In their newspaper Tan, the Sertels warned Turks early on about the growing threat of Hitler and fascism. In this section, Sertel recounts her interview with the French foreign minister and his surprising response when questioned about Hitler.
Period 5: Life in Politics
A Journey to America
"Hilter Says Germany Threatens No One"
Tan front page, April 29, 1939 |
We’d sent our older daughter, Sevim, to study in America. We wanted her to attend Columbia University in New York, but Ragıp Nureddin, the Turkish Attaché for Education in New York, sent her to a university in Missouri. We decided I should go to America to sort out this issue.
It was 1937, and Germany was preparing for war. Its goal was to regain lost territory from the First World War and to claim a share of the colonies and raw material markets controlled by the imperialist powers. That same year, Japanese imperialists had invaded the central regions of China, starting a war to subdue and colonize the country.
In Spain, there was a civil war between the democratic forces7 and those of fascism led by Franco. Fascist Italy and Germany supported Franco, while volunteer brigades from all over the world went to Spain and fought side by side with the people’s army. The war had turned into a bloody struggle to the death. The Turkish reactionary press distorted the news from Spain, branding the Spanish democrats as communists and hailing Franco instead. French reactionaries also aligned themselves against the democratic Spanish government, supplying Franco’s troops with weapons from across the French border.
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Before I embarked on my journey, Tan asked me to write some articles from France and America. Suat Derviş, who also wrote for Tan, was going on a trip to the Soviet Union around the same time. The articles I sent back were supposed to appear in Tan, but, in fact, only some of them were published.
While in Paris, I requested a meeting with the foreign minister.8 With French courtesy, he received me at the ministry. He was surprised that a Turkish woman was interested in politics. I asked him why the French government tolerated fascists and pursued a soft policy toward the German government, when the latter had always been the enemy of France. The minister thought about this for a while.
‘We don’t tolerate fascists in France,’ he finally said.‘But this is a democratic country. Everyone is free to voice his opinion and to found any organization he wants. We don’t see fascism as a danger to France.’
‘Germany, Italy and Japan have formed an axis,’ I replied. ‘These countries are preparing for war in order to redistribute the existing colonies. Germany wants to expand into world markets. It demands land from Czechoslovakia and Poland. Isn’t this the beginning of a new world war and a danger to France and the entire world?’
The Minister answered at once: ‘Germany won’t attack us. Its goal is to expand toward the Soviet borders. It has declared a holy war on communism. But even if a real war breaks out between those two countries, we’ll stay out of it. If we start aiding the Spanish government, it will provoke Germany.
The Spanish War won’t result in a world war. We believe that the monarchy in Spain will collapse and democratic forces will prevail. We’ve also taken precautions against the smuggling of weapons across the French border into Spain.’
The French Foreign Minister was serene. He believed that war could be avoided if concessions were made to Germany. And so, as Germany and Italy supported Franco in the Spanish Civil War, France watched on. For a long time, it allowed weapons to be smuggled across its borders. In the end, the democratic Spanish government collapsed and Franco took over. When the German armies finally attacked France, I couldn’t stop thinking about that minister. Like an ostrich, he’d dug his head in the sand but left his feet outside. Then one day, the fascist armies pulled that ostrich out by its legs and plucked its feathers.
‘Germany, Italy and Japan have formed an axis,’ I replied. ‘These countries are preparing for war in order to redistribute the existing colonies. Germany wants to expand into world markets. It demands land from Czechoslovakia and Poland. Isn’t this the beginning of a new world war and a danger to France and the entire world?’
The Minister answered at once: ‘Germany won’t attack us. Its goal is to expand toward the Soviet borders. It has declared a holy war on communism. But even if a real war breaks out between those two countries, we’ll stay out of it. If we start aiding the Spanish government, it will provoke Germany.
The Spanish War won’t result in a world war. We believe that the monarchy in Spain will collapse and democratic forces will prevail. We’ve also taken precautions against the smuggling of weapons across the French border into Spain.’
The French Foreign Minister was serene. He believed that war could be avoided if concessions were made to Germany. And so, as Germany and Italy supported Franco in the Spanish Civil War, France watched on. For a long time, it allowed weapons to be smuggled across its borders. In the end, the democratic Spanish government collapsed and Franco took over. When the German armies finally attacked France, I couldn’t stop thinking about that minister. Like an ostrich, he’d dug his head in the sand but left his feet outside. Then one day, the fascist armies pulled that ostrich out by its legs and plucked its feathers.
7 TN: Sertel is referring to the forces supporting the democratically elected Spanish Republic against Franco’s rebellion.
