Jacoby T. Social Power and the Turkish State

ii

SOCIAL POWER AND THE TURKISH STATE

SOCIAL POWERAND THE

TURKISH STATE

TIM JACOBYUniversity of Manchester

Foreword by Michael Mann

FRANK CASSLONDON AND NEW YORK

First published in 2004 in Great Britain byFRANK CASS PUBLISHERS

11 New Fetter LaneLondon EC4P 4EE

Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada byFRANK CASS PUBLISHERS

29 West 35th StreetNew York 10001

Copyright © 2004 Tim Jacoby

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Jacoby, TimSocial power and the Turkish state1. Mann, Michael, 1942– 2. Power (Social sciences) – Turkey3. Turkey – Politics and government 4. Turkey – Socialconditions 5. Turkey – HistoryI. Title956.1

ISBN 0–7146–5582–1 (cloth)ISBN 0–7146–8466–X (paper)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Jacoby, Tim, 1969–Social power and the Turkish state/Tim Jacoby; foreword by Michael Mann.

p. cm.Includes bibliographical references and index.ISBN 0–7146–5582–1 (cloth) – ISBN 0–7146–8466–X (pbk.)1. Turkey–Politics and government. 2. Civil society–Turkey–History. 3. Political

culture–Turkey. 4. Social change–Turkey. 5. Islam and state–Turkey. 6.Minorities–Turkey. 7. Power (Social sciences)–Turkey–History. 8. Social history. I.Mann, Michael, 1942– II. Title.JQ1809.A15J33 2004300|,9561–dc22

2003065326

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrievalsystem or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or

otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher of this book.

This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2004.

ISBN 0-203-64608-8 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-203-67795-1 (Adobe eReader Format)

In Memory of Helen Jacoby

Contents

Acknowledgements viii

Foreword ix

List of Abbreviations xi

List of Tables and Figures xiii

Introduction 1

1 Social Power and Historical Sociology 5

2 The Politics of Empire 29

3 The Ideology of Modernism 60

4 The Economics of Liberalisation 93

5 The Military/Industrial Complex 127

Conclusion 165

Bibliography 183

Index 221

Acknowledgements

This text has been prepared with the guidance, advice and assistance ofAlex Callinicos, Haleh Afshar and Gregor McLennan. It is based, in part,on the time I spent living and working in Aydın in Turkey in 1993 and 1994and on later visits in 1998 and 2001. I am grateful to the Head of theDepartment of Politics at York, Mark Evans, for supporting my work duringthe last three years as well as to Lisa Hyde from Frank Cass for guiding methrough the publication process. I would also like to thank my father forproof-reading this text and, with my mother, for offering both material andemotional support. The biggest vote of thanks, though, must go to my wife,Jane, and our children, Idris and Iman. Since coming to York, they havelived in the shadow of this enterprise and should thus receive much ofwhatever credit it deserves.

Foreword

The last decades of the twentieth century saw a great flourishing ofcomparative and historical sociology. Writers like Shmuel Eisenstadt,Barrington Moore, Norbert Elias, Perry Anderson, Charles Tilly, ThedaSkocpol and myself addressed in some depth such big issues as the causesof social development, the rise of the West, the development of the modernstate, the nature of the capitalist dynamic etc., etc. This was a very vibrantperiod for sociological theory on the grand scale. Though there were manydisagreements among the main contributors, we provided a body of knowl-edge sufficiently coherent to provide the core syllabus of many universitycourses today.

However, it has been somewhat Eurocentric, not in any ‘Orientalising’sense of denigrating the rest of the world, but in taking its empiricalevidence mainly from a geographical base which may have started in theMiddle East, or even in ancient societies scattered over the world, but whichthen progressively moved westward through time, usually ending up inEurope since the eighteenth century – with Americans and Russians allowedhonorary membership of this region. General theories based on suchgeography would clearly be too narrow. Indeed, they might even be falsifiedby the experience of other regions.

Recently, the ‘Chinese revisionists’ have mounted such a challenge whenasserting that European development only overtook China in the mid-nineteenth century – especially when they say this was for contingentreasons like the location of coal-fields. However, it is not yet clear that theyare correct. Miguel Centeno, in his recent Blood and Debt, War and the Nation-

State in Latin America (2002) has managed to relativise the Tilly/Mann coreorthodoxy on state formation by asking the very acute question: ‘if statesdo not make much war or collect many taxes, what kind of modern stateand nation develop?’ He shows that Latin American states did indeeddevelop very differently, precisely because they did not follow the war/fiscalextraction route to the modern state. Indeed, he shows that this is why bothstates and nations are relatively weak there.

Tim Jacoby here adds another important case which differs in even more

important ways, the Ottoman/Turkish state. I am flattered to find hisstarting-point is my model of the sources of social power. He does criticisemy reluctance to engage in comparative analysis of non-Western societiesin early modern times – to which my only defence is that I might still bewriting the book if I had covered more of the world! Then, like Centeno,he proceeds to use the model creatively, to demonstrate a very differentpattern of development into modernity. He shows that the Ottomans wereable to deal with the problems of imperial fragmentation much better thanany of the Empires I had analysed in my work. The Ottomans did use moresystematically the ‘statist’ mechanisms that Eisenstadt and I (and MaxWeber) had identified as yielding some imperial powers – like banningeconomic and political office inheritance or delegating military power tooutsiders.

But the Ottomans also depended on Islam’s distinctive and lesser separ-ation between the sacred and the secular realm. I read Jacoby as saying thatit was principally this unusual degree of integration of political and ideo-logical power which enabled the Ottoman state to survive longer intomodernity than traditional empires elsewhere. It also ensured that whenchanges eventually came, they followed a less capitalist-commercial andmore statist route than had the West. The Young Turks and Atatürk mobil-ised modern nationalism and economics based on List rather than Smithto secularise the state, while accepting that Islam would retain much ofits powers over civil society. Turkey still lives, a little uneasily, with thatcompromise. I have recently researched the most disturbing part of thismodernisation period, the atrocities committed against the Armenians (aspart of a comparative book on ethnic cleansing). Having read this book, Inow more fully understand the entire period in that region of the world.

The book also works well at a broader level, posing many broader issuesfor macro-sociology. We know that Turkey, India, Korea, Japan and China– for all their great differences from each other – all have more ‘statist’ formsof contemporary political economy than does most of the West. I think weare now ready to rewrite the sociology of the routes (plural) into modernity,and this book offers important resources for this task. It is a substantialaddition to comparative and historical sociology.

Michael MannUCLA

October 2003

x Social Power and the Turkish State

Abbreviations

AMAA Army Mutual Assistance Association (Ordu Yardımlasma Kurumu)CUP Committee of Union and ProgressDISF Defence Industry Support FundDI

.SK Confederation of Revolutionary Trade Unions (Devrimci I

.sçi

Sendikaları Konfederasyonu)DP Democratic Party (Demokrat Parti)GAP South-East Anatolian Development Project (Güney Dogu Anadolu

Projesi)GDP Gross Domestic ProductGNP Gross National ProductIBRD International Bank for Reconstruction and Development (The

World Bank)IMF International Monetary FundIOTA Identity, Opposition, Totality and Alternative (aspects of class

consciousness)JP Justice Party (Adalet Partisi)MI

.T National Intelligence Organisation (Milli I

.stihbarat Teskilatı)

MP Motherland Party (Anavatan Partisi)NAP National Action Party (Milliyet Hareket Partisi)NATO North Atlantic Treaty OrganisationNDM National Democratic Movement (Milli Demokratik Devrim)NDP Nationalist Democracy Party (Milliyetçi Demokrasi Partisi)NSC National Security Council (Milli Güvenlik Kurulu)NSP National Salvation Party (Milli Selamet Partisi)OEEC Organisation for European Economic DevelopmentPDA Public Debt AdministrationPKK Kurdish Workers Party (Partiya Karkareni Kürdistan)PP Populist Party (Halkçı Parti)RPNP Republican Peasant National Party (Cumhuriyetçi Köylü Millet

Partisi)RPP Republican People’s Party (Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi)SDPP Social Democrat Populist Party (Sosyal Demokrat Halçı Parti)

SODEP Social Democracy Party (Sosyal Demokrasi Partisi)TCP Turkish Communist Party (Türkiye Komünist Partisi)TPP True Path Party (Dogru Yol Partisi)WP Welfare Party (Refah Partisi)WPT Workers Party of Turkey (Türkiye I

.sçi Partisi)

YÖK Higher Education Council (Yuksek Ögretim Kurulu)

xii Social Power and the Turkish State

Tables

1: Two dimensions of state power. 152: Askeri, 1545–1659. 343: The contradictions of imperial rule. 494: Tracklaying achievements of ideological power. 615: The media of commercial-statist proto-nationalism. 656: Parliamentary deputies representing various Ottoman 73

communities.7: Birthplaces of military and civilian leaders, 1918–23. 788: A selection of reforms, 1922–35. 809: The birthplace of political and bureaucratic elites. 105

10: Numbers of selected farm machinery, 1948–54. 10611: Urban and rural populations. 10712: Urbanisation by region in percentage. 10813: Governance in the 1970s. 14014: Civilian, PKK and security forces casualties, 1984–95. 14915: Large-scale change in the development of the Ottoman/ 166

Turkish state.

Figures

1: Changes in Ottoman ideological channels of communication. 502: Changes in Ottoman compulsory co-operation. 513: The position of the National Security Council in Turkey’s 146

state security structure.

Introduction

This book looks at how the method of governance apparent in Turkey cameinto being by applying, and expanding upon, the historical and comparativesociological theory of Michael Mann. In doing so, the Turkish govern-ment’s relations with dominant groups in civil society, the nature and extentof its autonomy and its changing approach to representation and sover-eignty are examined in historical perspective. This illuminates questions of constitutional and social reform, the re-distributive role of the state and the changing centre–periphery balance with particular reference to thedevolution of centralised powers. The book sets out the changing ways inwhich the Turkish state has represented the interests of, and arbitratedbetween, various elements of civil society as well as its development of botheconomic and judicial regulatory regimes. Mann’s conceptual model of thesources of social power is used to analyse the differing ways that these havebeen institutionalised in Turkey and how state power has been organisedin relation to societal networks and associations. This aims to highlightdeficiencies and strengths within Mann’s narrative and to present theTurkish trajectory as both a complement and a counterpoint to his analysisof large-scale historical change in Europe.

The first chapter offers an impression of the vast amount of academicmaterial informing the current debate over social power and the role of thestate. Within the opening section, Michael Mann’s work will be consideredin relation to these different approaches and the focus of this bookpositioned therein. Similarly, the second part of the chapter locates Mann’sapplication of his theoretical model within the spectrum of writing withinmacro-historical sociology as an evolving discipline. In doing so, it will showhow his characterisation of social power is employed to explain both theemergence and necessity of the state and the permutable nature of itsrelationship with civil society. A central element of this, and the source ofmuch of the critical debate surrounding Mann’s work (highlighted in thethird section of the chapter), is the essentially unilinear thread which hetraces from Mesopotamian development and the refinement of imperialrule under Rome to its eventual subsidence in favour of the north-western

European ‘leading edge’ of socioeconomic change and on to the appearanceof modern bureaucratic nation-state. It is argued here that such a lack ofcomparative breadth is a primary reason for undertaking an application ofMann’s model to a non-Western case.

To this end, the second chapter deploys Mann’s reworking of HerbertSpencer’s model of ‘compulsory co-operation’ to illuminate the large-scalepolitical changes that became apparent in the Ottoman Empire followingits failure to expand during and after the sixteenth century. It looks criticallyat Mann’s assertion that all pre-modern empires were structured by a ‘three-way power stand-off ’ between state, ruling class and the masses. By develop-ing a macro-sociological analysis of Ottoman rule, the Porte’s autonomouscapacity to organise social power will be assessed. This includes a consider-ation of Mann’s notion of a duality of infrastructural and despotic statepower and the extent to which it represents an expedient method ofconceptualising the Ottoman state’s relationship with its agents and itssubjects. Here, a key question will be how factors relating to both the riseof the West and the internal dynamics of the empire contributed to changesin the organisation of social power by the Ottoman state and the gradualdisintegration of the empire. In all, it is concluded that, while this systemwas initially highly effective (representing in many ways a much moresophisticated method of imperial rule than the Roman legionary economydiscussed by Mann), it was unable to function effectively during times ofterritorial stagnation.

In the third chapter, the ideological impact of this is traced with aparticular focus on the role of the ulema. It uses Mann’s analysis of ideo-logical change in Europe to examine issues connected to late Ottoman andearly republican ‘modernism’. A key question will be how the appeal offaith was organised by the state as a means of securing unity. The role thatIslam had in the creation of an assimilated nation-state and the contestbetween clerical authority and Kemal’s secular vision of a modern Turkeyare also outlined. Key issues here are the extent to which the transcendentalethos of the sultan–caliph was successfully replaced by a new ideologicalorder and the connections between this process and the state’s attempts tobring the periphery under its infrastructural influence. In conclusion, it isargued that the intrinsically multinational orientation of the theocracy wasat odds with the centrist modernism of the ‘Turkish’ state elite – a quitedifferent process from the Western European nation-state/Church relation-ship presented by Mann. As such, in setting out a more complex theor-isation of ideological power than is generally found in analyses of the‘modernist’ revolution in Turkey, it challenges the general opinion that therepublican bureaucracy offered the state a more extensive means of infra-structural reach.

2 Social Power and the Turkish State

The fourth chapter will deploy Mann’s model of Western industrialis-ation to assess changes in the relationship between the state and variousclass and subclass formations apparent in Turkey during the 1930s andfollowing the Second World War. Significant issues to be addressed willinclude how this relationship was influenced by agricultural mechanisation,increased urbanisation and the relaxation of Kemal’s authoritarian stateapparatus. The factors which brought about the end of the single-partystate, changes in social stratification and the ways that this affected the roleof the periphery will be considered with particular emphasis on the re-emergence of minority and dissenting identities. The role of the politicalleft and changing forms of collective consciousness will be compared toMann’s account of Occidental class structures and their relationship withthe enlarging and industrialising state. In all, it is argued that, during thisperiod, growing regional and social wealth disparities facilitated both the incentive and the social space for disaffection to be expressed outsidethe centralised control of the state and thus prevented the kind of terri-torial uniformity which Mann identifies as a key feature of Western statedevelopment.

The fifth chapter continues this theme by looking at the militarisation ofboth peripheral identities and state reaction in Turkey since the 1960 coup.Mann’s characterisation of the relationship between domestic repressionand political representation is employed in order to analyse the re-emergence of the Turkish military’s political power during this period.Particularly focused upon will be the ways in which the generals related tothe economic elite during the 1960s, the factors which prompted the coupof 1971, the subsequent fragmentation of the domestic polity and themilitary’s assumption of full state control in 1980. Mann’s elucidation ofWestern regime types are compared to the Turkish administration’sresponse to attempts by decentralised groups, such as the Kurdish WorkersParty (Partiya Karkareni Kürdistan – PKK), to institutionalise their positionwithin the periphery and to establish alternatives to the state’s organi-sational maxim. In all, the chapter argues that, since the military eliteinstitutionalised their political position more fully in the 1982 constitution,previous processes of ‘bourgeoisfication’ within the officer corps havegreatly accelerated. The effects that this has had on internal divisions withinthe armed forces have, it is suggested, contributed to the emergence of abifurcated regime leading to marked differences in governance betweensouth-east Anatolia and the rest of Turkey.

In the concluding chapter, Mann’s framework of social power isreconsidered and the scholarly debate which surrounds the discipline ofhistorical sociology as a whole is re-examined. In doing so, Mann’s modelcan be tested for adequacy and fruitfulness in light of Turkish social

Introduction 3

development. Here, the text aims to make methodological progress. Itconsiders extensions and adaptations of Mann’s work as a means of under-standing governance and social power more generally and explores thebasis and development of Turkish state power as well as connected socialphenomena such as territoriality, accountability, nationalism and secularism.In deploying Mann’s analysis of four irreducible networks of social powerto a non-Western case-study, their inherent and varying capabilities toinstigate social institutions are critically approached. In this way, the textassesses the extent to which Mann’s four-part rubric constitutes a viablemeans of considering elite behaviour and illuminating alternative organisa-tional means of social control. While the book concludes that this frame-work is indeed a useful tool in the analysis of large-scale social change,numerous revisions and counterpoints are highlighted. As such, eachnetwork’s organisational significance is clarified in light of its applicationto the political development of the Turkish state with the overall objectiveof approaching a clearer understanding of both.


1

Social Power and HistoricalSociology

Essentially this book proposes to develop an historical case-study of theevolution of the state in Turkey by focusing on Michael Mann’s con-struction of the nature and distribution of social power. Before progressingto analyse Turkish development, Mann’s theoretical and historiographicalframework will be set out and critically discussed. As such, this chapter aimsto offer an impression of the current debate over social power, historicalsociology and the role of the state. Within the first section, different com-ponents of Michael Mann’s theoretical model will be explained andcompared to earlier work. In a comparable way to his analysis of Westerndevelopment, these will constitute the primary analytical tools with whichto examine large-scale change and state development in Turkey. The secondsection will consider Mann’s approach in relation to the discipline ofhistorical sociology as a whole before, in the third section, moving on toexamine the critical debate surrounding both the diachronic approach thatMann favours and the overall validity of the macro-historical method.

MICHAEL MANN’S THEORY OF SOCIAL POWER

Bertrand Russell put forward the idea that just as energy is the fundamentalconcept of physics, so power is the fundamental concept of the socialsciences. Like physical energy, he argued, social power comes in many formsof which none is supreme nor derivative of another. Regarding one as ulti-mately determinant, such as the Marxist emphasis on economic dynamicsor the nineteenth-century military-historical rubric, can, he suggested, onlygenerate partial accounts of social phenomena. Instead, social power, likeits physical counterpart, should be regarded as continually moving fromone form to another, the interaction of which structures all social inter-relations.1 This is also the starting point for Michael Mann. Human beings,he suggests, interact according to sociospatial spheres, based not on the

shared values of a unitary society or nation-state, but on agreed or con-flicting goals within overlapping power networks. As people seek sexualfulfilment, families emerge that then interact with other families from whichpartners may be found and so on. These families also develop economicrelationships, which may overlap with existing family or sexual relations,but are unlikely to be identical. Similarly, as they defend their property, ortake others’, they may form armed organisations, which require relationswith non-combatants in order to ensure supplies. They may also organisea judiciary to settle disputes without resorting to arms or seek meaning inshared rituals of worship. For Mann, there is no reason to presume thatthese social requirements should produce the same patterns of interactionand therefore a unitary society; ‘Human beings’, he writes, ‘need to enterinto social power relations, but they do not need social totalities. They aresocial, not societal, animals.’ 2

Russell identified these relations as taking the form of ‘wealth, arma-ments, civil authority, influence on opinion’ which, he continued, are essenti-ally quantitative in character.3 For example, if A possesses more wealth,armaments, civil authority or influence on opinion than B, then A will beable to achieve goals that B cannot; so A can be said to be more ‘powerful’than B.4 Mann starts from a similar point identifying the ‘sources’ of poweras ideological, economic, military and political and describing them as‘overlapping networks of social interaction’.5 For Mann, though, these arenot simply quantitative measures of an actor’s capability, but the arena ofall human interaction which, when organised into social institutions,become generalised means of achieving goals and therefore sought for theirown sake. He suggests that, ‘their primacy comes not from the strength ofhuman desires for ideological, economic, military or political satisfaction,but from the particular organisational means each possesses to attainhuman goals, whatever these may be.’ 6 Social power can therefore beconsidered in terms of its organisational capacity to create and maintainsocial institutions and it is this tendency that has led to the illusion of aunitary society. As human interaction has developed, institutionalisationalso developed as, what Mann describes as, an ‘emergent’ need in order tomonitor production and transaction, to standardise rituals of worship,regulate conflict and so on. It is thus the extent to which the institutionali-sation of these interrelations overlap with each other that determinesconformity.7 Mann points out, however, that since these institutions arefurther removed from human needs than the power networks them-selves, goal-directed behaviour often runs contrary to, or seeks to establishalternatives to, the prevailing organisational arrangements. This can beunintentional or, in the case of value conflicts, a direct challenge.8

For Mann, the process of institutionalisation can occur through conflict


or co-operation. The former, he describes as essentially ‘distributive’ in thatfor one actor to gain the other must lose.9 The latter, he describes as‘collective’. Talcott Parsons identified this as primarily a means of achievingsocial goals, whereby actors employ their joint power over other actors ornature, such as within a polity.10 In Dennis Wrong’s view, however, mostinstitutions are not instigated by one or the other aspect of social power,but by a combination of the two:

Only the most doctrinaire anarchist or proponent of direct democracy wouldmaintain that authorising some men to authorise the activities of others isso corrupting and conflict-producing for all concerned that it should neverbe considered as a means of achieving collective goals. And only the mostnaive believer in the malleability of men, in their almost infinite capacity tobe socialised to serve larger collective ends in a heterogeneous society inwhich many resources are unequally distributed, would deny that power ispeculiarly susceptible to being diverted into use for self-interested purposesby individuals and groups.11

Mann agrees, regarding the institutionalised division of labour, for instance, as a clear example of collective power organisation with special-ised functions at all levels. Simultaneously, however, it also maintains aminority in organisational control of the implementation of collective goalsand ensures, by enshrining their supervisory positions in the norms of thesocial group, that there is not the necessary organisational means for themajority, free to rebel though they are, to implement those goals themselves.Thus, ‘the masses comply because they lack collective organisation to dootherwise, because they are embedded in collective and distributive powerorganisations controlled by others’.12

In order to compare various power interrelations, Bertrand de Jouveneldistinguishes three general attributes of the overall distributive/collectivedialectic which distinguish separable aspects of compliance. Power, heargues,

is extensive if the complying Bs [power subjects] are many; it is comprehensive ifthe variety of actions to which A [power holder] can move the Bs is consider-able; finally it is intensive if the bidding of A can be pushed far without lossof compliance.13

While accepting this model, Mann seeks to extend de Jouvenel’s work byintroducing two facets of the comprehensive power relationship. This may,he suggests, be ‘authoritative’ if deliberate and consciously applied bygroups or individuals or ‘diffused’ if more spontaneous and de-centred‘resulting in similar social practices that embody power relations, but arenot explicitly commanded’.14 Each, he notes, may be applied in a collective

Social Power and Historical Sociology 7

or a distributive manner, or, more commonly, a blend of both. Robert Dahlsimilarly builds on the notion of comprehensiveness which, he suggests,refers to the number of ‘scopes’, or choice areas, that is subject to control.15

Within a given scope, the intensity of a relationship can be considered tobe the range of options available to a power-holder. This, as de Jouvenelpoints out, is self-limiting as there will always be a point, variable accordingto the nature of the structure and the power-subjects, where compliancebreaks down.16

Comprehensive and extensive power is, as Dennis Wrong, notes, alsolimited.17 This is often in the form of statutory constraints upon power-holders aimed at excluding their influence from certain scopes, such asassembly, worship and expression, and restraining it within others, such as the ban on the ‘closed shop’ in organised labour movements or theregulations imposed on magistrates when sentencing. The extensiveness ofa power relationship, he argues, may, according to the number of handssovereignty is held by, range from kingship to oligarchy to democracy andis best considered as ‘the ratio of the number of persons who hold powerto the number of the powerless’.18 Wrong also notes that a fundamentalproblem for power-holders is that as the extensiveness of their powerincreases, comprehensiveness and intensity tend to decrease. This, heargues, is for three main reasons: first, the more power-subjects the moresupervision becomes problematic; second, the more power-subjects themore links in the chain of command needed to control them and the morethe risk of an organised challenge; and third, the more power-subjects thewider the variation of attitudes to the power-holder.19 In Robert DavidSack’s analysis, power-holders can reduce the decentralising effects ofexpansion by reinforcing ‘territorial’ uses of space. This can be employedto circumscribe access to knowledge and responsibility, monitor the ‘spanof control’ or level of supervision and convey possession, exclusion orsimply the visibility of power itself. Moreover, territoriality’s classificatoryemphasis on area rather than type can be used to conceal the social natureof the relationship between power-holder and subject or exert a diffusedcomprehensive influence.20

In combining and extending these analyses of social power, Mannapplies a large-scale, or macro-historical perspective in which he takes thereader from what he calls the ‘beginning’ of state development to thetwentieth century. Mann’s position is that the autonomy and power of astate, as the primary organisational form of political power in society,‘derives from the usefulness of centralised, institutionalised, territorialisedregulation of many aspects of social relations’.21 The three alternative basesfor social order – force, custom and exchange – are more limited. Forcecannot positively govern interaction for long, similarly customs cannot offer


regulation in response to increasing complexity and to bargain over every-thing eventually becomes inefficient.22 Thus, social groups have, uponreaching various levels of complexity, established, as a generalised meansof attaining goals, a set of normative rules of conduct representing thegroup as a whole or interest groups within it. As such, these can be insti-tutionalised in a collective or distributive (or, more commonly, both simul-taneously) manner by an organised minority or elite. Once institutionalised,‘the state does not possess a distinctive means of power independent of, andanalogous to, economic, military and ideological power’.23 For Mann, thisprocess ‘emerged as a result of the impetus given by alluvial agriculture todiverse, overlapping networks of social interaction present in the regionsurrounding it’ and generated a greater need for authoritative regulationeventually ‘embodying permanent coercive power’.24 In other words, thesocial need for flood prevention and control in hydraulic agricultural areasof the Euphrates basin during the third millennium BC provided a more‘powerful impetus toward larger political units than the kin group orvillage’.25 As alluvial agriculture bettered the yield of rain-watered systems,economic power also became centralised and structured the relationshipbetween the settled urban core and the pastoralists of the periphery. ‘Itenabled those who controlled the land to mobilise a disproportionate amountof collective social power and to turn it into distributive power used againstothers.’ 26

MANN AND MACRO-HISTORICAL SOCIOLOGY

In tracing political development from these origins to the twentieth century,Mann offers ‘a genealogy of civility’ which attempts to clarify the relation-ship between ‘society’ and its tendency to self-organise on the one hand and the state and its influence on the other.27 It can be seen as part of arevival of interest in what may be called the ‘macro-historical’ sociology ofDurkheim, Marx and Weber which has gained increasing prominence sincethe publication of Barrington Moore’s The Social Origins of Democracy and

Dictatorship in 1966. In the United Kingdom, this has been particularlyapparent during the last 15 or so years. Writers such as John Hall (Powers

and Liberties, 1985) and Anthony Giddens (The Nation-State and Violence, 1985)have turned to the analysis of large-scale historical transformations in orderbetter to understand the character of contemporary social phenomenasuch as stratification, nationalism and statehood. This section aims to locateMann’s work within the discipline of macro-historical sociology by criticallyoutlining a range of approaches broadly encompassed by the term macro-historical sociology. It will then focus on the critical debate which surrounds


Mann’s account more specifically, before outlining how these may beapproached through the type of case study proposed here – a macro-historical sociology of Turkish state development.

Macro-historical sociology can be considered to have been born of threeintertwined objectives:

An historical–causal analysis of origins considers the conditions which give riseto modern institutions relevant to understanding their present nature andlikely persistence … A quest for variation seeks to understand modern insti-tutions like capitalism or the nation-state or particularly by comparing themwith social groups with other types of economic, political or gender insti-tutions … A more abstract–comparative macro-sociology, less tied to under-standing the present, analyses the past to test more general propositionsabout human communities.28

These three components have structured the current body of macro-historical literature. The first relates to the ‘linearity’ of the narrative. Inother words, the extent to which elements of the historiography linktogether to form a discernible whole. The second relates to the narrative’s‘laterality’, or the breadth of social phenomena encompassed and com-pared. The third relates to the epistemological consistency of the narrative,or the certainty with which claims regarding the past’s relationship with thepresent are advanced.

Of the spectrum of approaches which have appeared in pursuit of theseobjectives, Theda Skocpol’s and Barrington Moore’s represent arguably the most firmly comparative. Both attempt to use J.S. Mill’s methods ofagreement and difference as their primary research tool. In The Social Origins

of Dictatorship and Democracy, Moore identifies three alternative routes tomodernity and seeks to explain areas of similarity and contrast throughcomparison. As Skocpol has pointed out, within these routes Moore pri-marily relies on establishing causal commonalties.29 Across the three routes,however, he focuses on their contrasting developmental patterns to helpvalidate each. The conclusion reached is that ‘modern’ states can becategorised as having followed ‘communist’, ‘capitalist-reactionary’ or‘bourgeois’ courses of development. Skocpol also employs a combinationof Mill’s approaches. In States and Social Revolutions, she argues that BourbonFrance, late imperial China and Tsarist Russia all possessed some similarcausal features while introducing negative cases from Britain, Japan andGermany to strengthen her assertions of shared specificity. Her conclusionis that the causes of the Chinese, French and Russian revolutions can bereduced to two components: political crisis and peasant revolt.

For Skocpol, then, causal explanations are inferred from existinghistorical data through a Millian process of induction. How, she asks, ‘are


we ever to arrive at new theoretical insights if we do not let historicalpatterns speak to us, rather than always viewing them through the blinders,or heavily tinted lenses, of pre-existing theories’? 30 Is this tenable, though?Surely some theoretical endeavour is necessary in order to select the casesto include. The result of this reluctance to offer an explicit historiographicmodel is that method tends to replace theory.31 Consequently, Skocpol isable to describe the factors that lead to revolutions, but she cannot explaintheir causes.32 Moore, on the other hand, is more frank about his ideologicalperspective. Writing within the Marxist tradition, his narrative is simulta-neously moralising and analytical. While his emphasis on economic deter-minacy strengthens his construction of causality, his arbitrary rejection ofcultural factors as possible explanations of his cases’ progress along theirallotted routes significantly damages his claims of generality.33 Further-more, neither the criterion for selecting cases nor the basis upon which hismoral cost/benefit analysis proceeds are elucidated with sufficient clarity.34

Why, for instance, are much of Africa, parts of Asia and almost the wholeof the Middle-East excluded? The reader is left to conclude that countrieshave been chosen simply on the grounds of which best concur with the pre-existing determining features of each route. Thus in the case of both Mooreand Skocpol their reluctance to establish a theoretical position whichexplains precisely why cases were either selected or ignored appreciablyimpairs what Mann terms the abstract–comparative facet of their macro-social inquiry.

By contrast, W.G. Runciman’s three-volume Treatise on Social Theory

(1983, 1989 and 1997) combines both an explicit theory of social inter-action – drawn from Weber’s tripartite classification of power as class, statusand party – and an encyclopaedic sweep of global history. As such, thistaxonomy of societal change is underpinned by irreducible networks ofeconomic, ideological and political power organised as a means of ‘domi-nation’ or ‘co-operation’. In this sense, Runciman’s model represents, onthe one hand, an attempt to form a bridge between Marxian notions ofeconomic primacy and a more comprehensive theorisation of social powerand, on the other, a middle road between elitist and pluralist conceptionsof political organisation. It is, in fact, a reworking of Skocpol’s ‘reifiedcollective wills’.35 Rather than acting on behalf of the dominant economicgroup in civil society, state elites, for Skocpol, behave as arbiters of astructure determined by organised coercion. Drawing upon Otto Hintze’stwo-dimensional view of state organisation,36 she argues that this may eitherbe in order to secure their position in relation to other states or to domesticsociety from which resources are coercively extracted.37 These views areopposed to Moore’s contention that the evolution of states towards eitherthe liberal or the authoritarian model can be explained in terms of the kinds


of relationships that landed upper classes make with the commercial andindustrial bourgeoisie. Instead, the state is seen as an autonomous playercapable of acting either in, or against, the interests of dominant groupswithin civil society.

Runciman’s application of this schema is, however, deficient in twoways.38 First, the ‘co-operative’ organisation of social power makes fewappearances in his narrative outside its function as a means of collectivelyincreasing a society’s capacity to dominate nature. Little mention is madeof its role in the construction of collective social identities. Second, ideo-logical power is given only a minimal part outside its use as a way ofinstilling deference. To identify the power of world religions as primarilygrounded on the authority of clerics is not plausible and underminesRunciman’s commitment to generality. Indeed, the discrepancy betweentheoretical potentiality and empirical restriction becomes more apparentin his conclusion that, despite having identified over 450 possible kinds ofsociety, history has, he concludes, only produced ten. His failure to explainprecisely why this has proven to be the case means that his theoreticaltypology lacks an historiographic dynamic.39 While he ostensibly avoids thethreat to causal coherence that this weakness entails by a retreat from claimsof ‘explanation’ to ‘description’,40 his concession to sociobiological evolu-tionism only exacerbates the disjuncture between theory and data. Sincehis neo-Darwinian motif of ‘selection’ as the motor which underpins socialchange is left unexplained and unconnected to his broader theorisation ofpower, the elucidation of historical cases appears to be isolated and‘pointillist’.

More firmly evolutionist writers are, on the other hand, less burdenedwith the demands of comparativism. Favouring greater methodologicallinearity, they generally proceed on the basis that the evolution of humanlife can be quantified as moving towards ever-greater complexity anddifferentiation. In this way, ‘directional laws’ are elaborated in whichhistorical transformations occur as a result of inherent potentialities.41 Inepistemological, or abstract–comparative, terms, change is held to beuniversally immanent, necessary and embedded in the generic processes ofnature.42 Thus a narrative emerges in which biological linear causality isadopted as mechanistic means of explaining human history.43 It is clear, forexample, that Talcott Parsons based his later accounts of societal develop-ment on the teleological premise that evolution occurs in order to produce apattern of advancement assessed by a biological criterion. In 1960, he wrotethat ‘intermediate societies are more advanced than primitive societies and modern societies … are more advanced than intermediate societies’where ‘advanced’ means those ‘systems that display greater generalisedadaptive capacity’.44 Lenski offers a comparably grounded narrative in


which technological progression is the prime motor of human advance.45

As with Parsons’ ‘differentiation’, however, no basis, outside the process ofchange itself, is suggested as a means of evaluating the impact of theevolutionary developments which he is describing. The result in both casesis an arbitrary and ethnocentric conclusion that modernity containsimprovements over the past.

For some evolutionists, though, presenting scientific generalities need notproduce a narrative which assumes progression. Stephen Sanderson, forinstance, rejects Parsons’ tendency to analyse past events not ‘for their ownsake, but only in terms of their ultimate contribution to modernity’ con-cluding that ‘word-historical transformations, whether parallel, convergent,or divergent evolution, are not the unfolding of predetermined patterns …Instead they represent the grand aggregation and multiplication of theactions of individuals and groups … responding to a multiplicity of bio-logical, psychological and social needs.’46 As such, his narrative, entitled‘evolutionary materialism’, abandons the conflation of ‘change’ and‘advance’ and concedes that ‘it cannot automatically be assumed that latersocial forms will be associated with higher levels of human adaptedness’.47

He also modifies Lenski’s and Parsons’ scientism by dismissing many keyelements of the biological method. Such caution means, however, that hisnarrative both lacks theoretical coherence and an explicit means of joiningthe past with the present.48 As a consequence, Sanderson’s explanatorypower is significantly reduced.

In the introduction to the first of his two volumes of The Sources of Social

Power, Michael Mann claims to take a middle path between evolutionarynarrativism and the problematic laterality of Skocpol, Moore andRunciman. As outlined in the previous section, his narrative incorporatesa comparative and a linear component pre-structured by a complextheoretical consideration of social power which also claims to represent acompromise, this time between materialist and idealist understandings ofthe past. His composition is built around key periods of power developmentbased on overlapping networks of political, military, ideological andeconomic interaction. As the primary organisational form of politicalpower in society, the state has the leading role in this narrative. Sincepolitical power networks are distinguishable by their centralised locationand their tendency, in both domestic and geopolitical terms, to reinforcerather than transcend territorial boundaries, states possess ‘an inde-pendence from civil society which, though not absolute, is no less absolutein principle than the power of any other major group’.49 Economic powergroupings are likely to be more diffused and decentred. They tend tooperate in competition with other groupings in any given territorialdelimitation. Ideological power movements are similarly ‘interstitial’ often


crossing state boundaries and stressing the artificial and ephemeral natureof such divides. Although Mann concedes that military power is moreanalogous to the state’s monopoly of organised violence over its territorythan other more clearly separable networks of social power, he resistsWeber’s reduction of military and political power into ‘party’. He suggeststhat states with limited infrastructural reach were rarely able to claim sucha monopoly, that militarily organised social groups are often institutionallyseparate from the state and quite capable of acting independently of it andthat, in the international arena, political influence is, in the cases of modernGermany and Japan, not determined by military power.50

While he broadly concurs with Skocpol’s assertion ‘that state organi-sations and elites might under certain circumstances act against the long-run economic interests of a dominant class’, Mann seeks to forge acompromise between essentially pluralist accounts of state evolution andmore structuralist perspectives.51 He does so by combining two theoreticalstrands. The first is what he calls the ‘true elitist’ argument. This holds thatthe state is a fully independent actor, invasive and ultimately concerned onlywith pursuing its own interests; 52 Margaret Levi’s ‘predatory’ theory of ruleis an example.53 This form of analysis, Mann argues, is based more on‘distributive’ power organisation and tends to emphasise war and sover-eignty. The second strand is particularly prevalent in M. Weir et al.’s(including Skocpol) account of the restraining influence of US federalismon the power of the state.54 Here, the autonomous effects exerted by socialinstitutions are emphasised in what Mann terms ‘institutional statism’. Heequates this with ‘collective’ power, arguing that ‘it affects more the formsin which politicised actors collaborate than who has power over whom’.55

Thus, for Mann, the state, in organising the various networks of socialinteraction, on the one hand joins with other actors to employ their jointpower over the polity or nature, and on the other, maintains itself in controlof the implementation of these collective goals and ensures that there is notthe necessary organisational means for the majority to rebel and implementtheir own goals. This application of social power as an imposition over, andas a means of facilitating co-operation through, state-bound territorycorresponds to E.H. Carr’s dialectical government of the people and overthe people and is also strongly reminiscent of Runciman’s dialectic of domi-nation and co-operation.56 Or, put another way, it relates to an organisedpolitical elite’s simultaneously collective and distributive capacity to insti-gate social change through networks of infrastructural and despotic statepower. Despotic power concerns ‘the range of actions which the [state] eliteis empowered to undertake without routine institutionalised negotiationwith civil society groups’. Infrastructural power, in contrast, ‘is the capacityof the state to actually penetrate civil society and to implement logistically


political decisions throughout the realm’.57 The way in which these haveacted together in different ideal-types is shown in Table 1.

TABLE 1: TWO DIMENSIONS OF STATE POWER

Infrastructural Power

Low High

Despotic Power Low Feudal [Liberal] BureaucraticHigh Imperial Authoritarian

Source: Adapted from Mann, The Sources of Social Power, Vol. 2, p. 191.

MANN’S ACCOUNT OF EUROPEAN DEVELOPMENT

In applying his theoretical model to the development of the Europeannation-state, Mann argues that feudal governments – reliant on the inten-sive, but non-comprehensive and non-extensive, might of the military andgoverning through an often autonomous substructure of clerics and burghers– tended to be low on both infrastructural and despotic power. Imperialstates, by contrast, generally wielded high levels of often divinely legitimiseddespotic power through their own patrimonial government bodies, but,similarly constrained by the shortcomings of military force, had only alimited capacity to penetrate a frequently large and disparate territory andthus remained infrastructurally weak. The despotic power of modernbureaucratic democracies, on the other hand, is restricted within certaininstitutions such as the media, the market and the judiciary. Through theirinformation systems, however, they possess immense infrastructural power.Authoritarian regimes have similar levels of infrastructural reach, but areless encumbered by institutional restriction.

Mann’s historical sociology of the state is thus, in essence, an attempt toaccount for these ideal-types. Arguing that, in order to understand centra-lised political power, one must focus on the evolution of the most powerfulstates, Mann concentrates on the specificity of modern European develop-ment. What is presented is an essentially linear thread from Mesopotamianand Roman imperial development to the appearance of modern bureau-cratic nation-states. In attempting to forge a path which is, at heart, non-evolutionary as well as a rejection of the comparative method, Mann bringsupon himself a number of methodological and textual difficulties. As aconsequence, his work has aroused considerable critical debate. As GaryRunciman has noted, in placing his work in the mid-ground between


narratives based on preconceived notions of historical significance on theone hand and studies seeking to apply general theories to the overall humancondition on the other ‘he risks being simultaneously attacked by one set ofreaders for writing potted history at a safe distance from the sources, andby another for theorising at an insufficiently high and abstract level’.58 Thishas indeed proved to be the case as both historians and social scientists havecriticised Mann’s approach and questioned the overall methodologicalfoundation of his investigation.

Particularly focused upon has been Mann’s lack of comparative breadth.However, this is not, as some have argued, an oversight on the author’s part.In following Talcott Parsons’ definition of society as possessing only alimited degree of interactive patterning to differentiate it from broadersocial totalities and concluding that they are therefore ‘not self-containedunits to be compared across time and space’, Mann consciously rejects the use of the comparative method as his primary analytical tool.59 He states that, having been ‘confronted by the empirical reality’ of finding aninadequate supply of autonomous, analogical cases upon which to base acomparative enquiry, he turned ‘pragmatically to the second method, ofcareful historical narrative … to see if it has the feel of a pattern, a processor a series of accidents and contingencies’.60 Such an approach, Mannsuggests, not only has the benefit of alleviating the problem of the small‘N’, or too few cases with which to compare an often great number ofvariables,61 but also allows him to pursue contextualised lines of inquirydetermined by the sociohistorical uniqueness of the subject matter. Hisnarrative is thus quite different from those grounded on the kind ofinductive ‘system of logic’ devised by John Stuart Mill and espoused bywriters such as Theda Skocpol.62 He does not, then, attempt the large-scalesynchronic comparisons which characterise the work of Weber, preferringinstead to focus his study on European power development stating that ‘themost appropriate history’ with which to analyse power ‘is that of the mostpowerful human society, modern Western civilisation’.63

Nevertheless, in order to establish that the course of history in one societyis different from that in another, some comparison is unavoidable, particu-larly if the nature of social power and the sources of social change are, asMann suggests, to be regarded as inherently ‘interstitial’ and territoriallyunbounded. This is not only essential to demonstrate Western specificity,but also inevitably exists as an intrinsic relational element between onenarrative sequence and another. For instance, Mann’s identification of theecological peculiarities fundamental to the origins of political adminis-tration in Mesopotamia cannot be established without excursions into otherregional landscapes and processes. His methodological emphasis onhistoricity, however, means that his narrative has difficulty absorbing the


more deviant variables of the topologically dissimilar Nile system, forinstance, or, for that matter, the utterly different geography of Mayandevelopment. The implications of these contradictions are hurriedly passedby for, as Perry Anderson notes, ‘only a comparative analysis – more firmlyinductive in spirit – could offer a hope of coherent explanation’.64

This problem becomes compounded as Mann approaches what Weberdescribed as the ‘old question’ – that of why such exponential developmentoccurred only in the European north-west. Here, he is forced into a briefperusal of other world religions in order to support his characterisation ofChristianity as uniquely influential. After a superficial theological survey,he concludes that Confucianism was too ethnically orientated, Hinduismtoo hierarchical and Islam overly tribally determined. In contrast, Mannargues, Christianity’s greater spiritual sophistication and social inclusive-ness proved, once it had spread through the Roman world, ‘so far superiorto the others that all had to adapt to its encroachments’ becoming the ‘track-layer’ for the European ‘miracle’.65 So rather than the logistical difficultiesof a battleground so far from home, the Muslim armies, for instance, weredefeated at Tours and Poitiers in 732 because of the superior ideologyunderpinning Christian military morale.66 Here, Mann’s comparativediscourse is particularly thin demonstrating, in my view, his reluctance todigress from his central thesis of north-western European progression andseverely weakening his empirical control over many of his hypotheses.

To take Mann’s treatment of Islam as an example, he fails to demonstrateits lack of sophistication and social inclusiveness in relation to Christianity.Mann argues, in contradiction to his earlier assertions regarding tribalism,that loyalty to the umma superseded local and intensive networks andembedded the adherent into a quasi-egalitarian federation similar to thatof the Christian ecumene. This may well be so, but the economic differ-ences between the Muslims’ theocractically governed, and often heavilycircumscribed, trading system and an ecumene dominated by the merchantclasses without such comprehensive ideological regulation go unexplored.67

Instead, shared rituals, the spread of Arabic as the language of educationand administration and the comprehensiveness of Sharia jurisprudence areemphasised as providing, despite the lack of a hierarchical clergy, a socialbasis broadly akin to European Christendom. In common, he continues,was ‘a diffuse and extensive sense of cultural community, a precise infra-structure centred on a monopoly of literacy, a fairly high level of intensivepenetration of everyday life, and a relatively weak social cosmology’.68

These comparisons are too broad to be very instructive and do not accountfor the way in which the Arab, and then the Ottoman, imperial stateorganised ideological power and maintained their economic position. Thefailure to discuss the social position of non-Muslim dhimmi/millet or contrast


their mercantile and jurisprudential role with that of the Muslim majorityis, for example, a notable omission.69

This is also true of his continual reference to Christendom to mean onlyits Roman, as opposed to Orthodox, form. Aside from providing a usefulbasis for analysing interaction with its Muslim neighbours to the south andeast, Mann’s reluctance to discuss the peculiarities of the Eastern Church,which certainly did not lack a social role in Byzantium, leaves unansweredthe question of why no similar development occurred in Anatolia orRumelia. As Perry Anderson comments, ‘by recasting a Weberian claim for the catalytic role of religion in generic Durkheimian form, Manndeprives himself of any reasonable basis for claiming special privileges forChristianity’.70 In other words, the specificity of the Protestant ethic’srelationship with the spirit of capitalism as a causative element in north-western European development is replaced by the more general notion ofreligion as a broadly cohesive social force. Nevertheless, Mann has else-where argued that, rather than stemming from the existence of a valueconsensus, social compliance in modern liberal democracies might be moreconvincingly explained by the ‘pragmatic acceptance of specific roles thanby any positive normative commitment to society’.71 This is a surprisingcontradiction, particularly in the light of his introductory assertion thatsocieties tend not to be bounded by any one (in this case ideological) powernetwork. It may, perhaps, derive from the logical constraints imposed byhis subsequent characterisation of social power as primarily concernedwith exerting a controlling or co-operative influence over others rather thanits capacity to resolve human tensions with the natural world. As Andersonputs it, ‘theology is, so to speak, over-socialised’.72

Furthermore, Mann’s characterisation of Christianity as the first ideo-logical organisation to gain independence from the state and possess its owncausal force has also attracted considerable critical attention. ChrisWickham, for example, argues that rather than providing a new method oflinkage between the state, ruling classes and the masses, Christianity ‘merelyput a new veneer over several interlocking (and conflicting) sets of tradi-tional classical values’.73 Methods of ruling-class dominance, includingrestrictions on literacy and religious education, were not, he asserts, signi-ficantly affected by the victory of Christianity which simply served tolegitimise existing economically determined relations. While Mann acknow-ledges this, writing that ‘the church enhanced the class morale of lords,clothing their exploitation with sacred qualities’,74 he continues to stressChristianity’s role in normalising property rights and extending trade overgreater areas than was possible under the disparate and predatoryEuropean court system that had replaced Roman extensiveness.

