publicly proclaimed as the extension of a civilising mission, were contested. Arab nationalists coalesced around their opposition to French influence and their own preference for the promotion of Arabic. Demands were also made for meaningful higher and technical education that would enable SyroLebanese autonomy.

French Instruction: ‘The Most Certain and Efficient Way to Assure Our Influence’ Faced with a complex post-Ottoman society, mandate administrators reflexively turned to French-language instruction as a means of spreading the mission civilisatrice.1 Despite lofty rhetoric, the principal tangible benefit of teaching in French was to foster Francophone exchange and thus, it was hoped, to nurture Francophile opinion. At a practical level, this method of education would gradually form a small core of Francophone elites who would become future mandate administrators. Such interventions in the curricula were not limited to

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the Syro-Lebanese mandate and its widespread use in French colonial contexts suggests it was seen as a method of soft control via the channels of orientalist influence, cultural bias and elitism. The late Gail Paradise Kelly’s research showed the manner in which censorship of certain elements of the curriculum were practised in French Indochina.2 Spencer Segalla has noted how the ethnographer Georges Hardy was appointed director of Moroccan public education by General Hubert Lyautey because of his experience with educational policies in his previous post in managing West African clients. The curriculum he introduced in Morocco in 1920 ‘did include instruction in the Arabic language and in Islamic culture [. . .] but French instruction was to take up the majority of the school day’.3 This was in keeping with broader French encouragement of Frenchlanguage education, for instance in colonial and mandate sub-Saharan Africa.4 This colonial approach itself reflected a French tradition in statesponsored pedagogy that was fundamentally rooted in ‘socialization – the transmission of the values of the social e´lite to both the younger generations of that e´lite and to outsiders [. . .] securing the willing collaboration of subordinate social groups. This would limit the risk of social unrest and the need for repressive activity.’5 It is important to note the work done by historians of education who have warned against reading too much into the contents of curricula without socio-political contexts.6 As Stephen Ball points out, although historians should acknowledge the importance of the colonial experience in shaping the development of an elitist educational infrastructure, it is incumbent on them to acknowledge the role of local agents in actively shaping educational content.7 Nevertheless, as Betty Anderson points out in her examination of neighbouring Jordan, ‘textbooks provide a window into [. . .] the new governments’ desire [. . .] and the need [. . .] to define a particular kind of national identity.’8 French authorities sought to use French to forge Francophile clients. This effort encountered immediate contestation and the outbreak of the Great Syrian Revolt, which included demands for a respect of educational autonomy, marked a fundamental rejection of early mandatory methods. In the case of the mandate, contestation lay at the heart of fights over the curriculum: the attempt to impose French instruction and the parallel attempts to counter this by preserving Arabic learning.

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This struggle over Arabic has been noted by Nemer Mansour Frayha in his examination of the Service d’Instruction Publique’s Bulletin d’Enseignment and it is borne out by a more in-depth examination of early mandate educational content.9 One report by the High Commissioner’s delegate in Damascus outlined the singular importance of education as a means to co-opt local elites by ‘civilising’ them. Rather than increasing school numbers the report suggested it would be best to ‘intimately imbue a restricted number of young elites with our superior culture’.10 Such limited numbers would have a direct impact on social stratification since it would make sure that liberal and bureaucratic roles would be limited to a Francophone elite. The Damascus education delegate added that: Interest in acquiring a French diploma is becoming increasingly apparent. It would be an opportune time to increase its value by making its acquisition harder [. . .] Our interest does not seem to lie in increasing the number [. . .] It would be more worthwhile to concentrate on deeply inculcating our superior culture among a certain number of young elites, and to not set so high a standard [. . .] for the more inferior level of the mass of Syrian students.11 Such actions would allow the authorities to ‘avoid overloading the already popular liberal arts and bureaucratic career opportunities [. . .] [the teaching of French] remains the best medium for future propaganda’.12 Echoing Nadia Sbaiti’s later analysis, the High Commissioner’s delegate described the spread of French as a measure of the success of mandatory propaganda. One overview of the proposed Federation of Syrian States explained that it would be through the department for Instruction Publique that French influence could be spread in Syria. The presence of French professionals, technical experts and intellectuals would impregnate educated Syrians in such a way as to allow the persistence of French influence ‘even when we have left the country’.13 Education advisor Paul Combes’ quarterly update for summer 1921 gives further insight into French goals and the kind of educational system that was being sought by central mandatory authorities in Beirut. Combes explained that learning French was to be a priority above all others because it was the ‘most certain and efficient way to assure our influence’.14

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Paul Combes noted that the Ottoman authorities had closed down French schools under the guidance of the Germans during the World War. He was thus surprised that a school run by German nuns had been allowed to subsist in Aleppo by the French authorities. Combes argued that importance of controlling the language of instruction was further highlighted by the growth of US and Italian institutions. So critical was the need to infuse the next generation of Syrians with French that Combes suggested that language instruction should take primacy over all other subjects. Combes wrote that: ‘Syrians’ [. . .] pedagogical preoccupations of a secondary importance [i.e., mathematics, history] should not make us lose sight of the principal, almost solitary, goal [of French education]’.15 A November 1922 report celebrated the introduction of French-language instruction in primary schools in Aleppo and even in surrounding villages.16 Among the targets for Instruction Publique in the Alawite State were the construction of more schools; the selection of teachers who knew French since ‘the culture of these is always more refined’; ensuring that the teaching of history and geography was done in French from the seventh year of schooling and to ‘make sure that the students of that year group [onward] can only speak in French during recreation’.17 The Lattakia educational authorities noted it had six French-born teachers among its ranks in 1923.18 Such efforts seem to have borne fruit. A semester report for the Alawite State noted that French instruction had begun to be present in official schools: ‘everywhere we see a considerable effort to make known and spread our language and to give it, in all schools whether public or private, a special status’.19 The primacy of French was equally demonstrated at a meeting of the senior council for the Instruction Publique in the Alawite State where it was raised as the one subject that was seen as non-negotiable because it had ‘become indispensable in the country’.20 Another Alawite State decision expressed the need to hire teachers well versed in French since their ‘culture would be more refined’.21 French content in education became a staple part of teaching even among private US and GreekOrthodox schools which had some degree of autonomy over their curricula. The Alawite State government went so far as to dispatch its own public French-language teachers to supply private schools.22 French was encouraged as the language of instruction to such an extent

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that one director of a Beirut (public) school made it the primary teaching language at his school even though he did not speak a word of it himself.23 The Tripolitanian newspaper Al-Ra’y al-‘Am separately criticised a public secondary school in its city which followed a policy of all subjects being taught in French. It asked how student progress in French was to be monitored if the director himself could not use French.24 The correlation between state funding and the promotion of the Francophonie is evident. In Hama, Instruction Publique decision makers encouraged the funding and refurbishing of the Greek-Orthodox school, singled out because its language of instruction was French.25 Another report emphasised the role of schools such as the Alliance Israe´lite and the Greek-Orthodox and Armenian-Catholic school as the ‘most active site[s] of [French] propaganda in Aleppo’.26 In another case, attempts by the Fre`res Lazaristes to gain a stipend from the French government were looked on favourably because the Lazaristes ‘contribute the most to the spread of French culture’.27 State funds could be used as a stick to induce school directors to introduce French learning or face cuts in their budget, as was the case with schools in the Sanjak of Alexandretta in 1921.28

Figure 3.1 Tripoli from the air c.1925. Available online: http://gallica. bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b8443060c.

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French learning was sometimes seen as a means to encourage education and political ties with the administration. A letter from the Druze Assembly celebrated the fact that over 2,000 children were using the language in the region.29 An Instruction Publique report explained that schools in the Hawra¯n were lacking the resources, if not the will, for ˙ education and encouraged local administrators to do more to provide at least one French teacher per village classroom.30 Garo Khabaian, the director of the Gregorian Armenian school in Alexandretta, wrote to Instruction Publique advisor Paul Combes in favour of French instruction: As to the French language I admit that [. . .] we are [. . .] zealous of its propagation [. . .] not because the situation in the country has convinced us of any need [for its spread] but rather because years and centuries has meant we have benefitted from the favour and aid of the French Government [. . .] French is one of the major agents of civilisation and progress [. . .] because of its [Lebanon’s] catastrophes and miseries there is a need to re-attach [it] to the French nation.31 Nevertheless, the early years of the mandate equally saw several provinces encountering problems with the spread of French.32 It is noteworthy that even this singularly consistent policy aim of early mandate rule was fitfully implemented. A 1922 report pointed to serious gaps in the teaching of French even among teachers themselves in the Lattakia area.33 The report explained that: ‘French lessons for bureaucrats and adults in the Lattakia area [. . .] have been removed [. . .] and are replaced with a one-off course’. The course was made obligatory for teachers yet only ten teachers turned up. The authorities had promised accreditation upon successful completion yet the French report had to conclude that: ‘the targeted bureaucrats do not regularly attempt the course’.34 French instruction for local government functionaries did slowly spread when the Alawite State introduced two further French courses in 1924 in less frequented towns.35 Financial constraints were the major hindrance to fulfilling Francophone aims. In October 1921, Greater Lebanon Governor Albert Trabaud bemoaned the difficulty of assuring the ‘political interests’ attached to spreading French instruction when his budget was shrinking. The budget for the state had been halved from 100 million

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francs in 1920 to 54 million in 1921 and Paris was demanding further cuts. Lebanon Governor Trabaud nevertheless praised the fact that some schools such as the E´cole Secondaire des Garc ons and the E´cole Secondaire des Jeunes Filles had made progress in increasing student numbers while hiring five French teachers at a cost of 120,000 francs per annum. Bringing French teachers was costly, meaning that decisions had to be made to make savings elsewhere.36 Soon after the High Commission promulgated secondary legislation Order [De´cret] 1007 which sought to reorganise education in Lebanon, Governor Trabaud wrote in support of maintaining French teachers in Lebanese private schools, their salary costs to be borne by the High Commission. He justified this on the grounds that ‘it concerns, above all, a political question. It is primarily through the school that we will be able to exert our growing influence over the Muslim elements.’37 Trabaud had to ask the High Commissioner for special funds for French teachers in Lebanese private schools. In a particularly revealing rationalisation for his support of maintaining French teachers at these two private institutions, Lebanon Governor Albert Trabaud explained that the vast majority of those attending were Muslim children. He added that: For reasons related to the campaign of religious fanaticism currently undertaken by the leaders of this religion, the parents of Muslim children prefer to send them to institutions with Muslim teaching, otherwise known as official [public] schools, where the Quran is taught. If our [two] schools did not exist, this [Muslim] population would exclusively attend Muslim establishments and would be destined to go to the foreign universities.38 Alongside the familiar themes of Orientalist disdain for Muslim ‘fanaticism’ and fears of foreign institutions such as the American University of Beirut, the wording used by Trabaud is revealing of the extent to which he separated the otherwise ‘official’ schools from his government. The private missionary and local Christian schools were ‘our schools’, while the official, Ottoman-era schools were theirs. Trabaud noted that one possibility of assuring Francophone education included the closing of provincial public schools but decided against this since it would have raised tensions with the mostly Muslim students’

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families. Despite these problems, Trabaud recommended that the French teachers remain in their posts since they were the only ones who could successfully teach and shape the locally recruited French teachers of the future.39 Such troubles were not confined to Lebanon. Education advisor Paul Combes’ hopes for regular French lessons were hampered by budgetary constraints in Alexandretta as early as 1920.40 The massive cut in the High Commission’s budget early in the mandate combined with the resurgence of Turkish and Arab nationalism and a growth of private US missions.

Classroom Control The promotion of French learning was not the sole means of social engineering peddled as a civilising effort. With the advent of the French came inspectors and unified curricula.41 In Syria, the authorities promptly introduced school inspections, beginning in 1920 in Aleppo.42 As one 1921 report put it: ‘school visits constitute the best impetus for teachers and students’.43 The orientalist intellectual filters influencing colonial policy meant that a compartmentalisation of educational content formed a persistent method of providing curricula in various regions, reflecting previously discussed methods of antiquities conservation. In 1923, the primary schools’ inspector for the south Lebanese district of Tyre, Adib Khalifeh, outlined the situation in schools within the qada¯ʾ. The report for the Tyre School for Boys outlined lacking sanitary ˙ conditions and proposed the replacement of one Christian teacher, Majid Al-Khoury, because he was ‘negligent’ and thus holding the students back. Inspector Khalifeh recommended that he be replaced with someone capable of teaching French such as the Shia Muhammad Ajami who taught at one of the local private schools.44 Khalifeh encouraged the outright firing of the old Quran teacher, Sheikh Ibrahim Al-Baroud. The Taı¨r Debbe´ boys’ school was criticised for solely providing Quranic teaching and having the children sit on the floor. At the Tyre girls’ school Khalifeh wrote that ‘disorder reigns everywhere’; with the Maronite teacher Massadeh Moghaizel not being ‘up to the task’.45 The summaries continue along these broad distinctions that elevate French learning over Arabic. At the boys’ school in Kaukaba, the teacher Joseph (Yusuf) Basbouss’ lack of Arabic knowledge was noted without

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comment while his good French was praised. The boys’ school at Hada¯tu, which only taught Arabic and the Quran, was judged to need to make decent improvements or face closure.46 In another case, in the Jabal Druze, a 1923 report of schools in various villages noted that, of the hundreds of inspected students, the majority knew at least 40 words in French.47 A week earlier, the administrator of the Jabal Druze, Captain Carbillet, whose dirigisme would spark the 1925 Great Revolt, visited schools and celebrated the fact that many pupils knew 40 words of French.48 Classroom inspections also represented an opportunity for a political intervention in the cultural institutions, particularly the more intransigent public schools. A 1924 report pointed out that public ‘official’ schools were consistently rated worse than their private counterparts. However, this division also happened to follow religious lines: most public schools catered to the Sunni Muslim community. Irregular staff, an overly expansive curriculum and poorly applied French teaching were among the faults discerned by inspectors.49 Similar findings are present in a report from Aleppo from the previous year.50 Other cases hint at a policy of pressure to get the ‘right’ teachers teaching the ‘proper’ way. One Sanjak of Alexandretta report outlines how in urban schools teachers ‘recruited with care, have exercised their profession with conscience and devotion’ whereas schools in the villages were facing shortages of teachers caused by sackings of teachers due to ‘professional ineptitude’.51 In the same Sanjak a further report complained that members of the teaching corps had very poor Turkish, and thus limited outreach to the students, but also mentions they had ‘unsure sentiments’ – presumably a euphemism for dissent against French classroom practices.52 In the Alawite State, primary school teachers in official schools who were already hired were forced to take a test for formal accreditation by the French.53 Administrators were frustrated when inspections did not produce the desired effects. In Al-Bab, east of Aleppo, one school inspection still found dirty classrooms, ‘chatty’ teachers who knew ‘no French’ and low student attendance, some 80 students out of 600 as late as 1924. In response, administrators judged that a French teacher would have to be sent out to the school and the threat of sacking some of the six teachers was raised as a response to low student turnout.54

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One 1924 surveillance report mentions that a teacher’s departure from the girls’ school in Antioch was followed with a consequent rise in the hours of French instruction.55 Another report noted the ease with which Aleppine teachers at girls’ schools, who had been failed by the inspectors, were continuing to establish new kindergartens, much to French chagrin.56 The emphasis on French as a civilising medium was tacit, as natural as breathing air. Educating the educators was a subtler filter that could allow Francophile conceptions to enter classrooms. As Antoine Prost notes, a major facet of French Republican education was the presumption that ‘the evolution of the educational system assumes [. . .] the evolution of the teaching corps’.57 The outline for this frame of reference lay in such tests as the Certificat d’E´tudes Pe´dagogiques, used in 1924 to certify primary teachers in Aleppo.58 In the Alawite State, in 1924, of the 22 teachers undertaking the exams for their Breve´t de Capacite´ de l’Instruction Primaire 19 qualified, two were required to undertake another year’s training and one was dismissed.59 Teacher training also included instances of sending teachers to metropolitan France, which happened for instance with a mathematics teacher from Antioch in 1924.60 Such cases also occurred in the Alawite State.61 The same report outlined that one of the tests to check a school’s capacity included noting the establishment of a library with ‘subscription to the French pedagogical journals’.62 One report from Greater Lebanon explained that the teachers in training had a ‘very mediocre grasp of French’.63 Even in the midst of this dirigisme, local Syrians and Lebanese managed to convert French interest in promoting Francophile sentiments into local pedagogical progress. In the State of Damascus, the ever-entrepreneurial director of Instruction Publique, Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali, organised a set of teacher training conferences to take place over the summer. Notably, these autonomously organised conferences included several hours of French instruction every day.64 Kurd ‘Ali’s stance was not well received in some circles. In 1922, the French consul in Alexandria attached a copy of the newspaper Al-Ummah which published an article entitled ‘Kadadir Ghabarit’. The article’s title was referring to Algerian notable and later the rector of the Mosque of Paris, Si Kaddour Benghabrit, portrayed by Al-Ummah as a traitor to Moroccan and Algerian independence for having sold Morocco to the French in 1911, presumably as he was an interpreter for the French Legation in

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Tangiers at the time.65 Among the ‘traitors’ it outlined was Kurd ‘Ali, who was alleged to have: Declared to the editor of [Le] ‘Matin’ [newspaper] that he came to Paris to get in contact with the [French] leadership and intellectual elite; [he added that] he is doing all he can to return to his country accompanied by a group of professors, and French educators, who will spread in young Syrian hearts a love for France.66 Other local leaders aside from Kurd ‘Ali demonstrated a similar tendency for adaptability, their compliance leading to similar press criticism. In 1924, Al-Ra’y al-‘Am bemoaned the fact that the Lebanese Assembly had sat for 30 sessions to agree to the first national curriculum – a curriculum focused on teaching civics and crafting obedient citizens.67 Al-Ra’y al-‘Am also criticised the director of public instruction for Lebanon when he invited several school head teachers to dictate to them the curriculum he expected them to teach. It reserved even harsher criticism for the school heads themselves who were ‘incompetent in all things teaching, whereas the least of their teachers is better educated than them’. It was unrealistic, it added, to expect the school directors to understand the curriculum within just one day’s meeting when it had taken the assembly so long to scrutinise it.68 The early mandate years clearly did lay the groundwork for a ‘civic order’ that sought to affirm patriarchal authority led by French tutors supervising ‘colonial citizens’. Gender roles in the pre-colonial Middle East were generally fluidly defined given the flexibility enabled by Islamic legal frameworks.69 According to Afsaneh Najmabadi’s study of Qajar Iran, many of the important constrictions on women’s activities were ironically the result of reactions of traditional society to colonial control of civic space.70 In the educational sphere the mandate authorities worked within these filters to encourage gendered spaces in civic life. Gender roles seem to have found a degree of alignment between traditional, colonial and nationalist educational aims and methods. The curricula for girls present in Lebanese school reports emphasise home economics studies.71 The early mandate also witnessed attempts at encouraging masculinist school activities. In 1921 physical exercise was

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incorporated into the curriculum and taught by military officers in schools in Aleppo State.72 One report noted that ‘the diffusion of sports in Syrian schools would require little money’ yet it would reap great benefits both in terms of balancing lifestyles and also by ‘regenerating the race’.73 Such social divisions emphasised pre-existing gender roles, encouraging domesticity for women and masculine physical education, that were absorbed by nationalists in the later mandate years.74 It is interesting to note that even the nationalist school run by Mary Kassab in Beirut, the Madrassa Al-Ahliyya, prescribed gendered instruction for ˙ local girls.75 These core gender distinctions were implemented despite French administrative and public rhetoric of a mission civilisatrice seeking to overhaul an Islamic culture that was perceived to have relegated girls’ education to ‘a secondary, if not superfluous’ importance.76 Alongside forming and enforcing gender roles, the curricula also encouraged social difference. Of critical importance to the development of Syria was a rural –urban distinction. In the Alawite State, judged provincial and rural, education focused on practical agricultural experience. In 1923, the superior council for Instruction Publique undertook changes to the primary curriculum previously promoted in 1921. The council expressed concern that the previous programme was too full and it increased the number of hours of French instruction.77 Since the region was understood to be essentially agricultural, basic agronomy was introduced at primary level.78 Literature was removed from the primary curriculum, to be studied solely at secondary level. Study of Phoenician history and geography was removed from the firstyear class, with the focus shifting to religious history. In the third year they learnt hygiene in the household. In the fourth year they learnt first aid and personal hygiene. Study of the Quran and religion was undertaken in public schools that were attended by a Sunni majority while other schools studied French and history. Other aspects of French educational provision in the Alawite State focused on agricultural learning. At the Bouka experimental station, a school was attached. An orphanage housing 20 orphans was also built.79 Similarly, in the State of Aleppo, agricultural lessons were planned for the rural students.80 It should be noted that the task facing mandatory authorities was significant. Jacques Weulersse suggests that the greatest efforts of the mandate authorities in rural areas could not overcome the hostility of great landlords who suspiciously eyed the intrusion of

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the state and the ‘jealousy’ of the hodja (Ottoman Turkish for teacher) and Imams holding on to their jobs as well as the difficulties of enticing school teachers to rural locations.81 The imposition of hierarchical state control also sought to mould citizens conforming to a ‘modern’ use of time. The use and misuse of time, the great attention placed on stamping out perfunctory variation in each school and qada¯,ʾ had at its root the state’s modern obsession with ˙ uniformity and regulation.82 It should be noted that the emphasis on homogeneity and regulation was not something introduced by the French. The Young Turk Constitution had explicitly stated that ‘all schools will operate under the surveillance of the state. In order to obtain for Ottoman citizens an education of a homogenous and uniform character, the official’s schools will be open, their instruction will be free, and all nationalities will be admitted’.83 French educational administrators nevertheless continued their efforts to inculcate stricter discipline and standardisation.84 In Deir Ez-Zor Sanjak, internal reports expressed the Instruction Publique’s distaste for late school openings and evident staff disorganisation. Reports noted that the Sanjak’s director of Instruction Publique, for example, had not returned to his post in time for the beginning of the new school year.85 It is particularly telling that educational authorities seem to have given at least as much attention to school opening times in various districts as to the curricula being taught.86 Reports focused on tardy school openings, such as those that affected the Lyce´e of Deir Ez-Zor in the 1924–5 school year, caused by the teachers’ failure to turn up on time. The same problem affected the village of Sabkha’s school and a school in Raqq.87 In May 1924 Al-Ahrar reported how the director of ˙ the E´cole des Fre`res had refused Muslim students the right to Ramadan leave while the school closed for 12 days during Easter.88 In another case Muslim parents in south Lebanon encouraged their children to boycott the government schools during Ramadan since the High Commission had not agreed to set ‘Eid as a holiday.89 Alongside these methods of classroom control, there existed the option afforded by surveillance. The Service de Renseignement extensively documented educational activity. A 1928 surveillance report card, for instance, consistently outlined education levels as a key piece of information for officers to take into account.90 Surveillance report cards were even written for female teachers in remote villages. The military

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intelligence network scrutinised anyone of standing; even those deemed ‘Francophiles’ worthy of educational grants. One such Francophile was Lebanese Professor Joseph Chalbouni, who had earned himself an intelligence report card by 1919 in spite of his clear service to French education. Chalbouni held several important educational posts, having been professor at several Beirut schools: the E´cole des Fre`res, the Osmaniyeh Muslim College and the Greek-Orthodox school.91 Leon Sabbagh, a student at the St Joseph University Faculty of Law in Beirut, was similarly documented after he applied for a grant. Sabbagh was ultimately granted 2,400 francs to complete his studies.92 One student, Elie´ Boueri, was the subject of an intelligence investigation following his demand for further grants to complete his studies. The advisor for Instruction Publique told intelligence chief Michel Canonge that, although his father had been politically useful, the student was a poor performer and ‘the role that he would be called upon to play after he finished school’ would be uninteresting to the authorities.93 His father, Bishara Boueri, was judged by the governor of Greater Lebanon to have ‘rendered incontestable services to France during the First World War’.94 Another report from the High Commission’s advisor for the south Lebanon district noted deep French surveillance of those deemed Francophile. He highlighted the case of Abbas Chidiac, the chief of Baabda prison since August 1921. Intelligence reports on Abbas said he was: ‘of a good reputation [. . .] he has never shown Francophobe attitudes’. However, his cousin, Georges Hanna Chidiac, was an e´migre´ in Rio de Janeiro who was judged as hostile to the mandate. The Counsel noted that Abbas had only written once to his cousin, a letter which had extolled France’s activities, and broken off contact and had not even sent a letter when George’s father, his own brother, had died in Brazil. Yet, in a sign of the depth of distrust, he recommended that the intelligence services continued a ‘special surveillance’ of his ‘actions and words’.95 Even in the French metropolis, where Syrian-Lebanese students were supposed to be gaining insights into modern civilisation, surveillance was carefully conducted.96 One of the reasons given in reports for sending 18 bursary students to Grenoble was because the authorities could depend on Raoul Blanchard, one of the faculty, to keep an eye on them.97 Said Bahra, a teacher at the Sultaniyeh Secondary School ˙ in Beirut, was monitored when travelling to Paris for training.

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French intelligence noted him venting negative views of Paris and French culture with Bahra being recorded to have said that the French ˙ peasant was in an indescribable state of misery and that Paris was tuberculosis-infested.98 The use of intelligence services for oversight of cultural activity can be documented to have been resented in public discussions, despite a degree of confusion over the accuracy of allegations. In February 1924 Al-Barq reported that the Damascus newspapers had falsely accused the intelligence services in Quneitra of having stopped a professor from teaching the Quran and giving Arabic lessons. Al-Barq added that the true story was that an officer had simply made the professor move his class to another room because of the unsanitary conditions in the old one.99 In 1924 the newspaper Al-Haqiqat drew attention to the case of an imprisoned Lebanese professor by the name of Galayini. It called for his freedom in the name of the Muslim community because he had dedicated himself to teaching. It alleged that Galayini had been arrested because he had travelled back home from Paris without authorisation.100 French attempts to disseminate Francophone learning and at policing what took place in classrooms were quickly overwhelmed by the country’s complex populations, and budgetary and political pressures facing initial mandatory methods. That such deep-reaching surveillance was deemed necessary, though it reflected a capacity for modern state activity, ultimately betrayed difficulty in convincing local populations of the French civilising rhetoric. The existence of disputes and difficulties implies a great deal of further, undocumented confrontation, suspicion and fervour in cultural institutions that incrementally supplemented more overt political opposition to the mandate leading up to 1925.

The Fight for Arabic The early colonial surveillance apparatus, although wide-ranging and deeply embedded, could not exercise complete control given the existence of mature cultural institutions in the Levantine landscape. A key fight emerged over the instruction of Arabic.101 Arabic instruction, as a means of transmitting Islamic learning, was inevitably a particularly embedded signifier of cultural independence. Nadya Sbaiti’s account of the Islamic maqa¯sid charitable schools and Mary Kassab’s ˙ Ahliyya School in Beirut demonstrate this.102 The charity also provided ˙

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grants for a small number of students to study, making of it a symbolic alternative to French finances.103 The key role of Arabic as a consolidating symbol of Syrian autonomy was noted by US intelligence officer William Yale even before the mandate began: Among Syrians there exists a strong prejudice against the French [. . .] The activities [. . .] of the Jesuits and other Roman Catholic [. . .] Organizations [. . .] have naturally tended to strengthen the Moslems [sic] [. . .] fear and distrust of France [. . .] the Jesuits [. . .] it is claimed, exerted their power against every liberal movement [. . .] under the hand of France, the Jesuits will receive powerful support from the French [. . .] whose interest it will be to keep the people in ignorance [. . .] Over and above everything else, the Syrians fear that the French will try to gradually impose upon the inhabitants [. . .] the French language, customs and habits. These anti-French Syrians have an exaggerated consciousness of their nationality [. . .] not only are they convinced that France will not [. . .] create [. . .] a national spirit, a love of Syria as their country [. . .] but they believe that [. . .] the French will do everything [. . .] to cultivate a love for France [. . .] every effort will be made to substitute the French for the Arabic language.104 Outside of Greater Lebanon, Arabic and Islamic schools represented important nodes for protesting educational methods. Sites of Arabic instruction included the kutta¯b (Islamic primary schools). Here, sheikhs were allowed by the French to teach the Quran but were forced to teach several other subjects including arithmetic as well as basic hygiene.105 Like Kassab’s school in Beirut, the Protestant National College in Homs saw significant skirmishes that centred on the imposition of French instruction which led to the resignation of the director, Hanna Khabaz. French reports suggested Khabaz was stirring up trouble to cover up the fact that he was accused of financial mismanagement by the college council.106 However, other reports noted that Khabaz’s sons and other professors encouraged student boycotts of French studies in reaction to his suspension and when he finally left, he took much of the faculty with him.107 The district’s mutasarrıf (administrator) eventually intervened in encouraging the

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college’s council to appoint a new director and passing the matter on to the judicial authorities.108 In nearby Hama, an intelligence report described the headmistress of the Qalamiya (Pen) school as virulently hostile to Ismailis and French culture. The headmistress was subsequently forced out.109 The same report described two sets of schools in Homs: the private, Francophile schools and the public Arabophone ones. There was a clear line dividing such schools as the Arabic-focused Tahjiz School from the GreekOrthodox, Protestant, National and Maronite schools.110 Pressure over the teaching of Arabic was evident even in schools that were less susceptible to nationalist tendencies. Lebanon Governor Albert Trabaud noted that even the Francophone official E´cole Secondaire des Jeunes Filles in Beirut had encountered enrolment issues as a result of the lack of quranic teaching which had led Muslim parents, encouraged by ‘a campaign of religious fanaticism’, to withdraw their children.111 Al-Ra’y al-‘Am reported the case of one teacher, Muhammad Kamel Chouaib Al-‘Amili, who had given a class in Arab rhetoric at Sidon’s Greek Catholic school. According to it, he was poorly treated by the school, leading to his resignation and the withdrawal of several Muslim pupils by their parents in protest.112 The impact of the fourth estate on the challenge to Francophone mandatory methods is demonstrated in one case regarding an article that appeared in the Beiruti newspaper Al-Nahda (The Rebirth) in December ˙ 1923. Mandate intelligence services noted a deal of agitation related to the article’s discussion of the impact French schools were having on local education. Intelligence officers alleged that Al-Nahda’s article had ˙ incited several Muslim notables, such as Mohammad Chabbane, to remove their children from Christian schools. Several sheikhs in south Lebanon held an emergency council session convened by Sidon’s Sunni Mufti Sheikh Abdul Tayer. The council sent a protest to the High Commission regarding what it saw as anti-Muslim propaganda by the E´cole des Fre`res in Sidon. Such was the anger in the community that Mufti Tayer had to lie to a Sunni gathering, saying he had obtained assurances from the authorities that books criticising Islam in Christian schools would be burnt.113 The fourth estate also railed against eroding Arabic use. In July 1924 Al-Ahrar expressed its surprise when the invitation letters for a school’s ˙ prize ceremony were sent out in French rather than Arabic. In its article

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Al-Ahrar even expressed fears that the Arabic language would be lost ˙ since all government business, from the budget to authorisations given by the press service, was being done in French. It called on the administration to make Arabic the official language.114 This criticism serves as a reminder that many outside of the literate classes were unable to use Arabic, making increasing its use one of the primordial tasks facing nationalists. Throughout the early 1920s, Damascus newspapers Alif Ba¯’ (The ABC’s) and Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali’s Al-Muqtabas criticised Rida Sa‘id, the director of the Arab Medical School in Damascus for being overly flexible toward the French administration and for failing to speak Arabic.115 In December 1923, the Aleppo paper, Al-Barı¯d al-Suri (The Syrian Post) alleged that Kurdish and Turkish representatives in the Syrian Federation’s assembly had declared their desire to learn to speak in Arabic if there were a greater effort to teach Arabic through public education.116 Another nationalist theme represented in newspaper coverage is the role of Arabic as a means to prevent the erosion of local identity. Already in 1920, Al-Sha‘ab explained the feeling of distaste for foreign missionary schools that sought to ‘teach their students the love of a foreign nation, and its language and customs’.117 Al-Ahrar raised the ˙ issue in July 1924, petitioning the authorities to encourage greater governmental controls that would ‘give education a national character’.118 In October 1924, Al-Ahrar responded to an article ˙ praising the civilising role of missionary schools that had appeared in the Jesuit-run Al-Bashir, a fellow Beirut newspaper. Al-Ahrar countered ˙ that these schools were solely present in Syria to promote their own languages, and the influence of their respective countries. It decried the loss of national patriotism and the inherent help given to these goals by students attending them. The great Arab thinkers, it argued, had not gone through foreign schooling. Al-Ahrar also noted that great Arab ˙ writers had emerged from the AUB because it offered classes in Arabic while those who had learnt in European schools did not even know their own language.119 A month later, in November 1924, Al-Ahrar published a tell-all ˙ article by a teacher working in a Jesuit private school.120 The teacher wrote that the curriculum forced him to teach only French history though he had managed to sneak in elements of Syrian history. The teacher concluded by saying that the foreign schools were only interested

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in promoting their languages and values, despite costly boarding fees. An accompanying article in the same edition of Al-Ahrar argued that ˙ the foreign schools had harmed national values by dividing people and discouraging Arabic, leading the pupils to ‘look upon their country with irony and without learning to love it’.121 Lisan al-Hal also raised the issue of Arabic teaching in December 1924, noting that young people knew many languages except their own.122 The pressure from school, faculty and press protests made any attempt at replacing Arabic as the primary language unthinkable. Even in seemingly Francophile Lebanon for instance, exam programmes for the 1924–5 school year were printed in French and Arabic.123 The failure of Said ‘Aql’s neo-Phoenician language underlined the persistence of Arabic even among the most Francophile of communities.124 In 1924, in Lattakia to the north, bureaucrats were offered Arabic lessons, evidencing local government interest in promoting Arabic competency.125 Nemer Frayha’s broader history of Lebanese education notes that, following the organisation of the Lebanese Republic in 1926, Decree 4430, passed in 1929, made French and Arabic education formal equals.126

Higher and Technical Education Alongside a fight to preserve Arabic, there was constant Syro-Lebanese interest in promoting local development through higher education, in keeping with the spirit of the League of Nations’ mandate charter. French authorities sought to selectively meet this demand in order to set the groundwork for a corps of Francophile administrative clients. This situation discouraged the creation of a public secondary education system, meaning that higher learning was limited to those who entered foreign schools.127 Indeed, even when local peoples attended foreign secondary and tertiary education, French expectations of loyalty were rarely justified. Attempts at forging a loyal class proved unfruitful. This combined with frequent reproach of lacking technical education to lead to a loss of faith even among the most preferred local populations. The jewel of French higher education in the region was Beirut’s Universite´ Saint Joseph founded by Jesuits in 1875. The university taught both tertiary and secondary levels. Among the tertiary subjects were: theology, philosophy, medicine, engineering, pharmacy and law.

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The Jesuit secondary schools provided ‘classic’ and ‘special’ pathways. Classical teaching focused on ancient languages which were ‘so proper to the formation of the spirit and necessary for the serious knowledge of the French language’. Special teaching focused on the study of French and modern languages of use to the country as well as history, geography, literature, mathematics and philosophy.128 The Universite´ Saint Joseph gave a variety of grants to students. Among the 1921 grantees were: Khalil Daoud Nabkhi, Edmond Schama Fuad Beitani, Jean Techneizian, Munir Zein Eddine, Munir Farah, four Che´hab brothers (Louis, Maurice, Cesar, Emile), and Fuad and Farid Dahdah. Not all the grants were the same; the Dahdah brothers gained 200 francs while others were granted 1,000 francs.129 Munir Zein Eddine’s father was Said Zein Eddin, the attorney general in Beirut. Two of his other children were granted money to study at the Saint Joseph preparatory school.130 However, the university’s scope and capacity was limited, not least because of its emphasis on a humanities education. This left the High Commission no choice but to encourage a small number of grants for the children of elite notables to undertake training in higher and specialised education in France itself. Specialised educational grants could provide for the training of a devoted administrative corps who could fill a gap incurred by budgetary reductions. Those who were Francophones or Francophiles were the primary beneficiaries of French support, yet the orientalist aloofness of French administrators and bureaucratic mix-ups led to disorganised policy implementation. At the outset of the mandate, several Syrians and Lebanese were given political bursaries to travel to France to undertake tertiary studies. Students were not the sole recipients. In 1924, a Maronite professor at the University of Bordeaux, Tanios ‘Michel’ Feghali, who had written a famed handbook on Levantine Arabic, was granted 1,000 francs to train mandatory military and civil bureaucrats.131 As with the domestic political grants examined in the next chapter, these external grants targeted young Francophile elites. The support lent by mandate authorities clearly moulded grateful intellectual elites, as was the case with Khaled Chatila, who thanked the authorities in a preface to his book after gaining a PhD in France.132 Other selected students included Algerian-Syrian Jafar ‘Abd al-Qadir, who undertook studies in Semitic art and archaeology at the E´cole du

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Louvre and the E´cole des Hautes E´tudes in the Colle`ge de France before going on to become a museum curator as described in a previous chapter.133 Another such student was Franc ois Moussali, who was studying at the E´cole d’Electricite´ et de Me´canique Industrielle in Paris.134 Two further students, the Algerian-Syrian Emir Ali Abdelkader and notable family member Rashid Tabbarah, were considered to be worthy of gaining grants to complete their higher studies in France.135 Financial grants and the chance to become educated elites did not automatically translate into clientelist trust. French intelligence carefully monitored the students’ progress. In 1922, the High Commissioner’s delegate in Paris notified Gouraud that Moussali had failed to report to his office and had been ranked a ‘mediocre’ student by the director of the E´cole d’Electricite´.136 Rashid Tabbarah’s experiences also reveal frictions and distrust on the part of French authorities. Tabbarah was the son of the mutasarrif of the Sanjak of Alexandretta. Displaying political perspicacity, Tabbarah wrote to Gouraud in January 1924 requesting more funds to finish his studies while mentioning ‘the trust of your government in my father’.137 The level to which that trust was repaid was evidenced in the aftermath of his father’s death a few months later. In June 1924, Tabbarah was informed of the death by the High Commissioner’s delegate in Paris, and he immediately decided to return to Lebanon for the burial.138 Though the High Commissioner’s delegate in Paris was initially supportive, granting Tabbarah money for his trip, he was forced to change his view after being informed by the High Commission that Tabbarah had travelled on the Me´ssageries Maritimes on an unwarranted reduced fare reserved for French bureaucrats.139 High Commissioner Weygand insisted that his office should not pick up the bill for Tabbarah. This was despite his Paris delegate’s defence of the student, explaining that the mistake had been Me´ssageries Maritimes’ and that Tabbarah’s circumstances were exceptional.140 Another among the boursiers politique in the metropole was Antoine Salha. An intelligence note explained that Salha, who was undertaking ˙ ˙ training in agronomics at the E´cole Nationale de Montpellier, was from Tyre and the son of a French consulate dragoman and whose family were well-known Francophiles.141 The brilliant young Salha had passed all his ˙ exams with top grades. This performance convinced the intelligence

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officer writing his report that he merited further money to finish his studies.142 In support of his prote´ge´, the officer suggested that money could be secured from ‘the [Department of] Instruction Publique, the Greater Lebanon [government] and, failing these, Commandant Canonge who was in charge of the intelligence service [in Damascus]’.143 Salha repaid this faith in his studies by giving a speech ˙ at his university while the French president was visiting Montpellier. This speech earned him a congratulatory, and very telling, letter from Lebanon Governor Trabaud who thanked him for a speech which showed: The tactfulness of your sentiments and demonstrated what I have so loved among your people, among my dear Great Lebanese; the aroma of a refined soul, excepting a few Levantine-Beiruti mete`ques144 who find themselves spread everywhere in every country, the Lebanese are, as you have proven, brave people who understand and recognise the affections of France. Good luck with your studies, my dear Salha [. . .] and come back to us ˙ soon! The country has a need for her children and her good workers.145 Despite these ‘kind’ words and the intelligence officer’s backing, Salha ˙ and another bourses politiques grantee, named only as Magharbane, were unable to gain further study grants from Trabaud a year later. Trabaud refused to consider High Commission secretary Robert De Caix’s request to add them as exceptional additions which would have taken the number of Lebanon government scholarship students studying agriculture from four to six: very small numbers.146 A key element of the local state apparatus that the French were keen to build in order to reduce policing costs was the gendarmerie. Here, as in so many other areas of cultural activity, the French renovated Ottoman precedence rather than innovating. Military schooling was already established under the Ottomans and continued under the Faisalian Arab state.147 The Lebanese gendarmerie were trained at the E´cole de la Gendarmerie in Beiteddine. Among the classes were lessons in military theory as well as actual drills. French was also taught.148 In spite of these efforts, the northern Lebanon gendarmerie company recorded an 80 per cent illiteracy rate among its 232 members.149

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An outline of the running of the gendarmerie in Damascus in 1924 reiterated the core policy of Francophone indoctrination when it explained that: It is through Instruction Publique that we can have a durable influence on Syria. If French is taught, if we focus on giving Syrians a French mentality, if we mould them by making them study French books [. . .] they will remain French clients and our influence will persist, even when we will have left the country.150 A year later, a report on graduates of the Lebanese gendarmerie school offered a more guarded assessment of French attempts to forge a loyal and efficient local police corps. It noted that there were ‘among the young officers, elements that would allow the development of the gendarmerie under excellent conditions’.151 As with other spheres of cultural activity, the local press weighed in. Greek Catholic Alex Khoury’s Le Re´veil published a front-page story in February 1923 asking why no officer’s training school existed in Beirut as compared to Damascus.152 Aleppine newspaper Al-Tarikhi al-Suriye published a letter to Syrian Federation president Subhi Barakat al-Khalidi in 1923 asking for a gendarmerie and police school in either Hama or Homs, to forge a local police force.153 The same edition of Al-Tarikhi al-Suriye alleged discrimination in gendarmerie employment. It alleged that undeserving foreign officers were being appointed ahead of many local officers whose certificates were ‘proof of their courage and ability’. It named one officer who was not Syrian nor Lebanese, but from Konya, as having been promoted ahead of Ibrahim, a commander from the Jabal Sem‘a¯n near Aleppo. The newspaper alleged that another Captain, Bashir Luqa, was passed over despite his certificates.154 By the end of the period under study, a report produced in the midst of the Great Revolt outlined the lack of progress achieved in higher and technical education. It laid the blame squarely on the Syrians and Lebanese. A section of the report entitled ‘Les Difficulte´s’ pinpointed the ‘de´faut d’e´sprit te´chnique [lack of technical spirit].’ This was because: The very real intelligence of the populations has never gravitated toward technicality [la technicite´]. The vir bonus dicendi paritus has been, until now, the ideal of education in these regions [. . .]155

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The effort made since the [World] War to orient them towards these modern subjects arouse little interest [. . .] the students at the E´coles d’Arts et Me´tiers are of low standards [. . .] the E´cole des Inge´nieurs takes on students with difficulty [. . .] one could be forgiven for believing that the machine era has not yet manifested itself here. This undoubtedly temporary inaptitude does no harm to the acute sense for commerce. But the art of negotiation is not the art of creation. The regions are filled with middlemen [. . .] certainly education could gradually improve this lack of technical skill. But it will take time. In the meantime, the mandatory power must take on the role of technical counsel.156

Education and the Desire for Development The conjunction between education and development was clear to French and Syro-Lebanese alike. The introduction of new techniques and agricultures could be beneficial in dealing with Syria’s frequent food shortages while simultaneously putting into practice the rhetoric of a civilising mission.157 French attempts at spreading technical education could also provide outlets for French commerce. Yet French methods of managing technical education for development faced increasing criticism as local peoples expressed desires for material development. Training in cultural heritage management represented one means of tying local elites to French cultural claims. Soon after its conception, the Institute for Islamic Art and Archaeology in the ‘Azem Palace housed an archaeological school that recruited ‘young men from the best Damascene families; formed according to French practices [. . .] [who would become] [. . .] a precious proof of the worthiness of our intellectual culture and they will propagate it’.158 Within the same complex was a school for Arab decorative arts which got local craftsmen to teach apprentices glassworks and carpentry. This was intended to kick-start an industry that had lost its lustre of old.159 In a retrospective of the French archaeological effort after the outburst of the 1925 Revolt, Eustache De Lorey explained that the Institute housed a School of Decorative Arts which sought ‘by way of rational teaching, to return to the Damascene decorators and industrialists a sense of the traditional ancient art, perverted by European taste’.

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De Lorey added that the Institute as a whole remained ‘a centre for the projection and propaganda of French culture, whose influence in the Orient is today threatened by the activities of various nations’. The Institute would ‘diffuse among the foreign elite [from the region] a sense for our language, our literature and our arts’. Alongside this influence among ‘foreign’ (i.e., non Syro-Lebanese) visitors were the effect on local Damascene visitors whose numbers were increasing.160 In October 1925, the complex was attacked. It was subsequently shelled by French forces.161 The picture of wrecked structures surely underscored the fundamental setback of the Great Revolt for early mandatory governance. A proposal to renovate the school of sericulture in Antioch was built on a pre-existing Ottoman school that had fallen into disrepair.162 Under the Ottomans there were two Syrian agricultural schools, in the north at Muslimiyah (near Aleppo) and in the centre of the country in Al-Salamiyah (near Hama). Al-Salamiyah had enough renown to attract students from across Syria and even Palestine.163 Both schools were relaunched by the French, though the Salamiyah agricultural school only lasted until 1933.164 One institution that represented a fresh project was the Bouka Practical Agricultural School near Lattakia.165 The school was founded in 1923 as a centre for agricultural experimentation intended to encourage plant and forestry trials for local and French commercial profit.166 A technical school set up by the French E´cole des Arts et des Me´tiers167 aided budding agricultural development by helping to repair two harvesters and upgrading a Tournand-Latil tractor.168 Among the first classes taught there were those concerning sericulture and the growth of mulberry trees for the mulberry silkworm. Other classes taught students about the iron industry. The liberal newspaper L’Homme Libre expressed its hopes that this school would lead the way in encouraging the professional education of local Syro-Lebanese.169 In spite of public proclamations to the contrary, internal governmental discussions did not seek to hide the lack of enthusiasm for developing the intellectual sites that would improve Syro-Lebanese technology and business, to the detriment of French predominance. One such discussion, between the advisor for Lebanese public works and High Commission general-secretary Robert De Caix, pointed to the importance of limiting technical education. Agricultural advisor Odinot explained that the aim of educating Lebanese and Syrians in mechanical

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and technological methods was ultimately about promoting French business, especially in mechanised industry, in competition with the USA and other industrialised societies.170 In another internal discussion, the advisors for both Instruction Publique and for Travaux Publique at the High Commission were in agreement that the degree of technical education at the E´cole des Arts et des Me´tiers would be too low to encourage the development of internal industry that could challenge French imports.171 French lack of interest in technical development was publicly criticised. The Lebanese press was vocal on the subject even before the outbreak of controversy on the 1926 national curriculum proposed by the government of the post-Revolt Lebanese Republic.172 In 1924, for instance, students at the E´cole des Arts et des Me´tiers complained to the Lebanese Assembly’s president about the school’s lack of machinery, disorganisation and failure to implement its curriculum.173 A concerted public sphere protest against the methods of governing the E´cole took shape in late 1924. Al-Ra’y al-‘Am complained that Lebanon’s director for Instruction Publique had not followed up their complaints and instead sought to discipline the students.174 Al-Ummah reported that poor management had led to a number of students dropping out.175 Al-Ra’y al-‘Am called on the administration to provide more grants for needy children to attend. It added that there should be a minimum age of entry since some year groups represented a wide range of ages.176 Sada ˙ Al-Ahwal joined the chorus, asking why the school should charge S£300 a year more than the European schools’ fees, when it was not achieving results.177 Tensions at the school boiled over the following year. In February 1925, the students undertook a strike as a result of dissatisfaction with the mechanics teacher, a Mr Karmerman.178 Perhaps as a result of this early contestation, by the early 1930s, the E´cole des Arts et des Me´tiers had become the site of a burgeoning local artistry that engaged with questions of Syro-Lebanese identity and class awareness.179 French obstinacy toward the technical development of their mandated populations was also confronted with another thread of cultural activity: international intervention. The Anglo-American humanitarian presence that stretched back to the Ottoman years grew in the early years of the mandate. The Taalabaya Agricultural School, financed by the American Near East Relief foundation, also did not last.180

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So too was there an Anglo-American presence in medical education and training. Two US researchers working for the Rockefeller Fund undertook a survey of medical education in Syria and Lebanon at the end of the period under study which underlined the growth of the AngloAmerican role in this sphere. The AUB’s medical school was housed in three buildings teaching physiological chemistry, anatomy, histology, physiology, pathology and bacteriology. A hospital was attached to the school.181 Near the AUB hospital was the Asfouriyeh Hospital for the Insane. The Rockefeller report noted that the Asfouriyeh Hospital ‘exercises a tremendous educational influence [. . .] where antiquated and brutal methods of dealing with [the] mentally afflicted are still very common’.182 This also had an annexed school where an Englishman, Dr Watson Smith, taught neurology and psychiatry.183 The report also remarked that the French had maintained the AUB and Asfouriyeh Hospital’s Ottoman-era privileges including the exemption of property from werko taxation and that the mandatory authorities had shown ‘extraordinary courtesy’.184 However, the French were also able to cause difficulties by insisting that students at foreign schools complete training equivalent to their five-year programme before being allowed to sit for a government medical licence exam. Discussions in the AUB’s Senate noted that this rigorous requirement went well beyond the approvals required by the Regents of the State University of New York for the granting of medical diplomas and lamented that ‘the French authorities know little of the rules of New York State’. Similarly, the Asfouriyeh Hospital was reported to be in talks with the authorities and the University of Strasburg to send its doctors to France or other industrialised countries for training in order ‘to meet French government requirements’.185

Conclusion The curriculum for mandate schools was an arena for the determination of the socio-political understanding and conduct of future generations. The transmission of certain forms of knowledge, such as an emphasis on French and classical history could, it was hoped by French administrators, encourage lasting loyalty to France. The spreading of the French language was seen as the key medium for the encouragement of

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a docile colonial citizenry. Among Arabists, the emphasis was instead placed on encouraging the protection of Arabic as the cement of national identity. Other elites demonstrated dissent while simultaneously laying the groundwork for autonomy in cultural affairs through local government and press activity. Syro-Lebanese and French mandate stakeholders alike thus recognised the importance of educational content as an arena for shaping the future of their newly constituted post-Ottoman state(s). Mandate administrators flouted the spirit of their charter by resorting to a colonial methods playbook, with education being primarily understood as a mechanism of control.

CHAPTER 4 THE POLITICS OF PEDAGOGY

The political importance of education was recognised by the various parties involved in forging and contesting early mandatory methods. Education was an arena in which fundamental characteristics of the French-ruled Syrian and Lebanese states were being determined. From the High Commission’s point of view, the department dealing with education was not named Instruction Publique haphazardly. In everyday life, a set of common languages and cultures, instilled in youth, formed ties that bound a community across regions and, in this particular case, continents. Educational networks were therefore seen as conduits for French planners’ protectorate visions of the mandate which would be enacted through Francophone methods of instruction. However, alternative views of the mandate as a means to further the education and development of local people were also articulated through the educational insititutions.

Political Capital, Funding and Clientelism A distinct initial method of exercising political control through education was anchored in a cultural clientelism that secured access to education for the sons of politically important notables. This policy was parallel to the granting of international bursaries discussed in the previous chapter, and a continuation of the Ottoman experience. A system of bursaries directly granted by the High Commissioner thus overlapped with educational stipends paid through the department for Instruction Publique. Domestic educational funding was centralised in

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January 1920 with a specific local budget being merged with wider allocations made directly at the discretion of the High Commission.1 Though the authorities attempted to portray this as organisational progress, it was a simple shift in fiscal power away from Ottoman localism to centralised French methods. Some communal decision makers, such as the heads of the Alliance Israe´lite Universelle and Greek Catholic schools, expressed their doubts over the new policy and whether the total money granted would be reduced as a result of the streamlining of originally separate grants.2 Despite certain misgivings, the High Commission pursued this method vigorously in the first year of the mandate, when funds were being made available by Paris. Beginning in November 1920, the Orthodox Patriarch of Syria received a bursary of 110,000 francs (E£2,000) in addition to the money sent for the maintenance of Orthodox schools, the aim of the financial support offered being to combat Greek, Russian and British influence within Orthodox Christian circles.3 Particularly large payments were also made to nomadic groups as a result of the significant challenges they represented for policing the mandate’s rural interior. Nuri Shaalan, a Bedouin chief of the Rwallah tribe with a strong presence in the Damascus countryside, was paid 1.2 million francs as part of an agreement with the High Commissioner’s Damascus delegate, Georges Catroux.4 It is noteworthy that Article 11 of the contract between Shaalan and General Catroux required Shaalan to ‘establish, with the support of advisory officers, schools for Bedouin children’.5 Reports from 1924 point out that the Lyce´e des Garc
ons opened a separate section dedicated to the sons of Bedouin chiefs.6 The introduction of a unified French nomadic police, the Controˆle Be´douin, on 1 January 1925 would grant individual intelligence officers the organisational capacity to offer school places for the sons of Bedouin leaders.7 Clientelism thus encouraged a continuous (re)balancing of relations with little long-term planning. A further characteristic of clientelism was that it discouraged universally applied standards of governance in favour of particular arrangements rooted in interpersonal relationships. A case in point was the French attempt to cater to the Jabal Druze. In 1920, the influential Druze leader Salim Pasha Al-Atrash asked the authorities to send his relatives to Beirut schools at France’s expense.8 Initially, authorities refused the request citing the Al-Atrash sons’ poor command of French.