8 TN: The French Minister of Foreign Affairs in 1937 was Yvon Delbos.
8 TN: The French Minister of Foreign Affairs in 1937 was Yvon Delbos.
At the Voix Européenne Journal
A while before embarking on this journey, I’d received a letter from a Michel Loren10 at the French journal Voix Européenne. Someone had recommended me to him, and he’d asked me for three articles – one on the economic situation in Turkey, one on the land reform bill that Turkey was preparing at that time and one on the state of the Turkish woman. I’d sent him the three articles, and the journal had published them.
I took some time in France to visit the journal’s offices. They received me with great interest, and we talked at length about world politics. When I told them about the interviews I’d conducted with Geneviève Tabouis and the Foreign Minister, they were delighted.
‘You must publish those interviews,’ they said. ‘Your statesmen and people should find out about the apathy that reigns in France.’
From France, I went on to America. But it wasn’t possible to rectify my daughter’s school placement. In any case, she’d already settled in at the University of Missouri. The two of us spent the summer holidays together at a resort, where I wrote up my articles about America and mailed them home.
My journey back was somewhat troublesome. After returning to Europe, I was supposed to travel from Paris to Milan, spend the night there and then take the train to Venice. I’d already reserved my ticket for the steamer from Venice to Istanbul.
While in America and France, I’d bought a great many leftist books. Before leaving for Italy, I put them in a wooden trunk, covered them with two layers of novels and disposable books, and had the trunk nailed shut. At the station, I checked in my luggage and bought a copy of the paper L’Humanité to read on the train. The coach was empty when I boarded. Sometime later, a married Italian couple sat down in my compartment. I kept reading my paper. The Italian woman looked me up and down with a frown.
‘You can’t take that newspaper to Italy,’ she said at last.
‘I’ll throw it away at the border,’ I said.
After that, we didn’t speak at all. At one o’clock, the train arrived at the border. The
inspector came into the compartment to check our belongings.
‘I’m on a transit journey,’ I said. ‘But please, go ahead and check.’
I had a little bag with me. He looked through it casually and then left. But the Italian
couple immediately went after him. They must have told him that I was reading L’Humanité, for the inspector returned.
‘Do you have Italian money on you?’ he asked.
‘You must publish those interviews,’ they said. ‘Your statesmen and people should find out about the apathy that reigns in France.’
From France, I went on to America. But it wasn’t possible to rectify my daughter’s school placement. In any case, she’d already settled in at the University of Missouri. The two of us spent the summer holidays together at a resort, where I wrote up my articles about America and mailed them home.
My journey back was somewhat troublesome. After returning to Europe, I was supposed to travel from Paris to Milan, spend the night there and then take the train to Venice. I’d already reserved my ticket for the steamer from Venice to Istanbul.
While in America and France, I’d bought a great many leftist books. Before leaving for Italy, I put them in a wooden trunk, covered them with two layers of novels and disposable books, and had the trunk nailed shut. At the station, I checked in my luggage and bought a copy of the paper L’Humanité to read on the train. The coach was empty when I boarded. Sometime later, a married Italian couple sat down in my compartment. I kept reading my paper. The Italian woman looked me up and down with a frown.
‘You can’t take that newspaper to Italy,’ she said at last.
‘I’ll throw it away at the border,’ I said.
After that, we didn’t speak at all. At one o’clock, the train arrived at the border. The
inspector came into the compartment to check our belongings.
‘I’m on a transit journey,’ I said. ‘But please, go ahead and check.’
I had a little bag with me. He looked through it casually and then left. But the Italian
couple immediately went after him. They must have told him that I was reading L’Humanité, for the inspector returned.
‘Do you have Italian money on you?’ he asked.
10 TN: Sertel uses the Turkish spelling of this French journalist’s name. It has not been possible to ascertain the accurate French spelling.
Before leaving Paris, I’d converted a hundred francs into liras at the travel agency. I’d been told this was an acceptable amount to carry.
‘I have liras in the value of a hundred francs,’ I said.
The inspector took out a pen and paper and wrote something down.
‘Come with me,’ he said, ‘we’re going to the police station.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ I said. ‘If it’s illegal to bring in the liras, just take them.’
‘That won’t do,’ he said. ‘You have to pay a fine.’
‘Then let me pay it here.’
He insisted on taking me with him. It was a rainy night. We got off the train and
went to the police station, which was a short walk away. The inspector told his chief something in Italian.
I started getting impatient. ‘The train is about to leave,’ I said. ‘Please, just tell me what the fine is and I’ll pay it.’
‘No, just wait. If the train leaves, you’ll stay here tonight.’