Wickham disagrees, however, arguing that a more likely reason for the


increase in long-distance trade during the twelfth century was that travellingmerchants were protected by the pacifying influence of the Merovingianand Carolingian Franks’ political and military network. It was, he con-tinues, the material value of this ideological allegiance, in a cultural ratherthan religious sense, which supported and legitimised the nascent feudaleconomy and not the normative extensiveness of Christianity. Non-Christian traders within Europe, such as Vikings or Arab Spain, Wickhamcontends, were not significantly disadvantaged by their religious affiliationproviding they did not question the supremacy of the Frankish courts. Thus,it may well be stretching the idea of social cohesion too far to claim, asMann suggests, that it was the ideological power of Christianity’s socialnetworks which pre-structured the basis for capitalist exchange in earlymedieval Europe.

Undeterred, however, he concludes that, even by the mid-twelfth century,north-western Europe, ‘bound loosely together by the normative pacifi-cation of Christendom … was already the most agriculturally inventivecivilisation since the Iron Age had begun’.75 This is rather too broad.Chinese agriculture of the day was every bit as advanced, producing gener-ally higher yields, involving equally complex social organisation andsupported by a sophisticated mercantile credit system.76 In defending hisrefusal to confront the question of why China did not emerge from the Sungdynasty in the way that north-western Europe did from early medievalfeudalism, Mann points to four differences: ‘Europe’s economy was not ricedominated, and it was extremely varied; its states were weak; it was a multi-state civilisation; and its religion and culture expressed the spirit of rationalrestlessness.’77 In the absence of concomitant variations, he continues, thecomparative method cannot be applied. Such an uncritical justification ofnarrativism is, for many commentators, particularly unsatisfying. It is not,however, based upon epistemological concerns, for Mann’s work, as dis-cussed, is unavoidably comparative in other areas. Rather, he claims, it issimply grounded on the practical difficulties of drawing out such compari-sons. It may be, though, that the Eurocentrism of Mann’s pursuit of the‘leading edge’ of civilisation has its foundations on textual rather thantheoretical concerns, or, as Perry Anderson puts it, ‘this restriction may havebeen less the intellectual impossibility of creating a wider framework thanthe compositional gain of a narrower one’.78 In this sense, Mann’s con-struction of ‘the rise of the West’ sets out a virtually unilinear ‘macro-pattern’ of history linking Sumer with the twentieth century in a diachronicdiscourse deliberately simplified to provide maximum contextual depth andexplanatory value.79

Having constructed the ideological impetus for Europe’s ‘leading edge’,Mann’s abiding emphasis on power as an intra-social function rather than


a method of interacting with nature leads him to focus on military andpolitical processes in preference to more orthodox economic interpreta-tions.80 As a result, his account of feudal relations, particularly the landlord–peasant connection and the extent of the state’s economic expropriations,is, as Wickham notes, insufficiently theorised, leaving the actual forces ofextraction and circulation unexplored.81 Moreover, in refusing to attributeultimate causality to any of his four sources of power, John Haldon arguesthat Mann is guilty of specifying an ‘aprioristic’ framework of analysis.82

While this, which may be taken to mean arbitrarily establishing the level ofdiscourse, is no less true of Haldon’s own historical materialist approach,it may well be the case that ‘if Mann had looked more at peasants, besideshis well-described and well-documented interest in structures of domina-tion over peasants, the material base of that domination would have becomeclearer’.83 Indeed, Mann frankly admits that his chapter entitled ‘Inter-national Capitalism and Organic Nation-States 1477–1760’ ‘lacks whatperhaps it should ideally possess, a sustained explanation of the variousstages of economic growth toward the Industrial Revolution’.84 He justifieshis uneven treatment of history by arguing that power also developsunevenly in ‘jumps’.85 In omitting to illustrate fully the culturally specifictrajectory of economic power distribution, however, not only does Mannmiss the opportunity to establish his model of change more firmly, he alsoleaves the controversy surrounding the universality of feudalism unob-served. Clearly not wishing to digress from the north-west European‘leading edge’, no mention is made, for example, of the Asiatic mode ofproduction despite its obvious relevance to the state autonomy debate.

Even within the parameters of his exposition, however, there exists aparadox in Mann’s formulation of the state’s position vis-à-vis civil society’spre-eminent economic class. As military power is often to be found in civilorganisations, it is the state’s political centrality rather than its monopolyof coercive force which underpins its autonomy. Yet since, as Andersonobserves, ‘political regulation is scarcely conceivable without the resourcesof armed coercion, fiscal revenue and ideal legitimisation’, this source ofpower ‘enjoys least autonomy of all’.86 Furthermore, as the state’s exten-sive and comprehensive infrastructural capacity to penetrate its territorydevelops, society as a ‘bounded totality’, which Mann’s theory initiallydenies, appears to emerge. As a result, critics have argued that ‘Mann’sexplanation of variations in state autonomy … is too incomplete and vagueto yield precise empirical implications.’87 His treatment of war initiation,for example, is sometimes grounded on assumptions of material interestsand at other times on normative constraints. In the view of Kiser andHechter, this inconsistency prevents him from developing a general associ-ation between monarchic autonomy, the state’s possession of independent


resources and conflict instigation which other, more empirically rigorous,studies have uncovered.88

Indeed, this perceived lack of empirical potency has led some com-mentators to dismiss the macro-sociological approach altogether. It lacks,Lenski writes, ‘substantive conceptual links to established theories in otherscientific disciplines’ and is ‘not falsifiable in the same unambiguous manneras theories in the natural sciences’.89 Despite scientists from other fieldshaving no immediately obvious qualifications to legislate in the socialsciences, Lenski continues by asserting that these ‘critical flaws’ have led toa plague of competing theories generally unconnected to empiricallygenerated data the substantiation of which is ‘more an art form than ascience’.90 Undeterred by several hundred years of unsuccessful endeavoursin pursuit of general laws as convincing as those in the natural sciences,Lenski and fellow ‘neopositivists’, declaim, by way of a remedy, the valueof adopting mathematical and probabilistic formulations of theories and hypotheses in order to minimise ambiguity and replace ‘vague andindefinite terms’ with precise values.91 Quite how such formalism moreaccurately represents the complexities of reality is unclear, as is the superiorexplanatory value of elaborate and convoluted causal matrices.

For Wassily Leontief, it is deliberately obscurantist, tending to ‘concealthe ephemeral substantive content of the argument behind the formidablefront of algebraic signs’.92 Moreover, as Bernd Baldus points out, this ‘data-philia’ is quite contrary to the predominantly theory-led neopositivism of Popper, Hempel and others.93 Stemming from the failure of its coreepistemological construction (that of linear determinism) and the profes-sional value of working in a ‘hard’ science freed from the constraints oftheoretical evaluation, he argues that, modern positivism has, in AbrahamKaplan’s words, ‘contributed to a myth of methodology: that it does notmatter what we do if only we do it right’.94 Indeed, any resistance to thismonist programme is, in Hubert Blalock’s view, to be considered an ‘anti-science attack’ orchestrated by ‘the poets and artists among us’.95 In this way‘facts’ are aggregated from the data-set of history, stripped of theirdeterminant contexts and processed by a mechanistic statistical analysisregardless of their intrinsic aptitude to such reductionism and in ignoranceof their diachronic variance and cultural specificity.96

If theory and data are to remain separate in order to demonstrate thatthe former has general applicability, as positivists demand, where then, ifnot from a blend of the culturally determined imagination of the researcherand the data themselves, is theoretical innovation to come from? Nicky Hartargues that empirical material’s ‘very form is dictated by theoreticalconcepts operationalised as variables using linguistic categories which maythemselves impose specific cultural understandings’.97 Mann too, follows


this Kantian formulation. Data, he argues, enmesh with theories, eachexerting an evaluative influence over the other, and can only be significantlyemployed through internally generated meaning systems.98 In the same wayas other scientists, macro-sociologists formulate hypotheses on the bases oftheoretical inklings which are then illuminated by the systematic pursuit of data. Mann, for instance, supports his account of large-scale Europeanchange with an extensive exploration of English state finances from thetwelfth century onwards based on biannual Exchequer Rolls. In doing so,however, he had to rely on the translations and tabulations of specialisthistorians. While ‘unconcerned with their interpretations of the politics ofthe day, [and] unconcerned with their theories of kingship, Church–Staterelations or the rise of Parliament’, he was also obliged ‘to accept somecombination of their various methods of data categorisations’.99

This reliance on secondary sources has led some sociologists to accuseMann and others of not basing their methods on prima facie evidence. JohnGoldthorpe, for instance, argues that the connection between macro-sociologists’ claims about the past and what he terms the ‘relics’ (historicalmaterial such as artefacts, documents and so on) has become ‘impossiblyloose’.100 What happens, he asks, when secondary accounts disagree?Without knowledge of the primary source, the macro-sociologist, he sug-gests, is unable to choose the most convincing interpretation so merely optsfor the one that best suits his overall thesis.101 History thereby becomes, inFroude’s words, ‘a child’s box of letters with which we can spell any wordwe please’.102 Part of this problem, for Goldthorpe, is that the ‘relics’ uponwhich historians rely are limited and incomplete so without engaging inprimary research which might challenge their validity, macro-sociologistsbase their assumptions on a positivist acceptance of the evidence. Heconcludes that, rather than making up an integral part of the investigator’smethodology, historical inferences should instead be used to provide thesetting for sociological fieldwork over which there exists far greaterempirical control.103

While it is undoubtedly true that investigating the present has greatadvantages in terms of research design, it does not mean that sociology, inthe form recommended by Goldthorpe, is methodologically superior. For,as Bryant inquires, ‘what sociologist would not be keen to view the presentfrom the vantage point of the future, with retrospective knowledge of thetrends that emerged triumphant and those that fell by the wayside’?104

Indeed, the results would surely differ from both the subjective expectationsof the participants in the present and from contemporary documentationlimited as it is by the constraints of private property and official confiden-tiality. This is a particular problem for research where power prominenceis a factor. The difficulties in gaining access to social elites, as primary


evidential material, and to studies not based on samples containing adisproportionately high number of ‘ordinary’ respondents often preventsthe sociologist from generating suitable data. Such a ‘democratic bias’, asMann calls it, does not typically constrain the historian whose empiricalbasis represents the ‘relics’ of those individuals and institutions withsufficient resources to dominate the media of cultural expression.105 Further-more, the residue of the past, as unsolicited and ‘authentic elements ofpast social worlds’,106 brings the investigator just as close to the reality ofthe subject as the questionnaire or interviewer which intrude, as foreignelements, into the social setting they attempt to describe, conditioningattitudes and forcing responses into preordained categories determined bythe subjective proclivities of the sociologist. In this sense then, extrapolatingfrom what C. Wright Mills calls the ‘curious behaviourism’ of generatedsociological data is every bit as inferential as employing the colligation ofhistorical ‘relics’.107

That is not to say, however, that the ‘relics’ of the past can, out of anintrinsically held significance, inform the inquirer. Rather than speaking for themselves, each can only be rendered meaningful when placed in aframework mediated by the current contours of conventional wisdom andscholarly debate. Macro-sociologists, like other sociologists and historians,order their findings to present a reasoned account of the phenomena theyseek to describe. In the inevitable event of disagreement, the reader bringsto bear other findings and interpretations, makes judgements concerningfactuality and, as Mann concludes, rejects part of all the accounts on offer.Since, ultimately, both the generated evidence of empirical research andthe ‘relics’ of the historian are, as Nicos Mouzelis points out, ‘second orderinterpretations referring to the first order ones that individuals generatewhen they act and interact’, all evaluations of plausibility are informed,in part at least, by how well the evidence presented is accounted for by the internal cohesion of the analysis.108 The fact that human agency is‘fundamentally time-referential, with the consequence that social actionsare to be understood not as episodic events or discrete occurrences, but as complex durational processes’, means that the macro-sociologist musttherefore fuse idiographic and nomothetic approaches in order to maintaina contextual logic in keeping with the observable complexities of thesubject.109

So in conclusion, Mann’s work is, while based on sound methodologicalprincipals, weakened by its excessively linear approach. His failure toanalyse the differing imperial heritage of West and East and the morerecent institutionalisation of political organisational forms means thatcomparative aspects to his account of social change are lost. Furthermore,he misses the opportunity to reinforce his thesis on the specificity of north-


west Europe. This is a pity as a greater degree of contact with non-Westerncases would have brought an improved level of explanatory value to Mann’smore general account of state development. It would also have furtherallowed him to test his theoretical rubric and thus strengthen his claim upongeneral applicability. What is required in order to resolve some of theproblems highlighted above is, therefore, an extension of Mann’s workwhich adopts a more firmly comparative approach. Such a study could castfurther light on Mann’s account and reduce the Euro-centrism of macro-historical sociology generally by seeking to comprehend more fully thevariation between European and non-European social dynamics. Ananalysis of this kind could refine our understanding of large-scale changein Europe in three ways. First, in focusing on the commonalties betweenpoints of development around the world, light can be cast on Europe’sshared sociohistorical heritage. To this effect, Mann’s universal theory ofpower organisation and contention could be deployed to elucidate social‘crystallisations’ (such as nationalism, secularism, class, militarism andeconomic development) which are of general relevance. Second, by lookingat the significant areas of difference between two evolutionary patterns, agreater understanding of European specificity could be obtained. Not leastamong these might be the rapidity of social change and the persistence ofsocial cleavages built around ethnicity, religiosity and social status. Third,in bringing a new case to Mann’s account of historical continuity, a refinedcomprehension of social power can be sought which better explains a non-European pattern of organisational development.

It is thus the aim of this text to pursue these objectives by using thedevelopment of the Ottoman/Turkish state as a comparative case-study.To this end, the following four chapters will apply Mann’s model to thedevelopment of the Ottoman/Turkish state and, in the vein of his work,concentrate on particular areas of Turkish history which, in my view, wereperiods when major shifts in social power occurred. Such an application ofa leading approach within macro-historical sociology will offer support forthe discipline as a whole. For, as Arend Lijphart has stressed, an alternativecase can contribute ‘to the establishment of general propositions and thus to theory-building’.110 This may simply be the utility of accumulateddata presented as a non-theoretical descriptive study which can then beemployed as a secondary source or, as in the case of this text, it may havefurther interpretative value.111 In applying Mann’s approach, it will thus bepossible to illuminate some of his more generalised propositions, suggestsome revisions and consider the alternative case-study in relation to his ownsupporting evidence. This more firmly comparative approach will addressthe deficiencies of Mann’s analysis discussed above, seek to develop a newway of approaching Turkish political development and highlight some of


the more significant areas of theoretical importance for the general studyof state development and social change.

NOTES

1. B. Russell, Power: A New Social Analysis (London, Allen & Unwin, 1938), passim.2. M. Mann, The Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press,

1986), p. 14.3. Russell, Power: A New Social Analysis, pp. 10–11.4. Ibid., p. 35.5. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, p. 2.6. Ibid.7. The internalisation of the norms of ‘society’ is simply an effect of this primary

dynamic and does not contribute, in itself, to the development of shared goals.8. A conflict of value can be distinguished from other less fundamental forms of conflict

and is defined by Chris Mitchell as where ‘parties differ fundamentally about thenature of desirable end states or social and political structures’ (1981), p. 37.

9. Max Weber defined this process as ‘the probability that one actor within a socialrelationship will be in a position to carry out his will despite resistance’ (Economy andSociety (New York, Bedminster Press, 1968), p. 53).

10. T. Parsons, ‘Authority, Legitimation and Political Action’, in C.J. Friedrich (ed.),Authority (Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1958), pp. 207–8.

11. D.H. Wrong, Power (Oxford, Blackwell, 1979), p. 247.12. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, p. 7.13. B. De Jouvenel, ‘Authority: The Efficient Imperative’, in C.J. Friedrich (ed.), Authority

(Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1958), p. 160.14. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, p. 8.15. R.A. Dahl, Modern Political Analysis (Englewood Cliffs, NJ, Prentice-Hall, 1963), p. 46.16. De Jouvenel, ‘Authority: The Efficient Imperative’, p. 160.17. Wrong, Power, p. 16.18. Ibid., p. 15.19. Ibid., p. 20.20. R.D. Sack, Human Territoriality (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1986), p. 39.21. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, p. 26.22. M. Mann, ‘The Autonomous Power of the State: Its Origins, Mechanisms and

Results’, Archives Europa Sociologica, 25 (1984), p. 195.23. Ibid., p. 198.24. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, p. 77.25. Ibid., p. 86.26. Ibid., p. 83.27. J. Hall, ‘Genealogies of Civility’, in R. Hefner (ed.), Democratic Civility: The History and

Cross-Cultural Possibility of a Modern Political Ideal (New Brunswick, NJ, TransactionBooks, 1998), passim.

28. M. Mann, ‘In Praise of Macro-Sociology: A Reply to Goldthorpe’, British Journal ofSociology, 45 (1994), p. 39.

29. T. Skocpol, Social Revolutions in the Modern World (Cambridge, Cambridge UniversityPress, 1994), pp. 79–80.

30. T. Skocpol, ‘Analysing Causal Configurations in History: A Rejoinder to Nichols’,Comparative Social Research, 9 (1986), p. 190.

31. M. Burawoy, ‘Two Methods in Search of Science: Skocpol versus Trotsky’, Theory andScience, 18 (1989), p. 769.

32. J. Stinchcombe, Economic Sociology (New York, Academic Press, 1983), pp. 12–15.


33. S. Rothman, ‘Barrington Moore and the Dialectics of Devolution: An Essay Review’,American Political Science Review, 64 (1970), pp. 61–4.

34. D. Smith, ‘Morality and Method in the Work of Barrington Moore’, Theory and Society,13 (1984), pp. 168–9.

35. Skocpol, Social Revolutions in the Modern World, p. 8.36. O. Hintze, The Historical Essays of Otto Hintze (trans. F. Gilbert) (New York, Oxford

University Press, 1975), p. 183.37. See T. Skocpol, States and Social Revolution (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press,

1979), pp. 29–31.38. P. Anderson, A Zone of Engagement (London, Verso, 1992), pp. 152–3.39. P. Anderson, English Questions (London, Verso, 1992), p. 223.40. W.G. Runciman, Treatise on Social Theory, Vol. 1, The Methodology of Social Theory

(Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1983), p. 41.41. See M. Mandelbaum, History, Man and Reason: A Study in Nineteenth Century Thought

(Baltimore, MD, John Hopkins University Press, 1971), passim.42. See R. Nisbet, Social Change and History: Aspects of the Western Theory of Development (New

York, Oxford University Press, 1969), passim.43. See A. Giddens, The Constitution of Society (Berkeley, CA, University of California Press,

1984), pp. 231–3.44. T. Parsons, Societies: Evolutionary and Comparative Perspectives (Englewood Cliffs, NJ,

Prentice-Hall, 1960), pp. 109–10.45. See G. Lenski, Human Societies: A Macrolevel Introduction to Sociology (New York, McGraw-

Hill, 1970), passim.46. S. Sanderson, Social Evolutionism: A Critical History (Oxford, Blackwell, 1992), p. 118,

and Social Transformations: A General Theory of Historical Development (Oxford, Blackwell,1995), p. 5.

47. Sanderson, Social Transformations, p. 397.48. Ibid., p. 381.49. Mann, ‘The Autonomous Power of the State’, p. 200.50. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, pp. 10–11.51. Skocpol, Social Revolutions in the Modern World, p. 37.52. M. Mann, The Sources of Social Power, Vol. 2 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press,

1993), p. 48.53. M. Levi, ‘The Predatory Theory of Rule’, Politics and Society, 10 (1981), passim.54. M. Weir, et al., The Politics of Social Policy in the United States (Princeton, NJ, Princeton

University Press, 1988), passim.55. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 2, p. 52.56. E.H. Carr, The Twenty Years Crisis (London, Macmillan, 1939), p. 96.57. Mann, ‘The Autonomous Power of the State’, pp. 188–9. He later expands upon this

thus: ‘state infra-structural power derives from the social utility in any particular timeand place of forms of territorial-centralisation which cannot be provided by civilsociety forces themselves … The extent of despotic power derives from the inabilityof civil society forces to control those forms of territorial centralisation, once set up’(ibid., pp. 201–2).

58. W.G. Runciman, ‘The Old Question’, London Review of Books, 19 February 1987, p. 7.59. Parsons, Societies: Evolutionary and Comparative Perspectives, p. 9; Mann, Sources of Social

Power, Vol. 1, p. 30.60. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, p. 503.61. Indeed, Mill considered the problem of finding sufficient comparable cases within the

social sciences so severe that he described any attempt to do so as a ‘grossmisconception of the mode of investigation proper’ (J.S. Mill, A System of Logic(London, Longmans, 1843), Book 6, Ch. 7.

62. See her study of France, China and Russia in Skocpol, States and Social Revolution,p. 36.


63. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, p. 31.64. P. Anderson, ‘Those in Authority’, Times Literary Supplement, 12 December 1986,

p. 1405. In the second volume of The Sources of Social Power, Mann does, in fact, pursuea more comparative line. While he does not revise his earlier assertions regarding themethodological difficulties of such an approach, he explicitly seeks to comparedifferent Western regime strategies.

65. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, p. 341.66. Ibid., p. 346.67. As Perry Anderson comments, ‘there was a good deal more enforcement of it

[normative pacification] in Abbasid or T’ang lands than in the world of Charles theBald’ (‘Those in Authority’, p. 1406).

68. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, pp. 347–8.69. For a fuller discussion of the position of non-Muslims under the Ottomans, see

K. Karpat, ‘Structural Change, Historical Stages of Modernisation and the Role ofSocial Groups in Turkish Politics’, in K. Karpat (ed.), Social Change and Politics in Turkey:A Structural–Historical Analysis (Leiden, E.J. Brill, 1973), pp. 11–92.

70. Anderson, ‘Those in Authority’, p. 1406.71. M. Mann, ‘The Social Cohesion of Liberal Democracy’, American Sociological Review,

35 (1970), p. 435.72. P. Anderson, ‘A Culture in Contraflow’, New Left Review, 180 (1990), p. 61.73. C. Wickham, ‘Historical Materialism, Historical Sociology’, New Left Review, 171

(1988), p. 70.74. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, p. 384.75. Ibid., p. 500.76. Wickham, ‘Historical Materialism, Historical Sociology’, p. 74.77. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, p. 502.78. Anderson, ‘Those in Authority’, p. 1406.79. It is worth noting that, although such a voyage is bound to have a teleological feel to

it, Mann is consistent in stressing that ‘there has been nothing “necessary” about it –it just happened that way’ (Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, p. 31).

80. For a discussion of the degree to which Mann succeeds in taking a middle line betweencharacterisations of the state as the instrument of class relations on one hand andrational actors on the other, see T. Mulhall, ‘A Review of The Sources of Social PowerVolume Two’, British Journal of Sociology, 46 (1995), pp. 362–3.

81. Wickham, ‘Historical Materialism, Historical Sociology’, p. 77.82. J. Haldon, ‘The Ottoman State and the Question of State Autonomy: Comparative

Perspectives’, Journal of Peasant Studies, 18 (1991), p. 42.83. Wickham, ‘Historical Materialism, Historical Sociology’, p. 77.84. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, p. 450.85. Ibid., p. 31.86. Anderson, ‘A Culture in Contraflow’, p. 61.87. E. Kiser and M. Hechter, ‘The Role of General Theory in Comparative-Historical

Sociology’, American Journal of Sociology, 97 (1991), p. 19.88. Ibid., p. 22.89. G. Lenski, ‘Rethinking Macrosociological Theory’, American Sociological Review, 53

(1988), p. 163.90. Ibid., p. 166.91. G. Lenski, ‘Positivism’s Future – and Sociology’s’, Canadian Journal of Sociology, 16

(1991), p. 188.92. W. Leontief, ‘Theoretical Assumptions and Nonobserved Facts’, American Economic

Review, 61 (1971), p. 2.93. B. Baldus, ‘Reply to Lenski’, Canadian Journal of Sociology, 16 (1991), p. 196.94. A. Kaplan, ‘Positivism’, International Encyclopaedia of the Social Sciences, 12 (1968), p. 394.95. H. Blalock, Basic Dilemmas in the Social Sciences (Beverley Hills, CA, Sage, 1984), p. 25.


As Joseph Bryant insightfully notes, though, ‘the expediency of such rhetoric is ofcourse readily apparent, for by consigning all opposition to an “anti-science” fringe,the proponent evades confrontation with those serious intellectual arguments whichmight expose his own untenable extremism’ (J. Bryant, ‘Positivism Redivivus? A Critiqueof Recent Uncritical Proposals for Reforming Sociological Theory (and RelatedFoibles)’, Canadian Journal of Sociology, 17 (1992), p. 38). For a broader discussion, seethe essay by Fritz Machlup, ‘Are the Social Sciences Really Inferior?’, in M. Natanson(ed.), Philosophy of the Social Sciences (New York, Random House, 1963).

96. See, for instance, Guy Swanson’s treatment of Yahweh and the Lengua’s beetle-god.Despite being utterly different in time, space and cultural significance, these areformulated as statistical equivalents in explaining the origins of monotheism (The Birthof the Gods (Ann Arbor, MI, University of Michigan Press, 1960), Ch. 3).

97. N. Hart, ‘John Goldthorpe and the Relics of Sociology’, British Journal of Sociology, 45(1994), p. 22.

98. M. Mann, ‘In Praise of Macro-Sociology: A Reply to Goldthorpe’, British Journal ofSociology, 45 (1994), p. 42.

99. Ibid., p. 44.100. J. Goldthorpe, ‘The Uses of History in Sociology: Reflections on Some Recent

Tendencies’, British Journal of Sociology, 42 (1991), p. 223.101. See J. Goldthorpe, ‘The Uses of History in Sociology: A Reply’, British Journal of

Sociology, 45 (1994), p. 69.102. J. Froude, Short Studies on Great Subjects (London, Longmans, 1884), p. 21.103. Here Goldthorpe points to ‘the very real advantages that are gained where the nature

and extent of available evidence is not restricted by the mere accidents of physicalsurvival; where, moreover, the collection of evidence can be “designed” in order tomeet the specific requirements of the inquiry in hand; and where questions of thequality of evidence can always be addressed, as they arise, by generating yet furtherevidence through which to check and test the original’ (‘The Uses of History inSociology: Reflections on Some Recent Tendencies’, pp. 214–15).

104. J. Bryant, ‘Evidence and Explanation in History and Sociology: Critical Reflectionson Goldthorpe’s Critique of Historical Sociology’, British Journal of Sociology, 45 (1994),p. 7.

105. Mann, ‘In Praise of Macro-Sociology’, p. 38.106. Bryant, ‘Evidence and Explanation in History and Sociology’, p. 7.107. C. Wright Mills, The Sociological Imagination (New York, Oxford University Press, 1959),

p. 70.108. N. Mouzelis, ‘In Defence of “Grand” Historical Sociology’, British Journal of Sociology,

45 (1994), p. 35.109. Bryant, ‘Evidence and Explanation in History and Sociology’, p. 18.110. A. Lijphart, ‘Comparative Politics and the Comparative Method’, American Political

Science Review, 65 (1971), p. 691.111. For a discussion of the value and limitations of this, see M. Curtis, Comparative

Government and Politics (New York, Harper & Row, 1968), p. 7.


2

The Politics of Empire

This chapter seeks to explore the Ottoman state’s methods of rule byapplying Michael Mann’s theoretical model of social power to its changingrelationship with civil society. It will look at the mechanics of Ottomanpolitical and ideological organisation and the ways these sustained theposition of the state. Mann’s identification of the ‘channels’ of ideologicalcommunication and his construction of the methods of ‘compulsory co-operation’ will both be examined as a useful means of understanding thedynamics of imperial territorial conquest and social absorption. WhileMann developed these in relation to the political administration ofMesopotamian and Classical rulers, here they will be applied to theOttoman system of governance in terms of the establishment and main-tenance of centralised political power and the institutionalisation of ideo-logical legitimacy.1 Elements of continuity and change will be consideredin order to illuminate social relations within the empire and to analyseMann’s account of imperial rule. The organisation of political centralitywill be considered, particularly in relation to infrastructural networks ofideological power, as the state’s supervisory pre-eminence crystallisedbefore eventually beginning to falter as challenges to its ideological–politicalunity emerged.

THE IDEOLOGICAL/MILITARY COMPLEX

A central feature of Ottoman social organisation from the early processesof imperial coalescence onwards was the unifying, or what Michael Mannwould call the ‘pacifying normative’, effects of Islam.2 Indeed, as Mann hasnoted, a fundamental problem for systems of imperial governance was that,in order to secure political control, military power had to be diluted. Thiswas no less true of early conquests by the Ottoman Empire. Unlike themore mercantile Mesopotamian empires, however, the partners of thegenerals (gazis) who administered the Ottoman frontier on behalf of thecore were dervishes and religious scholars.3 The state’s capacity to extend

its infrastructural reach into what was rapidly becoming a large and sociallydiverse territory was reliant, from the outset, on this partnership’s ability to‘imperialise’ Islam. It was not simply the material value of conquest or thesuperior might of cavalry, although these were of course major factors,which legitimised the position of the peripheral agent, but rather thehorizontal character of an official state culture linking centre to frontier. Asthe nascent state’s material requirements developed, however, the core tookan increasing share of the gazis’ spoils, provoking varying degrees ofresistance and an endemic conflict between central and peripheral power.4

Since ‘successful booty or conquest warfare tends to heighten the stateversus society stratification’,5 imperial expansion also recast the horizon-tality of the centrist ruling group into a more hierarchical structure in turnnecessitating greater political power and ideological legitimisation. To thisend, Selim I’s (1512–20) assumption of the caliphate in 1517 furtherenhanced the Ottomans’ ideological extensiveness giving it greater infra-structural reach than that offered by the centrality of a merely politicalorganisation structure and a more comprehensive level of collective powerthan the blunt application of military coercion.6 As Mann notes, a religious-ly centred culture provided ‘a sense of normative identity and an ability to co-operate … that was more extensive and diffuse than state, army, ormode of production provided’.7 As such, the Ottoman state’s ideologicalascendancy was institutionalised by imposing Sunni orthodoxy and byestablishing a body of ulema ‘clearly integrated with the apparatus of thestate’.8

Through the close alliance between political power and the complex and comprehensive world view of Islam, as represented by the presence ofthe ulema, the Ottoman state was able to reinforce its links with theperiphery to the detriment of existent networks of ideological power.The ulema’s highly centralised role controlling the education system, thejudiciary and the administrative service positioned the upper echelons ofthe clergy at the very centre of the Ottoman state.9 They ensured the state’scontrol of a huge and disparate populace by establishing the legality ofprivate ownership, protecting non-Muslim citizens, arbitrating betweendisputants and promoting urbanisation through their educational networks.In return the sultan respected the ulema, supported their judicial decisionsand used their influence and edicts in virtually all matters of state.10 Theposition of the ulema leadership at the heart of the Ottoman adminis-tration thus ensured that the realms of political and ideological powerremained very strongly linked.11 ‘This union of faith and state encouragedan especially strong form of statism … Loyalty to the state, combininggovernment and religion as it did, became the paramount concern for theruling group.’12


This ruling group, headed by the sultan, was the askeri which, in additionto the office of the monarch and the grand vizier, consisted of threebranches.13 The first two, the kalemiyye, or scribal service, and the seyfiyye, ormilitary, were staffed by prisoners of war and ‘slaves’ augmented by thedevsirme system in which predominantly non-Muslim children wererecruited from the periphery.14 In separating a great number of statepersonnel from their social networks in civil society, the problem of powerdecentralisation endemic to the governance of empire was thereby con-siderably alleviated. Allocation of initial position within all elements of theaskeri classes, from labourer to judge, was subject to merit and progressremained based on ‘ability and alacrity; the social status of the conscripts’families counted for nothing’.15 Moreover, as the inheritance of position or property was strictly prohibited, the decentralising influence of patri-monialism was largely impeded thereby inhibiting the development ofautonomous political organisations beyond the control of the state. Where‘the emergence of such bodies could not be prevented, the state attemptedto dominate them and use them to maintain or extend its own power’.16

The ulema, as the third class of askeri, were instrumental in this process.Not subject to the same recruitment system, but generally working closelywith local state officials, the huge hierarchy of clergy, stretching from thesultan’s council to the plethora of religious officials in every provincialcommunity, provided the state with one of its major linkages to civil society.Since only by studying to join the ulema was it possible to obtain anappointment from the sultan’s office and move from the reaya to the askeri,the Ottoman theocratic hierarchy represented ‘the real hinge betweencentre and periphery’.17 In the absence of any other intermediary agentsbetween the askeri and the reaya, the ulema both influenced ideals of politicallegitimacy and integrated the Muslim masses into a caliph-led and broadlycoalescent umma.18 This was particularly important at the very fringes ofimperial influence where, as long as military expansion continued, a kindof ‘frontier Islam’, premised on notions of jihad and martyrdom, informeda strongly statist (as epitomised by the sultan–caliph unity of religion andpolitics) level of social organisation. In other words, it reinforced, whatMann calls, the immanent morale of the established order and the religiousproto-nationalism of the umma–state relationship.

Like the Christian ecumene described by Mann, the ulema confirmedsocial relations between civil society groups by providing access toeducational and cultural services, by regulating property and family lawand by embedding otherwise intensively organised social groups in anextensive ideological network. As Serif Mardin concludes ‘wherever thealoof state failed they [the ulema] moved in’.19 In contrast to Mann’sanalysis of Rome, however, there was not the distinction between what

The Politics of Empire 31

belongs to the monarch and what belongs to God.20 This made the Ottomanclergy far less vulnerable to state challenges. Moreover, having inherited animmense and detailed tradition of texts and precedents, the ulema did nothave the same leeway of interpretative analysis as the early ChristianChurch and thus could not be politicised as easily. In a state largely orien-tated by its claim to Islamic legitimacy, there could only be limited legis-lation and no divergence between jurisprudence and administration.21 Thissynthesis of ideology and politics offered the Ottoman centre a means ofintensifying its ties with the imperial periphery. Leadership on the groundsof Islam, once it had been fused with the politics of centralisation, gave thestate a way of reducing the inevitable decentralisation of power whichinstitutionalising its rule over conquered territory entailed.

The closeness of the relationship between the ulema elite and the sultan’s council was of central importance in preventing autonomouspower organisations arising within this heterogeneous, diffuse and sociallymobile clerical network. As long as this was maintained, the ulema’s gripon educational access and legal sanction meant that alternatively organisedideological power networks, both within the theocracy and the askeri as awhole, could have only a very limited capacity to provide what Mann calls‘the cement of class solidarity’.22 The unity of the askeri and their super-visory omnipresence also prevented horizontal ideological links betweendifferent civil groups within the reaya developing into decentralised organi-sations able to challenge the prevailing political regime. Ideological power’sother facet, transcendentalism, which tends to ‘cut right across existingeconomic, military and political power networks’,23 was also circumscribedby the verticality of the ulema’s caliph–peasant infrastructural reach. Thus,the social networks organised around the ulema remained ideologicallyimmanent and the state was able to maintain its supervisory position over,what Mann describes as, the ‘authoritative, official, political-communicationchannel’ between ruler and ruled ensuring that fatwas and canons con-tinued to be conveyed between clergy in a tightly regulated manner.24

The high level of state control over religious organisation meant thatanother of Mann’s logistical channels of ideological power, that of ‘culturaltraditions’, remained more segmental and less diffused than in his charac-terisation of the homogenising influences of Roman cultural expansion.25

This was apparent in the Ottoman notion of the millet which, although laterto denote a specifically non-Muslim community, was used to refer to one ofthe great number of distinguishable ‘peoples’ within the empire. Whiledifferences between the social organisation of the various ethnic, culturaland religious groups within the empire have often been over-emphasised,the point remains that the state made little attempt to impose a nationalideology.26 As a result the millet remained relatively atomised. Again in


contrast to Mann’s model of Rome, few Ottoman citizens, both non-Muslim and Muslim, perceived themselves to be members of an imperialtotality. The little ‘Ottoman culture’ which did develop was largely sub-sumed beneath self-perceptions of group identity based on religiousdifference.27

This strongly vertical notion of group organisation is related to AbdulRahman Ibn Khaldoun’s (1332–95) concept of group feeling that acts asthe source of social cohesion, al asabiyya.28 Ibn Khaldoun was widely readthroughout the Ottoman elite (particularly the ulema); the concept of al

asabiyya underpinned the ideological state’s primary objective, to maintainthe nizam, or social ‘order’. This was the balance between ruled and ruler,between the reaya and the askeri and between the various groups withineach.29 It was based on the so-called ‘circle of justice’ in which there can beno state without wealth, no wealth without the people’s well-being, no well-being without justice, no justice without the state, no state without wealthand so on. Justice was determined by the state in the interest of nizam. Thisdid not mean, however, that the approach to governance was, as somewriters have argued, entirely static. The notion of inkılab or ‘changeseffected legally through legislative, governmental or cultural means’ cameto be part of Ottoman political parlance as a means of forestalling theinevitable descent into anarchy that, according to the received IbnKhaldounian wisdom, awaited all societies.30 From this basis the örfi sultani

(or örf ) emerged. It had echoes of the pre-Islamic concept of the law-bringing leader and allowed the sultan to issue decrees intended to safe-guard the well-being of his community ‘regardless of his personal wishes’and subject to ratification by the leading ulema.31 Ostensibly based onnecessity and reason, the sultan’s legislative flexibility gave the Ottomanexecutive greater despotic power than an administration based purely onthe Sharia and ensured that the state remained the organisational centrefor responding to issues of social change.32

‘Developed in large part as a response to the relationship between thebeys [local landowners] and central authority’, these decrees, or kanun, wereparticularly associated with Mehmed II’s (1444–46 and 1451–81) attemptsto keep control of newly conquered lands.33 A controversially un-Islamicexample of this was his confiscation of much of the empire’s agriculturalland from the old Selçuk landlord/military classes.34 These were redis-tributed as tımar, providing ‘the government with a crucial means of main-taining some control over the most important economic resource, namelythe land, and also over the largest segment of the population, thepeasantry’.35 They were administered by seyfiyye cavalrymen, the sipahi, whocollected taxes on the state’s behalf, ensured that the land was continuouslycultivated and, in time of war, supplied men and resources proportional to


the estate’s value and revenue.36 In keeping with their status as ‘slave’ to thesultan, the sipahi were prohibited from marrying until retirement, not ableto pass their land on to their children and could be removed from their postat any time.37 As part of the vertically organised hierarchy of the askeri, theythus represented the central authority of the state at, as Table 2 shows, adiffuse village level. Together with the ulema, the sipahi formed an admin-istrative layer ‘locally reproducing the political and ideological functions ofthe state’.38 This militarising aspect of the political–ideological contactbetween state and peasant, however, also provided a potentially decentral-ising means of interaction between reaya and askeri. As Mann points out inillustrating the third of his channels of ideological power, this was aparticular problem in Rome where ‘the army was the main means by whichordinary people, usually peasants, were removed from the cultural prisonof their locality and brought into contact with the wider world’.39 Bycontrast, in the Ottoman empire the strongly pacifying and immanenteffects of the state’s ideological omnipresence prevented the temporarytımariot recruits from developing both the transcendental cults, such asMithraism, and the tendency to merge with civil society, which Mannidentifies as features of the Roman legions.

This was supported by the state’s interventionist approach in theeconomy. As such, artisans and peasants were assisted in favour ofmerchants and landlords in keeping with the caliph’s traditional obligationof hisba, the surveillance of public morals. The movement and sale ofproduce was closely controlled by the askeri, oligarchies were disbanded,sipahi and other landowners were restricted in what they could extract fromtheir labourers, riba (usury) was punished in the Sharia courts and anyexcessive wealth generated from trade investments could be seized by thestate. As Halil I

.nalcık notes, ‘confiscation was employed particularly against


TABLE 2: ASKERI., 1545–1659

Town % Country % Unknown % Total % Converts %

Janissaries 258 78.8 58 17.7 11 3.5 327 21.3 127 38.8Sipahi 509 77.4 129 19.6 19 3.0 657 43.9 158 24Ulema 327 93.1 19 5.4 5 1.5 351 23.4 33 9.4Palaceofficials

50 87.1 6 10.5 1 1.8 57 3.7 23 40.3

Craftsmen 93 83.7 16 14.4 2 1.9 111 7.6 30 27.0

Total 1,237 82.1 228 15.4 38 2.5 1,503 100 371 24.6

Source: S. Faroqhi, ‘Crisis and Change, 1590–1699’, in H. I.nalcık (ed.), An Economic and Social History of

the Ottoman Empire, Vol. 2, 1600–1914 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1994), p. 551,after O. Barkan.

the farmers and officials who had made their money through theirconnections with the Finance Department’.40 In this way, the state main-tained an authoritative influence over its agents and, in intervening on thegrounds of Islam to protect the predominantly peasant consumers, was ableto minimise the possibility of an intermediary class developing between theaskeri and the reaya. Further restraints on wealth generation were imposedby a prohibitively high exportation tariff of 12 per cent aimed at ensuringthat Ottoman traders, already constrained by the limitations of pre-modern transportation, did not develop extensive networks of economicpower.41 In this way, the pre-sixteenth-century imperial economy consistedlargely of self-sufficient production units (estates, farms, manors, and so on)trading predominantly with the state. This lack of interdependence,imposed by institutionalised restrictions on social status and the infra-structural reach of the state’s military–ideological power networks, consti-tutes what Mann (after Durkheim) identifies as a ‘segmental class system’in which no ‘societal-wide producing class capable of enforcing its interestspolitically’ emerges.42 Unlike in Rome, where the economic might of thesenatorial class, coupled with its extensive territorial and cultural unity,obliged the imperial state to rule through an intermediary body, theOttoman system ensured that no such universal ruling class could develop.43

The close proximity of the askeri to the mechanics of economic pro-duction, distribution and consumption provided a carefully monitoredextensiveness to this ‘cellular’ system. It relates, in some ways, to Mann’sreworking of Herbert Spencer’s model of the ‘military society’ which, heargues, was most apparent in Rome’s ‘legionary economy’. This employedan enhanced method of ‘compulsory co-operation’ aimed at facilitating amore thoroughly institutionalised system of imperial domination. Of thefive methods Mann outlines, the first, ‘military pacification’ operatedthrough the institutionalisation of ‘monopolistic rules conferring ownershipand governing exchange established and maintained internally by anauthoritative state’.44 Such a system was clearly in place through the sipahi’sinfluential position, both legitimising and enforcing regulation in theeconomy. With other members of the armed forces (the seyfiyye), they alsosubjugated challenges to peripheral trade routes, enforced the redistributivedecisions of the ulema’s judiciary and played an important geopolitical rolein monitoring international trade with the other regional actors. Thesecond, ‘the military multiplier’ effect, can be seen operating in the Otto-man economy as agricultural production and supply, largely managed bythe sipahi, became increasingly geared towards the needs of a permanent,professional army, the janissary corps. Apart from consumption, the seyfiyye

also stimulated regional economies by initiating infrastructural projectssuch as road and castle building and improving riverine networks. Indeed,


Rhoads Murphey concludes his study of the construction of a fortress inMosul in 1631 by noting that,

If one considers the economic stimulus provided locally in supplying theneeds of the army in the provinces, not only in the provision of its daily needssuch as grain or in the maintenance and repair of equipment giving employ-ment to blacksmiths, leather-workers and a multitude of other trades, butalso in larger terms by its acting as an employer of labour on a grand scalefor the digging of trenches, building of roads and bridges, and the construc-tion of fortresses, the army’s economic impact was not inconsiderable.45

Third, the fusion of ‘authority and economic value’ was typified by theauthoritative power of the askeri, particularly the ulema and their networkof kadi (judges), in ascribing financial legitimacy based on the Sharia andthe örf. Here, the rigidity of the ideological–political union acted as arestraint upon the stimulatory effects of the militarised economy showingthat the state and not the market remained the pre-eminent Ottomanorganisational form. The prohibition of riba and excessive profiteering, forexample, demonstrates the viewpoint of the policeman rather than theentrepreneur and contrasts sharply with the liberalisation process occurringaround this period in the West. There, the rise of capitalism involvedmultiple and cross-cutting cleavages between various social institutions asChurch competed with state, provincialism with nationalism and theproletariat with the bourgeoisie. In the Ottoman Empire, however, net-works of social interaction ‘continued to be defined by a primary axisdividing the state from all social strata rather than by multiple axes dividingsocial strata from one another’.46

The fourth element of Mann’s model, the ‘intensification of labour’, orthe degree to which the militarised imperial state can increase labourproductivity, can be seen on both sides of this state/subject divide. Thestate’s ownership of much of the empire’s arable land, coupled with thecomplex integration of religious and military agency, meant that the sipahi

could, in most cases, easily be coerced into surrendering a greater tribute.The extent to which these pressures were passed on to the peasantry wascarefully monitored through the empire’s juridical infrastructure allowingthe state to adjust the levels of surplus extraction and labour intensityaccording to its needs. In urban centres the artisan guilds were similarlyclosely affiliated to the supervisory apparatus of the central administra-tion.47 In controlling the supply of raw materials, restricting the sale offinished goods to authorised markets and suppressing independentcompetition, the state closely regulated the guilds’ structure, both in termsof their output and capital accumulation.48 ‘Through the taxation of


manufactures sold in the markets, and through its position as the chiefpurchaser of artisanal production’,49 the state was thus coercively andcollectively able to maintain control over labour intensity as well as ensurethat its agents, the askeri classes, constituted the only significant surplus-collecting social group. Supported by an immanent ideology centred upon‘the beneficence and justness of the state which … owns all the land andredistributes the surplus in order to perpetuate the “eternal order”’,50 it alsomeant that the extensive links of the artisan classes, Mann’s fourth channelof ideological communication,51 could not escape the organisational reachof the state’s judicial and tax-collection system.