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However, the political importance of the Al-Atrash prompted a rapid reversal. Four members of the Al-Atrash clan were among the recipients of educational grants in 1921–2.9 In 1922, Fuad and Farid Al-Atrash both received money to attend the Colle`ge Franc
ais du Sacre´ Coeur (Colle`ge des Fre`res) in Beirut despite a decline in the general availability of bursaries for education, thus demonstrating the political significance of Al-Atrash’s quiescence.10 In 1923, High Commissioner Weygand informed authorities in Damascus that the Jabal Druze would offer only three bursaries and these would be granted after examinations.11 Yet all three bursaries went to Al-Atrash family members.12 The fact that the Atrash family would play a decisive role in leading the Great Syrian Revolt is testament to the limits of this style of clientelist governance. Moreover, the instability of Druze-French clientelist relations may have actually encouraged Druze dissatisfaction. Lenka Bokova suggests that French Revolutionary thought, particularly notions of social welfare, had actually impregnated the Druze rebels and this is supported by several of Sultan Al-Atrash’s petitions.13 Regardless of their motivations, it is critical to note that such groups as the Rwallah and Al-Atrash were exceptional as a result of the particularly acute challenge they represented to mandatory sovereignty. The ability to placate this group through patronage was clearly limited. An early mechanism of mandate clientelism, the aforementioned political bursaries (bourses politiques), was designed to tie favoured young elites to the mandatory power. Information cards on the parents of those who had received bursaries speak volumes of the French approach to ‘political bursaries’. Among the recipients was a Maronite, Clovis Khazen, whose father, Sheikh Philippe Khazen, had been hanged by the Ottomans as a suspected French spy.14 Others with reports were Selim and Eugenie Hayek, the children of reverend Yusuf Hayek, who had also been executed. His statement of love for France on the gallows had earned him praise in subsequent French records as proof ‘of very Francophile opinions’. The three children of Said ‘Aql, a Maronite journalist who had edited Al-Ittihad Al-‘Uthmani (Ottoman Union) newspaper and been executed for suspected Arab nationalist activity, were recipients of grants. Albert and Jeannette Balit were both children of French Dragoman Alexandre Balit, who had died in Ottoman internment.15 Yet running a Maronite school did not necessarily mean

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loyalty to French policies. Yusuf Farah’s school in Fraydiss did not teach any French to his 38 students. His mandate intelligence service report card describes him as ‘stubborn’ and ‘ignorant’ if ‘brave’. His ignorance of French, the report’s author wrote, meant he was ‘incapable of educating’ his students.16 Politically determined educational grants were dissolved in May 1921 as a result of tighter budgetary constraints imposed by the French government. Yet they were replaced with superficially merit-based grants that were intended by mandatory authorities to foster clientelist relations. The reorganisation of these new bourses d’e´xamens which were to be awarded after an evaluation of applications was undertaken in early 1922 by High Commission supremo Robert De Caix. From May 1922, all the demands for grants would now be directed to the Directorate for Instruction Publique. However, the Service de Renseignement would have membership of the juries judging applications in order to ‘nominate candidates’ of ‘political interest’. In essence these examinations remained fundamentally political while seeming impartial. In October 1923, the chief of the Levant intelligence service Michel Canonge explained the reasoning for ending the bourses politiques. These grants had been a major drain on the High Commissioner’s discretionary Fonds Spe´ciaux budget and had encouraged an unending stream of requests for funds. He added that despite their liquidation there need to be continued efforts at maintaining political ties through educational funding. Canonge further admitted that ‘the political aspect will play a big part in the examination of selections’ for educational department grants. He also accepted the need for exceptional political grants to continue. This meant that, in certain cases, money from the Fonds Spe´ciaux would need to be contributed, though he insisted that this be done ‘behind the fac
ade of the [Department for] Instruction Publique’.17 Though Canonge was seeking to maintain the possibility of clientelist political control through a veil of competitively organised educational grants, the reality of Paris’ budget cuts still fundamentally weakened these initial French mandatory methods. Indeed, budgetary austerity was the original cause of the reorganisation of political funds. In the words of Lebanon’s governor Albert Michel Trabaud, the cuts had ‘forced profound modifications to the development of existing schools and the creation of new schools’.18 A wider administrative

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reorganisation undertaken in 1923 meant that the general budget for Instruction Publique itself, including any special funds directly granted by the High Commissioner, would be amalgamated into the overall ‘ordinary’ budget allocated by Paris to the High Commission in Beirut. Any exceptional grants would now need to be approved not only by the High Commissioner but also by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Like Canonge, High Commissioner Gouraud sought to spin this as an inevitable administrative change that would allow for a regularity of expenditure after a successful reorganisation of schooling as the immediate post-World War situation had required.19 Yet despite these claims, the limits imposed by budgetary cuts on initial clientelist methods of managing education as a political tool soon manifested themselves. Several local elites were unable to renew the grants that they had originally been promised. Among them was one of local notable Negib Hatem’s sons, who had been promised a grant in January 1921.20 When a widow named Heineine Rizqallah asked for an educational grant for her son, she was refused on account of the reorganisation.21 Authorities maintained this position even after an intervention by Druze notable Emir Fuad Arslan on her behalf.22 The confusion over bursaries that is evident in the archives could not have encouraged faith in French methods of governance in the early mandate years. Local people found it difficult to understand the changes to grants. In 1924, a Lebanese student named Nader Souleyman Al-Kfouri wrote to High Commissioner Weygand asking for an educational grant. He was aware of the reorganisation of the bursaries process but claimed that since Weygand was ‘all powerful’ he could surely ‘take any decision on the matter’. Confusion evidently reigned within the Beirut bureaucracy itself. Al-Kfouri noted that his numerous preceding bursary requests to General Gouraud had been lost in the bureaucracy.23 A more significant administrative blunder meant that stipendiary students sent to France had been forgotten by the High Commission when the reorganisation of bursaries occurred in 1922. This blunder led to several Syrian students being stuck in France without funding.24 The realisation of this mistake meant that the liquidation of bourses politiques for those studying in France was delayed to January 1923, with a one-off final payment for each student, ranging from 6,000 to 9,600 francs.25

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Organisation and Local Government Intervention Despite early procedures seeking to centralise educational funding as a political tool, the Ottoman legacy of local government mechanisms represented an avenue for challenging mandatory methods. By having a say through local government structures, internal elites could subversively challenge policies and offer an alternative without explicitly rejecting French rule. The authorities’ reclutance to devolve authority to local government contravened clear League of Nations stipulations encouraging broader popular involvement in local government decision making.26 Soon after the French takeover of Syria, Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali made use of his experience in educational affairs and his position as Director of the Instruction Publique for the State of Damascus to propose organisational reforms, including re-evaluating the powers afforded to his own ministry. He suggested that instead of going solely through the state-wide ministers, some local policy decisions should be devolved to the local walis (administrators) of each governorate with the consensus of school directors.27 In the context of major financial retrenchment, the High Commission perforce relied heavily on tax revenue from individual local states. In Damascus, Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali was important in securing funds for bursary students and even accompanied them on their way to France in April 1922.28 The budget available to Kurd ‘Ali provided about 1,000 francs a month, making for a total of 7,600 francs.29 Other prominent figures were less charismatic. The Francophile Governor of Damascus Haqqi Bey Al ‘Azm was reported by newspaper Suriya Al-Jadidat (The New Syria) to have visited the St Joseph University in 1924. ‘Azm reportedly showed an interest in all parts of the University’s functioning, from the cooking upward.30 Noting his penchant for micro-management, the newspaper issued a biting call on the governor to make use of his newly evidenced management skills to support the newly created Damascus University.31 A controversy involving local government concerned the particular privileges of the Sanjak of Mount Lebanon, an Ottoman-era district incorporated into the French-created State of Greater Lebanon. The Sanjak had traditionally been excluded from any Ottoman regulation of private schools, foreign or domestic, since the 1860 French intervention.32 High Commission Order 1007 of 1921 did not clear

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up Lebanon’s status since it transposed the 1915 wartime Ottoman law, which had imposed new regulations on private school openings while leaving the Sanjak’s situation unclear. Education director for Greater Lebanon, Charles Halaby, outlined an interpretation that would apply the 1915 Ottoman regulation, which had closed the legal loophole for Mount Lebanon, to all Lebanese schools. This elicited an immediate rebuttal from his superior, Lebanon Governor Albert Trabaud, as well as High Commission general-secretary Robert De Caix, with French authorities keen to retain foreign and minority schools’ freedoms over cultural institutions outside of the Maronite-dominated Sanjak.33 Trabaud and De Caix argued that, since Arreˆte´ 1007 of 1921 had transposed Ottoman law as it stood in 1915, it would logically follow that the long-term privileges of the Sanjak of Mount Lebanon would remain unchanged. De Caix sought to justify the poorly crafted 1921 law. He argued that Order 1007 was ‘a simple clarification’ which was done in light of the requirements set out in Article 43 of the Convention of The Hague which required an occupying power to respect local laws, stating that: ‘The authority of the legitimate power having in fact passed into the hands of the occupant, the latter shall take all the measures in his power to restore, and ensure, as far as possible, public order and safety, while respecting, unless absolutely prevented, the laws in force in the country [i.e., the status quo ante bellum]’.34 In order to thereafter avoid the possibility of the Arreˆte´ being read as a confirmation of Ottoman moves to disrupt foreign and local private schools, De Caix explained that: ‘a school opened prior to the enforcement of the law of 22 Shawal 1333 [1915 Ottoman law] does not seem to have to come under the regulations outlined by this law; nothing in the text in our possession would allow us to believe that the [Ottoman] legislation was intended to have a retroactive effect’.35 He added that ‘the privileges possessed by Europeans as a result of regulatory firmans, or as a result of the [1901] Mitylene Accord do not appear to me to have been abolished’.36 De Caix was selectively interpreting the 1915 law in order to allow it to be used by the French to strictly regulate the opening of private schools in the post-1915 period while also allowing in place the various existing privileges and approvals given prior to 1915. This ultimately suggests that the decision to base the 1921 French law on the 1915 Ottoman one was done in order to allow the French to reduce the potential for new local Syro-Lebanese or

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foreign missionary schools while maintaining a French-dominated status quo ante bellum.37 In the same month, December 1921, the governor of Greater Lebanon recommended to the High Commissioner that the Mission Laique be granted approval to create a school in Beirut on the grounds of the Mytilene Accord between France and the Ottomans.38 Another local bureaucrat, the administrative advisor for the Sanjak of Mount Lebanon, agreed with the French authorities given that it was his region’s privileges that were being reviewed. Despite this range of voices seeking to maintain the Sanjak’s privileges, Charles Halaby reiterated his belief that the Sanjak should not benefit from a continued exemption. Halaby argued that since these privileges were rooted in diplomatic agreements that had been dissolved by the Ottomans in 1915, they could no longer be legally valid. As Halaby read it, the 1915 and 1921 regulations had to be applied throughout Syria and Lebanon, with no preferential treatment for the Sanjak.39 This local government official’s insistence on applying blanket regulations throughout the mandate territories ultimately reached the High Commission. In June 1924, High Commissioner General Weygand announced new secondary legislation, Order 2679, which expressly stated that ‘no private establishment will be able to open without adhering to the conditions set out in the present order’.40 Statutory Order 2679 also revised the transposed Ottoman regulations represented in Order 1007 by introducing a new clause that required the directors of a proposed new private school to deposit a ‘certificate of good reputation [bonne vie ] and morals delivered by the local authorities if it concerns a Lebanese or Syrian, [and] by the relevant Consul, if it concerns a person of foreign nationality’.41 This represented a significant extenson of official powers to regulate the opening of new schools. The Ottoman Regulation of 1915 had instead required only foreigners to provide a certificate of good character from their consuls; Syrians seeking to establish schools were only required to provide a birth certificate. Inevitably, getting a good reference from a consul as a member of a compatriotic foreign missionary organisation was much easier than getting such approval from suspicious French authorities. This was demonstrated in 1924 when two schools in the qada¯ʾ of ˙ Metn were shut down by authorities. One was a boys’ school at Btekhnay run by Sheikh Fayez Abi Hassan and the other a girls’ school at Bzebdine

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run by Emily Farah.42 Another Mount Lebanon school that shut down in the wake of the new regulations was Farah Khoury’s school at Brummana which was judged by the High Commissioner’s delegate to the governor of Lebanon to be ‘of little importance’ despite the fact that it had existed since the beginning of the twentieth century.43 Yet another school that was shut down using Order 2679 powers was that run by Risha Aoun in Bqaq Ed-Dine in the qada¯ʾ of Keserwan. However, the action had ˙ elicited a protest and petitions from local inhabitants to the mutassarıf of the Mount Lebanon Sanjak. This pressure led to a French inquiry which confirmed, thanks to the Maronite Bishop Monsignor Mourad’s testimony, that the school had been set up half-a-century prior to French occupation. Faced with this disapproval, Albert Trabaud’s replacement as governor of Lebanon, General Vandenberg, recommended that the school be reopened. He used the previously discussed legal loophole for the Sanjak of Mount Lebanon to justify a reversal of French regulations.44 Three years after initial incongruities regarding a loophole for the Mount Lebanon Sanjak had emerged, dissent now erupted over attempts to implement blanket regulations. Governor Vanderberg was contradicted by his own advisor and director for Instruction Publique. The advisor admitted the Mount Lebanon’s mutassarıf’s information leading to the closure of Risha Aoun’s school had been ‘very superficial’. Both local government bureaucrats nevertheless noted that a defence of the school on the basis of the Mount Lebanon Ottoman-era privileges had been superseded by Orders 1007 (1921) and 2679 (1924) which had applied a blanket regulation over all territories of the mandate.45 These debates all demonstrated the significant confusion over – and contestation of – mandatory methods during the early years within a renovated Ottoman local government apparatus. In particular, the difficulty of relying on a principle of clientelist protection for favoured ‘compact’ minorities such as the Maronites in the framework of mandate methods that required local government approval was becoming evident. This confusion was unsurprisingly picked up on by the public sphere. Newspaper Al-Ummah pushed for a more clearly defined division of labour between the local Lebanese government and the High Commission. It was surprised that the High Commission was giving authorisations for schools to open when this should be up to the Director

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of Instruction Publique. It also reproached the directorate for using French instead of Arabic in its day-to-day work.46

Women’s Education The efflorescence of educational activity geared toward political change provided an important avenue for women’s educational participation. International women’s activisim had increased markedly in the postWorld War I years, with the International Alliance of Women coordinating meetings between European and Egyptian activists in the 1920s.47 Domestically, a women’s movement in Lebanon appeared over the course of the late nineteenth century, encouraged particularly by the foundation of girls’ schools by the maqa¯sid (improvement) and Zahrat al˙ Ihsa¯n (flowers of charity) local associations.48 Denounced as firebrands, women such as Nour Hamade, the Druze director of the Society for Veiled Women, and Julia Tu‘ma Dimashqiyya, owner of the newspaper Al-Mar’at al-Jadida (‘The New Woman’), emerged as influential lobbyists in Damascene parliamentary politics, if a 1927 French report is to be believed.49 Dimashqiyya certainly enjoyed connections with other prominent educational leaders. She is documented as having supported Mary Kassab, who had founded the nationalist (wataniyya) Al-Ahliyya girls’ school in the hope of fashioning elite ˙ Lebanese girls into the ‘best brides’. Dimashqiyya also hosted a tea party in which future Lebanese Minister of Education Jubran Tuaini praised Kassab’s school for fighting the influence of foreign (ajnabiyya) schools.50 The proximity of education, press and international circles was documented by French intelligence. In 1921, Hajia Bellama, owner of the Al-Fajr (The Dawn) newspaper, for example, was an alumnus of Antoura College. A circle formed around her included other prominent women including her sister Asmaa, Marie Yasni and some men such as Georges Bau. Though the paper did not circulate widely, its readership included Damascenes living in Beirut and some internationally based Syro-Lebanese in America.51 In 1927, a report noted various Syro-Lebanese women’s roles. It claimed Syrian women had gained from the experience of their Egyptian counterparts and made use of international clubs such as the Young Women’s Christian Association. Among the women it named as being Anglo-Saxon propagandists was Hala Maalouf, owner of the E´cole Supe´rieure Nationale.52

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Another suspected woman activist was Salma Sayeg, a GreekOrthodox teacher at the Mission Laique who aided Gabriel Tueini in publishing Beiruti paper Al-Ahrar.53 Yet another was Lydia Achcar, a ˙ teacher at Mary Kassab’s nationalist school, whose brother Georges was employed at the American printing press and belonged to a masonic lodge.54 The report outlined ten women, including some of the above, as ‘suspect’ teachers in official schools.55 Selma Nasser, director of the ‘Ain Al-Mraisseh School in East Beirut, received particular attention from the French intelligence services. Described as dishonest and intriguing, her surveillance report card referred to her alleged antiFrench activities, which included renting out rooms to French soldiers in the hope of extracting intelligence on French troop movements in the Jabal Druze during the Great Syrian Revolt.56

Networks of Dissenting Education Not every informal network was antithetical to French interests. This was the case with the development of the pre-existing freemasonry network founded in the late Ottoman period.57 Some freemason guilds aligned to the mandate authorities’ interests. These organisations pulled bureaucrats together into a tight network – the clearest example being that of the guild at Qassioun. Yet the use of such networks for organising underground dissent against the mandate was also a possibility.58 Thus the indefatigable Dr ‘Abd Al-Rahman Shahbandar allied himself with Damascene elites to create an entirely new lodge named Nur Dimashq (Light of Damascus). Among the notables inducted into this organisation were Algerian Syrians Taher and Khairi Al-Jazairi, Greek Orthodox dentist Wadih ˙ Banna and the key figure of Fares al-Khoury, who would go on to become Prime Minister and United Nations diplomat of an independent Syria. The Jazairis were following in the footsteps of their Algerian forerunner, the exiled revolutionary Sheikh ‘Abd Al-Qadir, who had briefly joined the masons in his own era.59 Local Arabist elites, held together by the centripetal figure of Dr Shahbandar, thus made use of educational networks, whether through mature cultural institutions such as Islamic schools or nascent informal mason’s lodges, to promote dissent as well as to begin defining the constellation of historic, linguistic and cultural visions that would bind a future Syria.

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One school that emerged as a centrepiece of the fight for an Arabicbased national identity was the Ottoman Imperial Medical School in Damascus, a mature institution which had become the Arab Medical School under Faisal. As Robert Ian Blecher has noted, this site of local Damascene’s claims of culture and progress was immediately viewed suspiciously by High Commissioner Gouraud. French authorities used the inspections regime discussed in the previous chapter to attempt to neuter the school.60 In response, the school sought to situate itself as a science-oriented, and therefore neutral, enterprise. In 1922, its director Rida Sa‘id told the High Commissioner’s representative in Damascus that the faculty aspired ‘only to science and stands aside from all political currents’.61 According to Blecher, the school muted Arab nationalist activities in the 1920s, drawing the ire of more vociferous nationalists in the Damascene press. Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali’s Arab Academy in Damascus represented a more vocal node in the informal educational network, one that sought to both maintain and improve knowledge of Arabic while avoiding French mandatory controls on formal education. In summer 1921, the Academy held teacher training conferences that brought together local Damascene sheikhs as Islamic teachers.62 In 1923, the Arab Academy’s makeshift museum, mentioned in a previous chapter, was discussed in the press because a locally crafted golden decoration, intended for King Faisal before his expulsion in 1920, had been stolen.63 The Academy could thus play a role as a physical space within Damascus that facilitated the exchange and accumulation of Arabist ideas without French influence. Thus the Egyptian scholar Ahmad Zaki Pasha and famed poet Ahmad Shawqi gave talks at the Academy in August 1925 alongside significant Syrian figures such as Khalil Mardam Bey.64 In another instance Palestinian literary grandee ‘Adil Zuwaiter, who had represented his native Nablus in the General Syrian Congress in Faisalian Damascus and later went to study at the University of Paris, was elected a member of Kurd ‘Ali’s Arab Academy during the French period.65 Such networks had evident political implications which were recognised in local French surveillance reports. In late 1924, a report pointed out the growth of an intellectual movement under the influence of ‘young’ Arabs with the Arab Academy pinpointed as their centre of gravity.66 One report in June 1925 explained how a seemingly innocuous literary circle at the

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Muslim secondary school in Beirut witnessed the recitation of ‘violent’ poetry, including a verse which attacked the mandate.67 Intellectuals such as Dr Shahbandar became central dissenting sociopolitical Damascene elites. In fact, Shahbandar was not the sole leader of these notable dissenters, although he was described by some of his partisans as the Syrian Sa‘ad Zaghlu¯l.68 There was a constellation of key figures, coalescing around Shahbandar or Fares Al-Khoury, who were united in their opposition to the French mandate. Continuing protest throughout the formative mandate years met increasing French repression. By 1925, Shahbandar was recruiting disaffected students into his Hizb Al-Sha‘ab (People’s Party) to demonstrate in Damascus – often to be met with ever more violent police responses.69 Shahbandar himself visited an arrested student in the city.70 Unity in anti-imperialist efforts did not necessarily translate into ideological uniformity. Even in these early stages of nation formation there were distinct opinions of the role of leaders and their constituents, far from any agreement on a defined Syrian nation. Some nationalists were talking of ‘preparing the masses’, as one member at a meeting of the People’s Party in August 1925 put it.71 In the same meeting however, People’s Party member Said Haidar pointed out the importance of education among the mass population as a means ‘to form public opinion’ in what he seems to have envisioned as a hierarchically managed process. He expressed doubts about whether an impact on public opinion could be made on the Syrian people to the extent it had in industrialised societies such as France and England.72 The nascent scouting network represented another site of informal education which worked parallel to the formal educational edifice. Scouting activities were interrupted by World War I and were resurrected at the outset of the 1920s.73 Although Jennifer Dueck’s study provided a comprehensive account of scouting in the later mandate period, it should be noted that scouting activity was already an important political space from the earliest years.74 Though it was a Western import, scouting did not automatically submit itself to the needs of French claims of culture.75 Jennifer Dueck has noted the existence of Muslim scouting groups in Ottoman and mandate Beirut and Damascus. This included the scouts based in Muslim schools supported by the maqa¯sid Islamic charity being inspired by Islamic ˙ reformist thinkers such as Muhammad ‘Abduh.76 ˙

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In 1925 scouts in Homs hosted a party at which reportedly ‘Francophobic’ sentiments were expressed. A further reception at the Dar Al-‘Ulm (House Of Knowledge) school in Beirut witnessed anti-French speeches delivered by middle-class professionals such as Saleh Koumbaz, a doctor from Hama. The director of the Dar Al-‘Ulm stated that scouting would forge a national army that could ‘reverse the impetuous flow that ceaselessly unloads itself from Europe to the Orient’. In the same year, at a students’ meeting at the National Club in Beirut, a boy scouts’ leader, Muhi Al-Din Al-Nsuli, discussed the organisation of Syrian unity.77 He added that the current educational system encouraged the youths to adopt foreign customs.78 Contrary to orientalist depictions of a culturally stagnant LebaneseSyrian society, these early mandate years witnessed significant popular participation and the reception of new ideas by various strata of local society through different networks and affiliations. This included evident association of Syrians and Lebanese regardless of creed and cultural affiliation. The list of visitors to school-aged protesters lying in hospital provides an interesting picture of the diversity of the sympathisers of pupils’ dissent. Among them are listed Badr al-Din Safadi, an organiser of the 1921 Beirut Tramway boycotts, Abdulmajid Tabbakh, treasurer of the People’s Party, Hassan Helwani, a Jewish restaurateur who had been exiled, and Sheikh Yahia Zeneika, an advisor to prominent Sunni Sheikh Badr al-Din al-Husseini.79 Figures such as Rafik Al-Fattal, a member of Tripoli’s Socie´te´ de Bienfaisance Musulmane and previously director of Beirut’s Sultaniyah School, were monitored for creating networks. French intelligence noted Al-Fattal had been in contact with a professor of law at Damascus University, Osman Sultan, to coax him into participating in the 1925 elections announced by High Commissioner Sarrail.80 Students of the Maktab Al-‘Anbar school took an active role in politics during the mandate. Alongside older students at the Damascus Faculty of Law and the Dar Mu’allimat school, they took part in the 1921 ‘Eid al-Adha strikes as well as those occuring during Lord ˙ Balfour’s visit to Damascus in 1925.81 By the time preceding the outbreak of the 1925 Great Syrian Revolt, the Service des Renseignements reported an efflorescence of political tracts among students. One picked up in February 1925 expressed the unity of the ‘ulema, notables, merchants and youth of Damascus’ in protest at the

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Spanish repression of the Rif uprising in North Morocco.82 In April 1925 Tewfik Ajam Og˘lou, a law student at the Universal School in Damascus, slapped the Damascus deputy Habib Kahale´ in the middle of a political meeting. After being arrested Og˘lou shouted out that Kahale´ had been ‘cheating the nation’.83 In May 1925, the Hama-based literary Club des Belles Lettres featured repeatedly in French intelligence reports, which described it as being poorly attended, although those who did show up included artisans and small merchants.84 At the students’ National Club meeting in August 1925, the Syrian Union party’s president, Ahmad Kassab, gave a pan-Syrianist speech.85 The Syrian Union ‘tended toward fighting, by every method available, France’s influence in Syria’.86 The outbreak of the Great Syrian Revolt did not put an end to the network of informal educational activity spreading anti-imperial literature. French authorities intercepted Communist pamphlets being sent from various railway stations in France, such as that of Avignon, to the addresses of directors and teachers in Syrian schools. After being questioned by the French authorities, these professionals denied having any links to the senders.87 In another case, ‘seditious’ tracts were posted on street walls in Homs. This led to a police inquiry, with suspicions immediately falling on the sons of Taqi Al-Atassi.88 Both sons were brought to the police station and made to write out a version of the tract. One of them, Murad Al-Attasi, was found to have very similar handwriting. Murad, who was a 25-year-old law student at the Faculty of Law of Damascus, denied participating in the political action. Murad claimed he had an alibi, as a result of having spent the evening in the company of his uncle. Taki’s other 18-year-old son, ‘Abd al-Haj Al-Attasi, who was studying at the agricultural school at Al-Salamiyah that was intended to promote mise en valeur of the country through Francophile elites, initially refuted any participation in pro-Revolt propaganda, though he later made an admission. Another interrogated student was 15-year-old Riad Al-Attasi, at the time studying at the Homs Preparatory school. His fellow student at the Homs school, ‘Abd-al-Muhaymin, was also interviewed, despite being only 12 years old. Other students interviewed were 17-year-old Nadhim Al-Moussali, 14-year-old Burhan Al-Atassi and ‘Abd al-Razzaq Khankan, another 17-year-old. Ultimately, an intelligence report found

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nearly every one of these students guilty of having conspired to spread revolutionary communist tracts. Those aged 18 and over, including ‘Abd al-Haj Al-Attasi, were prosecuted while the others were freed on account of their young age ‘and the lack of proof of their guilt’. This was a demonstration of the collective punishment of suspected subversives, a practice that had been established early on in the mandate, although it was apparently now deemed necessary to prosecute not just major Arab nationalists such as ‘Abd Al-Rahman Shahbandar, but even teenage school students.

Instrumentalising International Networks The very presence of external sources of education and educational organising was fundamental to the contestation of early mandatory methods. The mature educational networks established by Europeans and Americans over the nineteenth century offered an alternative to the limited avenue of French clientelist methods. This was supplemented by the presence of the League of Nations which provided a further political, if not legal, platform for the expression of anti-imperialist sentiments through the networks of mahjar (e´migre´) Syro-Lebanese networks. Societies based in Europe, such as the Society of Arab Students in Berlin, were evidently politicised cultural associations. The society sent letters to the League of Nations demanding an envoy who would take Syrian demands into account as well as denouncing the inhumane butchery occurring in the country.89 The society distributed pamphlets concerning French crimes to university professors, high schools, student associations and other young people.90 Among the Syrian students studying in Berlin were the two sons of Sheikh Ridha Rifai Al-Halabi. Al-Halabi was described by French ˙ ˙ intelligence as being ‘Francophobic’ and one of the organisers of the Syrian Union political opposition party to the French mandate.91 By January 1926, at the end of the period under review, the special police commissioner in Annemasse recorded that the universities in Geneva and Lausanne had become fertile ground for nationalist ‘propaganda’ and were being visited by prominent figures within the anti-imperial opposition such as Shakib Arslan.92 The same report noted a divide between ‘oriental’ students in French universities from Francophile families as opposed to students in Switzerland. It added that

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‘the majority of oriental students in Geneva and Lausanne, are destined to become [. . .] the rank and file of parties in opposition to French influence’.93 In Latin America, politics and pedagogy made for less overt bedfellows. For example, the Syro-Lebanese Association in Bahia, Brazil, had a library providing its members a space for learning.94 The proximity of certain mahjar educational institutions with the mandatory power was evident in some cases. In 1921, the French consul at Bahia advised against the building of a mahjar school in his city that would follow the example of one founded by Charles Khoury at Pernambuco because this might encourage competition with an existing Frenchlanguage school run by Catholic sisters.95 In 1922, the Rector of the University of Paris sent a cable addressed to the President of Argentina via the Argentine ambassador in Paris. In it he asked for help to be given to the Syrian Orthodox notables touring Argentina headed by Father Michel Khalu¯f.96 The propagation of Francophonie among the South American mahjar was attractive to all parties, including Khalu¯f. Thus, prior to visiting Buenos Aires, Khalu¯f wrote to the Paris University Rector explaining that: My participation in French circles [. . .] and my conviction that our Syrian schools [. . .] be called to the service of France [. . .] all this has encouraged me to address you [. . .] so you may provide your support in my mission [. . .] I am sure that a school flying the Tricolore along the rivers of Phoenicia will do more here [in Lebanon] than the Crusades could have.97 The North American mahjar was decidedly less Francophile. A Syrian Educational Society was founded in New York in 1916, with the logo showing the Baalbek ruins with the sun above them. Its tag was ‘the hope of our nation lies in its youth, and the future of the youth is in education’. According to a pamphlet put out by the Boston chapter in 1928, it was founded by young men, ‘mostly the graduates of colleges in Syria and in this country’. Its aim was: To help young Syrian men and women who aspire to higher education [. . .] but who have not the means [. . .] to urge upon Syrians the need of higher education [. . .] third: to help solve the

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social problem in this country by increasing the number of educated Syrians who will take an interest in the institutions of the United States [. . .] as well as spreading the wholesome American ideals among the Syrians, both here and in Syria.98 The preponderance of US influence on certain Lebano-Syrian intellectuals is made evident when Phillip Hitti’s case is considered. The outstanding Arab historian of his generation alongside Georges Antonius, Hitti was instrumental in organising Syrian e´migre´ youth into a tangible cultural force. Indeed, Hitti wrote the first scholarly study of Syrians in America – beginning it with an emphasis on the need to distinguish Syrians from Arabs and Turks.99 Hitti did not hide his hostility to the mandate regime and its intellectual purveyors. This was made evident in a review he penned of the influential Belgian orientalist Father Henri Lammens’ history of Syria. Setting Lammens’ history in the context of a range of other histories including those written in Arabic, such as that of Fares Al-Shidyak, Hitti pointed to the bias of Lammens’ work. This was readily evident in Lammens’ preface which had praised the High Commissioner Gouraud and explicitly

Figure 4.1 American University of Beirut (AUB), College Hall c.1920. Available online: https://www.loc.gov/item/mpc2004002168/PP/.

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stated that the work was intended to provide material for a mandate administrators’ training college.100 Within the Levant itself, US citizens were establishing educational sites that naturally provided alternative visions of the Levant’s future than those offered by Francophile missionary and local Catholic schools. The American University of Beirut (AUB) was of central importance in shaping nineteenth-century Syro-Lebanese elite opinion unimpressed with French methods. This certainly continued in the mandate era. In 1920, an AUB student made a vitriolic speech in front of General Gouraud, for which he was expelled though later readmitted. This student, aforementioned scout leader Muhi Al-Din Al-Nsuli, was later reported by a French informant to be participating in the Club for the Syrian Union, a political group seeking Syrian unity.101 A 1924 intelligence report described the existence of Al-Rabita Al-‘Assad Al-‘Arabiyya (Association of the Arab Lion) among the AUB student body whose aims were to ‘propagate and defend the Arab language’ and ‘diffuse the patriotic spirit and oriental solidarity among all students’.102 Though such a society may have been overtly literary, it certainly engaged in political activity. When AUB Professor Boulos Kholi became honorary president of the aforementioned Association of the Arab Lion, he received a congratulatory letter from Shahbandar, who expressed his confidence in the ‘great influence [of the Association], not only among its students but [. . .] [over] numerous Arabs as far as the [Persian] Gulf’. Shahbandar also wrote that: ‘If the AUB’s influence continues to grow and expand, all of its alumni will not miss the opportunity to rise up and liberate themselves in ten years’ time with the aid of the U.S.’103 Local newspaper Al-Lisan al-Hal praised the AUB as a ‘brilliant home’ which had ‘inundated the countries of the Orient with its light’.104 Within the AUB’s walls, one group of students was fighting to keep Sultan Abdulmecid II as Caliph while the Arab Committee in the same institution sought to promote Sharif Hussein to the post.105 French intelligence was in direct contact with Anis Al-Khuri Al-Makdisi, a professor of Arabic literature at the AUB who had been educated at the Tripoli Boys’ School and was reputedly a friend of ‘Abdulaziz Ibn Saud.106 Intelligence case officers monitored Al-Makdisi and determined that his activities in Iraq in the cause of pan-Arabism made him

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‘a political agent whose propaganda seeks only to impede’ French power in Syria.107 In 1925, French intelligence reported that that nearly $150,000 had been raised by AUB alumni stretching from Istanbul, through Cairo to Brazil and America.108 AUB alumni, propped up by a liberal education that opened up a world of opportunities, often formed the upper crust of local society. The guest list of an alumni meeting in Aleppo reads like a Who’s Who of key local figures from doctors to dragomans.109 Even at this early stage, US educational institutions were creating connected constituents parallel to Francophone elites, as Jennifer Dueck notes was the case in the later mandate.110 The AUB, if French intelligence reports are to be believed, sent student ‘propagandists’ to America to rejoin Shahbandar and Charles Richard Crane.111 The same report quoted AUB Rector Bayard Dodge praising efforts to unite Lebanese and Syrian e´migre´s in the Americas and encouraging the same be done with Iraqis.112 ‘The American University in Beirut pursues with perseverance its task of fusing the Arab world’, as one intelligence report put it.113 ‘Abd Al-Rahman Shahbandar agreed, stating that the university’s influence even extended to the Arabian Peninsula.114 The AUB would send members of its staff such as Lahoud Shehade to inner Syrian cities such as Hama tasked with outreach and a search for alumni donations.115 In these early years, another AUB professor, Anis Al-Maqdissi, was sent to Baghdad to examine the possible creation of an AUB affiliate.116 By 1927, the AUB had nearly 130 Iraqi students within its campus, including the sons of Noury Pasha Said and Yasin al-Hashimi.117 In that same year, as the Great Syrian Revolt was subsiding, a French report described the American University of Beirut as the pre-eminent site for intrigues against French rule.118

Conclusion Educational institutions were inherently political domains that expressed the various aims of each local and international stakeholder. Mandatory authorities wished to instrumentalise education towards their vision of a protectorate-style mandate. This would be done through a management of the various communities by refurbishing Ottoman clientelism, though politically determined educational bursaries

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brought students to Beirut and Paris instead of Istanbul. Yet local government structures and the principle of mandatory tutelage afforded a degree of manoeuverability to local elites. This combined with expectations of national, local and women’s education, leading to consistent and widespread challenges to mandatory methods. Challenges even came from favoured communities such as the Maronites who, though they always sought to maximise their interests, did not always align with French governance. A historical characteristic of the SyroLebanese situation was the exchange of ideas and politics on an international scale. The existence of mature mahjar and international educational institutions further allowed the outlining of alternative visions of education, and thereby of political organisation.

CHAPTER 5 SURVEILLANCE, SUBSIDIES AND CENSORSHIP:THE DOMESTIC ARABIC PRESS

The domestic and international press represents a further cultural institution in which French rhetoric concerning the meaning of their mandate conflicted with public criticism of cruder methods of control. One such method was the censoring of newspapers that did not align to French interests. Yet in these early years, seemingly Francophile newspapers were also rigorously supervised. Allegiances to the mandate project shifted over time even among those newspapers expected to be ‘Francophile’, a tendency apparent in the application of press censorship laws. Alongside continuous contestation from Syro-Lebanese newspapers opposed, at the very least, to the method of the mandate, a broader trend over the first five years of France’s rule was the loss of confidence in French goodwill among seemingly natural clients, such as the Christianowned press. A variety of social demands channelled through the domestic Arab press put pressure on the mandate authorities and on the manifold ways in which those same authorities attempted to comprehend, contain and control the cultural institutions they encountered. In particular, and as with previous chapters, this cross-sectional analysis of mandatory methods of cultural control exposes the colonial mentalities at the heart of the administration. In the case of the press, it is fascinating to note the choice of words that continuously reappears in reports. Newspaper owners could be ‘Francophobic’ or ‘Francophile’, categories that were

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assigned in the first instance on the basis of language use and cultural background. If an article criticised the idea of a mandate, or the French use of violence, the orientalist colonial logic flipped reality on its head. It was the article that was ‘violent’ and not the colonial violence it decried. Journalists decrying French methods in less ‘violent’ ways, for instance asking why French bureaucrats seemed to be favoured over locals, were being ‘xenophobic’ toward an administrative class that had just landed in their country. Ultimately, the study of the press at this broad crosssectional level provides insight into the attempts of the early mandatory administration to control cultural expression and shape public discussion of French interests, a mission that can be judged to have largely failed as the outbreak of the Great Syrian Revolt erupted in 1925.

Open Source Intelligence: The Service de la Presse In its early overview of the Syrian and Lebanese press the Service de la Presse, an open source intelligence office housed in the High Commission, outlined the key role of Beirut as a centre of Arab media, explaning that: Of the Syrian and Lebanese press, it is that of Beirut which is incontestably the most important, as much because of the number of periodicals which are published [. . .] as because of the influence she bears on the interior of the country and abroad, especially in the important Syrian colonies of the Americas [. . .] one could even say that there is, here, a constant state of near fever-like love of journalism [. . .] the Lebanese want to be journalists in the same way they approach being bureaucrats and merchants. More than fifty demands for publishing [. . .] were made to the High Commission since 1919.1 A note in one report explained the process of open source intelligence gathering by these press services. It noted that: ‘The information given below is destined to orient the research of intelligence officers. They must be interpreted with care while awaiting confirmation [of the facts]’.2 Mandate administrators thus made great efforts to acquire inside knowledge of local peoples’ intentions and positions, despite the

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possibility of misinterpretations or cognitive biases. For instance, attempts at the political organisation of the mandate were judged to be dependent on co-opting local elites and the ‘opinion shapers’. A surveillance report from 1923 made clear the importance of using newspapers to target Syro-Lebanese public opinion and betrayed orientalist views that perceived static Islamic societies. There is a need to know what the current public opinion [. . .] is. First of all, the expression ‘public opinion’ [. . .] must be understood in Syria, or at least in Damascus, in a particular sense. It signifies precisely the opinion of the section of society that is interested in politics [. . .] it refers to educated individuals or those [. . .] among the ‘notables’, though this attribute need not always mean that they are learned. This section of society, a tiny proportion of the total [. . .] is what [. . .] constitutes ‘public opinion’. The rest of society, the huge majority [. . .] must be termed the masses [la foule] [. . .] that is to say the herd without knowledge nor aspirations other than of their material egoism [. . .] from a political point of view this mass[’s] [. . .] degree of mobilisation [e´chauffement] [. . .] will only be the result of pressure or encouragement exercised upon it by the section forming ‘public opinion’.3 Intelligence report cards on leading political figures, who formed this public opinion class, often noted the newspapers that they read.4 Another indication of the authorities’ interest in the public opinion class was the fact that they used them for their own information gathering. For instance, an unnamed Aleppine journalist sent a letter to the chief of the Levant Army’s military intelligence (Deuxie`me Bureau) which began with ‘given my work as a journalist, I am honoured to communicate this intelligence which has recently reached me’. The source was given a mark of 7 out of 10 for feeding the intelligence service with information on the political opinions in various towns in Aleppo State.5 The ‘public opinion’-forming classes recognised France’s clientelist reliance on them, allowing them to pressure the authorities with their various, often overlapping, demands. Philip S. Khoury draws on a conversation with Farid Zayn Al-Din, a nationalist leader and member of the Majlis Al-Shiyu¯k (Sheykhs’ Council), explaining that newspapers

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were read communally in the dı¯wa¯ns, local councils, where notable urban families met and which, he claims, ‘contributed far more than newspapers’ because they acted as ‘great storehouses’ of ‘fresher and more confidential information’.6 Yet an examination of newspaper activity monitoring reveals that mandate administrators and public opinion shapers each recognised the fourth estate as a fundamental tool for contesting and shaping the meaning of the mandate.

A Cantankerous and Informed Press An active Lebanese press, and concurrent Ottoman censorship, emerged in the late nineteenth century. The region’s private press had first emerged in Beirut, under the aegis of US Consulate dragoman Butrus Al-Bustani, his son, Salim and other key figures.7 Minorities were active in creating and promoting the Ottoman fourth estate. In fact, the first Arabic language press in the Empire had been set up by Metropolitan Bishop Athanasios Dabbas in Aleppo in 1706.8 US Presbyterians William Goodell and Isaac Bird set up an Arabic press in Beirut in 1823.9 Julia Cohen gives the example of the Jewish Ladino newspaper El Tiempo in Istanbul at the turn of the nineteenth century and its participation in the 1892 Chicago World Fair.10 Ladino newspapers were also published in Jerusalem, for instance El Liberal.11 It was Beirut, though, that became the centre of the Ottoman press, although the prominence of the city’s newspapers led to increasing censorship. This, in turn, encouraged the southward late nineteenth-century emigration of journalists to the Egyptian metropolises of Alexandria and Cairo.12 Ottoman censorship was applied with increasing vigour from 1878 onwards, as the Hamidian regime sought to tighten its controls over the nascent nationalism, which was finding its voice in the press.13 Though the 1908 Turkish nationalist coup reinstated a constitution, freedom of the press did not last.14 The outbreak of the World War witnessed strict censorship. Such was the rigidity of the censorship that one scholar suggests that its irrationality actually encouraged speculation in the Arabic press, thus harming Istanbul’s propaganda, and ultimately World War I, efforts.15 In the years after the Ottoman collapse and prior to the beginning of the mandate, the press achieved renewed prominence as Syria ‘proper’ saw an efflorescence of mass politics which was bound together by press

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Figure 5.1 Beirut from the air c.1925. Available online: http://catalogue. bnf.fr/ark:/12148/cb403670765.

and pamphlet activity. However, with France occupying the Lebanese coast, the press became increasingly divided between pro- and antiFrench factions. For instance, one journalist from east Lebanon who claimed to represent the ‘hommes de lettres’ in the region protested against the Damascus Syrian Congress’ 8 March 1920 decree, declaring Syrian independence.16 In Damascus, the Faisalian government was reputedly paying subsidies to various notables and newspapers within Frenchoccupied Lebanon in 1919. Al-Balagh and Al-Haqiqat received E£60 a month while the Journal de Beyrouth and Al-Iqbal received a smaller subsidy.17 In a sign of the leverage that such subsidies could provide for Faisal’s government, Al-Balagh and Al-Haqiqat were reported by French intelligence to have engaged in a ‘violent polemic’ against the Ottoman Caliphate, which stopped after the Faisalian delegation in Beirut intervened.18 The nature of military rule during this post-Ottoman interregnum meant that French authorities were able to exercise a degree of control over press activity. In the British- and French-held Mediterranean coastline military censorship was generally imposed from the outset.19 Similarly, when General Mariano Goybet victoriously entered Damascus in July 1920, he convened a meeting of the city’s journalists to provide them with an officially sanctioned account of events leading up to the

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Battle of Maysalu¯n on 14 July and outlined the communique´ he expected them to publish. The journalists were also warned that military censorship would apply. They were informed that any ‘violent attack against France or all false publication representing an act of anti-French propaganda, would lead to the suspension of the newspaper’.20 High Commissioner Henri Gouraud confidently told his subordinate Goybet that the removal of Hashemite Faisalian subventions to the city’s newspapers would be enough to put most newspapers in the red, thus crushing the efflorescence of mass political exchanges. Gouraud expressed his hopes of maintaining a few that represented elite constituencies in the city, undoubtedly as a means of gaining local intermediaries for public opinion shaping, as was outlined by the Service de la Presse in its 1921 mission statement. High Commissioner Gouraud recommended that Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali be approached to resurrect his newspaper, Al-Muqtabas, though the Arab nationalist figure would be expected to adopt a more Francophile tone. He further suggested that a similar agreement could be reached with the editors of Fatat ‘Al-Arab (Arab Youth) and Suriya Al-Jadidat (The New Syria). Gouraud also encouraged Goybet to avoid giving financial aid to new newspapers.21 Gouraud’s orders that he did not ‘expect to suppress all opposition’ and that ‘the censorship will be very liberal’ did not transpire. In this respect, as with its resurrection of Ottoman-era antiquities laws, the mandatory power’s methods did not greatly differ from the lateOttoman state’s administration.22 Repression was harsh. Lists of punishments meted out in the post-Maysalu¯n period noted that several journalists and writers were imprisoned. One among them, Lebanese pressman Ma‘rouf Arna’out, was sentenced to one year in prison for printing ‘false news’ in his paper Fatat Al ‘Arab (Arab Youth), though he did not serve the full sentence.23 Another, Mounir Al-Aita, suffered the same fate. Nadim Zabian received four years’ hard labour on the island prison of Arwad for ‘affaire des tracts’ (pamphleteering).24 In June 1921, High Commissioner Gouraud wrote to Paris saying that he had been ‘forced to arrest the owner of [Sada] Al-Ahwal’ in Beirut because that ˙ ˙ publication had announced that 200,000 Turks were at the gates of Aleppo, which had allegedly caused a public panic. The incident became another of several diplomatic wrangles when it emerged the paper’s editor had been a dragoman of the Portuguese consulate, thus securing him capitulatory protections.25

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From the formal outset of the mandate, the Service de la Presse compiled lists of the newspapers then being published. In 1921 it listed 15 French-language newspapers: one under French ownership with the others being run by Lebanese men. Fourteen newspapers in Arabic appeared every year; with five being edited by Muslims and nine by Christians. Eleven literary, scientific and religious reviews were appearing. In the rest of Lebanon, ten newspapers and five reviews were published in Arabic. The report noted that many Christian papers shut down during World War I. The Service de la Presse report betrayed a paternalistic view of the newspapers. It painted the Lebanese newspapers as being: Still in shock, coming out of the [Ottoman] shadow [. . .] they [the Lebanese] did not always know how to make use of the instrument [the media] that was being given to them [. . .] often, the editors are lacking culture or even basic information. They lack general information, lacking reporters and correspondents. They are too easily satisfied with the information given them by the Bureau of the Press [. . .] they lack [. . .] initiative and the same ideas are recycled [. . .] by several newspapers.26 Far from encouraging a fertile Syro-Lebanese public sphere, the press service sought a consolidation of fewer, larger, and ‘better resourced’ (i.e., more easily influenced) newspapers. The report noted that major titles such as Le Re´veil (The Awakening), Al-Balagh, Lisan Al-Hal and Al-Barq had managed to put smaller titles out of business. The French praised the development of these bigger newspapers, which, it was noted, were beginning to send out correspondents and thus improve their information gathering. This doubtless was seen as an opportunity to intervene more directly in influencing newspapers’ coverage. The High Commission even supported such papers with funds in the hope that this would ‘get rid of the mediocre press which disturbs it.’27 As was the case with the rhetoric of the antiquities service, the press service sought to utilise the reality of Ottoman decline to justify the consolidation of French control of newspapers. Other signs of difficulties in press management are evident. It is interesting that the influential Al-Ahrar was largely ignored in the press ˙ bureau’s summaries. This was in flat contradiction to covert intelligence

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gathered on the newspaper, drawn from local sources, which emphasised the newspaper’s importance. A French spy reported a series of speeches heard in the Damascus Road Mason’s lodge in Beirut. He reported that Al-Ahrar editor Said Sabbagh had encouraged others to increase ˙ private subsidies to his paper. According to French intelligence, Sabbagh claimed that the newspaper had taken on the role of ‘killing’ pro-French Lebanese newspapers and that Al-Ahrar alone counted for one-third of ˙ all Lebanese newspapers sold. His claim was supported by Isber Shuqair, previously the Chancellor (chief secretary) at the British Consulate, who claimed that Al-Ahrar received 700 Syrian pounds (S£) in donations ˙ as a result of it being ‘the leader of the opposition’ in contrast to the S£200 that France gave to its most favoured Lebanese newspaper.28 This oversight underlines the biases and selectivity of the Lebanon press bureau’s assessments. The Service de la Presse in Syria ‘proper’ was a smaller operation based in Damascus. It was funded by the High Commission until 1925, at which point its costs were transferred to the State of Syria’s local budgetary expenditure. It was apparently staffed by an unfortunately solitary secretary, who also moonlighted as translator.29 Given the small scale of the operation, it is unsurprising that several Damascus newspapers known to have circulated prior to the mandate went unmentioned in the Damascus press bureau’s official review, which took place in 1924.30 The Damascus press bureau also monitored newspapers in Homs while a press bureau in Aleppo covered that region and the Alawite State. The flurry of positions taken by newspapers demonstrated that French assumptions that these classes simply hierarchically formed the opinions of the masses and represented clear-cut linguistic and religious communal interests were inaccurate. Many of the key battles during the formative years, with ongoing military and judicial repression in the background, took place in cultural institutions. Though press silence was easily bought in the short term, as was noted by British and French reports, the journalistic community proved more cantankerous when dealing with issues of broad social and political interest. Far from being simple mouthpieces for the highest bidders, the press demonstrated variable and complex stances. One such case concerned the plight of political prisoners. After the crushing defeat of the Arab nationalist attempt to sustain an

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independent Syrian state in 1920, many leaders of the Arabist movement became prisoners. Held in prisons throughout the territories, various sections of Syrian and Lebanese civil society expressed their sympathies. In this instance, the domestic press continued its tradition of vociferous positions against what were deemed to be unjust acts. In 1923 Al-Tabaki al-Suri (The Cry of Syria) called for the quickest possible decision on the numerous prisoners.31 Al-Barı¯d al-Suri (The Syrian Post), based in Aleppo, also put pressure on Syrian Federation president Subhi Barakat al-Khalidi to keep his promise of granting an amnesty to political prisoners.32 The protest was reported by intelligence, which demonstrated its own capacity for oversight by intercepting the protestors’ letter when it still had only 20 supporting signatures.33 The continued imprisonment of a number of Syrians who had participated in anti-colonial activity elicited other popular and nonpartisan protests. One letter gathered the signatures of nearly 3,000 people reportedly at the initiative of Antioch Mufti Safwat Bey Barakat. It was signed by Christians and Jews as well as Muslims. The petition was spread by a network including Sadalat Jabri, Fakhr Al-Jabri and Ibrahim Hanano in Aleppo and Sadalat Al-Antaki in Beirut. Also among the the signatories were the Grand Rabbi of Aleppo, Jewish merchant Rahme´ Nahmad Hade`s and Noury Pasha Mellah, a Jewish doctor.

Syrian Unity in the Press The press also played a key role in examining the debates over a proposed union of the Alawite, Aleppo and Damascus states. This was in response to the deep discontent over the continuing separation of these states within an umbrella Syrian Federation. This debate, however, did not show the clear-cut dissatisfaction with mandate policy that crossed ethnic, geographical and political lines. There were nuanced discussions about the country’s political development. Some newspapers took a promandate government line, arguing in favour of maintaining these administrative divisions.34 As early as 1921 the Damascene and Aleppine press struck a more militant tone with the Aleppo papers Al-Taqqadum (The Progress), Al-Ummah (The Nation) and Sahiqa (In-Depth) undertaking what the French reported to be a ‘violent’ campaign against Damascene

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newspapers Alif Ba¯ʼ, Dammar (Honour) and Abunawass (Father of _ the Change).35 At the end of 1921, an administrative report coolly stated that ‘censorship has put an end to the polemic which had occurred [. . .] between the unionist press of Damascus and that of Aleppo with its separatist aspirations’.36 It was a complete misjudgement of the scale of dissatisfaction with the initial mandatory organisation. In December 1923, the Aleppine newspaper Al-Taqqadum published an editorial arguing that the Alawites had rejected overtures from Damascene nationalists to reunite their countries in opposition to the French-created Federation of Syrian States. The paper highlighted regional disputes and Aleppine fears of Damascene dominance.37 Al-Taqqadum was joined in its campaign against a union of the Aleppo and Damascus states by another Aleppo newspaper, Al-Barı¯d al-Suri, which wrote of the heavy cost paid for the Federation by Aleppines. It also railed against the deputies from Aleppo who had failed to defend their hometown interests, let alone the peripheral interests of the annexed Sanjaks of Alexandretta and Deir ez-Zor. The editorial explained that they did not: ‘want a minister, nor a king nor great titles nor people who will colonise us and take our money’.38 Another Aleppo newspaper Al-Tarikhi al-Suri received and published a letter from young students in Al-Ala near Hama. They explained that the impact of the union would be to reduce their bursaries, which were being diverted by Damascenes to finance education in the capital. The letter went on to rather melodramatically suggest that this would leave Aleppine students without food. The students explained that there could be unity in ‘their ideas and their laws but not in their finances since each [state] will look after their own in the aim of perfecting their education [. . .] or for unimportant projects such as the opening of a Syrian University paid for by the Federation’.39 They concluded by alleging that the Damascene press wielded undue influence on mandate administrators’ opinions. Set against these oppositional voices there were also pro-union viewpoints that were not confined to the Damascus press. Aleppo newspaper Al-Tabaki al-Suri printed an editorial endorsing a federated country similar to the USA and advocating a Lebanese referendum on rejoining Syria. It rejected Alexandretta’s separation and encouraged the creation of one organisation for the three states (Alawite, Damascus and

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Aleppo) as well as a unification of their public education. Another Aleppo journal, Suriya Al-Shamaliyya (Northern Syria), also argued for unity as an ‘ideal for all interested in the future of the Fatherland’ and praised Rabih Al-Kobanih’s speech in favour of unity in the Aleppo State representatives’ council. Aleppo newspaper Al-Barid al-Suri claimed that although the Damascus representatives’ council had been the earliest to call for unity, this call had not been echoed by Aleppo representatives like Fakhr AlJabri. Al-Jabri’s speech to the Aleppo Assembly instead asked for true unity and not a federation organised by General Gouraud for French purposes.40 Another Aleppo newspaper, Al-Nahda, also proclaimed that ˙ ‘the song of unity is well liked by Aleppines and is their sacred anthem.’ It railed against ‘certain [local] people [. . .] [who] had petitioned members of the mandatory government to parcel up Syria [. . .] in order to gain a profit’.41 Some of these newspapers, however, developed nuanced critiques of unionist positions. They were not wholly opposed to a political union of Syria but wanted it to proceed cautiously. They were not simple stooges for a French policy of division either, and criticised broader socioeconomic aspects of governance. Under the pen name of ‘Fadel’, a writer for Al-Barı¯d al-Suri outlined a number of political demands. Paying lip service to the High Commissioner’s Delegate to the Aleppo State, General Gaston Billote, ‘Fadel’ nevertheless listed a number of shortcomings. He pressed for a more extensive French agricultural policy, one that would at the very least secure a return to Ottoman standards, and he went on to propose a school for cheese and butter manufacturing and a school at Salamiyah for agricultural development techniques, reflecting the developmental demands previously discussed.42 In an editorial, Al-Barı¯d al-Suri exhorted the Damascene press to gain a subtler understanding of local developments in the Syrian Federation. The editorial alleged that the Damascene press had attacked Aleppo’s religious chiefs and Kurdish representatives, labelling them traitors for their failure to oppose the creation of ‘jurisdictions e´trange`res’: Ottomanlegacy legal loopholes that were created to maintain Ottoman-era capitulations for foreign citizens. Al-Barı¯d al-Suri argued that ‘fanaticism does not exist in Aleppo and all her inhabitants respect the community leaders’. It noted that even the city’s Bar Council had

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refrained from protesting against these legal exemptions for foreigners, noting that two magistrates serving at the Appellate Court (Court de Cassation) were themselves foreigners. Al-Barı¯d al-Suri was thus intimating that the Damascene press was making a great deal of noise on the wrong issue. The newspaper wryly noted that: ‘it would be in the interest of the Damascene newspapers to insist [on the matter] with the Director of Justice [of the Syrian Federation]’. This pointed to the fact that the Arabist Damascene newspapers were busier complaining about the seeming quiescence of their Aleppine confederates on the question of Syrian unity than in pursuing direct protests with the government.43 Al-Barı¯d al-Suri specifically picked out the pan-Arab Beiruti newspaper Alif Ba¯ʼ for its story that picked up on the demands of one Kurdish representative in Aleppo to speak in Turkish in the representative’s council. The paper dismissed Alif Ba¯’s request that Arabic be spoken, noting that forcing the many Kurds and Turks in the north of Aleppo state to speak Arabic would alienate them and perhaps lead them to militate for an autonomous region like Alexandretta.44 It is important to note that this north–south Syrian newspaper divide was not constant. Newspapers also fed off one another, especially in cases where criticism of the French administration was not focused on political organisation but on the material impact of its fiscal and development programmes. Aleppo’s Suriya al-Shamaliya published an article by an anonymous writer who signed off his article ‘an angry man’. It was a story based on news from the Damascene papers regarding the corrupt allocation of lucrative administrative posts within the Federation by General Gouraud.45 The article wrote that the authorities had ‘cast lots for my garments [ils ont tires au sort mon habit]’: a biblical reference to venality and greed. The writer sardonically noted that the Compagnie Franc aise de Havas wire service had news of the re-election of Subhi Barakat al-Khalidi before it had even happened noting that ‘it seems that this company [. . .] had a clairvoyant that could see the future’. With further derision, the paper asked: Does the [Syrian] nation have the right to complain about taxes and to moan about the customs taxes, all the while seeing their money being spent for the great meals and the most noble goal of removing rivalries and rancour [. . .] especially when this is done

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thanks to tax money and in the process of sumptuous dinners which bring together good wine with better words.46 In an open letter to the Governor of Aleppo, Haqqi Al-‘Azm, Al-Tarikhi al-Suri did not shy away from making demands of the French. It wrote that: The struggle for life is a law of the formation of the world [. . .] if we consider the acts of men alongside those of nature, things do not remain as they are; they improve and the children of the nation can thus follow the path to perfection [. . .] We have alerted you, Excellence, [to] [. . .] the disorder there reigns in some administrations under your control [. . .] we hope this will be fixed thanks to your zeal and energy [. . .] if what we had attributed to these administrations was not true they should have referred our ‘lies’ to the courts to refute them. If it was true, the bureaucrats should have resigned [. . .] the nation does not and will never accept to pay these bureaucrats [. . .] from the money gathered from the sweat off the faces of her children.47 The press also served as a link between the various actors and the political framework being established. In December 1923, Al-Tarikhi al-Suri of Aleppo published an editorial criticising the first Federal Council, established in 1922, which it claimed was unelected and failed to provide popular representation. The newspaper conceded that the Federation’s Council had been elected by different communities of the nation without distinction of religion. In this spirit, it called on President Subhi Barakat al-Khalidi to ‘be worthy of the nation’s trust’ and alluded to the past glories of Khalid Ibn al-Walid, the renowned seventh-century Islamic conqueror of Syria. Al-Tarikhi al-Suri even laid out a vision for Syria, insisting that Syrian unity was the most important thing for the country and arguing that the federated USA offered a potential model. It called on Barakat to follow George Washington’s example.48 The newspaper continued this campaign in other editorials addressed to President Barakat, insisting that Lebanon and Alexandretta should be brought back within the cadre of a Syrian state under a federal constitution.49 In a similar sign of holding government to account, Damascus-based Al-Ra’y al-‘Am

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reported the opening of the second session of the Damascus State’s representative assembly in 1924, held at the Club Franco-Syrien. The newspaper warned the representatives ‘not to follow their old tactics and to know that the nation is well informed on all of their actions’.50 These were not empty warnings. The British consul in Aleppo, W.A. Smart, translated and transmitted a protest against the draft 1926 electoral law by Damascene notables that had been published in various newspapers.51 The effectiveness of the oppositional press was recognised at the end of the period under study. A reflective French report from January 1926 complained about the press in interventions in constitutional debates as mandate administrators sought to temper increasing impatience with their governance methods while suppressing the Great Syrian Revolt. The report noted that: ‘the right given to Lebanese and Syrians to deliberate their own constitution, to choose their own government, did not stop certain newspapers and certain Syrian politicians to write or declare: “nothing has changed”’.52

Censorship and Press Laws In the face of this cantankerous and well-informed press, an increasing dependence on censorship characterised early French interactions with local newspapers. Censorship was not exclusive to the period under study. It had been common under the Ottomans.53 It had also been frequently exercised during the British and French military occupation. In the first years of the mandate there was a military administrator and an ad hoc censorship of the press whenever articles were deemed to be against the administration. The formative initial five years of mandate governance were decisive with regards to both the methods of censorship that French authorities sought and the opposition they encountered to their application, though censorship certainly continued after the 1925 Revolt, as Shams Al-Dı¯n Al-Rifa’ı¯’s history of the press outlines.54 In preparation for the formal declaration of a League of Nations mandate, and the need for a civic administration, the French passed legislation that suspended military censorship on 27 September 1923. Alongside the pressure from international requirements, a great deal of pressure had been applied locally, pressure that continued even after the suspension of military censorship as indicated by the fact that civil

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regulation of the press continued. In 1924, Arreˆte´ (Statutory Order) 2464 was passed regulating the press in Greater Lebanon.55 Article 3 required all printing presses to deposit three copies of each prospective publication. Article 4 afforded the governor of Lebanon the authority to ban the sale or circulation of books, brochures or foreign printed works. Article 6 limited editorial rights to those who were citizens of the Syrian mandate or League of Nations states and who had never been sentenced to more than six months of prison. This latter requirement thus ruled out a great many dissidents who had been prosecuted at the beginning of mandatory rule. The owner of the periodical had to deposit S£500 at the Bank of Syria.56 Article 11 confirmed official powers to suspend and fine any journal and even gave authorities the option of imposing a prison sentence. Articles 24 and 25 made it a crime for any article to incite criminal or delinquent acts. Article 26 made it criminal to publish an article that disdained or insulted religions. Articles 29 and 30 ensured censorship by enacting conditions for libel and defamation claims defamation.57 In April 1925, Governor of Lebanon Leon Cayla signed another order, Arreˆte´ 3080, which was superimposed on the law governing the press in Lebanon. The first article established a further level of defamation powers by setting out that: The Governor [. . .] can suspend any journal or written periodical which has published one or more articles, information or drawings that aim to attack the public authorities by means of liberal interpretation [usage licencieux] of the right to criticism and, in a general manner, to endanger [. . .] peace and public order.58 In June 1924, a month after the Lebanese and Alawite press law was promulgated, the Governor of Damascus Haqqi Al-‘Azm signed an identical law into effect.59 The State of Aleppo passed the equivalent law in August 1924.60 The civil criminalisation of fourth estate activity did not go unchallenged, as will be seen below. When the outbreak of the Great Syrian Revolt in autumn 1925 saw the reimposition of military censorship, pressure on the mandate administration encountered at the League of Nations, the result of consistent lobbying of mahjar

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Syro-Lebanese, ensured its brevity. High Commission Order 1816, signed into law on 16 February 1928, put an end to the military censorship that had been applied by previous Orders 137 and 146 of 1926. Article 2 of Order 1816 nevertheless allowed the retention of a degree of regulation of press and magazine publishing.61 Yet even such attempts at restriction via intimidation could be circumvented by making overly exaggerated claims. For instance, the Damascus newspaper Fatat Al-‘Arab (Arab Youth) published false claims that an amnesty had been granted to the political prisoners on the island of Arwad. In an internal note discussing this article, the Damascus Police’s Counsel suggested that there had been an attempt to ‘create a public agitation and force the government’s hand’ in awarding an amnesty to such political prisoners as ‘Abd Al-Rahman Shahbandar.62 Little can be discerned about the extent to which extra-legal threats to publishers forced them to change their tune. For instance, in 1923, Emir Assad Ayoubi, the editor of Sada Al-Sha‘ab (Echo of the People), sought to ˙ restart his newspaper, which had been shelved for three months. A French report noted how he now sought to portray itself as ‘motivated by the most loyal of sentiments toward the government and mandatory power’.63 In October 1924, reports surfaced that the owner of Alif Ba¯ʼ had been beaten up as he was returning to his house. Al-Ra’y al-‘Am’s correspondent called on the authorities to severely punish the culprit. He added that the mandatory power could not accept that history should repeat itself and that a Hamidian-style despotism could return.64

Opposition to the Press Laws These regressive press laws, which clearly flouted the progressive spirit of the mandate, occasioned an outpouring of anger in Syro-Lebanese columns. A correspondent for the Al-’Arz (Cedars), who was a lawyer, expressed surprise at the Lebanese press regulation passed in spring 1924. The lawyer added that if such a law were passed then anarchy would reign.65 Sada al-Ahwal protested the press law on the same ˙ ˙ grounds, noting that this was attacking press freedoms. Sada al-Ahwal ˙ ˙ recognised that the press law could act as ‘a weapon in the hands of those opposed to the mandate [. . .] these Syrian and Lebanese newspapers make eulogies of the mandatory power for fear of losing their financial inducements’.66

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Al-Ahrar expressed fears that journalists would lose their freedom if ˙ the press law were to go ahead. An editorial expressed how they were ‘stunned that the High Commission approved a law that, in a number of its articles, does not comply with the spirit of the laws. We have never heard of a retroactive law [. . .] among other things, the press law contains articles that do not distinguish between criticism that seeks reform and criticism that uses journalism to defame people’.67 Al-Baya¯n (The Dispatch) criticised the government by noting that it had put all its emphasis on punishment and had neglected putting forward a moral code of conduct for journalists.68 Sada al-Ahwal declared in an editorial that journalism was a trade ˙ ˙ like any other, yet common law did not have a retroactive element. It could not understand why the press law punished newsmen for previously legal activities. Al-Watan noted that the suspension of newspapers was carried out randomly during the Ottoman period, with journalists beseeching the authorities at that time to apply the Ottoman press law, rather than freely suspending their papers. Yet, ironically, the newspapers now found themselves hoping to return to the anarchic Ottoman situation since the French press law was just too draconian.69 Al-Ahrar commented that the press law had imposed criminal ˙ penalties on newspapers failing to comply. It believed that this would be used to punish those newspapers that were most critical of the government. It added that they were: ‘Not [. . .] among those who demand complete liberty of expression [. . .] [but] sincere criticism is the foundation of all reform’.70 Al-Ra’y al-‘Am wrote an editorial noting the surprise of the Lebanese press at the law since France itself had a reputation for press freedoms. The press in Lebanon and Syria was now being confronted by ‘an unparalleled catastrophe’ which witnessed worse conditions than those found in France’s formal colonial territories in Tunisia and Algeria, where the newspapers were not required to pay a deposit.71 Al-Muqtabas, owned by Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali and edited by his brother Ahmed, was suspended for a month in early 1924 for printing: ‘Insults against an allied power [Italy] regarding Tripolitania’. In the same period the Christian-owned but largely Muslim-read Suriya al-Shamaliyya, based in Aleppo, had been suspended for a month for printing anti-mandate commentaries.72 On 15 March 1924, two newspaper closures were reported in French press bureau summaries.

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Newspaper Al-Haqiqat was penalised, prompting protest from Al-Ra’y al-‘Am. Al-Ra’y al-‘Am also reported that Al-Maʻrad and Al-Baya¯n had ˙ been shut down as a result of their republishing a cartoon depicting the funeral of the Syrian pound with three caricatures of mandate political leaders: a satire on the severe devaluation problems plaguing the Syrian currency. Al-Ahwal defended Al-Maʻrad, suggesting that insulting the ˙ ˙ political leaders was not the cartoon’s intent.73 In April 1924, Al-Muqtabas was again suspended, this time for printing an article deemed injurious to Haqqi Al-‘Azm. Al-Ra’y al-‘Am commented on the suspension: ‘Among the Damascene newspapers, we notice that Al-Muqtabas is distinguished [. . .] by its criticism of bureaucrats who seek to destroy what was built by the wise among the people’.74 Later that month, Al-Ra’y al-‘Am reported that Al-Mufid (The Purpose) had been suspended for a fortnight. Al-Ra’y al-‘Am believed that the suspension was in retaliation for a meeting of journalists organised to protest the newly published press law. Commenting on the episode, Al-Ahrar noted the lack of reason given for the suspension and asked: ˙ ‘Is it not time that we are governed by standard laws like other peoples. Must journalists always be under the threat of suspension without judgement?’75 Another controversy concerned the requirement for a large S£500 deposit to establish a newspaper. Georges Awad, the director of Al-Hurriya, requested that the deposit should be equally imposed on those newspapers that were subsidised by the government.76 The Jewish newspaper L’Univers Israe´lite expressed its hope that the authorities would not be overly strict regarding the deposit.77 Al-Hadyat (The Guidance) commented on the press law by noting that journalists were protesting against the Lebanese government. It noted that discussions regarding the press law were ongoing between the Lebanese government’s Interior Minister and Maronite Sheikh Yusuf Al-Khazen. The newspaper wrote that the rationale behind the deposit was flawed, given that a rich person of poor morals could establish a paper, and a poor person of good intent could not.78 Al-Watan reminded its readers that the Ottomans had never implemented such a deposit and urged the mandate authorities to exercise similar leniency.79 Reporting the Chamber of Deputies’ discussion of the new press law, Al-Ahrar wrote that those who could have witnessed the debate could ˙ easily have laughed, ‘but only because it is better to laugh than to cry’.