Spending the night at a police station in fascist Italy wasn’t a pleasant thought. Eventually, the inspector left. I went up to the chief. I told him in French that I was a foreigner and that I didn’t know the Italian laws. I slipped him two dollars. ‘Please count that toward my fine,’ I said.
When the chief saw the dollars, his face lit up. He pocketed them without writing up a receipt. ‘You’re free to leave now,’ he said.
Back on the train, I was gripped by anxiety. What if these Italians caused me some trouble in Milan? Finally, we arrived in the city. I took my luggage to the checkroom at the station and went to the hotel. My train was leaving at one o’clock the next day.
An hour before departure time, I went to the checkroom to pick up my luggage. At once, I was approached by a militiaman in black.
‘We’re going to inspect these things,’ he said.
‘I’m a transit passenger,’ I said. ‘You have no right to go through my belongings.’ ‘We have our orders. We will search them.’
I opened the suitcases. They went through everything one by one. My train was
already sounding its horn. When they got to the wooden trunk, my heart sank. If a copy of L’Humanité was enough to get me into such trouble, who knew what the Italians would do when they saw the leftist books?
I stepped up to the inspecting officer.
‘My train is leaving,’ I said. ‘I’m a foreigner. I don’t have enough money on me to stay here.’
‘What’s in this trunk?’ he asked.
‘Novels.’
The train was sounding its horn more urgently now. Finally, the militiaman relented.
And when I gave him two dollars, he even escorted me to my coach, carrying my bags himself.
The train was about to leave. I barely managed to jump on and couldn’t find any place to sit. But the hardest part was over.
I was still worried about how to get the books through customs in Turkey. But the Turkish customs officers were only looking for contraband and I was a journalist. And so, I made it to Istanbul without any further difficulties.
‘I have liras in the value of a hundred francs,’ I said.
The inspector took out a pen and paper and wrote something down.
‘Come with me,’ he said, ‘we’re going to the police station.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ I said. ‘If it’s illegal to bring in the liras, just take them.’
‘That won’t do,’ he said. ‘You have to pay a fine.’
‘Then let me pay it here.’
He insisted on taking me with him. It was a rainy night. We got off the train and
went to the police station, which was a short walk away. The inspector told his chief something in Italian.
I started getting impatient. ‘The train is about to leave,’ I said. ‘Please, just tell me what the fine is and I’ll pay it.’
‘No, just wait. If the train leaves, you’ll stay here tonight.’
Spending the night at a police station in fascist Italy wasn’t a pleasant thought. Eventually, the inspector left. I went up to the chief. I told him in French that I was a foreigner and that I didn’t know the Italian laws. I slipped him two dollars. ‘Please count that toward my fine,’ I said.
When the chief saw the dollars, his face lit up. He pocketed them without writing up a receipt. ‘You’re free to leave now,’ he said.
Back on the train, I was gripped by anxiety. What if these Italians caused me some trouble in Milan? Finally, we arrived in the city. I took my luggage to the checkroom at the station and went to the hotel. My train was leaving at one o’clock the next day.
An hour before departure time, I went to the checkroom to pick up my luggage. At once, I was approached by a militiaman in black.
‘We’re going to inspect these things,’ he said.
‘I’m a transit passenger,’ I said. ‘You have no right to go through my belongings.’ ‘We have our orders. We will search them.’
I opened the suitcases. They went through everything one by one. My train was
already sounding its horn. When they got to the wooden trunk, my heart sank. If a copy of L’Humanité was enough to get me into such trouble, who knew what the Italians would do when they saw the leftist books?
I stepped up to the inspecting officer.
‘My train is leaving,’ I said. ‘I’m a foreigner. I don’t have enough money on me to stay here.’
‘What’s in this trunk?’ he asked.
‘Novels.’
The train was sounding its horn more urgently now. Finally, the militiaman relented.
And when I gave him two dollars, he even escorted me to my coach, carrying my bags himself.
The train was about to leave. I barely managed to jump on and couldn’t find any place to sit. But the hardest part was over.
I was still worried about how to get the books through customs in Turkey. But the Turkish customs officers were only looking for contraband and I was a journalist. And so, I made it to Istanbul without any further difficulties.
Atatürk’s Death
Sertel recounts Atatürk’s death in a chapter that’s as moving as it is sobering in its critical assessment of the leader’s achievements.
Front page of Tan, the Sertels’ newspaper, following the death of Ataturk on Nov.10, 1938
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After a long illness, Atatürk died in November 1938, at Dolmabahçe Palace in Istanbul. The whole country went into mourning. For three days and three nights, statesmen, youths, unionists and representatives of other organizations stood at attention before his catafalque in the palace. Six torches symbolizing Atatürk’s six principles were positioned around the catafalque and burned day and night.