Indeed, the taxation of the reaya by the askeri was one of the state’sprimary means of applying its own extensive power and extending infra-structural control across its territory. As Mann has pointed out, taxation, asa method of economic integration, gave imperial states much strongervertical links with its citizens than a rental system (which tended to favoura decentralising landlord class) or a trade-based economy implying greaterhorizontal integration and further decentralisation.52 In the absence of abanking system, wealth redistribution was controlled exclusively by the statethrough its own mechanisms of disbursement. As such, coinage was notprimarily regarded as a method of exchange between citizens, but ratheras means of paying state expenses, particularly armed forces expenditure.In what Mann calls ‘military Keynesianism’,53 the state reduced the ruralpopulation’s need for money by encouraging tax payment in kind and byadministering revenues through the provincial tımar system which mini-mised the need to transfer large sums of money to the centre.54 Suchconstraints furthered the Ottoman state’s supervisory position within theeconomy and maintained the social divide between potential economicsuccess and political influence. While it was still expanding, there could beno Crassus in the Ottoman Empire. Wealth and status could only ‘exist inisolation from power, as among the commercial and religious notables ofthe subject classes; or else they might be secondary attributes of power,distributed along with it to the more exalted of slave officials’.55

OTTOMAN CHANGE

As has often been noted, the Ottoman state’s systems of ‘military organi-sation, civil administration, taxation and land tenure were all geared to theneeds of a society expanding by conquest and colonisation’.56 When thiscame to a halt in Vienna in 1529, leading to 150 years of inconclusivewarfare with the Habsburgs, it began a slow decline in both despotic andinfrastructural power. Once the frontier became stationary, peripheral


communities began trading across the border and developed decentralisednetworks of economic power thereby modifying their allegiance to thestate.57 The provincial seyfiyye, deprived of the spoils of conquest requiredto legitimise their position, were unable to intervene, particularly in thepredominantly non-Muslim northern and western periphery where thestate’s ideological reach was less comprehensive.58 This became particularlyacute following the collapse of the Ottoman silver-based currency underpressure from Spanish-American imports and the shift in trade routes fromtrans-Ottoman to maritime channels. Increasingly unable to pay theirtroops, the Ottoman state permitted the seyfiyye to work as artisans whilebarracked. As a result, decentralised economic networks of power came toreplace the authority of the military hierarchy and troops merged with themerchant classes of garrison towns, particularly during the wheat shortagesof the second half of the sixteenth century, while still benefiting from theirtax-exempt status.59

The reduction in the value of cavalry compared to musket-bearinginfantry led to further substantial increases in the size of the seyfiyye,particularly the standing army (the janissary corps) which was enlargedfrom 7,886 men in 1527 to 37,627 in 1610 and redeployed from theirtraditional barracks in Istanbul to ‘all sectors of the empire’.60 To supportthe more defensive, labour-intensive infantry formations,61 large numbersof mercenaries, sekban, were also recruited, pushing up the total number ofimperial troops from 21,519 in 1528 to 88,382 in 1670 and increasing thecost from 58 million to 237 million asper over the same period.62 Thismilitarisation of the periphery, coupled with the rapid spread of fire-arms,offered decentralised social networks a more intensive means of organisa-tion.63 It was exacerbated by the increasing competition between the sipahi

and the janissaries, particularly over tımar allocation, which, following thedesertion of 30,000 sipahi from the battlefield at Hacova in 1596,64 led to aproliferation of decentralised armed groups (celali) and to great socialinstability.65 The rigid divide between askeri and reaya was under threat.Military power networks, always extremely extensive, had burgeoned underthe strategic imperatives of the state’s geopolitical commitments and,through decentralised economic links, had begun to constitute an inter-mediary class between subject and state. The ‘three-way stand-off ’ in whichneither arbitrary nor consultative relations structure the relationshipbetween central and local levels, so apparent in Mann’s characterisation ofthe decline of Rome,66 was developing in the early seventeenth-centuryOttoman polity. Like Diocletian (284–305), who was similarly troubled bygreat rises in the cost of warfare, the Ottoman state attempted to increaseits revenues.67 The tımar system was thus largely replaced by a system of tax-farming.68


Under the new system, arable plots were leased for one or two years tothe highest bidder who paid in advance for the right to exploit the land andsell the produce as he saw fit. Although this had the primary aim ofenlarging the productivity, both in yield and tax revenue, of the arableestates, it was also intended to reduce the entrepreneurial influence of theincreasingly propertied and irredentist seyfiyye. Crucial to this structure,however, was the state’s infrastructural capacity to prevent the tax-farmerfrom forming, through collective organisation, tax-evasive and reciprocaleconomic links with the peasantry (a consideration hardly helped by thesystem of stipulatory advance payment which favoured those with consider-able liquid assets and therefore established economic networks invisible tothe state). The increasingly fragmented askeri hierarchy did not offer the statethe necessary infrastructural reach to monitor the relationship between tax-farmer and peasant with sufficient rigour. Without this, the state was notable to keep control of civil society’s economic power networks, nor did itsucceed in preventing the ‘leakage’ of both authoritative power andresources. Civil society’s inherent tendency to wrest and decentraliseinfrastructural resources from the state, which, as Mann notes, is reinforcedby the mutually beneficial developments of compulsory co-operation,69

began to overtake the Ottoman state’s despotic capacity to maintain itshierarchical system of control. For ‘while tax-farming provided the statewith an immediate source of revenue, in the long-run it led to erosion ofits tax base since the flow of taxes upward to the centre became increasinglysubject to the interference of the tax-farmers’.70 By handing the peasantryand the market over to the tax-farmer, the Ottoman state sacrificed asignificant amount of its capacity to both intercede on behalf of the reaya

and control economic exchange. In all, ‘a process of feudalisation and arise in the strength of the local gentry’ was the result.71

These notables, around a thousand of whom dominated the tax-farmingauctions at Istanbul throughout the eighteenth century,72 emerged pre-dominantly from reaya positions such as wealthier artisan-traders (esnaf ),traditional community leaders (esraf ), landed families (derebey or çorbaçi) andtribal chiefs (aga). They were, however, also joined by significant numbersof kadi, tax-collectors from different commercial fields, sipahi, janissariesand defterdar (local treasury officials). Both reaya and askeri viewed tax-farming as a way of investing profits which otherwise might be seized bythe state. As a result, the previously rigid social divide between them becameblurred and to some extent fused in the form of the new intermediaryeconomic class. This became known as the ayan once their roles becamegenerally connected to tax-farming towards the end of the eighteenthcentury. While most remained embedded in state-determined structures ofrevenue acquisition, some ayan organised more extensive economic links


and began to act as agents between the state and less consequential families(of whom, many were tax-farming on the estates, or çiftlik, of the ayan elitethemselves).

The state, having been further strained by again failing to take Viennain 1683, was powerless to prevent the development of an increasinglydecentralised economy. The surrenders at Carlowitz and Passarovitz in1699 and 1718 respectively, followed by the first major concessions ofMuslim land in Küçük Kaynarca in 1774, severely weakened both its fiscaland ideological position in relation to civil society.73 No longer was the‘normative pacification’ of its ideological–political cohesiveness able toregulate the market and redistribute wealth. The earlier shortages of speciewhich had assisted the state in maintaining a grip on currency transactionshad been reversed by the influx of cheap silver from the New World. Thetreasury’s devaluation measures were successful in lowering the price ofdomestic products, but failed to offset the lucrative incentives of surrep-titious exportation created by the prohibitively high tariffs on internationaltrade, from which the ayan elite profited significantly.74 This led to stagnationin the crafts industries, great pressures on fixed-income earners and furtherincorporation into the Western economic system. Indeed, the ‘capitula-tions’ system, which was initially aimed at simply conferring the autonomyof the millet upon foreign traders, had, by this time, burgeoned exponen-tially, constituting, once its privileges had become hereditary, a huge tax-exempt class of foreign protégés impeding the development of anindigenous capitalist middle class.75 In all, ‘the combination of tax-farmingand its resultant weakening of state controls on production, and theincreasing concessions to foreign merchants and its resultant weakening ofstate controls on trade created a set of centrifugal forces that underminedthe basic authority of the Porte’.76 Put another way, the state’s capacity tocorrelate authority and economic value, the third of Mann’s strategies ofcompulsory co-operation, was becoming increasingly impaired.

These economic upheavals, the effects of which the state was now power-less to prevent being passed on to the reaya, added greatly to the instabilitywithin the Ottoman agricultural system. Sekban militia, often supported bygroups of destitute countrymen removed from the land for non-paymentof taxes, worked with provincial governors, a proportion of lesser ayan andthe remnants of the sipahi to impose punitive and illegal levies on thepeasantry. The state, heavily reliant on this alliance for the supply ofrevenue, could only look to effecting countervailing changes aimed atlimiting the escalating recalcitrance of the fragmenting askeri. This wasaccentuated by the decline of the ulema’s semi-independent political powerbase. Having been disastrously split by the faqih movement and the sultan’sincreasingly despotic use of the örf,77 they now lacked the horizontal links


of the ayan to whom they turned for assistance. Eventually the ayan elite waslargely able to absorb the office of provincial kadi thereby strengthening itsposition as an interjacent and politically influential body between state andsubject.78 As tax intermediaries with impunity from the law, they were ‘ableto shelter whole strings of villages from the fisc in return for near totalcontrol over village finances’.79 Indeed, some were even elected by lessertax-payers to represent their interests to the state and used this position tosecure life-long tenure on their estates further weakening the state’s capacityto correlate authority and economic value.80 As a result, the kadi could nolonger ascribe financial value with the authority of an agent of a unifiedaskeri elite. The market now began to usurp the divided state as the primarymethod of determining economic worth. Riba and excessive profiteeringbecame commonplace within the askeri as the bazaar took on the multipleand cross-cutting cleavages apparent in Europe.

Particularly affected was the ulema. In fusing with the ayan elite, a smallgroup of privileged families within the theocracy emerged who were ableto monopolise positions of great influence and conceal huge wealth.81

Consequently, their religious independence was greatly compromised ‘as akind of ulema aristocracy developed and merged with the lay aristocracy,abandoning solidarity with the socially inferior ulema’.82 This was worsenedby the recruitment of ‘official’ clerics (ulema-resmiye) who had purchasedtheir diplomas from the state and were therefore not qualified as an alim.83

Religious students (softa) and low- to medium-ranking ulema, who saw theirleaders’ apparent corruption and support for the state’s pro-Europeanposition as a threat to both their religious sensibilities and future employ-ment opportunities, were joined by traditionalist elements of the armedforces in opposing the ulema elite’s acceptance of increasing Western-isation.84 Indeed, ‘leading ulema not only sanctioned and supported theinnovations initiated by the sultans and their military and civil advisers,both Ottoman and European, some of them also played a major role inconceiving, suggesting and planning reforms on European lines’.85 SelimIII’s (1789–1807) chief judge, Tatarcik Abdullah, for instance, vehementlycalled for the adoption of Western battlefield techniques and equipmentthrough the appointment of European advisers.

This materialised in 1826 when the janissaries were replaced with a moredisciplined and reliable standing army closely associated with Westerninfluence.86 Following its disastrous performance in the 1828–29 war withRussia, however, the new military struggled to gain the legitimacy of theseyfiyye’s traditional jihadi status.87 Moreover, with the incorporation of theempire into the world economic system, their role in the military pacifi-cation of trade routes (the first of Mann’s strategies of compulsory co-operation) also declined. Maritime navigation did not require their


presence and, although they remained capable of repressing sporadic civildisorders in the capital and disarming recalcitrant ayan, they proved con-sistently unable to prevent further imperial contraction. Their domesticinfluence was further diminished with the secularisation of the justicesystem during the Tanzimat period (1839–76) and the creation of a bureau-cratic police department away from military influence.

Furthermore, the economic stimulus provided by their consumptionneeds (the military multiplier effect of Mann’s second strategy of compul-sory co-operation) became increasingly parasitical as overseas contractors,administered by the kalemiyye, undertook more and more of the empire’smajor construction projects. Moreover, these now predominantly involvedwage labour thereby further diminishing the need for a coercive militarypresence in order to improve productivity. Similarly, since the dissolutionof the tımar system, they neither had an active role in agricultural produc-tion nor in military recruitment, particularly after the introduction ofconscription in 1843. Indeed, the presence of non-Turkish conscriptswithin the professional army for the first time made the last of Mann’scompulsory co-operation methods, coerced diffusion, extremely problem-atic. Since barely one-third of the peasantry spoke Turkish, the languageand culture of the centre could no longer be transmitted to the imperialperiphery through the standing seyfiyye.88 While the cultural extensivenessof the officer corps endured, their ability to socialise the peasant-infantrybelow them was curtailed.89 This undermined the immanent legitimacy ofthe state and, without offering an alternative structure, ruptured thecohesiveness of the seyfiyye’s ideological function.90

Indeed, the prior unity of ideological and political power which hadproven so important to the maintenance and legitimacy of the state’scoercive influence in the past had, by the beginning of the Tanzimat period,significantly changed. Not only had the ulema and the seyfiyye lost theirvertical cohesion and much of their legitimacy, the political effects ofchanges to the kalemiyye, or scribal service, had further weakened the state’sideological infrastructure. Traditionally educated through the PalaceSchool’s broad and humanist curricula,91 these civil servants were longassociated with the ‘worldly’ intellectual pursuits, or the adab.92 During theeighteenth century the kalemiyye became increasingly politically activeproviding the basis for six grand viziers between 1703 and 1774 andinstitutionalising considerable support for the pro-Western reformers.93

Selim III further developed their influence by restructuring the organisationalong European bureaucratic lines and appointing civil servants to thenewly established embassies of the major European capitals.94 Closelyassociated with the centrality of state, the kalemiyye also gained a greater rolein education provisions which were seen by the Ottoman elite as ‘the prime


agent for accomplishing the aims of Westernisation’.95 To this end, the örfwas used to remove responsibility for primary schooling from the offices ofthe seyhülislam in 1824 and to set up a ministry of education under bureau-cratic control in 1838. New schools, complemented by Western-orientatedmilitary colleges, were established to train an administrative elite and toprovide the basis for a secular intelligentsia.96 Graduates of these establish-ments did indeed become an influential clique who were able to dominatethe legislative councils and key bureaucratic positions for much of thenineteenth century.97 In all, the ‘civil-bureaucratic elite that assumedpolitical pre-eminence in the era of reform took a leading role in altering,or even abandoning various elements of the traditional synthesis [of stateand religion]’.98

The Ottoman state, however, failed to make the bureaucracy sub-ordinate to the political system and was thus unable to turn administrativemodernisation into infrastructural power. Rather than avowedly neutraland entrusted with the best interests of civil society, the politicised kalemiyye

came to dominate the askeri classes. As Peter Sugar puts it, ‘the expandingbureaucracy became increasingly centralised, its power being wielded by asteadily diminishing number of persons within it’.99 The process of struc-tural and functional differentiation, strongly emphasised during theTanzimat, was not accompanied by a flexible value system as the central-ising state associated itself with secular modernity and civil society withIslamic traditionalism.100 Instead, the centre’s ‘preoccupation with savingthe empire from destruction by its internal and external enemies led to aconstant, and often exaggerated, fear of anarchy, rebellion and treason asa leitmotif of modernising Turkish statecraft’.101 The resultant attempts toestablish a direct relationship between state and peasant through theGülhane Rescript of 1839 and the Reform Edict of 1856 (which declaredthe equality of all Ottoman citizens) can therefore be seen as more an effortto appease the Western powers while organisationally outflanking the ayan

in the nizam tradition than a recognition of the inalienable rights of man.102

These recentralising endeavours, supported by further efforts at landreform in 1858 (Land Code) and 1864 (Province Law), increased the powersof regional governors appointed from the kalemiyye and were widely regardedas reinforcing the bureaucratic state’s own despotism. As a result, theyprovoked considerable opposition from the Turkish peasantry and outrightrebellion amongst non-Turkish groups.103 Such polarisation, coupled withthe decentralised economic elite’s enduring ability to resist the bureaucracy’sinterest in taxable agriculture, meant that the decline in provincialism,visible in much of Western Europe during this period, did not occur in theOttoman Empire.

A fundamental cause of the state’s inability to apply the reforms of the


Tanzimat was that the ideological channels it required to appeal to thepeasantry over the heads of the class of provincial elites had, particularlyin the periphery, fractured irrevocably. The previously ulema-controlledpolitical communication channel of caliph to peasant was now taken up bybureaucratic networks whose infrastructural capacity, while horizontallyextensive within urban elite networks, was too limited to offer the state thesame degree of vertical integration. This meant that unofficial transcen-dentalism, as an organisational alternative to the statist immanence of thecentre, became increasingly significant as the nineteenth century wore on.104

As such, non-statist clerics, particularly those in the periphery, were able toutilise their long-established extensiveness to marshal what Eisenstadtdescribes as ‘free-floating resources’ outside state control.105 In contrast to the largely ‘Turkified’ urban elite, the influence of these sheikhs, asleaders of the Sufi brotherhoods such as the enormous Qadiriya andNaqshbandiya, ‘began to extend far beyond the spiritual sphere’ gainingacceptance not just from their own order, but also from the general public.106

In 1880, for instance, the Naqshbandi leader, Ubaidullah, was able todecentralise enough political power to give him de facto control of the regionof Nihri and a basis from which to launch a large-scale rebellion.107 Signi-ficantly though, his target was not agents of the state, but local competitorswhich the recent Treaty of Berlin (1878) had appeared to favour.108 In thissense, then, the ideological channel of cultural tradition, previously sorigorously controlled by the infrastructure of state, was now more repre-sentative of the growing competition between intra-peripheral groups.109 Inother words, the failure of the state to institutionalise new ideologicalmethods of linking its apparatus to civil society reduced both its capacityto prevent political–ideological status being determined by decentralisedcivil forces and its ability to maintain ideological cohesion within its ownpolitical hierarchy.

Alternative organisational forms thus began to emerge within thebureaucracy itself. The expanding education system, which trebled theliteracy rate during the last quarter of the nineteenth century,110 hadempowered both the state and civil society – offering each a means ofautonomous infrastructural power. It also constituted what Mann terms a‘potentially dislocating’ ideological channel of communication throughwhich a challenge to the state can be organised. As such, it was around thenovel, the play and the newspaper that opposition to the Tanzimat reformscoalesced.111 In contrast, the state failed to use the expanding paper mediato explain its policies and defend its actions, preferring instead (particularlyfollowing Ali Pasha’s decree of 1867) to suspend and repress publicationscontaining unfavourable comment,112 a policy much extended under thereign of Abdul Hamid II (1876–1909). Through Namik Kemal’s play Vatan


(Fatherland), Ziya Pasha’s novel Intıbah Yahut Sergüzesti Ali Bey (Awakening or Ali

Bey’s Adventures) and the newspaper Basiret (Insight – published sporadicallyfrom 1869 to 1879),113 the Young Ottomans, many of whom had beentrained in the new elite schools, called for restrictions on the despotic powerof the state and a return to a romanticised vision of the empire’s once-greatglories.114

Namik Kemal, for instance, argued that the favourable position of non-Muslims through the millet and capitulations systems was socially divisiveand discriminatory and therefore un-Islamic and illiberal.115 The abolitionof these would, he contended, lead to a rational and ‘modern’ conceptionof group loyalty replacing the ancient idea of religious affiliation with themore immanent focus of the Ottoman vatan. In keeping with their closeaffiliation to the centre, the Young Ottomans were also strongly opposed tothe enduring and, as they saw it, retrogressive influence of the provincialeconomic elites arguing that their support amongst the peasantry was dueto the ongoing failure of the bureaucracy to modernise fully; in other wordsto represent civil society along Western infrastructural lines.116 Herein,however, lay the problem for the Young Ottomans. The decline of theulema as the primary medium of the state’s ‘official’ communicationchannel meant that the ideology of the centre could be imperialised nomore. The Young Ottomans therefore failed to extend their vision ofcitizenship, despite the infrastructural potential of the new literary media,outside their coterie of leisured ideologues.

The Young Ottomans’ inability to connect their self-contradictorypastiche of nationalism, pan-Islamism and Western liberalism to theprovinces became apparent following the overthrow of Sultan Abdul Azizin 1876.117 Although within the subsequent constitution, which NamikKemal and Ziya Pasha helped to draft, a notional model of Ottoman‘citizenry’ (without religious affiliation) was inscribed,118 the monarchicprerogative, and therefore state absolutism, remained unrestricted. Thiswas demonstrated immediately in the dismissal of the seyhülislam, HayrullahEfendi (who had legitimised the dethronement of the sultan) and therelegation of his office to the council of ministers.119 Worse still for thereformers were the elections of 1877 which, with only members ofprovincial councils enfranchised, filled their long-requested parliamentwith influential provincial notables and middle-ranking ulema from theperiphery.120 The elected deputies did not, therefore, espouse the ideologyof Young Ottomanism, but rather focused their criticism on the centristbureaucracy which, it was claimed, caused backwardness in ‘agriculture,commerce, arts, science [and] all other matters of public interest’.121 Somuch so that Abdul Hamid abandoned the idea in February 1878 in favourof a programme of Islamically legitimised administrative reforms aimed at


reinforcing state authority over the bureaucracy and ‘thus eliminating anyform of political activity not directly under his control’.122

However, despite greatly increasing the numbers of staff employed bythe central bureaucracy, heaping honours on those deemed of influenceand developing a sophisticated system of despotic terror,123 the kalemiyye

continued to fragment. This was particularly compounded by substantialremuneration disparities between favoured and disfavoured bureaucraticoffices and the commonplace use of summary dismissals, both of whichsignificantly reduced morale and efficiency. As promotion and recognitionbecame associated only with cronyism and titles sank in general esteem, thebureaucracy faltered and lost more of its cohesion.124 This was worsenedby the failure of the state to pay the interest on its debts of £200 million in1881 leading to the establishment of the Public Debt Administration(PDA)125 which institutionalised the position of European finance capitaland limited the bureaucracy’s control over the appropriation and utilisationof its revenues.126 Thus it lost much of its authoritative control at both ahorizontal state level and, as the social gap between ruler and ruled furtherwidened, in terms of its ability to link state and civil society. In all, the state’sattempts to strengthen its infrastructural reach over its agents and tooutflank the emerging concert of interests between the provincial elites anddisaffected elements within the civil service failed.

Indeed, the decentralised power of this alliance was significantly aidedby a considerable expansion in the export economy during Abdul Hamid’sreign.127 Provincial traders turned great profits (so much so that the officiallybankrupt administration gained enough revenue to begin borrowing again)out of exports such as tobacco, opium, silk and wool leading to theappearance of a nascent Muslim middle class.128 Still largely deprived ofpolitical function by the omnipotently status-determining state super-structure, however, they were not, as Feroz Ahmad points out, ‘a bourgeoisclass that exercised any significant political influence on the state’.129 Thusthe tension inherent in being an economic stake-holder denied ofcomparable political status, long a cause of separatist sentiment within themillet, became apparent within the emerging Muslim trading elite. More-over, unlike the more segmental, or what I

.lkay Sunar calls ‘disarticulated’,130

structure of non-Muslim export commodity production, this new entre-preneurial class was not disassociated from its broader sociopolitical contextby intensive links with foreign powers. As a result, the expansion of thebureaucracy (which increasingly obliged the elite schools of the centre to enrol students from outside their traditional clique)131 offered theseprovincial notables an opportunity to establish a foothold in the politicalcentre as well as to gain ‘a degree of professional specialisation [which]created the conditions for selectivity and stratification among the


intelligentsia and produced eventually a political ideology and a leadershipgroup’.132 By the 1880s, opposition to bureaucratic centrism coalescedaround five students of the Mektebi Tibbiyeri Askeriye (Military MedicalSchool) all of whom originated from the imperial periphery.133 Thus theleadership of the Ottoman Society of Union and Progress (Osmanlı I

.ttıhat

ve Tarakkı Cemiyetti), or so-called Young Turks as they became known,represented, from the outset, provincial opposition to the imperial state. Inmany ways, the emergence of this organisation, which will be examined inmore detail in Chapter 3, marked the beginnings of more than 50 years ofintensive ideological power contention which was ultimately to result in theend of the Ottoman Empire and the institutionalisation of a republicannation-state.

CONCLUSION

The extensive power of the Ottoman state’s territorial claim was based onthe unity between ideology and politics and, as such, was the primarymechanism through which newly acquired conquests were assimilated andgoverned. It provided the structure and the means to join the periphery tothe centre. Embellished by the örf, it maintained a polity of sufficientadaptability to systematise highly diverse indigent groups as well as to linkthem directly to the state thereby staying organisationally ahead of civilsociety’s inherent tendency to decentralise power and spawn a ruling orintermediary class. In this sense, Islam provided the state with a morecomprehensive and intensive socialisation mechanism than the Romanmethod of governing through a local ruling elite imbued with the culturalvalues of the centre. The combination of örf and Sharia offered theOttoman state a more socially inclusive structure of governance than theRoman ruling class society, in which Mann argues ‘only the elites wereadmitted into real membership’.134 The original transcendentalism ofIslam’s message was transformed by the military success and politicalsymbolism of the Ottoman caliph into an immanent ideological infra-structure flexible enough to absorb, or at least administer, the sociallyheterogeneous periphery. Structured by the omnipresent askeri hierarchy,the Ottomans’ political–ideological monism thus gave the imperial state alevel of territoriality hitherto unattained.

This calls into question Mann’s assertions regarding the exceptionallyhigh levels of pre-modern infrastructural power the Roman Empirepossessed. Indeed, if, as Mann contends, state power consists of the‘centralised, institutionalised, territorialised regulation of many aspects ofsocial relations’, then the presence of a ‘partly decentralised’ social group


within the legionary economy would seem to limit significantly Rome’sclaim to territoriality.135 In a dialectic not apparent within the Ottomanadministration, the Roman state was, on the one hand, unable to gaincentralised control of the intermediary class’s socioeconomic networks ofpower, but, on the other, such a decentralised structure could not flourishwithout the state’s military role in the legionary economy. So, while theinstitutionalisation of a common ruling-class culture was key to Rome’sfunctional longevity, it proved too territorially limited to control theappropriation of social status within civil society. In other words, byallowing local elites to develop a political capability beyond their economicpower base, the state was forced to govern through a senate of provincialaristocrats.

Since state function was so unidimensionally military in character andfundamentally reliant on decentralised social networks, the Roman Empirewas not, it seems, a territorial empire in the Ottoman sense. The ideologicalchannels which Mann identifies within the Roman imperial polity, boundthe ruling class together through a secular culture transmitted by a com-bination of Latin and Greek literary links, but were largely beyond the reachof the state. Without an integrated ideological function, and an economycontrolled by an independent intermediary class, Mann’s portrayal of theRoman state’s political claim to territoriality is largely based around amilitary role within the framework of compulsory co-operation. In con-trast, the Ottoman state’s organisation of social power was more multi-faceted. Unencumbered by such a decentralised challenge, it owned theempire. Neither within the manufacturing economy nor as part ofagricultural production was there the ‘three-way power standoff ’ betweenthe state, its agents and an established intermediary class.136 While thesedecentralising tendencies are an inherent factor in imperial rule and onethat is crucial to an understanding of the decline of Rome, as it is to thedecline of the Ottoman Empire, its manifestation is not made inevitable bythe weakness of imperial infrastructural power. So long as it continued toexpand, the Ottoman state was able to allocate sufficient resources to itsmilitary–ideological–political superstructure to prevent such challengesemerging, even within its periphery. This gave it a political function and adespotic, autonomous territoriality not simply based on a monopoly ofcoercive force. Its extensive network of clerical, military and commercialagents added a comprehensive and statist political–ideological dimensionto civil society’s social networks at a very intensive level. Moreover, unlikeMann’s depiction of a horizontally unified ruling class in Rome, the askeri’sstrongly vertical organisational nature was continually reinforced bycomprehensive systems of state intervention. Few within the Ottomanadministration could read, no empire-wide lingua franca existed and, apart


from fiscal records undertaken by treasury officials, written communicationwas rare. In all, the multiethnic, polylingual and non-stratified askeri couldnot be considered a universal ruling class in the form that Mann sees as afeature of Roman social organisation.

Of the four ideological channels which Mann identifies within theRoman imperial polity, three – the authoritative/official, the armed forcesand the artisan – were heavily circumscribed by the Ottoman state’snetworks of ideological power. These provided a means of resolving thecontradictions of imperial rule, set out in Table 3, which, Mann argues, theRomans had been unable to do.137 So long as the Ottoman state maintainedcontrol over these channels, particularism was weak as no hereditaryaristocracy could challenge the universalism of the caliph’s umma.138 Norcould it develop organisational alternatives to the centralised position to thestate which, unlike Rome, did not lack ‘real’ infrastructural power. Thecomplexity and comprehensiveness of these networks ensured that civili-sation and militarism were kept apart. State-controlled normative structurescould absorb and govern newly conquered communities through economicand ideological linkages without the need for perpetual military coercion.By the sixteenth century, this had established a system of vassal states, neverfully subjugated, covering extensive areas of central Europe, the Hijaz andthe Caucusus. In both the periphery and the core, social status was tooheavily controlled by the state to permit a political challenge to the ideo-logically ‘natural’ hierarchy of sultan to peasant thereby organisationallyoutflanking claims to egalitarian citizenship. This verticality obviated theneed for an official uniformity thus the fourth channel of ideological power,the cultural traditions of localised networks such as regional languages andshared beliefs, which, as Mann points out, ‘could communicate unaidedonly over small spaces’,139 was either ignored or tacitly promoted by theOttoman state as a means of strengthening the cosmopolitan ‘segmental-ism’ of the reaya.140

Once the Ottoman state’s capacity to support infrastructurally itsposition as the only arbiter of ideological legitimacy and political functiondiminished during the nineteenth century, however, contradictory inter-stitial trends similar to those in Rome emerged within these channels. AsFigure 1 illustrates, particularist patrimonialism became commonplace


TABLE 3: THE CONTRADICTIONS OF IMPERIAL RULE

1 Universalism versus Particularism2 Decentralisation versus Centralisation3 Civilisation versus Militarism4 Equality versus Hierarchy5 Cosmopolitanism versus Uniformity

within state agencies as the traditional divide between askeri and reaya gaveway to more decentralised socioeconomic groups. Utilising the officialchannel of the state bureaucracy and the nascent literacy networks existentwithin sections of civil society, the Young Ottomans and then the YoungTurks institutionalised, first, an elite and, second, a provincial challenge tofurther centralisation. This diminished the religious proto-nationalistefficacy of the ulema without institutionalising a viable alternative. As aresult and in contrast to Western patterns of social change, the state’sinfrastructural reach diminished. Concurrently, the ayan were able toincrease their influence over mercantile channels of ideological communi-cation within the periphery eventually decentralising a limited amount ofpolitical power and thus, by the early nineteenth century, taking on manyof the characteristics of a semi-extensive intermediary ‘class’. As a resultof the expansion of the state’s bureaucracy, they were able to build on theseprovincial networks to gain a foothold in the educational establishments ofthe core.

Now more marginal to the state’s centralised control, the military’sideological channel also became increasingly subject to decentralisinginfluence. Previously embedded in the ulema’s immanent organisation ofstate power, Western-style bureaucratisation and successive defeats weak-ened their ability to transmit the ideology of the centre to the periphery.Overlapping with the military’s communication channel, was the state’scapacity to regulate the cultural traditions of the provinces. While expand-ing, the imperial centre was generally able to ensure that these intra-peripheral networks remained localised and intensive. Increases in thestanding army, coupled with the growing power of both local elites and


Mercantile

Official

Cultural traditions

Military

Embedded in statestructures

Controlled by ulema

Localised segments

Embedded inideological state

Decentralised by ayan

Gradually absorbed by, andthen challenged from within,

the bureaucracy

Politicised in intra-peripherypolarisation

Decentralised by conscriptionand fragmentation of askeri

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FIGURE 1: CHANGES IN OTTOMAN IDEOLOGICAL CHANNELS OF COMMUNICATION

foreign agents, however, eventually brought about an intensification ofthese cultural channels and a rise in intra-peripheral conflicts largelybeyond state control. In all, despite lacking the horizontal extensivenessnecessary to challenge the systemic position of the state, such decentralisingnetworks within the empire’s ideological channels of communication wereable to exploit wider social changes occurring during this period andestablish organisational alternatives to the imperial superstructure. Theyprovided the basis, or in Mann’s terms ‘laid the tracks’, for the disassemblyof segmental cosmopolitanism in favour of a national-state Gesellschaft.

The decline of the state’s supervisory position, the rising influence of theWest and the growing strength of decentralised market forces also meantthat compulsory co-operation, as a method of imperial domination, couldno longer form the basis of Ottoman territoriality. As Figure 2 illustrates,the military multiplier effect was reduced as the state bureaucracy, and thenoverseas contractors, increasingly administered centrally planned infra-structural enterprises. The military’s pacifying function was also reducedas trade linkages shifted away from trans-imperial routes and towards thegreater cost effectiveness of maritime transportation. Bureaucratisationdiminished their role in the domestic repression of the reaya as ‘modern’police systems acquired civil authority. Within the bazaar, the state’s mili-tary function similarly changed. The ulema/seyfiyye’s military/ideologicalcomplex was no longer required to correlate authority and economic valueas the decentralised market forces of international capitalism graduallybecame the empire’s primary economic organisational form. With the end


Military multiplier

Militarypacification

Authority andeconomic value

Intensification oflabour

Seyfiyye’s stimulus

Seyfiyye’s socialposition

The state’smilitary–ideological

complex

Coercive position ofseyfiyye

Overseas contractsadministered by kalemiyye

Shift in trade routes anddomestic policing controlled

by kalemiyye

Replaced by market forces

End of tımar system andfragmentation of ulema

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FIGURE 2: CHANGES IN OTTOMAN COMPULSORY CO-OPERATION

Coerced diffusion Resisted by the statePartially attempted through

standing armies

of the tımar system, neither was the state’s military input into state extractionnecessary. The emergence of the ayan as a semi-extensive, decentralisedeconomic class prevented military agents of the state from gaining directaccess to the peasantry. As a result, the exploitation of the reaya was more dependent on local elites and international economic forces than onthe ‘repression as benevolence’ of compulsory co-operation. Elements ofcoerced diffusion were, in response, used by the state as an attempt toreimpose their authority. Within the standing armies which replaced thesipahi system, for instance, technological advances were extended toprovincial outposts, but without sufficient restrictions on their agents’ statusand wealth accumulation (plus the ideological fragmentation brought byconscription), the state was unable to prevent these from merging with elitegroups within the reaya. In all, the collapse in the Ottoman version ofcompulsory co-operation meant that, while the state’s emphasis on politicalchange in the inkılab tradition ensured that most decentralised powernetworks generally remained segmental and disarticulate, the three-waystand-off, which according to Mann was inherent in all pre-modern empires,began to appear.

While much of this analysis represents a new, and occasionally contra-dictory, addition to Mann’s general theoretical framework, his modelremains illuminating. Having highlighted many of these contradistinctions,it is important to emphasise that the institutionalisation of social powerwithin the Ottoman Empire constitutes, in many ways, a refinement ofMann’s construction of the methods of imperial domination and ideo-logical organisation rather than a refutation. This is particularly the case asthe Ottoman state’s capacity to support its position declined and the empiretook on the more decentralised characteristics apparent in Mann’s treat-ment of earlier empires. In all, this account of Ottoman continuity andchange suggests that Mann’s macro-historical approach provides anappropriate and profitable means of analysing and comparing patterns oflarge-scale social reorganisation. Thus both Mann’s theoretical compo-sition and his diachronic exposition will be used to look at the end of theempire and the establishment of the Turkish republic in Chapter 3.

NOTES

1. For the early centuries of Ottoman rule, this study will largely focus on the Rumeliaand Anatolia from which the state social systems were gradually expanded (see M. Heper, ‘Centre and Periphery in the Ottoman Empire with Special Reference tothe Nineteenth Century’, International Political Science Review, 1 (1980), pp. 99–100, n.3).

2. M. Mann, The Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press,1986), Ch. 10.


3. See I. Togan, ‘Ottoman History by Inner Asian Norms’, Journal of Peasant Studies, 18(1991), pp. 195–6.

4. S. Mardin, ‘Ideology and Religion in the Turkish Revolution’, International Journal ofMiddle East Studies, 2 (1971) explains this process in greater detail, passim.

5. As Mann goes on to explain, this is for two reasons: ‘leadership in emergency situations(of which wars are the clearest examples) needs the speed of authoritarian decision-making, and thus, secondly, booty will normally be distributed by the military-stateleadership’. M. Mann, ‘States, Ancient and Modern’, Archives Europa Sociologica, 18(1977), p. 289.

6. It is unclear if Selim claimed to be caliph over the entire umma. For an alternative viewsee H. I

.nalcık, ‘Islam in the Ottoman Empire’, Cultura Turcica, 5–7 (1968).

7. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, p. 21.8. S. Mardin, ‘Religion and Secularism in Turkey’, in A. Kazancıgil and E. Özbudun

(eds), Atatürk: Founder of a Modern State (London, C. Hurst, 1981), p. 194.9. Ibid.

10. A useful account of this mutuality is to be found in A. Hourani, ‘The OttomanBackground to the Modern Middle East’, in K. Karpat (ed.), The Ottoman State and itsPlace in World History (Leiden, E.J. Brill, 1974).

11. For a broader analysis of Muslim society’s tendency to unify ideology and politics, seeS. Eisenstadt, ‘The Kemalist Regime and Modernisation’, in J. Landau (ed.), Atatürkand the Modernisation of Turkey (Boulder, CO, Westview Press, 1984), pp. 11–13.

12. F. Frey, ‘Patterns of Elite Politics in Turkey’, in G. Lenczowski (ed.), Political Elites in theMiddle East (Washington, DC, AEIPPR, 1978), pp. 47–8.

13. The ruled were the tax-paying masses, the reaya. Eisenstadt claims such distinctionsbetween rulers and ruled are common within imperial systems (S. Eisenstadt, ThePolitical System of Empires (New York, Macmillan, 1969), p. 321). Compare, for instance,the shik and the min in imperial China (see O. Lattimore, Inner Asian Frontiers of China(Boston, MA, Beacon Press, 1962), p. 49).

14. Since in Islamic terms all are slaves of God, an Ottoman ‘slave’ was not a personentirely devoid of status, but one whose status was rigidly controlled by her/his master,in this case the state. See V. Parry, ‘Elite Elements in the Ottoman Empire’, in R. Wilkinson (ed.), Governing Elites (New York, Oxford University Press, 1969),pp. 55–8. For a useful discussion of how the devsirme system fitted into the Ottomanpolity as a whole, see P. Anderson, Lineages of the Absolutist State (London, Verso (6thedn), 1993), pp. 366–8. It should also be noted that there were considerable benefitsfor a family to engage in this custom and it was thus frequently entered into withoutthe generally over-emphasised element of coercion. Indeed, Arnold Toynbee notesthat ‘no pressure was put on the boys to become Muslim and none was needed’.A. Toynbee, ‘The Ottoman Empire’s Place in World History’, in K. Karpat (ed.), TheOttoman State and its Place in World History (Leiden, E.J. Brill, 1974), p. 26.

15. Toynbee, ‘The Ottoman Empire’s Place in World History’, p. 26.16. C. Findley, Bureaucratic Reform in the Ottoman Empire: The Sublime Porte, 1789–1922

(Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1980), p. 19.17. S. Mardin, ‘Centre–Periphery Relations: A Key to Turkish Politics?’, Daedalus, 102

(1973), p. 174.18. See D. Kushner, The Rise of Turkish Nationalism, 1876–1908 (London, Frank Cass, 1977),

for an account of the absence of a Turkish national identity in the pre-nineteenth-century Ottoman Empire.

19. S. Mardin, ‘Ideology and Religion in the Turkish Revolution’, p. 203.20. See M. Heper, ‘The State, Religion and Pluralism: The Turkish Case in Comparative

Perspective’, British Journal of Middle-Eastern Studies, 18 (1991), pp. 42–6, for a briefcomparison of these two developmental patterns.

21. ‘God alone is the Great Legislator, since he has already given the Law (Sharia), divine,perfect, sufficient, unchangeable, written in the Koran for eternity in the last revelation


necessary for humanity. Therefore, there is neither place nor need for a legislatingstate’ (William Zartman cited in E. Özbudun, ‘Antecedents of Kemalist Secularism:Some Thoughts on the Young Turk Period’, in A. Evin (ed.), Modern Turkey: Continuityand Change (Opladen, Leske Verlag & Budrich Gmbh, 1984), p. 44.

22. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, pp. 269–70.23. Ibid., p. 301.24. Ibid., p. 311.25. Ibid.26. See Findley, Bureaucratic Reform in the Ottoman Empire, passim.27. See K. Karpat, An Inquiry into the Social Foundations of Nationalism in the Ottoman State,

Research Monograph 39 (Princeton, NJ, Centre for International Studies, PrincetonUniversity, 1973), p. 38. The state also took a hand in maintaining and organising thisdiversity. Members of the different millet were, for example, discouraged from wearingclothes characteristic of another millet or class (see S. Mardin, ‘Historical Determinantsof Stratification: Social Class and Class Consciousness in Turkey’, Siyasal BilgilerKakultesi Dergisi, 22 (1967), pp. 129–30.

28. In Al Muqaddimah this essentially nomadic quality, which becomes corrupted by theexperiences of urbanisation leading to social chaos before eventual resurgence, is thebasis for Ibn Khaldoun’s cyclical account of human civilisation.

29. See N. Berkes, ‘The Two Facets of the Kemalist Revolution’, Muslim World, 64 (1974),p. 295.

30. Ibid., p. 294.31. S. Shaw, History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey, Vol. 1, 1280–1808 (Cambridge,

Cambridge University Press, 1976), p. 134. The ulemas’ fatwas were not, of course,always acted upon by the sultan and his advisers. If ignored, however, there was asignificant risk of a sultan losing some of the caliph’s all-important legitimacy andfomenting resistance among the influential pious.

32. Halil I.nalcık notes that this was augmented by the adoption of the Hanifi school of

jurisprudence which, he argues, is ‘characterised by its broader principles to allow thestate to introduce measures to cope with newly arising problems’ (‘Islam in theOttoman Empire’, p. 22).

33. K. Karpat, ‘Structural Change, Historical Stages of Modernisation and the Role ofSocial Groups in Turkish Politics’, in K. Karpat (ed.), Social Change and Politics in Turkey:A Structural–Historical Analysis (Leiden, E.J. Brill, 1973), p. 32.

34. The traditional teaching of Islam tends to emphasise strongly the rights of privateproperty.

35. K. Karpat, ‘The Stages of Ottoman History: A Structural Comparative Approach’,in Karpat (ed.), The Ottoman State, p. 89.

36. It has been estimated that by 1475 there were 22,000 sipahi in Anatolia and 17,000 inRumelia. Each time a sultan was enthroned these were reshuffled to prevent themmerging with civil society and constituting a decentralised intermediary class(Anderson, Lineages of the Absolutist State, pp. 368–9).

37. See Karpat, ‘Structural Change’, pp. 32–6.38. H. I

.slamoglu and Ç. Keyder, ‘Agenda for Ottoman History’, in H. I

.slamoglu-I

.nan

(ed.), The Ottoman Empire and the World Economy (Cambridge, Cambridge UniversityPress, 1987), p. 48.

39. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, p. 311.40. H. I

.nalcık, ‘Capital Formation in the Ottoman Empire’, Journal of Economic History, 29

(1969), p. 107.41. Owen Lattimore estimates that animals used to transport food would have to eat the

contents of their loads every 100 miles (Studies in Frontier History (London, OxfordUniversity Press, 1962), pp. 476–85). For further data, see F. Bailey, British Policy and theTurkish Reform Movement (Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1942), p. 79 andM. Finley, The Ancient Economy (London, Chatto & Windus, 1973), p. 128.


42. Mann, ‘States, Ancient and Modern’, pp. 269–70.43. Defined by Mann as ‘an economic class that has successfully monopolised other power

sources to dominate a state-centred society at large’ (Mann, Sources of Social Power,Vol. 1, p. 25).

44. Ibid., pp. 148–9.45. R. Murphey, ‘The Construction of a Fortress at Mosul in 1631’, in O. Okyar and

H. I.nalcık (eds), Social and Economic History of Turkey (1071–1920) (Ankara, Meteksan

Sırketı, 1980), p. 169.46. R. Bianchi, Interest Groups and Political Development in Turkey (Princeton, NJ, Princeton

University Press, 1984), pp. 87–8.47. See S. Stern, ‘The Constitution of an Islamic City’, in A. Hourani and S. Stern (eds),

The Islamic City: A Colloquium (Philadelphia, PA, University of Pennsylvania Press,1970), passim and G. Baer ‘The Administrative, Economic and Social Functions ofTurkish Guilds’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 1 (1970) passim. For analternative view, see B. Lewis, ‘The Islamic Guilds’, Economic History Review, 8 (1937),passim.

48. See H. I.nalcık, ‘The Ottoman Economic Mind and Aspects of the Ottoman

Economy’, in M. Cook (ed.), Studies in the Economic History of the Middle East (London,Oxford University Press, 1970), pp. 216–17.

49. H. I.slamoglu and Ç. Keyder, ‘The Ottoman Social Formation’, in A. Bailey and

J. Llobera (eds), The Asiatic Mode of Production (London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1981),p. 303.

50. Ç. Keyder, ‘The Dissolution of the Asiatic Mode of Production’, Economy and Society,5 (1976), p. 181.

51. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, pp. 312–13.52. Ibid., p. 271.53. See M. Mann, ‘The Autonomous Power of the State: Its Origins, Mechanisms and

Results’, Archives Europa Sociologica, 25 (1984), p. 204.54. See S. Pamuk, ‘Money in the Ottoman Empire’, in H. I

.nalcık (ed.), An Economic and

Social History of the Ottoman Empire, Vol. 2 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press,1994), pp. 952–3.

55. Findley, Bureaucratic Reform in the Ottoman Empire, p. 15.56. B. Lewis, The Emergence of Modern Turkey (London, Oxford University Press, 1961), p. 27.57. Lattimore writes, ‘Men of both border populations, working together in this way,

become a “we” group to whom others of their nationality, and especially theauthorities, are “they”’, Studies in Frontier History, p. 470.

58. See S. Andreski, Military Organisation and Society (Berkeley, CA, University of CaliforniaPress, 1971), pp. 20–74.

59. See H. I.nalcık, An Economic and Social History of the Ottoman Empire, Vol. 1, 1300–1600

(Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1994), pp. 182–5, and P. Coles, The OttomanImpact on Europe (London, Thames & Hudson, 1968), pp. 168–9.