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Al-Ahrar explained that the alternative deposit proposed by a deputy ˙ named Mindhar over the course of the debates, which would have seen the financial element replaced with the sworn testimony of a guarantor, would be an improvement.80 Al-Balagh expressed its shock at the Lebanese deputies’ decision to confirm the S£500 deposit, adding that the deputies should have resigned in protest.81 When news reached Al-Ra’y al-‘Am that the Aleppo Assembly had annulled the clause pertaining to the financial deposit, the newspaper praised the Syrians of the interior for their ‘national quality of patriotism and energy’.82 Al-Watan rhetorically asked if there were a single deputy who would speak in a similar fashion inside the Assembly.83 Writing in Al-’Arz, Lebanese deputy Hammour wrote that the French authorities had made an initial mistake in allowing anyone to set up a newspaper at the beginning of the mandate. Realising their error, the French reaction to this was a disproportionate pre-emptive fine in the form of the deposit.84 Al-Maʻrad also noted the discrepancies between ˙ the Aleppo and Damascus assemblies in scrutinising the 1924 press law. Al-Maʻrad added that the Damascus delegates had approved 33 articles ˙ in a single sitting, without proper readings. Al-Maʻrad’s criticisms of ˙ the Damascus Assembly was echoed by Sada Al-Ahwal, Al-’Arz, Lisan ˙ ˙ Al-Hal and Al-Ra’y al-‘Am. The Damascus Assembly nevertheless halved the deposit. Sada ˙ Al-Ahwal further noted that the Aleppo deputies had even cancelled the ˙ 85 deposit. The discrepancies between the Lebanon, Damascus and Aleppo states’ representatives were noted to have made a farce of France’s aims. Ababil declared that ‘it is risible that the deposit [. . .] should be fixed at S£250 by the assembly of Damascus, at S£500 in the case of the Beirut assembly and cancelled in the case of the Aleppo assembly’.86 Al-Ahwal called on the government to suspend the requirement for a ˙ deposit at least for those newspapers that been set up before the 1908 Young Turk constitutional reforms.87 Criticism was not reserved for the French authorities; it also targeted local notables who failed to represent popular wishes. Le Monaghe`che noted that deposit requirements for newspapers were unanimously approved by the Lebanese Assembly while deposits on land acquisitions proposed in another law, which it suggested could impact the deputies’ land holdings, were rejected by a majority. Al-Balagh noted that deputies were keen to raise the deposit from S£250 to S£500 while

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fighting the introduction of a deposit for gambling houses. The paper judged that the deputies were telling people that journalists were more detrimental to society than gamblers.88 The satirical Al-Dabbour accused the deputies of sitting comfortably in their chamber to pick up their pay. It sarcastically encouraged them to represent the national interest by agreeing with the French governor on everything.89 Al-Ra’y al-‘Am also made light of the situation. It wrote sarcastically that there was no need for a new press law in spring 1924 since one could already be discerned. This ‘alternative’ law had but four articles: ‘1) the majority of subscribers do not pay; 2) the readers do not appreciate the effort needed for a newspaper; 3) the large number of newspapers are the cause of newspapers dying; 4) the courts are free to do what they wish with the press.’90 Francophile newspapers offered mixed judgements of the law as plans for the legislation were published in draft before being passed in April 1924. In February, the Jesuit newspaper Al-Bashir noted that the law had failed to account for moral practices. It also called on the government to deploy the worst elements of the new law, such as the prison term, with restraint.91 Later in May, Al-Bashir published a denunciation of Al-Dabbour, writing of ‘certain humoristic newspapers which publish articles that inevitably corrupt the public, and make certain descriptions that even the most perverse of people would never dare make’. Al-Bashir called on the Service de la Presse to clean up such immoral activity.92 Later still, the newspaper again changed its tone, arguing that the law was attacking press freedoms and that the loud complaints against it were reasonable.93 The generally Francophile Al-Barq wrote that the new law on the press was intended to muzzle legitimate criticism by bundling this with defamation.94 Al-Lisan Al-Hal noted that newspapers seemed overly keen to jump to criticism of any government action, yet the newspaper also admitted that there was a harsh press regime.95 Al-Watan expressed its lack of expectations that the deputies would defend press freedom, noting that the press itself had been the most fervent critic of these same deputies in the assemblies. Al-Watan added that it was confident that the French, Egyptian and US press would continue the work of critique that the domestic press was currently undertaking. It pointed out that even under the harsh censorship of foreign news during the rule of Sultan Abdulhamid II, foreign outlets were still being read.96 Al-Watan’s

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prediction of the importance of regional and international newspapers was correct, as will be shown in a subsequent chapter. However, Al-Balagh took a pessimistic view of the press protests, writing that: ‘the new law on the press, has drawn the condemnation of journalists; but we will no longer hear the protests which will have no impact. Tomorrow the journalists will pay the financial deposit’.97 The satirical Al-Dabbour published a prayer to God asking for journalists’ deliverance from the press law.98 When Barı¯d Al-Sharq (The Oriental Post) was suspended in December 1924, Al-Ra’y al-‘Am echoed Al-Dabbour, asking in its report for God’s protection from the press law, though this time it seems to have been speaking in all seriousness.99 Despite this pessimism, some degree of corps solidarity emerged from this press law fight. French intelligence reported in February 1923 that several newspaper editors, including those of La Syrie, Le Re´veil, L’Echo d’Orient, Al-Ahwal, Al-Ahrar, Al-Baya¯n, Lisan Al-Hal, Al- Maʻrad and ˙ ˙ ˙ even the Jesuit Al-Bashir, attended a gathering in the house of a Mademoiselle Saouda.100 In spring 1924, Ababil held interviews with a senior High Commission mandarin in which the newspaper conveyed the press corps’ grievances.101 Al-Ahwal noted that journalists ironically ˙ arranged a meeting with High Commissioner Weygand at Damascus’ Hoˆtel Gouraud to organise a press syndicate in summer 1924.102 In October 1924, Damascus newspaper Alif Ba¯ʼ was spared legal proceedings when the local prosecutor dropped the case against it. According to Al-Ahrar, this was due to the pressure put on the ˙ High Commissioner and Syrian Federation President Subhi Barakat by journalists who had used this cause to form a Damascus press syndicate.103 The impact of these protests on French methods is unclear though the newfound appetite for journalist fraternity was evident. In April 1924, Al-Balagh joined the call for unionisation.104 In May 1924, Sada Al-Ahwal reported rumours that the High Commission ˙ ˙ was inclined to consider halving the deposit for newspapers to S£250 following the press uproar.105 In Lebanon, in February 1925, Al-Watan joined Al-Ahwal in calling for the creation of a journalists’ union similar ˙ to that in Damascus.106 However, the press laws could also encourage internecine fighting, to the benefit of the mandate authorities. In December 1924, the owner of the Al-Watan newspaper sued Arzat Lubnan (Lebanon’s Cedars) for defamation.107 The Jesuit Al-Bashir denounced the poor fact checking in

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the press which led to much false information being printed and flung around between newspapers.108 In December 1924, Al-Barq published an editorial blaming journalists for failing to check their facts, and preferring to criticise the authorities from behind their desks when they could have worked more collaboratively with the government.109 The issue of censorship was used by the organised anti-imperial opposition to score political points in an area of broad consensus. The close links between the fourth estate and traditional political figures like Shahbandar was evidenced in the protests against the press law. Several Syrian notables, including the Francophile Amir Taher Al-Jazairi, Khalil Matouq and Fawzi Al-Baqri, met with the High Commissioner’s delegate to Damascus in 1923 to demand liberty of the press and freedom of association.110 Those local elites less approving of the mandate were vociferous in their opposition. In Sidon, a French-run agent informed intelligence of a meeting held at the Greek Catholic Bishop’s house attended by local notables of all religions.111 Among them was Dr Sharif Osseiran, a member of the Sidon Democratic Committee, whose speech denounced the lack of press freedoms.112 A relative of Dr Osseiran’s, Rashid Osseiran was one of two journalists at the meeting, alongside Bahaeddine Zein, representing the Brazilian Syro-Lebanese newspaper Al-Tassahul (Tolerance).113 They were flagged by the administrative advisor for the Sanjak of South Lebanon as having been behind a propaganda campaign against local notables in Sidon.114 Abroad, the Syrian Union party wrote to the Secretary General of the League of Nations. Their letter references an article in Alif Ba¯ʼ that purported to quote General Gouraud stating during a banquet in Damascus that the mandate could only be established violently, likely a fabrication. Their letter also cited the newspaper Homs, which quoted Gouraud as having been upset at a boycott of an event held in his honour; it further alleged that the High Commissioner had told those unhappy with the mandate regime to leave the country. The Syrian Union party noted that all these articles had been published despite military censorship, demonstrating the constant opposition to the regime.115 It is unlikely that Gouraud spoke so frankly in public. Yet the episode demonstrates how even the use of censorship was held by those falling under its purview as a proof of the tenuous French hold on Syria and

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Lebanon. It is interesting to note that Syrian and Lebanese papers even received support from French citizens and newspapers. Jacques Sedoul, a prominent French defence lawyer, travelled to Beirut to defend three notables and three owners of newspapers accused of having encouraged the 1925 Great Revolt.116 The battle to control the domestic press intensified over the course of the outbreak of the Great Syrian Revolt. Yet it was a losing battle. French claims to culture and civilisation justifying the meaning of their mandate were being undermined by mature institutions, such as the press, which could shape domestic and international awareness of the reality of crude French methods of control. In Geneva, the exiled and vociferous leaders of the Syro-Lebanese anti-imperial opposition, Shakib Arslan, Ihsan Al-Jabiri and Riyad Al-Solh, wrote ˙ to the General Council of the League of Nations in September 1927 protesting conditions in Syria. They specifically highlighted the suppression of freedom of expression and the containment of the domestic newspapers.117 The trio began their letter by highlighting a declaration that they had previously sent to the League of Nations offering an olive branch to the French and reaffirmed ‘that we never had any other goal but that of ensuring the liberty and independence of Syria’.118 They noted that: ‘This declaration having produced [. . .] a favourable response among French official circles and had been treated with sympathy among the Parisian press, we would have hoped for a change in the French policy toward our country [. . .] Yet after persistent overtures [. . .] our efforts [. . .] were paralysed’.119 As a result of this impasse, the authors explained, they were renewing their campaign directed at the League. In this spirit, they outlined the continuing censorship of the domestic press: We are forced [. . .] to declare, with regret, that the regime of force continues in full swing [. . .] suspensions of newspapers (ten newspapers were suspended in one month in Lebanon) deserve to be given serious attention. A quick glance at the Damascus newspapers, forced to fill their columns with adverts [. . .] in order to replace the reports blacked out by the censors’ pens, gives a good sense of the current situation in Syria.120

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Conclusion French attempts to exercise control over the press in Syria and Lebanon were consistently contested by a range of newspapers in these formative mandate years. Authorities sought to comprehend and classify these newspapers as the shapers of public opinion. Yet these orientalist assumptions about the roots of social power lying in a class of public opinion shapers who could be controlled through a protectorate-style clientelist model fell flat when the efflorescence of public commentary, already present in the post-Ottoman interregnum, retained its full verve. Far from delivering mandatory oversight in a progressive spirit, the authorities were forced to depend on regressive methods of control including a censorship regime that was widely denounced and derided as being even worse than that of Ottoman times. Such opposition during the early mandate did not, however, lead to an end of censorship in later periods of greater local autonomy. Indeed, National Bloc leader Nassib Al-Baqri, for instance, passed Decree n8 34/L in the 1930s that shut down several Damascene newspapers.121 The first five years’ contestation did not rid the country of censorship, yet it had begun to change who held the censor’s pen.

CHAPTER 6 SUBSERVIENCE AND SANCTION? THE FRANCOPHONE PRESS

The politicisation of cultural institutions, like the education system and Arabophone domestic press outlined in previous chapters, was not confined to the delimited territory under French rule. The press, in particular, had a markedly transnational character. In the first mandate years, the Francophone press represented a capacious medium that allowed both the invocation of French claims of culture and denunciations of mandatory methods. French protectorate intentions were undermined by the sheer variety of international networks of press activity, which were able to circumvent the domestic censorship outlined above. These diverse press outlets provided a platform for political protest and a means to pressure authorities for particular policy changes. The transnational press, whether Francophone, e´migre´ or international and regional, demonstrated the vitality of cultural means to mitigate domestic censorship and legal restrictions. The Francophone press sporadically buttressed and disavowed French claims of culture. Some French-language newspapers were written and read in elite circles in Beirut, Paris, Geneva and in other French colonies. Others were printed in Europe, for example, in Paris and Lausanne. A generation of Turkish and Arab Ottoman intellectuals had established themselves in metropolitan France, foreshadowing the e´migre´ and exiled Syro-Lebanese communities that were present in Europe in the early mandate period.1 The French metropolitan and

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colonial press represented avenues for voicing either support or concern about the intentions and methods of the Syro-Lebanese mandate. This final category of Francophone newspapers and magazines spanned the ideological spectrum. The outbreak of the Great Syrian Revolt encouraged further challenges to France’s mandatory methods from even the most devoted of Francosphe`re voices.

The Levantine Francophone Press The Beiruti French-language press, although never as cantankerous as its Arabic domestic and leftist metropolitan counterparts, demonstrated a degree of independence in its judgement of mandatory methods. A report compiled in 1921 by the Service de la Presse profiled two key French-language newspapers in Beirut: Le Re´veil and La Syrie.2 Le Re´veil was founded by a well-connected Greek Catholic Beiruti, Iskander ‘Alexandre’ Khoury. The Khoury family was also considered among the notability of Aleppo.3 Khoury was aided in his publishing ventures by Alfred and Georges Naccache, Alphonse Zeinieh, Rizqallah Arcache and Georges Akkaoui.4 Le Re´veil’s printing run amounted to 1,000 copies, not an inconsiderable number given Beirut’s estimated population of 94,000 in 1921.5 Le Re´veil had begun publishing in 1908. It had maintained close links with the French consul in Beirut prior to the War, receiving a subsidy and was planting stories for the consul. Khoury was deported by the Ottoman authorities at the outset of World War I. The newspaper was reborn on 1 July 1919 with renewed ties to the French. However, the press service’s report suggested that Khoury was ‘more Lebanese than Francophile and more Christian than Lebanese’. The press service believed this had led him to shift his position and criticise certain mandate policies, ‘particularly when he felt that the administration was choosing the wrong local Lebanese politicians or an abandonment of Christians in favour of Muslims’. For the Service de la Presse this represented a ‘double attitude’ which was ‘loving France while poorly serving her’. The report nevertheless noted the possibility of co-opting Khoury, ‘in spite of his ponderousness’, by undertaking discreet financial support that would allow him to maintain the appearance of independence.6 The second French daily, La Syrie, was edited by a Frenchman: Georges Vayssie´. Vayssie´ had previously been editor of the Journal du Caire.7

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He was assisted in La Syrie’s editorship by Paul Laire, a professor at the Colle`ge Laique of Beirut.8 La Syrie’s tagline was ‘Franc
aise pour les Syriens, Syriens pour les Franc
ais’, a statement which echoed nineteenthcentury geographer One´sime Reclus’ expansionist vision of the Francophonie.9 The newspaper, which also put out 1,000 copies, was thought to be read by almost all the newly settled administrative French class and by almost no local Lebanese. It is interesting that copies of La Syrie are documented to have made it to metropolitan France, in stark contrast to attempts at cutting links between local Syro-Lebanese news sources and the metropolitan newspapers to be outlined below.10 The newspaper was praised by the Service de la Presse for being well informed, and in close contact with the administration which, along with the ‘professional qualities of Mr. Vayssie´’, ‘his long experience of journalism’, made him one of their trusted purveyor of news.11 In fact, he had also been newswire service Havas’ representative in Egypt prior to the beginning of the mandate. After he left Cairo and his Egyptian newspaper folded, his role was taken over by his assistant, a certain Francophile propagandist named Shukri Ghanem who had been a key pro-mandate publicist, writing pamphlets calling for France to take over Greater Syria during World War I.12 Vayssie´’s unfailing Francophilia is demonstrated by the fact that he even had to defend himself from a Quai d’Orsay complaint after an article in La Syrie was interpreted as being unnecessarily critical of Vatican Nuncio Monsignor Frediano Giannini.13 The press service equally noted that ‘certain [of Vayssie´’s] clumsy remarks about Syrians provoked a press fight between him and Le Re´veil’.14 In a more surreal episode, the squabble between Le Re´veil and La Syrie went so far as the proposition of a duel between the two editors, though this did not materialise.15 The affair nevertheless: Made him [Vayssie´] lose the sympathy of a certain number of his indigenous readers [. . .] It is regretful that the animosity directed toward him among Syrian and Lebanese circles has sometimes been reflected on the High Commission, for whom, as is well known, it acts as a quasi-official organ’.16 Other Francophone newspapers with a smaller audience appeared outside of Beirut. In the Alawite State, the bilingual (Arabic-French) El Alevy

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described itself as the ‘political, literary, commercial and agricultural independent organ of the interests of the autonomous Alawite State’. It was edited by Burhanuddin Mosri Zade´. In November 1923, El Alevy reported that General Weygand had visited Lattakia where he received a warm reception. It praised his focus on education with the construction of a school and lyce´e tending to a thousand children.17 In another article, El Alevy suggested that: The Alawite population should be happier if France seeks to take this state under her protection [. . .] countries such as Algeria, Tunisia, Morocco [. . .] have made immense progress [. . .] for the Alawites [. . .] to stay in this ignorance, this primitive state, is to die [. . .] Yet neither God nor nature authorises them to waste their existence.18 Another Francophone paper claiming to represent minorities was the Revue Assyro-Chalde´en, founded in January 1920 to represent that ancient community in northern Iraq. It printed around 500 copies, and its distribution was banned by British authorities in Iraq as a result of its large Assyrian population, whose participation in fighting the Ottomans occasioned calls that they be rewarded with greater autonomy.19 La Revue Phoenicienne was a small magazine which gained historical significance in later years as a model example of the Phoenicianist attitudes taken by certain Lebanese intellectuals to distinguish themselves from their Muslim-dominated neighbourhood.20 One article, written by Jesuit University-educated Maronite scholar and future Lebanese Prime Minister Auguste Adib Pasha, sought to tie Phoenician roots to modern Lebanese identity. He wrote that: ‘the history of the Lebanese in antiquity is thus the history of these Phoenician people’.21 Levantine Francophone newspapers also demonstrated a capacity to circumvent French favour and control. The activities of Beiruti newspaper L’Orient (today’s L’Orient-Le Jour) is suggestive of French struggles to control cultural institutions. L’Orient was based in Beirut and also published a sister newspaper entitled L’Echo d’Orient. Both papers were nominally closely tied to France and were printed by the Capuchin Order’s printing press.22 L’Orient’s editor was the Capuchin father Re´my, who had been a wartime French intelligence agent. He was assisted by two Maronites: Georges Naccache and Georges Khabaz.

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A limited controversy sparked by L’Orient editorials denouncing mandatory censorship, which could be termed the L’Orient Affair, morphed over the course of 1925 into a broader Sarrail Affair that divided metropolitan French secular and Catholic opinion and threw France’s mandatory methods into doubt. The origins of the L’Orient Affair lay in the controversies over the censorship of domestic Lebanese newspapers outlined in the previous chapter. In January 1924, the Arabic Al-’Arz (The Cedars) reported what it termed a campaign of intimidation aimed at the L’Orient newspaper. According to Al-’Arz this was in response to L’Orient’s editors reprinting an article from the metropolitan ultra-rightist newspaper L’Action Franc
aise that had criticised mandatory methods. L’Orient had further commented on the article by stating that the authorities ‘owe us some clarifications’. Al-’Arz dryly commented that the authorities had given their reply by shutting down L’Orient for two months. Al-’Arz noted that, once it was allowed to resume publishing, L’Orient had shifted to a more compliant stance that included attacks on Al-’Arz itself.23 In November 1924, L’Orient was suspended for eight days for publishing another L’Action Franc
aise article deemed ‘hostile to the government’ and criticising Cartel des Gauches secularist French Premier Eduard Herriot. High Commissioner Weygand specifically reproached L’Orient for ‘transporting into the mandated countries the discussions of domestic French politics’, particularly the criticisms of French policy ‘which the indige`nes here could take inspiration from to weaken the authority of France and her representatives’.24 L’Orient again found itself in trouble with Weygand’s successor, the secularist and Republican General Maurice Sarrail, in January 1925. An article was once more lifted from L’Action Franc
aise in which the suggestion was made that Britain was seeking to take over the Al-Jazira province in East Syria. The article criticised France for allowing itself to be outmanoeuvered by Britain in the exploitation of oil reserves then thought to lie underneath Al-Jazira.25 Georges Khabaz, L’Orient’s editor, telegrammed a protest to Paris over Sarrail’s two-month suspension, which he judged to be ‘contrary [to] public liberties’.26 A Catholic member of the French journalists’ syndicate and right-wing conspiracist, Gustave Gautherot, published a letter on the front page of L’Orient’s sister paper in Paris, L’Echo d’Orient, entitled ‘the oriental policy defines Mr. Edouard Herriot’.27 Defending

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L’Orient, Gautherot pointed out that Herriot had himself spoken out in the Chamber of Deputies following accusations that Sarrail was motivated by personal bias against the mandates’ Christian minorities.28 Gautherot quoted Herriot as having told the French Parliament that: ‘We will not allow the High Commissioner to act under an authority other than that of all France [. . .] I will tell General Sarrail [. . .] that he must remember [. . .] that he is the representative [. . .] not of a political point of view, but of France’.29 Gautherot pointed out that, whereas the more conciliatory High Commissioner Weygand had only shut the paper for eight days the previous November, the harsher Sarrail had shut down the presses for two months in 1925. He argued that Sarrail had targeted L’Orient because of its religious backers, while allowing anti-French papers to appear. Gautherot concluded that: ‘Sarrail has the right to certain personal opinions but [. . .] it is illegitimate and fearfully dangerous to make such opinions the basis of our policy in Syria’.30 In January 1925, Gautherot organised the sending of a protest letter to the Minister of Foreign Affairs by the French journalists’ union.31 The following month, Gautherot used his influence to organise a further protest by the Paris press syndicate.32 News of this apparent shift in French administrative methods away from favoured compact minorities was also reaching the domestic Arabic press. Beirut’s Al-Kashku¯l’s account of the suspension of L’Orient confirmed that the paper had run foul of the secularist general Sarrail; though, in this case, Al-Kashku¯l actually approved of the new policy. Even the Maronite-leaning Al-’Arz wrote that the new high commissioner was seeking to reform the initial mandate policies which it claimed had led the country into the hands of the Jesuits and Capuchins.33 Stung by the increasingly vocal commentary in France, Cartel des Gauches Prime Minister Edouard Herriot asked Sarrail for more details about the L’Orient Affair. Herriot received a vague telegram response from the general, who instead sought to convince him that this dispute was the result of lobbying by a clique he designated the ‘ultra-clerical party’. He accused these latter of leading a campaign against the Governor of Greater Lebanon, Le´on Cayla. For Sarrail, this campaign had ‘confused’ liberty of the press with a ‘freedom [. . .] [that] allows the invention of false news’.34 At the end of April 1925 the Foreign Minister reprimanded

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Sarrail for having delegated the authority to suspend newspapers to the local heads of each mandatory state in a new law. Herriot, went on to note that: It would have been better not to take such an important decision as that of delegating the powers of suspension [. . .] without having obtained [. . .] the assent of my department [. . .] there is reason to fear [. . .] that in a country so riven by political passions, the heads of the [local] states, especially those who are indige`nes [. . .] exercise [. . .] the right to suspend with a bias toward their interests.35 The Foreign Minister added that, ‘such criticisms could not be formulated if these suspensions had been announced by the High Commissioner’. This was because Sarrail represented an office ‘placed above the quarrels be they confessional or political, enjoying a greater authority since he appears as the representative of the mandatory power’.36 Perhaps acknowledging the mounting evidence that, in fact, it was Sarrail’s personal convictions that had encouraged ‘political passions’, Herriot reaffirmed his belief that the state’s role was to glide above the ‘political passions’ of local elites, regardless of their communal affiliations.37 The unapologetic General Sarrail defended himself in a further cable. He informed Herriot that the High Commission had in fact retained all rights to suspend newspapers and that the delegation of censorship powers to the local states was accompanied by: ‘A surveillance exercised [. . .] which allows for the education of the Syrian or Lebanese nation, as suggested by the spirit of the mandate [. . .] leaving the High Commissioner in this [public] sphere even more distanced’.38 Sarrail further defended his actions by suggesting that various elements were aligning themselves against him.39 Sarrail concluded by explaining that the opposition was the result of: Certain feudal Maronites [. . .] who, to quote the formula that a certain [Maronite] patriarch [Elias Hoyek] recently used in an interview, “are losing the scandalous supremacy that they have enjoyed until the present, let alone the benefits of material profits”, and [. . .] all those who [. . .] believe that the France of today should return to that of [the Catholic Bourbon] Restoration.40

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Despite these reassurances, on 5 May 1925 Lebanon Governor Cayla suspended L’Orient yet again using delegated powers. This was in response to an article in the paper accusing the mandate government of attacking religious freedoms.41 Cayla had first used the delegated powers to suspend the Arabophone satirical newspaper Al-Dabbour on 27 April, though this elicited little controversy in contrast to the censoring of Francophone Catholic newspapers. It is noteworthy that Cayla had received some support for his suspensions. In May 1925 George Samne´’s Comite´ Central Syrien, which put out the Francophile-Levantine Correspondence d’Orient magazine in Paris, sent senior Quai d’Orsay mandarin, Philippe Berthelot, a letter in support of Sarrail and Cayla.42 Sarrail’s general approach was supported in a telegram sent to the Foreign Ministry by several Lebanese newspaper editors in early May 1925. The editors wrote that they ‘clearly approved the attitude of the High Commission [. . .] the recent measures relating to the press regime correspond to the need for public order’.43 A diplomatic note commented that the newspapers of importance among the signatories were the Arabophone nationalist Al-Watan, Al-Barq, Al-Ra’y al-‘Am and Al-Hurriyah, but also included Georges Vayssie´’s Francophile La Syrie, an alliance that could not have been imagined a few years earlier.44 Despite this limited support, by mid-May, Sarrail was once again asked by Herriot to justify the suspension of L’Orient following further protest, this time arising from moderate republican assembly deputy and cabinet member, Louis Marin. Finally, L’Echo d’Orient, published alongside L’Orient as a sister paper, earned itself a suspension of its own on its first day of publication: 10 June 1925.45 Sarrail defended this by insisting that L’Orient had published an article suggesting that ‘certain French bureaucrats were attacking religion [. . .] and such attacks put the mandate at risk’.46 In a subsequent telegram, Sarrail claimed that French journalist Gustave Gautherot was only involving himself in the affair because he was hoping to buy the newspaper.47 The editor of L’Orient, Georges Khabaz, had had enough. He wrote a public notice informing his readers that he was temporarily shutting down both L’Orient and L’Echo d’Orient as a result of the ‘tenacious hatred’ demonstrated by the Sarrail government towards the two newspapers. Khabaz alleged that the government had even leant on the Capuchin printing presses that put out his newspapers. ‘Strange times!’ he wrote:

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when the authorities have no more pressing affairs than to impose a silence on the most notorious supporters of the French mandate [. . .] but the fierceness that is manifested towards us [. . .] is it not the proper condemnation of the regime?48 The embarrassment occasioned by these censorship problems led the Foreign Minister to ask Sarrail to treat the press regulations as if they had a ‘provisional character’, waiting until the Lebanese representative chamber reconvened before promoting any new press law.49 The easily riled and rarely diplomatic Sarrail replied by abruptly pointing out that the press regulations laws were already provisional. According to him, they had been introduced to deal with ‘exceptional situations [. . .] that risked endangering the very authority of the mandatory power’. Sarrail claimed he had used his own High Commission censorship powers only during two ‘exceptional situations’: the first had led to the suspension of a Beirut newspaper because it had intimated an anti-religious agenda among French bureaucrats, while the second affected newspaper, published in Damascus, had printed Muslim prayers for those killed in the Moroccan Rif war.50 Sarrail’s intransigence in the face of mounting criticism would soon lead to his removal as the L’Orient Affair combined with the aforementioned Carbillet affair into a broader ‘Sarrail Affair’.51 The Sarrail Affair, as its name implies, referred, in part, to the setbacks inflicted on the Cartel des Gauches-appointed and secular-republican High Commissioner’s attempts to overhaul the clientelist mandatory methods that had been implemented under the romantic-orientalist Gouraud and general-secretary Robert De Caix. This specific irruption of grievances with a change in mandatory methods was a demonstration of the multiple sources of contestation to French authority that a clientelist approach encouraged; even the most Francophile of communities and intellectuals could use cultural institutions to protest French policies that they believed were changing the initial mandatory political culture.

Syro-Lebanese Press Activity in Europe Alongside the Francophone Levantine press, various Syrians and postOttoman subjects were working as journalists and editors in Europe. In Paris, the Turco-Syrian Committee had been founded in 1895.

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It published a newspaper called Kushif al-Niqab (Lifting the Veil) which was closed by the French authorities as a result of pressure from Sultan Abdulhamid II.52 The Hamidian exodus’ legacy of internationalism thus ˙ provided foundations for anti-mandate activism. A Paris-based Bureau d’Information Islamique, founded in February 1920 and edited by Rishad Nihad Bey, was suspected to be supported by the Turkish government.53 French intelligence noted that Rishad Bey’s newspaper was headquartered in his own flat, which suggested a meagreness of resources. The editor was nevertheless reported to have received Indian, Armenian and Iranian journalists as well as French parliamentarians including the socialist critic of the mandate Marcel Sembat and Catholic Marc Sangnier.54 Rishad Nihad Bey was also said to be close to French orientalist novelist Pierre Loti. Marc Sangnier’s La De´mocratie publishing house was where this newspaper was printed. French reports noted that the Bureau and its affiliated newsletter, L’Echo de l’Islam, demonstrated greater interest in British policy in 1920s India and Egypt and the Kemalist struggle for independence in Turkey while remaining relatively mute with respect to French possessions. In 1923, a Turk named Tarek Bey was scrutinised by French intelligence, who claimed that his editorship of Les Echos de l’Orient was sustained by Turkish money.55 Of greater concern for French authorities were the Syro-Lebanese associations and journalists active in Paris and Geneva. In 1922, a special police commissioner in Paris monitored a group calling themselves the Association of Syrian Youth, who had published a tract entitled: ‘What all Frenchmen should know about Syria’.56 This Association was presided over by Ibrahim Naggiar, a journalist who had received French money to found Al-Mustaqbal (The Future). Other members of the Association were students, such as Omar Fakhouri and Hilmi Barudy. Despite its superficially Francophile background, the Association of Syrian Youth’s pamphlet called on the French Parliament and public opinion to heed to their demands regarding the failed military rule of the country.57 The Association claimed that ‘Syria is an “independent state”’ and that the division of Syria into separate states had been toxic. The pamphlet also claimed that taxes had become more arbitrary than during the Ottoman period, that the press had less freedom, that more subsidies were paid to newspapers and that freedom of speech and association had been curtailed.58

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Later in the summer of 1922, French intelligence reported that the Association had links with the Syrian Union political party. This party was presided over by Michel Lutfallah, a wealthy Greek-Orthodox moneylender based in Egypt, and demanded the removal of AngloFrench troops from the Levant, the end to mandates, recognition of Syria, Lebanon and Palestine and the right to reorganise these states in an Arab Federation.59 The Association of Syrian Youth’s members were also noted to be close to the Union Intercoloniale (UI), a group organised by the French Communists (PCF), with some Syrian members taking part in an UI periodicals reading circle.60 However, it is worth noting that public opinion in what was termed the ‘Syrian colony’ in Paris was not uniformly against the mandate in the early years. Even after the Great Revolt, in 1927, La Croix reported a Syriac Catholic holiday celebration led by Patriarch Ephrem II Rahmani and attended by the Minister of Foreign Affairs.61 Yet France’s clientelist ties to favoured ‘compact’ minorities such as the Maronites did not inevitably translate into support for mandatory methods. Elias T. Hoyek, a relative of the Maronite Patriarch, was the editor of the Revue du Proche-Orient, published in Paris. At the outset of the Great Syrian Revolt, the magazine published an article critical of French management.62 A few months earlier, in June 1925, Hoyek was in contact with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, seeking financial support for his review. In a note to the Ministry, he described his review as being published twice a week in both French and Arabic. According to Hoyek, its aims were to defend Lebanese, Syrian and mahjar interests without political favour and to keep Syro-Lebanese readers abreast of developments in France. Hoyek nevertheless noted that his paper was ‘scrutinising the execution of the conditions of the mandate as they were established by the League of Nations and [would] denounce all infractions’.63 French officials admitted that Hoyek had likely chosen to open the paper in Paris in order to avoid the ‘severe regime to which the press is subjected in Lebanon. Published in France, Mr. Hoyek’s newspaper cannot be censored indefinitely’.64 In a further note, Hoyek expressed his disappointment that ‘over the past six years, Syria and Lebanon have been the subject of several debates in the French Parliament, and not once [. . .] has there been a debate on the prosperity of these two countries’. Debates instead focused on French strategy and spending.

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Hoyek also criticised what he saw as General Sarrail’s partial and abrupt governance meaning that ‘the French were considered by us to be demi-gods but, after their contact with our population, they descended from the pedestal’.65 Events in 1925 encouraged greater condemnation of French methods. Following the outbreak of the 1925 Revolt, a Syrian Association pamphlet was published denouncing the French occupying power and making crafty use of France’s own traditions and history to argue against ‘lies, iniquity, imperialism and force’. It praised the traditional French influence in the Levant for having encouraged democracy and liberalism. Yet the Association claimed that the mandatory power had initiated an economic crisis and represented a mortal menace to the social integrity of Syria. Criticising the creation of autonomous states dividing historical Syria (Bilad Al-Sham), the pamphlet argued that all Syrians wished for a united and independent Syria. As evidence, the Association alleged that 80 per cent of the domestic Syrian press was owned by Christian elites, yet even they encouraged Syrian unity.66 Another group formed in Paris in 1924 was the ‘Association of Syrian Arab Students’ presided over by a PhD student, Abdallah El-Yafi, who would become a venerated Lebanese prime minister. He was aided by Damascus notable Haidar Mardam Bey who would be a short-term governor of Hassetche´ governorate and was a relative of the eminent Jamil Mardam Bey.67 Over the course of 1925– 6 the Association led an intense public opinion campaign in the metropolitan press and among parliamentarians such as republican, and one-time Minister for the Navy, Desire´ Ferry. Among the pieces this association circulated were leaflets claiming that Syria was witnessing bloodier protests than at any time during Ottoman rule. Another letter declared that Syrians were neither intransigent nor Francophobic and asked France for military instructors and capital investment for the development of their territories, reflecting a desire for specialised education and mise en valeur development discussed in previous chapters.68 In Marseille, the special police commissioner also kept tabs on Syrian activity. He ran a Syrian agent named Antoine Fare`s, a close friend of renowned Francophile writer Shukri Ghanem. Yet even this Francophile agent reported massacres during the 1925 Great Revolt. Drawing on eye witness accounts, Fare`s produced pamphlets claiming that Senegalese troops had raped, pillaged and shot citizens of Hama.69 Switzerland, the

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host nation of the League of Nations, gained a particular importance for Francosphe`re anti-mandate lobbying. In 1921 the special police (special branch) commissioner in Annemasse ran spies across the border and discoved a network in Geneva supporting the Syrian Union political party.70 He reported that the Union was documenting French human rights violations.71 The Union was led by such nationalist luminaries as Sheikh Rashid Rida‘, Shakib Arslan, future Syrian President Riad Al-Solh and the ˙ editor of the Beirut-based Alif Ba¯ʼ, Toufiq Al-Yazigi.72 The Union’s president was ‘Prince’ Michel Lutfallah. Michel and his brother, Habib, had been assessed as minor political actors during World War I. Lutfallah had been described by controversial administrator Sir John Maxwell in a letter to Lord Kitchener as ‘a weak vain type’ who could not be trusted because he could not keep information to himself.73 A later report, in 1918, written by the British ambassador in Madrid, where Habib Lutfallah was residing, described him as ‘too foolish to be seriously dangerous’.74 Despite the uninviting assessments, Habib had become King Hussein of Transjordan’s ambassador to Italy while Shakib Arslan’s brother Fuad was King Hussein’s principal advisor. To French intelligence officers, this was a sign of Kemalist, Hashemite and British interest in penetrating Syrian nationalist networks.75 Among the other key anti-mandate activists in Geneva were Izz Al-Din Saleh, who was alleged to be a money launderer for Hejaz-derived Hashemite funds. Another figure was Abdul Karim Hante`s, president of the Syrian Committee, who was born in Brazil. Finally, there was Shukri Al-Quwatli, future Syrian president and active during the Faisalian attempt at building an independent state.76 French police suggested that the British were secretly funding him, reporting a deposit of 200,000 francs at Lloyds Bank in Geneva. Aside from the British, the police report suggested subversive interventions by the Italian Foreign Ministry and the Turkish government.77 In November 1923 a humanitarian network, the Societe´ de Bienfaisance Arabe in Istanbul, was noted by French intelligence to have received payments from a Syrian Union activist.78 A month later, a report described Arslan as the right-hand man of Michel Lutfallah. It outlined suspicions that a trip by Arslan to Istanbul was intended to transform the Societe´ de Bienfaisance Arabe into a front organisation for

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laundering Syrian Union political funds.79 The special police commissioner in Annemasse went so far as to claim that Michel Lutfallah was a British agent.80 In November 1923 three key members of the Separatist Committee delegation in Europe, Emir Shakib Arslan, Irfan Al-Jabiri and Suleyman Kanaan, were campaigning against the mandate by organising petitions to the League from Berlin and Geneva while ‘creating a hostile attitude’ to the mandate in the Egyptian and US-based Syrian press.81 In December 1923 these three ‘fierce enemies of the French mandate’ were joined by the aforementioned financier Michel Lutfallah in Cairo to organise a Syrian Congress.82 In the same month, the Syrian Union in Geneva was planting articles in European newspapers. Reports claimed the Union’s committee had reached out to the director of the Bern-based news agency Respublica, Leon Choulat, and of holding discussions with a correspondent for the Wolff German news agency, Dr Max Beer.83

Figure 6.1 Syro-Palestinian Congress meeting in Geneva from 25 August to 21 September 1921. Among the attendees are Sheikh Rashid Rida’, Michel Lutfallah, Ihsan Al-Jabri, Emir Shakib Arslan, as well as Egyptian, Geneva-based journalist ‘Ali Al-Ghayati. Available online: http://eltaher. org/docs_photos/1921-Syro-and-Lebanese-Palestinian-Congress-Meetingin-Geneva-image593_en.html.

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An important figure in Geneva-based press activity was Egyptian journalist ‘Ali Al-Ghayati. Al-Ghayati had reportedly been condemned to death in Egypt but had been smuggled out by the British in 1912 and, according to the Annemasse special commissioner’s intelligence, was paid to write pro-British propaganda during the World War.84 After the War, Al-Ghayati was the Tribune de Gene`ve’s oriental affairs correspondent where, according to the French consul in Geneva, he engaged in a ‘campaign’ against France at the League of Nations.85 The Tribune de Gene`ve had previously led an active campaign for Egyptian independence but was flagged by French officials in 1921 for turning its attention to Syrian affairs.86 The Tribune de Gene`ve had published an article, written by Al-Ghayati, entitled ‘Syria and the League of Nations’ which stated that there was a forgotten Syrian question whose ‘weak echo, attenuated by its distance and censorship, managed to reach us from time to time’.87 Echoing complaints made during the L’Orient Affair, and foreshadowing the Andrews and Kanya-Forstner thesis regarding the role of the Parti Colonial, the Tribune de Gene`ve pointed to expansionist and religious milieus as the drivers of protectorate mandatory methods.88 The Tribune de Gene`ve quoted an anonymous article by a serving military officer in Syria which had previously appeared in the metropolitan daily L’Information. The officer lamented how ‘here we are all dismayed by what the French newspapers say which has nothing to do with the reality [on the ground]’.89 Al-Ghayati’s article explained that there was a Syrian question as much as an Arab or Egyptian one despite French attempts to bury it. He noted that: The events unfolding over the past two years [. . .] of which only a weak echo attenuated by distance and censorship reaches us [. . .] rekindle this question. Among the expansionist or French clerical circles there is an attempt to put aside public opinion by representing the Syrian as satisfied with the new regime [. . .] Yet [. . .] we know [. . .] that the great majority of Syrians are hostile to France’s actual policy.90 Al-Ghayati now had the full attention of the French diplomaticsurveillance apparatus. In July 1921, the authorities raised the issue of the Tribune de Gene`ve’s ‘tendentious’ reporting with its editor Edgar

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Junod. Despite Junod’s promise to correct his newspaper’s approach, the consul insisted that Le Tribune directly republish an article published in the French newspaper of record, Le Temps.91 By 1922, the French consul in Geneva had made up his mind on Al-Ghayati’s stance and described him simply as an ‘Arab militant’.92 In the same year Al-Ghayati, who lived in Anemmasse, left the Tribune de Gene`ve and launched his own newspaper, La Tribune d’Orient. La Tribune appeared twice monthly with a motto proclaiming it to be ‘in defence of the rights of a renascent Orient’. Its tagline quoted President Woodrow Wilson’s ‘14 Points’ speech to Congress: ‘a principle evidently underlies the programme I have outlined: it is that which assures justice to all peoples’. It was published in both French and Arabic. The French suspected Al-Ghayati’s newspaper of being funded by a fellow Egyptian, Ali Bey Kamel, who was the president of the Wafd (Delegation) Party.93 The Annemasse special commissioner voiced his beliefs that Al-Ghayati and other activists in Geneva were being encouraged by a panoply of sponsors ranging from the pan-Islamic movement to the German Society for the Orient and Faisalian sympathisers.94 Although both believed that Al-Ghayati represented a node in a network of Arab nationalist activity, a dispute emerged between the French consul in Geneva and the Annemasse commissioner. In April 1922, the commissioner in Annemasse judged Arab nationalist organisations in Switzerland to have the potential to create ‘inextricable difficulties’ for French rule in Syria.95 The Annemasse commissioner alleged that a Syrian Committee in Geneva had even taken the step of publishing a letter calling for the formation of Revolutionary Committee. He claimed that this organisation had called for a purge of French bureaucrats and even encouraged the assassination of Lebanese Governor Albert Michel Trabaud.96 Yet in December 1922, the consul warned against overestimating Ghayati’s reach since his ‘personality is rather discreet [e´fface´]’.97 A few years later the French consul in Geneva maintained his stance that Al-Ghayati did not pose a true threat. He noted that the Tribune d’Orient had under 100 subscribers.98 He further suggested that Al-Ghayati’s importance had been exaggerated by certain French intelligence agents, most likely being run by the Annemasse police commissioner, who were more interested in gaining importance in

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French intelligence-gathering circles than giving a truthful account of the Arab nationalist threat. The consul pointed out that one such agent, Arthur Leuma, also going by the name of Rene´ Lambert, had been discovered to have fraudulently printed anti-French pamphlets only to subsequently bring them to French attention.99 Al-Ghayati’s newspaper nevertheless provided an outlet for continuing challenges to French mandatory methods. In February 1923, Al-Ghayati’s Tribune published an open letter from nationalist leader Shakib Arslan to General Gouraud. In it, Arslan took the general to task for suggesting that part of France’s mission was the protection of the Christian communities from Muslim attacks. Arslan pointed out that during World War I, Syrian and Lebanese Muslims had done no harm to the Christians, and had even welcomed refugees.100 In September 1925, Al-Ghayati wrote an editorial warning France that the 1925 rebellion represented a rejection of their mandatory methods, explaining that: Syrians are demanding the suppression of the mandate and the recognition of independence [. . .] the British policy in Iraq should have long ago served to open the eyes of the French and to set an example [. . .] [instead they have instituted] a policy of colonisation, similar to that in Algeria or Morocco.101 In the 5 November 1925 edition of La Tribune, Al-Ghayati reported on British activity in Palestine and Iraq, on the creation of a mosque in Geneva (a city he praised as ‘the Protestant Rome [. . .] The Mecca of the West’) and on decisions taken at the League of Nations’ Permanent Commission on Mandates with respect to Syria. The Great Revolt had led to pressure on France to account for developments in Syria.102 In response to the outbreak of the Great Revolt, he also reprinted a petition by the Association Syrienne Arabe de Paris which was: Disturbed by the harrowing news coming from Syria [. . .] the military authorities [. . .] bombarded certain neighbourhoods of Damascus [. . .] Hama [. . .] in the name of humanity [they called] for French public opinion to protest with it against these bloody events [. . .] this unimaginable terrorism.103

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In the same edition of La Tribune, Al-Ghayati published a petition by Prince Michel Lutfallah, based in Egypt, decrying the bombardment of Damascus and the Druze towns. Al-Ghayati also published a petition sent by a Druze delegation to Tommy Martin, the interim governor of the Jabal Druze who had replaced the unpopular Captain Carbillet.104 Among the Druze claims was that Carbillet had used local civil servants, including school teachers, as his spies and fomenters of discord in the Druze villages. Platforms like Al-Ghayati’s newspaper thus provided a pillar for consistent protest against French mandatory methods.

The Republican and Right-Wing Metropolitan Press The metropolitan press was more dependable in the eyes of French administrators. Some left-wing newspapers, such as the Communist L’Humanite´, dissented from the very idea of French tutelage. Yet the broad consensus accepted France’s right and obligation to administer Syria and Lebanon, though mandatory methods were occasionally queried. As a whole, the metropolitan French newspapers absorbed, upheld and reiterated French claims of culture and civilisation in the Levant, thus benefiting local administrators and central planners in Paris. The republican and right-wing metropolitan press included such learned revues as the pre-eminent Revue des Deux Mondes, somewhat analogous to America’s Atlantic Monthly, and great dailies such as La Croix and Le Matin. They tended toward a consensus which accepted the premise of colonial activity while sometimes disagreeing with the cruder methods made evident by bloody rebellion. The Revue des Deux Mondes proved to be a platform for the ‘gathering, innovation and crystallisation’ of discussion framing French mandatory methods for elite metropolitan opinion.105 The magazine was more broadly an influential meeting place for those advocating a ‘liberal’ imperialism which used the rhetoric of a civilising mission renovated in a mise en valeur garb. Indeed, Lenka Bokova has noted the tight-knit agreement on the mandate in principle across European and US corridors of power, one that could control and contain both the rivalries of international powers and the nascent demands of revolutionary nationalists and internationalists.106 As noted in Chapter 3 on cultural heritage, this approach provided for a convenient double discourse. First, the outdated nineteenth-century

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mission civilisatrice could be upgraded to the humanitarian and developmental elements of twentieth-century state-building. Second, the mission of forming ‘la plus grande France’ [‘the most extensive France’] reorganised initial visions of empire by tying elites through the Francophonie. Such views as those of the famous novelist and travel writer Maurice Barre`s, who noted the importance of Francophone education for tying local elites to France, were discussed in the Revue.107 In 1915, French Consul Rene´ Ristelhueber wrote of the Maronites in the Revue des Deux Mondes as: Traditional clients [. . .] [their] attachment [. . .] to our country is very widely known [. . .] but if [. . .] [no doubt exists] [. . .] that Syria is a kind of ‘France Outre-Mer’ [. . .] [and if the Maronites] [. . .] are very popular with us due to their devotion to our cause [. . .] very few [among us] know who they exactly are.108 In 1916, an article in Le Monde Illustre´ set the tone for liberal press coverage in the pre-mandate period when it wrote of ‘this Syria, that we would like to return to France, which is, like an Alsace of Asia, like a piece of France held prisoner’.109 By the early 1920s, the magazine’s focus had shifted to cultural affairs. Yet it retained proximity to colonial elites, as shown by the ties between its editor, Rene´ Doumic, and Generals Lyautey in Morocco and Gouraud in Syria. Anonymous articles from serving officers of the Arme´e du Levant were published in the magazine in 1921. Two senior administrators of the mandate, Commander Michel Canonge and Robert De Caix, published articles praising Gouraud’s methods, the French mission in Syria and the mechanisms of delegated government that had been set up in the vein of Lyautey’s Morocco.110 De Caix justified the French approach to the mandate as ‘a modest framework within which a people without any tradition of self-government of its own can begin its political education’.111 De Caix added that: The mandate is a much more delicate enterprise than the protectorate [. . .] after the War, France had limited means [. . .] what was accomplished in such conditions cannot be compared to any of our other overseas ventures [. . .] if we could have, without

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any losses, sincerely made use of new ideas [of governance] and organised an only temporary mandate for the Orient, we should have done so. Among [. . .] the critics [are those] who think [. . .] that the method was wrong [. . .] there are still people who believe we could have used Emir Faisal for the organisation [. . .] [yet] [. . .] it was the Emir [. . .] who made all collaboration impossible [. . .] he represented his father [Sharif Hussein of Mecca]; the one who had signed [a pact] with a British agent.112 De Caix finished his note by justifying France’s intervention and mandatory methods: This policy was without a doubt founded on a belief that there was no appetite among French public opinion for a Syrian enterprise [. . .] after having swept away the Emir’s Government, General Gouraud did not think for a moment to install a direct administration upon its ruins [. . .] in January [1921] [. . .] the High Commissioner [. . .] studied [. . .] the popular perceptions, the organisation of states [. . .] the representative institutions [. . .] the organisation of a Syrian confederation [. . .] [but] [. . .] the masses remain completely alien from the idea of a public sphere [la vie publique]. The few groups of notables, who remain the sole constituents of the ‘political landscape’ [. . .] were almost all in favour of the organisation of states undertaken by Gouraud.113 The newspaper of record, Le Temps, consistently spun news from Syria to favour the interpretations of De Caix and fellow mandate administrators. For instance, the Ankara Accord, which could be considered an emasculation of French power in the region by the nascent Kemalist forces, was covered by Le Temps as a French achievement securing the northern border. The paper wrote that ‘the population of Aleppo is celebrating the conclusion of the Ankara Accord, which leaves the bandits without support’.114 Yet even before the beginning of the mandate, Syrian voices in liberal-centrist French newspapers countered the francocentric claims of civilisation and expansion. One article, written in the Mercure de France in 1916 by Y. Bitar, was entitled ‘the true French Syria’. Bitar noted the flurry of mid-World War I commentary in favour of the establishment of a protectorate in

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Syria on the basis of a privileged French cultural presence in the region. Though he largely agreed with encouragement of a French protectorate, Bitar nevertheless sought to note the important Syrian absorption of French culture and philosophy. His article thus gave agency to local Syrians and Lebanese in choosing to use French learning to advance their own interests. In an early example of shifting approaches from Francophonie to Francosphe`re, Bitar explained that: ‘Syrians [. . .] are the inheritors of this wonderful Arab civilisation [. . .] in every cultivated Syrian a Frenchman could recognise his [. . .] own culture’. Bitar used the interactions between French poets and writers and their Syrian counterparts as proof of these ties which had the effect of placing Syrians as equals to the French.115 A month later, the Mercure de France also published a dissenting piece by a Lebanese-French editor at Le Temps, Khairi T. Khairallah.116 Khairallah criticised Bitar for having exaggerated the extent of French influence among Syrian Christians. He also noted that Bitar had continually referred to Christians, thus passing over wholesale the large number of non-Christian Syrians. Khairallah acknowledged the predominant cultural influence of French authors in the region. However, he emphasised that this coexisted with an enduring Arab-Islamic culture and a growing Russian and British influence. Khairallah noted that even among the estimated 40,000 students educated in French schools: The congregational [i.e., religious missionary] influence in Syria ends at the doors of the school. Modern developments have [. . .] surpassed it [the missionary influence] and [even] turned against it. The true masters are those French authors [i.e., Victor Hugo], who have done the most on behalf of France as a conquering army, by the simply irresistible spread of their genius.117 As the mandate unfolded, the liberal press grew increasingly critical of mandatory methods, if not France’s right to exercise control. In the wake of the Lesser Syrian Insurrection which foreshadowed the 1925 Great Syrian Revolt, Georges Clemenceau’s L’Homme Libre published a critical editorial in 1922. He expressed the general sanctioning of the mandate: ‘Syria is ours. But we have weakened our hand by giving up Cilicia [the rich agricultural province that was returned to Turkey] [. . .] let us be practical. We have nothing in the Orient apart from moral interests

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and commercial interests [. . .] Syria is becoming an occasion for us to waste men and spend money.’118 Responding to the Great Syrian Revolt, journalist Maurice Figerolles wrote in L’Homme Libre that the outbreak of violence in the Jabal Druze had clearly struck a chord with Syrians and Lebanese elsewhere in the country. He accepted that the British press seemed keen to exaggerate the violent developments yet added that even Le Temps had understated the spread of the Revolt. For Figerolles, this was a sign of a deep malaise among Syrians with the methods of the mandate. Figerolles also made an incisive commentary that underscored the capacity for the press to turn an initially limited uprising into a much greater challenge to the very foundations of mandatory rule. Noting the relatively small manpower mobilised by Bedouin and Druze rebels, Figerolles argued that though: It is possible that the Druze [. . .] have dealt us a blow [. . .] it is something else to think that, as a result of these events, the Syrian population are in a state of avowed effervescence [. . .] It is with composure as well as military action that the situation [of control] can be re-established.119 Two words used by Figerolles reveal paradoxical pillars of how imperial control was conceptualised. First, the use of the word ‘effervescence’, which reduced Syrian dissent to nothing more than a froth, suggests the entrenchment of an orientalist lens even among the ‘liberal’ press. Second, the use of the call for ‘composure’ on the part of both the mandate authorities and French officials betrays an appreciation of the power of the press to shape public opinion and government policy in France as much as in Syria. Figerolles was voicing a broader recognition of the role of mature cultural institutions like the press in holding mandatory methods to account. A year after Figerolles’ questioning of mandatory methods, in 1927, an editor of the Mercure de France, bibliographer and orientalist Emile Laloy, was agreeing with lawyer Alphonse Jouet’s assessment that Syria had become a lost cause. In Laloy’s opinion, France was ‘covered with shame and ridicule and [. . .] [would not] escape disaster’.120 In contrast to liberal reservations, the Catholic-aligned right-wing press, coalescing around the popular daily La Croix, buttressed French

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claims of culture from an ideological, rather than strategic, perspective. After the inauguration of King Faisal in Damascus in 1918, it had published one of several denunciations of the new Sunni Muslim government penned by Lebanese Catholics; this one was written by Bishop Joseph Dumani of Tripoli.121 A few years later, in 1920, Jean Giraud of La Croix informed its readers that ‘the moment is [. . .] decisive. We will see if our government will profit from the victory to consolidate our influence in the countries which, since the Crusades, are the clients [. . .] of France’.122 In one article, a letter from ‘a pilgrim’, the newspaper published an opinion that revealed the limits of the conception of the mandate in conservative Christian circles: Let none be mistaken! In all the countries we have traversed [. . .] One fact dominates all others, that is the awakening of Muslim fanaticism [. . .] all concessions from us is held to be a proof of our weakness. Open a mosque in Paris or give a grant to a Syrian mosque, the sole response from a Muslim souls will be: For the Christians to act thus, it must mean they are afraid of us!123 Another article in La Croix denounced those who were criticising the mandate, despite such criticism falling within a spectrum focused on tactical questions of mandatory methods. The La Croix article argued that mandate naysayers’ views were either seeing it as imperial overstretch or were opposed to an exorbitant adventure. La Croix dismissed both views as unsubstantiated.124 La Croix’s preoccupation with promoting Catholic interests led to the publication of one article belittling the USA’s religious and educational influence. It stated that: If the Yankees are so energetically interested in the Orient after the War, it is not so much because of commercial enterprises [. . .] what preoccupies them above all, is the fate of their citizens. Most are Syrians who had immigrated to the US before the War and returned [. . .] add to them the professors of the AntiCatholic Faculty of Beirut [the AUB] and certain missionaries from diverse sects who are busy proselytising the Armenian orphans.125

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By 1926, however, even La Croix’s correspondent in Lattakia was admitting the deep fissures in governance that the 1925 Great Revolt had revealed. However, unlike his liberal-centrist colleagues, he suggested solving the impasse by instituting more direct colonial-style administration. He wrote that: Today, calm has come back to Syria, but, after the victory [. . .] we should have continued with a firm hand [. . .] [instead] we have restarted [. . .] concessions [. . .] Dr. Shahbandar, the chief of the rebels, has been amnestied twice before [. . .] [with] the revolt in Damascus put down, once again there is a general amnesty [. . .] [yet] the Muslim [. . .] can submit to an infidel [. . .] [only] if he recognises in his master someone stronger than him. Justifying his reading of the situation, the correspondent pointed out that in the region of Lattakia there was no need to ‘impregnate this uncultivated population, habituated to slavery since the beginning of time, with ideas of emancipation, politics and universal suffrage [. . .] the Alawites asked only to become a French colony’. However, even La Croix’s correspondent admitted that some of the local government’s methods had engendered alienation. For instance: On Sunday 6 June [1926] a procession for the Holy Sacrament took place [. . .] the crowds composed of a Catholic minority [. . .] all being undertaken in the roads, in the midst of the Muslims, and in front of the Mosques [. . .] the Muslim is by nature very tolerant, so long as he is well governed; if poorly governed, he becomes bloody and excessively fanatical.126 Though La Croix demonstrated an ideologically fostered fervour for direct colonial-style methods in contrast to liberal concerns, the spectrum of the centrist-right metropolitan press generally sanctioned France’s right to her Syrian mandate. Despite this overall sanction of the idea (or meaning) of the mandate, the French administration in Beirut still sought to influence the metropolitan press. In mid-1920 the deus ex machina in Beirut, general-secretary Robert De Caix, notified Paris of the need to ‘inform’ the French press of developing events lest the French papers were tempted to source their news from the British dailies.