As the vigil drew to a close, the reporters and writers of Tan took up positions along the planned route of the funeral procession. My assignment was to climb up a minaret of the Dolmabahçe mosque and view the procession’s departure from the palace. A curfew had been imposed, starting at seven in the morning, but the police were granting special permissions to journalists. I left the house at half past six, just as dawn was breaking, and went down from Nişantaşı to Dolmabahçe by way of Beşiktaş. On the way, I kept having to show my press card to policemen in order to proceed. When I reached the entrance to the mosque, I was welcomed by the imam, who’d been informed about my arrival. I climbed the narrow, winding stairs of the minaret, reaching the first balcony, from where I would watch the procession. There was neither sound nor movement anywhere. Black flags hung from the windows of all houses. |
The Bosporus, the Sea of Marmara, Beylerbeyi Palace and the Asiatic shore spread out before my eyes. The sea was perfectly still. Even the white passenger ferries of the Bosporus silently skimmed across the water as if they, too, were wary of spoiling the air of mourning.
I pace about on the minaret, unable to stand still. As the sun rises, balconies and windows start filling with people. Groups of them even gather on crumbling walls. People hang like pears from tree branches. I look down into the garden of Dolmabahçe Palace, where the catafalque is positioned. Celal Bayar, Şükrü Saraçoğlu, Recep Peker, all the statesmen, generals and high officials are walking back, one by one, after standing at attention. As the coffin is loaded onto a gun carriage, the marching band strikes up a mournful tune. The procession advances slowly, step by step. These calm and dignified steps are a mark of respect for the great, departed man.
Among the scenes I witnessed from the minaret that day, the one inspiring the most awe and pride was the sight of sobbing people, standing on their balconies, peering out of their windows, perched on top of the walls. These sobs never let up throughout the processional route. An entire nation wept. The Turkish people expressed their gratitude to their saviour through these tears. No statesman, sultan or hero in the history of Turkey had ever been shown such love and respect.
Atatürk built the new Turkey out of the rubble of an empire that had utterly collapsed after the First World War. Despite severe hardships, he fought a national war of independence against imperialist states. He laid the foundations of an independent Turkey. He abolished the sultanate and the caliphate. He replaced sharia law with civil law. He carried out a number of reforms. This was a revolution encompassing the entirety of Turkey. With the six principles he put forth (republicanism, secularism, populism, nationalism, statism and revolutionism), he instituted momentous changes in society and culture. He liberated Turkey, tied down by religious law and obsolete Islamic doctrines, from the tyranny of the sharia.
He separated religion and state, and he broke the reactionary stranglehold that religion had on education. He enshrined republicanism in the Constitution as the unalterable system of governance. His desire was to create a state based on the sovereignty of the people. He tried to apply democracy, as practised in contemporary European societies, to Turkish society. But he also needed to protect the regime against reactionary and fanatical factions that were the enemies of anything new. And so, circumstances forced him to shift to an oppressive system. Since he had depended on feudal landlords and a newly developing bourgeoisie to fight the War of Independence, he was not able to implement the principle of populism in an effective way. Under the pretext of a classless society, the nascent working class was denied any chance to come into its own. Progressives who wanted true democracy were countered with oppressive measures from the very outset.
Atatürk was a nationalist. But unlike the nationalists who emerged from the 1908 revolution, his nationalism was not based on the principle of race. He was opposed to Pan-Turkism. He had no interest in liberating those Turks who were dispersed in various areas outside of Turkey. Nonetheless, he desired to strengthen the Turkish bourgeoisie against foreign capital as well as the minority capital that controlled the country’s economy. This nationalist perspective also informed his principle of statism. Rather than nationalizing the resources of the country and managing them in favour of the people, statism would only allow the state to make those investments that were beyond the means of private capital. In effect, the state became the handmaiden of private capital.
The other aim of statism was to protect the Turkish bourgeoisie against foreign capital and to break the economic and political influence of the imperialists. To achieve this aim, many foreign firms were disbanded and limitations were imposed on foreign capital. However, mounting pressure from the emerging bourgeoisie, underdeveloped conditions, the lack of executives to implement this principle for the benefit of the people, and the persistence of landlords and propertied classes in the Assembly, all made sure that the regime of statism did not yield the desired benefits. With the foundation of İş Bankası and the pressure that foreign banks were exerting on the Turkish economy, state-run enterprises became enterprises that ran the state into the ground, particularly after Atatürk’s death. All of this resulted in the establishment of a trade bourgeoisie that collaborated with foreign capital and amassed huge fortunes at the expense of the population. The attempt at industrialization failed.