60. I.nalcık, An Economic and Social History of the Ottoman Empire, Vol. 1, p. 24. Yücel Özkaya,

however, puts the figure much higher, at 40,000 in 550 and 100,000 in 1600 (cited inI.. Sunar, ‘State and Society in the Ottoman Empire’, in H. I

.slamoglu-I

.nan (ed.), The

Ottoman Empire and the World Economy (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1987),p. 71. See also H. I

.nalcık, ‘The Nature of Traditional Society: Turkey’, in R. Ward

and D. Rustow (eds), Political Modernisation in Japan and Turkey (Princeton, NJ, PrincetonUniversity Press, 1964), p. 46.

61. See Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, pp. 453–8.62. Karpat, ‘Structural Change’, p. 35.63. See H. I

.nalcık, ‘The Socio-Political Effects of the Diffusion of Fire-Arms in the

Middle-East’, in V. Parry and M. Yapp (eds), War, Technology and Society in the Middle-East (London, Oxford University Press, 1975), p. 211.

64. See Karpat, ‘The Stages of Ottoman History’, pp. 89–90.


65. These rebellions were not, as some have argued, peasant revolts of the Europeanfeudal ilk. Although they included peasants who had fled the military/fiefdom or thosewho were loyal to a dispossessed sipahi, they were essentially the actions of organisedgroups of minor gentry whose target was not superior feudatories, but representativesof state authority. See Mardin, ‘Historical Determinants of Stratification’, pp. 131–3,for a fuller account.

66. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, p. 282.67. Ibid., pp. 289–95.68. The 63,000 tımar of 1475 were reduced to 7,000 by 1630. See Karpat, ‘Structural

Change’, p. 35, after I.nalcık.

69. Mann, ‘The Autonomous Power of the State’, pp. 205–6.70. Sunar, ‘State and Society in the Ottoman Empire’, p. 70.71. Mardin, ‘Historical Determinants of Stratification’, p. 133.72. See B. McGowan, ‘The Age of the Ayans, 1699–1812’, in H. I

.nalcık (ed.), An Economic

and Social History of the Ottoman Empire, Vol. 2, 1600–1914 (Cambridge, CambridgeUniversity Press, 1994), p. 662.

73. See K. Karpat, ‘The Transformation of the Ottoman State, 1789–1908’, InternationalJournal of Middle East Studies, 3 (1972), pp. 245–51.

74. See Sunar, ‘State and Society in the Ottoman Empire’, pp. 69–74 and R. Chandler,Travels in Asia Minor (London, Macmillan, 1971), p. 73. Salonika was, for instanceheavily involved in illegal exportation. There, external trade rose from 900,000 piastresin 1700 to 9,500,000 piastres in 1786 (McGowan, ‘The Age of the Ayans’, pp. 735–6).

75. Peter Sugar reports that Austria alone certified 200,000 subjects in Moldavia and60,000 in Wallachia (P. Sugar, ‘Economic and Political Modernisation: Turkey’, in R. Ward and D. Rustow (eds), Political Modernisation in Japan and Turkey (Princeton, NJ,Princeton University Press, 1964), p. 154.

76. I. Wallerstein, H. Decdeli and R. Kasaba, ‘The Incorporation of the Ottoman Empireinto the World Economy’, in H. I

.slamoglu-I

.nan (ed.), The Ottoman Empire and the World

Economy (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1987), p. 92.77. This movement vehemently opposed the increasing Western influence at work in the

Ottoman Empire arguing that much of it constituted an illegal bidah (innovation). Inattacking the European links and questionable lifestyles of some of the ulema elite,their leader, Mehmed Birgivi, attracted considerable support among the reaya leadingto a significant loss of ulema authority, unity and legitimacy (I

.nalcık, ‘Islam in the

Ottoman Empire’, pp. 25–6).78. For a more detailed account of this process see H. I

.nalcık, ‘Centralisation and

Decentralisation in Ottoman Administration’, in T. Naff and R. Owen (eds), Studiesin Eighteenth-Century Islamic History (Carbondale and Edwardsville, IL, Southern IllinoisUniversity Press, 1977), pp. 41–2.

79. McGowan, ‘The Age of the Ayans’, p. 662.80. See H. Gibb and H. Bowen, Islamic Society and the West (London, Oxford University

Press, 1957), pp. 193–4.81. Niyazi Berkes comments that during this period ‘the higher ulema were engaged in

extra-curricular activities such as selling offices, degrees, ranks and favours, usuriousdealings, even in tax-farming and the expropriation of estates, and above all incontrolling the pious foundations’ (N. Berkes, The Development of Secularism in Turkey(Montreal, McGill University Press, 1964 [1998 edn]), pp. 61–2.

82. A. Levy, ‘The Ottoman Ulema and the Military Reforms of Sultan Mahmud II’, Asianand African Studies, 7 (1971), p. 14.

83. See R. Chambers, ‘The Ottoman Ulema and the Tanzimat’, in N. Keddie (ed.),Scholars, Saints and Sufis (Berkeley, CA, University of California Press, 1972), p. 34.

84. See H. Reed, ‘Ottoman Reform and the Janissaries: The Eskenci Layihasi of 1826’, inOkyar and I

.nalcık (eds), Social and Economic History of Turkey, pp. 194–6.

85. U. Heyd, ‘The Ottoman Ulema and Westernisation in the Time of Selim III and


Mahmud II’, Scripta Hierosolymitana, 9 (1961), p. 64. See also S. Shaw, ‘The Origins ofthe Ottoman Military Reform: The Nizam-Cedid Army of Sultan Selim’, Journal ofModern History, 37 (1965), p. 294.

86. Hellmuth von Molte, later Prussian Chief of Staff, commented in 1835, while workingfor Mahmud II, that the Ottoman army had ‘Russian jackets, French regulations,Belgian weapons, Turkish caps, Hungarian saddles, English swords and instructorsfrom all nations’ (cited in R. Davison, Reform in the Ottoman Empire, 1856–1876(Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1963), p. 31).

87. See Levy, ‘The Ottoman Ulema’, pp. 30–1.88. D. Rustow, ‘The Military’, in R. Ward and D. Rustow (eds), Political Modernisation in

Japan and Turkey (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1964), pp. 357–8.89. D. Quataert, ‘The Age of Reforms, 1812–1914’, in I

.nalcık (ed.), An Economic and Social

History of the Ottoman Empire, Vol. 2, pp. 798–823.90. As the contemporary statesmen Ahmed Cevdet observed, ‘In Europe, indeed,

patriotism has taken the place of religious devotion, but this has happened at the endof their feudal period; their children hear the word “fatherland” while they are stillsmall, and so years later the call of patriotism has become effective with their soldiers.But among us, if we say the word “fatherland” all that will come to the minds of thesoldiers is their village squares. If we were to adopt the word “fatherland” now, andin the course of time, it were to acquire the power that it has in Europe, even then itwould not be as potent as religious zeal, nor could it take its place’. Cited in Lewis,The Emergence of Modern Turkey, p. 332.

91. See B. Miller, The Palace School of Muhammad the Conqueror (Cambridge, CambridgeUniversity Press, 1941), Ch. 4.

92. See Findley, Bureaucratic Reform in the Ottoman Empire, pp. 9–12.93. See N. Itzkowitz, ‘Eighteenth-Century Ottoman Realities’, Studia Islamica, 16 (1962),

p. 89.94. See C. Findley, ‘The Legacy of Tradition to Reform: Origins of the Ottoman Foreign

Ministry’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 1 (1970), p. 355.95. A. Kazamias, Education and the Quest for Modernity in Turkey (London, George Allen &

Unwin, 1966), p. 52.96. See W. Weiker, ‘The Ottoman Bureaucracy: Modernisation and Reform’, Administra-

tive Science Quarterly, 13 (1968), p. 460. New naval and infantry engineering schools hadbeen set up in 1773 an 1793 respectively which, from 1827 onwards, starteddispatching students to various European countries for further training. See Lewis, TheEmergence of Modern Turkey, Chs. 3 and 4 and Karpat, ‘Structural Change’, pp. 44–5.

97. See S. Shaw, ‘The Central Legislative Councils in the Ottoman Reform MovementBefore 1876’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 1 (1970), passim.

98. Findley, Bureaucratic Reform in the Ottoman Empire, p. 11.99. Sugar, ‘Economic and Political Modernisation: Turkey’, p. 157.

100. See R. Bellah, ‘Religious Aspects of Modernisation in Turkey and Japan’, in J. Finkleand R. Gable (eds), Political Development and Social Change (New York, Wiley & Sons,1968), pp. 188–9.

101. Bianchi, Interest Groups and Political Development in Turkey, p. 91.102. See M. Heper, The State Tradition in Turkey (Hull, Eothen Press, 1985), pp. 39–40 and

S. Mardin, ‘The Mind of the Turkish Reformer’, Western Humanities Review, 15 (1960),p. 425.

103. Kemal Karpat argues that these measures proved more oppressive than the old ayan’scontrol of the peasantry and so ‘people found it more congenial to follow their owncommunal leader’ (K. Karpat, ‘The Transformation of the Ottoman State, 1789–1908’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 3 (1972), p. 263).

104. For instance, the Kuleli incident of 1859 in which around 40 theological professors andarmy officers conspired to overthrow the state on the grounds of its contravention ofthe Sharia. Roderic Davison notes that this event ‘provides a good index to widespread


Turkish attitudes. It revealed … [a] condemnation of the government both for itsreform edicts and its apparent submission to foreign influences’ in R. Davison, ‘TurkishAttitudes Concerning Christian–Muslim Equality in the Nineteenth Century’,American Historical Review, 59 (1954), pp. 844–64.

105. For the relationship of the ulema with the traditional periphery, particularly in south-east Anatolia, during this period, see M. Yegen, ‘The Turkish State Discourse and theExclusion of Kurdish Identity’, in S. Kedourie (ed.), Turkey: Identity, Democracy and Politics(London, Frank Cass, 1996), p. 219 and Eisenstadt, The Political System of Empires, passim.

106. P. Kreyenbroek, ‘Religion and Religions in Kurdistan’, in P. Kreyenbroek and C. Allison (eds), Kurdish Culture and Identity (London, Zed Books, 1993), p. 95. For ageneral account of Sufi heterodoxy, see H. Kissling, ‘The Sociological and EducationalRole of the Dervish Orders in the Ottoman Empire’, American Anthropologist Memoir, 76(1954), passim.

107. Around 50,000 attacked the non-Sunni communities of the Urumiya plain, immedi-ately displacing at least 10,000 people. The conflict was eventually suppressed amidstimmense bloodshed by a combined Ottoman and Persian force after the majority ofUbaidullah’s forces had gone home with their spoils.

108. The Berlin Treaty offered protection to the Armenian community (Article 61) and wasseen by many of the neighbouring social groups as ‘a stepping stone … towards theemergence of an independent Armenian state’ (D. McDowall, A Modern History of theKurds (London, I.B. Tauris, 1992), p. 56).

109. Kemal Karpat supports this arguing that once the Tanzimat’s legislation had replacedthe protected status of millet with inapplicable notions of citizenship, ‘the relativeposition of the religious and ethnic groups within the Ottoman Empire began to bedecided on the basis of their numerical strength’ leading to ‘mutual interference andoppression’ (K. Karpat, ‘Millets and Nationality: The Roots of the Incongruity ofNation and State in the Post-Ottoman Era’, in B. Braude and B. Lewis (eds), Christiansand Jews in the Ottoman Empire: The Functioning of a Plural Society, Vol. 1 (New York, Holmes& Meier, 1982), p. 163.

110. See Lewis, The Emergence of Modern Turkey, p. 455.111. See S. Mardin, ‘Some Notes on the Early Phase in the Modernisation of Communi-

cations in Turkey’, Comparative Studies in Society and History, 3 (1961), passim.112. See R. Davison, ‘How the Ottoman Government Adjusted to a New Institution: The

Newspaper Press’, in S. Akural (ed.), Turkic Culture: Continuity and Change (Bloomington,IN, Indiana University Turkish Studies, No. 6, 1987), pp. 22–3.

113. For a discussion of the role of this publication, see S. Mardin, Religion and Social Changein Modern Turkey (Albany, NY, State University of New York Press, 1989), p. 123. Fora broader account of the media during this period, see K. Karpat, ‘The Mass Media:Turkey’, in Ward and Rustow (eds), Political Modernisation in Japan and Turkey, pp. 257–67.

114. See J. Szyliowicz, ‘Elite Recruitment in Turkey: The Role of the Mülkiye’, WorldPolitics, 23 (1971), passim.

115. These points gained particular credence during the evacuation of Muslims fromBelgrade and Crete in 1867. See Davison, ‘Turkish Attitudes Concerning Christian–Muslim Equality’, pp. 863–4.

116. Writing in the newspaper Hürriyet (5 April 1869) Ziya Pasha commented that ‘the[municipal] councils established after the Tanzimat in each town had as members thenotables, that is to say, the old derebeys, who took the title of councilmen. While in thepast it was possible to punish them [derebeys] severely … now the councilmen and clergyin each town have been oppressing the people several times worse than the old derebeys’(cited in Karpat, ‘The Transformation of the Ottoman State’, p. 263).

117. See S. Mardin, ‘Libertarian Movements in the Ottoman Empire 1878–1895’, MiddleEast Journal, 16 (1962), p. 179.

118. See M. Arai, ‘An Imagined Nation: The Idea of the Ottoman Nation as a Key toModern Ottoman History’, Orient, 27 (1991), p. 3.


119. See S. Mardin, Religion and Social Change in Modern Turkey, pp. 124–5 and Findley,Bureaucratic Reform in the Ottoman Empire, pp. 224–7. This decree in part provokedUbaidullah’s rebellion.

120. See R. Devereux, The First Ottoman Constitutional Period (Baltimore, MD, Johns HopkinsPress, 1963), Ch. 6.

121. Cited in Karpat, ‘The Transformation of the Ottoman State’, p. 269. For furtheranalysis of parliamentary debate during its only two sessions, 19 March to 28 June1877 and 13 December 1877 to 14 February 1878, see K. Karpat, ‘The OttomanParliament of 1876 and its Social Significance’, Proceedings of the International Associationof South-East European Studies, Sofia (1969), passim. Carter Findley comments that theparliament ‘displayed a level of independence, capability and procedural orderlinessthat astounded contemporary observers and subsequent historians’. See Okyar andI.nalcık (eds), Social and Economic History of Turkey (1071–1920), p. 226.

122. Findley, Bureaucratic Reform in the Ottoman Empire, p. 234.123. Such as the pro-Western scholar Jamal al-Din Al Afghani who was highly decorated

by the sultan between 1894 and 1897 in an attempt to reinforce the palace’s ideologicallegitimacy. See S. Deringil, ‘Legitimacy Structures in the Ottoman State: The Reignof Abdulhamid II’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 23 (1991), passim, for amore detailed account.

124. This also affected the armed forces where student protests at even the most prestigiousmilitary schools became commonplace.

125. The PDA is examined in detail in D. Blaisdell, European Financial Control in the OttomanEmpire (New York, Columbia University Press,1929), passim.

126. See Wallerstein, Decdeli and Kasaba, ‘The Incorporation of the Ottoman Empireinto the World Economy’, p. 94.

127. See E. Clark, ‘The Ottoman Industrial Revolution’, International Journal of Middle EastStudies, 5 (1974), passim. For an account of this seemingly paradoxical situation of boomand bankruptcy, see Ç. Keyder, ‘Ottoman Economy and Finances (1881–1918)’, inOkyar and I

.nalcık (eds), Social and Economic History of Turkey (1071–1920), passim.

128. See S. Pamuk, The Ottoman Empire and European Capitalism, 1820–1913 (Cambridge,Cambridge University Press, 1987), pp. 150–1.

129. F. Ahmad, ‘Vanguard of a Nascent Bourgeoisie: The Social and Economic Policy ofthe Young Turks 1908–18’, in Okyar and I

.nalcık (eds), Social and Economic History of

Turkey (1071–1920), p. 329.130. Sunar, ‘State and Society in the Ottoman Empire’, p. 83.131. See A. Kazancıgil, ‘The Ottoman-Turkish State and Kemalism’, in Kazancıgil and

Özbudun (eds), Atatürk: Founder of a Modern State, p. 46.132. Karpat, ‘The Transformation of the Ottoman State, 1789–1908’, p. 277.133. A Cicassian, an Albanian, two Kurds and an Azeri. See S. Shaw and E. Shaw History

of the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey, Vol. 2, 1808–1975 (Cambridge, CambridgeUniversity Press, 1977), pp. 255–9.

134. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. I, p. 296.135. Ibid., pp. 26 and 280.136. Ibid., pp. 280–2.137. Ibid., pp. 306–7.138. By political extension this fellowship also included, administratively at least, Jews and

Christians as the Qur’anically defined ahl-ul kitab (people(s) of the book).139. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. I, p. 311.140. For example in the millet system.


3

The Ideology of Modernism

This chapter looks at the ideological basis of Turkish nationalism. It willfocus on three key areas of Mann’s historiographic model, namelyideological power’s inherent characteristics, the development of non-religious modes of social explication and what he terms the rise of ‘proto-nationalism’ in north-western Europe. Considered first will be the socialorigins and growth of modernism in the late Ottoman Empire and its effectsfollowing the First World War. Important areas of development here arethe importation of Western concepts of post-Enlightenment rationalism,language reform and changes in educational provisions. Second, the originsof ‘Turkism’ will be traced and compared to pan-Islamic and pan-Ottomanalternatives current in the thinking of the bureaucratic and military elitesof the late Ottoman period. Third, the post-imperial emergence of ethno-centrism will be looked at in relation to policies pursued during the 1914–18war and in the early years of the Turkish republic. The extent to whichthese were successful in the narrowing of the Ottoman centre/peripherydivide will be examined with particular reference to legislation enactedduring the 1920s.

MANN’S MODEL OF IDEOLOGICAL POWER

Mann outlines seven generally applicable reorganising, or ‘tracklaying’,achievements of ideological power.1 As Table 4 illustrates, the first was theresolution of the contradictions of imperial rule in favour of univeralism,egalitarianism, decentralisation, cosmopolitanism and civilisation. TheOttoman Empire was, however, not so prone to these contradictions asRome. Its organisation of ideological power, particularly through its controlof literacy (a second tracklaying achievement), generally provided civilsociety with an infrastructure that was universalist, cosmopolitan andnormatively civilising. The empowering effects of compulsory co-operationand the spread of a ‘two-step structure of literacy’ (in which writtenmessages were carried by key individuals within each locality and then

passed on verbally) during the nineteenth century, however, led to anincrease in decentralised and egalitarian ideological power networks inopposition to the Ottoman state. In this sense, then, power contention inthe latter part of the nineteenth century and early twentieth century wasfocused more on the state’s highly centralised and hierarchical socialinfrastructure than on networks of particularism, enforced uniformity andmilitarism.

A third tracklaying achievement was ideological power’s capacity totranscend existing social structures by extending personal and socialidentity across gender, ethnic, class and state boundaries. Its emphasis onwhat Mann calls ‘the fundamental questions of existence’, of interpersonalethics and of familial relations expanded the collective power of diffusedmutualised belief systems. Operating with other power networks, thistended to break down localised social structures, such as the ‘culturaltraditions’ of the millet, and, in ideology’s fourth tracklaying achievement,to bring the masses closer to the state. The inherent transcendency of ideo-logical power could, in other words, be immanently employed to mobilisesupport for new or established social structures. Where ultimate meaningwas located outside the existing economic, military and political structures,such support intensified specifically ideological networks of power. Thisfifth tracklaying achievement was important to the Ottoman state as ameans of both conquering and absorbing new territory.

Ideological power is not autonomous, however. Its sixth tracklayingachievement, the near-monopoly of control over ‘core social spheres’ suchas cosmology, ethics, familial relationships and the life-cycle, remainedintensive and reliant on alternative power networks for territorial extensive-ness. Islam, for example, was not only diffused by clerics, but also by tradersand soldiers. Indeed, the relationship between ideological networks andmilitary morale, a seventh tracklaying achievement, has been an enduringorganisational connection and fundamental to the success of Ottomanexpansion. For Mann, though, its legitimatisation of violence tended toreduce the universalism of the third achievement. Ideological networkshave, moreover, largely failed to impose universalist notions upon other

The Ideology of Modernism 61

TABLE 4: TRACKLAYING ACHIEVEMENTS OF IDEOLOGICAL POWER

1 The resolution of the contradictions of imperial rule2 The control of literacy3 The extension of social identity4 The narrowing of the state–subject divide5 The capacity to supersede existing structures6 The control of core social spheres7 The development of military morale

macro-power structures such as gender and class dominance further reduc-ing their power autonomy. In Europe, Christianity simultaneously provideda transcendent classless ideology which was extensive and pacifying enoughto stimulate trade and a social immanence reinforcing the existing produc-tion relations of the Roman hierarchy it had inherited. As Mann concludes,‘religions did not so much transcend existing power organisations as parallelthem’.2 During the early medieval period, these consisted of two authorita-tive hierarchies of bishopric and monastic social networks administered bytheir own judiciaries and supported by a revenue systems coexistent withthose of secular institutions. Like the umma–caliph relationship, it affordeda basis for social identity broader than that of any other power source andprovided a framework for other divisions such as class and literacy. Pil-grimage to the Levant or the Hijaz broke down intensive, localised powerrelations and broadened integrative ideological and trading links. This wasinstrumental in extending the ‘normative pacification’ of the Christian andMuslim ethic which, with its greater complexity and efficiency than simplecoercion, became ‘the main guardian of civilisation’ for both the ecumeneand the umma.3

For Mann, such extensiveness was obvious at four levels. First, at aregional level the Church co-ordinated campaigns against banditry andoverly exploitative agricultural and trading practices. In a similar processto the Ottoman ulema’s administration of the caliph’s obligation of hisba

(the guardianship of public morals), the Church’s organisation of legiti-macy was both more intensive and infrastructurally more extensive thanthat of political, economic and military units. Second, at a political levelthe bishops and abbots supported the rule of the monarch with sacralauthority and literate clerics in a structure comparable to that of the Otto-man theocracy. Third, the Papacy, like the caliph, was an important arbiterof interstate relations. Few monarchs would resist their influence and riskexcommunication from Rome or a condemnatory fatwa from the seyhülislam.Fourth, on an intercontinental level the Church co-ordinated the defenceof Christendom and the victory in the Holy Lands. Later, Istanbul, too, wasable to raise armies in defence of the umma and as guardian of Al-Ka’aba,Al-Madina and Al-Aqsar.

How then did the tracklaying extensiveness of the Christian fellowshipand the caliph-led umma come to an end? In approaching the Europeanquestion, Mann suggests four forces based around economic growth which,in a movement assisted by the literate classes (including the Church itself),eventually led to the secularisation of the ecumene.4 The first, the develop-ment of scientific rationality, was a particular problem for the Papacy.Endowed with a greater interpretative role than the more exegeticallyconstrained Muslim theocracy, the Church had elaborated ‘a complete set


of cosmological doctrines that were central to its imperial legacy of author-ity, but that were hardly central to original Christian dogma’.5 In respondingwith repression to the suggestion that these might be refutable, the Churchpolarised the division between faith and reason. This enlarged the area ofdebate from issues of natural history into the Church’s ‘core spheres’ ofsocial explication. The Ottoman organisation of Islam, with its greatertheological delimitation between matters of belief (taqwa) worship (ibada)and societal relations (muamalaat) generated a less authoritative grip onissues of cosmology. Both the comprehensiveness of Islam’s early analyticaltexts and its rejection of vicarious atonement devolved only limited inter-pretative powers to the ulema and therefore offered the believer an auton-omy quite different from the subjects of Christendom. This meant thatsignificant scientific and mathematical advances, as well as rigorous socialcommentaries,6 could be undertaken without provoking a comparably des-potic response. Indeed, as discussed in the previous chapter, it was onlywhen the Western conflict between religion and science had informed andexported emergent forms of consciousness, such as the frameworks of classand nation, during the nineteenth century that challenges to the Ottomanideological superstructure emerged with any significant power.

A second secularising force within both the ecumene and the umma wasthat of emergent capitalism. Once the market started to replace theOttoman state as the principal organisational form within the imperialeconomy, the tension between a centralised ideological authority and thedecentralised decision-making required by capitalist exchange, apparent inEurope since the Middle Ages, also began to emerge. Similarly, the institu-tionalised restraints on status legitimised by the Church in Europe and theulema in the Ottoman Empire were at odds with the imperatives of com-modity production in which, as Mann notes, ‘nothing apart from propertyownership is given a fixed and authoritative status’.7 In contrast to theOttoman state’s emphasis on hisba – the surveillance of public morals – andthe importance of intervening on behalf of the peasantry, capitalist valueallocation offers no intrinsic worth to labour beyond its exchangeabilitywith other elements of production. Furthermore, capitalism’s logic ofcontinual reinvestment differed from the wealthy believer’s social obligationto maintain a large household, give alms (or sadaqa) to the poor and provideextensive local employment opportunities. As such, entrepreneurial forcesfound little ideological support in the established orders of the late medievalecumene and the Ottoman Empire of the nineteenth century. Instead, thefledgling bourgeoisie of both societies turned towards more apposite mean-ing systems which, through decentralised literary networks, better expressedtheir normative solidarity.

The third and fourth secularising forces of the ecumene were based


in the geopolitics of Europe. The navigational revolution of the fifteenthcentury, which in Mann’s view was instrumental in the uniquely swifteconomic advance of north-western Europe, brought great increases intrade to the Ottoman Mediterranean ports. These, like those of the Atlanticand Baltic seaboards, became centres of mercantile interaction at the edgeof the ideological core’s infrastructural reach. While in Europe, the geo-political effects of this could be quickly seen in the rapid politicisation ofLuther’s protest of 1517, in the Ottoman Empire it was not until Muslimmercantile groups from western Anatolia began significantly investing ininternational trade in the nineteenth century that shifts in regional eco-nomic power became a potential means of ideological decentralisation.The segmental nature of the millet system, which had ensured that theideological channel of ‘cultural traditions’ remained localised and intensivewithout the organisational power to infiltrate the more extensive networksof ‘official’ communication supervised by the umma,8 proved highly suscep-tible to what Mann calls the ‘proto-nationalist’ forces of a divided and politi-cised Christendom. Although socially embryonic and primarily apparentin the Protestant states further west, the gradual emergence of the national-state in the aftermath of the wars of religion was a powerful influence acrossthe continent. This, the fourth of Mann’s secularising forces, eventuallybecame an important element in the Ottoman state’s loss of ideologicallegitimacy.

The ‘religious’ proto-nationalism which emerged from sixteenth-centuryProtestantism and the Catholic Counter-Reformation, was the first of five‘phases’ of nationalist development identified by Mann.9 Three of thesewill be outlined here. The fourth and fifth, the ‘industrial capitalist’ and‘modernist’ phases, emerged following the Turkish industrialisation andurbanisation processes of the 1950s and thus will be looked at in laterchapters. There were two elements, Mann suggests, to the pre-modern‘religious’ proto-nationalism of the late-Renaissance ecumene. The firstwas the Church’s ability to spread the vernacular of the centre through itsdomination of literary networks. This increased the efficacy of the state’s‘official’ ideological channel and, in displacing local dialects, reduced theintensity of localised social networks in favour of broader, more extensiveperceptions of identity. In the Ottoman Empire, this effect was uncommonas the language of the centre was saturated with classical Arabic and Persianand therefore generally unintelligible to the reaya. The Ottoman ulema’seducational and social infrastructure which trained state officials and, untilthe nineteenth century, largely controlled the elite’s discursive literary net-works in fact often represented an obstacle to attempts at standardisationand dispersal of a common language. The second was the tendency of theChurch to organise popular support for the geopolitical conflicts of the


state. While discernible in the wars of religion, this was somewhat restrictedby the ecumene’s still essentially transnational character. The ulema, too,continued to be constrained by its own universalist creed and the cosmo-politan nature of its constituency.

From around 1700 onwards, Mann argues that a second, pre-modernphase of proto-nationalism began in Europe. The secularising forces ofemergent capitalism institutionalised a form of ‘commercial-statism’ inwhich, as Table 5 illustrates, discursive literacy expanded outwards fromthe Church through seven principal media eventually providing the basisfor modern nationalism.10 Both Protestantism and Catholicism had, fromthe sixteenth century onwards, encouraged Bible reading and the writingof simple tracts leading to increases in signing literacy in much of Europe.From this foundation, discursive literacy emerged first from standardisationof military texts in keeping with the large increases in armed forcesexpenditure during the seventeenth century.11 Second and third, the literacyof higher state administrators also moved away from Church control asuniversities took on wider educational roles. Fourth, commercial networks,particularly in trading occupations and regions, developed literacy linksbased on marketing, accounting and contractual arrangements beyond thereach of the Church. Linking these two forces with the ideology of the state,the legal profession emerged as a fifth medium, doubling in size in mosteighteenth-century European countries. Sixth, the expansion of printedmedia during this period extended both religious and secular discursiveliterary networks enhancing the transcendentalism of decentralised ideo-logical discourse. Lastly, discussion centres such as taverns, libraries andcoffee-houses emerged as centres of organised readership well away fromthe influence of the Church and its emphasis on family life. All these mediadiffused a secularised literate culture downward from the old regime leadingto what Mann identifies as a rudimentary shared notion of civil citizenship.

The growth in militarism during the nineteenth century challengedtransnational elements within proto-nationalism and institutionalised thecross-class, state-linked characteristics of modern nationalism. By around1840, Mann argues that this militarism had helped to produce three forms


TABLE 5: THE MEDIA OF COMMERCIAL-STATIST PROTO-NATIONALISM

1 The standardisation of military texts2 The education of administrators by the state3 The development of universities not under church control4 Trade-based literary links5 The legal profession6 Printed media7 Discussion centres

of ‘quasi’ nation-states.12 Mainland Britain and France, he suggests, wereexamples of a national consciousness that reinforced state boundaries. InPrussia, pan-German sentiment had begun to institutionalise a state-creating form of nationalism and in Austria group identities tended to bebased on units contained within the sovereign totality and therefore state-subverting. While economic networks assisted in these processes by stabilis-ing identities and expanding literacy over large areas of Europe, it was notuntil later in the nineteenth century that they began to encourage whatMann calls ‘a distinctively national civil society’.13 Initially, he argues, militar-ist nationalism was centred on the expansion and centralisation of politicalnetworks. Through taxation and conscription, states imposed a greaterextractive demand upon civil societies in order to support their geopoliticalcommitments within a global arena increasingly defined by military pres-tige and territorial competition. Since the dominant classes of Europe werebetter able to establish organised resistance to such demands, the expandingpressures of the state were regarded by civil society, particularly the bour-geoisie and petite bourgeoisie, as a process of retrogression. As a result the‘proto-national’ discursive media of the ‘commercial-statist’ phase becameimbued with the ideology of political citizenship based on exclusive notionsof ‘the people’. Male, bourgeois citizens from the dominant religious andethnic groups defined themselves as a nation to which the state should becoterminous. The militaristic features of these sentiments were intensifiedby fears of populist radicalism exacerbated by the French Revolution andthe Napoleonic Wars.14 In all, Mann concludes that ‘self-conscious nationsemerged from the struggle for representative government, initially born ofthe pressures of state militarism’.15

SCIENCE, LANGUAGE AND EDUCATION

Calls for representative government in the Ottoman Empire also emergedfrom the pressures of militarism. The discursive networks of Young Turkmodernism apparent in the 1890s had their origins in the elite militaryacademies modelled on the European nation-states.16 Their emphasis onrationalism and pro-Westernism was, however, much older. A science ofreason, born of a traditional interest in Classical Greek learning, had longprompted endogenous critical analyses of Islamic state-craft. Ottomanwriters worked in the internationally known tradition of Ibn Khaldoun’sexposition on Abbasid society and political sociology. Lufti Pasha, forexample, was already warning of an unpromising future characterised by growing social inequity and threatening maritime states to the west as early as 1541.17 By 1630 commentaries on Ottoman collapse were


meticulous and damning. With what Bernard Lewis calls, ‘sombre detailand astonishing frankness’,18 Kochu Bey’s Risale pointedly attributedOttoman enfeeblement to palace intrigue, corruption within the askeri andthe decline of the tımar system. A century later, Ibrahim Müteferrika arguedin Usul ul-Hikam fi Nizam ul-Ümam (Rational Bases for the Politics of Nations) thatthe Ottoman Empire’s failure to adopt European methods of governanceand scientific exploration was the root of its inability to compete geo-politically. With the patronage of Sultan Ahmed III (1703–30), this wascomplemented by treatises discussing Descartes’ theory of vortices andGalileo’s treatment of Aristotelian physics.19 By the time of Sultan SelimIII’s reign (1789–1807) Western innovations were an institutionalised andongoing element of Ottoman political change. As well as being aimed atappeasing the European powers and attempting (ultimately unsuccessfully)to exclude the ayan from political influence, these measures were alsointended, perhaps primarily, to reverse the military fortunes of the empire.Each element of a triangular relationship between the bureaucratic state,the military and provincial elites possessed its own vested interests in further Westernisation legitimised by what Ergun Özbudun calls the‘Islamic modernism’ of pro-European clerics.20 In this sense, many Otto-man scholars began to focus on the contradictions of Ottoman imperialrule in ways similar to those deployed by late-Roman Christian theologians.Since the Ottoman imperial system provided a structure that was, nomin-ally at least, universalist, cosmopolitan and normatively civilising, theideology of pro-Western intellectualism increasingly emphasised greaterequality and decentralisation.

Two thinkers particularly influential on the development of late Otto-man self-reflection generally and Young Turk ideology particularly werethe Egyptian Muhammed Abduh (1849–1905) and the Iranian21 Jamal al-Din al-Afghani (1838–99). Both argued that there was no distinctionbetween Islam and human reason and emphasised the importance of ijihad

(individual reasoning) in the interpretation and application of the Qur’anand the Sunna in the modern era. Afghani also argued that ‘what theprophet received through inspiration was the same as what the philosophercould attain by use of reason’.22 However, such rationalism was, he con-tinued, unlikely to appeal to the masses who were still dominated by thedogma of less scientific approaches. It was therefore up to a small, sagaciouselite to guide the umma away from the obscurantism of madhab-dominatedjurisprudence towards a purer basis for ‘group solidarity’ (al asabiyya). ForAbduh, too, how to instil a popularly held ‘common will’ without fomentingfanaticism (ta’assub) was also a recurring theme. In a journal published withAl-Afghani in Paris in 1884 and in his later work, Abduh argued that theprinciples of Islamic leadership should be grounded on the rational ethics


of representation, consultation and accountability found within an enlight-ened understanding of the Sharia.23

Such ideas of religion and science’s commensurate properties signifi-cantly influenced thinkers prominent in the early development of oppo-sition to Abdul Hamid’s government. Elements of this ‘modernism’ can beobserved in each of the three major factions that Niyazi Berkes identifieswithin the pre-revolutionary Young Turk movement.24 For instance, AhmetRiza (1859–1930), a former employee at the Ministry of Education, estab-lished a following through his journal Mechveret (Consultation) associated withFrench positivism and the work of Auguste Comte.25 In 1896 and 1897 hewrote seven memoranda to the sultan arguing that ‘there is no means ofsaving the country … other than education and the positive sciences’.26

Insisting that the Sharia obligated the caliph to promote such societalbetterment through representative mechanisms, he called for the restor-ation of the 1876 constitution and further ‘Ottomanisation’. Led by theDaghestani, Murad Bey, a former professor at the Mekebi Mülkiye (CivilService Academy), a second group emerged around the publication Mizan

(Balance). They, too, pointed to the limitations that the Sharia imposes uponthe caliph, but, unlike Riza’s Parisian coterie of Western favourites, theyalso maintained a strongly anti-European line. Based in Cairo, Murad andhis associates called for a pan-Islamic ‘Board of Supervisors that would havethe power to repel the encroachment of government … and, thus, to ensurequality and fraternity between the nationalities’.27 The third element wasled by Prince Sabahaddin, a nephew of the Sultan, who after fleeing toParis in 1898, developed a diagnosis of Ottoman problems inspired by thework of the French social scientist, Frederic Le Play. With an instrumentalistapproach to religion similar to that demonstrated by Riza and his followers,Sabahaddin’s group argued that Western experts should be employed toimplement a programme of educational reforms aimed at moving Otto-man society away from its collectivist identity towards a egalitarian, indi-vidualist model. This, it was suggested, could be best achieved with asubstantial decentralisation of state power to local government level.

None of these approaches considered the notion of a ‘Turkish’ collectiveidentity. Their objectives were to reduce nationalist irredentism and preventfurther losses of imperial territory. Riza and Sabahaddin’s unit of analysiswas the Ottoman Empire as a whole, while Murad wrote of a supra-national administration governing umma-controlled lands and includingboth Muslim and non-Muslim subjects. For each, their aims could beachieved through a revitalised application of Islam, with existent ideo-logical and political structures largely intact. By 1904, however, a fourth,much more centrist, ideological current was discernible in the publicationof Yusuf Akçura’s essay Üç Tarz-I Siyaset (Three Forms of Politics). Born in


Russia and influenced by pan-Turkist resistance to the Czar, he argued that,with the help of the technologically superior nation-states of Europe, non-Turkish millet would inevitably attain independence regardless of the largelyineffectual creeds of pan-Islamism and Ottomanism. The Turks shouldthus concentrate on reducing the provincialism and social heterogeneity ofthe Antolian core and improving its technological viability.

In this sense, nationalism appeared to many centrist intellectuals of theperiod as not only ‘a political solution to the survival of the state and ofTurks as a cultural–political group, but also as a channel for the introductionof science and progress for the new political unit’.28 The Kurdish writerZiya Gökalp (1876–1924) joined with Akçura in stressing that scientificthinking was crucial to the future of the Turkish people arguing thatmodern rationalism should be entirely separate from the influence of Islam.One, he suggested, was the private individual’s relationship with God, theother the public means of administering a social collective. In 1912 he wrotethat ‘since religion consists only of sacred institutions, beliefs and ritual,non-sacred institutions such as scientific ideas, technological tools [and]aesthetic standards … are not connected with religions’.29 Influenced byDurkheim, he suggested that national consciousness was a higher stage insocial evolution than the more diffuse identity of the umma and shouldtherefore form the basis for modernisation of the empire.30 He went on toseparate and contrast the religiosity of internationalist Islamic ideologies,with the stronger, ‘cultural’ spheres of social life within a nation ‘which haveto have a uniformity and unity’.31 In this way, religious proto-nationalismwithin the Ottoman elite gradually began to take on the ideological featuresof European commercial-statism.

For both Akçura and Gökalp, a pre-eminent element of this was literacy,the second of Mann’s ideological tracklayers, which he described as ‘thetexture of morality, the substratum of culture and civilisation’.32 Indeed, animportant part of the Ottoman divide between the reaya and the askeri hadlong been maintenance of a rarefied divan literary style within the centre.The importance of keeping official records in Islam combined with anemphasis on rhyme and allegory had, by the eighteenth century led towritten state vernacular so embellished with classical Persian and Arabicvocabulary and convoluted with stylistic flourish as to be almost entirelyunintelligible to the Ottoman masses. As initiation could only be achievedthrough a palace- or ulema-controlled education and printing presses were only available to Muslims through direct petition to the palace, thisexclusiveness successfully prevented ‘the “common people” from becominginterested in the laws of the realm’.33 Indeed, so effective was it that theintake of palace school students had, by the 1730s, significantly declined inquality. As a result, I

.brahim Müteferrika was licensed to print an Arabic–


Turkish dictionary which was distributed at less than a tenth the price ofthe manuscript version. Ottoman syntax remained, however, abstruse.Within the modernising Ottoman armed forces, it was regarded as aninappropriate medium through which to draft precise orders and, as in thefirst of commercial-statism’s media, attempts were made to standardisearmy manuals at the new military academies. By the mid-nineteenth cen-tury centralised ‘Turkification’ had progressed to the extent that studentswere finding it easier to read European scientific texts (usually in French)than grapple with the new lexicon of locally produced manuals.

As such, the political efficacy of bringing the language of the state closerto that of the masses was, for Gökalp’s modernist literati, a major preoccu-pation. His Salonika-based literary movement Genc Kalemler (Young Pens)led a campaign to eliminate ‘those superfluous Arabic and Persian wordsfor which exact Turkish synonyms were current in the spoken language’and to introduce the use of European words for technical terms.34 Thesereforms were crucial for the transmission of Young Turk visions of nation-hood and to extend shared perceptions of social identity, the third ofMann’s tracklaying achievements. Such notions of ‘Turkey’ and the ‘Turks’were first conveyed through the cultural imperialism of the West andeventually gained an ethnically determined meaning separate from theirpreviously derogatory associations with rural backwardness.35 In the pro-European atmosphere of Selim III’s reign, Western embassies had estab-lished presses in Istanbul and distributed leaflets and bulletins on varioustopics.36 As these networks developed, the national and racial ideas ofEuropean writers spread through the modernist Ottoman elite.37 Theyinformed the editorials of expatriate publications and provided a decentra-lised political network comparable to Mann’s sixth medium of commercial-statism.

The adoption of Western styles of education, such as the first univer-sity (the Darülfünun established in 1900) also helped to reinforce proto-nationalist links within elite modernist circles. In a similar way to Mann’sthird medium of commercial-statism, it not only instilled an interest inEuropean traditions of science and administration, but also highlightednew political models and methods of social organisation.38 Indeed, a highproportion of students at these elite academies went on to join the civilservice thereby reducing the theocracy’s role in educating state adminis-trators and institutionalising the second of Mann’s media of commercial-statism. In addition, foreign schools grew rapidly. Britain, France and theUnited States were, by 1914, running around 1,400 establishments contain-ing approximately 106,000 students.39 Inspired by an evangelical blend ofscientism and Christianity, many directly contributed to the growth ofnationalist movements within the empire.40 Associated with this, and giving


rise to similar effects, was the increase in Western-style minority schools.Within the Armenian community alone these were educating 80,000 chil-dren by 1900.41 The intertwined effects of educational expansion and arapidly developing market economy made the non-Muslim millet’s reli-giously determined structure increasingly inappropriate to the social needsof the nineteenth-century merchant intelligentsia.42 In other words, decen-tralised networks of ideological power comparable to Mann’s fifth track-laying achievement offered ‘national’ groups within the Ottoman Empirea transcendental alternative to the state’s existing social structures.Cleavages based on ethnicity and Western-inspired notions of national-statehood began to replace the millet’s religiously determined structure withsecular modes of group consciousness.43 As the expanding educationalsystem increasingly recruited students from the provinces, the effects of this‘nationalisation’ were soon felt within the state bureaucracy in ‘a continuousthread of influence in the nineteenth century from Western examplethrough millet organisation to Ottoman organisation’.44

The 1876 Constitution and parliamentary gatherings had promised to continue a process of state acknowledgement of peripheral economicmobility based on decentralised literary links (the fourth of Mann’s mediaof commercial-statism) with a greater devolution of political status.45 Never-theless, they neither produced the ‘neutral’ and efficient civil service calledfor by the modernists, nor a final end to the simoniacal despotism of thestate envisaged by the growing forces of provincialism within the centre. Inthis sense, the Young Turk movement was born of a complex combinationof peripheral petit bourgeois resentment at the continuing centripetalexclusivity of Young Ottoman modernism, fledgling Muslim capitalist classanimosity towards other elements of the economic periphery (particularlythe western Anatolian millet’s preferential and increasingly militarisedrelationship with the West) and bureaucratic frustration at Hamidian tradi-tionalism and corruption.46 Forging a client base, or what Çaglar Keydercalls a ‘surrogate bourgeoisie’,47 out of this milieu became one of the centralproblems for the Young Turks in legitimising, and later (once in govern-ment) implementing, their calls for the reinstatement of the representativestatutes within the 1876 constitution.

An important unifying element within Young Turk support was, asCarter Findley has shown, the economic decline around the turn of thetwentieth century.48 The recovery of the Ottoman empire’s export valuesand agricultural production following the famine of the 1870s had pro-duced only modest decreases in the cost of living while salary paymentsremained inadequate and irregular.49 Things gradually worsened duringthe 1890s as increasing instability in the imperial periphery led to poorharvests and rising crop prices.50 In 1901, the Turkish press reported that


officials from Salonika and Istanbul, claiming to be on the verge of star-vation, had petitioned the sultan for the settlement of their wage arrears.51

Using elite discussion centres (the seventh of Mann’s commercial-statistmedia) in these two locations, the Young Turks were able to broaden theirsupport base within the military and bureaucracy to include disaffectedworkers’ groups.52 Following a worldwide economic downturn in 1907, awave of mutinies and strikes spread through Rumelia culminating in theopen rebellion of the Third Army Corps units based in Salonika andManastir. Faced with the threat of his heir-apparent being declared Sultanof Rumelia, Abdul Hamid agreed to the reinstatement of the 1876 con-stitution in July 1908. He did, however, waste ‘no time in planning theoverthrow of the Constitution once again’ by covertly funding pan-Islamistgroups opposed to the Young Turks’ pro-Westernism.53 The apparentreluctance of the Young Turk leadership to rule directly and elections whichbrought 137 (out of 288) non-Turkish deputies to parliament, all fuelledfears of increasing susceptibility to European influence.54 Following theresounding success of the Committee of Union and Progress (CUP) faction,an opposition alliance between religious students (softas), low- and medium-ranking ulema and traditionalists emerged within the capital’s barracks55

and briefly took power before being suppressed by a contingent force ofthe Third Army including a junior officer from Salonika called MustaphaKemal. As a result, Abdul Hamid was deposed in favour of Mehmed V,weakening the conservatives and providing an impetus to radical reformism.