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He literally recommended ‘feeding’ the Paris-based Havas telegram agency.127 Such a cosy relationship would be mutually beneficial. For instance, praise of Field Marshal Allenby’s visit to Beirut in 1921 was sent by the High Commission’s press office to Havas director Henri Barbier-Havas as an exclusive scoop.128 Other instances suggest a close relationship between the metropolitan press and mandate authorities. In 1920, a P. Andre´ sent a letter to Colonel Bre´mond, the governor of Cilicia, in which he warned Bre´mond of a campaign against him in the metropolitan press, particularly in Le Monde. Andre´ said that this had been put to a stop by making use of his father’s clout in the press syndicate.129 Aside from exercising influence, French authorities can be documented to have actively cut off news exchanges between the Levant and the metropole.130 In July 1922, Gouraud warned the Ministry of Foreign Affairs that French radio broadcasts informing listeners that the Ankara Protocol would lead to a reduction in French troop numbers in Syria could only have ‘bad effects’ if they were to be spread among Syrians.131 Such attempts at control were not wholly successful. As the Great Syrian Revolt erupted in 1925, L’Homme Libre published news of its extension from Jabal Druze to Aleppo by citing a Daily Mail report while craftily reminding readers that there had been no updates from Paris itself, thereby providing a semblance of balance while inserting veiled criticism of quasi-censorship.132 When La Croix published news regarding the recruiting of the Bedouin Rwallah tribe for policing, it had to source its information from The Times.133 Even a praiseworthy account of the spring 1926 co-ordinated French offensive in response to the Great Revolt published in La Croix cited the New York Daily News and Reuters as sources.134 Officials at the Quai d’Orsay expressed concerns when negative news of mandatory methods were being revealed in the metropolitan press. Following the publication of a pro-Catholic declaration by Lebanon Governor Albert Trabaud in L’Echo de Paris, officials telegrammed Robert De Caix with concerns about its negative impact. They asked mandate authorities to ensure that a ‘very liberal conception’ of the mandate was upheld.135 De Caix’s reply defended Trabaud’s remarks, portraying the controversy as a minor incident resulting from Trabaud’s poor choice of words. He claimed that Trabaud’s speech had been interpreted in a partisan way. The governor had only sought to

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affirm France’s commitment to the mandate. De Caix blamed this misinterpretation on the British-influenced Egyptian press, to be examined in the next chapter. Yet he nevertheless assured Paris that he would vet any future declarations made by the governor.136 Despite certain disagreements expressed in sections of the press and political administration over mandatory methods between the imperial centre and colonial periphery, a majority consensus sustained French rights to a Levantine mandate. However, there were exceptions. The right-leaning satirical magazine La Lanterne, which had not shied from criticising the Elyse´e even during the authoritarian days of Louis Napole´on, published a critical article in 1924 written by French Deputy and Parti Colonial member Georges Barthe´lemy entitled ‘The Syrian trap’.137 Barthe´lemy criticised a mandate administration that was ‘far from bringing honour to our country’ and decried the ‘complicit silence observed by most of the media’. He claimed that senior bureaucrats were interested only in crass pleasures while the lower ranks were inventing work to keep themselves busy. All this was overseen by Robert De Caix, who Barthe´lemy described as: Elegant and erratic [. . .] [a] [. . .] rare bird, which the Quai d’Orsay found in the editorial room of a strictly confidential review [a jibe at the Comite´ de l’Asie Francaise’s magazine L’Asie Franc
aise which De Caix had edited] [. . .] [he] played the big lord.138 As for the High Commissioner Gouraud, he was mostly absent: Loyal to the method that brought him a most brilliant career [in the military] he sees nothing, hears nothing [. . .] leaving administration to the noble viscount [De Caix] and politics to the Jesuit Father [Lucien] Cattin [. . .] [to the extent that Syrians say] General Cattin and the father Gouraud [representing a jibe both at mandatory authority and Gouraud’s infamous religiosity].139 Barthe´lemy encouraged the French parliament to cut the funding for Syria by adopting a maxim of ‘neither a coin, nor a man’ and to undertake a serious enquiry into the running of the mandate. He added that:

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We have abandoned to the Turks the richest and most promising part of the territory [Cilicia] [. . .] all that needs to be said is that with the 5 billion [francs] thrown to the wind of whichever folly pursued by the High Commission in Beirut, the [Albert] Sarraut programme of development [mise en valeur] could have been completely achieved and we would have thus obtained [. . .] the rejuvenation of France and economic independence [from national debt].140 Legislator Barthe´lemy even alleged immoral behaviour. He wrote: ‘bureaucrats coming back from Beirut admitted to me [. . .] “it is not an administration, it is a b –- [bordello]” [. . .] the chiefs [. . .] spend their time sharing cars, residences, horses and [. . .] the typists’.141 In 1925 Franc
ois de Tessan, a radical-socialist public figure and soon to become a member of the chamber of deputies, wrote of the Sarrail Affair that presaged the Great Revolt with a degree of criticism beyond mandatory methods. He emphasised the irreconcilability between methods used and the meaning of the mandate mission, explaining that: The system of a military high commissioner had long begun to be bankrupt and General Sarrail is paying for the errors of his predecessors as well as his own mistakes. Our representatives in Syria have harmed [. . .] the psychology of our protected [Syrians and Lebanese]. They deployed an autocracy, aloofness [un faste], a disdain of certain indigenous aspirations [. . .] they over played [. . .] the use of force and secret funds.142

The Leftist Press The leftist newspapers provided the most consistent opposition to the very idea of a mandate in metropole opinion. A radical refusal of the mandate was outlined by the French Communist Party (PCF). Led by L’Humanite´, French Communists also supported a nascent Syro-Lebanese Communist movement in the last years of the period under study. After being founded in 1924 and promptly being designated as illegal, the Syro-Lebanese Communist Party had become increasingly vocal during the Great Revolt.143 In 1928, the Syro-Lebanese Communists adhered to the Third Communist International (Comintern), which had launched a

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campaign against French imperialism in Syria as early as 1924.144 French communists provided a platform for opposing France’s very right to a mandate. Communist deputy Jacques Doriot’s December 1925 speech against the mandate in the chamber of deputies was printed by the Nantes Communist Party a year later in 1926 through L’Humanite´ ’s printing press.145 Doriot’s speech laid out the argument for an independent Syria. Doriot essentially outlined what he saw as Jesuit (Gouraud and Weygand) and freemason (Sarrail) generals at the head of the country. For Doriot, the generals came from two sides of the same coin. Syria was not subject to a civilising mission but was an opportunity for expansion of capital. Doriot described the long engagement of French cultural institutions as being a ‘religious penetration’ that later converted into capitalist interests, noting that even before World War I commerce had over 200 million francs invested in the country. He alleged that General Gouraud promised business leaders at the Marseille Chamber of Commerce that ‘the venture will pay’. Syria, Doriot claimed, had been turned from an oppressed Ottoman province with some degree of parliamentary representation into an outright colony. Doriot also mocked the League of Nations which had, ‘by hazard’, granted to France and Britain the exact same territories as they had divided among themselves in the Sykes –Picot plans.146 L’Humanite´ and its associated political and cultural networks thus provided a space to shape French working-class opinion against what it saw as imperialist capitalist wars. By consistently publishing on Syrian affairs in the early mandate years, it ensured enduring opposition to the very idea of the mandate. Alongside this it also provided a platform for working-class solidarity with anti-imperial activity. For instance, a meeting of Lyon’s Comite´ Mixte d’Unite´ Syndicale, a trade union operating in that hub of the silkindustry lobby, included discussion of repression of the revolts in Syria and Morocco.147 It also advertised the Conference Ge´ne´rale des Femmes de la Re´gion Parisienne which included a call for women to participate in the struggle against imperialist wars in Morocco and Syria.148 So too did it report that a Communist congress in Glasgow had received telegrams from the Syrian, Palestinian and Egyptian parties in solidarity.149 Aside from the impact that this had on its constituents among French metropolitan workers, L’Humanite´’s stance also provided a voice

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for Syro-Lebanese dissenters. During the 1922 Lesser Syrian Insurrection, one Syrian correspondent rejected French policy, writing that: We were more than a little indignant in Syria when we learnt that, in order to defend his policy, General Gouraud had brought to Paris, housed in the Hotel du Louvre, and presented as the delegates of our country [. . .] Dr. [Jacques] Tabet and Mr. Arcache Bey. These two people are utterly unknown here [. . .] Any journal that were to declare in Syria what I have written to you would be censored.150 ‘L’Huma’ thus acted as a nodal point connecting Levantine dissent with Comintern efforts. In April 1922, it published a denunciation of French imperialism by a Lebanese Workers Party based in Alexandria. It called for the solidarity of workers’ parties in Europe and America with their cause, which focused on fighting ‘the creation [. . .] of the so-called representative parliament’ in Lebanon.151 In the same month, it reproduced a telegram from reformist Islamist Syrian thinker Rashid Rida‘, then secretary of the Syro-Palestinian Committee in Cairo. Rida‘ denounced an ‘unsustainable’ political situation and the arrests of nationalists as well as France’s crackdown on widespread protests. L’Humanite´ was even accused by French intelligence to have facilitated joint meetings between the Comite´ de l’Union Syrienne and the Comintern front-group Comite´ d’E´tudes Coloniales in Paris supervised by Amade´e Dunois, the newspaper’s editor in Paris.152 In September 1925 it published a letter from the secretary of ‘Abd alRahman Shahbandar’s Hizb Al-Sha‘ab (People’s Party), naming himself as H. Hakim, outlining the party’s requirements for constitutionalism and Syrian unity.153 During the Great Revolt, ‘L’Huma’ published a letter from an anonymous Syrian personality who thanked the paper for ‘ceaselessly defending the rights of oppressed people [. . .] Syrians who know how to appreciate humanity and principles are profoundly touched by your noble gestures’. The anonymous author added that the Great Revolt was not a local but rather a national rebellion and criticised the French authorities for ‘seeking to mislead public opinion’.154 L’Humanite´ also published a letter from Druze Revolt leader Sultan Al-Atrash that had originally appeared in the Egyptian press. Al-Atrash wrote: ‘For decades we fought for our liberty and independence. Enough

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with words – it is with the sword that we must fight!’155 The Communist organ also published extracts from letters written by the ever-vocal Druze dissident Shakib Arslan. The first, addressed to Cartel des Gauches Prime Minister Edouard Herriot, protested the description of Syria as a French possession by protestant deputy Edouard Soulier. The second raised Soulier’s claim to the attention of the President of the League of Nations’ Permanent Mandates Commission.156 Aside from acting as a forum for opposition to the mandate, an important characteristic of L’Humanite´ was that it contested the metropolitan press’ distortions and omissions. When reporting on the April 1922 Lesser Syrian Insurrection, L’Humanite´ used a cable from the Havas agency sardonically noting that the wire-service had finally decided to discuss the troubles in Syria. The newspaper read between the lines, noting that Havas’ cable had announced that no troubles had occurred in Damascus ‘since the 11 April, which confirms that there had indeed been [trouble] before’.157 Another edition of ‘L’Huma’ reprinted a letter from Suleiman Kanaan, one of the leaders in the 1922 Insurrection.158 Kanaan quoted an article in Le Temps as having denigrated his efforts which had led to the collection of ‘40,000 signatures which give me the right to speak in the name of Lebanon’. Kanaan added: Le Temps, which is a serious newspaper, should not have defended [. . .] the insanities of the administration [. . .] at the moment when European public opinion, and especially the circles of leadership and intellectuals in France have begun to perceive the outrageous abuses. L’Humanite´ introduced Kanaan’s letter by writing of its pride that it was the ‘the only newspaper that has sullied the pharisaism [dogmatic self-righteousness] of the French administration in Syria. The press has, in general, sold out to exploitative capital.’159 However, ‘L’Huma’ was equally capable of publishing its own ideological hyperbole. It denounced, for instance, ‘the venal press which has written that Syrian wishes had called us to the mounts of Lebanon. In reality [. . .] the avid merchants and lazy monks welcomed us [. . .]. But, at the first contact with Muslim tribes, the knives were drawn.’160

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Such combative activity did not go unanswered. The left-wing came under attack from the right-wing press for its stance on the Syrian and Moroccan conflicts of 1925. Right-wing paper La Croix published a critical account of questions put to the Herriot government by seven ‘leftist’ deputies: Jacques Doriot and Ferdinand Faure, of the Parti Communiste, Jules Uhry, Henry Fontanier who were Socialistes, Desire´ Ferry and Jules Desjardins, of the Union Re´publicaine et De´mocratique, and Adolphe Girod, of the Radical-Socialistes.161 In another article, La Croix quoted various papers to denounce what it saw as the fraternisation of the Communists with France’s enemies and the Cartel des Gauches’ inability to govern.162

The Colonial Lobby and Newspapers The colonial lobby and colonial press can be concisely defined as those newspapers and pamphlets that directly emanated from colonial interests. Christopher Andrews and Andrew Kanya-Forstner have discussed the use of pamphlets as a means to increase the French colonial lobby’s propaganda, which sought to convert metropolitan reticence for colonial planning into secure commercial advantages.163 Stuart Persell’s in-depth study of the lobby has noted that the Union Coloniale Franc
aise outlined the need to: ‘examine and present all economic or legislative measures deemed necessary [. . .] and to disseminate them by publicity in newspapers’.164 The colonial press was particularly defined by novelist Paul Combes at the end of the nineteenth century as comprising of the French-language newspapers dedicated to the colonial world, whether printed in the metropole or colonial domains. The colonial press and lobby’s interests largely intersected. The close ties between colonial lobbying and colonial newspapers were evident in the boards of colonial newspapers. For instance, in the early 1920s, the Monde Colonial Illustre´, edited by Stanislas Reitzler, was financed by an eponymous company with a capital of 1.1 million francs. Its president, E´tienne Fouge`re, was also president of the Association Nationale pour l’Expansion Economique. The vice-president, Ernest Mercie, was the administrative delegate of the Union d’Ele´ctricite´. Its advisory board was replete with figures involved in colonial capital. Among them were: a Sorbonne professor, a secretary of the Acade´mie des Science Coloniales, the director of the Laboratoire d’Agronomie

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Coloniale, a professor of the Muse´e d’Histoire Naturelle, the governor of Indochina and the director of the Ligue Maritime Coloniale. In 1922, L’Humanite´ lambasted the colonial press and capitalists for having an intimate relationship that: ‘leaves nothing to envy for the metropolitan press. Subjugated in the same manner to the power of money’.165 In the first years of the Syrian mandate, the lobby defended the administration’s methods. An anonymous pamphlet put out by the Union Economique de Syrie refuted charges that Syria was proving too costly.166 The writer, an ex-officer in the Arme´e du Levant going by the initials of J.M., rebutted criticisms that had appeared in the Revue de Paris which he interpreted as being defeatist. J.M. argued that in Algeria or Madagascar, France had only gradually made a profit after a loss of troops. He pointed to the decrease in the High Commission’s civilian budget from 185 million francs to 10 million in 1923 and contrasted this to Britain’s budget in Mesopotamia, which he suggested had cost over £300 million. J.M. equally dismissed the League of Nations’ importance since it had been: ‘mutilated in its cot by America, which gave birth to it [. . .] it is the English in London, in Cairo, or in Bombay that brings forth the fear-inducing mask of the League’. France’s problems in Syria were thus conceptualised as a result of Britain’s propaganda and support for the Druze and Michel Lutfallah’s Syro-Palestinian Congress in Cairo.167 The Syrian mandate was primarily seen from an economic point of view as both a producer of raw resources and a market for French metropolitan and colonial goods. Algiers’ Le Mercure Africain printed, for instance, news of a protest addressed by the Union des Fabricant de Tapis de France and the Syndicat des Fabricants de Tapis Point Noue´ de France, des Colonies et des Pays de Protectorat against a set of tariffs on imports set by the High Commission in Beirut.168 Even the self-proclaimed Radical-Socialiste newspaper in Algiers published the proceedings of a conference organised by a French-Algerian educator who had experienced Ottoman-era education and expressed his belief in a special French mission in Syria.169 Yet even the colonial press demonstrated a capacity for publishing criticism of mandatory methods. In 1920, French Africanist and explorer Raymond Colrat de Montrozier wrote a biting satire of the Syrian Mandate:

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In Syria, we are behind by several centuries [. . .] here is Bayard Gouraud [an allusion to fourteenth-century French crusader Pierre Terrail de Bayard] [. . .] here is the frenetic dance of the emirs sitting around the dish on which is spread the remains of rancid butter [an allusion to bribes to ‘butter up’ the Sunni leaders] [. . .] It is costing us, so far, two or three billion [francs] and [. . .] several thousand small soldiers dead in a twentiethcentury crusade.170 Other commentary was less critical. In 1921, Paul Laffont, the radicalsocialiste junior minister for the Postes, Te´le´graphes et Te´le´phones gave a speech while visiting Rabat that was published in the colonial magazine France-Maroc. This seemingly left-leaning minister in a coalition cabinet gave a speech in front of colonial administrators describing France as an ‘Islamic power’ which was: Renewing the interrupted course of history: from Morocco to Syria she protects all of oriental civilisation and watches over its evolution. Under the shelter of her power, the ancient capitals [. . .] such as Fez and Damascus, have regained their past splendour [. . .] she could have imposed on these countries, in one fell swoop and by force, all of her institutions and her laws. [But] She had the wisdom to abstain.171 Laffont was essentially telling his audience that France’s failure to repeat the level of violence seen in the Algerian conquest was a sign of moderation. By 1928 one Algerian newspaper was reflecting the tone of the aforementioned post-Great Revolt La Croix coverage; it called for a more colonial approach in Syria in order to maintain France’s ‘credibility’. It wrote that: If France desires simply to undertake a humanitarian, sentimental, policy in Syria, she is succeeding in this by listening to [the League of Nations in] Geneva [. . .] if France wants to maintain her prestige and interests, the mandate is far from being the correct framework. If the mandate persists, direct government [‘administrateur-realisateur’ (literally a ‘doer’-administrator)] is the only way compatible with the mentality of the people.172

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Conclusion The Levantine, metropolitan and colonial Francophone press in theory represented an ideal avenue for disseminating French claims of culture and government competency. However, it soon proved to be a contested arena in which official efforts to harness cultural claims in pursuit of clientelist politics met criticisms of the methods and even the meaning of the Levant mandate. It is clear that certain local newspapers such as Georges Vaiyssie´’s La Syrie ceaselessly followed the mandatory authorities’ line. Nevertheless, the great majority of public opinion shapers, whether drawn from the liberal-centrist metropolitan press or local ‘Francophile’ Lebanese newspapers, expressed serious reservations with methods of mandatory rule. Finally, the use of French-language newspapers for political organising, particularly in the seminal site of Geneva as the home of the League of Nations and through the deeply dissident French Communist press, challenged the very idea of the mandate.

CHAPTER 7 INTERNATIONALISM: THE EXTERNAL PRESS

The final cultural institutions to be examined are those that can be broadly defined as composing the international press. This group included Anglophone newspapers exerting pressure on French authorities. Pressure was more immediately felt when newspapers in the British-held Middle Eastern territories published critical articles that could feasibly circulate in Syria and Lebanon. Mahjar (e´migre´) Syro-Lebanese newspapers represented another group of publications that were never successfully controlled by the High Commission in Beirut or the French diplomatic corps in the Americas. The final group to be examined is the more proximate regional press, among which the Egyptian and Turkish newspapers were the most influential. This external coverage was motivated by a variety of interests often unaligned with Syrian independent development. Yet the net effect of media reporting of French mandatory methods that were characterised as both repressive and regressive was to contribute to the undermining of French expectations of a Levantine protectorate.

Suspicion of the British Press Mandate administrators encountered critical British coverage of their methods early on. It should be noted that French newspapers had been equally fierce critics of British post-World War I activity in the Middle

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East. Le Matin, for instance, reproduced denunciations of the Balfour Letter by Syrian and Palestinian activists at the 1919 Marseille Congress on Syria.1 A few weeks later, Le Temps, a quasi-official mouthpiece of government at the time, carried another article calling for a unified and integral Syria including Palestine.2 Despite this competitive reciprocity, French officials lambasted British press coverage of their own mandate as unfair and Francophobic. The French press adopted a more ambiguous approach to British news sources. Some newspapers denounced British stories while nevertheless using them as sources. Le Matin carried telegrams from Baghdad via London to report on events in the Great Syrian Revolt.3 On another occasion, it carried an article by Lady Drummond Hay, a correspondent for the Sunday Express in Damascus, to publish news that the Syrian revolutionaries had drawn up a constitution seeking to make Damascus as the capital of an Arab federated state.4 For its part, despite French fears, the British press took a balanced view of France’s mandatory methods. Even a liberal-left magazine such as The Nation and the Athenaeum published two columns in 1920 and 1925 giving an overview of the mandate which did not quarrel with the French right to mandatory tutelage, focusing instead on their methods. The Nation and the Athenaeum published an excerpt of a statement by the National Defence Committee in the Beqaa as sent to the Egyptian newspaper Al-Ahram. Despite French denunciations of British coverage as being simple propaganda, the magazine’s article did not in fact shirk from also laying blame on Britain for the region’s issues.5 Just over five years later, The Nation and the Athenaeum published another overview of the mandate, which outlined the pressure being placed on the French by the League’s Permanent Mandates Commission following the renewed outbreak of widespread violence in 1925. Yet the article outlined a view that remained wedded to the idea of European administrators ‘seeing further’ and ‘standing taller’ than the local peoples being governed. However, the article also retained a critical tone towards French policy, drawing on the Mandates Commission report. This underlying faith in the aims of the French, if not their tactics, was summarised thus: ‘When all criticisms are made, however, the Commissioners feel that France, at heavy cost in money and lives, has saved the inhabitants of the mandated territories from falling once more under a foreign [i.e. Turkish or Arab] yoke.’6

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Newspapers in the British Middle East The Iraqi press was carefully monitored by the French consul in Baghdad. In December 1925, Al-Istiqla¯l (Independence) reproduced a programme from the Syro-Palestinian Committee that had been originally published in the Egyptian press.7 The programme called for Syrian unity, a national government with preparations for elections to an assembly, then ending of the mandate to be replaced with a bilateral accord, the withdrawal of troops and Syrian membership in the League of Nations.8 Another paper, the Basra-based Times of Mesopotamia, published a report from its Jerusalem correspondent who scornfully reported that ‘the Syrian [French] authorities can hardly be criticised for having, by strict censorship and suppression of news of strategic character, withheld the true nature of the situation’. Ironically, this heavy-handed approach had backfired on the French since ‘wild rumours have gained circulation and [. . .] the excitement and suspicion of the population increased’.9 Evidently, the distinction between French and British mandates still remained significantly blurred in these initial years as local organisers and the popular imagination rebuffed the conceived spaces of a newly partitioned Bilad Al-Sham. In 1923, a Damascus newspaper reproduced a telegram sent to the League of Nations by the Palestinian Congress headed by Najib Shuqair. The telegram noted the boycotts launched in Damascus, Homs and Hama in protest against the publication of the Syrian mandate charter. The protests were also upset with French methods arranging elections to a Representative Council for the Federation of Syrian States.10 This was a Palestinian protest to an international body regarding Syria and reprinted in a Syrian newspaper. Regional journalists also featured in a 1923 French intelligence report examining ‘Anglo-Arab Propaganda in Syria’. Among the members of the nationalist Syrian Union Party, operating out of Egypt, French intelligence noted one Ibrahim Al-Hajjar, the ex-owner of the Jerusalem-based Lissan Al-‘Arab. Another was Toufik El-Yazigi who was noted to have been militantly anti-Fench during his days as editor of the Damascus newspaper Diwan during the Faisalian interregnum. ElYazigi was noted by the French to be producing ‘venomous’ articles in the Cairo-based Al-Moqattam and that he had ‘retained loyal friends in ˙˙ media circles, particularly Toufik Jaha, Adib Safadi and Subhi Okde´; all three journalists in Damascus’.11

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Another figure flagged by French sevices was Amine Effendi Said, a writer from Lattakia who had reputedly been close to C¸emal Pasha in the pre-World War period and was noted for having written pro-Turkish articles in the Palestinian and Egyptian newspapers Al-Moqattam, ˙˙ Al-Akhbar and Wadi Al-Nil. Selim Sarkis, a Christian Lebanese journalist, was identified as another player in the Syrian Unity movement operating out of Egypt.12 French intelligence admitted that Sarkis was ‘gifted with a real polemicist’s talent and has written a series of articles of a particular violence against the French administration in Syria, in which he personally denounced, in bad language, sometimes with swearwords [termes orduriers] [. . .] General Gouraud’.13 Journalists from further-flung British territories became involved in debates over methods in the Syro-Lebanese mandate. Alif Ba¯ʼ of Damascus published a series of articles by an Indian journalist Abdul Kaim Malik regarding geopolitics. Alif Ba¯ʼ approved Malik’s suggestion that the progress of Bolshevism in the Muslim world was not the result of support from Comintern czar Grigory Zinoviev, but rather the result of a desire to put an end to the perceived arrogance of European rule.14 In November 1925, the Indian editor of Al-Isla¯h, an Arabic newspaper ˙ ˙ in Paris, wrote to French Foreign Minister Briand complaining of his treatment by the French police in Paris. His fascinating, if somewhat melodramatic, letter underpins the resilient challenge facing antiimperialists.15 Barakatullah Mandarie told his readers: We owe an explanation to a large number of people in the East and the West, who were good enough to welcome our Arabic paper [. . .] by sending subscriptions [. . .] for its sudden stoppage after its first issue only [. . .] was printed in Paris [. . .] we had placed a copy of ‘El Islah’ on the table of an Indian friend [. . .] two or three days after it, a British spy who frequented the house of our friend, took away the copy [. . .] Hardly a week elapsed before a French policeman called at our residence and said that we were publishing a paper in favour of the Rifis [Abd El Krim’s revolt] [. . .] On Friday [. . .] a French policeman called again at our residence [. . .] and took us to the prefecture [. . .] There they treated us like a convict [. . .] asked us to leave France [. . .] they had [. . .] been collecting material against us for [. . .] three months and depicting

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us as a dangerous man, [in truth] there are [only] two references to France in our paper [. . .] the British spies and agents in Paris, it seems, taking advantage of the disturbed state of the French mind [. . .] have seared the French Foreign Office to death. French concerns over British influence on the Syrian domestic situation led to numerous attempts at encouraging British censorship in their mandates. In 1925, in response to the aforementioned L’Orient and Sarrail affairs, Foreign Minister Aristide Briand ordered his consuls to investigate press regulation in neighbouring mandates.16 Following the investigation, French officials in fact had to recognise the greater degree of freedom of the press in the British possessions. The French consul in Jerusalem noted that, though the Ottoman legislation was largely unchanged, newspapers nevertheless had ‘all freedom to discuss politics and attack the government. The [British] administration demonstrates complete indifference’.17 Ironically, the consul found that the only time a newspaper had been suspended was for insults to foreign powers, the last case having been in July 1922, ‘at the request of Syria’.18 Such was the disparity in censorship between Syria and Palestine that when 12 Lebanese editors wanted to send protest telegrams to the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs, they had to travel down to Haifa to do so. The editors were protesting against Sarrail’s proposed legislative changes, which would have delegated powers of suspension and censorship: the aforementioned Sarrail Affair.19 French reports from neighbouring Iraq also suggested that French protests had again been the major cause of censorship in this territory. Telegramming from Baghdad in response to a Briand’s request, Consul Jacques-Roger Maigret notified his foreign minister that the Ottoman law of 29 July 1920 was still applied with slight modifications. The Ottoman law provided the possibility of imprisonment and fines for publications for such ‘crimes’ as putting the interior or exterior security of the state in danger. At the time of the report, Maigret wrote that the British had used this measure only once, against Al-Istiqla¯l, which had been given a fine and then suspended indefinitely because of an article ‘harmful to the interests of the country and of a nature as to hurt relations between Iraq and her ally [French-held Syria]’.20

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It should be noted that France’s perpetual adversary, ‘perfidious Albion’, also encouraged censorship in Syria and Lebanon. In November 1921, the French received complaints from the Foreign Office as a result of Al-Muqtabas publishing extracts from the King–Crane Commission as well as claiming that the British were ‘tearing out the nails, breaking the teeth and cutting the noses of the Irish’.21 Surprisingly, given the suspicion that French officials usually cast upon Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali, Robert De Caix leapt to Al-Muqtabas’ defence. He informed the Quai d’Orsay that Al-Muqtabas’ article had lifted its story wholesale from a French newspaper, Les Annales. He also wryly noted that many Egyptian and Palestinian newspapers were publishing anti-French articles.22 The article in Les Annales had been written by French radical deputy Georges-Andre´ Fribourg, who happened to be a member of the high council on the colonies.23 Despite De Caix’s glee, the matter actually put the Quai d’Orsay in a bind; denouncing Al-Muqtabas would be tantamount to denouncing one of their own, doing nothing would cause further friction with Britain. Al-Muqtabas’ crafty editor, Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali, had managed to weave his way into imperial intrigue to undermine both British and French rule. In November 1924, the British authorities in Palestine had approached General Weygand to protest against the overly anti-British tone taken by the Capuchin-funded newspaper L’Orient which had criticised Protestant missionary activity in Jerusalem.24 In January 1926, Gaston Maugras, the French consul in Jerusalem, notified the High Commission that an article written by Albert Londres in Le Petit Parisien had been reproduced in Georges Vayssie´’s La Syrie. The article had suggested the British officer and adventurer Peake Pasha, Commander of the Arab Legion, had been supporting the Druze uprising in 1925. W. Hough, the British consul in Aleppo, had protested to the French consul who noted it was ‘unfortunately very difficult to convince the English that a notorious French journalist [Vayssie] landing in Syria [had] got his information on the political situation [from] outside of French official circles’.25 The British consul added that local Aleppo newspaper Al-Taqqadum had translated an article by Albert Londres into Arabic.26 For his part, the British consul in Damascus, Walter Smart, had filed translations of regional newspapers deemed to be damaging to Britain. These included an article in Alif Ba¯ʼ that outlined British intrigue in Yemen.27 After a

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few other articles critical of British policy were published in Alif Ba¯ʼ, Smart went a step further. He directed his dragoman to pay a visit to tell the newspaper’s editor, Yusuf Al-Issa, that he would be compelled to ‘suggest [. . .] the desirability of prohibiting the circulation of his newspaper’ in British-mandated Iraq and Palestine. Smart reported that ‘Yusuf Al-Issa was most apologetic and begged’ his dragoman to assure him that the paper would change its stance. Smart also gained intelligence that the French had independently visited Al-Issa with a warning on these articles which his informant had told him was a result of French fears ‘that such articles against the British were likely to stir up the people against foreigners [generally]’.28 A few months later, Smart reported that the French appeared to have withdrawn the subsidy for Yusuf Al-Issa. Al-Issa complained to Consul Smart that his paper had ironically depended on this subsidy because he had lost much of his Muslim readership as a result of his pro-French bias following the beginning of the mandate.29 These anecdotes of British and French censorship of the Syrian press serve as a reminder of fundamental limits to possibilities for Syrians and Lebanese to make creative use of imperial rivalries for their individual and communal interests.

Russian Influence Throughout the early mandate period, Soviet Russian newspapers were publishing denunciations of France’s role in Syria and Lebanon. A journalist by the name of Astakhov wrote of the Franco-British competition in the Near East, noting British support for a ‘Young Lebanon’ committee in Alexandria that was sending petitions to the League of Nations protesting the French-sponsored Lebanese elections.30 Astakhov also published a purported threat made by High Commissioner Gouraud to Lebanese deputies during the opening ceremony of the assembly: ‘May the assembly occupy itself with its own affairs [. . .] so that [Lebanon Governor Albert] [. . .] Trabaud is not compelled to occupy your seats’.31 A meeting of the spokesmen for developing world Communist parties in Moscow included a speech by a Turkish representative, Orhan, who called for ‘absolute independence of the colonies, evacuation of Turkey, Egypt and Syria [. . .] [and] liberty of the press’.32 While the

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Great Revolt was under way, French intelligence obtained ‘from an Arab source, sure and informed’ information which indicated that the Comintern had decided that Berlin resident and Hizb Al-Sha‘ab (People’s Party) member Shukri Al-Quwatli should organise a campaign of ‘attacks’ against ‘certain Syrian and Lebanese publicists and notables, who have not defended the “national cause” and served as informants for the High Commission or the French authorities’. Local organisation of the plot was entrusted to a secretive Syrian, Izzedine Bey, who was also reportedly in Comintern employ. Izzedine’s task was to infiltrate the Comite´s de Concours a` la Revolution Syrienne established in various towns. Henry De Jouvenel, the High Commissioner, was reportedly on the list of those to be assassinated.33 If this report seems fanciful, it appears less so when set alongside other, similar material uncovered at the time. For instance, in January 1925, British authorities at Jerusalem’s central postal station intercepted a letter addressed to a PO Box in Beirut. They found translated instructions sent by the Comintern to the Palestinian and Syrian Communist parties. The letter encouraged local Communists to appreciate regional differences within the mandated territories. In Lebanon, the struggle should focus on the feudalism of the notables and great landlords. In the Jabal Druze, however, the deeply entrenched feudalism should be passed over in order to encourage nationalist sentiments. Some tradecraft was also included. For instance, it was encouraged that secure and dependable cells of activists should first be constituted ahead of recruiting more followers.34 Not all Russian-sponsored activity was Communist-inspired. The bulletin of the aforementioned Socie´te Lite´raire Russe de Damas provided a so-called ‘White’, anti-Communist, Russian influence in the heart of Damascus. Its committee noted the praise that the society had received in the Francophone Beiruti newspapers.35 Even for this tiny group of people, estimated at around 40 White Russians in Damascus in December 1923, a fortnightly bulletin emerged which became a full publication. The bulletin focused on news about other White Russian exiles, for instance it informed its readers of the creation of an exiled students’ association in Paris. It also published extracts of a letter from Russia critical of the Bolsheviks. Finally, it also published a review of books dealing with Syria’s past, presumably to encourage the Russian refugees to embrace their new

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country.36 Another article published extracts from Russian travel accounts to Ottoman Syria.37 Despite its apparent hostility to the Bolsheviks, the association sometimes reproduced long extracts from Soviet newspapers that ironically likely escaped from French censors. For instance, in mid-December 1923, it published extracts from Proletarskaya Pravda (Proletarian Truth). The extract discussed the ‘silence’ of the ‘French bourgeois press’ on the ‘occupation’ of Syria by French troops. At the end of a long quote of the detailed critique of the French administration appearing in Pravda, the Association simply incredulously added ‘and thus is how history is written!’38

The US-Based Press French officials recognised the importance of US public opinion, much as they had during the brief wartime attempts to win over the Zionist movement in an attempt to circumvent Britain.39 Early in the mandate, in 1921, the Foreign Minister had written to General Gouraud to notify him that two prominent US newspapermen, George Porter of the Chicago Daily News and Charles Merz of the New York World, were on their way to Beirut. The Minister told Gouraud that he did not need to outline the critical importance that these two journalists be wooed given the new-found interest for the Near East amid the US reading public.40 The New York Times picked up a telegram claiming that a Sinn Feinlike organisation, naming itself ‘The Black Hand’, had shot and injured the Damascus chief of police. High Commissioner Gouraud denied the report. The news had emanated from a wire service in Haifa in the midst of the 1922 Lesser Syrian Insurrection. Internally, Gouraud noted concerns outlined by Jean Jules Jusserand, the French ambassador in Washington, that there was a growing impression in the US that ‘a state of unease is prevailing in Syria’.41 French attempts to contain the spread of information was an uphill struggle as technological changes meant media mobility. In December 1925, the world’s then largest radio antenna, at the Nauen broadcasting station in East Germany, was noted by High Commissioner Henri de Jouvenel to have broadcasted ‘false news’ on the events of the Great Revolt. The huge Nauen antenna had a range of 5,000 km, meaning that the news of Damascus’ bombardment had rapidly reached newspapers in Spain.42 In response, the French diplomatic establishment

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went into full denial.43 The French ambassador in Spain did what he could to bolster Jouvenel’s denial of the Nauen station’s broadcast and enjoyed some success in doing so, noting that most of Madrid’s newspapers had carried the refutation.44 The High Commissioner’s denial of a French bombardment of Damascus even reached Saigon.45 The denials had less success in Germany, where only Berlin’s Deutsche Tageszeitung carried them.46 Fortunately for the French, though two US newswire services, the United Press and Associated Press, carried the Nauen broadcast, no US newspapers reproduced them.47 Controlling an internationalised public sphere was beyond any power’s means yet the French were determined to do all they could to limit the spread of negative news. The French consul in Jerusalem notified Paris that the Jewish Telegraphic Agency (JTA) had cabled similarly dire news of the Syrian situation.48 Unlike the Nauen broadcasts, the Washington Post carried the JTA story.49 By 1927 an article in the colonial Algerian newspaper L’Effort Algerien took heart at the fact that French radio stations were being erected at Saigon, Antananarivo, Bamako and

Figure 7.1 Results of French bombardment of Damascus in 1925. Available online: http://eltaher.org/docs_photos/1925-Result-of-Frenchbombardments-01-image934_en.html.

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Brazzaville, in a move likely intended to combat the influence of large Anglophone wireless broadcasters.50 The persistence of Orientalist biases among the East Coast intellectual elite, who tended to see Syrian Christians as victims of a Muslim irruption in 1925, did generate some degree of sympathy for the French. The French ambassador in Washington notified Foreign Minister Briand of news about the Great Syrian Revolt in the Washington Post and other US newspapers. He noted that the tone of the newspapers had become more measured with regard to the conflict.51 The Post’s article, entitled ‘Christians Routed, Southern Lebanon at Druzes’ Mercy’, focused its criticism on what it saw as a poor French policy which had allowed ‘tribal hordes’ of Druzes to ‘sweep on’.52 The French also monitored the Canadian press, with clippings of small newspapers such as Vancouver’s Daily Province being sent by their consul. One article was judged by the consul in British Colombia to be among the ‘more equitable’ of the Canadian coverage.53 Such ‘moderation’ was demonstrated by the Daily Province’s discussion of the: ‘remarkable’ transformation that the mandate had initiated in ridding Syria of the ‘Mohammedan’ oppression of Christians. According to the Vancouver paper, the 1925 uprising was simply an attempt by Muslims to regain their traditional domination.54 However, a number of East Coast and other US newspapers published rank criticism of French mandatory policies and repression of the Great Revolt. One French diplomat kept a clipping of a critical article appearing in the New York Herald Tribune as ‘anti-French propaganda’. The article, carrying the title of ‘France’s Syrian Rule Berated as “Tyrannical”’, quoted a discussion at the Foreign Policy Association’s meeting at the New York Astor. Among the speakers, politics Professor Edward Meade Earle of Columbia University warned that ‘unless the system of mandates is to be admitted by the League to be merely a new name for an old imperialism, a thoroughgoing investigation must be made’.55 A New York Times article entitled ‘French Parade of Rebel Dead Held Cause of Damascus Riot’ was clipped and labelled ‘English propaganda’ by the French. The French consul’s clipping also underlined part of a sentence in this article that explained that: ‘no information is available in the French capital and, just as ever since the start of the difficulties with the Druzes, reports of the events [. . .] have come from British sources [underlined by French diplomats]’.56

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In November 1925, the Literary Digest of New York published a story on ‘the Damascus Massacre’. It wrote of: The screaming and bursting shells that spattered the streets of Damascus with the blood of innocent men, women and children [which] sent a thrill of horror through the civilized world [. . .] at least 2,000 were buried in the debris [. . .] In the United States, editorial writers discuss this event under such uncompromising headlines as ‘murder in Damascus’ [. . .] the St. Louis Post Dispatch [. . .] notes further that ‘while the right hand of France was signing [. . .] [the] Locarno [Pact] [. . .] and intervening [. . .] in the GreeceBulgaria squabble, its left hand was committing ruthless butchery’. In its own analysis, the Digest noted that ‘final responsibility for what happens in Syria rests not with General Sarrail, or even with France, but with the League of Nations [. . .]. Already [. . .] the Permanent Mandates Commission [. . .] had called upon the French [. . .] for full particulars’. The list of newspapers cited by the Digest for its Syrian story gives a sense of the spread of an anti-mandatory message in the USA. Among them were the Cleveland Plain Dealer, the Pittsburgh Chronicle Telegraph, the Boston Globe, the New York Evening Post, Philadelphia’s Evening Bulletin and the Detroit Free Press.57 The case of Jessie Lloyd O’Connor, a young journalist from a prominent newspaper family who was the London Daily Herald’s Geneva correspondent, reveals the importance attached to the US press by French authorities.58 In 1926, she interviewed Robert De Caix, who had by then become France’s representative to the Permanent Mandates Commission. It is worth quoting at length to get a sense both of the approach taken by Robert De Caix, as well as one contemporary critical journalist’s understanding of the tensions of the mandate. According to Lloyd O’Connor: De Caix [. . .] branded as absurd the persistent rumours that the mandate would be transferred to another power [. . .] ‘Americans’, said M. de Caix, whose mother was an American, ‘are naturally inclined to judge conditions in other parts of the world by the

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same excellent standards of democracy that they have set up in their own country. Unfortunately, those standards are sometimes inapplicable to less advanced peoples’. [. . .] In regard to the proclamations made by France and England during the War, promising the Syrians self-determination, he replied, ‘it is true that such proclamations were made but the League of Nations thought it would be dangerous at this stage to leave the Syrians to govern themselves unaided’.59 At this stage, Jessie Lloyd O’Connor added her own note denying De Caix’s version of events. She wrote that he was: ‘very wide of the mark. The conference of ambassadors [Paris Peace Conference] entrusted Syria to the French, leaving the latter to draw up its own mandate with the sole condition that it must be confirmed by the League’. De Caix continued during the interview: How could we reject that responsibility, when France has been for decades the protector of the Christians in Syria? You have heard Syrian agitators say that when we went in 1920 we overthrew their government. The truth is, there was no Syrian government worth speaking of [. . .] Americans are inclined to blame us for the recent unfortunate disturbances in the country [. . .] [yet] those people made our task almost impossible. Instead of eagerness to cooperate in setting up the machinery of good government, we found suspicion on every hand, sporadic murders, and ridicule of everything French.60 O’Connor asked De Caix a question specific to the press: ‘Is it true, as the Syrians allege [. . .] that you have a rigorous censorship of the press, and have abolished freedom of public meeting?’ De Caix denied the accusation: Indeed not! In the region where the war is going on, naturally some liberties are suspended; there is necessarily a regime of martial law. But outside of the Druze district and the part of Southern Syria still under martial law, there is complete freedom of assembly and no press censorship. It is true that occasionally we suspend a paper for what it has already printed, but we have no

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opportunity to stop objectionable articles until after publication. You see how unreliable the Syrian propagandists are.61 From the mouth of the architect of the early French mandate, De Caix’s replies demonstrate the challenge posed to mandatory methods by local and international contestation in the cultural institutions, particularly the press.

The Mahjar American Press It is worth noting that the Syrian Revolt had repercussions on public opinion throughout the Americas. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Paris put out a bulletin selecting and translating articles appearing in the South American press. Among them was an article appearing in El Dı´a of Montevideo which made mild criticisms of French policy which had left the local populations ‘unhappy and rebellious’.62 A more pressing consideration for French authorities was the huge mahjar community of Syro-Lebanese in America. The word mahjar denotes the e´migre´ populations from the Arabspeaking world. A great deal of literature has justifiably focused on this fascinating North American sub-culture.63 So too have studies emerged on mahjar Latin Americans.64 The mahjar also extended to European, African and even Asian countries.65 Paris had an important SyrianLebanese colony, as did Switzerland and Germany. From Ottoman times Syrians and Lebanese had been based in Cairo and Alexandria and their influence on the modern development of Syria and especially Lebanon cannot be underestimated.66 The Syrian community in Manchester was also an old mercantile community.67 French reports even noted Syrian communities in Tokyo and Australia. An area that received many among them was Latin America. Immigration, which had begun in the late nineteenth century, continued apace throughout the 1920s. Even prior to the mandate, this diverse community united by their migration from a shared homeland had maintained their interest in Levantine developments. Their relationship with the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs was well established, particularly over the course of World War I when the shaping of public opinion in the Americas became an important element of political warfare.68 Yet, as the mandate took shape, the French found that these previously dependable shapers of

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public opinion began to tire of their rule. This e´migre´ community had built a sizeable public sphere with intrinsic ties to the Levantine homeland. Internal discussions consistently recognised the importance of the mahjar cultural networks, particularly after France gained a mandate over their homeland. Edmond Tabet, the Maronite president of the Syria-Lebanon League in the USA, was described as the most important of US-based Syrian leader who was in favour of a French mandate. A bureaucrat explained how Tabet’s successful organising in the USA could be repeated in Syria to the benefit of France.69 The French were keen to co-opt this mahjar in the Americas. French links to the Ottoman mahjar had roots in the special privileges (capitulations) given to Levantines through Ottoman concessions to France. The updated post-Ottoman protection arrangements were established through bilateral treaties with the governments of each country in the western hemisphere. One such agreement was established through an agreement between French Consul Claudel and the Brazilian government in 1916.70 Protection afforded to Syro-Lebanese in Brazil was of a purely ‘informal’ character according to French diplomatic records.71 Yet the alleged scope of this informal protection was liberally interpreted. As part of this attempt at co-opting the mahjar, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs undertook a concerted effort at registering the Syro-Lebanese immigrants. This would ‘attach [the Levantines] to the motherland’.72 As an enticement to French protected status, the ambassador in Rio suggested that these mahjaris be reminded that becoming protected subjects would release them from Brazilian military service. The ambassador promoted the benefits of dual nationality, a status used by some Syrians to profit from both the Brazilian nationality and status as French protected subjects. Citing one example, he noted one eminent mahjari, ‘a notable that the French government has just decorated [. . .]. Who [is] Syrian or Lebanese, in Paris, [but is] a justice de paix [clerk of the peace] in an area of Sa˜o Paulo’.73 As the mandate began, the Al-Barq newspaper in Beirut congratulated the French for providing such consular support to Lebanese in Brazil.74 At the World War’s end, the Foreign Ministry had allocated 50,000 francs of subsidies to Syrian newspapers abroad.75 However, the mahjari North and South American press had limited circulation. For instance, Mexico City’s La Syria Unida reportedly only put out 500 copies and had changed from weekly to monthly

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distribution.76 Attempts at subsidising newspapers did not always have their anticipated effect. In 1918, the French consul in Brazil considered attempts at enjoining that country’s Syro-Lebanese press to have been a ‘fiasco’, both quantitatively and qualitatively.77 Co-opting mahjar news editors remained a no-less-difficult task given the craftiness of these entrepreneurial e´migre´s. In March 1923, Salim ‘Aql, the editor of the A Polı´tica newspaper in Sa˜o Paulo, wrote to Francophile agent Shukri Ghanem in Paris. ‘Aql was upset that he had been sending 800 copies of his newspaper to Beirut over a period of four years, as requested by General Gouraud, without receiving the £200 a year that he claimed he was owed. ‘I have worked for eight years,’ he wrote, ‘I am burdened by debts because of my newspaper, 1000 copies of which have been freely distributed to spread the Franco-Syrian cause’.78 High Commissioner Gouraud aloofly and promptly rejected ‘Aql’s claims, suggesting that the Syrian’s debts had led him to surreptitiously stuff 400 copies of his newspaper alongside a letter sent to Beirut in 1922.79 French distrust of the mahjar press was thus present in tandem with attempts at establishing clientelist protection. A compartmentalisation parallel to that seen with Francophone Levantine papers in the previous chapter occurred through the French diplomatic apparatus in Latin America.80 In 1919, the French Interior Minister banned a number of Syrian newspapers from entry to France and Algeria.81 The Brazilianbased Al-Raed was banned from entry to Syria and Lebanon in April 1922 as a result of articles deemed to be against the mandate.82 Despite these efforts at separating the e´migre´s from developments in their homeland, the mahjar press proved to be a resilient network that could absorb and circulate information from and to the Levant.83 In 1917, an Arab press agency existed that linked various parts of the Arab world with the mahjar. It claimed to be used by major Arab newspapers such as Al-Hoda (The Guidance) in New York and Al-Qibla (The Direction) in Mecca, Abu Al-Hal (The Sphinx) and Al-Afka¯r (Ideas) in Sa˜o Paulo and As-Sala¯m (Peace) in Buenos Aires.84 In 1921, two prominent Haitian Syrians contacted the French consul on the island expressing fears that France would encourage Lebanon’s assimilation into Syria as reported by Syrian newspapers in the USA.85 The French consul in Geneva noted that much of the Swiss press had reproduced news items hawked by the Syro-Palestinian Committee that

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had previously appeared in the US press. One example was an article in the Chicago Tribune which had intimated that Vittorio Scialoja, Italy’s representative to the League of Nations, had met anti-mandate activist Ihsa¯n Al-Jabri. In the event, the consul denied the story, noting that the ˙ General Secretariat of the League and its senior representatives had been endlessly approached by ‘Muslim personalities, such as Shakib Arslan’ and Ihsa¯n Al-Jabri, yet it had ‘always energetically refused ˙ to see them’.86 Further evidence of the interchanges is demonstrated by the fact that in 1920 a Mecca-based newspaper, Al-Qibla, reproduced an article from the US-based Al-Baya¯n, enjoining Americans to aid Syrians in their struggle for independence. It argued that the US free press should support the Syrian struggle for the application of ‘global justice’, including human rights. Al-Baya¯n’s article took pride in the fact that the Syrian press was: The indicator of a civilised peoples and the reflection of [the people’s] work [,] it is very advanced among us and newspapers are numerous [. . .] Syrians abroad have many newspapers and reviews of a higher calibre than those of other foreign colonies [abroad].87 Al-Baya¯n added that Syrians’ linguistic, commercial and cultural abilities justified their right to political independence.88 As mandatory rule got underway, French control over the mahjar press appeared increasingly tenuous. In July 1921, Beirut High Commission official Pierre Carlier sent a notice to the Ministry asking for information on hostile articles in the Argentine press.89 Also in the summer of 1921, Gouraud’s secretary Robert De Caix wrote to Foreign Minister Aristide Briand outlining coverage appearing in a Syrian-Brazilian newspaper.90 Al-Tassahul had published an article criticising France which had brought ‘debauchery, corruption and dirt’ to Syria and encouraged the spread of venereal diseases.91 Al-Tassahul was described by the French as having taken an ‘inadmissible and insulting stance’ and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was urged by the High Commission in Lebanon to bring this to the attention of the Brazilian government.92 A notice from the French consul in Bahia (today’s Sa˜o Salvador) notified the Quai d’Orsay that alongside Al-Tassahul, two further mahjar newspapers (Al-Afka¯r and Al-Jarida, The Gazette) were taking an anti-

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French stance. He reported that Al-Tassahul was still being subsidised by German agents and all three of these newspapers were retaining relations with Bahia’s 200-strong mandate-sceptic Sociedade Libanesa-Syria.93 In August 1921, the French ambassador in Rio de Janeiro, A.R. Conty, asked Paris for an 800-franc subsidy for another Syrian newspaper, Al‘Adil (The Testament), owned by a Francophile.94 In July 1922, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ press service relayed a similar request from the French ambassador to Chile who was asking for funds to support the creation of an Arab newspaper aiming to ‘challenge the campaign against the French mandate in Syria among Syrian circles in Chile’.95 The High Commission’s press service commended such propaganda and suggested it could be extended to other parts of the hemisphere like Argentina, Brazil and Mexico. In September 1922 French ambassador Conty in Rio warned Paris that a newspaper named Al-’Asma¯, edited by Monmos Sababidy, had been reborn. This newspaper had been watch-listed by High Commissioner Gouraud as an ‘enemy’ of France until it had previously folded in December 1921.96 Despite these attempts at control, other newspapers continued to provide avenues for challenges to mandatory methods. In March 1922, the Palestinian newspaper, Lisan Al-‘Arab, was influential among what one report termed the ‘gallophobe’ Syrian press in the Americas. The report noted that New York’s Al-Marat Al-Gharb (Times of the West) reproduced a sarcastic article originating in Jerusalem’s Lisan Al-‘Arab entitled ‘The honourable criminals’. The article alleged that a flight sergeant had pistol-whipped a village Sheikh and been cleared of charges at the court-martial, thus seeming to prove, as the newspaper put it, that the life of a Syrian was worth less than a Frenchman’s.97 Another newspaper that picked up Lisan Al-‘Arab articles was Buenos Aires’ Al-Sha‘ab. This included one article which criticised French policy toward freedom of speech explaining that: ‘[France’s] bureaucrats [. . .] suspend newspapers for the slightest article and General Gouraud encircles himself with criminals and deports the liberals’.98 In December 1922, the Buenos Aires-based Le Positiviste, edited by Joseph Fehmi, published a more intellectually rooted critique of France’s policy. Fehmi wrote that France: Hinders progress [. . .] In Asia and in Africa, she has devoted herself to a policy of disorganised colonial conquest [. . .] Not only

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does she not return Algeria to the Arabs as a positivist policy requires [. . .] but she persecutes Tunisia, she sets aflame and harms Morocco [. . .] the good and generous eldest daughter of the Revolution of 1789 [. . .] tortures patriots in Syria and Lebanon [. . .] she abuses her power against the weak.99 Fehmi, likely a Jewish Syrian given his name, was originally based in Madrid. His newspaper was influenced by Auguste Comte’s work and encouraged a ‘positivist politics’ which ‘sets aside all abstracting, verbal solutions, futile explanations [. . .] to turn toward the concept, to facts, to action’, as its tagline explained to readers. Interestingly, the newspaper renounced its copyright with the words ‘pas de propriete litte´raire: ceci est a tous [no literary rights reserved: this is for everyone]’, thus making it an early example of what has subsequently been termed ‘copyleft’. The newspaper’s byline claimed that it was sent to 3,000 ‘well chosen people across the world’. Such a person was a ‘Jewish lady, attached to a financial institution’ in Salonica who was caught with a copy of the newspaper. Reporting on this, the French consul in Salonica dismissed the originality of this publication’s ideas as evidence of SyroLebanese ‘who seem to have appropriated our language in order to better speak ill of the country which has ensured the liberation of their own’.100 In 1924 another edition of Le Positiviste made its way to the desk of the French ambassador to Belgium, who gave credence to Fehmi’s claim that he had 3,000 subscribers as evidence of ‘certain resources among its editors’ and noted that this ‘violent and crudely anti-French’ paper had been forbidden from entering France in March 1923.101 In an earlier edition of Le Positiviste from 1923 Fehmi had duplicated a report by the French consul in Cairo describing French attempts at promoting commercial propaganda to increase alcohol consumption in the country. The Consul’s report brazenly explained that ‘advertising [cognac] in the Arab newspapers [. . .] would be of interest [since] the European newspapers have such a small circulation and are read only by people whose opinions are already made and thus difficult to influence [italics added by Fehmi]’.102 To this, Fehmi added his commentary: If French officials deploy such zeal in the spread of alcoholism in Egypt, where the Parisian leeches are not rulers, we can imagine

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the ravages of colonial monstrosity in Algeria-Tunisia, Morocco, Indo-China, in Lebanon, in Syria.103 Fehmi told his readers that he held ‘a thousand other similar documents that I carefully keep in my files to send to the League of Nations’. Another of these cases of French ‘monstrosity’ that Fehmi was documenting in this edition was the suicide of a 26-year-old Maronite, Jean Maalouf, on 13 September 1922, in Paris’ Jardin des Tuileries.104 Fehmi carefully reproduced a report of his death published by Le Matin which suggested that the young man, who had served the French in the Foreign Legion, had lost his mental capacities. Fehmi disagreed, believing this to be disinformation. Instead, he wrote: Mr Jean Maalouf left a long letter in which he spat in the face of the governors of Paris, in indignation and disgust [. . .] yet, and here is the most cowardly side [. . .] of this affair [. . .] official France requested the newspaper Le Matin, which is in connivance with her, to publish [. . .] an execrable lie: she tried to make the public believe that her victim was a lunatic.105 Fehmi claimed to have a copy of Maalouf’s suicide letter which would disprove Le Matin.106 Fehmi’s interventions were particularly intellectual, perhaps radically so as his newspaper’s title suggests, yet they fit into a broader pattern of growing mahjar scepticism about the mandate and bolder denunciation of French methods. In May 1925, a ban on the Brazilian Syrian newspaper Al-Ra¯’id/Oˆ Reporter, which had been imposed in 1922, was lifted. The newspaper’s editor, Nagib Constantin Haddad, had appealed for the ban to be lifted and new High Commissioner General Sarrail had deemed sincere the editor’s pledge to refrain from anti-French articles. Yet Sarrail also informed the Ministry of Foreign Affairs that Haddad’s tone would have to improve or a ban would be renewed.107 In June 1925, the French ambassador in Argentina notified Paris of an article published in the Syrian newspaper Natura which called for financial support to those injured during the Republican Abd El-Krim’s Rif Rebellion in northern Morocco. A Comite´ Central Por He´ridos Rifen˜os de Marruecos had launched the appeal. The ambassador included a list of those on the committee’s

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board and suggested they could be considered as ‘more or less active adversaries of the mandate’. The appeal had raised some 2,210 Argentine piasters.108 By September 1925, Haddad’s Brazilian newspaper had earned a renewed ban as a result of publishing a letter from Rif-leader Abd El-Krim.109 In the same month, High Commissioner Sarrail also banned several Communist newspapers. Two were from the USA, The Proletarian of New York and Yeridassart Hayassdan (Young Armenia) published in Boston. One was from Buenos Aires, La Estrella Roja, and one, Mardagotch (Call to Arms/Defiance), originated in Soviet Armenia.110 On 10 December 1925, Al-Baya¯n of New York, edited by Salim Baddour, published a letter from ‘Prince Shakeeb [Shakib Arslan]’ which gave an insight into the active role of the mahjar newspapers as gateways for donation collections supporting anti-mandate politics. Arslan informed the readership that he had just returned from Berlin. He noted that ‘the differences between me and the French [. . .] are ever present [. . .] send large donations via Jerusalem, if you wish’. In its own commentary, Al-Baya¯n encouraged readers to make haste in providing large sums.111 Al-Baya¯n was subsequently flagged in January 1926 for continuing to circulate within the mandated territories despite having ‘constantly published articles unfavourable to the French mandate’.112 These interchanges fuelled French fears and elicited a reflexive response of distrusting surveillance, even active disruption. In December 1925, the French consul in New York notified Paris that a Syro-Lebanese newspaper, The Syrian Eagle, had attacked the mandate authorities. Yet the article itself spoke only of the ‘deplorable’ situation of refugees in Beirut and took a sympathetic view of the Christian population who ‘appreciate and favour’ the French mandate as against the ‘fanaticism and barbarity’ of the revolutionaries.113 The fact that French officials flagged this article as dangerous underscores their increasing distrust towards such cultural institutions as the Great Revolt was underway and various communities abroad were questioning mandatory methods. An undated French Interior Ministry report acknowledged the loss of faith among the mahjar communities incurred by the severe repression, explaining that: Terror certainly ruled and it is only by sin [c’est par tort] that [. . .] order returned to Damascus [. . .] as for the hatred which will be its

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result, its extent remains unclear if we do not heed the power of the Syrian press and its repercussion throughout the Muslim world and the United States.114 The growing respect for and recognition of the maturity of the Syro-Lebanese press in the Americas is evident in post-Great Revolt diplomatic correspondence. In 1931, two French ambassadors in Santiago and Bogota exchanged letters regarding subsidies for an Arabic-language Christian newspaper to be founded by Negib Constantine Haddad. Haddad had approached the Santiago ambassador for a list of Syro-Lebanese Chileans in order to create a subscription service, demonstrating a growing sense of quid pro quo between mahjaris and French officials.115 Haddad’s letter to the French ambassador in Santiago did not demonstrate any sign of the dependency evident in premandate discussions held between mahjar editors and French diplomats. Haddad did stress his constant support for the French cause over his 25-year career as a journalist yet he also described the mandate simply as a ‘necessary thing given the historic bonds of friendship and intellectual affinities that exist between our two countries’, hardly words describing an oversight by a tutor.116

The Regional Press Syria’s position as the linchpin of the Fertile Crescent has subjected it to endless influence from her neighbours in the Islamicate world.117 French reports were fully aware of the great influence exercised on Syria by the regional powers to her north and south: Egypt and Turkey. The declining importance of traditional bastions of pan-Islamic culture, such as the Al-Azhar University and Ottoman Caliphate, had sent shockwaves through the Islamic World. Further political awakenings occurred to the north and south as both countries successfully undertook nationalist anti-imperial struggles. In 1919, the Wafd Party’s revolt forced Britain to give nominal independence to Egypt in 1922. Mustafa Kemal Atatu¨rk’s march toward national independence began in 1919 and established the Turkish Republic in 1922. Well before these developments, a mahjar press had been established in Egypt. In the Ottoman period, Syrians such as Salim Takla, who founded the prominent Al-Ahram of Cairo, were pallbearers of Khedivial ˙

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Egypt’s burgeoning literati.118 This proximity, which has been described as a mutual ‘cross-glocalisation’ in the context of Syrian women’s magazines in Ottoman Egypt, led to a number of Syro-Lebanese newspapers being founded in the Nilotic country.119 A 1919 French review of the Muslim World press in 1919 listed Cairo’s Al-Muqattam, edited by Syrian Fare`s ˙˙ Nimr as an organ for the Syrian Unity party with a circulation of 7,000. Al-Ahram, edited by another Syrian, G. Takla, put out 3,000 copies. Other ˙ Cairene newspapers edited by Syrians included Al-Akhbar (The News), edited by Yusuf Al-Khazen with a circulation of 500, Al-Minbar (The Tribune), edited by G. Tannous and circulating 700 copies, and Al-Kashkul (Scrapbook), edited by a Christian Syrian. Even the official newspaper of the British residency in Egypt, Al-Muktataf (Elite), was edited by a Christian Syrian named Makarius. Al-Mahrussa (The Amalgam), with its 700 copies, was edited by Syrian Elias Ziyadeh. In Alexandria, Al-Bashir was the main Syrian newspaper, edited by R. Schemeil.120 French diplomats in Cairo noted that North African Muslim opinion favoured the Egyptian press over its Syrian counterpart due to the latter’s limited freedom of expression. Egyptian newspapers such as Al-Ahram, Al-Muqattam and Al-Mu‘ayid (The Advocate) were read ‘from Baghdad ˙˙ to Tunis’ as a result of Egyptian cultural clout and an ‘imprudent’ liberal censorship exercised by British authorities.121 In Beirut a High Commission report noted that the Egyptian press was ‘avidly read by the enlightened population of Syria [. . .] and constituted almost the unique inspiration and principal source of news for the Beirut and Syrian newspapers’.122 The Egyptian press thus represented a particularly mature cultural institution that could counter French claims of culture and competency in mandate administration. For a short period after the World War, France did seek to sway these newspapers to their ends, though they were joined in this effort by their customary Middle East rival, Albion. Al-Muqattam was given a subsidy ˙˙ in May 1918 and one of its editors even accepted planted articles from 123 the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. However, the French consul in Cairo reported that Al-Kawaka¯b was an organ ‘entirely administered and edited by the British authorities’.124 In Cairo, Britain maintained a ‘Syrian Bureau of Information’ suspected by French authorities to be a propaganda front.125 British authorities even paid a £1,000 stipend to the French Havas news agency, which it withdrew in January 1920 as a result of hostile reports in Havas.126

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Despite these attempts at control, Egyptian newspapers remained critical of the mandate. In March 1923, Al-Muqattam published an ˙˙ editorial entitled ‘The friend of France is the one who tells her the truth’. Noting mandate administrators’ dislike for the Egyptian press, the Syrian-edited Al-Muqattam accused these administrators of serving their ˙˙ own interests by ignoring the truths written in the Egyptian press. It asserted that the French government was ignoring the mistakes made by the mandate administrators which had ‘brought the country to the precipice’.127 In the same month, Alexandria’s Wadi Al-Nil published an article claiming that mandatory administrators were having a pernicious impact. It described as two ‘uncrowned kings’ the e´minence grise of early mandatory administration, Robert De Caix and Lebanon Governor Albert Trabaud. The newspaper argued that these two were exploiting rather than solving religious quarrels at the local level and, in Lebanon in particular, accused them of having no coherent plan with vacillating policies such as granting Tripoli autonomy, or giving away part of its territory.128 Al-Muqattam stressed that it was not an enemy of France but rather a ˙˙ friend of hers. Yet the mandate had muzzled the opinion of Syrians because of ‘intrigues of administrators [e´xe´cuteurs ] of the mandate and the shelter [given them] by pressure and martial law’.129 It expressed the opinion that there was a duty on the Syrian-Egyptian press to warn the French government that the mandate’s aims of developing the country into self-governance had been hijacked by self-serving administrators who allegedly occupied all senior bureaucratic roles, luxury accommodation and cars and were attended to by servants and sycophants.130 In December 1923, Al-Muqattam published Syro-Lebanese nation˙˙ alists’ articles such as that written by Lebanese Greek-Orthodox Nicolas Chekri. Chekri attacked the Parisian journal La Re´forme’s support for Greek Orthodox Church of Antioch Archbishop Gerasimos Messarra’s speech in Paris praising the mandate.131 Demonstrating further evidence of the (intra- and inter-) communal relations among complex minorities discussed in the earlier chapter on education, Chekri claimed that as long as a Syrian were alive they would fight for independence. In the same month, another such article attracted the attention of French intelligence because it advertised a Syrian Congress to be held in Cairo in February 1924.