Atatürk was a revolutionary. He was influenced by the French Revolution and, to some extent, by the October Revolution that created the Soviet Union. But in terms of the changes he envisioned in Turkey, he put social reforms on the back burner. A land reform, which would have cleared away the remnants of feudalism, was not attempted, and the proletariat of the newly industrializing country was held back from developing class consciousness and defending its rights. In the end, the changes resulted in nothing more than a few super-structural reforms. And progressives, leftists and workers found themselves subjected to unrelenting oppression.
I pace about on the minaret, unable to stand still. As the sun rises, balconies and windows start filling with people. Groups of them even gather on crumbling walls. People hang like pears from tree branches. I look down into the garden of Dolmabahçe Palace, where the catafalque is positioned. Celal Bayar, Şükrü Saraçoğlu, Recep Peker, all the statesmen, generals and high officials are walking back, one by one, after standing at attention. As the coffin is loaded onto a gun carriage, the marching band strikes up a mournful tune. The procession advances slowly, step by step. These calm and dignified steps are a mark of respect for the great, departed man.
Among the scenes I witnessed from the minaret that day, the one inspiring the most awe and pride was the sight of sobbing people, standing on their balconies, peering out of their windows, perched on top of the walls. These sobs never let up throughout the processional route. An entire nation wept. The Turkish people expressed their gratitude to their saviour through these tears. No statesman, sultan or hero in the history of Turkey had ever been shown such love and respect.
Atatürk built the new Turkey out of the rubble of an empire that had utterly collapsed after the First World War. Despite severe hardships, he fought a national war of independence against imperialist states. He laid the foundations of an independent Turkey. He abolished the sultanate and the caliphate. He replaced sharia law with civil law. He carried out a number of reforms. This was a revolution encompassing the entirety of Turkey. With the six principles he put forth (republicanism, secularism, populism, nationalism, statism and revolutionism), he instituted momentous changes in society and culture. He liberated Turkey, tied down by religious law and obsolete Islamic doctrines, from the tyranny of the sharia.
He separated religion and state, and he broke the reactionary stranglehold that religion had on education. He enshrined republicanism in the Constitution as the unalterable system of governance. His desire was to create a state based on the sovereignty of the people. He tried to apply democracy, as practised in contemporary European societies, to Turkish society. But he also needed to protect the regime against reactionary and fanatical factions that were the enemies of anything new. And so, circumstances forced him to shift to an oppressive system. Since he had depended on feudal landlords and a newly developing bourgeoisie to fight the War of Independence, he was not able to implement the principle of populism in an effective way. Under the pretext of a classless society, the nascent working class was denied any chance to come into its own. Progressives who wanted true democracy were countered with oppressive measures from the very outset.
Atatürk was a nationalist. But unlike the nationalists who emerged from the 1908 revolution, his nationalism was not based on the principle of race. He was opposed to Pan-Turkism. He had no interest in liberating those Turks who were dispersed in various areas outside of Turkey. Nonetheless, he desired to strengthen the Turkish bourgeoisie against foreign capital as well as the minority capital that controlled the country’s economy. This nationalist perspective also informed his principle of statism. Rather than nationalizing the resources of the country and managing them in favour of the people, statism would only allow the state to make those investments that were beyond the means of private capital. In effect, the state became the handmaiden of private capital.
The other aim of statism was to protect the Turkish bourgeoisie against foreign capital and to break the economic and political influence of the imperialists. To achieve this aim, many foreign firms were disbanded and limitations were imposed on foreign capital. However, mounting pressure from the emerging bourgeoisie, underdeveloped conditions, the lack of executives to implement this principle for the benefit of the people, and the persistence of landlords and propertied classes in the Assembly, all made sure that the regime of statism did not yield the desired benefits. With the foundation of İş Bankası and the pressure that foreign banks were exerting on the Turkish economy, state-run enterprises became enterprises that ran the state into the ground, particularly after Atatürk’s death. All of this resulted in the establishment of a trade bourgeoisie that collaborated with foreign capital and amassed huge fortunes at the expense of the population. The attempt at industrialization failed.
Atatürk was a revolutionary. He was influenced by the French Revolution and, to some extent, by the October Revolution that created the Soviet Union. But in terms of the changes he envisioned in Turkey, he put social reforms on the back burner. A land reform, which would have cleared away the remnants of feudalism, was not attempted, and the proletariat of the newly industrializing country was held back from developing class consciousness and defending its rights. In the end, the changes resulted in nothing more than a few super-structural reforms. And progressives, leftists and workers found themselves subjected to unrelenting oppression.