TURKISH NATIONALISM ASCENDANT

The threat to the CUP brought the higher echelons of the military into thegovernment. According to Feroz Ahmad, the objective of soldiers such asMahmud Sevket (the Iraqi-born commander of the Third Army) was tokeep the easily swayed rank-and-file troops and the highly politicised juniorofficers out of politics.56 While the civilians progressed with redrafting the 1876 constitution to position the sultan and the Porte under the controlof the executive and parliament, the military imposed martial law,dismissed thousands of officers promoted by Abdul Hamid and installedSevket as Minister of War.57 Austria’s opportunistic annexation of Bosnia-Herzegovina in 1908, the loss of Libya to Italy in 1911 and much ofRumelia to the Balkan states by 1913 solidified the pre-eminent position of the military and strongly influenced the government’s centrist reformprogramme.58 The need for internal order and international defence, it wasargued, should define the state’s ‘Ottomanisation’ measures. As such, lawsaimed at consolidating central control of the imperial periphery and


supported by large increases in security expenditure were passed restrictingpublic association, the freedom of the post-revolutionary press and millet

autonomy. Support for the Ottomanism of Riza and the bureaucraticmodernists gradually dissipated in favour of the centrism of Gökalp andAkçura. It also made federalism, promulgated by the Sabahaddin faction,‘seem a dangerous if not suicidal formula’.59

However, with only the Arabs and Armenians left to appease, bothbecame, as Table 6 shows, proportionally better represented in parliamentas time went on. ‘The more backward areas of the Arab provinces receivedparticular and immediate attention in terms of reforms’ aimed at re-inforcing the support of local notables through greater administrativeaccountability and more stringent anti-smuggling initiatives.60 Attemptswere also made to settle nomadic groups through better educationalprovisions and land reform. Similar programmes were developed in theArmenian areas of Anatolia. Land lost during Ubaidullah’s uprising waspartly returned and, as Russian involvement increased during the BalkanWars, limited autonomous powers were devolved to local agas (land-owners).61 The need to secure provincial support was also reflected ingovernment policy towards Muslim groups within the empire. Here theCUP was able to turn the Hamidian policy of pan-Islamic peripheralinclusion towards developing ‘new cultural bonds among the wholepopulation’.62 Indeed, with all nine of the top military positions being heldby non-Turkish Muslims, this was perhaps as much born of necessity asdesign.63 To this end, efforts to incorporate elements of the Muslimmercantile classes were reinforced within the elite schools of the centre. AsJoseph Szyliowicz notes in his study of the Mektabi Mülkiye,

During the Young Turk era, a marked shift took place in recruitment patterns– occupationally towards persons from official backgrounds, geographicallyaway from Istanbul – so that the great majority of the students were sons ofofficials located in provincial and district centres. Furthermore … a secondgroup, students of ayan–esraf background, was also well represented at theschool.64


TABLE 6: PARLIAMENTARY DEPUTIES REPRESENTING VARIOUSOTTOMAN COMMUNITIES

Year Total Turks Arabs Albanians Greeks Armenians Jews Slavs

1908 288 147 60 27 26 14 4 101912 284 157 68 18 15 13 4 91914 259 144 84 – 13 14 4 –

Source: Unpublished study by D. Rustow and F. Ahmad. Cited in F. Ahmad, The Young Turks, p. 155.

However, both the changes in provincial political representation and theprogramme of reforms initiated by the CUP also contained an increasinglyprominent element of Turkish ethnocentrism. Article 17 of the 1909 consti-tution stipulated that Turkish language classes were to be a compulsory partof the curriculum and that for secondary and higher levels Turkish was alsoto be the medium of instruction, thereby making uniform previousHamidian policies. An entirely new measure, and one that met considerableresistance (particularly within the Arab provinces) was the requirement touse Turkish, rather than the Arabic of classical jurisprudence, in the judicialsystem. Furthermore, in the absence of accurate records, the governmentwas often accused of equating linguistic divides with ethnicity and therebyinflating the size of the empire’s ‘Turkish’ citizenry, and thus its parliamen-tary majority 65 by including large numbers of peripheral Turcophones.66

The problem was worsened by the stipulation that voters must be registeredtax-payers, which tended to exclude Arab and Kurdish nomadic groups.67

In all, the changes brought about by the CUP can be seen as part of a grad-ual move from reform aimed at Ottomanist integration (the strengtheningof ties to a multinational state pursued by Abdul Hamid) to Turkistassimilation (ensuring group association with the national identity of thecentre).68 Indeed, as Hasan Kayalı’s study of Arab resistance shows, theimage of Turkish chauvinism became an effective means of resisting statecentralisation for peripheral notables.69

While the strongly centrist ideological flavour of the CUP’s attempts tobuild political links with the empire’s periphery largely consigned them tofailure, economic reforms had arguably more success. Many, such as thedrafting of new commercial codes and the spate of concessions to foreignfirms to extend the rail, highway and telegraph networks 70 did help tostimulate manufacturing and agricultural productivity.71 In all, though,public spending on such infrastructural projects was severely curtailed bysecurity and armament budgets. The Ministry of Public Works, for instancereceived only 3.3 per cent of fiscal allocations for the year 1911–12 com-pared with 30.7 per cent directed to the Ministry of War, 4.7 per cent tothe navy and 3.9 per cent to the gendarmerie.72 To pay for these, borrowingfrom the Public Debt Administration increased, exceeding debt servicingfor the first time since 1881.73 Extraction was also stepped up (particularlyin the agricultural sector) enlarging the state’s total taxation revenue from148 million lira in 1909 to almost 185 million in 1910.74 Nevertheless,estimated expenditure still exceeded expected receipts by more than 20 percent, rising to over 25 per cent by 1912 (the actual deficit was generallymuch higher).75

With the outbreak of war with the Entente in 1914, the CUP set aboutattempting to create a national economy through a series of budgetary


reforms. The capitulations system was abrogated in September 1914ending the tax-exempt status of foreign passport-holders which, followingthe revocation of the Anglo-French banking monopoly, allowed the state‘for the first time in its history … to practise a monetary policy’.76 Thetreasury printed 159 million lira against gold held in Germany giving theCUP the equivalent of an interest-free loan which was soon protected byhigher excise duties on imports. New taxes were imposed on luxury goods(those not requisitioned for military use), war earnings and male non-combatants of military service age. Duty payable on gross production wasincreased to 12 per cent coupled with a further, and highly unpopular, 12per cent surplus acquisition at state-stipulated rates of remuneration.77 Toimprove collection efficiency and commercial cohesion, legislation waspassed in April 1916 unifying Ottoman coinage which had, until then, morethan 80 different valuations. In all, as Feroz Ahmad notes the state ‘beganto play a more direct and open role in the economy’ not least by embarkingupon a policy of ‘fostering an entrepreneurial class among the Turks’.78

This led to a period of high domestic growth and an increase from 3 percent in 1908 to 38 per cent in 1918 in Ottoman capital’s share of corporateinvestment.79 With the establishment of a war-time one-party system led bythe triumvirate of Enver, Jemal and Talat Pashas, parliamentary lobbyingfrom competing interest-groups was largely replaced by a clientelistic sys-tem of mercantile cadres. These were brought together under co-operativeschemes to establish trading and finance companies with a ‘national’orientation, eventually leading to the partial displacement of non-Turkishmerchant groups and closer bureaucratic control of the economy.80 In apolicy described by Ahmed Emin as ‘economic Turkism’, new laws werepassed decreeing that every factory whose workforce was (apart from tech-nical experts) entirely Turkish would be exempt from taxation and exportexcise for 15 years and would receive free tools and materials not locallyavailable. These measures were reinforced a year later, in 1916, with legis-lation obliging companies possessing such concessions to carry out all theirbusiness exclusively in Turkish.81 New investment was also allocated toartisan training centres and vocational courses for both men and womenwith the more able students often seconded to German institutions andcorporations. ‘The idea’, Emin concludes, ‘was to conquer fields of activitymonopolised by non-Turks’.82 While this largely failed to arrest the war-time decline in industrial and agricultural production, it did succeed inpromoting an ideological change among the emerging Turkish bourgeoisie– ‘the mentality that despised trade and industry and believed that govern-ment and military occupations are most worthy of an Ottoman Turk’ was,partly at least, overcome.83

Concurrent with the rise in corporatism was the declining political role


of the ulema. While the state initially attempted a call-to-arms with adeclaration of jihad in 1914, once it became apparent that this could neitherensure adequate recruitment nor the loyalty of non-Turkish Muslims, apolicy of restricting Islamist opposition was preferred. Influenced byGökalp’s call for the separation of state and religion, reforms were enactedin 1916 which removed the seyhülislam from the cabinet and ended hisadministration of the empire’s charitable assets as well as transferring theSharia courts to the Ministry of Justice and the clerical schools to theMinistry of Education. As a result, there emerged a new class of profes-sional teachers in direct competition with the clerics of the old educationalorder. Many, such as I

.smail Hakkı, a lecturer (and later rector) at the

Darülfünun, saw their role as ‘freeing the individual from the constraints ofthe clericals, religious orders, homes, streets, coffee houses, graveyards andbeggars’.84 During the war, many departments recruited staff from overseas(predominantly Germany) leading Hakkı to comment that it had become‘an experimental ground for all kinds of convictions, methods and tradi-tions’.85 Other professional groups were also increasing their power duringthis period. The elite medical schools, long a channel of Western methods(as well as the birthplace of the CUP), had given rise to a class of practi-tioners embedded in extensive and essentially secular discursive literarynetworks. The expansion of state influence in the judiciary since theTanzimat had a similarly secularising effect on the white-collar classes.Professional lawyers, trained in Western precedents, began to encroach onthe traditionally ecclesiastical domain of civil law institutionalising the fifthof Mann’s media of commercial-statism. In 1917, a new family code wasintroduced, which positioned the legality of marriage and divorce withinthe authority of the state and away from the Sharia courts. By the time ofthe 1918 Mudros armistice ‘religion was’, partly at least, ‘divested of itstemporal influence in state, educational, legislational, judicial, and financialaffairs’.86

The effects of these changes reinforced the divide between traditionalistand modernist within the centre. They also strengthened the links betweenanti-modernist groups within the state and elements of the peripheral elitedisadvantaged by the war-time rise in centralism and Westernism.87 Follow-ing the fall of the CUP government in 1918 and the subsequent Alliedoccupation of the major Mediterranean cities, this loose alliance becameof key importance in securing the Anatolian heartland. With the Arabs andArmenians courting the Entente in preparation for the peace talks in Paris,gaining the endorsement of the Kurdish minority was crucial for DamadFerid Pasha’s cabinet appointed by the Great Powers in March 1919.The position of the Kurdish leaders was, however, ambivalent. Many,such as the cleric Sheikh Abdul Qadyr (the second son of Ubaidullah), had


long resented Young Turk centrism and called for the establishment ofautonomous Kurdish provinces.88 Others went further and joined with theArmenians to press for ‘a united and independent Armenia and an inde-pendent Kurdistan, with the assistance of a Great Power’.89 Nevertheless,following the Greek invasion at Izmir and Italian landings at Antalya inMay 1919,90 it was the traditionalists’ links with the centre and long-standing opposition to Western cultural encroachment that seemed likelyto be most efficacious to those resolved to resist militarily further territoriallosses.

To Mustafa Kemal, already experienced in tribal diplomacy from hiswar-time appointment in Aleppo, the ideological relationship betweenMuslim peasant and Islamic state, traditionally conceived, was to be thebasis for ‘co-opting Kurdish tribal leaders into the resistance movement andin mobilising Kurdish loyalty to the Caliph-Sultan and the country’.91 Fromits inaugural conference in Erzerum in July 1919, Kemal’s Society for the

Defence of the Rights of Eastern Anatolia argued that ‘all Islamic elements (thatis, ethnic communities) living in this area are true brothers … of the samereligion and race as ourselves whom it is impossible to divide’.92 Theimportance of Islamic legitimisation within the movement can be seen inthe background of the delegates to the conference. Out of 56, 21 wereconnected to the ulema.93 Similarly with the establishment of the GrandNational Assembly in Ankara in April 1920, more than one-fifth of thedeputies were clerics and many others, as Table 7 suggests, were Kurdishtribal leaders.94 In many ways, this demonstrates the limited progress ofcommercial-statism outside the western Anatolian alliance of urban profes-sionals and merchant elites. For not only did the ulema provide immanentmorale in the form of fatwas endorsing the assembly (152 sheikhs fromnumerous provincial towns supported Ankara’s edict calling on all Muslimsto liberate the caliph imprisoned in Istanbul), they also worked with localnotables in collecting the 40 per cent income tax levied on all households.95

So with domestic revenues in place, local mobilisation reaffirmed by theCarthaginian peace at Sèvres and gold and weapons arriving from thePolitburo, Kemal not only offered to protect these sheikhs and agas, but, asMartin Van Bruinessen notes, he also ‘had power that he might delegate tothem, whereas the [Kurdish] nationalist organisations did not’.96 Thus theWar of Independence was launched in Kurdistan using Kurdish troopscommanded by Turkish officers under the banner of Islam.97

In the tradition of Mahmud Sevket, Kemal believed that it was impera-tive to keep both the soldiery and the field officers out of politics. As beforethough, this proscription did not extend as far as senior staff commanders.Although Kemal himself resigned his commission (until September 1921when he was appointed Commander-in-Chief), most of the other positions


of power were filled by serving members of the armed forces.98 This relianceon military personnel networks was unsurprising. As Dankwart Rustow hasnoted, ‘seven years of almost uninterrupted hostilities (with Italy, 1911–12;in the Balkans, 1912–13; and in the First World War) brought the OttomanEmpire closer to being a garrison state than it had perhaps been at any timesince its infancy’.99 In such a militarised environment, it was only logical forsoldiers to take on an extended role in administration. Indeed, crucial tothe nascent government in Ankara were the seven imperial army corps,which, with the Allies encamped along the western seaboard, were concen-trated in Anatolia. Although severely depleted, they retained a clear chainof command and, vitally, control over the telegraph infrastructure.100 Thecorps commanders also provided a useful link to demobilised officers inIstanbul. Many of these were affiliated to the commercial-statist ideologyof the centre and thus saw Kemal’s efforts as merely a continuation ofEnver’s policy of militarily reinforcing populist movements in the south-east in preparation for the armistice.101

The War of Independence solidified Kemalist forces, restrained irregulararmy units and incorporated other resistance movements in westernAnatolia and Thrace.102 Within the new order of the Turkish nation-state,Kemal envisaged the military moving from its position as the de facto

‘expression of Ottoman society’ to the de jure ‘fountainhead of progressivepractices’.103 In this sense, the rulers of the Ankara movement were not aninstrument of the ‘reactionary coalition’ of old-regime notables andemergent capitalists described by Barrington Moore.104 Rather, as ErgunÖzbudun argues, their alliance was born of the ‘exigencies of the War ofIndependence’ itself.105 With no Ottoman tradition of aristocratic controlover the means of production, the limited extensiveness of commercial-statism and with the nascent Turkish bourgeoisie fractured by territorialpartition, the military was both able to claim territorial legitimacy and


TABLE 7: BIRTHPLACES OF MILITARY AND CIVILIAN LEADERS, 1918–23

Total Rumelia Istanbul Anatolia Arab Caucasus

known and Cyprus % % Provinces %

% %

Istanbul civilian ministers, 1918–22 40 20 48 23 5 5Istanbul military ministers, 1918–22 26 8 46 23 8 15Ankara civilian ministers, 1920–23 23 13 9 78 0 0Ankara military ministers, 1920–23 9 33 56 11 0 0Nationalist commanders, 1919–22 25 24 44 32 0 0

Source: Abbreviated from D. Rustow, ‘The Army and the Founding of the Turkish Republic’, p. 527.‘Military’ is taken to be all active and retired military personnel except for those who pursueda civilian career after leaving.

to formulate the basis for a future bureaucratic order.106 Nonetheless, oncethe war was over and the geopolitical position of Turkey renegotiated atLausanne, the resistance movement began to dissipate and a tensionemerged between Ankara’s provincial supporters and the military’s positionas final arbiters of constitutional interpretation.107

Although preceded by a somewhat similar blend of representationalmodernism and military etatism in the CUP administration, Kemal’s incre-mental inkılab had not proceeded unopposed. Within the Ankara assembly,resistance became centred around a heterogeneous minority (referred to asthe ‘second group’) broadly made up of Islamists and peripheral elites.108

During the War of Independence they had formulated plans to attach thegendarmerie to the Ministry of Interior (that is, under civilian control)seeing the assembly as operative only until the sultan had been liberated.With success on the battleground imminent, Kemal moved against thedissenters. Fatwas were sponsored questioning the historical legitimacy ofan unelected and hereditary leadership and Abdul Mecid was appointedin 1922 as a purely spiritual caliph with neither the title nor the politicalinfluence of a sultan.109 To reduce traditionalist influence still further, theofficer corps was purged and loyalists were appointed to the leadership ofa nationwide ‘Peoples Party’ (Halk Firkası)110 which, with the extension ofthe Treason Laws to include pro-sultanate agitation, gave ex-members ofthe military an institutionalised political role. So much so that in theelections of June 1923 only three members of the ‘second group’ werereturned to the assembly. Indeed, it is indicative of the enduring importanceof the military to Kemal’s vision of social reform that he only felt secureenough to announce the abolition of the caliphate in March 1924 afterinsisting upon a pay-rise for the entire armed forces against the wishes ofthe civilian members of his cabinet.111

As Mesut Yegen observes, ‘the Caliphate was an institution which guar-anteed that the bond between the Ottoman political centre and the Muslimelements of the “periphery” was to be a loose one’.112 Its abolition threat-ened both the ideological legitimacy and the relative autonomy of peri-pheral, particularly Kurdish, traditionalists and notables unaffected by thecommercial-statism of the centre. This factor, coupled with a pronounceddecline in provincial representation in the Ankara assembly and the pro-cription of the Kurdish language within the education and judicial systems,precipitated numerous peripheral rebellions.113 It also added to the supportof a break-away political party, the Progressive Republican Party (Terakki-

perver Cumhuriyet Firkası), which emerged in November 1924 advocating lessinterventionist policies.114 In south-east Anatolia, the pacification of SheikhSaid’s large-scale rebellion amid immense bloodshed the following year (up to 250,000 people were killed) provided Kemal with the emergency



conditions in which to suppress not only ‘all public vestiges of separateKurdish identity’, but also all organised resistance within the assembly.115

The Law for the Maintenance of Order and an amendment to the treasonlaws to include ‘the exploitation of religion towards political ends’ imposeda system of political monism so severe that most newspapers disappeared,no parliamentary opposition emerged for 20 years and an overtly socialistorganisation was impossible until the 1960s.116 In other words, with littleprogress in the extensiveness of collective perceptions of ‘national’ identity,Kemal’s government was able to continue the militarist autonomy of thewar-time regime.

However, for such coercive longevity, an exclusive reliance on militarysupport was impracticable. Kemal’s programme of reforms (some of whichare listed in Table 8) required a civil bureaucracy that was both loyal andmodern. Once prohibited from holding elected office after 1924 (a measurewhich usefully prevented the traditionally highly politicised junior officercorps from extending their influence), reliable ex-officers were used as arecruitment base to imbue the civil bureaucratic class with the values ofthe new order.117 Kemal also selected ‘a small group of highly motivated

TABLE 8: A SELECTION OF REFORMS, 1922–35

1. The abolition of the sultanate in 1922 followed by the establishment of the Turkishrepublic in 1923.

2. The abolition of the caliphate in 1924.3. The abolition of the seyhülislam in 1924.4. The abolition of the Ministry of Religious Affairs in 1924.5. The abolition of the Sharia courts in 1924.6. The abolition of the medresse schools in 1924.7. The prohibition of tariqas (religious brotherhoods) in 1925.8. The prohibition of the fez in 1925.9. The adoption of the Gregorian calendar in 1925.

10. The adoption of the Swiss code of civil law in 1926.11. The adoption of European numerals in 1928.12. The adoption of Latin script in 1928.13. The deletion of Article II of the 1924 constitution stipulating Islam to be the state

religion.14. The enfranchisement of women for municipal elections in 1930 and national elections

in 1934.15. The initiation of a programme removing Arabic and Persian words from the Turkish

language in 1931.16. The adoption of the metric system in 1931.17. The adoption of family surnames in 1934.18. The change of weekly holidays from Friday to Sunday in 1935.

Source: B. Toprak, ‘The Religious Right’, in I. Schick and E. Tonak (eds), Turkey in Transition (Oxford,Oxford University Press, 1987), p. 223.

administrators who became leaders in the Grand National Assembly andin the cabinet’ from modernist elements of the existing bureaucracy.118

Legitimised through a widely publicised fear of revolutionary socialism anda determined campaign to portray Islamic traditionalism as retrogressiveand obscurantist, this oligarchic cadre drafted a programme of legislationdesigned to extend mass compliance beyond the war-time appeal ofKemal’s charismatic leadership. The adoption of the metric system, theSwiss legal code and the Gregorian calendar all provided the state’s admin-istrators with standardised tools to which both local variation and clericalinfluence were marginal.119 Similarly, in an extension of the ideas of ZiyaGökalp and a scheme devised by Enver Pasha during the war, the Latinscript was taken up in place of the Ottoman alphabetical blend of Arabicand Persian.120

These measures did little, however, to bridge the divide between theTurkish centre and the periphery. In the case of linguistic reform, theplethora of invented neologisms further widened ‘the gulf between theofficial and literary language and the language of the common people’.121

Moreover, the bureaucratic state’s emphasis on progress in science andeconomics 122 proved an inappropriate medium through which to extend astate-wide infrastructure of mass communication, with the consequencethat participation, both political and ideological, in the Westernisingreforms remained minimal. Although attempts were made to better theconditions of the peasantry by reducing taxation, war damage (theproductive capacity of the country was down 20 per cent on pre-war levels)and an acute labour shortage meant that substantive land reform wasimpossible.123 With the traditional relationship between peripheral notableand smallholder untouched, the state bureaucracy also found it difficult toextend mass education. The number of primary schools only rose from5,172 in 1923 to 6,043 in 1931 with the south-east remaining largelyilliterate (particularly in Turkish).124 ‘Rather than re-evaluate these policies’,I.lter Turan concludes, ‘the bureaucrats were inclined to impose them by

compulsory means, confirmed in their apprehensions that the largelypeasant masses … should not be provided with opportunities to participatein the political decision-making process’.125

A more favourable client base was to be found within the industrial andtechnological sectors of the economy. Here, Kemal extended the CUP’spolicy of tax concessions and the assistance of private accumulationmechanisms, leading to some success in improving economic output.126 Asbefore, however, the Turkish bourgeoisie proved difficult to generate fromabove and the result was the further institutionalisation of the pre-warentrepreneurial cadre ‘via the enrichment of particular individuals throughstate resources and support’.127 In all, these policies, coupled with the con-


tinuing ideological pre-eminence of a loyally secular intelligentsia, led to anarrow, state-stipulated definition of ‘modernisation’, a highly monist viewof citizenship and an intensive brand of nationalism largely restricted tothe urban professionals and large-estate farmers of western Anatolia. As aresult, the Kemalist revolution remained a predominantly intra-elite phe-nomenon with little social restructuring taking place outside the centre andwithout the levelling of social stratification and reduction in provincialismassociated with Western nationalism. In other words, it failed to attainideological power’s fourth tracklaying achievement and bring the massescloser to the state.

CONCLUSION

In many ways, the conclusion of the Turkish revolution represents thefailure to resolve the social contradictions inherited from the OttomanEmpire. As outlined at the beginning of this chapter, power contention atthe end of the nineteenth century predominantly revolved around theimperial tradition of hierarchical centralisation. Peripheral forces repre-sented first by the Young Turks and then, for the initial period of liberationonly, by the Kemalists, challenged the institutionalised position of theOttoman elite. Ultimately, though, the process proved retrogressive as theempire’s ideological emphasis on universalism, cosmopolitanism andnormative civilisation was replaced, at least in terms of state policy, byparticularism, enforced uniformity and militarism thereby reversing the‘tracklaying’ achievement of the caliph/umma order. Essential elements ofthis retrogression were networks of discursive literacy which, decentralisedby the emerging professional classes, were instrumental in both bringingthe provinces to power and, once recentralised by the Kemalist bureau-cracy’s censors, restoring a redefined state elite.128 Ultimately, though, sucha top–down approach could not be successful in deploying ideologicalpower’s third tracklaying potential and extend social identities into theterritorial periphery.

Nevertheless, religion, as Serif Mardin notes, continued to serve a‘double function: for the rulers, that of linkage with the lower classes, forthe ruled, that of an alternative to the polity and a buffer against official-dom’.129 This dialectic persisted throughout the ideological reordering thattook place during the 1920s. Contrary to Ziya Gökalp’s vision, Kemalismdid not entail a separation of state and religion.130 Instead, the republicanstate assumed ‘the jurisdiction to exercise almost unlimited control over all the religious matters in the country’.131 Through the Directorate ofReligious Affairs, created in 1924, a monist vision of national unity was


legitimised and built into the constitution informing both policy-makingand bureaucratic implementation.132 Non-statist groups within the peripherywere also aware of the need to develop ideological power networks in orderto ensure organisational immanence. Beyond this bifurcation, however,religion retained its capacity to transcend cleavages institutionalised bynon-ideological power sources and perpetuated its grip on interpersonalethics and familial relations. In the other words, the commercial-statism ofthe centre could not access the sixth of ideological power’s tracklayingachievements and was largely excluded from familial relations and, whatMann describes as, the ‘core social spheres’.

Indeed, unlike the case of the Christian ecumene, the growth of scienceand rationality, the first of Mann’s secularising forces, did not present aninherent threat to this social role. The influential work of Abduh and al-Afghani, as well as others in the Young Turk movement, espoused viewsthat had long been part of accepted debate within mainstream Islamicthought. What could be considered ‘secularism’ (although such a termwould have been unthinkable even for the most ardent modernist of theperiod) emerged within this ideological channel not as a result of rationalendeavour per se, but through the international transmission of the Euro-pean triumph of reason over faith. For thinkers such as Akçura and Gökalp,national progress, defined in terms of Western models, was incommen-surate with a state-organised faith that was, itself, intrinsically supranational.While not averse to the use of Islamic symbolism and jurisprudence indefence of their cause (a fact reflected in the blurred distinction betweenfactions within the Young Turk movement), religion, they argued, shouldbe relegated to matters of private conscience and not impinge upon thepublic administration of popular sovereignty. So whereas processes ofsecularisation in Europe, according to Mann at least, were born of thechallenge that rational science represented to the Church’s cosmologicalauthority, in Turkey non-religious modes of social explication emergedthrough the organisation of ideological alternatives to the caliph’s politicalpower.

With only a small coterie of western Anatolia elites for a client base,however, the ideology of a centrist urban intelligentsia was unlikely to gainextensive institutionalised credence. While middle-class expansion was suf-ficient to meet the recruitment demands of an expanding state bureaucracy,it did not provide the constitutionally required mass political participationand was thus unable to ‘nationalise’ the state.133 Instead, the Kemalist statecontinued the particularism embodied in the CUP’s ‘economic Turkism’ ina perpetual struggle to extend its support base.134 Without an extensivebourgeois citizenry defining themselves as ‘the nation’ to which the stateought to be coterminous, the Kemalist administration remained highly


autonomous. It was able to continue the militarisation of commercial-statistproto-nationalism first begun in the build-up to the First World War almostunilaterally. Severely weakened by territorial division and the devastationof the First World War, Turkish civil society could exert little influence overthe direction of social reform. As a result, it was the state itself, rather thanwhat Mann terms ‘emergent capitalism’, that formed the primary basis forthe diffusion of notions of popular sovereignty.

That is not to say, however, that mercantile exchange was insignificantin the organisation of ideological alternatives to the Ottoman regime. Thethird of Mann’s secularising forces, navigational advances, brought increas-ing numbers of foreign merchants to the western seaboard. Institutional-ised by the capitulations system, they increased peripheral economicmobility and brought with them the culture and technology of the Enlight-enment. It was through this ideological channel that ideas of nationalstatehood, the fourth of Mann’s secularising forces, became influentialfollowing the French Revolution. Non-Turkish millet were able to exploittheir cultural autonomy within the Ottoman polity to intensify religious andpolitical networks of interaction with external powers such as the OrthodoxChurch and British Whigs. The conflict between their restrained status,political awareness and economic mobility found expression through bothseparatist agitation and, for those recruited by the expanding state bureau-cracy of the nineteenth century, reformism from within the centre. Suchstate-creating nationalism informed Turkish national consciousness andprompted efforts aimed at reinforcing the state (defined as both the empireand the Turkish ‘nation’) from the CUP.

The Ottoman state had, however, spent centuries institutionalisingperipheral diversity and a highly structured centre/periphery (askeri/reaya)divide. Although greatly challenged during the nineteenth century, itsnetworks of ideological organisation (which had provided both the flexi-bility and omnipresence fundamental to the empire’s longevity) could noteasily be redirected. The ulema, like the European ecumene described byMann, had been one of the primary vehicles for institutionalising therelationship between ruler and ruled and thus an important element inlegitimising and transmitting the ideology of the centre. Without theexegetic autonomy of the Church and the polarising effects of its sixteenth-century schism, however, the Ottoman theocracy was less suited to whatMann terms ‘religious proto-nationalism’. Both in ideological and politicalterms, the ulema’s universalist foundation and intermediary role betweencaliph and subject (including non-Muslim millet as ‘people of the book’)were strongly multinational and therefore intrinsically inappropriate to theneeds of the Turkists. Particularly out of step with the modernising centre’sview of the twentieth century was their emphasis on the scholarly value of


Arabic and Persian. Unlike in Europe, classic scriptures could not beapproached in the mother-tongue of the student so Ottoman vernacularsremained localised within the ‘cultural traditions’ of the region. The break-down in the relationship between clergy and state during the nineteenthcentury (described in Chapter 2) led to a decline in educational provisionfurther fragmenting religious discursive literary networks.135

So rather than expanding from the extensiveness of theocratic networksof discursive literacy and education, commercial-statism was largelyimported from the West and institutionalised in parallel to what may becalled ‘traditional’ ideological structures. Linguistic standardisation, firstimplemented by the military, was an innovation unconnected to the ulema’s

ideological networks and one that spread not from the existent medresse

education system, but originated in the Western-orientated and increas-ingly German-staffed military academies. Similarly, educational reformsand the bureaucratisation of the kalemiyye which led to a significant growthin non-clerical state administrators, were based on European models of therational state imposed by Istanbul and unsupported by organic changes incivil society. So, despite gradually involving more social groups from theperiphery, modernism’s ‘secularising’ effects were restricted to an intelli-gentsia born of the centre’s adab training systems. Incorporated into thisetatist elite through attempts by the state to nurture a ‘national’ bourgeoisiewere commercially mobile social networks from western Anatolia and apredominantly Turkish cadre of professional lawyers and educators.

Institutionalised as a result of Western-inspired modernism, these socialnetworks lacked extensive literary links to the mass of civil society whichremained largely embedded in the ideological organisation of the ulema.With the failure of the modernisers to alleviate the parlous peripheraleducation system, the discursive expansion that had occurred within state-connected social groups could not be extended downwards through civilsociety. As a result, no broadly held notions of citizenship comparable tothose of Europe could be institutionalised. On the one hand, with neitheran extensive middle class nor an independent intelligentsia, the new republicwas able to pursue autonomously a policy of top–down, militarised state-reinforcement. On the other, however, such centrist and anti-clerical despot-ism was an ineffectual means of maintaining peripheral support. While theKemalists were initially careful to connect their approach to traditional ideo-logical networks, their highly centralised and militarised bureaucracy provedneither capable of fully eradicating provincial state-subverting nationalismnor of institutionalising a ‘national’ civil society. In contrast to the Europeandialectic of militarism versus representation within a delimited nation-state,the Turkish state continued the Ottoman tradition of despotic autonomy withdecentralising opposition still largely centred around peripheral religiosity.


NOTES

1. M. Mann, The Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press,1986), pp. 363–71.

2. Ibid., p. 367.3. Ibid., p. 382 (he refers only to Europe).4. Ibid., pp. 463–72.5. Ibid., p. 464.6. For a survey of the more prominent of these, see S. Faroqhi, Approaching Ottoman History

(Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1999), Ch. 6.7. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1, p. 465.8. See S. Mardin, ‘Opposition and Control in Turkey’, Government and Opposition, 1 (1966),

p. 380.9. See M. Mann, The Sources of Social Power, Vol. 2 (Cambridge, Cambridge University

Press, 1993), Ch. 7.10. Here, Mann’s categories of literary and periodical media are collapsed into ‘printed’

media. Ibid., pp. 35–43.11. Mann writes that military manpower had reached 5 per cent of the total population

in many states by the end of the eighteenth century (ibid., p. 37).12. Ibid. p. 218.13. M. Mann, ‘A Political Theory of Nationalism and its Excesses’, in S. Periwal (ed.),

Notions of Nationalism (Budapest, Central European Press, 1995), p. 47.14. Britain, for example, committed an unprecedented 31–43 per cent of her GNP to this

conflict with France (M. Mann, ‘The Emergence of Modern European Nationalism’,in J. Hall and I. Jarvie (eds), Transition to Modernity: Essays on Power, Wealth and Belief(Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1992), p. 153).

15. Ibid., p. 48.16. This highly disparate and often contradictory movement can only be considered as

sharing a general unity in its opposition to ‘an arbitrary and fantastic Sultan’ (K. Blind,‘Young Turkey’, Fortnightly Review, 62 (1896), p. 832).

17. Asafname (The Book of Asaph).18. B. Lewis, Islam in History (London, Alcove Press, 1973), p. 203.19. See N. Berkes, The Development of Secularism in Turkey (Montreal, McGill University

Press, 1964), pp. 36–47.20. E. Özbudun, ‘Antecedents of Kemalist Secularism’, in A. Evin (ed.), Modern Turkey:

Continuity and Change (Opladen, Leske Verlag & Budrich Gmbh, 1984), pp. 25–33.21. There is considerable controversy surrounding Jamal al-Din’s place of birth. Nikki

Keddie convincingly argues his claims to be from Afghanistan (hence the epithet) werebased on his desire to present himself as a Sunni (N. Keddie, Sayyid Jamal ad-Din ‘al-Afghani’ (Berkeley, CA, University of California Press, 1972).

22. Cited in A. Hourani, Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age (1798–1939) (London, OxfordUniversity Press, 1970), p. 123.

23. See M. Kerr, Islamic Reform: The Political and Legal Theories of Muhammed Abduh and RashidRida (Berkeley, CA, University of California Press, 1966), pp. 129–52.

24. Berkes, The Development of Secularism in Turkey, pp. 304–13.25. See E. Ramsaur, The Young Turks: Prelude to the Revolution of 1908 (Beirut, Khayats, 1965),

pp. 22–6.26. Cited in Berkes, The Development of Secularism in Turkey, p. 306.27. Cited in ibid., p. 309.28. K. Karpat, ‘The Transformation of the Ottoman State, 1789–1908’, International

Journal of Middle East Studies, 3 (1972), p. 280.29. Cited in N. Berkes (ed.), Turkish Nationalism and Western Civilisation (London, Allen &

Unwin, 1959), pp. 271–2.30. See H. I

.nalcık, ‘The Caliphate and Atatürk’s inkılab’, Belleten, 23 (1982), pp. 356–7.


Gökalp’s 1916 memorandum to the Young Turks administration led to exclusion ofthe seyhülislam from the cabinet, the end of the ulema’s control of the education andjudicial systems and the beginning of a state-led drive to relegate Islam to the realmsof private conscience only (S. Mardin, ‘Religion and Secularism in Turkey’, in A.Kazancıgil and E. Özbudun (eds), Atatürk: Founder of a Modern State (London, C. Hurst,1981), p. 207.

31. Cited in Özbudun, ‘Antecedents of Kemalist Secularism’, p. 36.32. Ibid.33. S. Mardin, ‘Some Notes on the Early Phase in the Modernisation of Communications

in Turkey’, Comparative Studies in Society and History, 3 (1961), p. 257.34. U. Heyd, Language Reform in Modern Turkey (Jerusalem, The Israel Oriental Society,

1954), p. 17.35. See D. Kushner, The Rise of Turkish Nationalism: 1876–1908 (London, Frank Cass, 1977),

p. 20.36. Bernard Lewis notes that the French post-revolutionary diplomatic mission was, by

1802, printing bilingual propaganda for distribution in Greece, Anatolia and theLevant (B. Lewis, ‘The Impact of the French Revolution on Turkey’, Journal of WorldHistory, 4 (1953), pp. 116–17.

37. For a survey of the more prominent of these, see B. Lewis, ‘History-Writing andNational Revival in Turkey’, Middle Eastern Affairs, 4 (1953), pp. 219–23.

38. See F.M. Göçek, ‘Ethnic Segmentation, Western Education and Political outcomes:Nineteenth-Century Ottoman Society’, Poetics Today, 14 (1993), passim.

39. See R. Davison, ‘Westernised Education in Ottoman Turkey’, Middle East Journal, 15(1961), p. 291 and J. Szyliowicz, Education and Modernisation in the Middle East (New York,Cornell University Press, 1973), p. 149.

40. For an account of the missionary movement in the Ottoman empire during this period,see S. Deringil, The Well-Protected Domains: Ideology and the Legitimation of Power in theOttoman Empire 1876–1909 (London, I.B. Tauris, 1998), Ch. 5 and F.M. Göçek,‘Shifting the Boundaries of Literacy, Introduction of Western-style Education to theOttoman Empire’, in D. Keller-Cohen (ed.), Literacy: Inter-Disciplinary Conversations(Cresskill, NJ, Hampton Press, 1994), pp. 279–83.

41. See A. Rodrigue, French Jews, Turkish Jews: The Alliance Israelite Universelle and the Politicsof Jewish Schooling in Turkey 1860–1925 (Bloomington, IN, Indiana University Press,1990), pp. 45–6.

42. See C. Issawi, ‘The Transformation of the Economic Position of the Millets in theNineteenth Century’, in B, Braude and B. Lewis (eds), Christians and Jews in the OttomanEmpire: The Functioning of a Plural Society, Vol. 1 (New York, Holmes & Meier, 1982),passim.

43. See K. Karpat, ‘Millets and Nationality’, in Braude and Lewis (eds), Christians and Jewsin the Ottoman Empire, passim.

44. R. Davison, ‘The Millets as Agents of Change in the Nineteenth-Century OttomanEmpire’, in Braude and Lewis (eds), Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire, p. 329.

45. For a discussion of non-Muslim representation in the assemblies of the late 1870s, seeE.Z. Karal, ‘Non-Muslim Representatives in the First Constitutional Assembly,1876–1877’, in Braude and Lewis (eds), Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire.

46. See F.M. Göçek, Rise of the Bourgeoisie, Demise of the Empire: Ottoman Westernisation andSocial Change (New York, Oxford University Press, 1996), pp. 138–41.

47. See Ç. Keyder, ‘Class and State in the Transformation of Modern Turkey’, in F. Halliday and H. Alavi (eds), State and Ideology in the Middle East and Pakistan (London,Macmillan, 1988), pp. 193–9.

48. C. Findley, ‘Economic Bases of Revolution and Repression in the Late OttomanEmpire’, Comparative Studies in Society and History, 28 (1986), pp. 99–103.

49. Much of the profits of this growth passed into the hands of overseas creditors, forexample see Donald Quataert’s analysis of the effects of the German-built Anatolian


railway in ‘Limited Revolution: The Impact of the Anatolian Railway on TurkishTransportation and Provisioning of Istanbul’, Business History Review, 51 (1977).

50. For instance, the Greco-Turkish War of 1897 and a spate of massacres in Armenia in1896.

51. Cited in Findley, ‘Economic Bases of Revolution’, p. 101 (n. 58).52. See D. Quataert, Social Disintegration and Popular Resistance in the Ottoman Empire, 1881–

1908 (New York, New York University Press, 1983), Chs. 4 and 5.53. A. Alderson, The Structure of the Ottoman Dynasty (London, Oxford University Press,

1956), p. 71.54. In seeking to explain the Young Turk’s decision to establish a supervisory committee

parallel to incumbent personnel in Istanbul rather than establish their own Cabinet,Feroz Ahmad points to their class, education, inexperience and former professions asreasons why they ‘did not see in themselves the capacity to rule’ (The Young Turks(London, Oxford University Press, 1969), p. 17). See also, K. Karpat, Turkey’s Politics:The Transition to a Multi-Party System (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1959),p. 14 (n. 31) and T. Tunaya, ‘Elections in Turkish History’, Middle Eastern Affairs, 5(1954), p. 117.

55. See F. McCullagh, ‘The Constantinople Mutiny of April 13th’, Fortnightly Review, 86(1909), p. 59.

56. Ahmad, The Young Turks, Ch. 3.57. See H. Kayalı, Arabs and Young Turks: Ottomanism, Arabism and Islamism in the Ottoman

Empire 1908–1918 (Berkeley, CA, University of California Press, 1997), p. 57.58. Luftullah Karaman writes (with considerable partisanship), ‘It was sharply realised,

during these wars, that it was only the Turkish element of the Empire that had striven,and suffered, for the unity of the Empire’ (‘Tunalı Hilmi: An Outstanding Figure inthe Process of Ideological Change From Ottomanism to Turkism’, Middle East Reviewof International Affairs, 1 (1997), p. 8. See also J. Landau, Pan Turkism in Turkey: A Study inIrredentism (London, C. Hurst, 1981), pp. 46–7 and O. Okyar, ‘Atatürk’s Quest forModernisation’, in J. Landau (ed.), Atatürk and the Modernisation of Turkey (Boulder, CO,Westview Press, 1984), pp. 46–7.

59. B. Lewis, The Emergence of Modern Turkey (London, Oxford University Press, 1961),p. 200.

60. Kayalı, Arabs and Young Turks, p. 77.61. Feroz Ahmad states that this new law ‘increased local autonomy in administrative and

financial matters, increased and defined the powers of the governor, and allowed forthe general provincial councils to be elected by voters of the second degree, namelyby local notables and landlords (‘Unionist Relations with the Greek, Armenian andJewish Communities of the Ottoman Empire, 1908–1914’, in Braude and Lewis (eds),Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire, p. 423). Indeed, during a period of centralis-ation, this de jure acknowledgement of peripheral power is a measure of the importancethat Armenian support commanded in Istanbul.

62. K. Karpat, ‘The Mass Media: Turkey’, in R. Ward and D. Rustow (eds), PoliticalModernisation in Japan and Turkey (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1964),p. 269.

63. According to Hasan Kayalı, two were occupied by Arabs Mahmud Sevket and hisreplacement at the Third Army command, Hadi Pasha, two by Albanians, two byCircassians and one each by a Tartar, a Bosnian and a Georgian (Arabs and Young Turks,p. 88).

64. J. Szyliowicz, ‘Elite Recruitment in Turkey’, World Politics, 23 (1971), p. 397.65. One deputy stood for every 50,000 Ottoman citizens (Kayalı, Arabs and Young Turks,

p. 85).66. See K. Karpat, Ottoman Population 1830–1914 (Madison, WI, University of Wisconsin

Press, 1985), pp. 164–8.67. For instance Syed Ali El-Edroos notes that only one deputy was returned from the


province of Jordan. S.A. El-Edroos, The Hashemite Arab Army, 1908–1979 (Amman,The Publishing Committee, 1980), p. 8.

68. See K. Eriksen et al., ‘Governments and the Education of Non-Dominant EthnicGroups in Comparative Perspective’, in J. Tomiak (ed.), Schooling, Education Policy andEthnic Identity (New York, New York University Press, 1991), pp. 392–5.

69. Further public opposition arose from the provincial appointment of officials whosought to impose principles of secularism and individualism. See Kayalı, Arabs andYoung Turks, pp. 94–5.

70. See E. Mears, ‘Transportation and Communication’, in E. Mears (ed.), Modern Turkey(New York, Macmillan, 1924), pp. 218–33.

71. See F. Ahmad, ‘Vanguard of a Nascent Bourgeoisie’, in O. Okyar and H. I.nalcık (eds),

Social and Economic History of Turkey (1071–1920) (Ankara, Meteksan Sırketı, 1980),pp. 335–6.

72. See W. Cumberland, ‘The Public Treasury’, in E. Mears (ed.), Modern Turkey (NewYork, Macmillan, 1924), p. 399.

73. Çaglar Keyder calculates (after Yahya Tezel) that from 1908–14, 60 million lira wereborrowed and 43 million lira repaid (‘Ottoman Economy and Finances’, in Okyar andI.nalcık (eds), Social and Economic History of Turkey, pp. 325–6).

74. This was despite the abolition of military exemption duties under legislation in 1908designed to end the millet system which cost the Treasury over 6 million lira in lostrevenue (Ahmad, The Young Turks, p. 70).

75. See A. Emin, Turkey in the World War (New Haven, CT, Yale University Press, 1930),p. 94.

76. Keyder, ‘Ottoman Economy and Finances’, p. 326.77. See Emin, Turkey in the World War, Ch. 8.78. Ahmad, ‘Vanguard of a Nascent Bourgeoisie’, p. 337 and 341. In some ways this was

an attempt to return to the militarised economy of imperial expansion. Indeed,Ahmad writes elsewhere that, ‘this emphasis on etatisme was merely a reflection of thetraditional role of the state in the Ottoman Empire and in Islamic societies generally’(The Young Turks, p. 157).

79. Keyder, ‘Ottoman Economy and Finances’, p. 326.80. Turkish ascendancy was eventually assured by the mass expulsion of Armenians in

1915 and population exchanges with Greece following the war. See Keyder, ‘Class andState in the Transformation of Modern Turkey’, pp. 198–9.

81. See Emin, Turkey in the World War, pp. 114–17.82. Ibid., p. 115.83. Consul General G. Bie Ravndal writing in 1912. Cited in Ahmad, ‘Vanguard of a

Nascent Bourgeoisie’, p. 337.84. Writing in 1914. Cited in Berkes, The Development of Secularism in Turkey (1998 edn),

p. 403.85. Writing in 1919. Cited in A. Öncü, ‘Academics: The West in the Discourse of

University Reform’, in M. Heper, A. Öncü and H. Kramer (eds), Turkey and the West(London, I.B. Tauris, 1993), p. 153.

86. Berkes, The Development of Secularism in Turkey (1998 edn), p. 416.87. See Ü. Cizre-Sakallıoglu, ‘Kemalism, Islam and Hypernationalism’, History of European

Ideas, 20 (1995), p. 759.88. According to Andrew Mango, Abdul Qadyr’s movement was successful in securing

the endorsement of the predominantly Sunni Kurdish guilds of Istanbul and federaliststatesmen such as Fuad Pasha, but was restricted in its capacity to mobilise thedisparate Kurdish heterodoxy beyond the province of Diyarbakır (‘Atatürk and theKurds’, Middle Eastern Studies, 35 (1999), p. 5.

89. Namely England. Sharif Pasha cited in McDowall, A Modern History of the Kurds,p. 131. This proved unpopular with many in Kurdistan (especially those who hadengaged in the Armenian massacres and deportations of 1915).


90. The 1916 Sykes–Picot arrangements to divide Anatolia between Britain, France andRussia had been revealed by the Bolsheviks a year earlier and was still a cause ofwidespread alarm.

91. K. Kirisci and G.M. Winrow, The Kurdish Question and Turkey: An Example of Trans-StateEthnic Conflict (London, Frank Cass, 1997), pp. 84–5.