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The article claimed that: ‘The elite Syrian youth will assist and express its ideas [. . .] What is particularly pleasing is the decision taken by several Christian associations and political parties in Syria, Egypt and Lebanon to participate [. . .] to see Christians sit next to their Muslim brothers to deal with the vital questions [. . .] of her [Syria’s] future. This unified movement was born in Beirut this year on the day of Mawlid Al-Nabi’.132 In late 1925, Al-Moqattam of Egypt published an article ˙˙ criticising the partition of Syria as a betrayal of the principle of mandatory tutelage. It noted that Syrians had developed their own education, having no need for French instruction, had developed their commercial acumen to the extent that they competed with European businesses, and had no need for agricultural or industrial guidance from France since these sectors had made no progress under her rule.133 In response to the hostile coverage of mandate policies by Egyptian newspapers, French authorities sought to ban their circulation in Syria and Lebanon. Egyptian, Palestinian and US newspapers were seized upon entry by the postal service in 1921.134 In October 1923, the Ministry for the Colonies placed a ban on copies of Al-Muqattam and Al-Liwa¯ ˙˙ al-Masri (The Egyptian Banner) for having published violent attacks on France’s work in Syria. Al-Moqattam earned another ban in January ˙˙ 1924, eliciting a protest from Lebanese daily Sada al-Ahwal.135 Several ˙ ˙ other Egyptian newspapers were banned.136 French authorities in Paris translated and selected the most ‘incendiary’ reports from the Egyptian press, while Beirut banned them for the Syro-Lebanese reading public. One such report was in the 26 August 1924 edition of Al-Moqattam which carried a letter signed ˙˙ by ‘a Beiruti’ entitled: ‘The politics of spoliation practiced by France in Lebanon’. The author informed his ‘brothers in L’Outre-Mer [France overseas]’ on the actions of the mandatory power in order to guide them in their own independence movements. He noted that the ‘poor Syrians’ had trusted France during the World War only to find their ‘patrie morcele´e [divided country]’. He listed the various impacts of French mandatory methods and finished his letter by calling on his brothers to wake up and help the Syrian cause for independence.137 French officials in Paris were equally aware of Turkish newspapers’ encouragement of dissent in their Levantine territory. In 1924, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ press bureau outlined commentary that

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reported clashes on the Syrian–Turkish border, occasioned by brigands and continuing efforts to control nomadic movements.138 One of the newspapers, Istanbul’s I˙kdam, reportedly reproached the lack of French newspaper coverage of clashes on the Syro-Turkish border. Istanbul daily Vakit criticised the situation in French-held Alexandretta (I˙skenderun in Turkish). It published an article decrying the abandonment of Turkish education in schools. A story in the London Daily Express suggesting that France was not ready to make major sacrifices in Syria was reproduced in the national Mu¨stakil Gazete.139 During the outbreak of the Great Syrian Revolt, a Spanish diplomat in Istanbul reported that the city’s press had reported French repression in the Jebel Druze thanks to a telegram from Adana.140 Just as the cantankerous Syro-Lebanese press contested French claims of culture and competency in the mandate, so too did the press in the newly forged Turkish Republic scrutinise the statements of French officials. In August 1923, the Kemalist brothers Celal and Suphi Nuri I˙leri’s eponymous newspaper I˙leri published a critique of the French educational legacy in Cilicia. The French, it claimed, had only built seven primary schools and a Lyce´e for a city that housed 100,000 Turks.141 In autumn 1923, the French consul in Adana reported further Turkish newspaper commentary that criticised France’s Cilicia legacy.142 In Adana, French intelligence reported that a Syrian Committee included Ahmed Agha Tu¨rkman (Zade), who had fled Antioch in 1921 after agitating against the French there with his brother Abd al-Ghani.143 The Tu¨rkman family was ‘well known in Syria as a hotbed for anti-French propaganda’.144 In 1923, the Ankara based I˙ttihad-ı Selamet-i I˙slam, a Turkish-funded pan-Islamic organisation, published a Syrian Review in Berlin, a publication edited by Al-Quwatli personally.145 The I˙ttihad-ı Selamet-i I˙slam was singled out by French services for its propaganda in favour of the Syrian Union party and one Syrian, Dr Munir Al-Kutsi, was suspected of being the leader of its Berlin chapter. Kutsi had studied law in France and Germany. French intelligence noted that he frequented the Brasserie de la Poste in the company of Abdelkrim Hante`s [Anttesse]. Munir Kutsi was suspected of having been put in touch with the aforementioned German newsman, Dr Max Beer, in this cafe and they suspected he had passed on information to the Wolff Telegraphic Bureau which one contemporary source claimed was closely supervised by

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German government officers.146 Others frequenting the Kutsi circle in Geneva were Syrian and Palestinian students and the ever-present Ali Al-Ghayati.147 Turcophone newspapers were also present within the mandate territories themselves. A new Turkish newspaper was set up in Aleppo after the World War. It was edited by Jalal Kabri Bey, who had been the mutassarı¯f of Aintab (modern Gaziantep) in Ottoman times. During the first three months of 1923, the French regularly censored Turkish newspapers as a result of stories such as those accusing the administration of killing Turkish subjects in Alexandretta and Antioch.148 Syrian newspapers nevertheless found creative ways to evade restrictions. One method used was the publication of Turkish articles. In February 1924, Al-Barq republished an interview between Istanbul’s Tanin and that city’s French charge´ d’affaires which questioned the ban on Turkish newspapers in Syria. The charge´ d’affaires explained that General Weygand had pulled the Turkish papers on account of their incitement to instability.149 In the same month Al-Watan had to defend itself when other Lebanese newspapers accused it of aiding enemies of the mandate government by reproducing Turkish news, underlining the prevalence of circumvention of French censorship.150 During the Great Revolt, the Spanish ambassador in Istanbul complained about French attempts at cutting off the news and called on his fellow diplomats to pay close attention to Turkish and other regional news to bolster the accuracy of their reporting.151 French authorities were entangled in a never-ending balancing act. Their efforts at stifling Syro-Lebanese dissent met with ever-greater local, international and regional protests, including from a renascent Turkish power to the north. Yet any sign of simply parroting Turkish activity and claims could be interpreted by certain sections of Syrian society as an act of betrayal to the integrity of Syria, which had, after all, been a previously subjugated domain of a Turkish Ottoman Empire. In 1926, an open letter ‘to patriots, representatives of the country and journalists’ and signed by ‘a party of deputies’ in the Syrian assembly railed against France’s accord with the Turks that had modified the northern frontier in the midst of the havoc of 1925. It denounced France as a proprietary, not a mandatory, power.152

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Conclusion This characterisation of France as behaving as a proprietary, not mandatory, power reflected the major challenges to methods of mandatory rule that had emerged through cultural institutions within and without the territory. Whereas French administrators may have expected a degree of malleability from the domestic cultural institutions as a result of their mature cultural claims in the region and capacity for clientelist or repressive domination, they were forced to give increasing recognition to the difficulties inherent in shaping the narrative of mandatory rule when dealing with external, long-established but newly invigorated cultural institutions. The difficulties encountered by the local mandate administration in shaping a narrative of mandatory, not proprietary, rule in the international and regional press is evidenced by the organised and persistent mobilisation of Paris’ diplomatic apparatus. Regardless of such attempts at control, the preceding discussion gives a sense of the sheer diversity and ingenuity of critiques of French rule appearing in external cultural institutions.

CHAPTER 8 GENERAL CONCLUSION

Implementing and Contesting Mandatory Methods through Cultural Institutions Cultural institutions organised by French mandate authorities were expected to channel and buttress claims of cultural affinity and resultant governmental competency in the Levant. Examining the methods of mandate administration through the prism of cultural institutions reveals the continual contestation of French visions of a Levantine protectorate in the formative five years of the mandate. These were not simply disparate, rhetorical disputes undertaken by ignored or oppressed Syro-Lebanese groups in the Levant. Even favoured minorities expressed their interest in a mandate adhering to the spirit of the League of Nations charter and leading to autonomy. This occurred in institutions such as the press, schools and museums. International communities of Syro-Lebanese who had formed identities attached to their homeland were subjected to overtures from the French diplomatic apparatus, yet the violence of 1925 led to increasing calls for a reformed mandate. International and regional cultural institutions such as the Egyptian, Turkish and Anglophone press piled on the pressure. Francophone schools and communal elites did look toward France for cultural and political guidance, yet they did not simply let themselves be converted into useful intermediaries who could form the middle management of a Levant protectorate. Attempts at cultivating Francophile elites through budgetary preference in the form of grants for Maronite village schools and young elites sent to France did not easily produce their intended

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outcomes. Instead Francophone institutions, including newspapers, showed an ability to challenge mandatory methods. The fact that even the French newsman Georges Vayssie´’s newspaper La Syrie expressed disapproval of the press censorship laws spoke volumes of the growing sense that France was acting as a proprietary, not mandatory, power as it interpreted and implemented its mandate in the formative years.

Competing and Changing Visions of the Mandate Examining disparate, though often overlapping, instances of contestation of French mandatory methods in cultural institutions reveals a unifying underlying questioning as to what the mandate meant for different stakeholders. Parallel to violent rejections of mandatory rule, cultural institutions provided the platforms for Syro-Lebanese stakeholders to approve or contest mandatory approaches to the governance of antiquities, museums, schools, higher education and newspapers. Indeed, as the conditions and aims of the mandate’s implementation over the course of the formative five years unfolded, shifts in allegiances followed. The clearest instance of this was the distaste that previously Francophile communal leaders expressed toward secular High Commissioner Sarrail upon his appointment in 1924. Over the formative five years of the mandate, administrators, community leaders, nationalists, students and journalists each experienced expectant and disillusionary phases. The oscillations of stakeholder’s situations and expectations of mandate rule are revealed in, though not exclusive to, attempts to shape political outcomes through cultural institutions. Ultimately, however, these diverse centrifugal visions and claims unveiled the overlapping meanings that stakeholders assigned to the mandate and indeed to the varying communal, Syrian, Lebanese or Arab ‘nations’. Ironically, this very lack of direction and indecision from Paris and Beirut opened up new political and discursive opportunity structures for domestic nationalists seeking to rid themselves of a mandatory power and international powers seeking to increase their influence and, in the case of Italy, perhaps even replace France. The outbreak of constrained nationalist violence and devastating French repression, first in the 1919–20 uprisings and then with greater coherence in the spring 1922 Lesser Syrian Insurrection and the 1925 Great Syrian Revolt, disclosed

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the fundamentally violent nature of excercising and challenging governmental power. Defining the mandate, giving it meaning through aims and methods, had become the core aim of competing international, mandatory, communal and nationalist claims to cultural affinities and governmental competency over the formative years. Even before the Great Syrian Revolt, a review penned at the outset of 1925 by the chief of Levant military intelligence Lieutenant Rene´ De Feriet acknowledged that the mandatory power could not simply act as a sovereign or paternalist protector; it had to act as a tutor with the interest of the tutee and the international community in mind. De Ferrier nevertheless reiterated his personal belief that the mandate, with all its imperfections and defects, ultimately sought to put others on the ‘path to theoretical research, disinterest and progress’.1 He ignored the significant changes to governance imposed on the French, noting only the organisation of the Lebanese, Syrian and Alawite states as they stood in January 1925. Just eight months before the outbreak of the Great Syrian Revolt, and perhaps reflecting an overreliance on the accuracy of his orientalist and requisitely concise intelligence summaries, the intelligence chief pronounced himself optimistic of the future of a mandate administered by a disinterested France with idealist convictions.2 Post-Great Revolt internal soul-searching provides a sharper picture of growing disillusion. One initial mid-Revolt reaction within the intelligence service channelled opinions present in the right-wing metropolitan and colonial press, arguing that a more direct grasp of the country was necessary to change France’s fortunes in the Levant. This 1926 report rehearsed tired orientalist disdain when it claimed that ‘the Syrian is an Oriental; as such, he can only understand force, and his demands are always increasing until such a time as he is met with force [. . .] Syria must understand that France will stay in place, because she is not only a mandatory power, but also as a creditor nation [and a debtor to the US], whose sacrifices, which consolidated its secular rights, give her the right to stay’.3 The report did criticise the irreconciliable centralisation (High Commission) and decentralisation (States of Syria) model which had created a confused administrative and budgetary edifice. Shifting the blame onto victims of French imperial ambitions, the report suggested

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that the breakdown of order resulted from the fact that Syria, like other oriental countries such as Iran and Egypt, had ‘never had any political education’. It admitted French disillusionment with initial claims of cultural affinity to a Christian Levant. Noting the bias that previous mandate administrations had exercised toward Christian-dominated Lebanon, even at the basic level of situating Syria’s central government in Beirut, the report stated that even ‘if Lebanon is to be treated with sympathy [. . .] we have other goals in Syria than Lebanese ones’.4 However, as the Great Revolt was being successfully crushed in 1927, another intelligence service commentary sought to reframe the mandate toward a more malleable system that acknowledged nationalist and communal demands for autonomy while retaining decision-making power. It admitted that the Revolt signified an explosion of popular consciousness in Syria which, it claimed, had resulted in promoting local and international misperceptions of France’s mandate. As with the ‘pep talk’ given by De Ferrier on the eve of the Syrian Revolt, this review also noted the particular formula of the mandate as translating into tutelage rather than sovereignty. Yet whereas the ‘open door’ was discussed by De Ferrier as an inevitable element of the mandate model, in the later review, the mandate was described as ‘the charge and duty’ of a great power toward ‘lesser peoples’ in which ‘no third party [. . .] external intervention’ could be admitted. Such a recalibration of the mandate mission and mechanisms nevertheless had their own legacy effects. Though the High Commission seemed more open to dialogue with local communal and nationalist leaders in a rebalancing act, this opened new fissures with sections of the intelligence and military apparatus in the Levant believing that France’s sacrifices had increased her stakes in region. A report from mid-1927 explained that following the arrival of the civilian High Commissioner, Henri Ponsot, there had been an increase in Syrian nationalists’ interest in discussions between nationalist leaders and the French imperial government, not mentioning the Beirut colonial administration. Worse still, Ponsot’s predecessor, the first civilian High Commissioner Henry De Jouvenel, had given concessions without consulting Paris in order to achieve peace ‘at any cost’. This had created a rift between the civilian mandate authorities (the High Commission) and the army over how to react to the Great Syrian Revolt. Ponsot’s appointment signalled a new policy, imperial rather than colonial, which

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treated the High Commissioner simply as an arm of Paris’ dealings with the Syrian nationalists. Crucially, this new French Foreign Ministry policy had inherently validated Syrian nationalists since they were now being treated bilaterally as potential future rulers of Syria, rather than local clients to be managed by the High Commission.5 After five years of struggle in the cultural institutions as elsewhere, the Lebanese and Syrian states were beginning to be recognised in an international arena of competing imperial powers.

NOTES

Introduction

Cultural Institutions and the Struggle to Define the Mandate

1. Michel Foucault, L’Archeologie du Savoir (Paris, 1969), pp. 10– 15. 2. Michel Foucault, Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings 1972– 1977 (New York, 1980), p. 83. 3. Antonio Gramsci, ‘The Modern Prince’, in Q. Hoare and G. Nowell Smith (eds), Selections From the Prison Notebooks (London, 1971), p. 433. 4. Antonio Gramsci, ‘History of the Subaltern Classes: Methodological Criteria’, in Hoare and Nowell Smith, Selections, p. 202. 5. Ibid., p. 203. 6. Bart Cammaerts, ‘Protest Logics and the Mediation Opportunity Structure’, European Journal of Communication, 27/2 (2012), pp. 118– 19. 7. Gyan Prakash (ed.), ‘Introduction: After Colonialism’, in G. Prakash (ed.), After Colonialism: Imperial Histories and Colonial Displacements (Princeton, NJ, 1995). 8. Gayatri Spivak, ‘Subaltern Studies: Deconstructing Historiography’, in Donna Landry and Gerald Maclean (eds), The Spivak Reader: Selected Works of Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (London, 1996), p. 217. 9. Edward Said, Culture and Imperialism (New York, 1993), pp. 163, 168. 10. Haim Gerber, ‘The Public Sphere and Civil Society in the Ottoman Empire’, in Miriam Hoexter, Shmuel N. Eisenstadt and Nehemia Levtzion (eds), The Public Sphere in Muslim Societies (Albany, NY, 2002), pp. 65 – 6. 11. Ju¨rgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society (Cambridge, MA, 1991). 12. Theodor Adorno, The Culture Industry: Selected Essays on Mass Culture (London, 1991), pp. 107– 8. 13. Erez Manela, The Wilsonian Moment: Self-Determination and the International Origins of Anticolonial Nationalism (Oxford, 2009); Garay Paul Menicucci,

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14. 15. 16.

17.

18.

19. 20. 21.

22. 23. 24.

25. 26. 27.

NOTES

TO PAGES

7 –10

‘The Russian Revolution and Popular Movement in Syria in the 1920s’ (Ph.D. thesis, Georgetown University, 1993). Martin Thomas, The French Empire Between the Wars: Imperialism, Politics and Society (Manchester, 2005), pp. 5 – 6. Susan Pedersen, The Guardians: The League of Nations and the Crisis of Empire (Oxford, 2015), pp. 23 – 35. For a more elaborate exposition of this, see Andrew Arsan, ‘“This Age is the Age of Associations”: Committees, Petitions, and the Roots of Interwar Middle Eastern Internationalism’, Journal of Global History, 7/2 (2012), pp. 166 – 88; Natasha Wheatley, ‘Mandatory Interpretation: Legal Hermeneutics and the New International Order in Arab And Jewish Petitions to the League Of Nations’, Past & Present, 227/1 (2015), pp. 205 –48. Chantal Verdeil, ‘Travailler a` la Renaissance de l’Orient Chre´tien. Les Missions Latine en Syrie (1830 – 1945)’, Proche-Orient Chretien, 51/3 – 4 (2001), pp. 267 –316. Simon Jackson, ‘What Is Syria Worth? The Huvelin Mission, Economic Expertise and the French Project in the Eastern Mediterranean, 1918– 1922’, Monde(s), 4/2 (2013), pp. 83 – 104. Auguste Benoıˆt, E´tude sur les Capitulations Entre l’Empire Ottoman et la France et sur la Re´forme Judiciaire en E´gypte (Paris, 1890). Elizabeth F. Thompson, Colonial Citizens: Republican Rights, Paternal Privilege and Gender in French Syria and Lebanon (New York, NY, 2000). I use this term in accordance with Simon Jackson’s elaboration. Although the term ‘Sirio-Libaneses’ does appear in Latin American Syro-Lebanese e´migre´ circles, it was largely unused in Syria and Lebanon itself. The term nevertheless neatly encapsulates what Jackson says is the ‘dialectal process of political evolution’ and ‘acknowledges the overlap between the Syrian and Lebanese states and [. . .] the diaspora during the late Ottoman and Mandate periods’. See: Simon Jackson, ‘Diaspora Politics and Development Empire: The Syro-Lebanese at the League of Nations’, Arab Studies Journal, 21/1 (2013), p. 185, fn. 3. Martin Thomas, Empires of Intelligence: Security Services and Colonial Disorder After 1914 (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA, 2008), pp. 293– 4. Ernest Gellner and John Waterbury, Patrons and Clients in Mediterranean Societies (London, 1977). The British Library [hereafter BL], India Office Records [hereafter IOR]/L/ PS/11/150, Naval Staff Headquarters, Intelligence Division, ‘Personalities: Syria’, 17 August 1917. William Gallois, A History of Violence in the Early Algerian Colony (Basingstoke, 2013). Martti Koskenniemi, The Gentle Civilizer of Nations: The Rise and Fall of International Law 1870– 1960 (Cambridge, 2011). BL, IOR/L/PS/11/192, Lord Hardinge letter to Lord Curzon, 1 January 1921.

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231

28. BL, IOR/L/PS/11/192, ‘Extract From Letter to Sir W. Tyrell from Mr. Chas Mendl. Dated Dec. 22nd 1920’, January 1921. 29. Esther Mo¨ller, Orte der Zivilisierungsmission: Franzo¨sische Schulen im Libanon 1909– 1943 (Go¨ttingen, 2011), p. 210. 30. Archives Nationales de France-Perfitte-Sur-Seine [hereafter AN-P], F/7/13411, Badrih Talih, Law Student at the University of Lyon, to MFA, ˙ No Date [hereafter n.d.]. 31. Centre d’Archives du Ministe`re des Affaires Etrange`res-Nantes [hereafter CADN], 1SL/V/1362, ‘Historique des E´tats Sous Mandats Franc ais au Levant’, 31 March 1928. 32. Ibid. 33. Shohei Sato, Britain and the Formation of the Gulf States: Embers of Empire (Manchester, 2016). 34. Henry Laurens, Orientales: Autour de l’Expe´dition d’E´gypte (Paris, 2004); Juan Cole, Napoleon’s Egypt: Invading the Middle East (Basingstoke, 2007). 35. Henry Laurens, Orientales: La IIIe Re´publique et l’Islam (Paris, 2004). 36. CADN, 1SL/V/1561. ‘L’Expedition Franc aise de 1860 au Liban’, n.d. 37. Robert Gordon Cram, ‘German Interests in the Ottoman Empire, 1878– 1885’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of London, 1999). 38. V. Necla Geyikdagi, Foreign Investment in the Ottoman Empire: International Trade and Relations 1854– 1914 (London, 2011), pp. 41– 52. 39. CADN 1SL/V/1369, ‘La Situation en Syrie et en Cilicie d’Octobre 1918 a` Se´ptembre 1923’, n.d. 40. Eyal Ginio, The Ottoman Culture of Defeat: The Balkan Wars and Their Aftermath (Oxford, 2015). 41. Elie Kedourie, In the Anglo-Arab Labyrinth: The McMahon – Husayn Correspondence and Its Interpretations 1914– 1939 (London, 2014). 42. ‘La Situation en Syrie et en Cilicie [n.d.]’, pp. 5 – 6. 43. Ibid., 7. See also: Andrew Patrick, America’s Forgotten Middle East Initiative: The King – Crane Commission of 1919 (London, 2015); Lori Allen, ‘The Nation As Moral Community: Language and Religion in the 1919 King – Crane Commission’, in C. Schayegh and A. Arsan (eds), The Routledge Handbook of the History of the Middle East Mandates (London, 2015). 44. Ibid., p. 26. 45. CADN, 1SL/V/1362, ‘Historique des E´tats sous Mandats Franc ais au Levant’, 31 March 1928. 46. Ibid. 47. Philippe Gouraud, Le Ge´ne´ral Henri Gouraud au Liban et en Syrie: 1919– 1923 (Paris, 1993), pp. 26 – 9, 65. 48. Cyrus Schayegh and Andrew Arsan, ‘Introduction’ in The Routledge Handbook. 49. Jean-David Mizrahi, Gene`se de l’E´tat Mandataire: Service des Renseignements et Bandes Arme´es dans les Anne´es 1920 (Paris, 2003), pp. 15 – 22, 75 – 82. 50. Thomas, Empires, p. 294; Frederick Cooper, Colonialism in Question: Theory, Knowledge, History (Berkely and Los Angeles, CA, 2005), p. 197.

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TO PAGES

18 –20

51. Nacklie´ Elias Bou Nacklie´, ‘Les Troupes Speciales du Levant: Origins, Recruitment and the History of the Syrian-Lebanese Para-Military Forces Under the French Mandate, 1919 –1947’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Utah, 1989). 52. One relevant study is: Sarah Jean Zimmerman, ‘Living Beyond Boundaries: West African Soldiers in French Colonial Conflicts, 1908– 1962’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of California at Berkeley, 2011). 53. M. Thomas, ‘Bedouin Tribes and the Imperial Intelligence Services in Syria, Iraq and Transjordan in the 1920s’, Journal Of Contemporary History, 38/4 (2003), pp. 539– 61; Katharina Lange, ‘“Bedouin” and “Shawaya”: the Performative Constitution of Tribal Identities in Syria During the French Mandate and Today’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient, 58/1 – 2 (2015), pp. 200– 35; Idir Ouahes, ‘Une “ceinture” d’Espace E´tatique: Le Controˆle des Be´douins au De´but du Mandat Franc ais en Syrie’, L’Espace Politique, 27 (2016). Available at https://espacepolitique.revues.org/3695 (accessed 22 January 2018). 54. Sophie Liorit, ‘Les Fouilles Archeologiques et les Missions Franc aises en Turquie (1863– 1914)’ (Masters thesis, University of Nantes, 1995); Mathilde Ge´lin, L’Archae´ologie en Syrie et au Liban a l’Epoque du Mandat, 1919– 1946: Histoire et Organisation (Paris, 2002); Renaud Avez, L’Institut Francais de Damas au Palais Azem (1922 –1946) a` Travers les Archives (Damascus, 1993). 55. Ussama Makdisi, Artillery of Heaven: American Missionaries and the Failed Conversion of the Middle East (Ithaca, NY, 2008); Robert L. Daniel, American Philanthropy in the Near East, 1820– 1960 (Athens, OH, 1970); Julia Hauser, German Religious Women in Late Ottoman Beirut: Competing Missions (Leiden, 2015). 56. For instance: James Barr, A Line in the Sand: Britain, France and the Struggle that Shaped the Middle East (London, 2011). One exception is found in: Anne Chaigne-Oudin, La France et les Rivalite´s Occidentales au Levant (Paris, 2006). 57. Joseph L. Grabill, Protestant Diplomacy and the Near East: Missionary Influence on American Policy, 1810– 1927 (Minneapolis, MN, 1971); James A. Melki, ‘Syria and the State Department 1937– 1947’, Middle Eastern Studies, 33/1 (1997), pp. 92 – 106. 58. Massimiliano Fiore, Anglo-Italian Relations in the Middle East, 1922– 1940 (Farnham, 2010). 59. Stephen Helmsley Longrigg, Syria and Lebanon Under French Mandate (Oxford, 1958); Philip Shukry Khoury, Syria and the French Mandate: The Politics of Arab Nationalism, 1920– 1945 (Princeton, NJ, 1987). 60. James Gelvin, Divided Loyalties: Mass Politics at the End of Empire (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA, 2006). 61. Lenka Bokova, La Confrontation Franco-Syrienne a l’Epoque du Mandat, 1925– 1927 (Paris, 1990), p. 22. 62. Michael Provence, The Great Syrian Revolt and the Rise of Arab Nationalism (Austin, TX, 2005), p. 5.

NOTES TO PAGES 20 –22

233

63. Ibid., p. 25; Reem Bailony, ‘Transnational Rebellion: the Syrian Revolt of 1925– 1927’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of California at San Diego, 2015). 64. Itamar Rabinovitch, ‘The compact minorities and the Syrian State, 1918–1945’, Journal of Contemporary History, 14/4 (1979), pp. 693–712, pp. 701–702. 65. Daniel Neep, ‘Colonising Violence: Space Insurgency and Subjectivity in French Mandate Syria’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of London, 2008), pp. 147 –57. 66. Ibid., pp. 174– 209. 67. Muhannad Salhi, Palestine in the Evolution of Syrian Nationalism (1918 – 1920) (Exeter, 2008). 68. Meir Zamir, The Formation Of Modern Lebanon (London, 1985); Maroun Bouassi, ‘Le Role de la France dans l’Evolution Politique du Liban (1914 – 1946)’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Rennes, 1987); Hoda Saliby-Yehia, ‘Pouvoir E´tatique et Dynamique de De´veloppement: L’expe´rience de Deux E´tats Successeurs de l’Empire Ottoman, la Syrie (1876– 1963) et le Liban (1876 – 1964)’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Paris, 1993); Wajih Kawtharani, ‘Le Grand-Liban et le Projet de la Confe´deration Syrienne d’Apres des Documents Franc ais’, in Y. Choueiri (ed.), State And Society in Syria and Lebanon (Exeter, 1993); Elizabeth Thompson, ‘Rashid Rida and the 1920 Syrian-Arab Constitution: How the French Mandate Undermined Islamic Liberalism’, in Schayegh and Arsan (eds), The Routledge Handbook. 69. Philip S. Khoury, Urban Notables and Arab Nationalism: The Politics of Damascus 1860– 1920 (Cambridge, 1983). 70. For an account of family politics in Damascus and Beirut, see Linda Schatkowski-Schilcher, Families in Politics: Damascene Factions and Estates of the 18th And 19th Centuries (Stuttgart, 1985); Mahmoud Haddad, ‘The city, the coast, the mountain, and the hinterland: Beirut’s commercial and political rivalries in the 19th and early 20th century’, in T. Philipp and B. Scha¨bler (eds), The Syrian Land: Processes of Integration and Fragmentation: Bilad Al-Sham from the 18th to the 20th Century (Stuttgart, 1998). 71. Keith David Watenpaugh, Being Modern In The Middle East: Revolution, Nationalism, Colonialism and the Arab Middle Class (Princeton, NJ, 2006), pp. 19 – 20. 72. Hanna Batatu, Syria’s Peasantry, the Descendants of its Lesser Rural Notables, and Their Politics (Princeton, NJ, 1999); Michael Van Dusen, ‘Political integration and regionalism in Syria’, Middle East Journal, 26/2 (1972), pp. 123 –36. 73. James Long Whitaker, ‘The Union of Demeter With Zeus: Agriculture and Politics in Modern Syria’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Durham, 1996). 74. Elizabeth Williams, ‘Cultivating Empires: Environment, Expertise, and Scientific Agriculture in Late Ottoman and French Mandate Syria’ (Ph.D. thesis, Georgetown University, 2016). 75. Hubert Bonin and Frank Peter, ‘Les “Bonnes Affaires” de la Modernisation: Les Socie´te´s Anonymes et l’Industrialisation en Syrie, 1908– 1946’, in Nadine

234

76.

77.

78.

79.

80.

81. 82.

83.

84.

85.

86. 87.

NOTES

TO PAGES

22 –23

Me´ouchy (ed.), France, Syrie et Liban 1918– 1946. Les Ambiguite´s et les Dynamiques de la Relation Mandataire (Beirut and Damascus, 2002). Nourredine Bouchair, ‘The Merchant and Moneylending Class of Syria Under the French Mandate, 1920– 1946’ (Ph.D. thesis, Georgetown University, 1986). Geoffrey D. Schad, ‘Colonialists, Industrialist, and Politicians: The Political Economy of Industrialization in Syria, 1920– 1954’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Pennsylvania, 2001). Simon M.W. Jackson, ‘Mandatory Development: the Political Economy of the French Mandate in Syria and Lebanon, 1915– 1939’ (Ph.D. thesis, New York University, 2009). Robert Ian Blecher, ‘The Medicalization of Sovereignty: Medicine, Public Health, and Political Authority in Syria, 1861– 1936’ (Ph.D. thesis, Stanford University, 2002). Keith Watenpaugh, Bread From Stones: The Middle East and the Making of Modern Humanitarianism (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA, 2015). See also Thompson, Colonial Citizens, pp. 154– 70; Houssam Yehya, ‘Health and Social Protection in Lebanon (1860– 1963)’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Nice, 2015); Chris Gratien, ‘The sick mandate of Europe: local and global humanitarianism in French Cilicia, 1918– 1922’, Journal of the Ottoman and Turkish Studies Association, 3/1 (2016). Butrus Daw, Histoire Religieuse, Culturelle et Politique des Maronites (Jedaidet El-Matn, 1985), p. 961. In fact, it was the Maronites, led by Elias Hoyek and a Lebanese provisional council formed at the end of the World War, that forged Greater Lebanon as a separate entity that far extended the borders of Maronite-dominated Mount Lebanon Ottoman Sanjak (district). Nadine Me´ouchy, ‘Les Maronites, de la marginalite´ au destin historique’, Guarrigues et Sentiers (2008). Available at https://halshs.archives-ouvertes.fr/halshs-00447150/document (accessed 19 January 2018). Kamal Salibi, A House of Many Mansions: The History of Lebanon (London, 2003), pp. 167– 81; Asher Kaufman, Reviving Phoenicia: The Search for Identity in Lebanon (London, 2014), pp. 141– 94. Rabinovitch, ‘The compact minorities’; Benjamin Thomas White, The Emergence of Minorities in the Middle East: The Politics of Community in French Mandate Syria (Edinburgh, 2011). Nadine Me´ouchy, ‘Les Formes de Conscience Politique et Communautaire au Liban et en Syrie a l’Epoque du Mandate Franc ais (1920– 1939)’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Paris, 1989). Provence, The Great Syrian Revolt, pp. 16– 17. Jordi Tejel Gorgas, Syria’s Kurds: History, Politics and Society (London, 2009); Ahmet Serdar Aktu¨rk, ‘Imagining Kurdish Identity in Mandatory Syria: Finding A Nation in Exile’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Arkansas, 2013);

NOTES

88. 89. 90. 91.

92.

93.

94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99.

100.

101. 102.

TO PAGES

23 –27

235

Jordi Tejel, ‘Scholarship on the Kurds in Syria: a history and state of the art assessment’, Syrian Studies Association Newsletter, 16/2 (2011). Max Weiss, In the Shadow of Sectarianism: Law, Shi’ism, and the Making of Modern Lebanon (Boston, 2010), pp. 32 – 3. Tamara Chalabi, The Shi’is of Jabal ‘Amil and the New Lebanon: Community and Nation-State, 1918– 1943 (Basingstoke, 2006), pp. 60 – 2. Chalabi, The Shi’is of Jabal ‘Amil, pp. 73 – 4. May Davie, ‘Les orthodoxes entre Beyrouth et Damas: une millet Chre´tienne dans deux villes Ottomanes’, in Y. Choueiri (ed.), State and Society in Syria and Lebanon. Nikola Schahgaldian, ‘The Political Integration of an Immigrant Community into a Composite Society: The Armenians in Lebanon, 1920 – 1974’ (Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, New York University, 1979). Dzovinar Kevonian, ‘Re´fugie´s et Diplomatie Humanitaire: Les Acteurs Europe´ens et la Sce´ne Proche-Orientale Pendant l’Entre-Deux-Guerres’ (Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, 1999); Seda Altug˘ and Benjamin Thomas White, ‘Frontie`res et pouvoir d’e´tat: la frontie`re Turco-Syrienne dans les anne´es 1920 et 1930’, Vingtie`me-Sie`cle, 103 (2009), 91 – 104; T.H. Greenshields, ‘The Settlement of Armenian Refugees in Syria and Lebanon, 1915– 1939’ (Ph.D. thesis, University Of Durham, 1978), pp. 367–90; Benjamin Thomas White, ‘Refugees and the definition of Syria, 1920– 1939’, Past & Present, 235/1, pp. 141 –78. Jennifer M. Dueck, The Claims of Culture at Empire’s End: Syria and Lebanon Under French Rule (Oxford, 2010), p. 7. Thompson, Colonial Citizens, pp. 3 – 4. Ibid., p. 3. Ibid., pp. 1 – 2. Ibid., p. 6. Covertly, this Anglo-French competition grew until the World War II era. See Meir Zamir, The Secret Anglo-French War in the Middle East: Intelligence and Decolonization, 1940– 1948 (London, 2014). Rı¯mu¯n Ha¯shim, Al-Intida¯b al-Faransı¯ ʻala´ Lubna¯n: zuru¯fuhu, iqra¯ruhu, dawlat ˙ Lubna¯n al-kabı¯r wa-iʻla¯n al-dustu¯r (Baabda, 2007); Yusuf Al-Hakim, Su¯rı¯ya wa-’l-intida¯b al-faransı¯ (Beirut: Da¯r an-Naha¯r lin-Nasˇr, 1983), pp. 41 – 9; Dalal Arsuzi-Elamir, ‘The uprisings in Antakya 1918– 1926: guided by the centre or initiated by the periphery?’, in A.-K. Rafeq, P. Sluglett and S. Weber (eds), Syria and Bilad Al-Sham Under Ottoman Rule: Essays in Honour of AbdulKarim Rafeq (Leiden, 2010); Nadine Me´ouchy, ‘Les Temps et les Te´rritoires de la Re´volte du Nord (1919 – 1921)’, in J.-C. David and T. Boissie`re (eds), Alep et ses Te´rritoires: Fabrique et Politique d’une Ville, 1868– 2011 (Beirut and Damascus, 2014). Khoury, Syria and the French Mandate, p. 127. Bokova, La Confrontation, pp. 63 – 7, pp. 109– 10.

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27 –33

103. Muhammad Jamil Beyhum, Lubna¯n Bayna Mushriq Wa Maghrib 1920– 1969 (Beirut, 1969), p. 23. Beyhum had sought to stand for the Lebanese parliament in 1922 but was forced to withdraw by mandate authorities. See: Raghid Solh, ‘The attitude of the Arab nationalists toward Greater Lebanon during the 1930s’, in N. Shehadi and D. Haffar Mills (eds), Lebanon: A History of Conflict and Consensus (London, 1988), p. 153. 104. Yusuf Al-Hakim, Su¯rı¯ya wa-’l-intida¯b al-faransı¯ (Beirut, 1983), pp. 41 – 9. 105. Shams Al-Dı¯n Al-Rifa’ı¯, Tarikh as-Sihafa As-Su¯riya (Cairo, 1969), p. 9. 106. Khairiya Qassimiyah, Al-Raʻı¯l al-ʻArabı¯ al-awwal: haya¯t wa-awra¯q Nabı¯h wa˙ ʻA¯dil al-ʻAzmah (London, 1991). ˙ 107. CADN, 1SL/V/1561, ‘Les Franc ais en Syrie (1918 – 1924)’, n.d. 108. CADN, 1SL/V/1362, ‘L’Organisation Donne´e a la Syrie et au Liban de 1920 a 1923 et la Crise Actuelle’, 6 October 1926. 109. Gerard D. Khoury, Une Tutelle Coloniale: Le Mandat Francais en Syrie et au Liban: Ecrits Politiques de Robert De Caix (Paris, 2006). 110. There is no documentation on the Lesser Syrian Insurrection (Spring 1922) that proves British intrigue via Transjordan. It is worth noting that, according to his diary, the notorious man of action St John Philby did visit north Transjordan and crossed into Syria (with French knowledge) in May–June 1922. Regarding similar accusations of British–Hashemite conspiracy against French rule during the 1925–6 Great Revolt, we have a more direct refutation. This comes from the diary of pressman ‘Arif al-‘Arif, a confidant of Transjordan King Abdullah. His diary entry for 17 September 1926 discusses the ‘revolution [. . .] knocking on the doors’ of Transjordan and his unsuccessful attempts at gaining Abdallah to support the Great Syrian Revolt. In another instance, ‘Arif and others were gathered by British advisor Peake Pasha and strictly warned not to support rebels in Syria as a result of the new agreements on the Transjordan–Syria border. ‘I have [. . .] to admit,’ ‘Arif recalled, ‘that we, the people who were present [. . .] did not say a thing [. . .] although some of us muttered some words that included hypocrisy [. . .] I then decided to send messages to the people [. . .] among the leaders of the revolt [. . .] God please protect them! Save my land from the evil of the despotic colonialists!’ See: St Antony’s College Middle East Centre Archives, Oxford [hereafter MEC], GB165-0016 Aref El-Aref, diary entries for 17 and 22 September 1926. 111. Provence, The Great Syrian Revolt. 112. Caesar Farah, ‘The Young Turks and the Arab press’, in C. Imber and K. Kiyotaki (eds), Frontiers of Ottoman Studies: State, Province, and the West. Volume I (London, 2005), p. 237. 113. Priya Satia, Spies in Arabia: The Great War and the Cultural Foundations of Britain’s Covert Empire in the Middle East (Oxford, 2008), p. 7. 114. Thomas, Empires of Intelligence, p. 294. 115. Roberto Mazza and Idir Ouahes, ‘For God and La Patrie: Antonin Jaussen, Dominican priest and French intelligence agent in the Middle East, 1914– 1920’, First World War Studies, 3/2 (2012), pp. 145– 64.

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237

116. Ann Laura Stoler, Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (Princeton, NJ, 2009), p. 3. 117. Ibid., p. 4. 118. To give an example, even the best collection available at the AUB offers only limited editions of certain smaller newspapers and literary-scientific magazines (Al-Tajadid-1927, Al-Tammadun-1926, Al-Fajr-1919). Some of the major Beiruti newspapers that frequently appeared in French press reports are not available for this period: Al-Ahrar (1926 only), Alif Ba¯ (1936 onward), ˙ Al-Dabbour (1927 –38). 119. Stoler, Along the Archival Grain, p. 5.

Chapter 1 Antiquities Protection and Excavation 1. Jennifer M. Dueck, The Claims of Culture at Empire’s End: Syria and Lebanon Under French Rule (Oxford, 2010); Jacques Thobie, ‘Arche´ologie et diplomatie Franc aise au Moyen-Orient des anne´es 1930’, in Roland Etienne (ed.), Les Politiques de l’Arche´ologie du Milieu du XIXe Sie`cle a l’Ore´e du XXIe sie`cle (Paris, 2000), pp. 79 – 111. 2. See, inter alia, James F. Goode, Negotiating for the Past: Archaeology, Nationalism, and Diplomacy in the Middle East, 1919 – 1941 (Austin, TX, 2007); Zainab Bahrani, ‘Conjuring Mesopotamia: imaginative geography in a world past’, in Lynn Meskell (ed.), Archaeology Under Fire: Nationalism, Politics and Heritage in the Eastern Mediterranean and Middle East (London, 1998); John James Moscrop, Measuring Jerusalem: The Palestine Exploration Fund and British Interests in the Holy Land (London, 2000). 3. Mathilde Gelin, L’Arche´ologie en Syrie et au Liban a l’Epoque du Mandat (1920 – 1946): Histoire et Organisation (Paris, 2002). For a short overview of excavations during the mandate, see Thomas W. Davis, Shifting Sands: The Rise and Fall of Biblical Archaeology (New York, NY, 2004), pp. 54 – 7. 4. Shawn Malley, ‘Austen Henry Layard and the periodical press: Middle Eastern archaeology and the excavation of cultural identity in mid-nineteenth century Britain’, Victorian Review, 22/2 (1996). 5. Juan Cole, Napoleon’s Egypt: Invading the Middle East (New York, NY, 2007), p. 5. 6. Ulrich Haarmann, ‘Medieval Muslim perceptions of Pharaonic Egypt’, in A. Loprieno (ed.), Ancient Egyptian Literature: History and Forms (Leiden, 1996). 7. Jeroˆme Louis, ‘La Question d’Orient sous Louis-Philippe’ (Ph.D. thesis, E´cole Pratique des Hautes E´tudes Paris, 2004), pp. 132– 6. 8. Ernest Renan, Mission de Phe´nicie (Paris, 1864), pp. 1 – 5. Renan was following in the footsteps of French travellers such as Le´on De Laborde, Alphonse De Lamartine and Ge´rard De Nerval. Other orientalists from across Europe travelled through Syria, including some who are overlooked. See Richard

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9. 10.

11. 12.

13. 14. 15. 16.

17. 18.

19.

20. 21. 22. 23.

NOTES

TO PAGES

39 – 41

Chahine, ‘Les orientalistes me´connus au Liban’, Archaeology and History in Lebanon, 16 (2002), pp. 66 – 79. Renan, Mission, p. 16. Alain Schnapp, ‘Arche´ologie et tradition acade´mique en Europe aux XVIIIe et XIXe sie`cles’, Annales: E´conomies, Socie´te´s, Civilisations, N.5 – 6, pp. 772– 5. Edward Said, Orientalism (New York, NY, 1979). See: Bernard Lewis, ‘The question of orientalism’, New York Review of Books, 29/11 (24 June 1982); ‘Orientalism: an exchange’, New York Review of Books, 29/13 (12 August 1982). Subsequent controversy has generated an entire cottage industry of commentaries. Ironically, despite the eclecticism of Said’s approach there is a remarkable consistency of attitudes to cultures outside of the ‘West’, thus suggesting that his thesis has struck a nerve. Leonard C. Woolley, ‘La Phe´nicie et les peoples Ege´ens’, Syria, 2/3 (1921), pp. 177 –94. Edward Said, Culture and Imperialism (New York, 1993), p. 15. Talal Asad, Anthropology and the Colonial Encounter (Reading, 1973), pp. 16 – 18. Ronald Robinson and John Gallagher, Africa and the Victorians: The Official Mind of Imperialism (London, 2015); Christopher M. Andrew, ‘The French colonialist movement during the Third Republic: the unofficial mind of imperialism’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 26 (1976), pp. 143– 66; Martin Thomas, ‘Mapping the French colonial mind’, in Martin Thomas (ed.), The French Colonial Mind, Volume 1: Mental Maps of Empire and Colonial Encounters (Lincoln, NE, 2011). Stoler, Along the Archival Grain, p. 4. Yale University Manuscript Collections, New Haven, CT [hereafter YUMC], Papers of Colonel Edward M. House/Group 466/Series 4/Box 237, ‘The Penetration of the Near and Middle East’, n.d. AN-P, Fonds Millerand/470AP/60, ‘Note sur les Inte´reˆts Moraux et Mate´riels de la France en Syrie’, 1 February 1919. Millerand was reflecting an established claim, put forward by the Parti Colonial during World War I. Millerand was describing what Henry Laurens later termed the ‘Catholic Link’ (‘la Filie`re Catholique’). See Henry Laurens, ‘Le Liban et l’Occident: re´cit d’un parcours’, Vingtie`me Sie`cle: Revue d’Histoire, 32 (1991), p. 25. AN-P, Fonds Millerand/470AP/60, ‘Tradition Politique de la France en Orient’, c.1920. CADN, 1SL/V/949, ‘Personelle’, 11 October 1920. M.J. Chamonard, ‘A propos du service des antiquite´s de Syrie’, Syria, 1/2 (1920), p. 81. Georges Contenau, ‘Deuxie`me mission arche´ologique a` Sidon (1920)’, Syria, 4/4 (1923), p. 261. Contenau’s mission in Sidon and Pierre Montet’s excavations at Jbeil (Byblos) were later praised as having contributed antiquities to a temporary exhibition in the Service des Antiquite´s at the

NOTES

24. 25. 26. 27.

28.

29. 30. 31.

32. 33.

34.

TO PAGES

41 – 43

239

Louvre in 1922. See ‘Exposition temporaire des fouilles Franc aise de Syrie au Muse´e du Louvre’, Syria, 3/1 (1922), pp. 85 – 6. Renaud Avez, L’Institut Francais de Damas au Palais Azem (1922 –1946) a` Travers les Archives (Damascus, 1993), pp. 24 – 5. Georges Contenau, ‘L’Institut Franc ais d’Arche´ologie et d’art Musulmans de Damas’, Syria, 5/3 (1924), p. 203. CADN, 1SL/V/1561, ‘Notre Histoire Nationale. Les Sources de la Mentalite´ Syrienne’, 25 March 1921. See Beatrice St Laurent and Tas¸ko¨mu¨r Himmet, ‘The Imperial Museum of Antiquities in Jerusalem, 1890– 1930: an alternate narrative’, Journal of Palestine Studies, 55 (2013), 6 – 45, p. 8; Benjamin Anderson, ‘“An Alternative Discourse”: Local Interpreters of Antiquities in the Ottoman Empire’, Journal of Field Archaeology, 40/4 (2015), pp. 450– 60. Edmond Pottier, ‘Rapport sur les travaux arche´ologiques du Service des Antiquite´s de Syrie et sur la Fondation de l’E´cole Franc aise de Je´rusalem (1920 – 1921); Lu dans la Se´ance Du 13 Octobre 1922’, Comptes Rendus des Se´ances de l’Acade´mie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, 66/5 (1922), pp. 359– 69; Ernest Will, ‘L’E´cole biblique et la de´couverte arche´ologique’, ComptesRendus des Se´ances de l’Acade´mie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, 4 (1990), pp. 857 – 64; Dominique Trimbur, Une E´cole Franc aise a` Je´rusalem (Paris, 2002). AN, 62/AJ/65, University of Saint Joseph Beirut, Faculte´ Orientale, 1 March 1913. W.F. Albright, ‘Report of the Director of the School in Jerusalem, 1920– 1921’, pp. 9 – 23, 21. Jacques Thobie, ‘Arche´ologie et diplomatie Franc aise au Moyen-Orient des anne´es 1880 au de´buts des anne´es 1930’, Les Politiques de l’Arche´ologies: Du Milieu du XIXe Sie`cle a` l’Ore´e du XXIe (Athens, 2000), pp. 79 – 112; see also: Ernest Will, ‘Les “Athe´niens” en Syrie, au Liban et en Jordanie’, Les Politiques de l’Arche´ologies, pp. 113 – 20; Jean-Michel Kasbarian, ‘Du De´sir de Rayonnement de l’Arche´ologie Franc aise a` l’Etranger a` l’Alliance Scientifique avec les pays partenaires: l’arche´ologie Franc aise dans la diplomatie scientifique d’influence’, Les Nouvelles de l’Arche´ologie, 128 (2012). Chamonard, ‘A propos’, p. 81. See: Francois Pouillon and Jean-Claude Vatin (eds), After Orientalism: Critical Perspectives on Western Agency and Eastern Representations (Leiden, 2015), p. 97; Henri Metzger, ‘La correspondance passive d’Osman Hamdi Bey’, CompteRendus des Se´ance de l’Academie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, 4 (1988), pp. 672 –84, 673– 5. Christian Le Roy, ‘L’E´cole Franc aise d’Athe`nes et l’Asie Mineur’, Bulletin de Correspondance Hellenique (1996), 120/1, pp. 373– 87, 379; Catherine Valenti, ‘L’E´cole Franc aise d’Athe`nes au coeur des relations Franco-Helle´niques, 1846 – 1946’, Revue d’Histoire Moderne et Contemporaine, 50/4 (2003), pp. 92 – 107.

240

NOTES TO PAGES 43 – 47

35. Usama Makdisi, ‘Ottoman Orientalism’, American Historical Review, 107/3 (2002), pp. 768– 96. See also Selim Deringil, The Well-Protected Domains: Ideology and Legitimation of Power in the Ottoman Empire 1876– 1909 (London, 2011); Edhem Eldem, ‘The Ottoman Empire and Orientalism: an awkward relationship’, in F. Pouillon and J.-C. Vatin (eds), After Orientalism. 36. Chamonard, ‘A propos’, pp. 82 – 3. 37. Ibid., p. 88. 38. Ibid. 39. Wendy M.K. Shaw, Possessors and Possessed: Museums, Archaeology, and the Visualization of History in the late Ottoman Empire (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA, 2003), pp. 108– 30; Morag M. Kersel, ‘The changing legal landscape for Middle Eastern Archaeology in the Colonial Era, 1800– 1930’ in Geoff Emberling, Pioneers to the Past: American Archaeologists in the Middle East 1919– 1920 (Chicago, 2010), pp. 85 – 6. 40. CADN, 1SL/V/2518, Service de l’Archaeologie et des Beaux-Arts Central, ‘Les Travaux Arche´ologiques dans les Pays sous Mandats pendant l’Anne´e 1925’, 14 February 1925. 41. ‘Annex 391a - French Mandate for Syria and the Lebanon’, League of Nations – Official Journal, 1013 (1922), pp. 1013– 17. 42. ‘Convention between the United States and France respecting rights in Syria and the Lebanon’, American Journal of International Law, 19/1 (1925), pp. 1 – 5. 43. YU, Papers of Colonel Edward M. House/Group 466/Series III/ Box 196, ‘Middle East (“Class A”) Mandates [Lord Robert Cecil Draft]’, n.d. Cecil was a friend of the founder of Iraq’s antiquities service, famed orientalist archaeologist Gertrude Bell. See Priya Satia, ‘Developing Iraq: Britain, India and the redemption of empire and technology in the First World War’, Past & Present, 197/1 (2007), pp. 211–55. 44. Centre d’Archives Diplomatiques de la Courneuve [hereafter CADL], ELevant/Carton [hereafter C] 313/ Dossier [hereafter D] 98/Sous-Dossier [hereafter S-D] 106, ‘Principes du Re`glement devant etre adopte´ par chaque des puissances mandataires’, 4 April 1919. 45. Howard Crosby Butler, ‘Protection for the historical monuments and objects of art in Nearer Asia’, The Art Bulletin, 2/1 (1919), p. 48. 46. Chamonard noted that during the mandate, a select few ‘respected’ excavators received a blank cheque to continue their digs: Chamonard, ‘A propos’, p. 89. 47. P.B. Potter, ‘Origin of the system of mandates under the League of Nations’, The American Political Science Review, 16/4 (1922), pp. 563– 83. 48. For an account of his research, see Paul Monceaux and Le´once Brosse´, ‘Chalcis ad Belum: notes sur l’histoire et les ruines de la ville’, Syria, 6/4 (1925), pp. 339 –50. 49. Pierre Benoit, ‘Activite´s arche´ologiques de l’e´cole biblique et arche´ologique Franc aise a` Jerusalem depuis 1890’, Revue Biblique, 94/3 (1987), pp. 397– 424. 50. Pottier, ‘Rapport sur les travaux arche´ologique’, pp. 359–60.

NOTES

TO PAGES

47 –50

241

51. William F. Albright, ‘Report of the Director of the school in Jerusalem, 1920– 21’, Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research, 5 (1921), p. 21. 52. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 98/S-D 106, HC Gouraud to MFA Briand, 18 July 1921. 53. CADN, 1SL/V/2377, C. Prost, Director of the Service des Antiquite´s to Robert De Caix, G-S of the H-C, 26 July 1921. 54. Gelin, L’Arche´ologie en Syrie, p. 26. 55. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, HC’s Delegate to the State of Damascus (hereafter DD), Institut Franc ais d’Arche´ologie et d’Art Musulmans (hereafter IFAAM), ‘Rapport Trimestriel 1er Trimestre 1924.’ 56. Ibid. 57. ‘Syrie: leve´e d’interdictions’, Le Mercure Africain (15 July 1923), 32, p. 135. 58. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel-Janvier, Fevrier, Mars, 1924.’ 59. CADN, 1SL/V/1675, ‘Rapport Trimestriel d’Ensemble - Octobre, Novembre, De´cembre 1924.’ 60. Ibid. 61. Gejou’s claim is confirmed by museum records. See Eleanor Robson, Mathematics in Ancient Iraq: A Social History (Princeton, NJ, 2008), p. 354, fn. 15. 62. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 98/S-D 106, J. Elias Gejou to President of the Acade´mie des Inscriptions et des Belles-Lettres, 25 May 1922. 63. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 98/S-D 106, Minister for Instruction Publique to MFA, 26 April 1922. 64. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, DD, IFAAM, ‘Rapport Trimestriel 1er Trimestre 1924.’ 65. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, DD, IFAAM, ‘Rapport Trimestriel 2eme Trimestre 1923.’ 66. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, Confin de l’Euphrate, Sandjak de Deir-Ez-Zor (hereafter SDZ), ‘Rapport Trimestriel (3eme Trimestre 1924).’ 67. Bulletin des Muse´es de France, 1 (1935), p. 8. 68. CADN, 1SL/V/1703. ‘Bulletin de Renseignement de Damas N.27’, 27 May 1925. 69. ‘Les Travaux Arche´ologiques [1925]’; Intelligence Officer Captain PicquetPellorce also became an accomplished archaeologist in his own right. In 1928, he took part in an epigraphical mission in Upper Syria. R.P. Mouterde, ‘Rapport sur une mission epigraphique en haute Syrie (1928)’, Syria, 10/2 (1929), p. 127. 70. CADN, 1SL/V/2372, n.a., ‘Note sur Homs et Hama’, n.d. 71. CADN, 1SL/V/168, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Avril, Mai, Juin 1923.’ 72. Ernest Renan, Mission en Phe´enicie (Paris, 1864), p. 14. 73. M. Dunand, ‘Les Egyptiens a Beyrouth’, Syria, 9/4 (1928), p. 301. 74. Ibid. 75. H.R. Hall, ‘A Sphinx of Amenhet IV’, The British Museum Quarterly, 2/4 (1928).

242

NOTES

TO PAGES

51 –53

76. James H. Breasted, ‘The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago’, The American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures, 35/4 (1919), pp. 196 –204, 197. 77. Referring to a trend already occurring in the Ottoman Empire, he wrote: ‘The opening of Asia Minor, Syria, Palestine, Mesopotamia and Babylonia to modern business and to enlightened exploitation in mining, railroad building, manufactures [. . .] means the rapid destruction of the great ruined cities and buried records [. . .] The presence of increasing crowds of tourists in normal times, and the period visits of museum representatives, have long since brought forth an evil generation of native antiquity dealers whose shops are largely replenished by illicit digging.’ See Breasted, ‘The Oriental Institute’, p. 197. 78. P. De La Chassaigne, ‘Les colonies dote´es de transports re´guliers et modernes’, L’Homme Libre, N.3312 (18 August 1925), p. 1. 79. H.C. Butler, ‘Protection for the historic monuments and objects of art in Nearer Asia’, The Art Bulletin, 2/1 (1919), pp. 46 – 58, 48. 80. Chamonard, ‘A propos’, p. 90. 81. Ibid., p. 90. 82. CADN, 1SL/V/2373, Territoire Ennemi Occupe (Zone Ouest), ‘Municipalite´ de Tyr’, 22 Janvier 1920. 83. DD, IFAAM, ‘Rapport Trimestriel 2e`me [1923]’. 84. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, EdA, ‘Rapport pour le Troisie`me Trimestre 1924.’ 85. Chamonard, ‘A propos’, p. 87. 86. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 98/S-D 106, Coville, Director of Higher Education at the Ministry of Education to Legrand, Director of the Minister’s Cabinet, MAE, 11 September 1919. 87. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 98/S-D 106, Minister for Instruction Publique to MFA, 18 May 1921. 88. Peter Magee, ‘The Foundations Of Antiquities Departments’, in Daniel T. Potts (ed.), A Companion to the Archaeology of the Ancient Near East, (Oxford, 2012), pp. 81 – 2. 89. National Archives and Records Administration, College Park, MD [hereafter NARA-CP], Records Relating to the Internal Affairs of Asia [hereafter Records [. . .] Asia], 1910 –1929/Microform Roll 14/ 890d Syria, US Consul in Damascus Allen to Division of Near Eastern Affairs, US Department of State, 30 August 1922. 90. Avez, L’Institut Francais, pp. 24 – 5. 91. ‘Fiancailles’, Le Matin, N.15654 (28 January 1927). 92. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 98/S-D 106, MFA to HC Gouraud, 10 March 1922. Pe´zard died only a year after this excavation. He had been trained at the school in the Louvre Museum. He was celebrated in the Service des Antiquite´s’ official organ, Syria, by fellow archaeologist Edmond Pottier as someone who had ‘enriched the national collections’. E. Pottier, ‘Maurice Pe´zard’, Syria, 4/4 (1923), pp. 344– 5.

NOTES

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53 –56

243

93. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 98/S-D 106 President of Socie´te´ Ernest Renan to MFA, 24 May 1921. 94. Sidon had already been the site of Ottoman excavations. See Jens Hanssen, ‘Ottoman Archaeology, Imperial Discourses & The Discovery of the Alexander Sarcophagus in Saida in 1887’, National Museum News, 8 (1998), pp. 16 – 28. 95. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 98/S-D 106, HC Gouraud to MFA Briand, 19 January 1921. 96. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 98/S-D 106, De Caix, H-C G-S, to HC Gouraud, 25 January 1925. 97. CADL E-Levant/C 313/D 98/S-D 106, Peretti de La Rocca, Director of Political and Commercial Affairs at the MAE to HC Gouraud, 14 June 1921. 98. For an account of Italian excavations as a political tool, see M. Petricioli, ‘Les missions arche´ologiques comme instrument de politique etrange`re’, in Roland Etie´nne (ed.), Les Politiques de l’Arche´ologie du Milieu du XIXe a` l’Ore´e du XXIe sie`cle. Actes du Colloque Organise´ a` l’Occasion du Cent-Cinquantenaire de l’EFA, Athe`nes, Se´ptembre 1996 (Athens, 2000), pp. 25 – 32. Available at http://cefael.efa.gr/detail.php?site_id¼1&actionID¼book&serie_id¼Chmc& volume_number¼2&ce¼dc6f7hslvnohsqdkgmbsc09vm66tqjsv&sp¼33 (accessed 19 January 2018). 99. AN-P, AJ/16/6993, Charles Virolleaud, MAE to the Rector of the University of Paris, 31 December 1925. 100. AN-P, AJ/16/6993, unaddressed letter from the MAE, 11 February 1926. 101. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘Journaux du 7 Fe´vrier 1924 - RP de Beyrouth’, 7 February 1924. 102. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, Confin de l’Euphrate, SDZ, ‘Rapport Trimestriel (3e`me Trimestre 1924).’ 103. ‘Les Travaux Arche´ologiques [1925]’. 104. DD, IFAAM, ‘Rapport Trimestriel 1er Trimestre [1924]’. 105. Raymond Lantier, ‘E´loge Fune`bre de M. Fre´de´ric Hrozny, Associe´ Etranger de l’Acade´mie’, Comptes rendus des se´ances de l’Acade´mie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, 1 (1953), 4 – 11. 106. Anonymous, Mouseion, Supplement Mensuel (Dec. 1939), p. 18. 107. CADN, 1SL/V/1685, ‘Journaux du 9 Avril - RP De Beyrouth.’ 108. ‘On de´couvre en syrie les vestiges d’une civilisation vielle de pre`s de 35 sie`cles’, La Croix, N.13200 (14 April 1925). 109. ‘Les splendeurs de l’Orient’, Le Matin, 13605 (14 July 1927). 110. ‘A L’Institut – La Re´surection de Palmyre’, La Croix, 13108 (3 December 1925). 111. ‘Les Travaux Arche´ologiques [1925]’. A fellow Dane, Aage Schmidt, worked at the ancient site of Siloh in British mandate Palestine. W.F. Albright, ‘The Danish excavations at Shiloh’, Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research, 9 (1923), pp. 10–11. 112. ‘Les De´couvertes Franc aises En Syrie’, L’Afrique du Nord Illustre´e, 161 (31 May 1924).

244

NOTES

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56 – 60

113. ‘Les Fouilles Arche´ologiques de Syrie’, Le Monde Illustre´, N.3355 (8 April 1922), p. 239. 114. ‘Les Fouilles en Syrie’, L’Homme Libre, N.3234 (1 June 1925), p. 2. 115. ‘Les Arche´ologues Franc ais font peu parler d’eux’, Le Matin, N.12828 (7 April 1924). 116. A.-L. Chaigne-Oudin, ‘Arche´ologie en Syrie et au Liban pendant l’entre-deuxguerres: mettre en valeur le patrimoine du Levant et participer au rayonnement culturel de la France’, Les Cles Du Moyen-Orient, 2010. Available at http://www.lesclesdumoyenorient.com/Archeologie-en-Syrie-et-au-Liban. html (accessed 19 January 2018). 117. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘Journaux du 29 Juillet 1924 - RP du Grand Liban.’ 118. CADN, 1SL/616PO/1/Consulat Santiago/51, n.a., ‘Situation en Syrie et au Liban en Juillet et Aout 1924.’ 119. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, ‘Damien Ramia Raphael to President Alexandre Millerand’, 27 February 1923. 120. CADN, 1SL/V/1675, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 23 Avril 1924.’ 121. CADN, 1SL/V/1683, ‘Journaux des 28 et 29 Septembre - RP de Beyrouth’, 29 September 1924. 122. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘Journaux du 1er Mars - RP de Beyrouth du 1er Mars.’ 123. Ibid. 124. For more on this internationalist Syrian activist see: Armando Salvatore, ‘Dilemmi E Opzioni Dell’Internazionalismo Arabo-Islamico Dinanzi Alla Politica Araba Di Roma Negli Anni Trenta. Il Caso Di Sˇakı¯b Arsla¯n’, Oriente Moderno, 71/1 – 6 (1991), pp. 75– 102; Friedhelm Hoffman, Die SyroPala¨stinensische Delegation am Vo¨lkerbund un Sakib Arslan in Genf 1921-136/46 (Berlin, 2007). 125. CADL, E-Levant/C 412/D 1A/S-D 209. Shakib Arslan, Hotel d’Angleterre in Geneva, to League of Nations Permanent Commission for Mandates, 1 December 1924. Arslan had been a member of the Ottoman Parliament. Philip S. Khoury, ‘Factionalism among Syrian nationalists’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 13/4, pp. 441– 69, 447 – 50. 126. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘Journaux du 1er Mars - RP de Beyrouth du 1er Mars 1924.’ 127. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘Journaux du 3 Mars - RP de Beirut 5 Mars 1924’; CADN, 1SL/V/1683, SR, ‘Journaux des 28 et 29 Septembre-RP de Beyrouth.’ 128. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘Journaux des 24 et 25 Fe´vrier - RP de Beyrouth.’ 129. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 16 Fe´vrier 1924.’ 130. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 10 et 11 Fe´vrier 1924.’ 131. Ibid. 132. Ibid. 133. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘Journaux du 1er Mars - RP de Beyrouth du 1er Mars.’ 134. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 17 et 18 Fe´vrier 1924.’ 135. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 10 et 11 Fe´vrier 1924.’