92. Opening proclamation cited in Mango, ‘Atatürk and the Kurds’, p. 8.93. See B. Toprak, Islam and Political Development in Turkey (Leiden, E.J. Brill, 1981), p. 64.94. See D. Rustow, ‘Politics and Islam in Turkey, 1920–55’, in R. Frye (ed.), Islam and the

West (The Hague, Mouton, 1957), p. 73 and Mango, ‘Atatürk and the Kurds’, p. 12.It is worth noting that the assembly also included 90 members of the Istanbulparliament (see D. Rustow, ‘Atatürk as an Institution-builder’, in A. Kazancıgil and E. Özbudun (eds), Atatürk: Founder of a Modern State (London, C. Hurst, 1981), p. 66.

95. See Toprak, Islam and Political Development in Turkey, p. 65.96. Van Bruinessen, Agha, Shaikh and State (London, Zed Books, 1992), p. 279. See also

D. Webster, The Turkey of Atatürk: Social Process in the Turkish Reformation (Philadelphia,PA, American Academy of Political and Social Science, 1939), p. 279.

97. See J. Bulloch and H. Morris, No Friends but the Mountains (Harmondsworth, Penguin,1993), p. 89 and D. McDowall, The Kurds (London, Minority Rights Group, 1996), p. 15.

98. The Chief-of-Staff, Fevzi Çakmak, for instance, was promoted to a full cabinetmember eventually serving as Prime Minister from January 1921 to July 1922 (see G. Harris, ‘The Role of the Military in Turkish Politics, Part 1 and 2’, Middle EastJournal, 19 (1965), pp. 54–5.

99. D. Rustow, ‘The Army and the Founding of the Turkish Republic’, World Politics, 11(1959), p. 518.

100. See ibid., p. 519. Elsewhere Rustow reports that the telegraph system was particularlyimportant in maintaining Kemal’s links with Istanbul. In three days in 1920, 217telegrams were sent to the House of Representatives alone (‘Atatürk as a Founder ofa State’, Daedalus, 97 (1968), p. 270).

101. Kemal, too, saw the value of utilising former-CUP expertise. See E. Zürcher, TheUnionist Factor: The Role of the Committee of Union and Progress in the Turkish National Movement1905–1926 (Leiden, E.J. Brill, 1984), p. 160.

102. See E. Smith, Turkey: Origins of the Kemalist Movement and Government of the Grand NationalAssembly (1919–1923) (Washington, DC, Judd & Detweiler, 1959), pp. 67–8.

103. M. Turfan, ‘Looking After and Protecting the Republic’, paper presented at the BritishSociety for Middle Eastern Studies annual conference, 1988, p. 4, and Harris, ‘The Roleof the Military in Turkish Politics’, p. 55.

104. B. Moore, The Social Origins of Dictatorship and Democracy (London, Allen Lane, 1966),Ch. 8.

105. E. Özbudun, ‘The Nature of the Kemalist Political Regime’, in A. Kazancıgil and E. Özbudun (eds), Atatürk: Founder of a Modern State (London, C. Hurst, 1981), p. 86.

106. See E.K. Trimberger, Revolution from Above (New Brunswick, New Jersey, TransactionBooks, 1978), pp. 41–3.

107. See Harris, ‘The Role of the Military in Turkish Politics’, p. 55. For a discussion ofthe constitution adopted between 1921 and 1923 see Y. Altug, ‘The Development ofConstitutional Thought in Turkey’, in A. Evin (ed.), Modern Turkey: Continuity and Change(Opladen, Leske Verlag & Budrich Gmbh, 1984), pp. 131–4.

108. See H. Edib, The Turkish Ordeal (New York, Century Press, 1928), p. 183.109. See S. Deringil ‘The Ottoman Origins of Kemalist Nationalism: Namik Kemal to

Mustafa Kemal’, European History Quarterly, 23 (1993), pp. 165–91 and I.nalcık, ‘The

Caliphate and Atatürk’s inkılab’, pp. 353–6.110. This quickly came to replace the Society for the Defence of the Rights of Eastern

Anatolia (see S. Yerasimos, ‘The Mono-Party Period’ (trans. R. Benatar and I. Schick),in I. Schick and E. Tonak (eds), Turkey in Transition (New York, Oxford University Press,1987), p. 78).


111. See Harris, ‘The Role of the Military in Turkish Politics’, pp. 56–7. Also instrumentalin Kemal’s timing was, of course, the successful re-negotiation of Sèvres at Lausannein July 1923. For an analysis of the Turkish delegation to Lausanne, see R. Davison,‘Turkish Diplomacy from Mudros to Lausanne’, in G. Craig and F. Gilbert (eds),Political Modernisation in Japan and Turkey (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press,1963), pp. 199–209.

112. M. Yegen,‘The Turkish State Discourse and the Exclusion of Kurdish Identity’, in S. Kedourie (ed.), Turkey: Identity, Democracy and Politics (London, Frank Cass, 1996),p. 221.

113. See F. Frey, ‘Patterns of Elite Politics in Turkey’, in G. Lenczowski (ed.), Political Elitesin the Middle East (Washington, DC, AEIPPR, 1978), p. 59. David McDowall notes thatwithin a year only 215 out of the 4,875 functioning schools in Turkey were located inKurdish-speaking provinces (A Modern History of the Kurds, p. 192).

114. See Yerasimos, ‘The Mono-Party Period’, pp. 83–4.115. Under what Ahmed Emin describes as a ‘pretext’, the Progressive Republican Party

was accused of providing a rallying-point for the rebels and dissolved (‘The Strugglefor Multi-Party Government in Turkey’, Middle East Journal, 1 (1947), p. 48). See alsoD. McDowall, The Kurds, A Nation Denied (London Minority Rights Group, 1993), p. 37and The Kurds, p. 15.

116. See Yerasimos, ‘The Mono-Party Period’, pp. 83–4.117. See Rustow, ‘The Army and the Founding of the Turkish Republic’, pp. 550–1 as well

as F. Tachau, and M. Heper, ‘The State, Politics and the Military in Turkey’,Comparative Politics, 16 (1983), pp. 19–20. It should also be noted that as part of thesame process the Chief-of-Staff was placed under the direct control of the Presidentthereby isolating the position from civil control.

118. F. Bent, ‘The Turkish Bureaucracy as an Agent of Change’, Journal of ComparativeAdministration, 1 (1970), p. 57.

119. See I.. Turan, ‘Continuity and Change in Turkish Bureaucracy’, in J. Landau (ed.),

Atatürk and the Modernisation of Turkey (Boulder, CO, Westview Press, 1984), pp. 106–8and P. Stirling, ‘Religious Change in Republican Turkey’, Middle East Journal, 12 (1958),p. 397.

120. See F. Tachau, ‘Language and Politics: Turkish Language Reform’, Review of Politics,26 (1964), pp. 193–4.

121. B. Lewis, ‘Atatürk’s Language Reforms as an Aspect of Modernisation in the Republicof Turkey’, in J. Landau (ed.), Atatürk and the Modernisation of Turkey, p. 210.

122. See D. Lerner and R. Robinson, ‘Swords and Ploughshares: The Turkish Army as aModernising Force’, World Politics, 13 (1960), p. 21.

123. See F. Ahmad, ‘The Political Economy of Kemalism’, in A. Kazancıgil and E. Özbudun (eds), Atatürk: Founder of a Modern State (London, C. Hurst, 1981),pp. 153–4.

124. Amalgamated from M. Winter, ‘The Modernisation of Education in KemalistTurkey’, in Landau (ed.), Atatürk and the Modernisation of Turkey, p. 192 and Yerasimos,‘The Mono-Party Period’, p. 86.

125. Turan, ‘Continuity and Change in Turkish Bureaucracy’, p. 111. The Village Law ofMarch 1924, for instance, sought to give the Anatolian peasantry representationmechanisms by making the vilayet a legal and administrative entity, but producednegligible effects on social and economic conditions (see J. Kolars, ‘The Integrationof the Villager into the National Life of Turkey’, in K. Karpat (ed.), Social Change andPolitics in Turkey: A Structural–Historical Analysis (Leiden, E.J. Brill, 1973), p. 187.

126. See Z. Hershlag, ‘Atatürk’s Etatism’, in Landau (ed.), Atatürk and the Modernisation ofTurkey, pp. 175–6. William Hale records that GDP rose from 640 million lira in 1923to 1207.1 million in 1930 (‘The Traditional and the Modern in the Economy ofKemalist Turkey: The Experience of the 1920s’, in Landau (ed.), Atatürk and theModernisation of Turkey, p. 163). For an alternative view, see R. Robinson, The First Turkish


Republic: A Case Study in National Development (Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press,1963), p. 115.

127. K. Boratav, ‘Kemalist Economic Policies and Etatism’, in Kazancıgil and Özbudun(eds), Atatürk: Founder of a Modern State, p. 170.

128. Later, from 1929 onwards, all printing had to be produced using the newly adoptedLatin script thereby excluding all but the thoroughly ‘modernised’ from thesediscursive literary networks. See D. Webster, ‘State Control of Social Change inRepublican Turkey’, American Sociological Review, 4 (1939), pp. 254–5.

129. Mardin, ‘Ideology and Religion in the Turkish Revolution’, p. 204.130. See N. Keddie, ‘Secularism and the State: Towards Clarity and Global Comparison’,

New Left Review, 226 (1997), p. 32.131. P. Dumont, ‘Islam as a Factor of Change and Revival in Modern Turkey’, in S. Akural

(ed.), Turkic Culture: Continuity and Change (Bloomington, IN, Indiana University Press,1987), p. 2.

132. For an account of Kemal’s attempts to ‘Turkify’ Islamic ritual see H. Reed, ‘Atatürk’sSecularising Legacy and the Continuing Vitality of Islam in Republican Turkey’, inC. Pullapilly (ed.), Islam in the Contemporary World (Notre Dame, IN, Cross Road Books,1980), pp. 325–6.

133. See M. Heper, ‘The Recalcitrance of the Turkish Public Bureaucracy to “BourgeoisPolitics”: A Multifactor Political Stratification Analysis’, Middle East Journal, 30 (1976),pp. 485–6. This explains why, in Frederick Frey’s words, ‘The Kemalists concentratedon the extension and the consolidation of the modernist beachhead within the rulingelite’ (‘Political Development, Power and Communication in Turkey’, in L. Pye (ed.),Communications and Political Development (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press,1963), p. 313.

134. Given that, in Metin Heper’s words, ‘the State elites took democracy not as therepresentation and reconciliation of the interests and opinions of different socialgroups but as finding the one best policy by the enlightened elite, that is, by the Stateelites themselves’ (‘The State, Religion and Pluralism’, pp. 48–9, emphasis in theoriginal), this did not imply a loss of top–down control (see I

.. Turan, ‘The Evolution

of Political Culture in Turkey’, in Evin (ed.), Modern Turkey: Continuity and Change, p. 89.135. See F. Frey, ‘Education’, in R. Ward and D. Rustow (eds), Political Modernisation in Japan

and Turkey (Princeton, NJ, Princeton University Press, 1964), p. 211.


4

The Economics of Liberalisation

This chapter looks at political and economic liberalisation in Turkeyfollowing the Second World War. The roots of industrial capitalism will betraced back through the single-party period (1924–45) with an emphasison the role played by the state. This is in keeping with Michael Mann’s focuson centralised political power as the key to economic advance, and societalchange generally, in north-west Europe. In seeking to uncover the socialorigins of the various political and ideological alignments that emerged inTurkey during the period of Democrat Party governance in the 1950s, thischapter will concentrate on Mann’s elucidation of ‘class’. Here, the ruraland urban groups that he identifies within European polities will becompared with those existent in Turkey during the post-war years. It isintended that this will provide a means of examining the extent to whichthese networks conform with, or deviate from, the pattern of Europeansocial development that he outlines. Of particular interest will be the rolesuch organisations played in the emergence of what Mann terms the secondphase of modern nationalism, that of ‘industrial-capitalism’.

CLASS AND STATE

Central to the social dynamics of this period (in Europe broadly from themid-nineteenth century until the First World War), was, in Mann’s par-lance, the ‘crystallisation’ of class. He writes, ‘capitalism had createdpotentially extensive, political and (occasionally) symmetrical and dialecti-cal classes’.1 This did not, however, necessarily lead to compartmentalisedsocial collectives cemented by a shared sense of group consciousness. Mannargues that for such perceptions of class unity to develop, four componentsare required.2 First, a shared ‘identity’ must exist between class members.Second, this identity must include the perceived ‘opposition’ of (and to)other class interests. Third, the first and second components must combinein a ‘totality’ that defines the class members’ social situation and society ingeneral. Fourth, an ‘alternative’ to the existing power relations must be

conceived. In Mann’s view these criteria – abbreviated to IOTA – were notgenerally met. Classes, he argues, did not emerge as ‘pure’ features ofmodernity. Instead, they were divided by other networks of social inter-action, both from within the relations of production and through theinfluence of non-economic forces.

Mann illustrates this by initially focusing on workers’ political movementsin Great Britain, the home of the first proletariat. He identifies two ‘collec-tivities’, additional to class, arguing that capitalist development’s tendencyto homogenise labour skills was less uniform than Marx and Engelsbelieved.3 First, workers may be ‘segmentally’ organised in interdependentrelations with their employers. This is particularly the case if the skills ofthe labour force are highly specialised, developed through in-house trainingand scarce in the general job market. In these conditions workers are noteasily able to leave and seek comparable positions elsewhere and employersare more reliant on their existing workforce as the costs of recruitingreplacement staff are high. As a result, ‘employees become segregated from the mass of workers outside, and conflict becomes employer-specific,not generalizable to a class’.4 Second, workers may be organised within‘sectional’ collectivities determined by their occupation or trade. This canbe used to restrict the supply of their skills and oppose employers withoutrecourse to a working-class totality. In Britain, mid-nineteenth-centurytrade unionism was subject to these sectional restraints. As unions movedtheir power base from the artisan trades to engineering, factory floors andsmelting works, they sought to avoid state harassment under conspiracylegislation by retaining what Mann calls ‘privileged craft sectionalism’instead of a more generalist extensiveness.5 Although many trade unionistsbegan to view society as an economic totality within a broader capitalistsystem, collaboration with middle-class reformers and employers remainedthe norm with violent confrontations mainly restricted to the miningindustry. In all, Mann concludes that ‘identity with the sectional trade andwith the segmental enterprise strengthened more than with class’.6

The European agrarian sector has also been subject to comparablesegmental and sectional cleavages which imposed varying levels of cross-class divisions on the three broad agricultural classes that Mann identifies,namely large-estate-farmers, peasants (or smallholding farm proprietors)and landless labourers.7 The first, the landowners (gentry and commoner),made up a fundamental element of both the old and the new rulingEuropean regime and were therefore less subject to these structures. Whiledivided by employment status,8 the power relations of the third group,the landless labourers, were, for the most part, similarly straightforward.Exploited and segmentalised by the estates and by wealthier, market-orientated smallholders, they were generally unable to develop


organisational links with any significant extensiveness and remained, forthe most part, a latent class.9 The second group, the peasantry, was morecomplex. While Marx held the view that the fragmented nature of theirmode of production made them incapable of class organisation, Mann,augmenting the theses of Weber, Tilly and Kautsky, argues that what heterms ‘the global commercialisation of agriculture’ did in fact lead to the‘proletarianisation’ of the European peasantry.10 The employment require-ments of industrialisation and improvements in transportation in the mid-nineteenth century both integrated the rural and the urban within statesand brought continental landmasses closer together. As these developmentsfavoured farmers with capital to invest, borrowing rose resulting in intensi-fied credit conflicts and social stratification. The more successful small-holders specialised, organised distribution networks and competed with the larger estates, while others were threatened by foreclosure and forcedinto crop liens. Both called for improved credit terms, greater financialregulation, a standardisation of seed, fertiliser and machinery supply andan end to the collusion of urban corporations and rural capital. Mannconcludes that this ‘class populism’ pitted ‘the “people” against corporatecapitalism, potentially uniting peasants and workers, with similar oppo-nents, in a Leftist alliance’.11 Like the urban proletariat, however, increasedmarket competition also intensified sectional divisions. Greater specialisa-tion and interdependence made producers more vulnerable to the effectsof agricultural depressions, natural disasters, regional technological advanceand state protectionist policies and therefore more inclined to form localorganisational networks based around their own cultivation. This meantthat the peasantry, like the estate-farmers and the landless, remainedsegmentally divided from other agrarian class members outside theirlocality. Such cross-class linkages led to a more general sectional divisionbetween agriculturists and urbanites, often based on the rural influence ofold-regime and clerical traditionalism.

The middle classes of nineteenth-century Europe were similarly segmen-talised. While relatively insulated from the workers by the gradual collapseof the artisan sector, their commitment to capitalism ensured a varieddegree of loyalty to the ruling regime. The petite bourgeoisie (the first ofthree middle-class ‘fractions’ identified by Mann) were owners and control-lers of their means of production (typically as a family or non-contractualassociation) and as such experienced little exploitation.12 Discontent wasminimal and their conservatism, which helped to defeat the Chartist move-ment in Britain for instance, persisted throughout the challenge of risingcorporate power during the nineteenth century.13 The second middle-classfraction, the careerists, were generally salaried employees in corporate orstate bureaucracies. Some were managers, others (predominantly women,

The Economics of Liberalisation 95

ex-manual workers and young men) clerks and sales assistants. All werecaged within disciplined, segmental and graded hierarchies which simul-taneously provided career mobility and constrained collective action. Thethird fraction of the middle classes were the professionals. Theirs was ‘a“learned” (involving technically and culturally valued knowledge) occupa-tion requiring special education, whose practice is formally licensed afternegotiation between the state and an occupational organisation’.14 Thesuccess of the state in authoritatively controlling qualification processes(with the exception of the medical profession) and establishing regulatorysupervision in most sectors restrained the autonomy inherent in the quasi-capitalist partnerships and price-fixing monopolies of fee-chargingprofessionalism.

Indeed, the role of the state is, for Mann, a key determinant in the riseof extreme right-wing politics during the ‘industrial-capitalist’ phase ofmodern nationalism. State expansion began to adopt a greater number ofcivilian functions. Spending on the requirements of economic growth, suchas the communications and educational infrastructure had, in most Euro-pean states, overtaken military expenditure by the early twentieth century.As Mann comments, ‘welfare and fiscal policies redistributed resourcesbetween regions, age-groups and classes, reducing inequalities and furthersolidifying the nation’.15 This tended to reduce mass deference to the oldregime and extend notions of popular sovereignty, previously the preserveof the bourgeoisie, into the proletariat and the peasantry. The result wasthreefold.16 First, the ruling classes responded by using religious affiliationas a means of challenging the appeal of socialism. The social welfare associ-ations of Catholic landowners were, for instance, particularly effective inmaintaining peasant deference in southern Germany, France and Austria.Second, a more secular brand of conservatism appeared in northernGermany, Britain and the United States which stressed the greater techno-cratic value of the existing relations of production. Parties hithertodominated by landed interests increasingly emphasised their members’professional aptitude to manage a modern economy.

Third, an inwardly directed brand of industrial-capitalist nationalismemerged. Predicated on the idea of the internal enemy and propagated by‘top–down’ authoritarian or semi-authoritarian ruling-class regimes, it wasprimarily extended through ideologically integrated state bureaucracies.This was particularly true in Germany during the early years of thetwentieth century where it was used by the old regime to bring ‘the middleclasses into the edges of the state in order to keep labour and the ethnicminorities well outside it’.17 Unlike liberal countries that were more subjectto the control of mass political parties, Germany and, to some extent,Austria developed highly statist, anti-proletarian segments of the


bourgeoisie. Since few within the entrepreneurial sector wished for agreater extractive role for the state, it was largely within these state-affiliatedprofessionals, public administrators and civil servants (that is, those whohad received the most extensive state education) that support for old-regimemilitarism (still around 40 per cent of many European national budgets)centred.18 As this evolved into what Mann terms ‘aggressive’ forms ofnationalism, it gradually took on a violent chauvinism (often directedagainst transnational ideologies such as anarchism and socialism) largelybeyond old-regime control.

In this sense, ideological, military and political networks of social organi-sation ‘have welded solidarities among these economically heterogeneousfractions, strata and segments’.19 Modern classes and class consciousnesshave, Mann argues, emerged from the interaction of all four sources ofsocial power. Revolutionary politics, in both its nationalist and inter-nationalist forms, emerged as imperfect ‘crystallisations’ of class sentimentfrom the tensions within civil society and, perhaps most importantly,between civil society and the state. While ideological and military powerexerted a more ambiguous influence over class development, centralisedpolitical power ‘played a very substantial structuring role’ in the mobili-sation of class sentiment.20 Ideological relations of the ‘industrial-capitalist’period were certainly important in articulating class interests, but they werea phenomenon rooted in an already constituted structure of social strati-fication which they could reinforce or transcend. Similarly, military recruit-ment may train revolutionaries, as Engels believed, or, as Mann suggests,serve to segmentalise subordinate classes, strengthening the organisationalpower of the old regime. In contrast, both the extension of state infra-structure and access to the state itself were determining factors in theformation of capitalist stratification and the course of inter-class relationsduring the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

LATE DEVELOPMENT AND THE TURKISH BUREAUCRATIC-INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX

As industrialisation greatly increased the power of the dominant classes, itbecame quickly diffused. Outside north-western Europe, social elites notedthe course of earlier development patterns and established adapted modelsof industrial advance, inadvertently furthering state centralisation. Mannargues, after Gershenkron, that key attributes in the success of ‘latecomer’industrialisation were (1) rapid growth, (2) an emphasis on producers’goods, (3) large-scale plant and enterprise, (4) increased mass consumption,(5) a diminished role for agriculture, (6) an active financial sector and (7) an


interventionist state.21 This collaboration between state and capital led tosubsidised manufacturing and banking systems and the promotion ofcartels large enough to invest in technology and research. If, however,development was erratic or sectionally variable what Mann terms ‘enclaves’may emerge in which comprador classes could institutionalise transnationallinks seeking ‘to keep their own state weak and ally with foreign capital,even with foreign states’.22 Such uneven development often exacerbatedregional and class tensions destabilising the economy and forcing politicalelites to focus on issues of internal order. Following the relative stability ofthe first wave of late developers (Prussia/Germany, Sweden and Japan),Austrian and Russian industrialisation was successful only at the cost ofterritorial disintegration.

Turkey, the remnants of the other great European ‘empire of domi-nation’, was, like Austria and Russia, heavily reliant on agricultural exportsas a means of paying for imported capital goods and therefore shared thesectoral discrepancies of its old enemies.23 Reform generally involved core–peripheral conflict as the degree to which the state was able to influenceagricultural producers was limited by the inherent autonomy of an agrariansystem yet to be proletarianised by the proliferation of large-scale estates.While smallholders predominated,24 the possibility of a withdrawal fromthe market to the level of subsistence gave the peasantry (landless labourersobviously had no surplus with which to bargain) greater distance from the policies of the centre than the industrial and commercial sectors. Inresponse, the state had, according to Farük Birtek and Çaglar Keyder, anycombination of three possible strategies.25 The first was a mixture of tax-ation and acquisitive price-fixing. The second was regulation or influencingmarket prices by fixing the cost of inputs like land, machinery and fertiliser.The third was controlling production through measures such as landdistribution/reclamation, import subsidies and credit policies.

For much of the 1920s, support of the large, export-orientated farmers,as both a means of institutionalising controls over transnational exchangeand a valuable source of surplus extraction, dominated the Kemalist state’sdevelopment policies. Tax burdens were lessened with the abolition of theland tithe in 1925, rail subsidies were announced and the profitable estatesof the recently expelled Greek farmers of the Aegean region were allocatedto Muslim landowners.26 In 1924 the Ministry of Agriculture was createdwhich, through its partnership with the Agricultural Bank (Ziraat Bankası),extended lending in this sector from 17 million lira in 1924 to 36 million in1930.27 Supported by an increase in road (22,000 kilometres to 30,000kilometres) and railway (4,000 kilometres to 6,000 kilometres) constructionover the same period,28 the state had some success in increasing productivity.Although agricultural output did increase between 1923 and 1929,29 only


the largest and most profitable estates were ‘marketised’. As Zvi Hershlagputs it, ‘in spite of a general trend towards increase in agricultural output… the shortcomings were still overwhelming’.30 As a result, the export drivehad only minimal effects of the balance of trade. The deficit was 60 millionlira in 1923 and 50 million in 1928.31

The 1929 crash worsened the situation considerably. Coinciding with anumber of poor harvests, it halved the value of Turkey’s five majorexports,32 and had, by 1932, reduced total export revenues by between 30and 50 per cent.33 As a result, the limited progress of smallholder incorpor-ation into world markets was arrested, the estate-farmers lost the surplusesthat had underpinned a favourable alliance with the state and Turkey aban-doned liberal integrationism. In response, agricultural policy aims changed.Food production surpluses were required not for export, but in order tooffset the contraction in the domestic economy caused by the curtailmentof imports. These declined from 256 million lira in 1929 to 85 million in1932, of which up to 20 per cent (the figure for 1925) were food stuffs.34

The state moved away from supporting large, export-orientated farmersand towards the cereal producer, an agricultural section dominated bysmallholders. It embarked upon a price subsidising policy which establishedthe government, through its network of purchasing stations, as the primarybuyer of first, wheat, and later, barley and oats. Thus ‘by cutting down onimports and controlling commodity exchange in general the state put thelarge farmer at a disadvantage’.35 Rather than tractors and Derv beingimported on ministry-sponsored terms, the government restricted specu-lative investment and redistributed barely viable plots of land more suitedto the labour-intensive inputs of small-surplus peasants.36 During theSecond World War the state increased its purchases of unused peasantproduce. However, despite the inflationary pressures of mass conscriptionand a widespread shortage of consumer goods, which pushed up thegeneral price index by 450 per cent between 1939 and 1944, the govern-ment fixed its purchasing prices.37 With prices in other economic sectorsrising rapidly, profitable smallholdings that were too market-orientated toreturn to subsistence levels suffered a sharp fall in living standards andattempted to withhold their surpluses from the state. As a result, agriculturalproduction declined from an index fix of 100 in 1939 to 70.4 in 1944.38 Inall, this gave rise to a social stratum of significant size that was ‘mobilisedand integrated into the economy, yet left most vulnerable to the economicdownturns, and hence readily motivated to play a role in the politicalsphere’.39

The crash of 1929 also profoundly affected the Turkish state’s relation-ship with the urban classes. Industrial policy during the 1920s had beendetermined by the free trade stipulations of the Treaty of Lausanne. While


not entirely unprotected, the Turkish economy had relatively low tariffs(11–12 per cent on textiles and 7 per cent on metals, for instance).40 This‘mixed economy’ approach had seen some state activity in the industrialsector, but public enterprise was not intended to usurp decentralised entre-preneurial endeavour.41 As a result of the 1929 crisis, however, an etatistpolicy was adopted which favoured ‘direct state participation, ownershipand planning of the economy’.42 This was influenced by the Soviet modelof central planning and a loan of US$18 million offered by Moscow in1933 on very generous terms.43 Intellectual currents within Turkey alsofavoured greater state planning. The periodical Kadro (first published in1932), for example, called for a small elite to take charge of the developmentprocess.44 This was, in part a least, effected under the first Five Year Plan(inaugurated in 1934) which established public investment and state-ledenterprises as the principal mechanism of industrialisation. Although thestate was at pains to stress that this did not represent an attempt to eliminateprivate initiative, it resulted in ‘a noncompetitive, closed economy domi-nated by state monopolies that were … managed primarily for the benefitof a privileged elite controlling the state apparatus’.45 The distance betweenthe state bureaucracy and the masses was further widened by the failure ofgovernment policy to produce any sustained growth in the agriculturalsector. Whereas industrial output was doubled from the 1929 slump to theend of the first Five Year Plan in 1939, agricultural output had, by the endof the second Five Year Plan in 1944, fallen back to virtually the same levelsas 1929 with national income per capita actually declining over the sameperiod.46

During the 1930s, the state’s bureaucratic elite was able to institutionalisea considerable degree of autonomy. Following the closure of a short-livedopposition party, the Free Republican Party (Serbest Cumhuriyet Firkası), whichhad emerged in the aftermath of the 1929 crash, the elite was ‘left unhin-dered to formulate the ideology underlying the new role of the state andits socioeconomic practices’.47 As Frederick Frey has found, senior civilservants and bureaucrats held many of the key positions of power in theNational Assembly between 1931 and 1943. Two-thirds of the entireelectoral body were continually returned to office throughout this periodand the proportion of deputies born in their constituency went down from62 per cent in 1920 to 34 per cent in 1935.48 As Kemal’s party dictatorshipstabilised, bureaucratic and political power merged ‘to create an apparatusto impose [their perception of the national] will on the public’.49 In thetradition of the Ottoman ruling elite, the state attempted to direct theeconomic, political and ideological aspirations of ‘the people’ (defined as‘a unified mass without class or privilege’) without seeking to institutionalisemechanisms of social representation.50 The bureaucracy’s prominent


position in the economy led to what Keyder calls ‘a seamless coalition’ beingformed with a small cadre of industrial magnates.51 Such corporatism wassupported by the suppression of trade union movements and workers’organisations. Legislation, modelled on Italian fascism,52 in 1935, 1936 and1938 effectively criminalised strike action and prohibited the formation ofassociations based on social class. As a result, the

developing bourgeoisie was an exceptionally ‘national’ one in its practicalorientation. Deprived of a strong international connection … it became afull supporter of the centrality of the state. Thus, there was no desire on the part of the bourgeoisie to challenge the normative concerns of thebureaucracy.53

Some writers have argued that the state’s autonomy of both landedinterests and an extensive, politically active capitalist class explains why itwas not obliged to employ widespread military force to achieve its trans-formational goals.54 However, despite the state’s increasingly consolidatedsocioeconomic position, the 1930s saw little change in the martial adminis-tration of many south-east Anatolian provinces. A rebellion of approxi-mately 5,000 Kurds around Agrı in 1930, for instance, was brutallysuppressed with a force of 50,000 Turkish troops. According to DavidMcDowall, state forces executed all 1,500 prisoners and killed over 3,000non-combatants, before issuing a decree (Law 1850) stating that ‘murdersand other actions committed … by representatives of the state or province,by the military or civil authorities … or by any civilian having helped theabove … will not be considered as crimes’.55 In support of these measures,the then Minister of Justice announced that, ‘those who are not of pureTurkish stock can only have one right in this country, the right to be servantsand slaves’.56 In June 1934 further legislation (Law 2510) was enacted givingthe state extended powers to evacuate, and relocate to western Anatolia, allregions defined as non-Turkish. While logistical problems prevented a fullimplementation, reports from refugees suggest that ‘massacres, deport-ations and forced assimilation were proceeding apace’ in many south-eastern provinces.57 The destruction, in 1937, of the partly Kurdish Alevitown of Dersim, later given the Turkish name ‘Tunçeli’ (‘the bronze hand’),with the loss of up to 40,000 lives, was a case in point.58

While these measures were influenced by the fascist regimes of contem-porary Europe, particularly that of Germany with whom Turkey signed alarge-scale trade agreement in 1935,59 they were primarily based on a beliefin the practical efficacy of social engineering rather than ideologicallygrounded in sociobiological notions of ethnic difference. In other words,discrimination against non-Turkish identities was part of a search for


greater social cohesion within the ideological framework of industrial-capitalist advance (discussed below) rather than the deliberately divisive‘otherisation’ measures of Hitler’s Germany. Having rejected the republic’sOttoman heritage as obscurant and atavistic, Kemalist visions of anidealised ‘national’ heritage were vague and lacked the Nazi’s ideologicalconstruction of the past as an attainable and worthy social goal. Non-Turkscould, through individual or state action, become citizens – an option notcommonly available to non-Germans under Nazi administration. In keep-ing with fascist regimes in Europe, however, this denial of the utility ofethnicity coincided with a general rejection of religiosity and social stratifi-cation. In this sense, Stephane Yerasimos was correct to conclude that

the role assigned to the party, the denial of social classes and their replace-ment by occupational bodies, the foreign pressures under which the republicand the party were founded, and the orientation toward racist referencepoints in the search of a national culture and history, had all predisposedthem [Kemal’s political elite] to a fascist inclination.60

It was, however, the Turkish state’s attempts to extend its political powerthat was at the heart of these developments, not an ideological constructpursued for its own sake. Efforts to increase the centre’s infrastructuralreach into south-eastern Anatolia produced chauvinist effects whichbecame increasingly incorporated into a national education system pri-marily aimed at grooming future public administrators as resistance to itsextractive and tutelary policies were encountered. The object of territorialhomogenisation was not a purification of the ‘Volk’, but (as borderssolidified, internal disorder lessened and the Lausanne restrictions expired)the etatist management of a national economy through the disempower-ment of peripheral comprador agents. To return to Gershenkron’s seven-point model highlighted earlier, successful latecomer industrialisation couldonly be effected through state intervention. In order to prevent regionallyuneven development and, perhaps most importantly, the rise of class con-sciousness, the state must have infrastructural access to peripheral socialgroups. This is essential both to facilitate industrial growth and to eliminateenclaves of unregulated transnational trade. Attempts were made by theTurkish administration to extend the infrastructural development schemesof the Five Year Plans to the eastern provinces, but the bulk of state invest-ment and public enterprises remained in western Anatolia, as did themajority of market-orientated agricultural estates.61 In all, military measuressuch as relocation and forced assimilation were preferred to developmentalpolicies as a means of curtailing decentralised transnational trade.62 In the tradition of Ottoman governance, the republican state, perhaps wary


of Austrian and Russian fragmentation during industrialisation, placedpolitical integration before economic development as its primary policyaim. While this may have succeeded in preventing comprador commercialgroups from gaining autonomy, it could not provide the necessary ‘penetra-tive strength’ to pursue the Western model of capitalist development.63

DEMOCRATISATION AND THE CHALLENGE OF THE BOURGEOISIE

The Second World War affected Turkish society in a number of differentways. Within the agricultural sector, as has been already noted, thepeasantry fared very badly. In contrast though, ‘conditions were particu-larly conducive to the expansion of rurally based merchant capital’.64 Thedecrease in agricultural production, coupled with states’ greater extractiveneeds (features of both the domestic and the world market), reduced theavailability of food stuffs and pushed up prices. Abraham and Eva Hirschnote that this led to a rise of over 80 per cent in the internal terms of tradefor agriculture between 1939 and 1943.65 Thus the large estate-farmers,whose more substantial surpluses already allowed them to withstand betterthe acquisitive infrastructure of the state, were able to generate significantprofits during the war by both monopolising urban supply chains andspeculating on the international exchange of staple commodities. Throughassociated networks of traders and middlemen, these forces of agriculturalmercantilism brought rural modes of production closer to urban capitalists.To this nascent entrepreneurial class, the rigid controls of etatism and itscorporatist partiality were seen as unduly restrictive, corrupt and a grosslyinefficient means of allocating their tax returns.66 Similarly dissatisfied werethe burgeoning professional classes which the state elite had promoted,partly through a quadrupling of the literacy rate (from 6 per cent to 23 percent in the years 1927–45),67 to support their bureaucratic control of theprovincial economy. Occupational groups such as lawyers, doctors andeducators saw that by combining their interests with the local nobility,clientelistic links with the peasantry could develop constituting ‘a formid-able alliance’ against state intervention.68

The breakdown of the bureaucracy’s control of the emerging bour-geoisie can be seen in the reasons behind President I

.smet I

.nönü’s (Kemal

had died in 1938) decision not to appoint candidates for six by-electionsheld in June 1945. This was followed in September by an announcementsanctioning the establishment of an official party (Demokrat Parti – DP) inopposition to the Republican People’s Party (Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi – RPP)which had monopolised constitutional politics since the inception of therepublic. Cem Erogul offers four explanations to account for these early


moves towards political liberalisation.69 First, they were to appease thepeasantry (still around 80 per cent of the population) who had been alien-ated by war-time austerity and top–down modernisation. Second, theywere a response to the breakdown in international relations with the SovietUnion and the need to move closer to the West. Third, they were simplyanother step along the path of Westernisation begun in the years of theTanzimat. Fourth, they were an attempt to allay the propertied classes’dismay at the RPP’s land-reform initiative, which stipulated that all privateholdings of more than 500 hectares (in some cases it was to be 200) wouldbe expropriated by the state and redistributed amongst subsistence farmers.Land that was cultivated by sharecroppers and tenants was to be seized andreallocated regardless of size. Although heavily supported by the military/bureaucratic/intellectual wing of the party as an attempt to both nurturea franchise base and reassert centralised state power over the rich farmers,implementation was reliant on the co-operation of local landowners andmerchants and therefore impossible.70 Such an Ottoman-type measure washighly unpopular amongst a wide section of the bourgeoisie where it wasseen as illiberal and likely to lead to a decrease in productivity levels.71

So, while I.nönü was successful in ensuring that the DP was initiated by

loyal members of the RPP without leftist sympathies, he was unpreparedfor the instant popularity it commanded, especially among the provinces.In what Özbudun describes as ‘a typical centre–periphery issue’ the DP

‘advocated less strict government controls and a greater reliance on marketand/or local forces – in other words more power for the periphery’.72 TheRPP, on the other hand, remained dominated by urban intellectuals andbureaucrats disassociated from both the small- to medium-sized market-orientated farmers, who had forged decentralised links with urban entre-preneurial groups, and the rural masses.73 Although opposed to land reform,sharing the RPP’s low institutional penetration of rural society and lackinga clear ideological position, the DP was able to gain peasant support bypromising lower taxes, less state intervention and ‘by rewarding regionalcliques, kinship ties, religious demands and personal influence networks’.74

This led to provincial party moieties based on microfactors ingrained inlocalised power networks from which it is difficult to draw nationalgeneralisations.75 Nonetheless, it can be seen from the 1950 election resultsthat the DP was initially less able to gain support in south-east Anatolia.Within the 15 provinces where Kurdish makes up more than 15 per centof the population’s mother tongue, the RPP received 53.4 per cent of thevote compared to a national average of 39.9 per cent, while the DP’s sharewas 43.7 per cent with a 53.3 per cent average.76 In these areas the carrotand stick of militarised corporatism had institutionalised support for thestate bureaucracy amongst local elites whose feudatory position had not


been undermined by advances in rural merchant capital. As a result, thepeasantry continued to be ‘deeply subservient’ to the landlord/clericalliance.77 By the 1954 election, however, the DP had, as Table 9 shows,presided over an increase in eastern Anatolian representation within thepolitical elite. They secured fatwas from eminent sheikhs reaffirming thesanctity of private property in Islam thereby keeping the possible benefitsof land reform off the agenda and successfully obtaining the support ofnumerous south-eastern landowners. As a result, the DP won 34 out of the40 seats in the south-east.78

In all, then, the DP’s election victory in 1950 and subsequent consoli-dation in 1954 ‘can be seen as a decisive shift in Turkey’s history from eliterule to full class rule and from one pattern of capitalist development toanother’.79 The bureaucratic state elite was replaced by an administrationempowered and maintained by decentralised organisational networkslocated primarily in the periphery.80 As claimant to the guardianship of statevalues since the days of the örfi sultani,81 the bureaucracy had long been atthe forefront of an ‘induced’ process of social change and was slow to adaptto ‘the weakening of the deferential political culture of the countryside’now apparent in Ankara.82 As a result, ‘the bureaucratic response to thedemands of the DP government and the provincial leadership was slow, andoften negative’.83 The DP leadership, under Premier Adnan Menderes,reacted in three ways. The first was to reduce the status of the civil andarmed services by circumventing their decision-making hierarchies.84 Thiswas achieved by appointing DP supporters to positions of power, thedismissal of the entire army command within a month of the 1950 electionsand by appealing directly to the masses through the extension of RPPlegislation relaxing bureaucratic controls on the practice of Islam.85 Second,the government allowed salary levels within the public sector to drop duringthe highly inflationary period of the mid-1950s.86

The third measure the DP adopted was an attempt to outflank the


TABLE 9: THE BIRTHPLACE OF POLITICAL AND BUREAUCRATIC ELITES

1943 1946 1954

Region of Birth Pol. Bur. Pol. Bur. Pol. Bur.

Western 54 62 44 51 31 41Central 26 33 36 44 45 43Eastern 8 0 14 6 17 13Outside Turkey 12 6 5 2 7 2

Source: N. Roos and L. Roos, ‘Changing Patterns of Turkish Public Administration’, Middle Eastern

Studies, 4 (1968), p. 290.

bureaucracy’s instrumental role in regulating social change through thepromotion of ‘organic’ modifications within its power base, the agriculturalsector. To bring the provinces closer to the economy of the centre, a large-scale highway-building programme was undertaken. This increased all-weather roads from a national total of 17,000 kilometres in 1950 to 39,000in 1960.87 Exploiting the close ties that the RPP had developed with theUnited States in the post-war years,88 the government used Turkey’s keyposition in John Foster Dulles’ concept of an anti-Soviet, Middle Eastern‘northern tier’ to generate ‘a cornucopia of subsidies’.89 This aid, coupledwith earnings from an export boom in the early 1950s, was invested inagriculture through the extension of state assistance to large landholders.90

A price-fixing scheme was revived in which the state paid more than themarket price for agricultural surpluses increasing the public cost from 23million lira in 1949–50 to 519 million in 1954.91

In addition, financial credits allowing landlords to mechanise largeestates increased from 3 million lira for the period 1945–50 to 9.7 millionfor 1950–56.92 As Table 10 shows, such stimuli had a significant effect onmechanised agricultural input levels. Supported by a number of exception-ally good harvests and high commodity prices provoked by the war inKorea, they led to an increase of 50 per cent in agricultural output between1950 and 1958.93 Furthermore, with the imperatives of a quickly growingpopulace,94 the total amount of land under cultivation was also increasedfrom 11 million to 17 million hectares between 1950 and 1959.95

In ascertaining the effects of these changes, some writers have arguedthat state efforts at land redistribution ensured that large-estate farmers didnot increase their hold on agricultural production.96 However, while theproportion of landless village families probably did decline from around 16


TABLE 10: NUMBERS OF SELECTED FARM MACHINERY, 1948–54

1948 1952 1954

Tractors 1,756 31,415 37,740Ploughs (tractor-drawn) 1,472 30,766 38,000Trailers 140 12,982 18,088Disc harrows (tractor-drawn) 680 9,623 14,097Cultivators (tractor-drawn) 401 4,028 5,075Graindrills (tractor-drawn) 162 4,406 6,870Cotton planters 2,570 13,909 –Reapers 14,384 21,122 19,782Combines 268 3,222 4,705Threshers 430 959 1,220Hay mowers 612 1,553 3,159

Source: R. Aktan, ‘Mechanisation of Agriculture in Turkey’, Land Economics, 33 (1957), p. 276.

to 10 per cent from 1950 to 1960,97 the continual threat of land reformmeant that large holdings were heavily under-reported. Moreover, thefigures are further skewed, particularly in the south-east, by the practice ofemploying small farmers, recently rendered landless by mechanised inputs,as subsistence tenants on large-estates in order to secure their votingallegiance and ‘remain attractive to the political parties’.98 As a result, amore accurate figure may be Berberoglu’s estimate that, by 1957, between18 and 20 per cent of all cultivated land was operated by large-estatecapital.99 Indeed, Resat Aktan has found that all farmers investing inmechanisation were able to increase the size of their estates by an averageof 31 per cent with plots in the south-east growing by an average of 43 percent.100 In all, it is possible to conclude that, during this period, ‘thousandsof middle and small farmers were driven to bankruptcy, losing their landto big landowners and joining the ranks of the rural unemployed andunderemployed or migrating to urban centres in search of work’.101 By1953, Kemal Karpat states that mechanisation had already dislocated over1 million farmers with urban migration, shown in Table 11, further exacer-bated by an economic down-turn the following year.102

Before the recession of the mid-1950s, the DP had pursued the threefoldeconomic recommendations made by the International Bank for Recon-struction and Development (IBRD – now the World Bank) in 1951.103 First,the state withdrew a considerable proportion of its investments in industry.As a result, private capital’s share of manufacturing increased from 58 percent in 1950 to 65 per cent in 1954 and the number of joint-stock com-panies rose from three to 56 over the same period.104 Second, favourableforeign investment conditions were introduced which eventually led to ‘thegradual integration of the newly emergent indigenous bourgeoisie into theworldwide production process’.105 Direct investment from the United Statesalone rose from US$16 million to US$33 million between 1950 and 1954.106

Third, the DP focused development on light manufacturing and, as we haveseen, the agricultural sectors, leaving heavy industrial investment to foreign


TABLE 11: URBAN AND RURAL POPULATIONS

Year Province & Sub-Districts &

District Centres Villages

Population % Population % Total

1950 5,244,337 25.0 15,702,851 75.0 20,947,1881955 6,927,343 28.8 17,137,420 71.2 24,064,7931960 8,859,731 31.9 18,895,089 68.1 27,754,820

Source: Ç. Keyder, State and Class in Turkey (London, Verso, 1987), p. 297.

capital.107 In return for these measures, Turkey received US$56 million inloans from the IBRD between 1950 and 1957 and a further US$100 millionfrom the IMF and OEEC in 1958.108 However, while the early part of thisperiod saw a considerable increase in export levels (from 738 million lira in1950 to 1,110 million in 1953), imports also rose leading to a trade deficitof 516 million lira in 1955.109As a result, Turkey’s national debt grew from775 million lira in 1950 to over 5 billion in 1960 which, worsened by thegovernment’s policy of printing ever more money, devalued the lira, led tohigh domestic inflation and doubled the cost of living.110

Price pressures not only acted as a ‘push’ factor in migration, they alsostimulated housing speculation, producing a construction boom cyclicallyfuelled by accelerating urbanisation.111 As the building industry prospered,more migrants arrived, increasing the number of urban plants employingten or more workers from 163,000 to 324,000 in the latter half of the1950s.112 With an average growth of more than 5 per cent per annum foreach of the four largest centres of population in Turkey (Istanbul, Ankara,Izmir and Adana) between 1950 and 1975, shanty towns (or gecekondu)began to dominate most Turkish cityscapes.113 With the rapidly expandingprivate business sector focused on western Anatolia (63 per cent of the 401projects the Industrial Development Bank helped to fund between 1950and 1960 were in the Marmara region) regional disparities becameincreasingly apparent.114 As Table 12 shows, the majority of migrants from the east moved westwards. The result was that many gecekondu

became ‘permanent strongholds of Kurdish identity across the republic …mak[ing] the Kurdish question a visible reality for the citizens of Istanbul800 miles away from Kurdistan’.115 Thus ‘social lines came to be drawn


TABLE 12: URBANISATION BY REGION IN PERCENTAGE

Region Year

1927 1935 1945 1955 1965

Marmara 36.3 34.9 36.2 41.8 55.0Southern Anatolia 19.2 19.1 21.9 25.8 33.9Aegean 20.5 22.3 22.7 26.9 37.9Central Anatolia 11.1 13.0 16.5 23.3 30.0South-east Anatolia 15.0 16.0 15.6 15.4 19.0Eastern Anatolia 7.6 6.3 8.8 10.1 15.8Black Sea 5.7 6.7 7.2 9.1 13.6

National average 16.4 16.6 18.3 22.1 29.8

Source: M. Danielson and R. Keles, ‘Urbanisation and Income Distribution in Turkey’, in E. Özbudunand A. Ulusan (eds), The Political Economy of Income Distribution in Turkey (New York, Holmes &Meier, 1980), p. 285.

along geographical differences … [which] reinforced solidarities in thelabour market and political rivalries were inevitably superimposed on suchdivisions’.116

Despite an increase of 52 per cent in the numbers employed in industryduring the 1950s, the urban industrial sector was unable to absorb the largenumbers of migrants arriving from the countryside.117 By 1951 there wasover 1 million people unemployed amounting to more than 50 per cent ofthe urban workforce.118 For those who were able to find work, wages, con-tinually devalued by spiralling inflation, rarely provided a standard of livingbeyond subsistence. Attempts were made to improve conditions throughunionisation which increased by 500 per cent between 1948 and 1958.119

However, while the 1947 Trade Union Act had relaxed Kemal’s prohibitionon ‘associations based on class’, strike action and collective bargaining withemployers remained illegal.120 Furthermore, its generous severance paystipulations for employees of over six months’ tenure meant that many firms took on workers for periods limited to five and half months therebyworsening the plight of the urban proletariat.121 Despite labour relationsforming part of both parties’ electoral platform during the 1950s, fewchanges materialised. Since the DP was not reliant on proletarian support,the corporative relations which developed between union leaders and thestate did not provide a basis for populist inducements. Contrary to con-temporary Latin American examples, they were rather ‘used for applyingstrong control over the development potential of labour through anti-labour policies’.122 The DP was able to effect these restraints through threeprincipal mechanisms. The first was the government’s administration ofunion finances which, with a membership basis too impoverished to sub-scribe dues, were based on a ‘fund formed by the fines levied in accordancewith Labour Law’.123 Second, unions were conglomerated into the Con-federation of Turkish Labour Unions (Türk-I

.s) in 1952. It was felt that such

a centralised body would be (and in fact proved to be) easier to influence.Third, those that continued to pressure the government for concessionswere ‘subjected to repression and persecution’.124 In all, the DP was success-ful in continuing the RPP’s long-established suppression of left-wingpolitical organisation.