NOTES

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245

136. Ibid. 137. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘Journaux du 23 Fevrier 1924.’ 138. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘Journaux des 24 et 25 Fe´vrier - RP de Beyrouth 24 et 25 Fevrier.’ 139. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 5 Mars 1924.’ 140. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 8 Mars 1924.’ 141. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘Journaux du 24 et 25 Fe´vrier 1924.’ The actual protective capacity of the gendarmes is unclear. Prior to the mandate, Gertrude Bell described the Lebanese gendarmerie as ‘useless; the police is even worse’. See University of Newcastle, University of Newcastle Special Collections, Gertrude Bell Collection, 1919, Gertrude Bell Lowthian, ‘[Entry for] 14/10/1919’. Available at http://www.gerty.ncl.ac.uk/diary_details.php? diary_id¼1262 (accessed 19 January 2018). 142. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘Journaux des 24 et 25 Fe´vrier - RP de Beyrouth 24 et 25 Fe´vrier.’ 143. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 1er Mars 1924.’ 144. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, ‘Rapport Trimestriel d’Ensemble Administratif Janvier, Fe´vrier, Mars 1924.’ 145. CADN, 1SL/V/2377, ‘Rapport Mensuel, Juin 1921.’ 146. Ibid. 147. Stephen Vernoit, ‘The rise of Islamic archaeology’, Muqarnas, 14 (1997), pp. 1 – 10, 3. 148. ‘Section de Culture’, Revue du Monde Musulman, XLVII (1921). 149. ‘Les Travaux Arche´ologiques [1925]’. 150. Nemer Mansour Frayha, ‘Religious Conflict and the Role of Social Studies for Citizenship Education in the Lebanese Schools Between 1920 and 1983’ (Ph.D. thesis, Stanford University, 1985), p. 181. 151. CADN, 1SL/V/982, Carbillet, Chief of SR Bureau in Suwayda to HC’s DD, 28 October 1923. 152. ‘Les Travaux Arche´ologiques [1925]’. 153. CADN, 1SL/V/2436, HC Weygand to Acting Governor of Lebanon PrivatAubouard, 21 November 1923. 154. Georges Contenau, ‘Mission arche´ologique a` Sidon (1914)’, Syria, 1/1 (1920), pp. 16 – 55; Georges Contenau, ‘Deuxie`me mission arche´ologique a` Sidon (1920)’, Syria, 5/2 (1924), pp. 123– 34. 155. CADN, 1SL/V/2436, Privat-Aubouard to HC Weygand, 23 November 1923. 156. Paul Geuthner, ‘Nouvelles arche´ologiques’, Syria, 6/3 (1925), pp. 291 – 300. 157. ‘Dans les Muse´es Nationaux’, Le Matin, N.16674 (13 November 1929). 158. La Revue de l’Art Ancien et Moderne, 1934/01-1934/05, p. 64. 159. Bulletin des Muse´es de France, N.12 (December 1935), p. 158. Jacquot had written a tourism guide for the Alawite State; see: Paul Jacquot, L’E´tat des Alaouites. Guide Touristique (Beirut, 1929). 160. Kaufman, Reviving Phoenicia, p. 124.

246

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64 –67

161. Mathew R. Whincop, ‘Pots, People, and Politics: A Reconsideration of the Role of Ceramics in Reconstructions of the Iron Age Northern Levant’ (Ph.D. thesis, Durham University, 2008), p. 108.

Chapter 2 Controlling Cultural Heritage: Museums, Tourism and Exhibitions 1. Peter Vergo, ‘Introduction’, in P. Vergo (ed.), The New Museology (London, 1989); James Cuno, Who Owns Antiquity? Museums and the Battle Over our Ancient Heritage (Princeton, NJ, 2008). 2. Carrie Anne LaPorte, Displaying Empire? The Architecture and Development of Museums in Nineteenth-Century India (Ph.D. thesis, University of Pennsylvania, 2003). 3. Bahrani, ‘Conjuring Mesopotamia’, in Meskell, Archaeology Under Fire, pp. 159 –74. 4. Ne´lia Dias, ‘The visibility of difference: nineteenth-century French anthropological collections’, in The Politics Of Display: Museums, Science, Culture (London, 1998); D.J. Sherman, ‘“Peoples Ethnographic”: objects, museums, and the colonial inheritance of French ethnology’, French Historical Studies, 27/3 (2004), 669– 703; Alice L. Conklin, In the Museum of Man: Race, Anthropology, and Empire in France, 1850 – 1950 (Ithaca, NY, 2013), pp. 100– 44. 5. These discourses could be transferred in mutated forms to the needs of local nationalist aspirations. See Michael S. Falser, ‘Cultural heritage as civilising mission: methodological considerations’, in M.S. Falser (ed.), Cultural Heritage as Civilizing Mission: From Decay to Recovery (n.l., 2015), pp. 1– 32. On the broader mission civilisatrice in the Levant in the Ottoman era, see M. Burrows, ‘“Mission Civilisatrice”: French cultural policy in the Middle East, 1860– 1914’, The Historical Journal, 29/1 (1986), pp. 109– 35. 6. Alice C. Conklin, A Mission To Civilize: The Republican Idea of Empire in France and West Africa (Stanford, CA, 1997), pp. 41–4, 54, 64–6; Stuart Michael Persell, The French Colonial Lobby, 1889–1938 (Stanford, CA, 1983), pp. 97–114. 7. Albert Sarrault, La Mise en Valeur des Colonies Francaises (Paris, 1923), p. 23. For analysis of Sarraut’s policy in the midst of the French political climate and the capitalist lobby in France see Martin Thomas, The French Empire Between the Wars: Imperialism, Politics and Society (Manchester, 2005), pp. 32 – 4, 62. 8. ‘La Mise en Valeur de la Syrie’, La Croix, N.11627 (16 February 1921). 9. Chamonard, ‘A propos’, pp. 92 – 4. 10. This suggestion that the mandate antiquities service was aimed toward the tutelage of local peoples has been repeated in a recent account of the Institut Francais d’Arche´ologie et d’Art Musulmans, published by the press of the institute’s successor, the Institut Francais du Proche-Orient. See Avez, L’Institut Francais, p. 24. It was also the same line taken by Louvre Near East Curator Rene´ Dussaud as he reflected on one of the mandate’s antiquities

NOTES

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

23. 24. 25.

26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

31. 32. 33.

TO PAGES

67 –69

247

directors. See Rene´ Dussaud, ‘L’oeuvre scientifique Syrienne de M. Charles Virolleaud’, Syria, 33 (1956), pp. 8 –12. ‘En Syrie’, La Croix, N.12070 (29 July 1922). CADN, 1SL/V/1843, DD, ‘Travaux de l’Institut - E´tude et Conservation des Monuments Musulmans’, 1924. Rene´ Dussaud, ‘Antiquite´s Orientales’, Bulletin des Muse´es de France, 12 (1929), p. 267. Anonymous, n.t., Mouseion (1935), p. 4. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, DD, IFAAM, ‘Rapport Trimestriel 1er Trimestre 1924.’ ‘Les Travaux Arche´ologiques [1925]’. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, HC’s DA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel, 4e`me Trimestre 1924’, n.d. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, DA, Confins de l’Euphrate, SDZ, ‘Rapport Trimestriel 3eme Trimestre 1924.’ ‘Les Travaux Arche´ologiques [1925]’. Avez, L’Institut Francais de Damas, pp. 24 – 5. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, DD, ‘Traveaux de l’Institut - E´tude et Conservation des Monuments Musulmans.’ The institute was conceived in 1920 but faced various policy and budgetary challenges. Joseph Chamonard, the architect of the antiquities service, was opposed to its creation. However, under the sponsorship of General Gouraud and the guidance of archaeologist Eustache De La Lorey the institute became a focal point for research into, and preservation of, Islamic archaeology and cultural heritage. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, DD, ‘Rapport Trimestriel, 3e`me Trimestre 1924.’ Ibid. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, ‘Note pour la direction d’Asie’, 18 November 1922. In its inception in 1921, Syria had received money from the Ministry of Public Instruction and the Syrian Archeological Society. Pottier, ‘Rapport sur les travaux arche´ologiques du service des antiquite´s’, p. 366. For instance, the chief architect was a Mr. De Aranda. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, DD, IFAAM, ‘Rapport Trimestriel 2e`me Trimestre 1923.’ ‘Avertissement au lecteur’, Syria, 1/1 (1920), pp. 1 – 2. Pierre Coupel, ‘Organisation du service des antiquite´s des e´tats du Levant sous mandat Franc ais’, Mouseion, 35 – 36/III– IV (1936), p. 175. Chamonard, ‘A propos’, pp. 92 – 4. Ibid., pp. 94 – 5. The Adana museum had also collected a range of Greek inscriptions. See Rene´ Mouterde, ‘Inscription Greqcues et Latines du Muse´e d’Adana’, Syria, 2/4 (1921), pp. 280– 94. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, DD, ‘Travaux de l’Institut – E´tude et Conservation des Monuments Musulmans’, 1924. Anonymous, La Renaissance de l’Art Francais et des Industries de Luxe (1923), p. 632. Ibid., p. 631.

248

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70 –72

34. Avez, L’Institut Francais, pp. 23, 29 – 30. 35. Ibid., pp. 26 – 7. 36. DD, ‘Travaux de l’Institut [1924]’; DD, IFAAM, ‘Institut Francais d’Arche´ologie [1924]’. 37. DD, IFAAM, ‘Institut Francais d’Arche´ologie [1924]’. 38. CADN, 1SL/V/982, ‘Bulletin de Renseignements [Djebel Druze]’, 29 November 1923. 39. ‘Les Travaux Arche´ologiques [1925]’. 40. DD, ‘Institut Francais d’Arche´ologie’. 41. Gaston Migeon, ‘Lampe de mosque´e en cuivre ajoute´e au Muse´e du Louvre’, Syria, 1/1 (1920), p. 56. 42. Rene´ Dussaud, ‘Antiquites Orientales’, Bulletin des Muse´es de France, 7 (1929), p. 139. 43. Bulletin des Muse´es de France, 2 (1936), p. 23. Another report suggests evidence found at Bagram ‘prove[d] close contacts between Afghanistan and Syria’. See Bulletin des Muse´e de France (1938), 117. 44. ‘Acade´mies, Universite´s, E´coles’, Le Temps, N.20686 (24 February 1918). 45. For details on the legal structure of classic Islamic endowments (awqa¯f), see Jonathan Benthall and Je´roˆme Bellion-Jourdan, ‘Waqf and Islamic finance: two resources for charity’, in J. Benthall and J. Bellion-Jourdan (eds), The Charitable Crescent: Politics of Aid in the Muslim World (London, 2003). For general studies of charity in Islamic contexts, see Michael Bonner, Mine Ener and Amy Singer, Poverty and Charity in Middle Eastern Contexts (Albany, NY, 2003); Nefissa Naguib and Inger Marie Okkenhaug, Interpreting Welfare and Relief in the Middle East (Leiden, 2008). 46. Nadia Sbaiti, ‘“A Massacre Without Precedent”: Pedagogical constituencies and communities of knowledge In Mandate Lebanon’, in Schayegh and Arsan (eds), The Routledge Handbook of the History of the Middle East Mandates (Abingdon, 2015), p. 323. See also: Donald Cioeta, ‘Islamic benevolent societies and public education In Ottoman Syria, 1875– 1882’, Islamic Quarterly, 26/1 (1982). 47. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, DD, ‘Travaux de l’Institut – E´tude et Conservation des Monuments Musulmans’, 1924. 48. DD, ‘Travaux de l’Institut [1924]’. 49. DD, ‘Traveaux de l’Institut [1923]’. 50. DD, ‘Traveaux de l’Institut [1924]’. Max Weiss has examined the use of the awqa¯f to defend existing religiously co-ordinated interests against French mandatory reorganisation among Shia in South Lebanon (the Jabal ‘Amil). See Weiss, In the Shadow, pp. 126– 56. 51. Coupel, ‘Organisation du service’, p. 174. 52. Mouseion (May 1935), 5. The Viscount was also the High Commissioner’s delegate for the Aleppo antiquities service. See Comte Du Mesnil Du Buisson, ‘Revue Arche´ologique Publie´e par la Socie´te´ Arche´ologique d’Alep’, Syria, 12/3 (1931), p. 295.

NOTES TO PAGES 72 –74

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53. AN-P, 62/AJ/65, ‘Maintien ou Abandon Progressif du Mandat de la France en Syrie’. 54. Ibid. 55. Avez, L’Institut Francais, pp. 25 – 8. 56. CADN, 1SL/V/1703, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement No 118’, 6 July 1924. 57. ‘Les Travaux Arche´ologiques [1925]’. 58. Albert Hourani, The Emergence of the Modern Middle East (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA, 1981), p. 158. 59. Asher Kaufman, Reviving Phoenicia (London, 2004), p. 138, fn. 53. See also Asher Kaufman, ‘Phoenicianism: the formation of an identity in Lebanon in 1920’, Middle Eastern Studies, 37/1 (2001), pp. 173– 94; Asher Kaufman, ‘“Tell Us Our History”: Charles Corm, Mount Lebanon and Lebanese Nationalism’, Middle Eastern Studies, 40/3 (May 2004), pp. 1 – 29. Nadia Sbaiti outlines Corm’s intervention in the Arabic-French language instruction debate. See: Nadia Jeanne Sbaiti, ‘Lessons in history, education, and the formulation of national society in Beirut, Lebanon, 1920– 1960s’ (Ph.D. thesis, Georgetown University, 2008), pp. 162– 3. Other Lebanese nationalists like Emile Edde´ were more practical and less interested in ethnic keystones. Meir Zamir, ‘Emile Edde´ and the territorial integrity of Lebanon’, Middle Eastern Studies, 14/2 (1978), pp. 232– 5. 60. D.P. Walker, ‘Clericist-Catholic author and the crystallization of historical memory of World War I in Lebanonist-Particularist discourse, 1918– 1922’, Islamic Studies, 48/2 (2009), pp. 219– 60; Fruma Zachs, ‘Mı¯kha¯ı¯l Misha¯qa – the first historian of modern Syria’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 28/1 (2001), pp. 67 – 87. 61. See Amaya Martin-Fernandez, ‘National, linguistic, and religious identity of Lebanese Maronite Christians through their Arabic fictional texts during the period of the French Mandate in Lebanon’ (Ph.D. thesis, Georgetown University, 2009), p. 69. 62. Compte-Rendus des Se´ances de l’Acade´mie, 353. 63. Elizabeth F. Thompson, Colonial Citizens: Republican Rights, Paternal Privilege and Gender in French Syria and Lebanon (New York, NY, 2000), pp. 66 –9. 64. For an account of the museum’s post-mandate attempts at shaping a Lebanese national history from the diverse threads of the Phoenician, Greek, Roman and other periods, see Kristin V. Monroe, The Insecure City: Space, Power, and Mobility in Beirut (New Brunswick, NJ, 2016), pp. 35 – 55. The exact date is unclear as Asher Kaufman suggests that the idea for the museum emerged in 1922. See Kaufman, Reviving Phoenicia, p. 123. 65. ‘Les Travaux Arche´ologiques [1925]’. 66. Kais Firro notes this effort at forming a museum as an example of Jacques Tabet disavowing his previously Syrianist stance and following the political headwinds of French mandatory domination. Kais M. Firro, ‘Lebanese nationalism versus Arabism: from Bulus Nujaym to Michel Chiha’, Middle Eastern Studies, 40/5, (2004), pp. 9 – 13.

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NOTES TO PAGES 74 –75

67. The Sursocks had rapidly grown in stature over the nineteenth century through political marriages with Mediterranean aristocratic families. It is noteworthy that the Sursock family had intermarried with the Lutfallahs, rich Egypt-based Syrian Sunnis who had several family members involved in antiimperial activism. Philip S. Khoury, ‘Factionalism among Syrian nationalists’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 13/4, p. 447. 68. Pottier, ‘Rapport sur les travaux’, p. 365. 69. Jean-Gabriel Leturcq, ‘The Museum of Arab Art in Cairo (1869– 2014): a disoriented heritage?’, in Pouillon and Vatin (eds), After Orientalism. 70. CADN, 1SL/47PO/1/Consulat Assomption/19, J. Laroche, MAE to French Diplomatic and Consular Agents Abroad, ‘Souscription en Vue de la Construction d’un Muse´e National a` Beyrouth’, 6 April 1925. It is noteworthy that a similar pan-American fundraising effort supported the continuing operation of May Kassab’s Ahliyya school in Beirut. See Sbaiti, ‘Lessons in ˙ history’, p. 63. 71. Nata´lia Rodrigues Mendes, ‘“Lı´bano No Corac ao”: Revivalismo Religioso E Mobilizac a˜o E´tnico-Nacional Na Comunidade Maronita Do Rio De Janeiro’ (Ph.D. thesis, Universidade Federal Fluminense, 2013). 72. CADN, V/79/Consulat Bahia, Sociedad Libaneza-Siria, ‘A Pedidos De Bases Para A Organizac ao Dos Estatutos Da Sociedade ‘Libaneza-Syria’, in Diario Official, 31 July 1921. 73. Though Sbaiti describes Kurd Ali as a nationalist ‘who worked closely’ with the French, closer examination reveals the significant tension between the French and this indefatigable activist, as demonstrated presently. Sbaiti, ‘Lessons in history’, p. 103. 74. CADN, 1SL/47PO/1/Consulat Assomption/19, MAE, ‘Note’, 19 May 1925. 75. CADN, 1SL/47PO/1/Consulat Assomption/19, Edmond Du Prey, MAE, to French Diplomatic and Consular Agents Abroad, ‘Lettre Collective’, 6 April 1925. 76. CADN, V/79/Consulat Bahia, Khalil Alexander Maalouf to French Consul in Bahia Le´on Hippeau, 20 January 1925. 77. CADN, V/79/Consulat Bahia, Le´on Hippeau to Robert Cerf, Manager of the French Consular Agency in Pernambuco, 5 May 1925. 78. CADN, V/79/Consulat Bahia, Robert Cerf to Le´on Hippeau, 30 May 1925. 79. CADN, V/79/Consulat Bahia, HC Henri De Jouvenel to Le´on Hippeau, 15 February 1926. 80. An important parallel phenomenon is the use of the antique past in advertising images. See Lauren E. Talalay, ‘The past as commodity: archaeological images in modern advertising’, Public Archaeology, 3 (2004), pp. 205–16. 81. Ellen Furlough, ‘Une Lec on des Choses: tourism, empire, and the nation in interwar France’, French Historical Studies, 25/3 (2002), p. 444. For the adventurers and travellers of the nineteenth century, much like their counterparts travelling from East to West, the journey of personal and geographical discovery (the ends) justified the means.

NOTES

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76 –77

251

82. George Rea Trumbull IV, ‘An Empire of Facts: Ethnography and the Politics of Cultural Knowledge in French Algeria, 1871– 1914’ (Ph.D. thesis, Yale University, 2005), pp. 70 – 2. 83. G.F. Hill, How to Observe in Archaeology: Suggestions for Travellers in the Near East and Middle East (London, 1920). Already in 1910, the American publication The Biblical World was reporting ‘a party of Englishmen, by no means archaeologists or professing to be such [. . .] excavating off and on’ in Ottoman Palestine. E.W.G. Masterman, ‘Recent excavations in Jerusalem’, The Biblical World, 39/5 (1912), p. 295. 84. ‘How to Observe in Archaeology: Suggestions for Travellers in the Near East and Middle East by G.F. Hill’, Journal of Hellenic Studies, 40/2 (1920), p. 217. 85. J.H. Breasted, ‘The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago’, American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures, 35/4 (1919), p. 197. 86. CADN, 1SL/V/2377, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 15 Octobre 1924.’ 87. John Lewis Burkhardt, Travels in Syria and the Holy Land (London, 1822); Gertrude Bell, The Desert and the Sown: Travels in Palestine and Syria (London, 1907); Mohammad Sakhnini, ‘John Carmichel’s and Abraham Parsons’ journeys from Aleppo to Basra: scientific and commercial views on the discourse of travel’, The Arab World Geographer, 14/4 (2011), pp. 371– 86. 88. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 5A/S-D 60, Director of the H-C’s Economic Service, ‘Rapport Mensuel pour le Mois de Mai 1921’, 10 June 1921. 89. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 5A/S-D 60, Director of the H-C’s Economic Service, ‘Rapport Trimestriel pour le Trimestre Juillet-Aouˆt-Se´ptembre 1921’, 7 November 1921. 90. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 10/S-D 80, MFA to H-C, E-Levant/C 313/ D 10/ S-D 80. 91. La Syrie (13 September 1922). 92. ‘Sources et De´bouches’, Le Mercure Africain, N.19 (15 June 1922), 52. 93. CADN, 1SL/V/1703, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement N8 119’, 7 July 1924. 94. ‘Il Faut Ratifier la Traite´ de Lausanne’, Le Matin, N.12878 (27 May 1924). 95. CADN, 1SL/V/1675, ‘Compte-Rendu Succinct Etabli en Execution de la Note 2200/K du 25 Janvier 1924’, 29 April 1925. 96. ‘Le Plus Beau Voyage des Vacances’, La Croix (3 July 1922). 97. ‘Sources et De´bouches’, Le Mercure Africain, N.20 (15 July 1922), 72. 98. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/ D 10/S-D 80, Robert De Caix to MAE, 22 January 1921. 99. ‘Ce Que la Mission Franc aise a Vu en Syrie’, Le Matin, N.14109 (5 November 1922). 100. Jacques Denom, ‘La Syrie et le Liban: Aux Pays de Mandat Franc ais, la Syrie, Pays d’Arche´ologie, d’Histoire et de Tourisme’, La Renaissance de l’Art Francais et des Industries de Luxe (1922), 291. 101. For more on the use of cinema to spread contesting French, Fascist and American claims of culture in the later mandate period, see Jennifer M. Dueck, The Claims of Culture at Empire’s End: Syria and Lebanon Under French Rule

252

102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111. 112.

113. 114. 115. 116.

117. 118.

119.

NOTES

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77 –81

(Oxford, 2010). Cinemas were not simply used by the French to spread cultural claims amenable to their mandatory methods. The Syrian-Lebanese Communist Party’s first open meeting was held at the Cine´ma Crystale in Beirut. See Tareq Y. Ismael and Jacqueline S. Ismael, The Communist Movement in Syria and Lebanon (Tampa, FL, 1998), p. 10. CADN, 1SL/V/2362, ‘Voeux du Medjles en Niabi de l’E´tat du Djebel Druze a Son Excellence le General Weygand’, n.d. CADN, 1SL/V/1560, H-C General Secretariat, ‘Monographie de la Ville de Zahle-Moallaka (Grand Liban)’, 1921. CADN, 616PO/1/Consulat Santiago/51, ‘Situation en Syrie et au Liban en Septembre 1924’. CADN, 616PO/1/Consulat Santiago/51, ‘Situation en Syrie et au Liban en Juillet & Aouˆt 1924.’ CADN, 1SL/V/2373, Te´rritoire Enemi Occupe Zone Ouest - Compte-Rendu des Journaux Parus le 28/04/1920.’ CADN, 1SL/V/1685, ‘Journal du 9 Avril - RP de Beyrouth’, 1924. CADN, 1SL/V/1684, ‘RP de Beyrouth des 8 et 9 Fe´vrier 1925.’ CADN, 1SL/V/1684, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 12 Fe´vrier 1924.’ CADN, 1SL/V/1682, RP de Beyrouth du 23 Avril 1924.’ CADN, 1SL/V/1684, ‘RP de Beyrouth des 7 et 8 De´cembre 1924.’ CADN, 1SL/V/1682, RP de Beyrouth du 1 Fe´vrier 1924.’ Andrew Shryock and Nabeel Abraham, ‘On margins and mainstreams’, in A. Shryock and N. Abraham (eds), Arab Detroit: From Margin to Mainstream (Detroit, MI, 2000), p. 19. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘RP de Beyrouth Du 16 Avril 1924.’ CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘Journaux du 14 Aouˆt 1924 - RP de Beyrouth.’ CADN, 1SL/V/1704, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement de Damas N8 145’,11 August 1925. NARA-CP, Records [. . .] Asia 1910– 1929/Microfilm Roll 14/ 890d Syria, E.C. Hole, American Consul in Damascus to US Department of State, 23 January 1928. NARA-CP, Records [. . .] Asia 1910– 1929/Microfilm Roll 14/ 890d Syria, Hole to State, 28 January 1928. Bibliothe`que de Documentation Internationale Contemporaine Nanterre (hereafter BDIC), Fonds Syrie, F Delta/947/1-6, Bulletin de la Socie´te´ Lite´raire Russe de Damas, 7 (1 January 1924). Among its founding members were VicePresident Hele`ne Alexief, the headmistress of the Greek Orthodox School in Damascus, Anna Malyechef, a doctor, the Society’s president Alexis Bogolioubsky, a professor, Michel Philiptchenko, an economist and Alexandre Bie´line, an agronomist. Alexis Bogolioubsky, ‘A Travers la Syrie et le Liban a Bicyclette’, Bulletin de la Socie´te´ Litte´raire Russe de Damas, 7 (1 January 1924). Departing on the 28 July 1923, they set off from Damascus to Rabaa. After a long trip through the Beqaa, the adventurous partners arrived at a hotel in Chtaura at 10pm.

NOTES

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81 –83

253

120. Kirsten Scheid, ‘Painters, Picture-Makers, and Lebanon: Ambiguous Identities in an Unsettled State’ (Ph.D. thesis, Princeton University, 2005), p. 241. 121. Ibid., pp. 248– 66. 122. Dana S. Hale, Races on Display: French Representation of Colonized Peoples 1886– 1940 (Bloomington, IN, 2008), pp. 13 –20. 123. Sarah Britton, ‘“Come and See the Empire by the All Red Route!”: anti-imperialism and exhibitions in interwar Britain’, History Workshop Journal, 69, pp. 68 – 89. 124. Zeynep C¸elik and Leila Kinney, ‘Ethnography and exhibitionism at the Expositions Universelles’, Assemblage, N.13 (1990), pp. 34– 59; Anaelle Bouyer, ‘Exotisme et commerce: les “Villages Noirs” dans les expositions Franc aises (1889– 1937)’, Outres-Mers, 90/1 (2003), pp. 273– 91; Van Troi Tran, ‘L‘ephe´me`re dans l‘ephe´me`re: la domestication des colonies a l‘exposition universelle de 1889’, Ethnologies, 29/No 1/2 (2007), pp. 143 – 69. See Furlough, ‘Une Lec on’, pp. 445– 6. 125. See: Ibid., pp. 445– 6; Gary Wilder, ‘Framing Geater France between the wars’, Journal of Historical Sociology, 14/2 (2011), pp. 198– 225. 126. C. De La Roncie`re, ‘Chambre de Commerce de Marseille. Congre`s Franc ais de la Syrie (3, 4 et 5 Janvier 1919)’, Bibliothe`que de l‘E´cole des Chartes, 80/1 (1919), pp. 286 –8. 127. Gaston Mige´on, ‘Congres d‘Histoire de l’Art a` Paris, 1921’, Syria, 2/4 (1921), p. 332. 128. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 5A/S-D 60, Berthelot, MAE to H-C, 6 January 1921. 129. ‘Exposition des fouilles Franc aises de Syrie au Muse´e du Louvre’, Syria, 3/1 (1922), pp. 85 – 6. 130. ‘La Ste`le Arame´ene de Zakir au Muse´e du Louvre’, Syria, 3/2 (1922), p. 176. 131. CADN, 1SL/V/1362, ‘Travaux Pre´paratoires a l‘Exposition de Marseille’, 1921. For details on this exhibition see Yae¨l Simpson Fletcher, ‘“Capital of the Colonies”: real and imagined boundaries between metropole and empire in 1920s Marseille’, in F. Drive and D. Gilbert (eds), Imperial Cities: Landscape, Display and Identity (Manchester, 1999). 132. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 5A/S-D 60, Director of the H-C’s Economic Service, ‘Rapport Mensuel pour le Mois de Mai 1921’, 10 June 1921. Terrier would later be sent to the Euphrates region to oversee intelligence analysis there. See Jordi Tejel Gorgas, Le Mouvement Kurde de Turquie en Exil: Continuite´ et Discontinuite´ Nationalisme Kurde sous le Mandat Francais en Syrie et au Liban (1925 – 1946) (Bern, 2007), p. 62. 133. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 5A/S-D 60, Director of the H-C’s Economic Service, ‘Rapport Mensuel pour le Mois de Juillet 1921’, 13 August 1921. 134. Diana K. Davis, Resurrecting the Granary of Rome; Environmental History and French Colonial Expansion in North Africa, (Athens, OH, 2007); Will D. Swearingen, ‘In pursuit of the granary of Rome: France’s wheat policy in

254

135. 136. 137. 138. 139. 140. 141. 142. 143. 144. 145. 146.

147. 148. 149. 150.

NOTES

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83 –85

Morocco, 1919 –1931’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 17/3 (1985), pp. 347– 63. Le Mercure de France journalist Yvon Evenou-Norve`s outlined this argument for resurrecting Rome’s rule in North Africa and Syria directly in an article for that periodical dating from 1921. Yvon EvenouNorve`s, ‘Re´gionalisme’, Le Mercure de France, N.561 (1 November 1921), p. 816. La Renaissance De l‘Art Francais et des Industries de Luxe (1923), p. 630. Rene´ Dussaud, ‘Antiquite´s Orientales’, Bulletin des Muse´es de France, 11 (1930), p. 236. ‘En France’, L’Homme Libre, N.2836 (29 April 1924), p. 2. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘Journaux du 12 Mars - RP De Beyrouth’, 1924. Georges Contenau, ‘Le Congre`s International d’Arche´ologie de Syrie-Palestine Avril 1926’, Syria, 7/3 (1926), p. 258. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth des 11 et 12 Mai 1924.’ CADN, 1SL/V/1843, DD, ‘Travaux de l’Institut.’ CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 10A/S-D 80, HC Gouraud To MFA Millerand, May 1920. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 10A/S-D 80, De Caix to MAE, 29 November 1920. CADN, 1SL/V/2376, Anonymous to G-S De Caix, 14 January 1921. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 10A/S-D 80, Gouraud, ‘Note de Presse’, 25 April 1921. Haqqi Al-‘Azm, born 1865 (died 1955), learnt Arabic, Turkish and French in Damascus, Istanbul and Cairo. He gained a position in the Ministry for Waqfs in Istanbul. During World War I, Haqqi promoted anti-Ottoman French propaganda in Damascus newspapers. During the mandate, Haqqi was rewarded with the role of Governor of the State of Damascus and was almost killed in an ambush on HC Gouraud’s convoy by rebel leader Ahmed Merawed. See ‘Haqqi Al ‘Azm’, in Khayr al-Din Zirikli, Al-Aʻla¯m: qa¯mu¯s tara¯jim li-ashhar al-rija¯l wa-al-nisa¯ʼ min al-ʻArab wa-al-mustaʻribı¯n wa-almustashriqı¯n, mujallad 2 (Beirut, 2002), pp. 265– 6. Palestinian journalist and patriot Muhammad ‘Ali Al-Tahir alleged that the ‘traitor [‫ ’]ﺳﻴﻐﺎ‬Haqqi, one of the ‘oldest enemies of independence [‫’]ﺃﻋﺪﺍﺀ ﺃﻗﺪﻡ ﻣﻦ ﺍﺳﺘﻘﻼﻝ‬, had spied for France during the World War. See Muhammad ‘Ali Al-Tahir, Khamsuna ‘amaan fi Al-qadhaayaa Al‘arabiyah ( Beirut, 1978), p. 308. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/ D 10A/ S-D 80, Gouraud, ‘Note de Presse’, 2 May 1921. CADN, 1SL/V/1369, ‘La Situation en Syrie et en Cilicie d’Octobre 1918 a` Se´ptembre 1923.’ CADL, E-Levant/C 313/ D 10A/ S-D 80, HC Gouraud, ‘Note de Presse’, 4 May 1921. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/ D 10A/ S-D 80, HC Gouraud, ‘Note de Presse’, 9 May 1921.

NOTES

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85 –87

255

151. CADN, 1SL/V/2376, n.a. to G-S De Caix, 14 January 1921. Lawrence Badel, Un Milieu Libe´ral et Europe´en: Le Grand Commerce Francais 1925– 1948 (Vincennes, 1999). For an overview of Lyon’s special place in Levantine commerce, see Dominique Chevallier, ‘Lyon et la Syrie en 1919: les bases d’une intervention’, Revue Historique, 1 (1960), pp. 275– 320; Nourredine Bouchair, ‘The Merchant and Moneylending Class of Syria Under the French Mandate, 1920– 1946’ (Ph.D. thesis, Georgetown University, 1986), pp. 129– 32. 152. Haut Commissariat de la Re´publique Francaise en Syrie et au Liban, La Syrie et le Liban en 1921: La Foire-Exposition de Beyrouth, Conferences, Liste des Re´compenses (Paris, 1922), p. 312. 153. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/ D10 A/ S-D 80, MAE To H-C, 6 December 1920. 154. Pierre Lyautey, ‘Une Exposition de Mobilier de l’Art Franc ais a` la Foire de Beyrouth’, La Renaissance de l‘Art Francais et des Industries de Luxe (1921), 664. 155. Ibid. 156. Ibid. 157. Ibid. 158. ‘Informations’, Le Mercure Africain, N.7 (15 June 1921), p. 97. 159. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 10A/S-D 80, De Caix to Gouraud, 4 February 1921. 160. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 10A/S-D 80, De Caix to MAE, 7 January 1921. 161. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 10A/S-D 80, De Caix to MAE, 22 January 1921. 162. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D10 A/S-D 80, Gouraud to MFA, January 1921; CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 10A/S-D 80, De Caix To MAE, 7 January 1921. 163. ‘Echos’, Le Journal Ge´ne´ral de l’Alge´rie, de la Tunisie et du Maroc, N.14 (3 August 1919), 2. 164. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 10A/S-D 80, HC Gouraud to MFA Millerand, May 1920. 165. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 5A/S-D 60, Berthelot, MAE to H-C, 6 January 1921. Elizabeth Thompson has also noted that De Caix had been pressured by Dutch, British and Italian business to allow full participation in the Beirut Fair. See Thompson, Colonial Citizens, p. 62. 166. L’Asie Francaise was the organ of the Comite´ de l’Asie Franc aise, which pushed for French expansion in East Asia and the Levant through the cultural institutions. See Marc Lagana, Le Parti Colonial Francais: Ele´ments d’Histoire (Sillery, 1990), p. 10. On De Caix’s role for the Comite´ see White, The Emergence of Minorities, pp. 135– 6. 167. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 10A/S-D 80, De Caix to MAE, 4 January 1921. 168. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 10A/S-D 80, De Caix to MFA Aristide Briand, 27 February 1925. 169. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D10 A/S-D 80, ‘Note pour la Sous-Direction d‘Asie’, 22 March 1925.

256

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Chapter 3 Classrooms, Curricula and Content 1. The following analysis can be complemented with: Munir Al-Ahmad, ‘La Politique Linguistique Franc aise en Syrie sous le Mandat Franc ais 1920– 1946’ (Ph.D. thesis, Universite´ De Poitiers, 2013). 2. Gail Paradise Kelly, ‘Conflict in the classroom: a case study from Vietnam, 1918– 1938’, in G. Paradise Kelly, French Colonial Education: Essays on Vietnam and West Africa (New York, 2000), pp. 155– 74. 3. Spencer D. Segalla, ‘Georges D. Hardy and educational ethnology in French Morocco, 1920– 26’, French Colonial History, 4/1 (2003), pp. 171– 90, 180. 4. Alice Conklin, A Mission to Civilize: The Republican Idea of Empire in France and West Africa, 1895– 1930 (Stanford, CA, 1997), pp. 75 – 86; Kenneth Orosz, Religious Conflict and the Evolution of Language Policy in German and French Cameroon, 1885– 1939 (Pieterlern and Bern, 2008), pp. 259– 312. 5. Roger Price, A Social History of Nineteenth-Century France (London, 1987), p. 307. 6. Stephen Ball and Ivor Goodson, ‘Introduction’, in S. Ball and I. Goodson (eds), Defining the Curriculum: Histories and Ethnographies (Lewes, 1984). 7. Stephen J. Ball, ‘Imperialism, social control and the colonial curriculum in Africa’, in Ball and Goodson, Defining the Curriculum. 8. Betty S. Anderson, ‘Writing the nation: textbooks of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan’, Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East, 21/1 –2 (2001), pp. 5 –14, 6. 9. Nemer Mansour Frayha, ‘Religious Conflict and the Role of Social Studies for Citizenship Education in the Lebanese Schools Between 1920 and 1983’, (Ph.D. thesis, Stanford University, 1985), pp. 109– 21. 10. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, DD, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - 3e`me Trimestre’, 1924. 11. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Octobre, Novembre, Decembre 1922.’ 12. Ibid. 13. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, HC’s DSF, ‘Instruction Publique - Pogrammme de Federation Syrienne’, n.d. 14. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EA, ‘Rapports Trimestriel Interieur - Avril, Mai, Juin’, 1921. 15. Ibid. 16. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EA ‘Rapport Trimestriel des Mois de Juillet, Aouˆt et Se´ptembre 1921’, November 1921, 40 – 2. 17. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Juillet, Aouˆt, Se´ptembre 1923’. For a thorough account of the ways in which geography and history were taught in particular ways, see Sbaiti, ‘Lessons in history’, pp. 151– 231. 18. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Juillet, Aouˆt, Se´ptembre 1923’. Frayha notes that by 1927, a concerted French effort to tighten its grip on public and private education meant that a decree made the inclusion of the geography of the French colonies a compulsory element of a geography

NOTES

19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

TO PAGES

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subject. See Frayha, ‘Religious Conflict’, p. 184. Sbaiti, ‘Lessons in history’, p. 49. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Octobre, Novembre, De´cembre’, n.d. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Juillet, Aouˆt, Se´ptembre 1923’. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Juillet, Aouˆt, Se´ptembre 1923’. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - 1er Trimestre 1924’. CADN, 1SL/V/1684, ‘Journeaux du 10 et 11 Fevrier - RP de Beyrouth du 11 Fevrier’, 1925. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth des 10 et 11 Fevrier’, 1924. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, DD, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - 3e`me Trimestre’, 1924. Greek Orthodox schools were particularly effective at spreading French instruction. Inspection report cards on the Tahzib al-Fatat in Lebanon, for ˙ instance, conclude that the level of Arabic teaching there was worse than French see CADN, 1SL/600/7, Service for Instruction Publique, ‘Fiches d’Inspection des E´coles’, 1921. DD, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - 3e`me Trimestre (1924)’, [MAE 1SL/V/1843 Cabinet Politique]. CADN, 1SL/V/2377, Commandant Catroux to HC Gouraud, 22 September 1920. CADN, 1SL/V/2377, Government of the State of Aleppo, ‘Rapport pour le Mois de Novembre 1921’. CADN, 1SL/V/2362, ‘Voeux du Medjles en Niabi de l’E´tat du Djebel Druze a Son Excellence le General Weygand’, n.d. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, DD, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - 3e`me Trimestre’, 1924. Greek Orthodox schools were particularly effective at spreading French instruction. CADN, 1SL/600/6, Letter from Garo Khabaian, Director of the Gregorian Mixed Armenian School in Alexandretta to Instruction Publique advisor Paul Combes, 17 December 1921. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EA, ‘Rapports Trimestriel Interieur - Avril, Mai, Juin 1921’. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Octobre, Novembre, De´cembre 1922’. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Octobre, Novembre, De´cembre 1922’. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - 1er Trimestre 1924’. CADN, 1SL/V/2434, Governor of Greater Lebanon Albert Michel Trabaud to High Commissioner Gouraud, 22 October 1921. CADN, 1SL/V/2434, Trabaud, unmarked note, 22 October 1922. CADN, 1SL/V/2434, Governor Trabaud to HC, 22 October 1921. Ibid. CADN EA, 1SL/V/1842, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - 4e`me Trimestre 1920’.

258

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96 – 99

41. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Juillet, Aouˆt, Se´ptembre, 1922’. 42. Ibid. 43. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel des Mois de Juillet, Aouˆt et Se´ptembre 1921’, November 1921. 44. CADN, 1SL/V/2434, Inspector of Lebanese Primary Schools Adib Khalifeh to Director of Instruction Publique in Lebanon, 21 June 1923. 45. Ibid. 46. Ibid. 47. CADN, 1SL/V/982, DD, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement’, 12 November 1923. 48. CADN, 1SL/V/982, DD, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement’, 5 November 1923. 49. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Octobre, Novembre, De´cembre 1922’. 50. CADN, 1SL/V/2379, EA, ‘Instruction Publique’, February 1923. 51. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, De´le´gation du HC au DSA, ‘Sandjak d’Alexandrette: Rapport Trimestriel - Avril, Mai, Juin 1924’. 52. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, Gouvernment d’Alep ‘Sandjak Autonome d’Alexandrette: Rapport pour le Troisie`me Trimestre de l’Anne´e 1924’. 53. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Octobre, Novembre, De´cembre 1922’; CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Juillet, Aouˆt, Se´ptembre 1923’. 54. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, EA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - 4e`me Trimestre’, 1924. 55. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, Gouvernement d’Alep - Sandjak Autonoˆme d’Alexandrette, ‘Rapport Trimestriel pour le 1er Trimestre de l’Anne´e 1924’. 56. CADN, 1SL/V/2379, EA, ‘Instruction Publique’, February 1923. 57. Prost, Histoire de l’Enseignement, 10. 58. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, EA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - 4e`me Trimestre’, 1924. 59. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, EdA, ‘Rapport pour le Troisie`me Trimestre 1924’, 6 November 1924, 1SL/V/1843. 60. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, Sandjak Autonome d’Alexandrette, ‘Rapport pour le 4e`me Trimestre de l’Anne´e 1924’. 61. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Octobre, Novembre, De´cembre 1922’. 62. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, EA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - 4e`me Trimestre’, 1924. 63. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, EGL, ‘Rapport Trimestriel d’Ensemble (Administratif), Janvier-Fe´vrier-Mars’, 1924. 64. CADN, 1SL/V/2377, DD, ‘Bulletin du Mois de Juillet sur les Nomades de l’E´tat de Damas’, 7 August 1921. 65. CADN, V/Consulat Le Caire 61, French Consul in Alexandria to MF, 14 January 1922. 66. Ibid. 67. Frayha, 182– 9. Frayha outlined in particular the role Decree 2642 of October 1924 in outlining a civics class alongside the humanities subjects of history and geography. This subject would emphasise physical, moral and intellectual

NOTES

68. 69. 70.

71.

72. 73. 74.

75.

76. 77. 78.

79. 80. 81. 82.

TO PAGES

99 –101

259

development. However, it is noteworthy that the main civics curriculum was implemented at the end of the period under present study, in January 1926. CADN, 1SL/V/1682 EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth des 3 et 4 Fevrier 1924’, 3 February 1924. Elizabeth Thompson, ‘Public and private in Middle Eastern women’s history’, Journal of Women’s History, 15/1 (2003), pp. 52 – 63, 53. Afsaneh Najmabadi, Women with Mustaches and Men without Beards: Gender and Sexual Anxieties of Iranian Modernity (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA, 2005). Pre-existing gender categorisation in the Middle East should not be ignored by those emphasising the ‘modernity’ of this phenomenon. See Deniz Kandiyoti, ‘Bargaining with patriarchy’, Gender and Society, 2/3 (1988), pp. 274 –90. CADN, 1SL/600/7, Quilici, ‘E´cole de Chiah’, 21 May 1921; ‘E´cole de Hadat’, 14 November 1921; ‘E´cole de Harrisa’, 18 November 1921; ‘E´cole de Metain’, 2 December 1921. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, Advisor to the Government, EA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel des Mois de Juillet, Aouˆt et Se´ptembre 1921’, November 1921, 42. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, DD, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - 2e`me Trimestre 1923’. Patricia J. Thompson, ‘Beyond gender: equity issues for home economics education’, in L. Stone (ed.), The Education Feminism Reader (London, 1994); Samuel Dolbee, ‘Mandatory Bodybuilding: Nationalism, Masculinity, Class and Physical Activity in 1930s Syria’ (Master’s thesis, Georgetown University, 2010), p. 82. Scheid, ‘Painters, Picture-Makers’, pp. 177–82. Scheid notes that gender stereotypes influenced the kind of artistic education that Kassab’s girls received at her school in the early 1920s. Another account of the origins and character of the Kassab school is given in Sbaiti, ‘Lessons in history’, pp. 61 – 2; 65 – 70. CADN, 1SL/V/2379, EA, ‘no title’, n.d (c.1922). CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Juillet, Aouˆt, Se´ptembre 1923’. Frayha notes that such approaches were equally present in the Lebanese mandate curriculum, with primary schooling being based on ‘games, rhythmic movments, and singing [. . .] teaching [. . .] through simulations of daily events such as peasants growing and harvesting wheat.’ Frayha, ‘Religious Conflict’, p. 186. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Juillet, Aouˆt, Se´ptembre 1923’. CADN, 1SL/V/2379, EA, ‘no title’, n.d (c.1922). Jacques Weulersse, Paysans de Syrie et du Proche-Orient (Paris, 1946), p. 198. Michel Foucault, Surveiller et Punir: Naissance de la Prison (Paris, 1975), pp. 151– 8; Karl Marx, Capital: A Critique of Political Economy (Moscow, 1986), pp. 264 –86.

260

NOTES

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101 –104

83. Rondo E. Cameron, Civilization Since Waterloo: A Book of Source Readings (Itasca, IL, 1971), pp. 40 – 2. 84. For a broader discussion of this in late Ottoman and Mandate Beirut, see: Vanessa Ogle, The Global Transformation of Time, 1870– 1950 (Cambridge, MA, 2015), pp. 124– 47. 85. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, SDZ, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - 3e`me Trimestre 1924’. 86. Ibid. 87. Ibid. 88. CADN, 1SL/V/1685, ‘Journaux du 8 Mai - RP du Liban’, 1924. 89. CADN, 1SL/V/1675, SR, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement N8609/D’, 1 May 1925. 90. CADN, 1SL/V/1560, SR, ‘Fiche de Renseignments - Alep’, 4 May 1928. 91. CADN, SR, ‘Joseph Chalouni’, 28 December 1919. 92. CADN, 1SL/V/921, ‘Renseignements au Sujet de Certaines Personnes du Haut Commissariat’, 1923. 93. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, HC advisor for Instruction Publique to Chief of SR, 7 November 1922. 94. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, Governor Trabaud to Advisor for Instruction Publique, 12 October 1922. 95. CADN, 1SL/V/2432, Administrative Advisor for South Lebanon to Greater Lebanon Governor’s Office, 6 February 1923. 96. Clifford Rosenberg, Policing Paris: The Origins of Modern Immigration Control Between the Wars ( Ithaca NY, 2006). 97. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, EA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - 4e`me Trimestre’, 1924. 98. CADN, 1SL/V/1565, SR, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement N8.101’, 15 June 1925. 99. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 5 Fe´vrier 1924’. 100. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 1 Mars 1924’. 101. An account of this fight as it developed in Beirut is given in: Nadya Sbaiti, ‘“If the Devil Taught French”: strategies of language and learning in French Mandate Beirut’, in Osama Abi-Mershed (ed.), Trajectories of Education in the Arab World: Legacies and Challenges (London and New York, NY, 2010), pp. 59 – 83. 102. Sbaiti, ‘Lessons in history’, pp. 52 – 61, 109– 14. In 1922, the maqa¯sid ˙ convinced HC Gouraud to allow their charity to continue to operate control independent of its Islamic awaqf. 103. Sbaiti, ‘Lessons in history’, pp. 305–7. Such educational charities (awa¯qf) had been financed in Ottoman times by major Ottoman traders. See Gad G. Gilbar, ‘The Muslim big merchant-entrepreneurs of the Middle East, 1860– 1914’, Die Welt Des Islam, 43/1 (2003), pp. 1 – 36. 104. MEC, GB 165-0308/William Yale Collection/Box 2, Captain William Yale, Cairo, to Leland Harrison, Washington, 6 May 1918. 105. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - 1er Trimestre 1924’; CADN, 1SL/V/1703, SR, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement de Damas N8 27’, 27

NOTES

106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111. 112. 113. 114. 115.

116. 117. 118. 119. 120. 121. 122. 123.

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104 –107

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May 1925; It was at a kutta¯b that the founder of the Arab Ba’ath movement, Zakı¯ Al-Arsu¯zı¯, was educated in late Ottoman Antakya and he would continue his studies at a ru¨s¸diye, Ottoman secondary school, before going on to study philosophy at the Mission Laique school in Beirut and the Sorbonne during the mandate period. See Hiroyuki Aoyama, Wafiq Khansa and Maher Al-Charif, Spiritual Father of the Ba’th: The Ideological and Political SIgnificance of the Zakı¯ Al-Arsu¯zı¯ in Arab Nationalist Movements, Translated by Mujab Al-Imam and Malek Salman (Tokyo, 2000), pp. 2 – 3; Keith D. Watenpaugh, ‘“Creating Phantoms”: Zaki Al-Arsuzi, the Alexandretta Crisis, and the formation of Modern Arab Nationalism in Syria’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 28/3 (1996), pp. 363– 89, 364– 5. So too was a key figure in the emergence of Syrian Islamic Brotherhood formed at a kutta¯b. See Itzchak Weismann, ‘Saʿid Hawwa: the making of a radical Muslim thinker in modern Syria’, Middle Eastern Studies, 29/4, pp. 601– 23, 604. CADN, 1SL/V/1703, SR, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement - Homs N8 21’, 16 February 1925. CADN, 1SL/V/1703, SR, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement - Homs N8 23’, 20 February 1925. CADN, 1SL/V/1703, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement - Damas N8 50’, 4 April 1925. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, DD, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - 3e`me Trimestre’, 1924. Ibid. CADN, 1SL/1/V/2434, Lebanon Governor Trabaud, to HC Gouraud, 22 October 1921. CADN, 1SL/V/1683, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 16 Octobre 1924’, 16 October 1924. CADN, 1SL/V/949, SR, ‘Renseignements Destine´s Uniquement au HautCommissaire, December 1923. CADN, 1SL/V/1683, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 4 Juillet 1924’. Robert Ian Blecher, ‘The Medicalization of Sovereignty: Medicine, Public Health, and Political Authority in Syria, 1861– 1936’ (Ph.D. thesis, Stanford University, 2002), pp. 138, 208–9. CADN, 1SL/V/949, SR, ‘Presse des 15 & 16 De´cembre’, 1923. CADN, 1SL/V/2373, Te´rritoire Enemie Occupe´ Bureau de la Presse, ‘CompteRendu des Journaux de l’Interieur - Courrier du 26 –27 Mars 1920’. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, SR, ‘Journaux Du 11 Juillet - RP de Beyrouth’, 1924. CADN, 1SL/V/1683, EGL, SR, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 28 Octobre 1924’. CADN, 1SL/V/1684, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 7 Novembre 1924’. Ibid. CADN, 1SL/V/1684, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 3 De´cembre 1924’. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, EGL, ‘Rapport Trimestriel d’Ensemble (Administratif), Juillet-Aouˆt-Se´ptembre’, 21 October 1924.

262

NOTES

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107 –110

124. Arkadiusz Plonka, ‘Le Nationalisme Linguistique au Liban Autour de Sa’id ‘Aql et L’idee de Langue Libanaise dans la Revue Lebnaan en Nouvel Alphabet’, in Arabica, LIII/4 (2006), pp. 423–71. Kamal Salibi, ‘The Lebanese identity’, Journal of Contemporary History, 6/1 (1971), pp. 83 – 4. As Sonia El Fakhri explains, even use of French did not mean the imprinting of French mentalities, a term carrying its own complications given the complex and conflicted development of French use in the metropole itself. See Sonia El Fakhri, ‘Le Liban et un sie`cle de litte´rature Francophone’, Cahiers de l’Association Internationale des E´tudes Francaises, 56 (2004), pp. 35– 48. 125. CADN, 1SL/V/1703, SR, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement de Damas N8 27’, 27 May 1925. 126. Frayha, ‘Religious Conflict’, pp. 184– 5. Frayha adds that it also removed the previous element of civic studies in the curriculum. 127. Sbaiti, ‘Lessons in history’, p. 47. 128. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, Universite´ de Saint Joseph pamphlet. It is unclear how many of the university’s students took the ‘classic’ as opposed to the ‘special’ pathways. 129. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, Universite´ de Saint Joseph to Director of Political Grants, 3 April 1921. 130. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, ‘Decision N. 46’, 9 March 1920. 131. CADN, 1SL/V/921, Doyen de la Faculte´ des Lettres de Bordeaux to High Commisioner Weygand, 8 December 1924. Feghali had studied Arabic at the University of Algiers. See Alain Messaoudi, Feghali Tanios (ou Tenief) dit Michel, in Franc ois Pouillon (ed.), Dictionnaire des Orientalistes de Langue Francaise (Paris, 2012). 132. Khaled Chatila, Le Marriage Chez les Musulmans en Syrie (Paris, 1934), p. 9. 133. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, HC’s DP to HC Weygand, August 1922. 134. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, MFA to HC, 8 February 1923. 135. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, HC’s DP to HC, 29 November 1922. The combined total of one group of notables’ sons’ grants came to 107,835 francs in August 1922. 136. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, HC’s DP to HC, 29 November 1922. 137. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, Rashid Tabbarah to HC General Weygand, 15 January 1924. 138. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, HC’s DP to S-G of the HC, 24 June 1924. 139. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, HC Weygand to HC’s DP, 11 July 1924. 140. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, HC’s DD to HC, 31 July 1924. 141. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, Director for the Controˆle Administratif to HC, 18 September 1920. 142. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, SR, ‘Note No 12 au Sujet de M. Antoine Salha’, 20 January 1922. 143. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, SR, ‘Note N8 12’, 20 January 1922. 144. The term ‘mete`que’ is difficult to translate. It comes from the ancient Greek me´toikos, roughly translating to ‘migrant’. It thus means an ‘alien’ or

NOTES

145. 146. 147.

148.

149. 150. 151. 152. 153. 154. 155.

156. 157.

158. 159. 160. 161. 162. 163. 164. 165.

TO PAGES

110 –113

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‘foreigner’. This reiterates so much of the language of French mandatory rule, for instance the consistent categorisation as ‘xenophobic’ of the protests and press articles against French interventions in Syria. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, Lebanon Governor Trabaud to Antoine Salha, 24 ˙ November 1921. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, Lebanon Governor Trabaud to De Caix, 6 January 1922. CADN, 1SL/V/2374, HC, ‘Compte-Rendu de l’Interrogatoire de Trois Officiers De´serteurs Passe´s en Zone Ouest le 19 Mars 1920’, 27 March 1920, 1SL/V/2374. A French intelligence report based on a debriefing of three military deserters from Faial’s camp in March 1920 denoted the organisation of a military school under the direction of Lieutenant Chewki, the aide de camp of Mahmoud Al-Faour. CADN, 1SL/V/893, ‘Rapport du Lieutenant Colonel Chapu, InspecteurGe´ne´ral des Gendarmerie Locales sur 1’Organisation Inte´rieur de la Gendarmerie Pendant le 1er Trimestre 1924’, June 1924. CADN, 1SL/V/893, ‘Rapport d’Inspection [du] Lieutenant Colonel Bucheton’, n.d. CADN, 1SL/V/2362, HC’s DSF, ‘Avant Propos: Economie Generale du Programme’, 1924. CADN, 1SL/V/1675, EGL, ‘Rapport Trimestriel d’Ensemble (Administratif) (Octobre – Novembre – De´cembre 1921)’, 15 January 1925. Le Re´veil, 23 February 1923. CADN, 1SL/1/V/1623, SR, ‘A Messieurs le President et les Membres de la Fe´de´ration’, 30 December 1923. CADN, 1SL/1/V/1623, SR, ‘Lettre ouverte a Son Excellence le GouverneurGe´ne´ral’, 30 December 1923. This Latin dictum, drawn from Roman Republic statesman Cato the Elder and approximately translated to ‘worthy man, expert speaker’, summarised the classical approach to education which emphasised rhetoric and civic knowledge. CADN, 1SL/V/2518, ‘Le Mandat au Debut de 1926’. See also: Simon Jackson, ‘Compassion and connections: feeding Beirut and assembling mandate rule 1919’, in C. Schayegh and A. Arsan (eds), The Routledge Handbook of the History of the Middle East Mandates (London, 2015). Georges Contenau, ‘L’Institut Franc ais d’Arche´ologie et d’Art Musulmans de Damas’, Syria, 5/3 (1924), p. 204. Ibid. Eustache De Lorey, ‘L’E´tat Actuel du Palais Azem’, Syria, 6/4 (1925), p. 372. Colin Tubron, Mirror to Damascus (London, 2011), p. 201. CADN, 1SL/V/2377, SR, ‘Enseignement Agricole’, n.d. Ibid. Jacques Weulersse, Paysans de Syrie et du Proche-Orient (Paris, 1946), p. 197. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapports sur le 3e`me Trimestre - Juillet, Aouˆt, Se´ptembre 1923’.

264

NOTES

TO PAGES

113 –118

166. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapports sur le 2e`me Trimestre - Avril, Mai, Juin 1923’. 167. The E´cole des Arts et des Me´tiers was itself a major technical school in Beirut. Its programme for 1920 outlined its aim to become ‘a Syrian National School for higher studies’ and stated that it would ‘supply engineers experience and specialised in public works, architecture, metallurgy’. The school taught French, Arabic, geography, physics, chemistry, arithmetic and drawing and ran workshops in pursuit of this aim. CADN, 1SL/1/V/2434, E´cole Nationale d’Arts et Me´tiers de Beyrouth’, 26 September 1920. 168. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EA, ‘Rapports Trimestriel Interieur - Avril, Mai, Juin’, 1921. 169. ‘Informations Coloniales’, L’Homme Libre, N.2684 (29 November 1923), 2. 170. CADN, 1SL/600/7, Greater Lebanon Public Works Advisor Odinot, ‘L’Enseignement Professionel des Garcons et le Development Economique de la Syrie’ (7 November 1921). 171. CADN, 1SL/600/7, Instruction Publique advisor Paul Combes, ‘Note Pour Monsieur le Secretaire General’ (29 November 1921). 172. Sbaiti, ‘Lessons in history’, pp. 161– 2. 173. CADN, 1SL/V/1684, EGL, ‘Journaux du 5 Novembre 1924’; id., ‘RP de Beyrouth du 17 Decembre 1924’. The lack of proper equipment was a major issue since its founding charter had noted the importance of this equipment for technical training. CADN, 1SL/V/2343, E´cole Nationale des Arts et Me´tiers de Beyrouth, ‘[Draft] Programme des E´tude’, 26 September 1920. 174. CADN, 1SL/V/1684, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth des 23 et 24 Novembre 1924.’ 175. CADN, 1SL/V/1684, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 14 Janvier 1925.’ 176. CADN, 1SL/V/1683, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 2 et 3 Novembre 1924.’ 177. CADN, 1SL/V/1683, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 4 November 1924.’ 178. CADN, 1SL/V/1684, HC’s DGL, ‘Renseignements’, 4 February 1925. 179. Scheid, ‘Painters, Picture-Makers’, pp. 124– 41. 180. Weulersse, Paysans, p. 197. 181. Pearce and Carter, ‘Medical Education in Syria [1925]’, pp. 1 – 11. 182. Ibid., p. 83. 183. Watson Smith was appointed to lecture on psychiatry at the AUB in 1922. See School of Oriental and African Studies Archives and Special Collections (hereafter SOAS), Lebanon Hospital LH/09, The Lebanon Hospital (For Mental Diseases), Asfuriyeh Beyrout, Syria, Twenty-Third Report 1921–1922 (1923), 4. 184. Pearce and Carter, ‘Medical Education’, pp. 90 – 6. 185. Ibid., pp. 1 – 11.

Chapter 4

The Politics of Pedagogy

1. CADN, 1SL/V/2377, DD, ‘Bulletin du Mois de Juillet sur les Nomades de l’E´tat de Damas’, 2 August 1921.

NOTES

TO PAGES

118 –120

265

2. CADN, 1SL/V/2377, DD, ‘Bulletin du Mois de Juillet sur les Nomades de l’E´tat de Damas’, 2 August 1921. 3. CADN, 1SL/V/2200, Colonel Catroux, HC’s DD to HC Gouraud, 15 December 1922. 4. CADN, 1SL/V/2200, Catroux to Haut Commissaire de la Re´publique Franc aise en Syrie et au Liban’, 15 December 1922. 5. CADN, 1SL/V/2200, ‘Contrat Entre le Commandant Catroux et l’Emir Noury Chaalan’, n.d. 6. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, EA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - 4e`me Trimestre’ (1924). 7. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, EdA, DD, Controˆle Bedouin, ‘Rapport du 4e`me Trimestre’, 1924. Educational provisions were but one of several ‘carrots’ to be provided for the ‘extension of the domination’ over Bedouins, as one French report put it. 8. CADN, 1SL/V/2377, Head of the HC’s Political Cabinet to Catroux, DD, 26 October 1920. 9. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, SR, ‘Boursiers Politiques de la Delegation de Damas a la Mission Laique’, n.d. 10. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, Fre`re Joseph, Director of the College des Fre`res, to SR Chief Commandant Canonge, 30 January 1922; CADN, 1SL/V/1581, G-S De Caix to HC’s DD, 13 January 1922. 11. CADN, 1SL/V/2362, HC Weygand to Schoeffler, HC’s DD, 26 December 1923. 12. CADN, 1SL/V/2362, ‘Note pour le Chef du Service des Renseignements’, 17 November 1923. 13. Lenka Bokova, ‘La Re´volution Franc aise dans le Discours de l’Insurrection Syrienne Contre le Mandat Franc ais (1925 –1927)’, Revue du Monde Musulman et de la Me´diterrane´e (1989), pp. 52 – 3. Yet the French Revolution had already had a major impact on the growth of Arabism during the nineteenth-century Nahda (renaissance) of Arab intellectual thought. Joseph Algazy, ‘La Vision de la Re´volution Franc aise Chez les Pionniers de la Renaissance Intellectuel Arabe’, Annales Historiques de la Re´volution Francaise, N8 282 (1990). Pierre Renou recalls the chain of insults and disagreements that French administrators, especially the overbearing Capitaine Carbillet, set in motion as they sought to implement direct administration on the Jabal Druze in 1923 following the Lesser Syrian Insurrection. See Pierre Renou, ‘Le Djebel Druze 1914– 1927’ (Ph.D. thesis, Universite´ de Nantes, 2002), pp. 99 – 184. Michael Provence, noting Carbillet’s domineering style as a spark of rebellion, suggests that more material concerns, such as the disruption of the Hawran grain trade between Palestine and Damascus, lay at the heart of Druze disatisfaction. See Provence, The Great Syrian Revolt. 14. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, ‘Bourses’, 25 October 1922. 15. Dragoman was a transliteration of the Ottoman Turjuman, meaning interpreter. 16. CADN, 1SL/600/7, Quilici, ‘E´cole Mixte de Fraidisse’, 11 April 1922.