Within the growing networks of small-scale capitalism, however, leftistsympathies did find greater room for expression. These were part of anoverall expansion in the middle classes from around 5 per cent of the totalpopulation in 1950 to more than 20 per cent by 1965. Nezih Neyzi pointsto an enlargement of more than 10 per cent per annum in the numbers ofregistrants at the Istanbul Chamber of Commerce from 1952–56 argu-ing that much of this had its roots in upper-working-class and lower-middle-class entrepreneurialism.125 Initially economically supported by the


liberalising DP government as a means of nurturing a client base close tothe masses and beyond the RPP-orientated officialdom’s control, they werelargely excluded from a political discourse in which social criticism wascondemned as disloyal or insurgent. However, as ‘earlier social values,based on education and dedication to state ideals were undermined by anorder based essentially on economic power’, decentralised literary networksdid begin to proliferate within urban, lower-middle-class groups.126 Theresult of this was that ‘the significance of the bureaucratic elite as themodernising centre of a developing society was diminished’.127

In a similar vein to the eighteenth-century European novelists’ ‘searchfor authentic “use values” amid the “degraded” materialism of a capitalismconcerned only with “exchange values”’,128 literary realism highlighting andennobling the struggle of the peasantry gained considerable intellectualcurrency in Turkey during the 1950s.129 Broadly tolerated by the DP, whowere keen to portray their agricultural investments in a morally favourablelight, many of these novels, short stories and plays were serialised in thedaily press. With urban male literacy as high as 72 per cent in some cities,the demand for newspapers had increased daily circulation from 241,000in 1948 to 412,000 by 1951.130 Associated with these were a number ofjournals, of which the bimonthly Forum (first published in 1955), formulatedsome of the most sophisticated critiques of Democrat policies.131 Anotherwas I

.leri Yurt (Future Homeland) which appeared in Diyarbakır in 1958. Put

together by Kurdish émigrés who had been evacuated under the state’sassimilation policy, it led a campaign (greatly encouraged by the Iraqirevolution and the return of Mullah Barzani later that year) ‘to developTurkey’s woefully neglected Kurdish provinces’ in what was the firstexpression of a Kurdish identity since the Dersim revolt.132 In all, Karpatconcludes, this body of ‘literature, written mostly in colloquial Turkish, wassocial in character and represented the views of lower-class intellectualsand reflected the infinite problems and aspirations of all other classes’.133

Connected to this predominantly literary movement were a number ofmostly clandestine and illegal leftist organisations, foremost among whichwas the Turkish Communist Party (Türkiye Komünist Partisi – TCP). Foundedby Russian émigrés soon after the First World War, it sustained a degree ofinfluence during the single-party period through occasional publications injournals such as Aydınlık (Enlightenment).134 Nonetheless, a combination ofrepression, absorption into state administration and factionalism preventedeffective party organisation.135 Following the Second World War and theamendment of the Law of Associations, though, attempts were made bythe TCP leadership to broaden the party’s social appeal. A 26-point pro-gramme was published in 1945 containing a strongly patriotic preambleand professing to be aimed at all independent groups hostile to the forces


of reaction. Point Two, for instance, expressed the intention to form ‘agovernment out of worthy citizens clearly committed to Atatürk’s reformsand the principles of democracy’.136 However, calls were also issued forcloser ties with the Soviet Union at a time when Stalin was pressurisingTurkey over a territorial dispute in the north-east and for improved accessto the Straits.137 As a result, anti-leftist measures were restored culminatingin the arrest and prosecution of 167 members of TCP, including much ofthe leadership, in 1951. With an average age of 32.1 years, the majority(120) of this group were junior artisans and office clerks, young workers andstudents.138 In some ways, its youthful membership can be explained by theexistence of highly active university-based organisations loosely affiliatedto the TCP. Both Istanbul wings of the nominally legal Higher EducationYouth Association (Yüksek Tahsil Genclik Dernegi) and the Turkish Associ-ation of Peace-Lovers (Türk Barisseverler Cemiyeti), for instance, maintained a leftist populism based on a literary circulation of 48,000 and 24,000respectively.139

Opposition to the Menderes regime also came from sectors of thebureaucracy proletarianised by the inflationary policies of the mid-1950s.This ‘new leftism’, as Kemal Karpat puts it, had little association with theMarxism of the TCP. Not, as he continues, ‘a replica of a foreign ide-ology’,140 it emerged from domestic conditions, particularly the urbanexpansion of the state bureaucracy during the 1950s. Between 1950 and1960 central government personnel alone rose from 174,000 to 314,000leading to salary caps and, with the concurrent rise in the professional sectorproving a more attractive choice for the growing body of university gradu-ates, a severe drop in civil service prestige.141 Of the 14 career grades, onlythe top seven could be considered middle-income, so, with vertical progres-sion made extremely difficult by nepotism and favouritism, the greatmajority of posts provided few opportunities for social mobility. Despitebeing prepared ‘to fill administrative slots’ by ‘a strongly patriotic educationwith chauvinistic overtones’ at the very vanguard of statist officialdom, eventhe elite apparatchiks found themselves increasingly overlooked.142 As aresult, Karpat concludes, ‘these rising social currents eventually soughtlegitimation in the unfulfilled social promises of Kemalism, through anexpanded interpretation of its populist, statist and reformist principles’.143

An ideological coalition between the RPP, revivalist elements of the Kemal-ist intelligentsia and disaffected groups with bureaucratic officialdomemerged in opposition to the pragmatist politics of the DP.144 Through agreater emphasis on rational administration free from the subjective criteriaand interjections of the government, they aimed to consolidate the modern-ist institutions and objectives of Kemal’s republic and reduce the influenceof religious obscurantism and reactionary conservatism.145


Nonetheless, in terms of organisational implementation, Turkish civilservants remained what Metin Heper calls ‘patrimonial-legalists’ and didnot develop the ‘rational-productive’ orientations required to institution-alise a neutral, apolitical public service.146 I

.lkay Sunar explains this by

pointing to a possible discrepancy between the bureaucracy’s ‘manifest’values, as exemplified by an ostensible commitment to progressive reform-ism and more traditionally conceived ‘operational’ values born of perennialsalary, employment security and status concerns.147 Indeed, a study pub-lished in 1955 found that those considering choosing the bureaucracy as anoccupational path predominantly did so on the basis of an assured perma-nent tenure. Of the ‘emergent administrators’ interviewed, 76 per centpreferred a career that promised maximum security combined with a lowsalary with only 7 per cent opting for ‘little security; high salary’ and 14 percent for ‘moderate security; moderate salary’.148 For Metin Heper, suchsentiment is expressed in a propensity for conservatism and a relatively lowtolerance for ‘democratic political life’.149 In this sense, the recruitment ofofficials from lower socioeconomic strata may have brought in ‘persons who[we]re even less secure and so need[ed] even more to reinforce their ownsense of status’ thereby offsetting any increased empathy these non-elitegroups might have had with their ‘clients’.150 So despite remaining pro-fessedly reformist, the proletarianised bureaucracy of the 1950s tended tospread an inclination towards nationalist authoritarianism from theadministrative elite to a much wider section of Turkish society.151

In the absence of an institutionalised ideology legitimising the DP’sposition as representatives of provincial capitalist development, the eco-nomic elite of the centre maintained a value structure similar to the urbanbureaucrats’ espousal of a return to 1930s Kemalism. Successful industrial-ists were not the risk-taking, socially mobile innovators characteristic ofEuropean development. A study undertaken by Arif Payaslioglu in 1961,for instance, found that 66.6 per cent of businessmen surveyed came fromlarge-scale agricultural, commercial or industrial backgrounds.152 With 14per cent from market-orientated farming interests (this may be much higherif marital contacts are also included), a pronounced pattern of entrepre-neurial investment in land and the commonplace establishment of farmer-owned commercial organisations, these industrialists overlapped heavilywith large-scale agricultural interests.153 In this sense, the Turkish economicelite were not the developmentalist middle class struggling against old-regime, rural feudalism so characteristic of the Western model. Rather thanpressing for agrarian reform and a minimum wage for the peasantry inorder to expand the internal market, they were, in general, more concernedwith maintaining political stability and continuing their profitable relation-ship with the state. A result of this was that, during the inflationary


upheavals and the end of commercial liberalism in the mid-1950s, thegovernment was able to reintroduce greater controls on exchange, as partof a gradual move towards an import-substitution policy,154 and shift itssupport from the agricultural to the industrial sector without generatinghigh levels of resistance from within the integrated economic elite.155

To cushion the blow of this change in policy amongst the peasantry (theirprimary electoral base), as well as to continue countering bureaucraticopposition, the DP sought to acknowledge the continuing political efficacyof Islam.156 A part of this was the recognition that the secularising reformsof the 1920s and 1930s had penetrated the Anatolian countryside very little– a conclusion also reached by the RPP in the 1940s.157 As such, the govern-ment reinstated the call to prayer in Arabic, reopened mystic retreats andthe tombs of Sufi ‘saints’ and established a large-scale religious educationprogramme under the I

.mam-Hatip schooling system.158 When accused, by

secularist thinkers, of betraying Kemalist principles, Menderes contro-versially replied that the government would preserve the reforms that thepeople had accepted ‘implying’, in Binnaz Toprak’s view, ‘that the restwould be subject to change’.159 Supported by a large-scale mosque-buildingprogramme, a considerable rise in the circulation of religious publicationsand an increase in congregational attendance, ‘Islamism made importantstrides, for the first time visibly since the proclamation of the Republic in1923’.160 Thus, through what Ümit Cizre-Sakallıoglu describes as ‘thediscovery of the prayer-rug vote’, the DP were able to gain considerablecredibility amongst traditionalist groups.161 Said Nursi, leader of the influ-ential religious order, the Nurcular, for instance, announced his support forthe DP during the 1954 general election campaign.162 However, the overtlyinstrumental reasoning behind the government’s courtship of the Islamicvote plus ‘the unflinchingly hard stand it took to anti-Atatürk activities ofsome religious orders [such as the Ticaniya] attest to the claim that the DP

would never tolerate the autonomous and self-sustaining development ofreligious forces’.163 So while Islam did provide the administration with avote-winning means of appealing directly to the peasantry (and organisa-tionally outflanking the bureaucracy), it was not deployed as a means ofpolitical legitimisation. New legislation in July 1953 ensured that religioncould not be used for ‘political’ ends and that secularism remained thedominant paradigm of Turkish administration.164

Nonetheless, ‘there seems to have existed some form of tacit collabo-ration, based on a community of interests, between the leadership of theDemocratic Party and the Nurcular’.165 For entirely pragmatic reasons, thegovernment promoted what Dankwart Rustow characterises as ‘moderate’Islamism, of which elements within Nursi’s following were a part.166 Present-ing government policy as grounded upon liberal freedoms of conscience,


Menderes hoped to attract supporters from each of the two other ideo-logical alignments that Rustow identifies – ‘secularism’ and ‘clericalism’.While this position was useful in maintaining the sympathies of thepeasantry, which had been affected little by either the republican state’sefforts at secularisation or the rise in urban political Islam,167 it was alsoappealing to traditionalist groups within the entrepreneurial sector who saw‘no basic conflict between her [Turkey’s] Islamic religion and her member-ship in the Western family of nations’.168 Another reason may have been‘moderate’ political Islam’s partial connection to Turkism, or what wastermed ‘Islamic nationalism’ (I

.slam milliyetçiligi).169 Some of these activists

saw their views as in keeping with the modernist tradition of Gökalp andAkçura and were keen to portray their struggle as within the parameters ofKemalist revolutionary patriotism.170 Rustow quotes Halit Ziya Atatugspeaking in 1951 thus:

Those who helped the nation win the day of salvation [that is, theDemocratic Party landslide] of 14 May 1950, are the religious, patriotic,genuine, pure Turks … loyal to the revolution of Atatürk and to the Muslimreligion.171

Others, such as Riza Nur (1879–1942) were influential in equating Islamicrevivalism with pan-Turkish sentiments.172 In this sense, the DP continuedKemal’s use of Turkish nationalism as a means of directing Islamism,outflanking class-based ideologies and providing a statist model of socialcohesion.173

Although ‘based on shaky intellectual foundations’,174 pan-Turkism’semphasis on the mythical, Hittite or Central Asian Turk gained consider-able support following the Second World War and the return of Russianexpansionism.175 Although such a focus did attract some interest from‘moderate’ Islamists, it was within secularist networks that pan-Turkist ideasgained the greatest credence. Competing with the more reform-orientatedsecular nationalism of RPP-affiliated groups, a racist and anti-Semitic pressemerged with, according to Bernard Lewis, the apparent support of theDepartment of Religious Affairs.176 Organisations such as The Great East(Büyük Dogu)177 put forward chauvinist, anti-socialist and often pro-Naziopinion embellished with varying amounts of theological rhetoric in whatLewis describes as ‘boulevard fascism with religious colouring matter’.178

Numerous other clandestine associations, discussed by Mehmet Agaogullarıunder the heading ‘the ultranationalist right’, promulgated similar senti-ments in publications such as Bozkurt (Grey Wolf ) – a journal much boostedby a DM5 million gift from Foreign Minister Ribbentrop in 1942.179 Althoughoccasionally critical of Kemal as too limited in his geopolitical objectives,


ultranationalists generally emphasised the reforms of the 1920s and 1930s(particularly etatism, Turkism and pro-Westernism) as a means of broad-ening their appeal among Islamist ‘moderates’, the middle classes and elitecapitalist networks. The single-party period was depicted as a period ofstability when the supposed values of Central Asia, namely ‘valor, a moral,disciplined, and hierarchical society, obedience, glorification of the leader,and self-sacrifice for the state’, had been allowed to flourish.180 Hankeringafter a glorious past established by military conquest, the rightists viewedthe armed forces as not only the key element in the struggle against com-munism and foreign imperialism, but also as an important political actor.Within the military itself and particularly junior staff officers, ultranational-ist sympathies were divided between the Kemalist revivalists such as theAtatürkist Society founded in 1955 and the pan-Turkist faction of AlparslanTürkes and others.181 The origins and development of these organisations,as well as the more general political objectives adopted by the militaryduring and after this period, will be looked at in Chapter 5.

CONCLUSION

To summarise, social change in Turkey during this period was underpinnedby a number of fundamental conflicts. A primary ingredient of which wasa realignment in class structures. Near the top of the social hierarchy werethe large-estate-farmers. As descendants of the ayan, they inherited both atendency to decentralise economic power through connections with export-orientated merchant interests and a strongly state-dependent social position.During the period of Kemalist economic liberalism in the 1920s, these links,supported by corporatist arrangements between urban industrialists andthe government institutionalised during the First World War, were solidifiedin the pursuit of foreign capital (a process that had significant implicationsfor the peasant smallholder). Following the 1929 crash, state policy movedaway from large-estate farming and towards centralised industrial planningin the manner of the contemporary Soviet Union. As a result, the integratedeconomic elite shifted capital investment to the manufacturing sector whereit made substantial profits, especially following the outbreak of worldwidehostilities in 1939, through an intensive, yet not altogether peaceful,relationship with an increasingly interventionist state bureaucracy.

Within this process there were two seeds of future conflict. The first wasthe uneven distribution of economic development. The peculiar artificialityof inter-state border delimitation in the south-east of Anatolia, its topog-raphy and its intensively localised culture made the Kurdish-speakingprovinces particularly resistant to the political infrastructure of the centre.


Based on the violent chauvinism of the state bureaucracy, akin to the‘aggressive’ nationalism that Mann identifies within contemporary Europe,military approaches to extending centralised control were generally pre-ferred. Large-scale commercial enterprises were also undertaken in theregion, but their corporatist, anti-competitive nature prevented the emer-gence of integrative capital investment. So without a cohesive economicsystem in which direct notions of citizenship could be institutionalised,political and ideological links between the state bureaucracy and the masseswere subject to the intermediary influences of the traditional landowner/cleric coalition. This was quite different from the relationship the com-mercial-state alliance had with the masses in many other parts of thecountry. There, the state-supported surplus investment and speculation ofthe economic elite had, as an unplanned corollary, empowered networks ofmerchant capital which, initially rurally located, had forged links withdecentralised urban capitalists enriched by wartime profiteering andstrengthened by a rapidly enlarging professional sector. Herein lay thesecond problem of Turkish elite-led industrialisation. In supporting capital-ist development through its integrated cadre, the state was obliged to extendits infrastructural reach (thus decentralising power) unintentionally assist-ing in the organisation of economic networks opposed to bureaucraticinterventionism (particularly structural restraints on competition and inter-national exchange). So rather than a decentralised economic elite estab-lishing developmental patterns inadvertently furthering state centralisation,which Mann points to in Europe, in Turkey it was the consolidation of whatMetin Heper calls the ‘superstrong state’ which, while coalescing with acapitalist elite, inadvertently empowered decentralised economic powernetworks.

In this sense, industrialisation, beginning in the First World War andpolitically institutionalised in the 1930s and 1940s, had extended thepowerbase of what could be considered the economic facet of the Turkish‘old regime’ from its agricultural ayan roots to urban commercial centresgradually forming an intensive coalition with another old-regime faction,the bureaucracy. In a similar way to the European old regime, it adopteddemocracy as a means of perpetuating its socioeconomic position. By 1946,it had become clear that a process of democratisation was inevitable ifTurkey was to maintain its favourable geopolitical position. This, in turn,necessitated some kind of land reform as a means of gaining mass peasantsupport. In the tradition of the inkılab, the bureaucracy viewed such a dualapproach as a way of maintaining control over the modernisation process.Separated from emergent networks of lower-middle-class capitalism, how-ever, they underestimated the strength of the bourgeois/provincial alliancethat emerged in the 1940s. Although the RPP’s defeat in the 1950 election


did represent a political revolution as old-regime governance gave way toan administration more closely connected to provincial elites, there waslittle associated change in economic power structures. Of the bureaucratic/industrial alliance that made up the centre, it was only the former thatsuffered a significant diminution in hierarchical position while the eco-nomic elite prospered from mechanisation, greater trade liberalisation andan abundance of overseas investment.

The end of the single-party period did not, therefore, represent arevolution based on class, nor did it prompt the instigation of a new politicalparadigm. Within what Mann calls the ‘careerist fraction’ of the middleclasses, public sector employment predominated. Although the bureau-cracy claimed to be neutral and reformist, especially at senior levels, thecombination of numerical expansion and declining power both reinforcedsegmentally determined differences from the corporate sector and contri-buted to the overall conservatism of post-war bourgeois development.Although lacking the state bureaucracy’s propensity for what Mann terms‘aggressive nationalism’, the professional fraction of the middle classes did share a comparable level of exposure to the chauvinism of a state-sponsored education. Despite this and their historical connection to thebureaucratic reforms of the 1920s – particularly in relation to the declineof the ulema – the professional classes were generally opposed to etatismas an inefficient method of commercial management. So, while differingin their economic outlook, these two middle-class fractions possessedideological interests broadly associated with the RPP’s blend of secularelitism. The petite bourgeoisie, on the other hand, had received less inputfrom the state and were, in general, favourably disposed to neither therestraints of authoritarian interventionism nor the aggressively secularistideology of officialdom. Nevertheless, because of the contrasting interestsof ‘moderate’ religious traditionalism, sectionally constrained mercantileinternationalism and a desire for improved provincial access to the state,they maintained the overall conservatism that Mann ascribes to theirEuropean counterparts.

Although some petit-bourgeois networks had emerged from the statesupport of cereal producers during the 1930s, the vast majority of farmersremained non-market-orientated smallholders. With little change in thepercentage of the population employed in the agrarian sector between 1927and 1950, Turkish industrialisation did not significantly increase rural socialstratification during this period. The continued presence of the state as theprimary buyer of agricultural produce meant that, unlike in Europe, therewas not the same organised collusion between private urban capital andthe large-estates. The artificially high prices that the government paid forsurplus cereal during the 1930s ensured that the peasantry did not follow


the European pattern of proletarianisation. It was not until the beginningsof large-scale urbanisation during the late 1940s that urban working-classnetworks emerged with sufficient extensiveness to support such a dynamic– by which time small to medium capitalist groups had been reincorporatedinto a more buoyant market by a return of state patronage. As a result, thedecline in the living standards of the peasantry during the Second WorldWar did not give rise to decentralised political networks of a strongly leftistcharacter. Without extensive economic connections to urban or inter-national markets other than through central officialdom or their agents,rural smallholders focused their disaffection on the RPP bureaucrat ratherthan corporate capitalism. As Keyder puts it,

instead of a peasantry consolidating its rights on the land against a feudalclass as in France, or the emergence of capitalist farming as in England, therevolution in Turkey featured an independent peasantry defending its aspir-ation to a market society against the redistributive policies of a bureaucraticelite.182

In all, the greater levels of social space between town and country thatMann identifies as existing in Europe meant that segmental divisions andthe traditional centre/periphery cleavage remained much more influential.

Even during the great influx of villagers into Turkey’s metropolitancentres during the 1950s, an internally cohesive working-class movementwas not forthcoming. Although trade union membership expanded rapidly,workers’ leaders failed to secure significant concessions from the adminis-tration. Apart from state action and sectional/segmental divides akin tothose Mann points to in Europe, three further cross-class cleavages, moreor less peculiar to Turkey, prevented a collective sense of group conscious-ness from emerging within the urban proletariat. The first was the natureof settlement. Chain migration established regionalised, or as some writershave put it ‘ruralised’, neighbourhoods, particularly within or includinggecekondu districts, which tended to act as a locus for traditional socialstructures and economic networks extraneous to shared class interests.Second, and associated with this, was the gradual re-emergence of a separ-ate Kurdish identity. This, as we shall see in Chapter 5, took place not inthe south-east of Anatolia, but within the ranks of the urban proletariatand unemployed. Although generally fused to the politics of the left as theascending Turkish middle classes came to be identified with the failure ofdemocracy to bring political and economic changes to the vast majority ofKurds, it tended to localise and intensify group affiliations rather than assistin the emergence of an extensively organised class consciousness. Third,the relaxation of Kemal’s constraints on religious practice provided a cross-class basis for political organisation that maintained a strong influence on


the proletariat in general and economic migrants in particular. In all, thesefactors mitigated against the emergence of working-class unity in Turkeyduring the 1950s. In all four areas of Mann’s IOTA model they played a divisive role at least partially determining perceived identity, opposition,the social totality and possible alternatives. To conclude then, it is possibleto say that the official ideology of the republican state predominated dur-ing the political ascendancy of the Turkish middle classes. While dividedbetween the merits of economic liberalism and etatism, the bourgeoisiewere able, until the late 1950s, to restrict political debate to largely withinthe parameters of Kemalism as both ‘moderate’ Islamism and Turkishnationalism were deployed to extend support for industrial-capitalist pro-gression. Chapter 5 will examine the reaction of the old regime, particularlythe civil and armed services, and the emergence of polarised ideologicalgroups during the 1970s and 1980s.

NOTES

1. M. Mann, The Sources of Social Power, Vol. 2 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press,1993), p. 27.

2. See also his original formulation of these criteria (M. Mann, Consciousness and ActionAmong the Western Working Class (London, Macmillan, 1973), p. 13).

3. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 2, Ch. 15.4. Ibid., p. 511.5. Ibid., p. 536.6. Ibid.7. Ibid., p. 694.8. Mann writes that they may be ‘casual, seasonal or permanent, waged or paid in kind,

free or bonded’ (ibid.).9. Nevertheless Mann acknowledges that exceptions to this do exist. For instance, socialist

agitation did have some success, particularly in regions dominated by absentee land-lords, in radicalising the sharecroppers of southern Europe and the western UnitedStates.

10. Ibid., p. 697.11. Ibid., p. 698.12. Ibid., Ch. 16.13. Here Mann rejects the argument that the petite bourgeoisie were proletarianised by

the growth of economies of scale. Their decline, he suggests, was relative rather thanabsolute and mainly occurred following the Second World War. In general, theymaintained prosperity levels through diversification and did not suffer the ‘status-panic’ which is sometimes ascribed causal value in explaining the rise of extremerightist politics during the 1920s and 1930s (ibid., pp. 557–8).

14. Ibid., p. 564.15. M. Mann, ‘A Political Theory of Nationalism and its Excesses’, in S. Periwal (ed.),

Notions of Nationalism (Budapest, Central European Press, 1995), p. 54.16. Summarised in M. Mann, ‘Sources of Variation in Working-Class Movements in

Twentieth-Century Europe’, New Left Review, 212 (1995), pp. 27–35.17. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 2, p. 584.18. See Mann’s analysis of the German Navy League, ‘The Society of the Eastern


Marches and the Pan German League 1900–1914’, in Mann, Sources of Social Power,Vol. 2, pp. 585–6.

19. Ibid., p. 29.20. Ibid., p. 30.21. Ibid., p. 492.22. Ibid.23. This was particularly the case in Turkey where the terms of the 1923 Treaty of

Lausanne had forbade the government from pursuing a protectionist trade policyleaving foreign capital free to take over abandoned Greek businesses (see Ç. Keyder,‘The Political Economy of Turkish Democracy’, in I. Schick and E. Tonak (eds), Turkeyin Transition (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1987), pp. 32–3. A further point to noteis the highly agrarian nature of the Turkish economy. In the 1927 census 81 per centof the Turkish labour force were employed in the agricultural sector (A. Isıklı, ‘WageLabour and Unionisation’ (trans. R. Margulies and I. Schick), in Schick and Tonak(eds), Turkey in Transition, p. 312. This compares with 59 per cent in Russia in 1897, 57per cent in Austria in 1910 and 9 per cent in Britain in 1911 (Mann, Sources of SocialPower, Vol. 2, p. 693).

24. Resat Aktan, writing in 1957, suggests that 97 per cent of the total number ofagricultural holdings during the 1930s were less than 50 hectares in area and around8–10 per cent of all farmers did not own their own land (‘Mechanisation of Agriculturein Turkey’, Land Economics, 33 (1957), pp. 274–5).

25. F. Birtek and Ç. Keyder, ‘An Inquiry into Agricultural Differentiation and PoliticalAlliances: The Case of Turkey’, Journal of Peasant Studies, 2 (1975), p. 448.

26. See J. McCarthy, ‘Greek Statistics on the Ottoman Greek Population’, InternationalJournal of Turkish Studies, 1 (1980), p. 70.

27. R. Margulies and E. Yıldizoglu, ‘Agrarian Change: 1923–1970’, in Schick and Tonak(eds), Turkey in Transition, p. 273.

28. Ibid., p. 286, n. 7.29. See Ç. Keyder, The Definition of a Peripheral Economy: Turkey 1923–1929 (Cambridge,

Cambridge University Press, 1981), pp. 38–42.30. He suggests that a figure of 58 per cent as an increase in agricultural production

between 1923 and 1932 would be more accurate (see Z. Hershlag, Turkey: The Challengeof Growth (Leiden, E.J. Brill, 1968), p. 51.

31. Keyder, The Definition of a Peripheral Economy, p. 76.32. Margulies and Yıldizoglu, ‘Agrarian Change: 1923–1970’, p. 273.33. C. Kindleberger, The World Depression (London, Penguin, 1973), p. 191.34. See Margulies and Yıldizoglu, ‘Agrarian Change: 1923–1970’, p. 274 and O. Okyar,

‘The Concept of Etatism’, Economic Journal, 75 (1965), p. 99.35. Birtek and Keyder, ‘An Inquiry into Agricultural Differentiation and Political

Alliances’, p. 452.36. See Hershlag, Turkey: The Challenge of Growth, pp. 78–9.37. Birtek and Keyder note that while over a million men were taken out of the active

labour force, families that cultivated large plots were exempted. This, they argue, hadthe effect of reducing the amount of land under cultivation and restricting the surplusof the smallholder, thereby pushing up prices (‘An Inquiry into AgriculturalDifferentiation and Political Alliances’, p. 459).

38. S. Yerasimos, ‘The Mono-Party Period’, in Schick and Tonak (eds), Turkey in Transition,p. 90.

39. Birtek and Keyder, ‘An Inquiry into Agricultural Differentiation and PoliticalAlliances’, p. 460.

40. W. Hale, ‘The Traditional and the Modern in the Economy of Kemalist Turkey’, inJ. Landau (ed.), Atatürk and the Modernisation of Turkey (Boulder, CO, Westview Press,1984), p. 155.

41. For example, Gündüz Okcün calculates that foreign investment was able to establish


a 43 per cent share of Turkish corporate capital during this period (cited in Keyder,The Definition of a Peripheral Economy, p. 100).

42. O. Mehmet, ‘Turkey in Crisis: Some Contradictions in the Kemalist DevelopmentStrategy’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 15 (1983), p. 52.

43. See M. Thornberg, G. Spry and G. Souls, Turkey, An Economic Appraisal (New York,Twentieth Century Fund, 1949), pp. 26–7.

44. See Okyar, ‘The Concept of Etatism’, p. 100.45. Mehmet, ‘Turkey in Crisis’, p. 53.46. With a base index of 100 taken in 1938, Alec Alexander calculates that industrial

production was at 57 in 1929 and 114 in 1939 (rising unsteadily through the war to128 in 1945), agricultural production was at 73 in 1929 and 74 in 1945 and nationalincome per capita 85 in 1929 and 78 in 1945 (‘Turkey’, in A. Papelasis, L. Mears andI. Adleman (eds), Economic Development, Analysis and Case Studies (New York, Harper &Row, 1961), p. 474).

47. Keyder, ‘The Political Economy of Turkish Democracy’, p. 35.48. Frey, ‘Education’, passim. He also noted that up 46 per cent of deputies elected

between 1920 and 1950 were from a state bureaucratic background despite makingup only 3–6 per cent of the country’s economically active males.

49. F. Riggs, Administration in Developing Countries (Boston, MA, Houghton Mifflin, 1964),p. 265.

50. Isıklı, ‘Wage Labour and Unionisation’, p. 313. Farük Birtek notes that ‘Social mobilityand membership in the urban and semi-urban professional middle class (in particularteachers, judges and state officials) depended on their participation in the expansionof the Kemalist state. In turn the achievement of higher social status necessarilyinvolved the rejection of local hierarchies, organisation, and traditional ties … [Thegovernment], basing its power on limited social participation and its ability to recruita substantial part of the local elite, controlled the state by distancing the centre from– rather than attempting to reform or incorporate – the cultural periphery in thecountryside (‘Prospects for a New Centre or the Temporary Rise of the PeripheralAsabiyah?’, in M. Heper and A. Evin (eds), Politics in the Third Turkish Republic (Boulder,CO, Westview Press, 1994), p. 225).

51. Keyder, ‘The Political Economy of Turkish Democracy’, p. 36.52. Ibid.53. Keyder, State and Class in Turkey, p. 199.54. See for example, E. Özbudun, ‘The Nature of the Kemalist Political Regime’, in A.

Kazancıgil and E. Özbudun (eds), Atatürk: Founder of a Modern State (London, C. Hurst,1981), pp. 95–6.

55. D. McDowall, The Kurds, a Nation Denied (London, Minority Rights Group, 1993),pp. 37–8.

56. Cited in ibid.57. D. McDowall, A Modern History of the Kurds (London, I.B. Tauris, 1992), p. 207.58. Rambout’s estimate cited in ibid.59. According to Keyder (after Fleury) Germany received 51 per cent of Turkey’s exports

from where Turkey bought 41 per cent of her imports (‘The Political Economy ofTurkish Democracy’, p. 37).

60. Yerasimos, ‘The Mono-Party Period’, p. 90.61. While noting a dearth of primary sources regarding agricultural reforms during this

period, Margulies and Yıldizoglu suggest that, at least until 1937, landowners in south-eastern provinces continued to divide up their estates along the traditional lines ofsharecropping and ‘can be distinguished from the rest of the country by a historicalbackground of tribal relations’ (‘Agrarian Change’, p. 277). Walter Weiker writes‘factors influencing relative low levels of developmental efforts in these regionsincluded the prospects of quicker and larger returns in the already semi-developedcentral areas, the need to keep order … [and the state’s] at least tacit alliance with


many large landowners of the eastern region’ (The Modernisation of Turkey: From Atatürkto the Present Day (New York, Holmes & Meier, 1981), p. 233).

62. This may be part of the reason why agriculture’s share of the Turkish workingpopulation only dropped from 81 per cent in 1927 to 78 per cent by 1950 and froma 49 per cent GDP share to 43 per cent over the same period. See Y. Tezel, ‘TurkishEconomic Development, 1923–1950: Policy and Achievements’, Unpublished PhDdissertation, Cambridge University, 1975.

63. S. Mardin, ‘Turkey: The Transformation of an Economic Code’, in E. Özbudun andA. Ulusan (eds), The Political Economy of Income Distribution in Turkey (New York, Holmes& Meier, 1980), p. 43.

64. Margulies and Yıldizoglu, ‘Agrarian Change: 1923–1970’, p. 277.65. A. Hirsch and E. Hirsch, ‘Changes in terms of Trade on Farmers and Their Effect

on Real Farm Income Per Capita of Rural Population in Turkey: 1927–1960’, EconomicDevelopment and Cultural Change, 14 (1966), p. 454.

66. See B. Walstead, State Manufacturing Enterprises in a Mixed Economy, the Turkish Case(Washington, DC, IBRD, 1977), pp. 76–7 and F. Tachau, ‘Turkish Provincial Parties’,in K. Karpat (ed.), Social Change and Politics in Turkey: A Structural–Historical Analysis(Leiden, E.J. Brill, 1973), p. 299.

67. D. Rustow, ‘Politics and Development Policy’, in F. Shorter (ed.), Four Studies on theEconomic Development of Turkey (London, Frank Cass, 1967), p. 19.

68. S. Mardin, ‘Turkey: The Transformation of an Economic Code’, p. 42.69. C. Erogul, ‘The Establishment of Multiparty Rule: 1945–71’ (trans. R. Benatar and

I. Schick), in Schick and Tonak (eds), Turkey in Transition, pp. 102–3.70. Only 3,600 hectares were expropriated forcing the resignation of the Minister of

Agriculture (E. Özbudun, ‘Established Revolution versus Unfinished Revolution:Contrasting Patterns of Democratisation in Mexico and Turkey’, in S. Huntingtonand C. Moore (eds), Authoritarian Politics in Modern Society: The Dynamics of EstablishedOne-Party Systems (New York, Basic Books, 1970), p. 398.

71. See F. Ahmad, The Turkish Experiment in Democracy 1950–1975 (London, C. Hurst, 1977),p. 11.

72. Özbudun, ‘Income Distribution as an Issue in Turkish Politics’, in Özbudun andUlusan (eds), The Political Economy of Income Distribution in Turkey, p. 58.

73. For an overlapping, but slightly different view, see K. Karpat, ‘Recent PoliticalDevelopments in Turkey and their Social Background’, International Affairs, 38 (1962),p. 310.

74. I.. Sunar and S. Sayarı, ‘Democracy in Turkey: Problems and Prospects’, in

G. O’Donnell and P. Schmitter (eds), Transitions From Authoritarian Rule (Baltimore, MD,Johns Hopkins University Press, 1986), p. 173.

75. See D. Rustow, ‘The Development of Parties in Turkey, in J. LaPalombra and M. Weiner (eds), Political Parties and Political Development (Princeton, NJ, PrincetonUniversity Press, 1966), p. 123.

76. K. Kirisci and G. Winrow, The Kurdish Question and Turkey (London, Frank Cass, 1997),pp. 106–7. See also F. Tachau and M. Good, ‘The Anatomy of Political and SocialChange: Turkish Parties, Parliaments and Elections’, Comparative Politics, 5 (1973),pp. 563–4.

77. McDowall, A Modern History of the Kurds, pp. 397–9. Sabri Sayarı writes ‘Unlike otherparts of the country, traditional patron–client ties rather than party patronage are ofprimary importance in the structuring of political loyalties’ (‘Political Patronage inTurkey’, in E. Gellner and J. Waterburg (eds), Patrons and Clients in Mediterranean Societies(London, Duckworth, 1977), p. 110). See also A. Kudat, ‘Patron–Client Relations: TheState of the Art and Research in Eastern Turkey’, in E. Akarli and G. Ben-Dor (eds),Political Participation in Turkey (Istanbul, Bogazici University Publications, 1975), passim.

78. See McDowall, A Modern History of the Kurds, p. 398.79. Keyder, ‘The Political Economy of Turkish Democracy’, p. 40.


80. Arnold Leder comments that the DP made every effort ‘to present themselves as thechampions of the periphery against the hated centre’ (‘Party Competition in RuralTurkey: Agent of Change or Defender of Traditional Rule’, Middle Eastern Studies, 15(1979), p. 84).

81. See Heper, M., ‘Recent Instability in Turkish Politics’, International Journal of TurkishStudies, 1 (1979), passim.

82. Sayarı, ‘Political Patronage in Turkey’, p. 109.83. I

.. Turan, ‘Continuity and Change in Turkish Bureaucracy’, in Landau (ed.), Atatürk

and the Modernisation of Turkey, p. 114.84. See M. Heper, ‘Bureaucrats and Politicians and Officers in Turkey: Dilemmas of a

New Political Paradigm’, in A. Evin (ed.), Modern Turkey: Continuity and Change (Opladen,Leske Verlag & Budrich Gmbh, 1984), p. 74 and M. Heper, ‘Turkey’, in V.Subramaniam (ed.), Public Administration in the Third World (New York, Greenwood Press,1990), p. 218.

85. See Erogul, ‘The Establishment of Multiparty Rule’, p. 107 and A. Sarıbay, ‘TheDemocratic Party, 1946–1960’, in M. Heper and J. Landau (eds), Political Parties andDemocracy in Turkey (London, I.B. Tauris, 1991), p. 129.

86. See Turan, ‘Continuity and Change in Turkish Bureaucracy’, pp. 114–15.87. A. Ulman and F. Tachau, ‘Turkish Politics: The Attempt to Reconcile Rapid

Modernisation with Democracy’, Middle East Journal, 19 (1965), p. 154.88. Turkey had received US$391 million through the Marshall Plan between 1946 and

1950 (I. Schick and E. Tonak, ‘The International Dimension: Trade, Aid and Debt’,in Schick and Tonak (eds), Turkey in Transition, p. 340.

89. D. Rustow, ‘Turkey’s Travails’, Foreign Affairs, 58 (1979), p. 87.90. See B. Berberoglu, Turkey in Crisis (London, Zed Books, 1982), p. 71.91. Ibid., p. 83, n. 12.92. Ibid., p. 71. See also O. Aresvik, The Agricultural Development of Turkey (New York,

Praeger, 1975), p. 19.93. D. Simpson, ‘Development as a Process: The Menderes Phase in Turkey’, Middle East

Journal, 19 (1965), p. 144.94. After 1950 Turkey maintained an annual population growth of almost 3 per cent. See

J. Kolars, ‘The Integration of the Villager into the National Life of Turkey’, in Karpat(ed.), Social Change and Politics in Turkey, p. 191.

95. A. Ulusan, ‘Public Policy Towards Agriculture and its Redistributive Implications’, inE. Özbudun and A. Ulusan (eds), The Political Economy of Income Distribution in Turkey (NewYork, Holmes & Meier, 1980), p. 129.

96. Indeed, statistics show that the number of large holdings (20 or more hectares) actuallydeclined from 145,000 in 1952 to 115,000 in 1963. See Margulies and Yıldizoglu,‘Agrarian Change’, p. 283.

97. Keyder, State and Class in Turkey, p. 131.98. McDowall, A Modern History of the Kurds, p. 399.99. Berberoglu, Turkey in Crisis, p. 71.

100. Aktan, ‘Mechanisation of Agriculture in Turkey’, p. 277.101. Berberoglu, Turkey in Crisis, p. 71.102. Karpat, The Gecekondu: Rural Migration and Urbanisation (Cambridge, Cambridge

University Press, 1976), p. 56. See also his ‘Social Effects of Farm Mechanisation inTurkish Villages’, Social Research, 20 (1960), pp. 83–103.

103. See Berberoglu, Turkey in Crisis, p. 81, n. 1.104. D. Ergil, ‘Class Conflict and Turkish Transformation’, Studia Islamica, 6 (1975),

pp. 141–2.105. See Berberoglu, Turkey in Crisis, p. 68.106. Ibid., p. 82, n. 8.107. For a survey of overseas interests in Turkish corporations see ibid., p. 70.108. A. Krueger, Turkey (New York, National Bureau of Economic Research, 1974), p. 77.


109. Berberoglu, Turkey in Crisis, p. 72.110. Hershlag, Turkey: The Challenge of Growth, pp. 334 and 338 and O. Yenal, ‘Development

of the Financial System’, in F. Shorter (ed.), Four Studies on the Economic Development ofTurkey (London, Frank Cass, 1967), p. 98. See also I

.. Turan, ‘Stages of Political

Development in the Turkish Republic’, in E. Özbudun (ed.), Perspectives on Democracy inTurkey (Ankara, Turkish Political Science Association, 1988), pp. 77–8.

111. Kemal Karpat cites building plots in Ankara that were priced at 50 lira in 1949 and50,000 lira in 1965 (The Gecekondu, p. 57).

112. See M. Singer, The Economic Advance of Turkey, 1938–1960 (Ankara, Verso, 1977),p. 242 and p. 295 and K. Dervis and S. Robinson, ‘The Structure of Income Inequalityin Turkey’, in E. Özbudun and A. Ulusan (eds), The Political Economy of IncomeDistribution in Turkey (New York, Holmes & Meier, 1980), p. 95.

113. A gecekondu is defined by Fehmi Yavuz as ‘those buildings, constructed hastily, in a wayviolating construction regulations, and generally lacking even the most primitivefacilities’ (cited in N. Saran, ‘Squatter Settlement (Gecekondu) Problems in Istanbul’, inP. Benedict, E. Tümertekin and F. Mensur (eds), Turkey: Geographic and Social Perspectives(Leiden, E.J. Brill, 1974), p. 329). See also M. Danielson, and R. Keles, ‘Urbanisationand Income Distribution in Turkey’, in Özbudun and Ulusan (eds), The PoliticalEconomy of Income Distribution in Turkey, p. 290.

114. R. Bianchi, Interest Groups and Political Development in Turkey (Princeton, NJ, PrincetonUniversity Press, 1984), p. 58.

115. McDowall, A Modern History of the Kurds, p. 402.116. Keyder, State and Class in Turkey, p. 206.117. Berberoglu, Turkey in Crisis, p. 73.118. Ahmad, The Turkish Experiment in Democracy, p. 136.119. Berberoglu, Turkey in Crisis, p. 74.120. See Z. Hershlag, Turkey: An Economy in Transition (The Hague, Mouton, 1958), p. 288.121. See Rustow, ‘Politics and Development Policy’, p. 17.122. Ü. Cizre-Sakallıoglu, ‘Labour and State in Turkey: 1960–80’, Middle Eastern Studies,

28 (1992), p. 714.123. Isıklı, ‘Wage, Labour and Unionisation’, p. 317.124. Ibid., p. 315.125. N. Neyzi, ‘The Middle Classes in Turkey’, in Karpat (ed.), Social Change and Politics in

Turkey, pp. 138–9.126. K. Karpat, ‘The Turkish Left’, Journal of Contemporary History, 1 (1966), pp. 177–8.127. Ibid., p. 178. Ali Kazancıgil writes that ‘the bourgeoisie gradually took hold so that,

from 1945, it could defy the power monopoly held by the state elites’ (‘High Statenessin a Muslim Society: The Case of Turkey’, in M. Dogan and A. Kazancıgil (eds),Comparing Nations: Concepts, Strategies, Substance (Oxford, Blackwell, 1994), p. 230).

128. M. Mann, ‘The Ideology of Intellectuals and Other People in the Development ofCapitalism’, in L. Lindberg et al. (eds), Stress and Contradiction in Modern Capitalism(Lexington, MA, D.C. Heath, 1975), p. 286, after Lukacs and Goldmann.