266

NOTES

TO PAGES

120 –124

17. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, Commandant Canonge, Chief of the Service des Renseignements, ‘Avis du Chef du Service des Renseignements au Sujet des Bourses Politiques’, October 1923. 18. CADN, 1SL/V/2434, Lebanon Governor Trabaud to HC, 22 October 1921. 19. CADN, 1SL/V/2434, HC Gouraud, 15 September 1922. 20. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, G-S De Caix to HC’s DD, 27 January 1922. 21. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, SR officer Dentz, to Heneine Rizkallah, 4 September 1924. 22. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, SR officer Dentz to Emir Fouad Arslan, 11 September 1924. 23. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, Nader Suleiman El Kfouri to HC Weygand, 20 July 1924. 24. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, HC’s DD to HC, 7 April 1922. 25. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, SR, ‘Decision N. 1718’, 31 December 1922. 26. League of Nations, ‘Annex 391 A: French Mandate for Syria and the Lebanon’, League of Nations Official Journal, 1013 (1922). 27. CADN, 1SL/V/2377, Gouraud to Catroux, Chief of the French Mission in Damascus, August 1920. 28. CADN, 1SL/V/1581, Catroux, HC’s DD, to HC, 7 April 1922. 29. CADN, 1SL/V/2377, Damascus SR, ‘Rapport Mensuel Octobre 1921’; CADN, 1SL/V/1581, Terrier, HC’s DP to De Caix, 7 April 1922. 30. CADN, 1SL/V/1683, SR, ‘Journaux du 2 Juillet 1924’. 31. CADN, 1SL/V/1683, SR, ‘Journaux du 2 Juillet 1924’. 32. CADN, 1SL/V/2434, Lebanese Governor’s General Counsel to Director for Instruction Publique at the H-C, 10 November 1921. 33. CADN, 1SL/V/2434, Lebanon Governor Trabaud, to Administrative Counsellor for the Sanjak of Mount Lebanon, December 1921. 34. CADN, 1SL/V/2434, G-S De Caix to Lebanon Governor Trabaud, 12 December 1921. 35. Ibid. 36. Ibid. 37. Ibid. 38. CADN, 1SL/V/2434, Trabaud, Lebanon Governor to H-C, December 1921. 39. CADN, 1SL/V/2434, Lebanon Instruction Publique advisor [Illegible] and Charles Halaby, Director for Instruction Publique in Greater Lebanon [note], 22 March 1922. 40. CADN, 1SL/V/2434, ‘Arrete N. 2679’, 20 June 1924. Arreˆte´ 2679 also encouraged the regime of surveillance and control of classroom activity and made French-language instruction compulsory for private schools. Nemer Frayha has suggested that this meant that French instruction was to become compulsory in American, British and Italian missionary schools. See Frayha, ‘Religious Conflict’, pp. 181 –2. However, this can only be a part of the story since these schools had legal exemptions based on Ottoman-era capitulations

NOTES

41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

48.

49.

50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57.

58.

59. 60.

TO PAGES

124 –128

267

enacted by membership in the League of Nations, or individual bilateral agreements. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EdA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Juillet, Aouˆt, Se´ptembre, 1922’. CADN, 1SL/V/2434, HC Weygand to General Vandenberg, Governor of Greater Lebanon, 1 January 1924. CADN, 1SL/V/2434, HC’s DGL to HC, n.d. CADN, 1SL/V/2434, General Vandenberg, Governor of Greater Lebanon to HC, October 1924. CADN, 1SL/V/2434, Lebanon Instruction Publique advisor and Director of Lebanon Instruction Publique to Greater Lebanon Governor, 31 October 1924. CADN, 1SL/V/1683, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 22 September 1924’. Marie Therese Sandell, ‘“International Sisterhood”?: International Women’s Organisations and Co-Operation in the Interwar Period’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of London, 2007). Yolla Polity Charara, L’Image de la Femme dans la Presse Feminine au Liban (Beirut, Publications du Centre de Recherches Institut des Sciences Sociales de l’Universite Libanaise, 1974), p. 3. CADN, 1SL/V/1565, SR, ‘Note’, September 1927. For more on this, see: Nova Robinson, ‘Activist as expert: representation from the French Mandate for Syria on the Committee of Experts on the legal status of women’, in P. Bourmaud, N. Neveu and C. Verdeil (eds), Experts and Expertise in the League of Nations Mandates: Figures, Fields, and Tools ( Paris, 2017). Scheid, ‘Painters, Picture-Makers’, pp. 176– 7. CADN, 1SL/V/2377, H-C, ‘Notes sur les Journaux et les Revues Parraissant Actuellement a Beyrouth et au Liban’, 22 Juin 1921. CADN, 1SL/V/1565, SR, ‘Note’, September 1927. CADN, 1SL/V/1565, SR, ‘Note’, September 1927. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Dorothy Sommer, ‘Unity is Strength: Masonic Lodges in Ottoman Syria with a Special Focus on Tripoli and El Mina (1860– 1908)’ (Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, Leiden University, 2013). For a detailed account, see: Thierry Millet, ‘La Franc-mac onnerie en Syrie sous l’administration franc aise (1920 –1946) Attraits et rejets du mode`le franc ais’, Cahiers de la Me´diterrane´e (XVIIIe – XXe sie`cle), 76 (2006), pp. 377– 402. David Dean Commins, Islamic Reform: Politics and Social Change in Late Ottoman Syria (Oxford, 1990), p. 29. Robert Ian Blecher, ‘The Medicalization of Sovereignty: Medicine, Public Health, and Political Authority in Syria, 1861– 1936’ (Ph.D. thesis, Stanford University, 2002), p. 173– 7. Gouraud sought to close the school in the first year of French control of Damascus, but was forced to back down.

268

NOTES

TO PAGES

128 –130

61. Ibid., p. 181. For Blecher, Sa‘id, who had been educated in the Ottoman system, was an example of an ‘Ottoman’ who had become an ‘Arab’ in a few months. 62. CADN, 1SL/V/2377, DD, ‘Bulletin du Mois de Juillet sur les Nomades de l’E´tat de Damas’, 2 August 1921. 63. CADN, 1SL/V/949, SR, ‘Presse des 18 et 19 De´cembre 1923’. 64. CADN, SR, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement de Damas N8 139’, 1 August 1925, 1SL/V/1704. 65. ʻUmar Rida¯ Kahha¯lah, Muʻjam al-muʼallifı¯n: tara¯jim musannifı¯ al-kutub ˙˙ ˙ ˙ al-ʻArabı¯yah (Beirut: Muʼassasat al-Risa¯lah, 1993), 23. 66. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, EdA, French Delegation to the State of Syria, Political Bureau, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - Du 4e`me Trimestre 1924’, 31 December 1924. Educational provisions were but one of several ‘carrots’ provided for the ‘extension of the domination’ over Bedouins. 67. CADN, 1SL/V/1675, SR, ‘Renseignement’, 22 June 1925. Philip S. Khoury, ‘Syrian urban politics in transition: the quarters of Damascus during the French Mandate’, International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 1/4 (1984), pp. 507 –40, 519– 20. 68. CADL, E-Levant/C H12/D 1A/S-D 28, HC Weygand to Commander in Chief of AL, 1 November 1923. 69. CADN, SR, 1SL/V/1703, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement de Damas N8 56’, 4 April 1925. On 4 April one protester died in the clashes. 70. CADN, 1SL/V/1703, SR, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement N8 62, Partie I’, 23 April 1925. 71. CADN, 1SL/V/1704, SR, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement de Damas N8 152’, 21 August 1925. 72. CADN, 1SL/V/1704, SR, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement de Damas N8 152’, 21 August 1925. 73. Scheid, ‘Painters, Picture-Makers’, pp. 240– 1. 74. Jennifer M. Dueck, ‘A Muslim Jamboree: scouting and youth culture in Lebanon under the French’, French Historical Studies, 30/3, pp. 485– 516. See also: Samuel Dolbee, ‘Mandatory Bodybuilding: Nationalism, Masculinity, Class and Physical Activity in 1930s Syria’ (Master’s thesis, Georgetown University, 2010), pp. 41 – 52. 75. It is nevertheless true that a Catholic Scouting network established itself after the period under study. See Dueck, ‘A Muslim Jamboree’, p. 494. Another interesting element of spreading Western cultural institutions was the Rotary Club, founded in Beirut in 1931. Nayla Abi Karam, Rotary Club de Beyrouth: 1932– 2007 (Beirut, 2007). 76. Dueck, ‘A Muslim Jamboree’, pp. 490–1. 77. Al-Nsuli would go on to become a scout master in Beirut, though his nationalist politics continued. For instance, in 1927 he oversaw a meeting of scouts that displayed Lebanese artists. Scheid, ‘Painters, Picture-Makers’, pp. 80 – 3.

NOTES

TO PAGES

130 –133

269

78. CADN, 1SL/V/1675, HC’s DGL, ‘Renseignements’, 21 August 1925. 79. CADN, 1SL/V/1703, SR, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement - Damas N8 55’, 11 April 1925. For more on the Tramway boycotts in a later period see Simon M. W. Jackson, ‘Mandatory Development: the Political Economy of the French Mandate in Syria and Lebanon, 1915– 1939’ (Ph.D. thesis, New York University, 2009), pp. 200– 50; Carla Edde´, Beyrouth: Naissance d’une Capitale 1918– 1924 (Paris, 2009), pp. 302– 16. 80. CADN, 1SL/V/1675, HC’s DGL, ‘Renseignements’, 16 June 1925. 81. Randi Deguilhem, ‘Ide´es Franc aises et Enseignement Ottoman: L‘E´cole Secondaire Maktab al-‘Anbar a Damas’, Revue du Monde Musulman et de la Me´diterrane´e, 52 – 52/1 (1989), pp. 201– 3. 82. CADN, 1SL/V/1703, SR, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement N8 21’, 16 February 1925. 83. CADN, 1SL/V/1703, SR, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement N8 58’, 16 April 1925. 84. CADN, 1SL/V/1703, SR, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement’, 26 May 1925. 85. CADN, 1SL/V/1675, HC’s DGL, ‘Renseignements’, 21 August 1925. The Syrian Union was based in Cairo. French intelligence reported earlier in 1923 that among its adherents was Rashid Bey Adra Zade´, a Syrian from Tripoli. Such were French suspicions of Rashid Bey that his passport for entry to France was denied. CADL, E-Levant/C H12/D 1A/S-D 208, Central SR, ‘Renseignements A Constantinople’, 15 November 1923. 86. CADL, E-Levant/C H12/D 1A/S-D 208, Surete´-Ge´ne´rale, ‘Renseignements’, 4 December 1923. 87. CADN, 1SL/V/1593, DD to SR Beirut, 10 September 1925. 88. CADN, 1SL/V/1593, Drogmanat Beirut, ‘Proce`s Relative a l’Application d’Affiches Se´ditieuses sur les Murs de Homs’, 7 September 1925. 89. CADN, 1SL/V/1704, SR, ‘Bulletin de Renseignement de Damas - N8 234’, 28 November 1925. 90. Ibid. 91. CADL, E-Levant/C H12/D 1A/S-D 208, Central SR, ‘Renseignements’, 13 December 1923. 92. AN-P, F/7/13411, Special Police Commissioner in Annemasse to Director of the Sureˆte´ Ge´ne´rale, 15 January 1926. At the University of Lausanne Egyptian and Syrian students founded a pan-Arabic league. 93. AN-P, F/7/13411, Annemasse Special Commissioner to Director Sureˆte´ Ge´ne´rale, ‘Au Sujet Affaires Syriennes’, 3 July 1921. 94. CADN, V/79/Consulat Bahia, Sociedade Libaneza-Siria, ‘A Pedidos de Bases para a Organizac a˜o dos Estatutos da Sociedade Libaneza-Syria’, Dia´rio Oficial do Estado da Bahia, 31 July 1921. 95. CADN, V/79/Consulat Bahia, French Consul in Bahia to MFA Aristide Briand, 30 August 1921. 96. AN-P, AJ/16/6993, Paul Appell, Rector University of Paris to President of Argentina, 27 June 1922.

270

NOTES

TO PAGES

133 –136

97. AN-P, AJ/16/6993, Pe`re Michel Kalouf, Director of the Orthodox Schools of Lattakia to Paul Appell, Rector of University of Paris, 20 June 1922. 98. Harvard University Archives-Schlesinger Library, Cambridge, MA, 107.2.02/ MC574/Box 6, ‘Annual Public Meeting Boston Chapter, The Syrian Educational Society Inc.’, c.1928. 99. Philip Khuri Hitti, The Syrians in America (NJ, 2005). 100. Philip K. Hitti, ‘A French History of Syria’, The American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures, 42/3 (1926), pp. 212– 13. 101. CADN, 1SL/V/2374, H-C, ‘Rapport d’un Agent Bien Place´’, 25 February 1920. An Abdelrahman Nsouli, who had been educated at the E´cole des Fre`res Maristes in Beirut, had served as a lieutenant in the Ottoman army and as secretary to Prince Faisal’s delegation to the French High Commissioner in Beirut after the World War. CADN, 1SL/V/2374, Te´rritoire Ennemie Occupe´ (Zone Ouest), ‘L’Agence Arabe a` Beyrouth’, 9 December 1919. 102. CADN, 1SL/V/1565, SR, ‘Universite´ Amercaine de Beirut’, n.d. 103. Ibid. 104. CADN, 1SL/V/1683, EGL, Service de la Presse, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 15 Octobre 1924.’ 105. CADN, 1SL/V/1565, SR, ‘Rapport d’Agent: Movement pour Abdul Mejid’, 7 May 1924. 106. CADN, 1SL/V/1565, SR, ‘N8. 247/2 - a` l’Universite´ Ame´ricaine’, 4 November 1924; Maria B. Abunnasr, ‘The Making of Ras Beirut: A Landscape of Memory for Narratives of Exceptionalism’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Massachusetts Amherst, 2013), pp. 147– 8. 107. CADN, 1SL/V/1565, SR, ‘Le Professeur Anis Khoury Makdessi’, n.d. 108. CADN, 1SL/V/1565, SR, ‘Bulletin de Renseignment d’Alep 1e`re Partie’, 18 May 1925. 109. Ibid. 110. Jennifer M. Dueck, The Claims of Culture at Empire’s End: Syria and Lebanon Under French Rule (Oxford, 2010), p. 172. 111. It is worth noting that Shahbandar was himself educated at the AUB. CADL, E-Levant/C H12/D 1A/S-D 28, HC Weygand to Commander in Chief of AL, 1 November 1923. 112. CADN, 1SL/V/1565, SR, ‘Pre´sence Ame´ricaine en Iraq’, n.d. 113. Ibid. 114. CADN, 1SL/V/1565, SR, ‘Universite´ Ame´ricaine de Beyrouth’, November 1924. 115. CADN, 1SL/V/1565, SR, ‘Propagande Ame´ricaine a` Hama’, 22 May 1925. 116. SR, ‘Presence Americaine en Iraq’. 117. CADN, 1SL/V/1565, ‘Information N8. 906’, 19 November 1927. 118. CADN, 1SL/V/1565, SR, ‘Note’, September 1927.

NOTES

TO PAGES

139 –141

271

Chapter 5 Surveillance, Subsidies and Censorship: The Domestic Arabic Press 1. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 4/S-D 58, H-C, ‘Notes sur les Journaux et les Revues Paraissant Actuellement a` Beyrouth et au Liban’, 1 July 1921. 2. CADN, 1SL/1/V/1623, SR, ‘Rapport de Renseignements No. 10’, 12 January 1924. 3. CADN, 1SL/V/949, SR, ‘Les Elections Prochaines – l’Opinion Publique – les Partis’, August 1923. 4. CADN, 1SL/1/V/1560, SR, ‘Fiche de Renseignements, 4 May 1928. 5. CADN, SR, 1SL/V/949, ‘A Monsieur le Chef du Service des Renseignements de la 2e`me Division’, 2 November 1923. 6. Philip S. Khoury, ‘Syrian urban politics in transition: the quarters of Damascus during the French Mandate’, International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 1/4 (1984), p. 515. 7. Ami Ayalon, The Press in the Arab Middle East: A History (Oxford, 1995), pp. 31 – 6. Al-Bustani, who had been secetary of the Lebanon Society created by American missionaries, had begun his publishing career by founding Nafir Surriya (The Trumpet of Syria) in 1860. As with so many others involved in literary and press circles, Al-Bustani would take part in the country’s education by founding a school for boys in 1863. 8. Bruce Masters, Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Arab World: The Roots of Sectarianism (Cambridge, 2001), p. 112. 9. Charles A. Frazee, Catholics and Sultans: The Church and the Ottoman Empire 1453– 1923 (Cambridge, 1983), p. 276. 10. Julia Phillips Cohen, Becoming Ottomans: Sephardi Jews and Imperial Citizenship in the Modern Era (Oxford, 2014), pp. 60 – 5. 11. Michelle U. Campos, Ottoman Brothers: Muslims, Christians, and Jews in Early Twentieth-Century Palestine (Redwood City, CA, 2011), p. 137. 12. Elizabeth M. Holt, ‘From Gardens of Knowledge to Ezbekiyya after Midnight: the novel and the Arabic press from Beirut to Cairo, 1870– 1892’, Middle Eastern Literatures, 16/3 (2013), pp. 232– 48; Donald J. Cioeta, ‘Ottoman censorship in Lebanon and Syria, 1876– 1908’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 10/2 (1979), pp. 167– 88. 13. Stefano Taglia, Intellectuals and Reform in the Ottoman Empire: The Young Turks on the Challenges of Modernity (London, 2015), pp. 40 – 4. Examples of the harsh repression included the imprisonment of an Armenian poet for his poetry. Words such as constitution or tyranny were banned outright. See also M.H. ‘Abd Al-Raziq, ‘Arabic literature since the beginning of the nineteenth century’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental Studies, University of London, 2/2 (1922), pp. 249– 65, 257– 8. 14. Hasan Kayali, Arabs and Young Turks: Ottomanism, Arabism, and Islamism, in the Ottoman Empire, 1908-1918 (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA, 1997),

272

15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

20. 21. 22. 23.

24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

NOTES

TO PAGES

141 –145

pp. 124, 226. Caesar Farah suggests that Young Turk censorship was even more ‘vicious’ than that of Hamidian times. See Caesar Farah, ‘The Young Turks and the Arab press’, in C. Imber and K. Kiyotaki (eds), Frontiers of Ottoman Studies: State, Province, and the West. Volume I (London, 2005), p. 218. Erol Koroglu, Ottoman Propaganda and Turkish Identity: Literature in Turkey During World War I (London, 2007), pp. 11 – 12. CADN, 1SL/V/2371, Alexandre Riachy to Administrator of Lebanon, March 1920. CADN, 1SL/V/2374, Territoire Ennemi Occupe´ (Zone Ouest), SR, ‘L’Agence Arabe a Beyrouth’, 9 December 1919. CADN, 1SL/V/2374, Territoire Ennemi Occupe´ (Zone Ouest), SR, ‘Renseignements d’un Agent Bien Place´’, 19 February 1919. CADN, Censorship of the press was practised at home and abroad. World War I saw widespread censorship of the British press. See Colin John Lovelace, ‘Control and Censorship of the Press During the First World War’ (Ph.D. thesis, King’s College London, 1982). CADN, 1SL/V/2371, ‘Projet d’Instruction pour le General Goybet’, July 1920. Ibid. Farah, ‘The Young Turks’, pp. 222– 9. Arna’out was an Arabist of Albanian descent and had set up his paper in Beirut in 1920. His paper became closely aligned to the anti-imperialist National Bloc after 1928. See Sami M. Moubayed, Steel and Silk: Men and Women Who Shaped Syria 1900– 2000 (Seattle, WA, 2006), p. 475. CADN, 1SL/V/1579, SR, ‘Liste des Condamne´s par le Conseil de Guerre de Damas de Aouˆt 1920 a` De´cembre 1922’, 1923. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 4/S-D 58, HC Weygand to MAE, 13 June 1921. H-C, ‘Notes sur les Journaux [July 1921].’ Ibid. CADN, 1SL/V/2379, ‘Autour de la Fusion des Eglises Anglicaines et Grec Orthodoxes’, 6 October 1924. CADN, 1SL/1/V/921, Tommy Martin, Chief of Damascus SR to DD, 3 November 1924. ‘La Presse Musulmane’, Revue du Monde Musulman, XXXVI (1918– 19). Among these were: Al-Mufid, edited by Yusef Haidar Al-Zakali and said to be aligned to Hashemite interests in 1919 and sold for 400 silver piasters. Al-Qanu¯n (The Law) was edited by Neguib Haidar and launched in 1924. Another was Lissan Al-‘Arab, which had been suspended in 1919. Its editor, Ibrahim Hilmi Al-‘Umari, was supposedly aligned to the Iraqi officers. A French-language paper, L’Independence, was edited by a man by the name of ‘Abdel Nour. A newspaper named Hayat, edited by Farid Al-Hajj, was reported to have folded in 1919. The official newspaper that had existed under Faisal, Al-A¯sima, was equally unavailable in the early mandate. Tewfiq Yazidji’s pan-Syrian Kinana¯h was suspended in 1919. Another paper to go

NOTES TO PAGES 145 –149

31. 32. 33. 34.

35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45.

273

unmentioned was Salim Abdel-Rahman’s ‘Alam Al-‘Arabi. One newspaper missed by the official French review that seems to have circulated in preMandate Homs was Tanbih. The Hama newspapers, Hadaf, Nahr Al-‘Asi, Ikha¯a, edited by Jibran Massouh, and Tawfiq, were equally unmentioned in the official press report despite being recorded to have circulated prior to the Mandate. CADN, 1SL/V/949, SR, ‘El Tebekki es Souri - au Pre´sident de la Fe´de´ration’, 25 December 1923. CADN, 1SL/V/949, SR, ‘Presse des 15 et 16 De´cembre’, 1923. CADN, 1SL/V/949, General Billotte, HC’s DA to Central SR Director, ‘Texte des Protestations Contre Soubhi Bey Barakat’, 23 June 1923. Bouchair makes the point that Aleppo’s merchant class was more diverse, including Jews and Christians, than Sunni-dominated Damascus, thus making the city less favourable to Syrian unionism. However, Bouchair’s and Khoury’s assumption that Aleppo was consequently less influential than Damascus can be seen as a hasty interpretation. See Nourredine Bouchair, ‘The Merchant and Moneylending Class of Syria Under the French Mandate, 1920– 1946’ (Ph.D. thesis, Georgetown University, 1986), p. 111; Philip Shukry Khoury, Syria and the French Mandate: The Politics of Arab Nationalism, 1920– 1945 (Princeton, NJ, 1987), p. 660. It is best, rather, to follow Michael Van-Dusen’s sketch of Syria’s agro-city’s, with regional hubs like Aleppo or Damascus dominating spokes of agricultural and mercantile sub-regions such as Alexandretta for Aleppo and Dar‘aa for Damascus: Michael Van Dusen, ‘Political integration and regionalism in Syria’, Middle East Journal, 26/2 (1972), pp. 123– 36. CADN, 1SL/V/2372, EA, French Delegation, ‘Rapport Mensuel pour le Mois d’Aouˆt 1921’ (1921). CADN, 1SL/V/1842, EA, French Delegation, ‘Rapport Trimestriel’, 12 November 1921. CADN, 1SL/V/949, ‘Extrait du El-Takkadom du 22-12-23’, 24 Decembre 1923. CADN, 1SL/V/949, Fadhel, ‘Contre L’Unite´ [translated by SR]’, Al Barid, 16 December 1924. CADN, 1SL/1/V/1623, SR, ‘Un Echo de Damas’, 10 January 1924. CADN, 1SL/V/949, SR, ‘Extrait du Sourya el Chamalia du 11-12-23’, 18 December 1923. CADN, 1SL/V/949, SR, ‘Extrait du Journal en Nahada du 17 Decembre’, December 1923. CADN, 1SL/1/V/1623, ‘Lettre Ouverte a` Son Excellence le General Billotte’, 2 January 1924. CADN, 1SL/V/949, SR, ‘Presse des 15 & 16 Decembre’, 1923. Ibid. CADN, 1SL/V/949, SR, ‘Extrait du Journal Sourya Echemaliye du 17 De´cembre’, 1923.

274

NOTES

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150 –154

46. Ibid. The author was reflecting a growing sentiment for Al-Sina¯ʿa al˙ Wataniyya (the national industry) which Geoffrey Schad has noted began ˙ growing in public discourse in 1923. The concept, rooted in Ottoman-era engagement with the economic protectionism of German thinker Friedrich List, had grown among the Aleppo and Damascus capitalist class in the midst of Italian autarky, Japanese and Indian economic nationalism and a general tendency to counter an Anglophone laissez-faire world order. See Geoffrey D. Schad, ‘Colonialists, Industrialist, and Politicians: The Political Economy of Industrialization in Syria, 1920– 1954’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Pennsylvania, 2001), pp. 283– 307. For a contrasting view that suggests that the ‘merchant and moneylending’ class of Syrians was founded in financial preservation and partisan political interests that did not seek an alliance with a growing middle and lower class, see Bouchair, ‘The Merchant and Moneylending Class’, pp. 139– 45. 47. CADN, 1SL/1/V/1623, SR, Lettre Ouverte a` Son Excellence le Gouverneur’, 10 January 1924. 48. CADN, 1SL/1/V/1623, SR, ‘A Me´ssieurs le President et les Membres de la Fe´de´ration’, 27 December 1923. 49. CADN, 1SL/1/V/1623, SR, ‘id.’, 30 December 1923. 50. CADN, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth des 3 April 1924.’ 51. TNA, FO 684/3, W.A. Smart, British Consul in Aleppo, to Foreign Office, 9 January 1926. 52. CADN, 1SL/V/2518, ‘Le Mandat au Debut de 1926’, n.d. 53. Cioeta, ‘Ottoman Censorship’. 54. Al-Rifa’ı¯, Tarikh as-Sihafa, 9. 55. CADN, 1SL/V/1561, ‘Arreˆte´ No 2464’, 6 May 1924. 56. Ibid. 57. Ibid. 58. CADN, 1SL/V/1561, ‘Arreˆte´ No 3080’, 21 Avril 1925. 59. CADN, 1SL/V/1561, ‘Arreˆte´ No 147’, 20 June 1924. 60. CADN, 1SL/V/1561, ‘Arreˆte´ No 17830/733’, 12 August 1924. 61. CADN, 1SL/V/1561, ‘Arreˆte´ No 1816’, 16 February 1928. 62. CADN, 1SL/V/949, Damascus Police Advisor to Director of the Sureˆte´Ge´ne´ral, ‘Message Telephone’, 26 December 1922. 63. CADN, 1SL/V/1665, EGL, ‘Rapport He´bdomadaire: Pe´riode du 29/12/1923 au 5/1/1924.’ 64. CADN, 1SL/V/1683, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 16 Octobre 1924.’ 65. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 24 Mai 1924.’ 66. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’E´tat du Grand Liban du 9 Mai 1924.’ 67. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL des 18 et 19 Mai 1924.’ 68. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 20 Fevrier 1924.’ 69. Ibid. 70. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 21 Mai 1924.’ 71. CADN, EGL, 1SL/V/1682, ‘RP de l’EGL du 4 April 1924.’

NOTES

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275

72. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, H-C Press Bureau, ‘E´tude sur l’E´tat de Damas’, February 1924. 73. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 15 Mars 1924.’ 74. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 3 Avril.’ 75. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 30 Avril 1924.’ 76. CADN, 1SL/V/1675, EGL, ‘Renseignements’, 3 April 1924. 77. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 22 Mai 1924.’ 78. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 4 April 1924.’ 79. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 13 Fevrier 1924.’ 80. Ibid. 81. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 12 April 1924.’ 82. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 16 April 1924.’ 83. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 15 Fevrier 1924.’ 84. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 11 March 1924.’ 85. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL des 13 et 14 Avril 1924.’ 86. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 17 April 1924.’ 87. CADN, ‘RP de L’EGL du 23 April 1924’, 1SL/V/1682. 88. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 5 Avril 1924.’ 89. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL des 6 et 7 April 1924.’ 90. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 19 Fevrier 1924.’ 91. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 21 Fevrier 1924’. 92. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 10 Mai 1924’. 93. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 27 Mai 1924.’ 94. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 31 Mai 1924.’ 95. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 20 Mai 1924.’ 96. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 1er Fe´vrier 1924.’ 97. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL des 25 et 26 Mai 1924.’ 98. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 31 Mai 1924.’ 99. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 22 De´cembre 1924.’ 100. CADN, 1SL/V/1675, EGL, HC’s DGL, ‘Renseignements’, 23 February 1923. 101. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 31 Mai 1924.’ 102. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL des 25 et 26 Mai 1924.’ 103. CADN, 1SL/V/1683, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 1 Octobre 1924.’ 104. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 5 April 1924.’ 105. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de l’EGL du 10 Mai 1924.’ 106. CADN, 1SL/V/1684, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 4 Fevrier 1924.’ 107. CADN, 1SL/V/1684, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 20 De´cembre 1924.’ 108. CADN, 1SL/V/1684, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 7 Fevrier 1924.’ 109. CADN, 1SL/V/1684, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 16 decembre 1924.’ 110. CADN, 1SL/V/949, SR, ‘Traduction’, October 1923. 111. The use of houses as ‘salons’ for informal political meetings was long established, with figures ranging from the Sunni Salafi Cheikh Taher al-Jazairi to the Greek Orthodoc Lebanese writer Jurji Yanni being documented to have practised this custom. See Khoury, ‘Syrian urban politics’; Yussef Choueiri,

276

112. 113.

114. 115.

116. 117.

118. 119. 120. 121.

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159 –163

‘Two histories of Syria and the demise of Syrian patriotism’, Middle Eastern Studies, 23/4 (1987), p. 503. CADN, 1SL/V/2432, Administrative Counsel for South Lebanon to Office of the Governor of Greater Lebanon, 10 April 1922. Rashid Osseiran was described by British wartime intelligence as the ‘most active and intelligent’ of the Osseiran brothers. Among the other brothers was Abdullah Osseiran, who was the Consul of Iran in Lebanon. BL, ‘Personalities: Syria [1917]’. CADN, 1SL/V/2432, Administrative Counsel for South Lebanon to Office of the Governor of Greater Lebanon, 8 January 1922. United Nations Office in Geneva-Archives of the League of Nations (hereafeter UNOG-ALON), 1/18954/4284/R21, Delegate of the Syrian Union to Secretary General of League of Nations, 12 August 1921. ‘En Syrie’, La Croix, N.13208 (1 April 1926). Ihsan Al-Jabiri was born into a prominent merchant family which had seen its fortunes impacted by the creation of borders between Aleppo and Turkish Anatolia. See Philip S. Khoury, ‘Factionalism among Syrian nationalists’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 13/4, pp. 445– 6. CADN, 1SL/1/V/1560, Shakib Arslan, Ihsan Al-Jabiri and Riad Al-Solh to ˙ ˙ Council of the League of Nations, 1 September 1927. Ibid. Ibid. Hilal al-Sulh, Lubna¯n wa-Su¯rı¯ya¯: shara¯kat al-istiqla¯l: min al-ʻahd al-ʻUthma¯nı¯ ˙ ˙ ila´ al-intida¯b al-Faransı¯: mukhtasar wa-mala¯mih (Beirut, 1994). ˙ ˙

Chapter 6 Subservience and Sanction? The Francophone Press 1. Butrus Abu-Manneh, ‘The Christians between Ottomanism and Syrian Nationalism: the ideas of Butrus Al-Bustani’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 11/1 (1980), pp. 287– 304; Engin Deniz Akarli, ‘The tangled ends of an empire: Ottoman encounters with the West and problems of Westernization – an overview’, Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa, and the Middle East, 26/3 (2006), pp. 353– 66. 2. ‘Notes sur les Journaux [July 1921]’. 3. Intelligence Division, ‘Personalities: Syria [1917]’. 4. Alfred Naccache was born in 1886, graduated from the Sorbonne, and became involved in publishing in French newspapers in Cairo before World War I. He was later judged a faithful, Francophile Maronite in a 1932 intelligence report. He would briefly become Lebanese prime minister under the Vichy Rule of Admiral Henri Dentz. See Raghid Sulh, Lebanon and Arabism, 1936– ˙ 1945 (London, 2004), p. 119; Asher Kaufman, Reviving Phoenicia (London, 2004), p. 138, fn. 45. Georges Naccache was co-founder of L’Orient with Georges Khabbaz. He went on to become one of Lebanon’s most influential

NOTES

5. 6. 7.

8. 9. 10.

11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

16. 17. 18. 19.

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277

journalists and a co-founder of the Phalange Maronite party. See ‘Georges Naccache – Deux Ne´gations’, Le Monde Diplomatique, September 1982, p. 10. Available at https://www.monde-diplomatique.fr/1982/09/A/36936 (accessed 15 January 2018). Malcolm E. Yapp, The Near East Since the First World War: A History to 1995 (London, 1996), p. 109. CADL, E-Levant/Syrie-Liban/58, ‘Notes sur les Journaux et les Revue Paraissant Actuellement a` Beyrouth et au Liban’, 1 July 1921. The Journal had been founded by Gabriel Enkiri in 1898. It was but one of many French-language newspapers in Egypt. See Jean-Jacques Luthi, La Litte´rature d’Expression Francaise en E´gypte (1798-1998) (Paris, 2000). Francosphe´re influence in Egypt continued throughout the interwar period. In 1922, of 90 Egyptian newspapers, four were in English, four in Italian and 12 in French. See Delphine Ge´rard, ‘Le Choix Culturel de la Langue en E´gypte. La Langue Franc aise en E´gypte dans l’Entre-Deux-Guerres’, Egypte Monde Arabe, N.27 – 28 (1996), pp. 253– 84. ‘Notes sur les Journaux [July 1921]’. Luc Pinhas, ‘Aux Origines du Discours Francophone: One´sime Reclus et l’Expansionisme Colonial Franc ais’, Mythologies, 140/1 (2004), pp. 69 – 82. One article in Le Matin reported news of an assassination attempt on General Soulet, commander of the Cavalry in the Arme´e du Levant, after copies of La Syrie arrived in Marseille. ‘La Situation en Syrie’, Le Matin, N.13338 (30 August 1925). ‘Notes sur les Journaux [1 July 1921]’. CADN, V/Consulat Le Caire/61, Henri Gailard, French Ambassador in Egypt to MFA (6 July 1920). CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, Georges Vayssie´, to HC Gouraud (17 August 1925). CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 4/S-D58, ‘Notes sur les Journaux et les Revues Paraissant Actuellement a` Beyrouth et au Liban’ (1 July 1921). It seems Vayssie´’s belligerent example was copied a few years later when the owner of his previous paper in Egypt, Gabriel Enkiri, was challenged to either retract an article he had republished wholesale from another paper or to duel. See ‘A Hue et a Dia’, L’Egypte Nouvelle, N.104 (21 June 1924), III – IV. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 4 /S-D 58, ‘Notes sur les Journaux [July 1921]’. ‘Vive Weygand (L’Enseignement d’Abord)’, El Alevy, 1/4 (1 November 1923). Burhanuddin Mosri Zade´, ‘Le Protectorat’, El Alevy, 1/4 (1 November 1923). F.F. Rynd, ‘The Assyro-Chaldeans’, Journal of the Royal Central Asian Society, 10/3 (1923), pp. 241–2; Ashur Giwargis, ‘The Assyrian Liberation Movement and the French Intervention (1919–1922)’, Assyrian International News Agency (n.d.). Available at www.aina.org/articles/almatfi.htm (accessed 15 January 2018).

278

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165 –169

20. Christophe Ippolito, ‘Naissance d’une nation: La Revue Phe´nicienne au Liban en 1919’, in B. Tadie, C. Mansanti and H. Aji (eds), Re´vues Modernistes, Re´vue Engage´e: (1900 – 1939) (Rennes, 2011). 21. Auguste Adib Pasha, ‘Apercu Historique sur le Liban depuis les origines jusqu’au debut de la Grande Guerre, a l’usage des jeunes Libanais qui feront la Patrie de demain’, La Revue Pheenicienne (September 1919). 22. CADN, 1SL/V/1675, H-C, ‘Renseignements’, 22 April 1925.’ 23. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 20 Janvier 1925.’ 24. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, High Commmissioner Weygand to MFA, ‘a.[u]s.[ujet] du Journal L’Orient’, 30 November 1924. 25. ‘Que Se Passe-t-il en Syrie’, L’Orient (16 January 1925). 26. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 58, Khabbaz, telegram to MAE, January 1925. 27. Gustave Gautherot, ‘La Politique de l’Orient De´finie a` M. Edouard Herriot, President du Conseil’, L’Echo d’Orient (n.d.). 28. Ibid. See also: Pierre Fournie´, ‘Le Mandat a` l’Epreuve des Passions Franc aises: L’Affaire Sarrail (1925)’, in N. Me´ouchy (ed.), France, Syrie et Liban 1918– 1946 (Damascus, 2002); Thompson, Colonial Citizens, pp. 45 – 6; D.K. Fieldhouse, Western Imperialism in the Middle East 1914– 1958 (Oxford, 2006), pp. 315 –17. 29. Gautherot, ‘La Politique’. 30. Ibid. 31. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, Francois Veuillot, President of the Syndicate of French Journalists to MFA, 31 January 1925. 32. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 13 Fe´vrier 1925’. 33. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 23 Janvier 1925’. 34. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, Sarrail HC to MAE, Paris (25 April 1925). 35. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, MFA Briand to HC Sarrail (30 April 1925). 36. Ibid. 37. Ibid. 38. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, HC Sarrail to MFA, 4 May 1925. 39. Ibid. 40. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, HC Sarrail to MFA, 4 May 1925. 41. CADL, E-Levant/ C 417/ D 1/S-D 286, HC Sarrail to MFA, 14 May 1925. 42. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, Georges Samne´ President of Comite´ Central Syrien to Philippe Berthelot, G-S MAE, 1 May 1925. 43. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, Beirut Press Editors to MAE, May 1925. 44. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, ‘Note sur les Journaux Dont les Directeurs ont Signe´ le Te´le´gramme Ci-Joint’, 9 May 1925. 45. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, ‘Extrait de la Depeche du 16 Juin de Beyrouth n. 169’, 16 June 1925.

NOTES

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279

46. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, HC Sarrail to MFA, 14 May 1925. 47. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, HC Sarrail to MFA, 15 May 1925. 48. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, Gabriel Khabbaz, Director of L’Orient (c. July 1925). 49. CADN, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, HC Sarrail to MFA Briand, 14 May 1925; CADN, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, Briand to Sarrail, 25 May 1925. 50. CADN, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, Sarrail to Aristide Briand, 27 May 1925. 51. See also: Fournie´, ‘Le Mandat a` l’Epreuve’, pp. 125–68. 52. Kayali, Arabs and Young Turks, p. 42. 53. AN-P, 20010216/157, Sureˆte´ Ge´ne´rale, ‘Bureau d’Information Islamique’, 11 February 1921. 54. Ibid. 55. AN-P, 20010216/157, Sureˆte´ Ge´ne´rale, ‘Note sur Tarek Bey’, 27 February 1923. 56. AN-P, F/7/13411, Special Commissioner Attached to the Military Administration in Paris to the Director of Sureˆte´ Ge´ne´rale, 21 June 1922. 57. AN-P, F/7/13411, Association de la Jeunesse Syrienne, ‘Ce Que Tout Franc ais Doit Savoir de la Syrie: Il n’y a Plus en Syrie de Fautes a` Comettre’, 9 May 1922. 58. Ibid., The Association’s poster recalled French repression of popular protests ahead of the King – Crane Commission’s visit to Beirut in 1919. For a comprehensive outline of the King – Crane Commission’s reception, see: Andrew Patrick, America’s Forgotten Middle East Initiative: The King –Crane Commission of 1919 (London, 2017). 59. AN-P, F/7/13411, Sureˆte´ Ge´ne´rale, ‘Association de la Jeunesse Syrienne’, 26 August 1922. 60. Ibid. 61. ‘Chez les Syriens de Paris’, La Croix, N.13591 (28 June 1927). 62. ‘L’Insurrection Druze’, Revue du Proche Orient-Politique, E´conomique et Litte´raire, N.3 (15 September 1925). 63. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, ‘Note pour Monsieur le Directeur Politique’, 4 June 1925. 64. Ibid. 65. Ibid. 66. BDIC, Fonds Syrie, F Delta/947/1-6, Association Syrienne, Ce que tout Francais doit savoir de la Syrie (Paris, n.d). 67. AN-P, F/7/13411, Sureˆte´ Ge´ne´rale to MFA, 8 February 1926. El Yafi was writing his doctoral thesis, which would become an early defence of women’s rights. See Abdallah El-Yafi, La Condition Prive´e de la Femme dans le Droit Musulman (Paris, 2013). Haidar Mardam Bey’s thesis was finished a few years later. See Haidar Mardam Bey, L’Organisation Judiciaire et le Principe de l’Egalite´ Entre les Justiciables (Ph.D. thesis, University of Paris, 1929); Jordi Tejel Gorgas, Le Mouvement Kurde de Turquie en Exil: Continuite´ et Discontinuite´

280

68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80.

81. 82.

83. 84.

NOTES

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173 –176

Nationalisme Kurde sous le Mandat Francais en Syrie et au Liban (1925 – 1946) (Bern, 2007), p. 99. AN-P, F/7/13411, Prefect of the Paris Police to Director Sureˆte´ Ge´ne´rale, 5 February 1926. AN-P, F/7/13411, Special Police Commissioner in Marseille, ‘Syriens’, 27 February 1926. AN-P, F/7/13411, Special Police Commissioner Annemasse, ‘Affaires Syriennes’, 12 July 1921. AN-P, F/7/13411, Sureˆte´ Ge´ne´rale, ‘A.S. Affaires Syriennes’, 31 August 1921. AN-P, F/7/13411, Special Police Commissioner in Annemasse, ‘Rapport au Sujet du Nomme Tewfik al-Yarghi [sic. Yazighi]’, 6 June 1921. TNA, FO 141/471/4, Sir J. Maxwell to Lord Kitchener, 4 November 1915. TNA, FO 141/471/4, British Ambassador in Spain A.H. Hardinge to Foreign Secretary Lord Balfour, 12 May 1918. CADL, E-Levant/C H12/D 1A/S-D 208, Central SR, ‘Renseignements’, 13 December 1923. James Gelvin, Divided Loyalties: Mass Politics at the End of Empire (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA, 2006), pp. 67, 73. AN-P, F/7/13411, Special Police Commissioner in Annemasse, ‘Au Sujet de la Creation a` Geneve d’un Comite Syrien’, 24 June 1921. CADL, E-Levant/C H 12/D 1A/S-D 208, Central SR, ‘Renseignements A Constantinople’, 15 November 1923. CADL, E-Levant/C H 12/D 1A/S-D 208, Central SR, ‘Renseignements’, 19 December 1923. AN-P, F/7/13411, Special Police Commissioner in Annemasse to Director of Sureˆte´ Nationale, 13 July 1922. Martin Thomas notes the irony that Egyptian nationalists such as Sa‘ad Zaghlu¯l were expelled by Britain while exiles of the French-held territories were allowed to go about their business. See Martin C. Thomas, ‘French intelligence-gathering in the Syrian Mandate, 1920– 40’, Middle Eastern Studies, 38/1 (2002), p. 7. CADN, 1SL/V/949, SR, ‘Rapport d’Informateur’, 5 November 1923. CADL, E-Levant/C H12/D 1A/S-D 208, HC Weygand to MFA, 21 December 1923. In a speech at a dinner during a Congress of the Syrian Union in Geneva, Michel Lutfallah stated that the goal of the Congress was: ‘to make the voice of Syrians heard [. . .] we like France but we do not wish to be treated like the Algerians or Tunisians [. . .] we ask for the evacuation of Syria by the occupying troops, the unity of the country and the constitution of a national constitutional government’. See AN-P, F/7/13411, Sureˆte´ Ge´ne´rale, ‘A.S. Affaires Syriennes’, 31 August 1921. CADL, E-Levant, C H12/D 1A/S-D 208, Sureˆte´ Ge´ne´rale, ‘Renseignements’, 4 December 1923. See Thomas, ‘French intelligence-gathering’, p. 10. AN-P, F/7/13411, Special Police Commissioner in Annemasse, ‘Au Sujet de la Cre´ation a` Gene`ve d’un Comite´ Syrien’, 24 June 1921.

NOTES

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176 –178

281

85. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 4 /S-D 58, De Caix to Minister of Foreign Affairs, 20 June 1921. 86. CADL, E-Levant/Syrie-Liban/C 313/D 4/S-D 56, French Consul in Geneva to MFA, 20 June 1921. 87. Ali Al-Ghayati ‘La Syrie et la Societe´ des Nations’, Tribune de Gene`ve, 17 June 1921. 88. Christopher M. Andrew and A.S. Kanya-Forstner, The Climax of French Imperial Expansion, 1914 – 1924 (Stanford, CA, 1981), pp. 230 – 40; C.M. Andrew and A.S. Kanya-Forstner, ‘The French “Colonial Party”: its composition, aims and influence, 1885– 1914’, The Historical Journal, 14/1 (1971), pp. 99 – 128. 89. Al-Ghayati, ‘La Syrie et la Societe´ des Nations’. 90. Ibid. 91. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 4/S-D 58, French Consul in Geneva to MFA, 4 July 1921. 92. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 4/S-D 58, French Consul in Geneva to MFA, 18 September 1921. 93. CADL, E-Levant/C 412/D 1A/S-D 210, French Consul in Geneva to MFA, Paris, 22 December 1922. This was ‘Ali Fahmy Kamel, a nationalist and the brother of nationalist leader Mustapha Kamil. See Ziad Fahmy, ‘Francophone Egyptian Nationalists, anti-British discourse, and European public opinion, 1885– 1910: the case of Mustafa Kamil and Ya‘qub Sannu’, Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East, 28/1 (2008), pp. 170– 83. 94. AN-P, F/7/13411, Special Police Commissioner in Annemasse to Director Sureˆte´ Ge´ne´rale, 24 April 1922. 95. Ibid. 96. Ibid. 97. CADL, E-Levant/C 412/D 1A/S-D 210, French Consul in Geneva to MFA, 22 December 1922. 98. Despite a limited number of printed copies, the newspaper could spread through casual cafe´ conversations, as was seen with respect to the domestic Damascus press. The Tribune d’Orient listed public places in Geneva where it could be freely picked up, thus underscoring the importance of the early twentieth-century newspaper as a medium both read and shared; among the places were the Hotel d’Angleterre, several cafe´s, the Cre`merie de Rio de Janeiro, the Re´staurant Ivanoff, the Ce`rcle Masonique and the Re´staurant Oriental Mahmoud. 99. CADL, E-Levant/C 412/D 1A/S-D 210, R. Reau, French Consul in Geneva to MFA, 22 December 1925. This agent shared the name of the son of prominent Lyon legal scholar Edouard Lambert, though he was said to have died in the World War. 100. Shakib Arslan, ‘Lettre Ouverte au Ge´ne´ral Gouraud’, La Tribune d’Orient (8 February 1923).

282

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101. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, Ali Al-Ghayati, ‘Si la France voulait [. . .]’, La Tribune d’Orient, N.53 (25 September 1925). 102. La Tribune d’Orient, N.62 (5 November 1925). 103. ‘Les Eve´nements de Syrie’, La Tribune d’Orient, N.62 (5 November 1925). 104. The role of the secularist Captain Carbillet as the spark of the Druze Rebellion in 1925, a signal event which led to the Great Revolt, has been the subject of extensive commentary. The Republican-minded Carbillet had justified his governorship against his critics, claiming that his methods, including the extension of private property and democratisation of education, had been necessary to remove the oppression of the average people by Druze feudal chiefs. See Capitaine Carbillet, Au Djebel Druse: Choses Vues et Ve´cues (Paris, 1929); Jean-David Mizrahi, Gene`se de l’E´tat Mandataire: Service des Renseignements et Bandes Arme´es dans les Anne´es 1920 (Paris, 2003), pp. 35 – 7; Daniel Neep, Occupying Syria Under the French Mandate: Insurgency, Space and State Formation (Cambridge, 2012), pp. 70 – 3. 105. Anne Karakatsoulis, ‘La droite Franc aise devant le Mandat en Syrie et au Liban: Le Cas de la Revue des Deux Mondes (1920 – 1940)’, Chronos: Revue d’Histoire de l’Universite de Balamand, 1 (1998), p. 111. 106. Lenka Bokova, ‘La Re´volution Franc aise dans le Discours de l’Insurrection Syrienne Contre le Mandat Franc ais (1925 –1927)’, Revue du Monde Musulman et de la Me´diterrane´e (1989), p. 208. 107. Maurice Barre`s, Une Enqueˆte au Pays du Levant (Paris, 1923), pp. 44 – 7. 108. Rene´ Ristelhueber, ‘Les Maronites’, Revue des Deux Mondes, 25 (1915), p. 188. 109. ‘Jours de Guerre’, Le Monde Illustre´e, N.3037 (4 March 1916), p. 148. 110. Karakatsoulis, ‘La droite Franc aise’, pp. 113– 14. 111. Anonymous [Robert De Caix], ‘L’Organisation de la Syrie sous le Mandat Franc ais’, Revue des Deux Mondes, 6 (1921), pp. 633 – 63, 643. For more on De Caix’s role in the administration see Robert De Caix, La Syrie (Paris, 1931); Stephen Helmsley Longrigg, Syria and Lebanon Under French Mandate (Oxford, 1958), pp. 82, 129; Gerard D. Khoury, Une Tutelle Coloniale: Le Mandat Francais en Syrie et au Liban: Ecrits Politiques de Robert De Caix (Paris, 2006). 112. Ibid. 113. Ibid. 114. ‘Dans le Levant’, Le Temps, N.22040 (7 December 1921). In Autumn 1921, Aristide Briand’s government had been forced to make territorial and military concessions to avoid any Kemalist attempts at invading northern Syria. See: Thomas, ‘French intelligence-gathering’, p. 10. 115. M.Y. Bitar, ‘La Vraie Syrie Franc aise’, Mercure de France, N.422 (16 January 1916), pp. 217– 19. 116. Khairallah’s important role in shaping French public opinion has been examined in: Samir Khairallah, Samir, ‘La France et la Question Arabe de l’Empire Ottoman, K.T. Khairallah et son Temps (1882 – 1930)’ (Ph.D. thesis,

NOTES

117. 118. 119. 120. 121. 122. 123. 124. 125. 126. 127. 128. 129. 130.

131. 132. 133. 134. 135. 136.

137.

138.

TO PAGES

182 –187

283

University of Paris, 2011). Khairallah was for a reformed Ottoman system rather than Arab Revolt. K.T. Khairallah, ‘La Vraie Syrie Franc aise’, Mercure de France, N.424 (16 February 1916), pp. 762– 6. Eugene Lautier, ‘Le Succe`s de M. Poincare´ en Orient et la Politique en Occident’, L’Homme Libre, N.2269 (10 October 1922), p. 1. Maurice Figuerolles, ‘L’Insurrection Druse: Ce Qu’il Faut Prendre et Laisser des Nouvelles de Syrie’, L’Homme Libre, N.3320 (26 August 1926), p. 1. Emile Laloy, ‘Ouvrages sur la Guerre de 1914’, Mercure de France, N.688 (15 February 1927), p. 243. ‘Protestation de Mgr [Monsignor] Doumani et des Catholiques Syriens’, La Croix, N.11348 (19 March 1920). Jean Guiraud, ‘La France en Syrie’, La Croix, N.11292 (16 January 1920). ‘Un Appel du Pape’, La Croix, N.12440 (4 October 1923). ‘Le Proble`me Syrien’, La Croix, N.17083 (14 July 1922). ‘Lettre des E´tats-Unis’, La Croix (25 November 1925). ‘Lettre de Syrie’, La Croix, N.13278 (23 June 1926). CADL, E-Levant/Syrie-Liban/C 313/D 4/S-D 56, De Caix to MAE, 24 July 1920. CADL, E-Levant/Syrie-Liban/C 313/D 4/S-D 56, Service de la Presse, H-C Beirut to MAE, 24 May 1921. AN-P, 594/AP/2, P. Andre to Colonel Bremond, 7 May 1920. As Jennifer Boittin notes, this was part of a pattern of attempts at blocking the exchange of information between metropole and colonies using such tools as libel laws alongside outright censorship. See Jennifer Anne Boittin, Colonial Metropolis: The Urban Grounds of Anti-Imperialism and Feminism in Interwar Paris, (Lincoln & London, 2010), pp. 137, 257 fn.15. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, HC Gouraud to MAE, 5 July 1922. ‘Une Nouvelle Revolte aux Environs d’Alep’, L’Homme Libre, N.3313 (19 August 1925), p. 3. ‘“Tout va bien” en Syrie’, La Croix, N.13039 (14 September 1925). ‘En Syrie’, La Croix, N.13211 (5 April 1926). CADL, E-Levant/Syrie-Liban/C 313/D 4/S-D 56, MFA to Gouraud, 17 January 1921. CADL, E-Levant/Syrie-Liban/C 313/D 4/S-D 56, De Caix to MAE, 19 January 1921; CADL, E-Levant/Syrie-Liban/C 313/D 4/S-D 56, De Caix to MAE, 20 January 1921. According to De Caix, the Egyptian press had interpreted the continuing existence of Ottoman citizenship for Lebanese citizens as a signal of French disengagement from Syria. C.M. Andrew and A.S. Kanya-Forstner, ‘The Groupe Colonial in the Chamber of Deputies, 1892– 1932’, The Historical Journal, 17/4 (1974), pp. 837– 66. ‘Le Gueˆpier Syrien’, La Lanterne (28 November 1924).

284

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187 –191

139. Ibid. Louis Cattin was the chancellor of the Faculty of Medecine at Saint Joseph University during the Ottoman years. See Chantal Verdeil, ‘Un etablissement Catholique dans la Socie´te´ Pluriconfessionnelle de la fin de l’Empire Ottoman l’Universite´ Saint-Joseph de Beyrouth’, Cahiers de la Me´diterrane´e 75 (2007), pp. 28–38. Available at https://cdlm.revues.org/3373 (accessed 16 January 2018); Rafael Herztein, ‘Les Phases de l’Evolution de l’Universite´ Saint-Joseph a` Beyrouth: Les Premie`res De´cennies (1875 – 1914)’, Historical Studies in Education. Available at http://historicalstudiesineducation. ca/index.php/edu_hse-rhe/article/view/3469 (accessed 16 January 2018), p. 25. 140. Ibid. 141. Ibid. 142. La De´peche de Toulouse, cited in ‘La Mission de M. Henry de Jouvenel’, Le Matin, N.15207 (7 November 1925). 143. Tareq Y. Ismael and Jacqueline S. Ismael, The Communist Movement in Syria and Lebanon (Tampa, FL, 1998), pp. 7– 14. 144. Even before the outbreak of the Great Syrian Rebellion, as the mandate authorities were recovering from the Lesser Syrian Insurrection, the Comintern was distributing pamphlets that denounced French imperialism and said that the ‘struggle of the Syrian rebels is joined by the struggles now being waged in France by the mining, textile, and engineering workers’. See ‘Extracts from an ECCI Manifesto Against French Imperialism in Syria [11 May 1924]’, in Jane Degras (ed.), The Communist International 1919– 1943 Documents Vol. II 1923– 1928 (London, 1971), pp. 93– 4. 145. AN-P, F/7/13411, Central Police Commissioner Nantes to Minister of the Interior, 21 November 1926. 146. Jacques Doriot, La Syrie Aux Syriens! Discours Prononce´ par Doriot, a` la Chambre des De´pute´s, le 20 De´cembre 1925 (Paris, 1926). 147. ‘L’Action du Comite´ Mixte de Lyon’, L’Humanite´, N.9792 (1 October 1925). 148. ‘Conference Ge´ne´rale des Femmes de la Re´gion Parisienne’, N.9788 (27 September 1925). 149. ‘Le Congre`s Communiste de Glasgow’, L’Humanite, N.7871 (2 June 1925). 150. ‘Le Re´gime Militaire en Syrie’, L’Humanite´, N.6536 (15 February 1922). 151. ‘En Syrie’, L’Humanite´, N.6711 (10 August 1922). 152. CADL, E-Levant/ C H12/ D 1A/S-D 208, Director of the Sureˆte´ Ge´ne´rale to MFA, 17 November 1923. 153. ‘Une Protestation du “Parti du Peuple”’, L’Humanite´, N.9765 (4 September 1926). 154. ‘Une Nouvelle Lettre. La Revolte S’Etend. Prise de Soueida’, L’Humanite´, N.9762 (1 September 1925). 155. ‘Sultan El Attrache Re´pond aux Provocations de l’Imperialisme Franc ais’, L’Humanite´, N.9770 (9 September 1925). 156. ‘La Syrie aux Syriens!’, L’Humanite´, N.7747 (28 January 1925). 157. ‘La Syrie Revolte´e’, L’Humanite´, N.6804 (24 April 1922).

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285

158. Kanaan was the leader of a group bringing together eight of the 12 counsellors of the Mount Lebanon Sanjak who had sought to defect to Faisal in July 1920, just before the Battle of Maysalu¯n. They were planning to escape Lebanon to Europe in order to organise opposition to the French mandate. Among them was the brother of the Maronite Patriarch. See Ge´rard D. Khoury, La France et l’Orient Arabe: Naissance du Liban Moderne 1914– 1920 (Paris, 2009). 159. ‘Le Re´gime Syrien’, L’Humanite´, N.6833 (29 January 1923). 160. ‘Le Capitalisme Colonialiste a Fait Banqueroute en Syrie’, L’Humanite´, N.6697 (27 July 1922). 161. ‘Les Interpe´llations’, La Croix, N.13107 (2 December 1925). 162. ‘Les Balles pour nos Propres Ge´ne´raux’, La Croix, N.13208 (1 April 1926). 163. Andrew and Kanya Forstner, ‘The French “Colonial Party”: its composition, aims and influence, 1885– 1914’, The Historical Journal, 14/1 (1971), pp. 99 – 128. 164. Stewart Michael Persell, The French Colonial Lobby 1889– 1939 (Stanford, CA, 1983), p. 27. 165. ‘Comment la Presse Coloniale De´forme la Ve´rite´’, L’Humanite´, N.6834 (11 December 1922). 166. The Union Economique was: ‘the most important organization of French capital in Syria’. It coalesced metropolitan, North-African and Levant-based French commercial institutions. See Geoffrey D. Schad, ‘Colonialists, Industrialist, and Politicians: The Political Economy of Industrialization in Syria, 1920 – 1954’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Pennsylvania, 2001), p. 94. 167. J.M., Pourquoi Nous Devons Rester en Syrie (Paris, 1926). 168. ‘Sources et Debouches’, Le Mercure Africain, N.28 (15 March 1923), p. 52. 169. ‘La Conference de M. Venard’, L’Echo de Bougie, N.1496 (11 April 1926). 170. ‘Notre Colonisation Africaine’, Annales Africaines, N.35 (20 December 1920), p. 657. 171. ‘Le Voyage De M. Paul Laffon Au Maroc’, France-Maroc, N.56 (July 1921), p. 112. 172. ‘Petite Lettre Du Bled’, Annales Africaines, N.13 (6 July 1928), pp. 253– 4.

Chapter 7 Internationalism: The External Press ‘L’Unite´ de la Syrie’, Le Temps, N.21016 (14 January 1919). ‘Liban et Syrie’, Le Temps, N.21028 (1 February 1919). ‘Les Evenements de Syrie’, N.15206, Le Matin (6 November 1925). ‘Les Rebelles Font la Guerre non a` la France mais a la Syrie, Declare, a Alep, M. De Jouvenel’, Le Matin, N.15243, 13 December 1925. 5. ‘The State of Syria’, The Nation and the Athenaeum, 26/16 (17 January 1920), pp. 536 –7. 6. ‘The Syrian Mandate’, The Nation and the Athenaeum, 39/3 (17 April 1926), pp. 63 – 4.

1. 2. 3. 4.

286

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198 –201

7. The committee/congress was set up in Cairo and Geneva by Prince Michel Lutfallah, Rashid Rida’a and Shakib Arslan. See ‘Syro-Palestinian Congress’, in R. Bidwell (ed.), Dictionary of Modern Arab History: An A to Z of Over 2,000 Entries from 1798 to the Present Day (London, 2010). 8. CADL, E-Levant/C 412/D 1A/S-D 210, French Consul in Baghdad Maigret to MAE (10 December 1923). 9. ‘The Syrian Situation: How the Outbreak Started’, The Times of Mesopotamia (4 September 1925). French suspicions of British press activity in Iraq were echoed by a Russian journalist, writing in Izvestia, who suggested that the Iraqi press was entirely under British control and was publishing denunciations of French policy in 1922. Astakhov, ‘La France et L’Angleterre Dans le Proche-Orient’, Bulletin Pe´riodique de la Presse Russe, Juin et Juillet 1922, N.106 (6 September 1922), 3 – 4. 10. CADN, 1SL/V/949, SR, ‘RP de Damas des 18 et 19 Novembre 1923’. 11. CADN, 1SL/V/949, SR, ‘La Propagande Anglo-Arabe en Syrie’, 1 October 1923. 12. Ibid. 13. Ibid. 14. CADN, 1SL/1/V/1618, Ministe`re des Colonies – Service des Affaires Musulmanes, ‘RP et des Questions Musulmanes’, 31 December 1926. 15. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, Barakatullah Mandarie, editor of Al-Islah to MFA Briand, 10 November 1925. 16. The L’Orient Affair peaked just before the outbreak of the Great Syrian Revolt which occasioned a League of Nations Permanent Mandates Commission session scrutinising French repression. Its head, the Marquis Theodoli, had informed the French that the Commission would be scrutinising the mandatory power’s response. ‘La S.D.N. et la Situation en Syrie’, L’Homme Libre, N.3379– 3380 (24 and 25 October 1925), p. 1. 17. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, French Consul in Jerusalem Maugras to MFA, 18 May 1925. 18. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, French Consul in Jerusalem Maugras to MFA, 18 May 1925; CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, HC Sarrail, to MFA, 14 May 1925. This was a demonstration of diplomatic acumen; the French Consul in Palestine had wisely replaced the word ‘Syria’ for ‘France’, when noting French authorities’ role as the originators of censorship in Palestine. 19. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, Anonymous Telegram, 28 April 1925. 20. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, French Consul in Baghdad Maigret to MFA, 24 May 1925; CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, HC Sarrail to MFA, 14 May 1925. 21. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 4/S-D 58, MFA to HC, 30 November 1921. 22. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 4/S-D 58, De Caix to MFA, 19 December 1921. 23. Fribourg had a regular column in Les Annales. The words deemed by High Commission general-secretary De Caix to have been anti-French were mild.

NOTES

24. 25.

26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

31. 32. 33.

34. 35. 36. 37.

38. 39.

TO PAGES

201 – 204

287

He wrote: ‘In Syria, the administration is far from being immune to criticism. A new sum of 326 million [francs] was asked for by the Foreign Minister [. . .] yesterday’. Georges-Andre´ Fribourg, ‘La Situation’, Les Annales Politiques et Litte´raires, N.1985, 10 July 1921, p. 23. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, HC Weygand to MFA, ‘a.s. du Journal L’Orient’, 30 November 1924. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 2/S-D 292, Jerusalem Consul Gaston Maugras to HC Sarrail, 16 January 1926. The British Consul in Aleppo was unlikely to accept French claims that they had no involvement in reprinting the story since it was based on a source suspected to be derived from French intelligence because the article had cited a Turkish consul’s private speech. TNA, FO 684/3, British Consul in Aleppo W. Hough to Foreign Office, 15 January 1926. TNA, FO 684/3, British Consul in Damascus W.A. Smart to Foreign Office, 23 January 1926. TNA, FO 684/3, Smart to Foreign Office, 27 January 1926. TNA, FO 684/3, Smart to Foreign Office, 26 March 1926. ‘La France et l’Angleterre dans le Proche-Orient’, Bulletin Pe´riodique de la Presse Russe, Juin et Juillet 1922, N.106 (6 September 1922), pp. 3 – 4. It is unclear if this was a young future Air Marshal Fedor Astakhov. ‘La France et l’Angleterre’, pp. 3 – 4. ‘Le De´bat sur l’Orient’, L’Humanite´, N.6822 (29 November 1922). CADL, E-Levant/C 412/D 1A/ S-D 210, ‘Complot Terroriste en Syrie’, 10 October 1925. The People’s Party tended toward representating Aleppo’s commercial class. See Amos Perlmutter, ‘From obscurity to rule: the Syrian Army and the Ba’ath Party’, The Western Political Quarterly, 22/4 (1969), p. 828. CADL, E-Levant/C 412/D 1A/S-D 210, Gaston Maugras, French Consul in Jerusalem to MFA, 16 December 1925. BDIC, Fonds Syrie, F Delta/947/1-6, ‘Bulletin No 2 de la Socie´te´ Lite´raire Russe de Damas’, 15 October 1923. BDIC, Fonds Syrie, F Delta/947/1-6, ‘Bulletin No 5 de la Socie´te´ Lite´raire Russe de Damas’, 1 December 1923. BDIC, Fonds Syrie, F Delta/947/1-6, ‘La Syrie Vue par les Voyageurs Russes des Temps Anciens’, Bulletin de la Socie´te´ Lite´raire Russe de Damas, N.7, 1 January 1924. BDIC, Fonds Syrie, F Delta/947/1– 6, ‘Bulletin No 6 de la Socie´te´ Lite´raire Russe de Damas’, 15 December 1923. Nicault, La France et Le Sionisme 1897 –1948. Une Rencontre Manque´e? (Paris, 1992). It is sometimes forgotten that the July 1917 Paul Cambon Letter was sent by a French Foreign Minister to French Zionist Nahum Sokolow before the famed Balfour Letter. On British impressions of Zionist abilities to sway American public opinion, see James Renton, The Zionist Masquerade: The Birth of the Anglo-Zionist Alliance 1914– 1918 (Basingstoke, 2007).

288

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204 –209

40. CADL, E-Levant/Syrie-Liban/C 313/D 4/S-D 56, MFA to HC Gouraud, March 1921. 41. CADL, E-Levant/ C H12/D 1A/S-D 208, Gouraud to MFA, 18 September 1922. 42. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, HC Jouvenel to MAE, 17 December 1925. 43. CADL E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, Berthelot, MAE to French Ambassador in Germany, 21 December 1925. 44. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, French Ambassador in Spain Perretti de La Rocca to MFA Briand, 23 December 1925. 45. ‘La Situation de Syrie’, L’Echo Annamite, N.463 (21 December 1925), p. 1. 46. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, Andre´ de Laboulaye, French Charge´ d’Affaires in Berlin to Briand, 28 December 1925. 47. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, E´mile Daeschner, French Ambassador in the United States to MAE, 19 December 1925. 48. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, French Consul in Jerusalem to MAE, 22 December 1925. 49. Daeschner to MAE. 50. ‘L’Avenir Possible de la Radioe´le´ctricite´ dans le Domaine Economique’, L’Effort Algerien, N.13 (2 July 1927). 51. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, French Ambassador in Washington Daeschner to MFA Briand, Paris, 21 November 1925. 52. ‘Christians Routed, Southern Lebanon at Druses’ Mercy’, Washington Post (21 November 1925). 53. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, P. Suzor, French Consul in Vancouver to MFA, 29 November 1925. 54. ‘France in Syria’, The Daily Province (28 November 1925). 55. ‘France’s Syrian Rule Berated as “Tyrannical”’, New York Herald Tribune (n.d.). 56. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, ‘French Parade of Rebel Dead Held Cause of Damascus Riot’, New York Herald Tribune (n.d.). 57. ‘The Damascus Massacre’, The Literary Digest (14 November 1925). 58. Lloyd O’Connor’s grandfather was muckracking journalist Henry Demarest Lloyd. Her father, William Bross Lloyd, owned part of the Chicago Tribune, for which she also sent stories from the League of Nations in 1926, though she reputedly believed these to be ‘fluff pieces’. See Kathleen Banks Nuter, ‘O’Connor, Jessie Lloyd’, in S. Ware (ed.), Notable American Women: A Biographical Dictionary Completing the Twentieth Century (Cambridge, MA, 2004), pp. 477 – 8. 59. New York Public Library Manuscripts and Archives Division (hereafter NYPL)/Jessie Lloyd O’Connor Papers/ Box 5/ Folder 5.1, ‘Jessie Lloyd, 6 Rue St. Victor Geneva, 9 December 1926’. 60. Ibid. 61. Ibid.

NOTES

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289

62. ‘Les Eve`nements de Syrie’, Bulletin Pe´riodique de la Presse Sud-Ame´ricaine et la Presse Mexicaine du 26 Se´ptembre au 28 Octobre 1925, N.118 (19 December 1925), 4. 63. See inter alia: Sarah Gualtieri, Between Arab and White: Race and Ethnicity in the Early Syrian American Diaspora (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA, 2009); Hani J. Bawardi, The Making of Arab Americans: From Syrian Nationalism to U.S. Citizenship (Austin, TX, 2014), pp. 54 – 158. 64. Maria del Mar Logron˜o Narbona, ‘The Development of Nationalist Identities in French Syria and Lebanon: A Transnational Dialogue with Arab Immigrants to Argentina and Brazil, 1915– 1929’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of California Santa Barbara, 2007); Camila Pastor De Maria y Campos, ‘Inscribing Difference: Maronites, Jews and Arabs in Mexican Public Culture and French Imperial Practice’, Latin American and Caribbean Ethnic Studies, 6/2 (2011), pp. 169 –87. 65. Andrew Arsan, Interlopers of Empire: The Lebanese Diaspora in Colonial French Africa (Oxford, 2014). 66. Philipp Thomas, The Syrians In Egypt: 1725– 1975 (Stuttgart, 1985). 67. Fred Halliday, ‘The Millet of Manchester: Arab merchants and cotton trade’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 19/2 (1992), pp. 159– 76; Walter P. Zenner, A Global Community: The Jews from Aleppo, Syria (Detroit, IL, 2000), pp. 63 – 76. 68. On broader British propaganda efforts that recognised the importance of US public opinion in shaping the country’s involvement in the World War, see M.L. Sanders, ‘Wellington House and British Propaganda during the First World War’, The Historical Journal, 18/1 (March 1975), pp. 119– 46; Philip M. Taylor, ‘The Foreign Office and British Propaganda during the First World War’, The Historical Journal, 23/4 (1980), pp. 875– 98. 69. CADL, E-Levant/Syrie-Liban/C 313/D 4/S-D 56, Liebert, MAE to French Consul in New York, 12 January 1920. 70. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 4/S-D 132, A.R. Conty, French Ambassador in Rio de Janeiro to MFA Aristide Briand, 2 April 1921. 71. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 4/S-D 132, Conty to Briand, 31 March 1921. 72. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 4/S-D 132, Ambassador Conty to Aristide Briand, 31 March 1921. 73. Ibid. 74. CADN, 1SL/V/1684, EGL, ‘Journaux du 16 De´cembre 1924’, 16 December 1924. 75. CADL, E-Levant/Syrie-Liban/C 313/D 4/S-D 55, ‘Note sur le Projet d’Organisation du Controˆle Administratif a` Exercer par la France en Vertu du Mandat qui lui Sera Confie sur la Syrie’, 30 April 1920. In some locales, these funds went unused by local embassies; Havana and Sa˜o Paulo both returned their funds for lack of use. Santiago and Cairo both replied to Paris suggesting that proposed funds be removed as they judged their use to be inopportune. Argentina too removed a forecast subsidy of 1,000 francs for the

290

76.

77. 78. 79. 80.

81.

82. 83.

84. 85. 86.

NOTES

TO PAGES

210 –212

newspaper Sada Al-Sharq. All in all, savings of 11,000 francs were worked out ˙ that could be redeployed in other attempts at subsidising pro-French newspapers abroad. CADL, E-Levant/Syrie-Liban/C 313/D 4/S-D/56, De Beaumarchais French Ambassador in Mexico, to Deputy Director of Asia Section, 13 November 1920. CADL, E-Levant/Syrie-Liban/C 313/D 4/S-D /56, Claudel, French Consul in Rio Di Janeiro, Telegram to Paris, 18 April 1918. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, Salim Akel, Sa˜o Paulo, to Shukri Ghanem, Paris, 13 March 1924. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 1/S-D 286, Gouraud, to MFA, 11 January 1924. Ignacio Klich notes in contrast that the Ottoman press covered the development of the mahjar community in Argentina. See Ignacio Klich, ‘Argentine-Ottoman relations and their impact on immigrants from the Middle East: a history of unfulfilled expectations, 1910– 1915’, The Americas, 50/2 (1993), pp. 177– 205, 181. AN-P, 19940494/58, Interior Minister, Paris, ‘Arreˆte´ Ge´ne´rale’, 21 January 1919. These included the Mara’at Al-Gharb, Al-Rian and Linsarien, all published in the US; the Argentino, Al-‘Alam, Al-Osman, Al-Hur and Ash-Shama, all published in Buenos Aires; Amrika Al-Jadid published in Sa˜o Paulo; Al-Kawab and Al-Qiblat published in Cairo and Mecca, respectively. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, A.R. Conty, French Ambassador to Brazil to MAE, 12 May 1925. As Johann Strauss has noted in the case of the late Ottoman period, newspapers played an important role in publishing book reviews that went beyond simple political articles. Johann Strauss, ‘“Ku¨tu¨p ve Resail-i Mevkute”: printing and publishing in a multi-ethnic society’, in Elisabeth O¨zdalga (ed.), Late Ottoman Society: The Intellectual Legacy (London, 2013), p. 225. BL, L/PS/11/126, George Grahame to Lord Hardinge, 20 August 1917. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 4/S-D 126, French Charge´ d’Affaires in Haiti Agel to MFA, 12 May 1921. CADL, E-Levant/C 412/D 1A/S-D 210, R. Reau, French Consul in Baghdad to MFA, 22 December 1925. This is borne out by one article in the French daily Le Matin which claims Ihsan Al-Jabiri had been refused an audience with Eric Drummond, secretary-general of the League. See ‘Le Secretaire-Ge´ne´rale de la S.D.N. Refuse de Recevoir des De´le´gue´s Syriens’, Le Matin, N.15240 (10 December 1925). Both of these accounts seem to confirm the assertion made by Susan Pedersen that the League’s mechanisms were open only to hear representations of mandated peoples that went through the mandate power’s channels, thus limiting the possibility of initiating action by the Permanent Mandates Commission against the mandatory powers. Yet, in spite of these limitations, Syro-Lebanese activists still managed to get their voices heard, something that Pedersen notes when she writes of how the ‘League proliferated and legitimised information-gathering, including from non-governmental

NOTES

87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106.

107. 108. 109.

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212 –216

291

sources’. See Susan Pedersen, ‘The Meaning of the Mandates: An Argument’, Geschichte Und Gesellschaft, 32/4 (2006), pp. 560– 82, pp. 560– 73. When Emir Amin Arslan was blocked from being heard by the Permanent Mandates Commission hearing in Rome, French newspaper Le Matin reported that he nevertheless ‘attacked’ France in the international press. ‘Les Intrigues des Emissaires Syriens’, Le Matin, N.15310 (18 February 1920). CADL, E-Levant/Syrie-Liban/C 313/D 4/S-D 56, MAE, ‘Extraits et Analyse de la Kibla No 321 du 6 Mai 1920’. Ibid. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 4/S-D 58, Carlier, Adjunct G-S of the H-C, to MFA Briand, 6 July 1921. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 4/S-D 58, Carlier to Briand, 18 July 1921. Ibid. Ibid. French Consul, Bahia to MFA Briand, Paris, 30 August 1921 [MAE Nantes/ Bahia 79]. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/D 4/S-D 58, Ambassador Conty to MFA, 4 August 1921. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, ‘Note par le Cabinet du Ministre (Service de la Presse)’, 10 July 1922. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, Ambassador Conty to MFA, 20 September 1922. CADL, E-Levant/C 313/ D 4/S-D 58, De Caix to MFA Raymond Poincare´, March 1922. Ibid. Joseph Fehmi, ‘Des Sentiments, des Pense´es et des Actes’, Le Positiviste, N.13 (December 1922/January – February 1923). CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, P. Viet, French Consul Salonica to Poincare´, 3 May 1923. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, Maurice Herbette, French Ambassador in Belgium to Poincare´, 20 February 1924. ‘Bloc-Notes’, Le Positiviste, N.13 (December 1922/January – February 1923). Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. However, it is worth noting that L’Homme Libre reported that Maalouf had had his right leg amputated and suggested the letters spoke of such raving topics as the Greco-Turkish War, cultured pearls and a girlfriend named Sylvie. ‘Le Suicide du Syrien’, L’Homme Libre, N.2243 (14 September 1922). CADL, E-Levant/C 417/ D 3/S-D 293, HC Sarrail to MFA, 1 July 1925. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, Clausse, French Ambassador in Argentina to MFA, 9 June 1925. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, HC Sarrail to MFA, 29 September 1925.

292

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216 –219

110. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, HC Sarrail to MFA, 20 October 1925. 111. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, French Consul in New York to MFA, 26 January 1926. 112. Ibid. 113. CADL, E-Levant/C 417/D 3/S-D 293, French Consul in New York to MFA, 8 December 1925. 114. AN-P, 62/AJ/65, ‘Maintien ou Abondon Progressif du Mandat de la France en Syrie’, n.d. 115. CADN, 102PO/B/79/Consulat Bogota, J. Des Longchamps, Ambassador in Chile, to Alfred Planche, Ambassador in Colombia, 6 October 1931. 116. CADN, 102PO/B/79/Consulat Bogota, Nagib Constantin [Haddad], Bogota, to J. Des Longchamps, 15 July 1931. 117. The term ‘Islamicate’ was used by Marshall Hodgson to describe the broad, diverse and malleable world-civilisation in the Islamic world-system which existed alongside a more legally circumscribed Islamic socio-political order. See Marshall Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, Volume 1: The Classical Age of Islam (Chicago, 2009), p. 58. 118. Thomas, The Syrians in Egypt, p. 79. 119. Fruma Zachs, ‘“Cross-Glocalization”: Syrian women immigrants and the founding of women’s magazines in Egypt’, Middle Eastern Studies, 50/3, pp. 353 –69. 120. ‘La Presse Musulmane’, Revue du Monde Musulman, XXXVI (1918– 19). 121. CADL, E-Levant/Syrie-Liban/C 313/D 4/S-D 56, M. Gaillard, Diplomatic Agent in Cairo to Georges Leygues, MFA, 25 November 1920. Another example of the weight given to the Egyptian press is evidenced by the fact that the British Colonial Office ordered copies of Al-Mokattam, for a variety of its consulates around the world, including Tunis, Tangiers, Dakar, Rio and Buenos Aires. TNA, CO 323/866, Sarruf, Nimr & Makarius, Editors of Al-Muktataf & Al-Moqattam, Cairo, to Ministry of Information, War Office, ˙˙ 1 July 1921. 122. CADL, E-Levant/Syrie-Liban/C 313/D 4/S-D 58, HC Gouraud, 21 April 1921. 123. CADL, E-Levant/Syrie-Liban/C 313/D 4/S-D 56, French Consul in Egypt Defrance to MFA Ste´phen Pichon, 16 May 1918. 124. Ibid. 125. CADN, 353PO/2/Consulat Le Caire 116, Ambassador Henri Gaillard to Gouraud, 17 June 1922. 126. CADL, E-Levant/Syrie-Liban/C 313/D 4/S-D 56, Pontalis, MAE to Consul in Cairo, 21 January 1920. 127. CADN, 1SL/V/949, SR, ‘Contre l’Administration Franc aise en Syrie’, 9 March 1923. 128. Ibid. 129. ‘Contre l’Administration Franc aise [1923]’. 130. Ibid.

NOTES

TO PAGES

219 –222

293

131. The Damascus-based patriarch had been a Russian Empire surrogate in the World War years. ‘Personalities: Syria [1917]’. 132. CADN, 1SL/V/949, SR, ‘RP Etrange`re’, 15 December 1923. 133. CADN, 1SL/1/V/1618, Ministry for the Colonies, Service of Muslim Affairs, ‘RP et des Que´stions Musulmanes’, 31 De´cembre 1925. 134. CADN, 1SL/V/1842, H-C’s DEA, ‘Rapport Trimestriel - 3e`me Trimestre’, November 1921. 135. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 9 Janvier 1924.’ Censorship was not uniformly decried. Lissan Al-Hal, for instance, denounced the wholesale republication of news regarding Syria’s frontiers, lifted uncritically from Egyptian newspapers, which it said hurt the national interest. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth des 25 et 26 Mai.’ 136. In February 1924, 241 copies of one Egyptian newspaper were seized upon entry in Syria. CADN, 1SL/V/1675, EGL, ‘Renseignements’, 7 February 1924. The Egyptian newspaper Wadi Al-Nil was banned from entering the Syrian Mandate from 1 May 1922 until 12 August 1924. CADN, 353PO/2/Consulat Le Caire 116, Gouraud to French Ambassador in Cairo, 20 August 1920. 137. CADL, E-Levant/C H12/D 1A/S-D 208 Ministry for the Colonies, Service of Muslim Affairs to MFA, 30 October 1923. 138. Ouahes, ‘Une “ceinture”’; Altug˘ and White, ‘Frontie`re et Pouvoir’, pp. 91 – 104. 139. ‘Incidents a` la Frontie`re Syrienne’, Bulletin Pe´riodique de la Presse Turque, du 27 Mars au 18 Juin 1924, N.35 (July 1924). 140. Archivo Historico de Espan˜a, Madrid/Mo Exteriores/H/1881 Beirut, Juan Server, Spanish Ambassador in Istanbul to Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Madrid, 17 September 1925. 141. ‘France et Syrie’, Bulletin Pe´riodique de la Presse Turque du 1 er Aouˆt au 15 Octobre 1923, N.31 (November 1923). 142. CADL, E-Levant/C H12/D 1A/S-D 208, Barthe De Sandfort, French Consul in Adana to MFA Raymond Poincare´, 11 October 1923. 143. Jean-David Mizrahi, Gene`se de l’E´tat Mandataire: Service des Renseignements et Bandes Arme´es dans les Anne´es 1920 (Paris, 2003), p. 138. 144. CADL, E-Levant/C H12/D 1A/S-D 208, Service Centrale de Renseignements, ‘Renseignements’, 13 December 1923. 145. AN-P, F/7/13411, Special Police Commissioner in Annemasse to Director Sureˆte´ Ge´ne´rale, 2 June 1926. See also Zafer Toprak, ‘Bols¸evik I˙ttihatc ılar ve I˙slam Kominterni - I˙slam I˙htilal Cemiyetleri I˙ttihadı- I˙ttihad-ı Selamet-i I˙slam’, Toplumsal Tarih, 43 (1997), pp. 6 – 13. 146. Jacob Anton De Hass, Foreign Trade Organization (New York, NY, 1923), p. 157. 147. CADL, E-Levant/C H12/D 1A/S-D 208, Central SR, ‘Renseignement’, 4 November 1923. 148. CADN, 1SL/V/1843, H-C’s DEA, Civil Services, ‘Rapport Trimestriel: 1er Trimestre 1923.’

294

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222 –228

149. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth du 15 Fe´vrier 1924.’ 150. CADN, 1SL/V/1682, EGL, ‘RP de Beyrouth des 17 & 18 Fevrier 1924.’ 151. AHE Madrid/Mo Exteriores/H/1881 Beirut, Juan Servet, Spanish Ambassador in Istanbul to Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Madrid, 16 November 1925. 152. CADN, 1SL/V/1593, ‘Lettre Ouverte aux Patriotes, aux Re´pre´sentatifs du Pays et aux Journalistes’, April 1926.

Chapter 8 General Conclusion 1. CADN, 1SL/V/1561, Rene De Feriet, ‘La Syrie, Son Organisation Actuelle, le Mandat Franc ais’, 8 January 1925; Martin Thomas, Empires of Intelligence: Security Services and Colonial Disorder After 1914 (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA, 2008), p. 294. 2. Ibid. 3. AN-P, F/7/13411, Anonymous, ‘Suite au Rapports des 26 De´cembre 1925, 25 Janvier et 19 Fe´vrier 1926, au Sujet des Renseignements sur les Populations Musulmanes’, 1926. 4. Ibid. 5. AN-P, F/7/13411, H-C ‘La Situation en Syrie’, 9 June 1927.

SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY

Unpublished Manuscripts and Archives Archives Nationales de France, Pierfitte-Sur-Seine (AN-P). Archivo Historico de Espan˜a, Madrid (AHE). Bibliothe`que de Documentation Internationale Contemporaine, Nanterre (BDIC). Centre des Archives Diplomatiques de la Courneuve (CADL). Centre des Archives Diplomatiques de Nantes (CADN). Harvard University Archives, Cambridge, MA (HU). Haverford College Special Collections, Quaker and Special Collections (HCSC). National Archives and Records Administration, College Park, MD (NARA-CP). New York Public Library Manuscripts and Archives Division (NYPL). Presbyterian Historical Society Archives, Philadelphia, PA (PHS). Rockefeller Archives Centre – Rockefeller Foundation Records, Sleepy Hollow, NY (RAC-RFR). St Antony’s College Middle East Centre Archives, Oxford (MEC). The British Library, India Office Records, London (BL-IOR). The National Archives of the United Kingdom, Kew (TNA). United Nations Office in Geneva – Archives of the League of Nations (UNOGALON). University of Newcastle Special Collections Online. Yale University Manuscript Collections, New Haven, CT (YUMC).

Published Periodicals El Alevy L’Homme Libre L’Humanite´ La Croix La Tribune d’Orient Le Matin Le Positiviste

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Le Temps League of Nations – Official Journal Mouseion Œuvre des E´coles d’Orient Revue des Deux Mondes Revue du Monde Musulman Syria

Published Books, Articles and Other Material in English Abu-Manneh, Butrus, ‘The Christians between Ottomanism and Syrian Nationalism: the ideas of Butrus al-Bustani’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 11/1 (1980), pp. 287– 304. Akturk, Ahmet Serdar, ‘Imagining Kurdish Identity in Mandatory Syria: Finding A Nation in Exile’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Arkansas, 2013). Altugˆ, Seda, ‘Sectarianism in the Syrian Jazira: Community, Land and Violence in the Memories of World War I and the French Mandate (1915 – 1939)’ (Ph.D. thesis, Utrecht University, 2011). Anderson, Betty S., The American University in Beirut (Austin, TX, 2011). Arsan, Andrew, ‘‘‘this age is the age of associations”: committees, Petitions, and the Roots of Interwar Middle Eastern Internationalism’, Journal of Global History, 7/2 (2012), pp. 166–88. ———, Interlopers of Empire: The Lebanese Diaspora in Colonial French Africa (Oxford, 2014). Ayalon, Ami, The Press in the Arab Middle East: A History (Oxford, 1995). Bailony, Reem, ‘Transnational Rebellion: The Syrian Revolt of 1925– 1927’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of California at San Diego, 2015). Barr, James, A Line in the Sand: Britain, France and the Struggle that Shaped the Middle East (London, 2011). Batatu, Hanna, Syria’s Peasantry, the Descendants of its Lesser Rural Notables, and Their Politics (Princeton, NJ, 1999). Bawardi, Hani J., The Making of Arab Americans: From Syrian Nationalism to U.S. Citizenship (Austin, TX, 2014). Blecher, Robert Ian, ‘The Medicalization of Sovereignty: Medicine, Public Health, and Political Authority in Syria, 1861 – 1936’ (Ph.D. thesis, Stanford University, 2002). Bouchair, Nourredine, ‘The Merchant and Moneylending Class of Syria Under the French Mandate, 1920– 1946’ (Ph.D. thesis, Georgetown University, 1986). Burke III, Edmund, ‘A comparative view of French native policy in Morocco and Syria, 1912 –1925’, Middle Eastern Studies, 9/2 (1973), pp. 175– 86. Chalabi, Tamara, The Shi’is of Jabal ‘Amil and the New Lebanon: Community and Nation-State, 1918– 1943 (Basingstoke, 2006). Chapman-Adisho and Annette Renee, ‘Mission civilisatrice to mandate: the French and education in Syria and Lebanon’ (Master’s thesis, University of Louisville, Louisville, KT).

SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY

297

Choueiri, Yussef, ‘Two histories of Syria and the demise of Syrian patriotism’, Middle Eastern Studies, 23/4 (1987), pp. 496– 511. ——— (ed.), State and Society in Syria and Lebanon (Exeter, 1993). Cioeta, Donald J., ‘Ottoman censorship in Lebanon and Syria, 1876– 1908’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 10/2 (1979), pp. 167– 88. Commins, David Dean, Islamic Reform: Politics and Social Change in Late Ottoman Syria (Oxford, 1990). De Novo, John, American Interests and Policies in the Middle-East, 1900– 1939 (Minneapolis, MN, 1963). Diab, Henry and Lars Wahlin, ‘The Geography of Education in Syria in 1882. With A Translation of “Education in Syria” by Shahin Makarius, 1883’, Geografiska Annaler Series B, 65/2 (1983), 105– 28. Dolbee, Samuel, ‘Mandatory Bodybuilding: Nationalism, Masculinity, Class and Physical Activity in 1930s Syria’ (Master’s thesis, Georgetown University, 2010). Dueck, Jennifer M., ‘A Muslim Jamboree: scouting and youth culture in Lebanon under the French’, French Historical Studies, 30/3 (2007), pp. 485 –516. ———, The Claims of Culture at Empire’s End: Syria and Lebanon Under French Rule (Oxford, 2010). Escovitz, Jacob H., ‘‘He Was the Muhammad Abduh of Syria’: A Study of Tahir al- Jazairi and His Influence’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 18/3 (1986), pp. 293– 310. Fahrenthold, Stacy D., ‘Transnational Modes and Media: the Syrian press in the Mahjar and emigrant activism during World War I’, Mashriq and Mahjar: Journal of Middle East and North African Migration Studies, 1/1 (2013), pp. 30 – 54. ———, ‘Making Nations in the Mahjar: Syrian and Lebanese LongDistance Nationalisms in New York City, Sa˜o Paulo, and Buenos Aires, 1913– 1929’ (Ph.D. thesis, Northeastern University, 2014). Fiore, Massimiliano, Anglo-Italian Relations in the Middle East, 1922– 1940 (Farnham, 2010). Firro, Kais M., ‘Lebanese nationalism versus Arabism: from Bulus Nujaym to Michel Chiha’, Middle Eastern Studies, 40/5 (2004), pp. 18– 19. Fouad Khater, Akram, Inventing Home: Emigration, Gender, and the Middle Class in Lebanon, 1870– 1920 (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA, 2001). Frayha, Nemer Mansour, ‘Religious Conflict and the Role of Social Studies for Citizenship Education in the Lebanese Schools Between 1920 and 1983’ (Ph.D. thesis, Stanford University, 1985). Gelvin, James, Divided Loyalties: Mass Politics at the End of Empire (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA, 2006). Gorgas, Jordi Tejel, Syria’s Kurds: History, Politics and Society (London, 2009). ———, ‘Scholarship on the Kurds in Syria: a history and state of the art assessment’, Syrian Studies Association Newsletter, 16/2 (2011). Gratien, Chris, ‘The sick mandate of Europe: local and global humanitarianism in French Cilicia, 1918– 1922’, Journal of the Ottoman and Turkish Studies Association, 3/1 (2016). Greenshields, T.H., ‘The Settlement of Armenian Refugees in Syria and Lebanon, 1915– 1939’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Durham, 1978).

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Gualtieri, Sarah, Between Arab and White: Race and Ethnicity in the Early Syrian American Diaspora (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA, 2009). Halliday, Fred, ‘The Millet of Manchester: Arab merchants and cotton trade’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 19/2 (1992), pp. 159– 76. Harel, Yaron, Zionism in Damascus: Ideology and Activity in the Jewish Community at the Beginning of the Twentieth Century (London, 2015). Hartman, M. and Olsaretti, A., ‘“The First Boat and the First Oar”: Inventions of Lebanon in the Writings of Michel Chiha’, Radical History Review, 86 (2003), pp. 37 – 65. Hauser, Julia, German Religious Women in Late Ottoman Beirut: Competing Missions (Leiden, 2015). Helbig, Daniela K., ‘La Trace de Rome? Aerial Photography and Archaeology in Mandate Syria and Lebanon’, History of Photography, 40/3 (2016), pp. 283– 300. Herztein, Rafael, ‘The Foundation of the Saint-Joseph University of Beirut: The Teaching of the Maronites by the Second Jesuit Mission in the Levant’, Middle Eastern Studies, 43/5 (2007), pp. 749– 59. Hopwood, Derek, The Russian Presence in Syria and Palestine 1843– 1914: Church and Politics in the Near East (Oxford, 1969). Hourani, Albert, Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age, 1789– 1939 (Cambridge, 1983). Hovannisian, R.G., ‘The Ebb and Flow of the Armenian Minority in the Arab Middle East’, Middle East Journal, 28/1 (1974), pp. 19 –32. Hurvitz, Nimrod, ‘Muhibb al-Din al-Khatib’s Semitic Wave Theory and Pan-Arabism’, Middle East Studies, 29/1 (1993), pp. 118– 34. Imber, Colin and Kiyotaki, Keiko (eds), Frontiers of Ottoman Studies: State, Province, and the West. Volume I (London, 2005). Ismael, Tareq Y. and Ismael, Jacqueline S., The Communist Movement in Syria and Lebanon (Tampa, FL, 1998). Jackson, Simon M.W., ‘Mandatory Development: The Political Economy of the French Mandate in Syria and Lebanon, 1915– 1939’ (Ph.D. thesis, New York University, 2009). ———, ‘What is Syria Worth?: The Huvelin Mission, Economic Expertise and the French Project in the Eastern Mediterranean, 1918– 1922’, Monde(s), 4/2 (2013), pp. 83 – 104. Joarder, Safiuddin, ‘The Syrian Nationalist Uprising (1925– 1927) and Henri De Jouvenel’, The Muslim World, 67/3 (1977), pp. 185– 204. ———, Syria Under the French Mandate: The Early Phase 1920– 27 (Dhaka, 1977). Kaufman, Asher, ‘Phoenicianism: The Formation of an Identity in Lebanon in 1920’, Middle Eastern Studies, 37/1 (2001), pp. 173– 94. ———, ‘‘Tell Us Our History’: Charles Corm, Mount Lebanon and Lebanese Nationalism’, Middle Eastern Studies, 40/3 (May 2004), pp. 1 – 29. ———, Reviving Phoenicia: The Search for Identity in Lebanon (London, 2014). Khater, Ahmad Fouad, ‘Becoming “Syrian” in America: A Global Geography of Ethnicity and Nation’, Diaspora, 14/2– 3 (2005), pp. 299– 331. Khoury, Philip S., ‘Factionalism Among Syrian Nationalists’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 13/4 (1981), pp. 441– 69. ———, Urban Notables and Arab Nationalism: The Politics of Damascus 1860– 1920 (Cambridge, 1983).

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299

———, Syria and the French Mandate: The Politics of Arab Nationalism, 1920– 1945 (Princeton, NJ, 1987). Lange, Katharina, ‘“Bedouin” and “Shawaya”: the Performative Constitution of Tribal Identities in Syria During the French Mandate and Today’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient, 58/1 – 2 (2015), pp. 200 –35. Laskier, M.M., ‘Aspects of the Activities of the Alliance Israe´lite Universelle in the Jewish Communities of the Middle East and North Africa: 1860– 1918’, Modern Judaism, 3/2 (1983), pp. 147–71. Lenssen, Anneka, ‘The Shape of the Support: Painting and Politics in Syria’s Twentieth Century’ (Ph.D. thesis, Harvard University, 2015). Longrigg, Stephen Helmsley, Syria and Lebanon Under French Mandate (Oxford, 1958). Magee, Peter, ‘The Foundations Of Antiquities Departments’, in Daniel T. Potts (ed.), A Companion to the Archaeology of the Ancient Near East (Oxford, 2012). Martin-Fernandez, Amaya, ‘National, Linguistic, and Religious Identity of Lebanese Maronite Christians Through Their Arabic Fictional Texts During the Period of the French Mandate in Lebanon’ (Ph.D. thesis, Georgetown University, 2009). Melki, James A., ‘Syria and the State Department 1937– 1947’, Middle Eastern Studies, 33/1 (1997), pp. 92– 106. Mendehall, Kurt Lee, ‘Class, Cult and Tribe: the Politics of ‘Alawi Separatism in French Mandate Syria’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Texas, 1991). Menicucci, Garay Paul, ‘The Russian Revolution and Popular Movement in Syria in the 1920s’ (Ph.D. thesis, Georgetown University, 1993). Migliorino, Nicola, (Re)constructing Armenia in Lebanon and Syria: Ethno-Cultural Diversity and the State in the Aftermath of a Refugee Crisis (New York, 2008). Miller, Joyce Laverty, ‘The Syrian Revolt of 1925’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 8/4 (1977), pp. 545– 63. Moubayed, Sami M., Steel and Silk: Men and Women Who Shaped Syria 1900– 2000 (Seattle, WA, 2006). Nacklie´ , Bou and Elias Nacklie´ , ‘Les Troupes Speciales du Levant: Origins, Recruitment and the History of the Syrian-Lebanese Para-Military Forces Under the French Mandate, 1919– 1947’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Utah, 1989). Neep, Daniel, ‘Colonising Violence: Space Insurgency and Subjectivity in French Mandate Syria’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of London, 2008). ———, Occupying Syria Under the French Mandate: Insurgency, Space and State Formation (Cambridge, 2012). Nevakivi, Jukka, Britain, France, and the Arab Middle East, 1914– 1920 (London, 1969). Ouahes, Idir, ‘Une “ceinture” d’Espace E´tatique: Le Controˆle des Be´douins au De´but du Mandat Franc
ais en Syrie’, L’Espace Politique, 27 (2016). Available at https:// espacepolitique.revues.org/3695 (accessed 22 January 2018). Pastor De Maria Y Campos, Camila, ‘Inscribing Difference: Maronites, Jews and Arabs in Mexican Public Culture and French Imperial Practice’, Latin American and Caribbean Ethnic Studies, 6/2 (2011), pp. 169– 87. Patrick, Andrew, America’s Forgotten Middle East Initiative: The King – Crane Commission of 1919 (London, 2015).

300

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Pedersen, Susan, ‘The Meaning of the Mandates: An Argument’, Geschichte Und Gesellschaft, 32/4 (2006), pp. 560– 82. Pipes, Daniel, Greater Syria: The History of an Ambition (Oxford, 1990). Provence, Michael, The Great Syrian Revolt and the Rise of Arab Nationalism (Austin, TX, 2005). Rabinovitch, Itamar, ‘The Compact Minorities and the Syrian State, 1918– 1945’, Journal of Contemporary History, 14/4 (1979). Rafeq, Abdul-Karim, Sluglett, Peter and Weber, Stefan (eds), Syria and Bilad al-Sham Under Ottoman Rule: Essays in Honour of Abdul-Karim RafEqn (Leiden, 2010). Rizvi, Sayyid Muhammad, ‘Muhibb al-Din al-Khatib: Portrait of a Salafi-Arabist (1886– 1969)’ (Master’s thesis, Simon Fraser University, 1991). Roussos, Sotiros, ‘Diplomacy and Communal Identity: Greece and the Greek Orthodox in Syria and Lebanon, 1919– 1940’, Chronos: Revue d’Histoire de l’Universite´ de Balamand, N.1 (1998), pp. 34 – 7. Salhi, Muhannad, Palestine in the Evolution of Syrian Nationalism (1918 – 1920) (Exeter, 2008). Salibi, Kamal, ‘The Lebanese identity’, Journal of Contemporary History, 6/1 (1971), pp. 80 – 6. Satloff, R.D., ‘Prelude to Conflict: Communal Interdependence in the Sanjak of Alexandretta 1920– 1936’, Middle Eastern Studies, 22/2, pp. 147– 80, 166. Sbaiti, Nadia Jeanne, ‘Lessons in history, education, and the formulation of national society in Beirut, Lebanon, 1920– 1960s’ (Ph.D. thesis, Georgetown University, 2008). Schad, Geoffrey D., ‘Colonialists, Industrialist, and Politicians: The Political Economy of Industrialization in Syria, 1920– 1954’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Pennsylvania, 2001). Schahgaldian, Nikola, ‘The Political Integration of An Immigrant Community into a Composite Society: The Armenians in Lebanon, 1920 –1974’ (Unpublished Ph.D. thesis, New York University, 1979). Schayegh, Cyrus and Arsan, Andrew (eds), The Routledge Handbook of the History of the Middle East Mandates (London, 2015). Shehadi, Nadim and Dana Haffar Mills (eds), Lebanon: A History of Conflict and Consensus (London, 1988). Scheid, Kirsten, ‘Painters, Picture-Makers, and Lebanon: Ambiguous Identities in an Unsettled State’ (Ph.D. thesis, Princeton University, 2005). Sommer, Dorothy, ‘Unity is Strength: Masonic Lodges in Ottoman Syria With a Special Focus on Tripoli and El Mina (1860– 1908)’ (Ph.D. thesis, Leiden University, 2013). Thomas White, Benjamin, The Emergence of Minorities in the Middle East: The Politics of Community in French Mandate Syria (Edinburgh, 2011). Thomas, Martin C., ‘French intelligence-gathering in the Syrian Mandate, 1920– 40’, Middle Eastern Studies, 38/1 (2002), pp. 1 – 32. ———, ‘Bedouin Tribes and the Imperial Intelligence Services in Syria, Iraq and Transjordan in the 1920s’, Journal of Contemporary History, 38/4 (2003), 539– 61. Thomas, Philipp, The Syrians in Egypt: 1725– 1975 (Stuttgart, 1985). Thompson, Elizabeth, Colonial Citizens: Republican Rights, Paternal Privilege and Gender in French Syria and Lebanon (New York, 2000).

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301

Van Dusen, Michael, ‘Political integration and regionalism in Syria’, Middle East Journal, 26/2 (1972). Ward, W.A., ‘Archaeology in Lebanon in the 20th Century’, Biblical Archaeologist, 57/2 (1994), pp. 66 – 85. Watenpaugh, Keith D., ‘‘Creating Phantoms’: Zaki al-Arsuzi, the Alexandretta Crisis, and the Formation of Modern Arab Nationalism in Syria’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 28/3 (1996), pp. 363– 89. ———, Being Modern in the Middle East: Revolution, Nationalism, Colonialism and the Arab Middle Class (Princeton, NJ, 2006). ———, Bread From Stones: The Middle East and the Making of Modern Humanitarianism (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA, 2015). Weismann, Itzchak, ‘Saʿid Hawwa: The Making of a Radical Muslim Thinker in Modern Syria’, Middle Eastern Studies, 29/4, pp. 601– 23. Weiss, Max, In the Shadow of Sectarianism: Law, Shi’ism, and the Making of Modern Lebanon (Boston, 2010). Wheatley, Natasha, ‘Mandatory Interpretation: Legal Hermeneutics and the New International Order in Arab and Jewish Petitions to the League of Nations’, Past and Present, 227/1 (2015), pp. 205– 48. Whitaker, James Long, ‘The Union of Demeter With Zeus: Agriculture and Politics in Modern Syria’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Durham, 1996). Williams, Elizabeth, ‘Cultivating Empires: Environment, Expertise, and Scientific Agriculture in Late Ottoman and French Mandate Syria’ (Ph.D. thesis, Georgetown University, 2016). Zachs, Fruma, ‘Mı¯kha¯ı¯l Misha¯qa – the First Historian of Modern Syria’, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies, 28/1 (2001), pp. 67 –87. ———, ‘Toward A Proto-Nationalist Concept of Syria? Revisiting the American Presbytarian Missionaries in the Nineteenth-Century Levant’, Die Welt Des Islam, 41/2 (2001), pp. 145– 73. ———, ‘“Cross-Glocalization”: Syrian Women Immigrants and the Founding of Women’s Magazines in Egypt’, Middle Eastern Studies, 50/3 (2014), pp. 353–69. Zamir, ‘Emile Edde´ and the Territorial Integrity of Lebanon’, Middle Eastern Studies, 14/2 (1978), pp. 232– 5. ———, The Formation of Modern Lebanon (London, 1985). ———, The Secret Anglo-French War in the Middle East: Intelligence and Decolonization, 1940– 1948 (London, 2014).

Published Books, Articles and Other Material in French, Arabic and Other Languages Al-Ahmad, Munir, ‘La Politique Linguistique Franc
aise en Syrie sous le Mandat Franc
ais 1920– 1946’ (Ph.D. thesis, Universite´ De Poitiers, 2013). Al-Hakim, Yusuf, Su¯rı¯ya wa-’l-intida¯b al-faransı¯ (Beirut, 1983). Al-Rifa’ı¯, Shams Al-Dı¯n, Tarikh as-Sihafa As-Su¯riya (Cairo, 1969). Al-Sulh, Hilal, Lubna¯n wa-Su¯rı¯ya¯: shara¯kat al-istiqla¯l: min al-ʻahd al-ʻUthma¯nı¯ ila ˙al-˙ intida¯b al-Faransı¯: mukhtasar wa-mala¯mih (Beirut: n.p., 1994). _ Thomas, ‘Frontie`res et Pouvoir d’E´tat: La Altugˆ, Seda and White, Benjamin Frontie`re Turco-Syrienne dans les Anne´es 1920 et 1930’, Vingtie`me-Sie`cle, 103 (2009), pp. 91 – 104.

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AND LEBANON UNDER THE

FRENCH MANDATE

Atasi, Nashwa¯n, Tatawwur al-mujtamaʻ al-Su¯rı¯, 1831 –2011 (Beirut, 2015). _ Franc
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ais (1925– 1927)’, Revue du Monde Musulman et de la Me´diterrane´e (1989), pp. 52 – 3. Bouassi, Maroun, ‘Le Role de la France dans l’Evolution Politique du Liban (1914 – 1946)’ (Ph.D. thesis, University of Rennes, 1987). Carbillet, Capitaine, Au Djebel Druse: Choses Vues et Ve´cues (Paris, 1929). Chahine, Richard, ‘Les Orientalistes Me´connus au Liban’, Archaeology and History in Lebanon, 16 (2002), pp. 66– 79. Chaigne-Oudin, Anne, La France et les Rivalite´s Occidentales au Levant (Paris, 2006). Charara, Yolla Polity, L’Image de la Femme dans la Presse Feminine au Liban (Beirut, Publications du Centre de Recherches Institut des Sciences Sociales de l’Universite Libanaise, 1974). Chevallier, Dominique, ‘Lyon et la Syrie en 1919: Les Bases d’une Intervention’, Revue Historique, 1 (1960), pp. 275– 320. Contenau, Georges, ‘L’Institut Franc
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ais’, Cahiers de la Me´diterrane´e (XVIIIe – XXe sie`cle), 76 (2006), pp. 377– 402. Mizrahi, Jean-David, Gene`se de l’E´tat Mandataire: Service des Renseignements et Bandes Arme´es dans les Anne´es 1920 (Paris, 2003). Mo¨ller, Esther, ‘Une Union Eternelle? Les Catholiques Libanais et les E´coles Franc
aises au Liban 1900– 1950’, Documents pour l’Histoire du Franc
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INDEX

Concepts claims of culture, 8, 9, 11, 22, 24, 25, 28 – 9, 32, 35, 37 – 9, 42 – 3, 52, 55, 63, 65, 71, 73 – 74, 76, 88, 112, 128– 9, 160, 162, 179, 181, 184, 195, 218, 221, 224– 7 opportunity structures, 2– 5, 34 – 5, 225 orientalism, 8, 9, 10, 23, 32 – 3, 38– 42, 50 – 1, 63, 66, 68, 75, 85, 86, 90, 95 – 6, 108, 130, 134, 139, 140, 161, 170– 1, 183, 206, 226, 237

Education agricultural, 100, 109, 113, 131 Alawite, 97, 165 American Missionary, 42, 54, 92, 115, 135, 266, 271 antiquities, 8, 42 – 3, 46, 47, 73, 109 112, 242 Armenian, 93 –4 Bedouin, 118 British Missionary, 201, 266 bursaries and funding, 93, 95, 102, 117– 26 curricula, 90 – 107, 259, 266 Druze, 94, 97, 118, 179 French missionary, 42, 81, 92 – 3, 101– 2, 105– 6, 108, 119, 123, 124, 127, 133, 135, 182, 261, 270

French public (official), 92 – 7, 100, 101, 105, 127 German missionary, 19, 92 Greek Catholic, 105, 118 Greek Orthodox, 92 – 3, 102, 105, 118, 252, 257 Italian missionary, 92, 266 Jewish, 93, 118 Mahjar, 133 Maronite, 105, 118–20, 123, 125 military and police, 110, 111, 263 and newspaper commentary, 105– 7, 114, 148, 165, 179, 221 Ottoman, 62, 95, 101– 2, 112–13, 122–5, 128, 148, 221, 261, 266 Sunni and Islamic, 70, 95, 97, 100–5, 124, 126, 129– 30, 250, 259 teaching standards, 93, 96 –9, 101, 114, 127 technical, 68, 73, 106– 8, 109, 112–13, 115, 128, 130, 148, 264 universities – American, 54, 83, 95, 115, 134– 6, 206 universities – French, 42, 54, 56, 102, 107–9, 128, 133 universities – Syro-Lebanese, 122, 130, 147 women’s, 95, 98 – 100, 105, 124, 126–7

306

SYRIA

AND LEBANON UNDER THE FRENCH

Entities/Organisations associations – cultural, 10, 53, 67, 71, 74, 79, 80, 86, 126, 130, 133, 203, 174, 177, 178, 203 associations – political, 132, 135, 171– 3, 178, 213, 279 cafes, 19, 221, 281 Communist Party – French, 172, 188, 189 Communist Party – Syro-Lebanese, 188, 203, 252 exhibitions – metropolitan French, 81 – 7 exhibitions – Syro-Lebanese, 84 – 7 hotels, 57, 76 – 7, 79, 252, 281 intelligence – Central Service in Beirut, 16, 32, 41, 105, 120, 127, 130, 140, 226, 227 intelligence – French military, 70, 103, 110 masons, 127, 145, 189, 281 museums – American, 50 museums – British, 49 – 50, 71, 76 museums – French, 49, 54, 71, 82 – 3 museums – Lebanese, 46, 48, 61 63 –4, 67, 69, 72 – 5, 79 museums – Ottoman, 43 – 4, 63 museums – Syrian, 46, 48, 61 – 4, 67 – 70, 72 – 3, 78 parliament – Aleppo, 147, 148, 156 parliament – Damascus, 126, 131, 151, 156 parliament – French, 10, 30, 31, 167, 171– 2, 187, 189, 190, 236 parliament – Lebanese, 57, 99, 114, 156 parliament – State of Syria, 222 parliament – Syrian Federation, 106 Quai d’Orsay (French Foreign Office), 30 – 1, 40, 86 – 7, 164, 169, 186– 7, 200– 1, 212 scouts, 81, 129–30, 135, 268 St Charles Street (British Foreign Office), 13, 201 Syrian People’s Party (Hizb Al-Sha‘ab), 129– 30, 190, 203, 287 Syrian Union Party (Hizb al-Ittihad Al-Suri), 131– 2, 135, 159, 172, 174– 5, 198, 221, 269, 280

MANDATE

tourism – French office, 77, 79 tourism – local government office, 78– 9, 81 welfare – American, 22, 115 welfare – British, 22, 24, 115 welfare – Syro-Lebanese, 71, 103 119, 126, 129, 260 Whitehall (British Government), 13, 28, 40, 58

Ethnic Groups Alawite, 20, 23, 28 –9, 92, 94, 97 –8 146–7, 165, 185 Armenian, 24, 94, 184, 216, 255 Assyrian (Chaldean), 24, 165 Bedouin, 18, 22, 41 – 2, 49, 76, 85, 118, 183, 186 Circassian, 85 Druze, 7, 10, 16, 20, 23, 27 – 8, 30, 49, 118–19, 121, 126– 7, 179, 183, 206, 208, 265, 282 Greek-Orthodox, 24, 26, 92 – 3, 102, 118, 127, 133, 172, 219, 252, 257 Jazairi (Algerian), 73, 109 127, 159, 275 Jewish, 12– 13, 130, 141, 146, 155, 205, 214 Kurd, 20 – 1, 27, 85, 106, 148– 9 Mahjar, 19, 74, 132– 3, 137, 152, 172, 196, 209– 17, 290 Maronite, 7, 9, 22– 3, 27, 30, 41, 57, 65, 73 – 4, 96, 105, 108, 119, 123, 125, 137, 155, 165, 167– 8, 172, 180, 210, 215, 224, 239, 276–7, 285 Shia, 23 – 4, 96, 248 Sunni, 16, 24, 28 – 9, 30, 74, 97, 100, 105, 130, 184, 194, 250, 273, 275 Turkmen, 85

Key Figures diplomats – American and other, 53, 80, 86, 133, 141, 174, 221, 287 diplomats – British, 45, 145, 151, 174, 201

INDEX diplomats – French, 68, 74 – 5, 98, 109, 133, 163, 176 – 7, 180, 198, 200 – 1, 204 – 6, 210 – 11, 213 – 18, 221 – 2 French – General Secretary Robert De Caix, 11, 29 – 32, 84, 86, 87, 110, 113, 120, 123, 170, 180 – 1, 185 – 7, 201, 207 – 9, 212, 219, 255, 283 French – Levant High Commissioners, 7, 16 – 17, 26, 29 – 30, 41, 54 – 6, 59, 64, 67, 75, 82 – 6, 109, 119, 121, 124, 128, 130, 134– 5, 143, 149, 158– 9, 165– 70, 173, 178, 180– 1, 186– 90, 194, 199– 204, 207, 211– 13, 215– 16, 222, 225, 227, 267 Syro-Lebanese – ‘Abd Al-Rahman Shahbandar, 127, 129, 132, 135– 6, 153, 159, 185, 190, 270 Syro-Lebanese – Emir Shakib Arslan, 57, 132, 160, 174– 5, 178, 191, 212, 216, 244, 291 Syro-Lebanese – Muhammad Kurd ‘Ali, 61, 62, 72 – 4, 98 – 9, 106, 122, 128, 143, 154, 201, 250 Syro-Lebanese – Sultan Al-Atrash, 17, 22, 27, 29, 119, 190

Law antiquities, 44 – 7, 49, 54 – 5, 88 censorship, 11, 32, 36, 90, 141– 3, 147, 151– 60, 166, 168– 70, 172, 176, 186, 190, 198, 200–2, 204, 208, 218, 222, 225, 272, 293 Islamic (Waqfs), 35, 71 – 2, 73, 86, 99, 248, 254 League of Nations, 1, 7, 8, 11, 26, 30, 37, 44 – 7, 49, 54 – 5, 57, 63, 76, 87, 88, 107, 116, 122, 132, 151, 159, 160, 172, 174–6, 178, 185, 189, 191, 193– 5, 197– 8, 202, 206– 8, 210, 212, 215, 224, 230, 244, 286, 288, 290 Open Door Policy, 40, 46, 88, 227 press, 151– 2

307

punishments, 11, 21, 31, 76, 102– 3, 119, 132, 135, 143, 145– 6, 152–4, 157, 180, 200, 271, 280 treaties, 14, 16, 19, 22, 26, 45, 87, 181, 186, 189

Locations Aleppo, 2, 7, 16 – 17, 22, 24, 27 – 28, 47, 48, 64 – 5, 67 –9, 70, 72, 76, 85, 92 –3, 96 – 8, 100, 106, 111, 113, 136, 140– 1, 143, 145– 52, 154, 156, 163, 181, 186, 201, 222, 273– 4, 276, 287 Alexandretta, 16, 17, 28, 69, 93 – 4, 96– 7, 109, 147, 149– 50, 221– 2, 273 Algiers, 2, 77, 193, 262 Ankara, 221 Annemasse, 132, 174– 7, 269 Antioch (Antakya), 27, 50, 69, 98, 113, 146, 219, 221– 2 Baalbek, 80 Baghdad, 2, 29, 136, 197– 8, 200, 218 Beirut, 2, 7 – 8, 10, 16, 22, 24, 26, 28– 9, 31 – 2, 36, 41 – 2, 48 – 9, 50, 53 –4, 57, 60 –1, 63, 65, 67, 69, 71 –4, 76 – 9, 82 – 4, 86 – 8, 91, 93, 95, 100, 102– 8, 110– 11, 118–19, 121, 124, 126– 7, 129–30, 137, 139, 141– 2, 145 160, 162– 4, 185–6, 188, 196, 203, 212, 216, 218, 220, 225, 227, 233, 237, 250, 255, 261, 263–4, 268, 272, 279 Beqaa, 16, 197, 252 Berlin, 1, 71, 132, 175, 203, 205, 216, 221 Bern, 175 Bogota, 1, 217 Boston, 133, 207, 216 Buenos Aires, 1, 133, 211, 213, 216, 290 Cairo, 2, 13, 43, 74, 136, 141, 164, 175, 190, 193, 198, 209, 214, 217–19, 254, 269, 271, 276, 286, 289, 292 Chicago, 63, 76, 141, 204, 212 Cilicia, 16, 66, 69, 182, 186, 188, 221

308

SYRIA

AND LEBANON UNDER THE FRENCH

Damascus, 2, 7, 10, 13, 16 – 19, 22, 24, 27 – 30, 32, 41, 49, 53, 61, 65, 67 – 70, 72 – 3, 80, 82 – 4, 91, 98, 103, 106, 110– 11, 118– 19, 122, 127– 31, 140, 142, 145, 146–8, 150– 3, 156, 158– 60, 170, 173, 178– 9, 184– 5, 191, 194, 197–9, 201, 204– 7, 216, 252, 254, 265, 273– 4 Dar‘aa, 70, 273 Deir Ez-Zor, 24, 64, 67, 101, 147 Detroit, 207 Geneva, 1, 7 – 8, 26, 36, 57, 132– 3, 160, 162, 171, 174–8, 194– 5, 207, 211, 222, 244, 280– 1, 286 Glasgow, 189 Hama, 17, 93, 105, 111, 113, 130– 1, 136, 147, 173, 178, 198, 273 Havana, 289 Homs, 7, 50, 56, 70, 76, 104–5, 111, 130– 1, 145, 159, 198, 273 Istanbul, 2, 42, 63 – 4, 136– 7, 141, 174, 221– 2, 254 Lattakia, 67, 69, 92, 94, 107, 113, 165, 185, 199 London, 2, 19, 71, 193, 197, 207, 221 Lyon, 55, 77, 83, 85, 189, 281 Madrid, 174, 205, 214 Manchester, 209 Marseille, 2, 82, 173, 189, 197 Mecca, 178, 211, 212, 290 Mexico City, 210 Montevideo, 209 Moscow, 1, 202 New York, 1, 7, 13, 74, 115, 133, 186, 204, 207, 211, 213, 216 Paris, 2, 7, 10, 13, 19, 29, 31, 36, 40, 46 – 7, 49 – 51, 53 – 4, 59, 71, 77 – 8, 81 – 6, 95, 98 – 9, 102– 3, 109, 118, 120– 1, 128, 133, 137, 143, 160, 162, 166– 7, 169, 170– 3, 178– 9, 184– 7, 189– 90, 193, 199– 201, 203, 205, 208– 16, 219– 20, 223, 225, 227– 8 Philadelphia, 13, 207 Rabat, 2, 84 –5, 194

MANDATE

Raqqa, 48, 101 Rio de Janeiro, 1, 7, 102, 213 Rome, 291 Santiago de Chile, 1, 217, 289 Sa˜o Paulo, 210– 11, 289– 90 Sa˜o Salvador de Bahia, 74, 212 Sidon (Saida), 41, 43, 53 – 5, 63, 67 – 8, 105, 159, 238, 243 Tripoli (Trablu¯s), 72, 93, 130, 135, 184, 219, 269 Tunis, 218, 292 Tyre (Su¯r), 51, 54 –6, 60, 63, 67, ˙ 109 96, Washington DC, 204– 6

Newspapers and Media British, 196– 7, 199 censorship (see under Law) Egyptian, 78, 199, 217– 20 French – colonial, 48, 77, 86, 192– 4 French – Communist, 188– 92 French – liberal, 51, 56, 99, 113, 179–83 French – right-wing, 55, 67, 77, 183–8 German, 204– 5 Iraqi, 198, 202 Jewish, 141, 155, 205 Latin American, 209 Lebanese Arabophone, 57 – 8, 60, 79, 83, 93, 98, 103, 106, 125– 6, 135, 139–45, 153 –9, 167, 169 Lebanese Francophone, 57, 157, 163–70 Mahjari, 159, 171, 174– 9, 209– 17, 218 North American, 204– 9 Palestinian, 199– 201 Russian, 202– 4 Swiss, 176– 9 Syrian – Aleppine, 111, 145– 51, 222 Syrian – Damascene, 19, 103, 106, 122, 126, 145– 51, 153, 155, 158, 222 Syrian – other, 145– 51, 159 Turkish, 221– 2

SYRIA AND LEBANON

French rule over Syria and Lebanon was premised on a vision of a special French protectorate established through centuries of cultural activity: archaeological, educational and charitable. Initial French methods of organising and supervising cultural activity sought to embrace this vision and to implement it in the exploitation of antiquities, the management and promotion of cultural heritage, the organisation of education and the control of public opinion among the literate classes. However, an examination of the first five years of the League of Nations-assigned mandate, 1920–25, reveals that French expectations of a protectorate were quickly dashed by widespread resistance to their cultural policies, not simply among Arabists but also among minority groups initially expected to be loyal to the French. The violence of imposing the mandate de facto, starting with a landing of French troops in the Lebanese and Syrian coast in 1919 – and followed by extension to the Syrian interior in 1920 – was met by consistent violent revolt. Examining the role of cultural institutions reveals less violent yet similarly consistent contestation of the French mandate. The political discourses emerging after World War I fostered expectations of European tutelages that prepared local peoples for autonomy and independence. Yet, even among the most Francophile of stakeholders, the unfolding of the first years of French rule brought forth entirely different events and methods. In this book, Idir Ouahes provides an in-depth analysis of the shifts in discourses, attitudes and activities unfolding in French and locally organised institutions such as schools, museums and newspapers, revealing how local resistance put pressure on cultural activity in the early years of the French mandate.

under the French Mandate

‘Ranging from classrooms and museums, to archaeological sites and vernacular journalism, in this richly evocative text Idir Ouahes reveals how Syrians contested the imposition of French mandate rule in the realms of cultural heritage, educational provision and print media.’ Martin Thomas, Professor of Imperial History, University of Exeter

Cultural Imperialism and the Workings of Empire

‘This excellent study is a welcome addition to the scholarship on the inter-war mandates of Syria and Lebanon.’ Patricia M.E. Lorcin, Professor of History and Samuel Russell Chair in Humanities, University of Minnesota Twin Cities

Idir Ouahes

Syria and Lebanon under the French Mandate Cultural Imperialism and the Workings of Empire

Idir Ouahes is Lecturer in History and International Relations at MIUC Spain. He received his PhD in History from the University of Exeter and also studied at SOAS, University of London. Cover image: General Maxime Weygand, Commander in Chief Levant, French mandate in Syria and Lebanon. Outside the church in Beirut, Lebanon, after a Te Deum sung in his honour. (Photo by Culture Club/Getty Images)

www.ibtauris.com

Ouahes/Syria and Lebanon artwork.indd 1

Idir Ouahes

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