129. See K. Karpat, ‘Social Themes in Contemporary Turkish Literature’, Middle EastJournal, 14 (1960), passim.

130. Lewis, The Emergence of Modern Turkey, pp. 304–5.131. See K. Karpat, ‘Ideology in Turkey after the Revolution’, in Karpat (ed.), Social Change

and Politics in Turkey, pp. 347–8.132. McDowall, A Modern History of the Kurds, p. 403.133. K. Karpat, ‘Political Developments in Turkey, 1950–1970’, Middle Eastern Studies, 8

(1972), p. 355.134. See Karpat, Turkey’s Politics, pp. 355–6.135. See G. Harris, The Origins of Communism in Turkey (Stanford, CA, Stanford University

Press, 1967), Epilogue.136. Cited in J. Landau, Radical Politics in Modern Turkey (Leiden, E.J. Brill, 1974), pp. 101–2.


137. See Karpat, ‘The Turkish Left’, p. 176. For a more detailed account of theinternational context, see D. Rustow, ‘The Appeal of Communism to Islamic Peoples’,in J. Harris Proctor (ed.), Islam and International Relations (London, Pall Mall Press, 1965),passim.

138. See Landau, Radical Politics in Modern Turkey, pp. 110–11.139. Figures relate to the publication of each organisation’s manifesto in 1950. See ibid.,

pp. 114–15.140. Karpat, ‘The Turkish Left’, p. 179. Edwin Cohn also points to the fact that multiparty

democracy ‘made politicians more accessible to voters and thus opened to them analternative route for bringing their appeals to authority’ (Turkish Economic, Social andPolitical Change (New York, Praeger, 1970), p. 94).

141. Neyzi, ‘The Middle Classes in Turkey’, p. 132.142. J. Landau, Middle East Themes: Papers in History and Politics (London, Frank Cass, 1973),

p. 277 and S. Mardin, ‘Turkey: The Transformation of an Economic Code’, p. 40respectively. A study by H. Hyman, A. Payaslioglu and F. Frey in 1958 found that thenationalist nature of the state education system had so conditioned students that theyproduced strongly nationalist responses to even broadly framed questions in ‘TheValues of Turkish College Youth’, Public Opinion Quarterly, 2 (1958), pp. 282–5.

143. Karpat, ‘The Turkish Left’, p. 179.144. Many university campuses also became centres of pro-RPP activities as ‘students

increasingly protested their frustration at what they considered the DP’s sacrifice ofAtatürk’s reforms, as well as its repression of all political opposition’ (Landau, RadicalPolitics in Modern Turkey, p. 30).

145. See Heper, ‘Bureaucrats, Politicians and Officers in Turkey’, pp. 72–3. For a studycomparing popular attachment to the memory of Kemal in urban and rural areas,see George Angell’s research of 1963 cited in F. Frey, ‘Socialisation to NationalIdentification Among Turkish Peasants’, Journal of Politics, 30 (1968), pp. 941–3.

146. M. Heper, ‘A Methodological Note on Bureaucratic Modernisation: Prevalent Atti-tudes of the Turkish Civil Servants’, International Review of Modern Sociology, 11 (1981),passim.

147. I.. Sunar, State and Society in the Politics of Turkey’s Development (Ankara, Ankara University

Faculty of Political Science Publication No. 377, 1974), pp. 136–8.148. A. Matthews, Emergent Turkish Administrators (Ankara, Turk Tarih Kurumu Basimevi,

1955), p. 24.149. M. Heper, ‘Negative Bureaucratic Policies in a Modernising Context’, Journal of South

Asian and Middle Eastern Studies, 1 (1977), p. 75.150. Weiker, The Modernisation of Turkey, p. 34.151. See L. Caldwell, ‘Turkish Administration and the Politics of Expediency’, in W. Siffin

(ed.), Toward the Comparative Study of Public Administration (Bloomington, IN, IndianaUniversity Press), pp. 123–7.

152. Cited in Sunar, State and Society in the Politics of Turkey’s Development, p. 110.153. Ibid., pp. 117–18.154. See A. Öncü, ‘Chambers of Commerce in Turkey: An Inquiry into State–Industry

Relations as a Distributive Domain’, in Özbudun and Ulusan (eds), The PoliticalEconomy of Income Distribution in Turkey, pp. 466–7.

155. Resat Aktan argues that the subsequent decline in agriculture was due to thisintegrated elite transferring funds from the rural-agricultural sector to their urbanindustrial interests in ‘Problems of Land Reform in Turkey’, Middle East Journal, 20(1966), p. 323.

156. See H. Reed, ‘Revival of Islam in Secular Turkey’, Middle East Journal, 8 (1954) and‘The Religious Life of Modern Turkish Muslims’, in R. Frye (ed.), Islam and the West(The Hague, Mouton, 1957), both passim.

157. See Stirling, ‘Religious Change in Republican Turkey’, Ch. 12.158. See D. Shankland, Islam and Society in Turkey (Huntington, Cambridgeshire, Eothen


Press,1999), pp. 27 and 38.159. Toprak, Islam and Political Development in Turkey, pp. 78–9.160. J. Landau, ‘Islamism and Secularism: The Turkish Case’, in J. Landau (ed.), Studies in

Judaism and Islam (Jerusalem, Magnes Press, 1981), p. 370.161. Ü. Cizre-Sakallıoglu, ‘Kemalism, Islam and Hypernationalism’, History of European

Ideas, 20 (1995), p. 756.162. See Toprak, Islam and Political Development in Turkey, p. 83.163. Cizre-Sakallıoglu, ‘Kemalism, Islam and Hypernationalism’, p. 758.164. See Ahmad, The Turkish Experience in Democracy, pp. 368–9.165. Landau, Radical Politics in Modern Turkey, p. 185.166. This section owes much to Rustow, ‘Politics and Islam in Turkey, 1920–1955’,

pp. 101–7.167. The Nurcular’s primary constituency was the stubbornly traditional eastern provinces.

See Cizre-Sakallıoglu, ‘Kemalism, Islam and Hypernationalism’, p. 767.168. Rustow, ‘Politics and Islam in Turkey, 1920–1955’, p. 104.169. Landau, Radical Politics in Modern Turkey, p. 192.170. The Turkish Hearths (Türk Ocakları), re-established in 1949, based their ideology on

Gökalp’s motto of three affiliations; first to the nation, second to the umma and thirdto contemporary civilisation (see Karpat, ‘Ideology in Turkey after the Revolution of1960’, p. 330).

171. Rustow, ‘Politics and Islam in Turkey, 1920–1955’, p. 103.172. Associated with the writing of late Ottoman commentators such as Gökalp, this

movement sought the unity of all Turkic peoples under a single state (often to be ledby the Anatolians). See Landau, Radical Politics in Modern Turkey, pp. 193–4.

173. See Ü. Cizre-Sakallıoglu, ‘The Ideology and Politics of the National Action Party ofTurkey’, Cahiers d’Etudes sur la Mediterranée Orientale et le Monde Turco-Iranien, 13 (1992),p. 143.

174. Keddie, Sayyid Jamal ad-Din ‘al-Afghani’, p. 11.175. See M. Agaogulları, ‘The Ultranationalist Right’ (trans. R. Benatar and I. Schick), in

Schick and Tonak (eds), Turkey in Transition, p. 188.176. B. Lewis, ‘Islamic Revival in Turkey’, International Affairs, 28 (1952), p. 44.177. Their criticism of Kemal as oblivious to the wider cause of the Turkic peoples led to

their disbandment in 1951 and reformation a year later under the name the New GreatEast. See H. Reed, ‘Secularism and Islam in Turkish Politics’, Current History, 32 (1957),p. 338.

178. Lewis, ‘Islamic Revival in Turkey’, p. 44. Mehmet Agaogulları suggests that the moreextreme pan-Turkists ‘tried to protect themselves from probable official censure byadmitting to their associations religious or nationalist right-wingers close to theadministration, and joining those founded by them’ (‘The Ultranationalist Right’,p. 190).

179. See G. Lenczowski, The Middle East in World Affairs (Ithaca, NY, Cornell UniversityPress, 1956), p. 143.

180. Agaogulları, ‘The Ultranationalist Right’, p. 191.181. For the former see Harris, ‘The Role of the Military in Turkish Politics’, pp. 171–2

and the latter, see Landau, Radical Politics in Modern Turkey, pp. 222–3.182. Keyder, ‘The Political Economy of Turkish Democracy’, p. 42.


5

The Military/IndustrialComplex

This chapter looks at the manifestations of Turkish militarism from the1960 intervention to the early 1990s. The narrative will outline how themilitary elite managed the contradictions inherent in their interpretationof Kemalism, how this informed their approach to constitutional politicsand the extent to which their role was restrained by civil society. It willexamine the different ways in which domestic repression blended withsocial representation to produce varying regime strategies. These will becompared to other combinations of militarism and social incorporationidentified by Mann as features of the polities of the United States andWestern Europe. In the case of Turkey, the relationship between suchformations, the advance of capitalism and the decline in the military elite’sautonomy will also be considered. These will be traced through the 1960s,the military intervention of 1971, the subsequent polarisation and fragmen-tation of Turkish politics, the 1980 coup and the militarisation of south-east Anatolia.

MILITARISM

Mann defines militarism as ‘an attitude and a set of institutions whichregard war and the preparation for war as a normal and desirable socialactivity’.1 While these may, he argues, be organised and directed by lesscentralised actors, militarism was generally a feature of the state’s pursuitof geopolitical objectives or enhanced methods of domestic repression.Since pre-modern infrastructures restricted the state’s capacity to reach andcoerce its citizens, militarism was, in historical terms, a primary part offoreign policy. From 1130 to 1815, for instance, the English governmentallocated between 75 and 95 per cent of its entire revenue to warfare ormilitary preparation.2 Such figures are typical of other European states and,indeed, states in general during this period. That is not to say, however, that

there was little variation in their deployment of militarist techniques.Marked differences existed in terms of expenditure and in the overall blendof external and internal coercion states could organise and deploy. Duringthe last two centuries Great Britain, for instance, has combined high levelsof international militarism with a comparatively pacific approach todomestic administration. The United States, in contrast, has, despite beingrelatively secure from foreign aggression, combined slavery and a repressivepolicy aimed at organised labour with violent coercion towards NativeAmericans and other minority groups.3 So, although broadly comparablein overall military expenditure (allocating an average of 47.2 (GB) and 54.4(US) per cent of their total yearly budgets to the armed forces between 1820and 1910), each represented quite different forms of militarism.4

Everywhere, however, state militarism was resisted by elements of civilsociety, particularly liberals and socialists, who sought to limit governmentalinfrastructures, military budgets, higher taxation, conscription and warfare.While parliamentarians had few successes in restricting geopoliticalmilitarism (foreign policy had long been the prerogative of the monarch),5

restraints, of varying degrees of institutional power, upon the state’s use ofdomestic repression did emerge. Mann argues that this tension gave rise tofour methods of maintaining public order.6 First, as a general alternativeto coercion, states could resolve civil disaffection through the use of concili-ation, arbitration and persuasion. This was usually supported by a secondmethod, the use of a relatively lightly armed police force organised eithersegmentally (through local landed agents) or centrally. Should disorder bebeyond the resources of a constabulary, then paramilitary units could bedeployed. If this did not succeed, then state action may escalate to a fourthlevel, large-scale military repression involving high-intensity violence andregular troops. According to Mann, the growth of economic interdepen-dence and the division of labour has led to a decline in the need for centrallyorganised coercion. Once firmly established, capitalist exchange can gener-ally determine value and property rights without recourse to coerciveregulation thereby institutionalising lower levels of domestic repression incomparison to previous modes of production.

The result, Mann suggests, is that capitalist expansion has tended toproduce bifurcated structures consisting of ‘an institutionalised, relativelynon-coercive core and an expropriated, militaristic periphery’.7 As Westernstates have advanced, their cores have enlarged from ‘home counties’around their capitals to national boundaries before eventually includingimperial and then neo-colonial agents all over the world. While not inher-ently more militaristic than other historical forms of imperial expansion,capitalist enlargement has relied on the institutionalisation of norms that could govern trade values and minimise localised disruption to the


production, transportation and exchange of commodities. So in order tobe introduced into regions with established and complex property rights,the spread of capitalism has commonly required political support backedup by military force. For Mann this has produced four major effects.8 First,technological advances driven by manufacturing have led to ever moreeffective weaponry and exponential increases in casualty levels. Second,global economic interdependence has greatly enlarged Great Powerentanglements leading to the instigation or intensification of conflicts inregions geographically marginal to their strategic interests. Third, capital-ism has assisted in the transformation of militarily valued social qualitiesfrom physical prowess, ferocity and cruelty to precision, callousness andimpersonal rationality. Fourth, ‘the capitalist era has directly implicated not just military personnel but the whole population in its militarism’.9

Although the per capita size of most European armed forces has erraticallydeclined since the seventeenth century and dropped considerably fromClassical levels, civilian participation in armaments and militarily relatedindustries makes the proportion of civil society involved in militarismconsiderably higher than in previous centuries. Moreover, the modernstate’s capacity to extract revenues from its subjects means that, as apercentage of overall GDP, twentieth-century governments can mobilisefar greater resources than their historical counterparts.

Within this macro-process, however, there remained considerable con-textual diversity. Domestic militarism did, in fact, blend with the forces ofcapitalism and social representation in quite different ways. Mann identi-fies four such variations, namely autocratic militarism, liberal-reformistincorporation, capitalist-liberal militarism and semiauthoritarian incor-poration.10 The first was visible in Tsarist Russia and was typified by thewidespread denial of citizenship, the vehement repression of workers’groups and the polarisation of class. State elites ran the economy andregularly brought in armed police, paramilitaries and (on almost 2,000occasions between 1895 and 1905) regular troops to enforce strike bans.11

Under such conditions and in the absence of any institutionalised systemof labour relations, few moderate reform strategies could survive. Inresponse to a uniform system of domestic repression without sectionaldistinctions, urban working-class consciousness ‘became a totality – aimedat a state that brought a highly centralised and politicised exploitation intoalmost every aspect of life’.12 As a result, bourgeois democrats were drivenunderground towards revolutionary socialism and highly statist alterna-tives.13 The second variation, liberal-reformist incorporation, often con-sisted of systems in which old regimes had involved the middle classes inthe organisation of party democracies and then seen ‘the necessity and eventhe advantage in compromising sectionally and segmentally with workers’

The Military/Industrial Complex 129

over the institutionalisation of citizenship.14 Following the suppression ofthe Paris Commune in 1870, the French state embarked on such a policy.Domestic militarism became more restrained and the police and judiciarywere often used to conciliate rather than coerce. According to Mann thishad the dual effect of focusing reformism on the level of the state andfactionalising decentralised ideological organisation between ‘econo-mism, mutualism, social democracy, syndicalism and Marxism … [which]all emerged to compete and conflict, weakening overall working-classcohesion’.15

In the third of Mann’s ideal-types, capitalist-liberal militarism, citizen-ship was generally well institutionalised, but accompanied by restrictionson collective civil rights and the selective suppression of labour organisa-tion. Exemplified by state policy in the United States between the Civil Warand First World War,16 domestic repression took on two forms. The first wasthe essentially individual nature of property rights, which tended to favouremployers over organised boycotts, unions, strikes or pickets. The secondwas the widespread deployment of state militias often reinforced by regulartroops. Moreover, for the more extensive and prolonged industrial confron-tations, private employer paramilitary forces were licensed and given legalpowers. As a result, between 500 and 800 American workers died in labourdisputes between 1872 and 1914.17 These high levels of industrial militar-ism were supported by what Mann calls ‘a virtually sacred capitalistconception of legality’ which, through policing and the judiciary, gave USeconomic interests almost complete control of the state.18 Labour alsoreceived little state representation from a party democracy in which issuesof domestic repression were handled by the judiciary rather than thepoliticians. Since the president selects the cabinet and sets the legislativeagenda, both the Republican and the Democrat parties remained faction-alised by cross-class, local-regional, ethnic-religious segmental coalitions.The US federal structure, which tended to break-up civil action and focusconflict at a local rather than national level, further ‘fragmented poten-tial class unity’.19 In all, state action reinforced the inherent divides within American labour preventing the emergence of a perceived totalityand potential alternative necessary for the institutionalisation of classconsciousness.

The fourth regime strategy, semiauthoritarian incorporation, wasapparent in Imperial Germany, Austria-Hungary and Japan. It emergedwhen old regimes successfully absorbed bourgeois calls for greater represen-tation without surrendering to a sovereign party democracy. ‘Aided bysemiparliamentary constitutions that institutionalised segmental divide and rule strategies’,20 these monarchies succeeded in dominating emer-gent capitalist interests and remained strongly militarist. In Germany, for


instance, Bismarck was able to perpetuate old-regime rule despite theintroduction of universal male suffrage in 1867.21 By preventing politicalpower networks from developing amongst labour groups (freedom ofassociation was not granted until 1908), the German old regime controlledthe emergence of a large Social Democratic party. Through this strategy,which G. Roth describes as ‘negative integration’, an electorally successfuland fundamentally anti-sympathetic organisation was permitted to exist,but, disassociated from its support base, was prevented ‘from gaining accessto the centres of power’.22 The failure to institutionalise a party democracy,however, led to few restraints on the German military which remained,particularly within its geopolitical functions, largely autonomous from boththe German state and civil society.23

In terms of domestic repression, however, such high levels of militaryautonomy were generally more difficult to maintain. An active role for themilitary in state administration usually ‘embedded the officer corps inbroader political power networks and in dominant economic classes’.24 Thiswas significantly intensified by the effects of industrialisation. Althoughmostly recruited from the old regime, the military did absorb significantamounts of capitalist personnel and values during the nineteenth andespecially the twentieth centuries. This ‘led them to collaborate with the expanding police and paramilitary institutions of the state’ making the dominant economic class much more secure.25 Economic links were also developed, sometimes to the extent of institutionalising a ‘military-industrial complex’, as the high command co-operated with capitalistinterests, particularly in the areas of weapons production, communicationsand munitions supplies. In all, by the First World War, the military’sdomestic repression function in many European states can be seen as acomplex and often contradictory product of capitalist modernism and old-regime interests and values.

Following the end of old-regime preponderance in European politics,institutionalised at the peace settlement in Paris in 1919, this combinationwas reformulated. Notables, the military elite, churches and royalty wereforced ‘to compromise with the lower classes through parliamentarianism,institutionalised labour relations and land reform’.26 Under the strain ofhigh proletarian expectations, mass suffrage and weakened state executivepowers, the old regime, including the military elite, split into two factions.The first, conservative democrats broadly committed to representationalparty politics, moved closer to the bourgeoisie-dominated centre. Second,authoritarian rightists, predominantly apparent amongst the ‘revision-ist states’ of Hungary, Italy and particularly Germany, advocated anti-democratic constitutions paradoxically claiming to represent ‘the people’and established quasi-fascist organisations initially based on post-war


paramilitaries. For Mann, the latter eventually institutionalised a new formof ‘modernist’ nationalist ideology which, in sweeping to power acrossmuch of Europe during the 1930s, emerged in place of the industrial-capitalist phase (see Chapter 4). Proponents of such extreme rightismargued that liberal, socialist and anarchist internationalism weakened thestate making ‘true’, ‘organic’ democracy unworkable. Although regionalminorities were subject to the same accusations, it was, with the exceptionsof Nazi and Japanese concepts of race, voluntary political allegiance ratherthan ethnicity that determined membership of the nation.27

To combat those defined as ‘enemies of the people’ many advocatedextremely high levels of domestic repression. Support for such aggressivenationalism continued to be defined by individuals’ relationships with thestate. Soldiers, civil servants, blue-collar workers in the public sector,employees of the higher education system and adherents (including someclerics) of the state religion were disproportionately represented in theleadership and more militant membership of such rightist organisations.There was also a significant class bias. Although modernist nationalistsfound support within a broad range of social groups, including the pro-letariat, their opposition to labour organisation meant that, broadlyspeaking, ‘the higher the social class, the more support they got’.28 In thissense, modernist nationalism, emerging as it did from the collapse of theentrenched control of the masses that pre-war regimes had enjoyed,represented a rejection of bourgeois-capitalist notions of liberal incor-poration (the basis of industrial-capitalist nationalism) in favour ofauthoritarianism.

In the post-Second World War era, western European modernist nation-alism has been largely neutralised by a gradual process of increased politicalrepresentation and institutionalised domestic demilitarisation.29 Socialcitizenship, imposed by the western Allies, has conciliated class relations,albeit ‘over a narrower band of alternative forms than had existed in theinter-war period’, and detached them from the military by shifting the focusof coercive power from its historical dualism of domestic repression/geopolitical competition to the singular function of warfare.30 Becausecapitalism, once established, requires less coercive regulation than previousmodes of production, western European societies became further demili-tarised during the second half of the twentieth century. Since, however, ‘theabsolute level of economic development seemingly required for a transitionto democracy … steadily increased throughout the twentieth century’, civilcitizenship in countries where industrialisation affected a smaller propor-tion of society remains limited and military power continues to be directedinwards by the state.31 This is particularly so in polities based on what Mannterms ‘organic’ rather than ‘liberal’ conceptions of the nation-state. He


argues that three features tend to be apparent in such a system. First, thepresence of a strong executive, often built by elites on the tradition ofmonarchic office, which has successfully institutionalised restraints onparliamentary sovereignty. By reducing the power of the legislature, theseelites can minimise the decentralising potential of a widely enfranchisedcitizenry and ensure that an often predominantly rural populace, largelybeyond the reach of urban working-class organisation, maintains a statistloyalty in excess of politically liberal levels. Second, ‘organic’ nation-statestend to take an active role in the co-ordination of civil society’s economicdevelopment commonly favouring centralised planning, corporatist linkswith big business and large and expensive public sectors. Third, ‘organi-cism’ was frequently influenced by the collapse of multi-national empiresand subsequent rises in the efficacy of ethnicity as a basis for politicalmobilisation. Since the state elite is best positioned to speak for the unified,‘organic’ people, institutionalised political competition tends not to endureleading to ‘the exclusion of minority communities and political opponentsfrom full membership in the nation’.32

The following section will look at how these factors have related to thepolitical institutionalisation of capitalist interests in Turkey.

FOR THE PEOPLE, OF THE PEOPLE AND BY THE MILITARY

Writing in 1967, Colonel Fox of the US Army observed that in Turkey‘consciousness of being a part of the whole nation is greatly strengthenedby compulsory military service. The conscript soldier develops a sense ofcitizenship and a fierce pride in being a Turk’.33 The basis of this was, andcontinues to be, Article 35 of the Turkish Armed Services Internal Service Code

which states that ‘the duty of the armed forces is to protect and safeguardTurkish territory and the Turkish Republic stipulated by the Constitution’.34

Although, as one of the 800,000 members of the armed forces, the con-script is thoroughly inculcated with its values, he discovers little about the35,000-strong officer corps which guides one of the largest and mostimportant institutions in Turkey. As Mehmet Ali Birand puts it, ‘in no othercivilised country in the world is the army so little known and yet so close tohearts of the people’.35 Nowhere is this civil/military divide more apparentthan between elected political leaders and junior officers. Part of theexplanation for this, Birand argues, is that training at the military academyis largely focused on how democracy ‘should’ work and when the newlygraduated officer ‘discovers the inevitable conditions underlying the realitiesin the country, he blames the politicians rather than the conditions’.36

This, combined with the military’s autonomy, means that many within


the officer corps, particularly amongst junior field ranks, persist in seeing‘themselves as continuing the revolutionary vanguard role which they[have] inherited from the late Ottoman period’.37 The ‘higher’ nature oftheir guardianship position places them above party politics and therelations of production. In this sense, the military in post-war Turkey isquite different from those in other Middle Eastern polities in which, asManfred Halpern argues, they have been more closely associated with the interests of an emerging capitalist class.38 Instead, the Turkish armedforces identify themselves as ‘independent’ protectors of ‘progressive’Kemalist values.39 However, since ‘Kemalism is simultaneously an authori-tarian reformism and an aspiration to a Western-style democracy’ thesevalues are profoundly contradictory.40 The rapid rise of capitalist-classpower in Turkey during the 1940s and 1950s has exacerbated this inherentirreconcilability. It has forced civil and military bureaucratic elites tocompromise with the political expression of this emergent social network.As a result, some have moved towards representational party politics andthe emergent bourgeoisie and others, in a similar way to old-regime groupsin post-1919 Europe, have shifted rightwards favouring quasi-fascistmodernist nationalism. This section will examine how, as the divide betweendemocratic and non-democratic versions of Kemalism widened in the post-war period, the military sacrificed a degree of its political autonomy andmoved closer to bourgeois capitalism.

Both the democratic and the authoritarian elements within the Turkishofficer corps can be seen in their leadership of the 1960 coup. Following aperiod of severe decline in the status and remuneration of both the civiland the military bureaucracy during the late 1950s, resentment becamefocused on the leadership of the DP government.41 One faction within theconspirators, led by Colonel Alparslan Türkes, favoured a prolonged termof military governance, while another, generally consisting of more seniorsoldiers, preferred a more limited period of rule.42 Although the coup itselffollowed the chain of command with the more moderate officers predomi-nating, conflict continued within the new military administration. Thosethat viewed the intervention as an opportunity to embark on an authori-tarian programme of social reforms initially faired well. Türkes wasappointed under-secretary to the Chief-of-Staff and new political leader,General Gürsel, and many predicted that, like Nasser from Nagib, he wouldeventually assume power. He caused considerable alarm, however, in pro-posing the establishment of a highly centralised ‘Culture Super-Ministry’outside political influence and absorbing control of departments respon-sible for the media, religious affairs and education.43 As Walter Weikernotes, ‘few discerning observers failed to see the seeds of dictatorship’ inthese measures.44 The generals were particularly worried by criticisms from


their supporters within the ‘radical statist-secularist wing of the RPP’.45 Theresult was that Türkes and 13 of his more junior colleagues were dismissed.

Gürsel now pursued a paradoxical policy of appeasing the RPP politicalactivists, the state bureaucracy, the capitalist class and the authoritarianwing of the armed forces who remained aggrieved at both his limited social objectives and the dismissal of the ‘14’. As a concession to the latter,former Prime Minister Menderes was hanged with Foreign Minister Zorluand Finance Minister Polatkan.46 In order to solidify support within theRPP, a State Planning Organisation was established in conjunction withanother Five-Year Economic Development Plan.47 This was undertakenwithin a new, more politically liberal constitution designed by IstanbulUniversity and ratified by a popular vote in July 1961.48 Nonetheless, themilitary retained a considerable amount of power in the new constitutionalassembly. As a National Security Council (Milli Güvenlik Kurulu – NSC), theystayed on as permanent members of the senate and reserved control ofthe appointment of another 15 appointees within the Upper House.49 Byarranging the political make-up of the subsequent coalition governmentsand threatening further interventions if their interests were not respected,the military continued to take an active part in parliamentary politicsthroughout the 1960s.50

Disaffection within the high command persisted however. Following afailed putsch attempt in February 1962 and another, led by the exiled ‘14’,in May 1963,51 authoritarian elements within the armed forces concen-trated on utilising the liberality of the 1961 constitution which had reverseda considerable proportion of the restraints on political association imposedby the DP regime of the late 1950s. Many became influential in organi-sations with radically reformist objectives. Of the original 1960 coup leaders,three joined the traditional political home of the state elite, the RPP, twobegan writing for the leftist periodical Türk Solu (Turkish Left ) and two othersjoined the socialist group Devrim (Revolution).52 By June 1965, however, tenothers had joined a small, conservative party, the Republican PeasantNational Party (Cumhuriyetçi Köylü Millet Partisi – RPNP). Led by Türkes, whoquickly assumed the chairmanship of the party, these officers set aboutdislodging incumbent personnel and giving the organisation a ‘national-socialist bent’.53 Although Türkes was at pains to deny any Nazi sympathies,

the party’s casual interest (at best) in the future of democratic institutions inTurkey, their special attention in fostering youth groups and their arrangingparamilitary marches and youth demonstrations, were reminiscent of fascistparties elsewhere.54

Although in electoral terms the RPNP did not become a major partyduring the 1960s, three factors served to reinforce anti-leftist sentiments


amongst the military and within large sections of the bourgeoisie, therebypushing both towards the neo-liberalism of the official opposition party, theJustice Party (Adalet Partisi – JP). The first was the failure of the RPP-led coalition to reach a satisfactory solution to the crisis in Cyprus. Inresponse to continued attacks on the island’s Turkish minority, PrimeMinister I

.nönü threatened to intervene under the conditions of the 1960

Treaty of Zurich.55 The refusal of President Johnson to support such atactic, however, led to the abandonment of already well-advanced militaryintervention plans in June 1964.56 As a result, Turkey withdrew fromNATO’s Multilateral Force and pursued closer relations with the SovietUnion including a cultural agreement and a state visit by Foreign MinisterGromyko.57 This caused considerable anger and alarm within the military,particularly from those influenced by Türkes who was himself a TurkishCypriot.58 It also had a significant effect on the Turkish electorate for, asAbadan notes, ‘the RPP was constantly attacked during the [1965] electoralcampaign for forging dangerous links’.59

These concerns were intensified by a second factor, the plethora oflabour groups which emerged quite legally under the 1961 constitution. Ofparticular importance was the Workers Party of Turkey (Türkiye I

.sci Partisi

– WPT) which grew strongly in the early 1960s and ‘was instrumental inadvancing the interests of the working class’.60 Despite the RPP’s closesurveillance of this group through a revitalised National IntelligenceOrganisation (Milli I

.sstihbarat Teskilatı – the soon to be infamous MI

.T ), the

failure of the civil authorities to restrict the WPT was a growing source ofconcern for both the high command and the capitalist elite. Under theleadership of Süleyman Demirel, a former employee of the US MorrisonCorporation, the JP (who were benefiting from considerable financialsupport from the United States) ‘began to whip up a “red scare” throughoutthe country’.61 This was exacerbated by the WPT’s public recognition ofthe Kurds as a persecuted minority. The military, who had been careful tointern or exile most prominent Kurds as soon as they assumed power in1960, were especially alarmed.62 The third factor which supported a rise in rightist politics was the rapidity of social change in Turkey during the1960s. The advent of a televisual mass media, the sudden rise in geographicmobility, the spread of urban, capitalist values, increasing Americanisationand innovations in the built environment were not matched by sustainableeconomic development. Although consistently high growth rates hadenriched and enlarged a significant capitalist class, by 1967 unemploymenthad reached 11 per cent of the workforce and the average cost of livinghad risen by 45 per cent since 1960.63 For many petit bourgeois groupsdisadvantaged by the failure of RPP etatism, threatened by changing social values or de-skilled by systemic alterations in the economy, ‘a


trustworthy, uncompromising and “paternalistic” leader’ appeared to be afavourable prospect.64

So, despite a sharp move towards the political left, the RPP was unsur-prisingly defeated by the JP in the 1965 general elections.65 The return togovernment of capitalist-class interests did not, however, represent anunconditional resumption of civilian rule. The military remained preparedto intervene should the government attempt to implement unacceptablepolicy decisions.66 As a result, the JP maintained the tradition of DP prag-matism and pursued a mixed economy ‘while displaying the traditionalreverence for the army’.67 With the election of General Sunay to thepresidency in 1966, ‘an attitude of benevolence bordering on complicity’emerged between the JP leadership and the military.68 A proportion of thebasis for this was the growing tendency for senior military officials to acceptexecutive positions within large corporations upon retirement. In part, suchappointments were facilitated by the investment programme of the ArmyMutual Assistance Association (Ordu Yardımlasma Kurumu – AMAA). Estab-lished in March 1961 to provide social security to military personnel, it had,by 1975, subsidised 19,000 homes, advanced 35,000 personal loans andamassed assets in excess of 2 billion Turkish lira.69 Since it was managed bythe generals themselves, the success of the AMAA in positioning itself atthe heart of middle-class consumption, import-subsidising industrialisationand foreign-capital exchange led to a significant ‘bourgeoisification’ of themilitary elite.

In terms of political expediency, the growing capitalist-military coalitioncan also be seen as a response to the radicalisation of leftist activism andto continuing divisions within the high command itself. Groups such as the National Democratic Movement (Milli Demokratik Devrim – NDM) andthe Federation of Revolutionary Youth in Turkey (Türkiye Deverimci Genclik

Federasyonu – Dev Genc), having profited from the growth in trade unionismand in higher education enrolment,70 emerged as significant social move-ments in the late 1960s. Inspired by the struggle of Guevara in Bolivia andthe Viet Cong in Indo-China, the former, in particular, promulgated aMaoist ideology in which loosely associated urban-guerrilla units aimed todestabilise the regime sufficiently to facilitate the takeover of a radical juntafrom within the armed forces. The result was ‘a compelling “fit” betweenGuevarist concepts of revolutionary immediacy and the tradition of left-Kemalism’.71 With the breakdown in industrial relations and the subsequentincrease in strike activity towards the end of the 1960s, the NDR’s putativecontacts within the officer corps were particularly worrying for the JP/NSCadministration. A lack of support from the Confederation of Turkish TradeUnions (Türk-I

.s) and the state’s deployment of both regular troops and

ultranationalist militia to police the strikes, significantly radicalised labour


groups and led to the establishment of the Confederation of RevolutionaryTrade Unions (Devrimci I

.sçi Sendikaları Konfederasyonu – DI

.SK) in 1967.72 The

following year the number of strikes rose to 54 and, by 1970, the figure was112 including a co-ordinated walkout of over 100,000 workers in Kocaeliand Istanbul.73 Amid ‘a general loss of confidence among sections of thebourgeoisie’,74 the high command forced Demirel’s government to resignin March 1971.

As well as an attempt to restore the confidence of the capitalist class, thiscoup can also be seen as a way of pre-empting the activities of the NDM/radical officer conspiracy.75 As Semih Vaner notes, such an alliance ‘boreupon two issues of particular sensitivity: the Kurdish question and theorganic integration of the national military apparatus within the Westernbloc’.76 In the tradition of Mahmud Sevket and Mustafa Kemal and follow-ing the pattern of the 1960 coup, the general staff and President Sunayacted quickly to protect the chain of command from radicalised elementswithin the officer corps. As a result, three generals and eight colonels wereimmediately dismissed for ‘having gone outside the hierarchic mechanismand engaged in political activities basically inconsistent with the disciplin-ary rules of the armed forces’.77 These measures were reinforced by institu-tionalising military control over a series of non-party governments between1971 and 1973 and instigating a number of economic reforms aimed ateliminating the causes of leftist disorder. Most were, however, successfullyblocked by the combined opposition of Ecevit (the less pro-militarysuccessor of I

.nönü at the helm of the RPP) and Demirel who were both

resentful of the powerful position of the high command’s political agents.78

Nonetheless, in the case of constitutional amendments, the JP concurredwith the military and insisted that the liberality of the 1961 constitutionwas a luxury Turkey could ill-afford.79 As a result, the early 1970s weremarked by severe limitations on the freedom of the judiciary, the media,universities and the Assembly Houses. Martial law was declared and, in aseries of bloody police and military operations, large numbers of socialistswere arrested, silenced or killed.

In many ways the 1971 military reassertion can be seen as a shift inTurkey’s socioeconomic development. The 1960 coup had brought abouta situation comparable to Mann’s characterisation of Bismarckian Germany.The politically decentralising effects of a relatively liberal constitution hadbeen considerably allayed by an elite strategy that had absorbed bourgeoiscalls for greater representation without surrendering to a full party democ-racy. Through a process of semiauthoritarian incorporation, the militarywas able to retake its traditional position at the heart of the state elite whilenot only permitting a return of capitalist rule under Demirel’s JP, but alsopresiding over a significant growth in the power of left-wing reformism. Aswith Germany, however, such a policy of ‘negative integration’ held many


perils for continued military autonomy. The combined pressures of capital-ist expansion and civil calls for greater political representation politicisedthe Turkish officer corps, already fractured by the intrinsically contra-dictory nature of the Kemalist legacy they inherited. So the gradual‘bourgeoisification’ of the high command, coupled with their age-oldimperative of excluding the more radical elements among their subordi-nates, produced a marked decline in military autonomy and prompted the end of semiauthoritarian incorporation. Purged of its leftist senti-ments, the military elite took on what Mann identifies as the conservative-constitutionalist/rightist-authoritarian split apparent in Germany.

This, plus the state’s clear focus on repressing the left, helped to reinforceand legitimise the political message of the extreme right-wing.80 Thesecoalesced around the issue of the presidency as General Sunay’s term ofoffice reached an end in 1973. As before, authoritarian Kemalists commit-ted to a prolonged period of political supervision preferred a militarycandidate whereas a more moderate group argued for an immediate returnto complete civilian rule – an option favoured by the main parties.81 Theresult was a compromise in the person of ex-Admiral Fahri Korutürk.Critically, though, this was widely perceived as a defeat for the high com-mand. The effect of this was, as George Harris notes, to create ‘a fataldisjunction between the real power of the military establishment and theillusion that it could be confronted with impunity by civilian politicians’.82

The combination of a fragmented civil bureaucracy (which, with the RPP’snew left-of-centre position, was no longer held together by an institu-tionalised opposition to socialism), a divided military elite and a wave ofnationalist sentiment in the wake of the 1974 Cyprus invasion producedrising violence levels on university campuses and an atmosphere highlyconducive to Türkes’ quasi-fascist networks.83

Indeed, as Table 13 shows, the RPNP (which became the NationalAction Party (Milliyet Hareket Partisi – NAP) in 1969) was gradually able toenlarge its influence during the early 1970s.84 This was also true ofNecmettin Erbakan’s Islamist National Salvation Party (Milli Selamet Partisi

– NSP) who had benefited from the JP government’s willingness to utiliseIslam in order to garner peasant support during the second half of the1960s.85 Using this constituency as a political lever, Erbakan was able toacquire the ‘legitimisation of an anti-Kemalist party’.86 By 1973, he hadentered government in an unlikely, and extremely volatile, coalition withthe ever more leftward RPP.87 Increasingly, however, the NAP was able todraw support away from the NSP through the tactical deployment ofreligious rhetoric concerning Cypriot and Thracian Muslims.88 The NAPalso proved particularly adept at using the JP’s parliamentary fragility toimprove its political standing. Despite possessing only three deputies and3.4 per cent of the vote, Türkes was appointed Deputy Prime Minister and


given control over two key ministries.89 Under the newspaper slogan‘Demirel in Parliament and Türkes on the Streets’,90 ‘its armed paramilitaryphalange stepped up its acts of violence as the government tolerated, andat times encouraged, them as a defence against the perceived threat fromthe left – and especially as a weapon against the RPP’.91 This rapidly becameself-perpetuating for, as Feroz Ahmad notes, the aim of the NAP’s pro-gramme of violence ‘was to emphasise the so-called danger from the left’and thereby provide for itself ‘an opportunity to exert a political influencetotally out of proportion to its following in the country and its strength inthe Assembly’.92

Superimposed upon the left–right political cleavage were two furtherdivides, Sunnis/Alevis and Turks/Kurds. In focusing on these differences,Türkes may be regarded as significantly departing from the nationalistdiscourse of his state sponsors which had always been wary of acknow-ledging such cleavages. Nevertheless, the growing affiliation betweenminority groups and left-wing politics continued to provide a role for theNAP’s activists. With RPP attempts to reconstruct themselves as a masssocialist party, signified by Ecevit’s description of the Alevis as an ‘oppres-sed’ minority in 1974, the traditional political ‘centre’ ‘remained largelyunoccupied’.93 In such an atmosphere, emergent minority consciousness,reformulated by the experience of migration and large-scale social change,took on an increasingly radical tenor.94 This was particularly so followingthe oil price crisis of 1973 (Turkey was importing over 70 per cent of its oil)


TABLE 13: GOVERNANCE IN THE 1970s

Year Party President Prime Minister

RPP JP NAP NSP

% % % %

1969 27.4 46.5 3.0 Did not stand Sunay Demirel19701971 Erim1972 Melen1973 33.3 29.8 3.4 11.8 Korutürk Talu1974 Ecevit/Irmak1975 Irmak/Demirel19761977 41.4 36.9 6.4 8.61978 Ecevit1979 Demirel

Source: M. Agaogulları, ‘The Ultranationalist Right’ (trans. R. Benatar and I. Schick), in I. Schick andE. Tonak (eds), Turkey in Transition (New York, Oxford University Press, 1987), p. 216, n. 122 andW. Weiker, The Modernisation of Turkey: From Atatürk to the Present Day (New York, Holmes & Meier,1981), p. 145.

which made Kurds acutely aware of the fact that only 5 per cent of theUS$10 million (1972) generated from the south-east Anatolian petroleumindustry was being spent in that region.95 Support also came from the WPTleadership who condemned state policy in Kurdish-speaking areas as one‘of assimilation and intimidation which has often become a bloody repres-sion’.96 As a result, ostensibly Kurdish groups such as The Road to Freedom(Özgürlük Yolu) began to identify with the Turkish left’s goal of proletarianleadership.97 Others rejected such an association and combined a broadlyMarxist-Leninist agenda with the overall aim of establishing an ethnic-ally defined independent Kurdish state.98 Foremost amongst the latter wasthe Kurdish Workers’ Party (Partiya Karkareni Kürdistan – PKK). Founded byAbdullah Öcalan, a former member of Dev Genc, in Ankara in 1974, itbecame increasingly active as the Turkish political situation deterioratedinto chaos during the late 1970s.99

In June of 1977, a year in which there were 758 bomb attacks and 318deaths (of which the average age was 22), Demirel’s coalition lost thegeneral election to the RPP.100 Ecevit was only able to form a governmentin January 1978, however, after a number of JP deputies defected.Disastrously, he appeared to support the political left while failing to bringpolitical militias under the control of the state. Kurdish officials wereappointed at cabinet and municipal levels, an historic ‘social contract’ wassigned between the government and Türk-I

.s and Ecevit, himself, repre-

sented DI.SK’s request to stage a May Day Rally in 1979 to the security

forces.101 Seeing that the military would be difficult to dominate politically,he also resisted introducing martial law until a sharp increase in violencetowards the end of 1978 forced the cabinet to act. Apart from Istanbul andAnkara, all 19 provinces placed under military administration were areaspredominantly populated by Kurds.102 Allegedly working with rightist groups,and with the assistance of the American Central Intelligence Agency,soldiers and gendarmes, supported by the NAP’s partial ‘colonisation of[the] government bureaucracy’, embarked upon a programme of curfews,police operations and extra-judicial detentions aimed at nullifying labourgroups and restoring business confidence.103

According to Kenneth MacKenzie, the high command was particularlyconcerned to present the IMF, with whom Ecevit was in the process ofnegotiating an unprecedented rescue package of US$1.5 billion, with ademocratic and relatively stable front. Indeed, this was part of the reasonwhy the Chief-of-Staff, General Kenan Evren, decided to postpone plans,drawn up in some detail in mid-1979, for a military intervention.104 Anotherreason was the wisdom of awaiting the outcome of the mid-term electionsin October 1979. These increased the JP’s share of the votes in the Assemblyand led to the formation of a minority government under Demirel. The


new Deputy Prime Minister, Turgut Özal, devised an implementation planwith the IMF and announced a devaluation of the lira and other structuraladjustments to the economy.105 This provoked a furore from the RPP whojoined with left-wing groups in condemning the new administration as a‘fascist’ regime.106 Despite a renewed commitment to the martial lawauthorities (reminiscent of the JP’s approach to the military in the late1960s), the number of politically motivated murders rose from seven oreight to 20 a day during 1980.107 The position of the NSP, who controlleda parliamentary vote of 20, was of particular concern to the high com-mand. Erbakan refused to support JP anti-insurgency measures to increasethe power of the executive, conspicuously failed to sing the national anthemand attended a conference at which his supporters proclaimed ‘today Iran– tomorrow Turkey’.108 Within a week of this rally, he, Demeril, Türkes andEcevit were under arrest and Evren had declared that the ‘armed forceshave invoked the powers granted to them by the Services Code to protectand look after the Turkish Republic’.109

In conclusion, the Second Republic can be seen as a process of politicalrealignment between the state and the industrial elite. The capitalist class,which had previously failed to organise extensive power networks withinthe bureaucratic elite, despite their political representation institutionalisedin the 1950s, were, during the JP administration of the 1960s, successful inforging a new relationship with both the civil service and, most importantly,with the military. By the end of the 1970s, however, the civil authorities hadbecome politically polarised and ineffectual. In contrast, the armed forces’growing commitment to pro-Western neo-liberalism, strongly anti-leftistideology and organisational integrity meant that they, rather than electedofficialdom, became regarded as the only viable source of political stability.Furthermore, with the middle-ground of party politics largely unoccupiedfor much of the 1970s, the bourgeoisie, in seeking to institutionalise thisreformulated blend of capitalism and social representation, had fewalternatives to the armed forces. The following section will look at how thereconstructed state was organised and the ways in which it sought to reducethe influence, especially within the political centre, of social groups such associalists, Kurdish separatists and Islamists.

THE MILITARISATION OF THE TURKISH PERIPHERY

The 12 September coup was a result of two factors. The first was theextremely high levels of civil violence which, in the two years before thetakeover, had killed over 5,000 people and injured nearly 20,000 more.110

The second was the inability of the JP to implement the economic austerity


measures required by the IMF.111 These elements made it quite differentfrom the 1960 and 1971 interventions. There were, however, similar con-cerns regarding discipline within the officer corps. While it was clear thatthe generals favoured the economic approach of the JP, they were alsoworried that the politicisation of the civil bureaucracy might exacerbatethe inherent tensions within their role as guardians of the Kemalistrepublic. Speaking on 30 September 1980, General Evren expressed theseconcerns thus:

whenever the army entered into politics it began to lose its discipline and,gradually, it was led into corruption … we had to implement this operation… to save the army from politics and to cleanse it from political dirt.112

So a third factor was the generals’ desire, based on the tradition of MahmudSevket and Mustafa Kemal, to establish a regime which would keep theever-volatile low- and middle-ranking officers out of the political arena forgood.113

Here the civil unrest of the 1970s provided the high command with ameans of busying the authoritarian faction within its ranks. First directedagainst the left and then, following the PKK’s inaugural attack on the armyin 1984, at Kurdish political agitation, the provision of an identifiable‘enemy of people’ became key to the perpetuation and legitimacy of themilitary’s role in Turkish political life. As a result, state coercion wasincreased over the south-eastern provinces thereby providing a battlefieldfor modernist nationalism’s dogma of civil war. Outside the areasadministered by ‘emergency rule’, domestic repression levels were gradu-ally reduced leading to a polarised and bifurcated system of governance.Geopolitically, the state moved towards a closer affiliation with the West’smultilateral military regime supported by a renewed commitment toeconomic neo-liberalism. In other words, unlike Mann’s account of theWest’s development following the Second World War, Turkish militarismhas not moved away from the traditional dualism of warfare and repressiontowards a single geopolitical function. Within the post-1980 administra-tion’s restructured blend of militarism, neo-liberalism and social represent-ation, modernist nationalism has endured and prevented the adoption ofa more pacific domestic regime.

Top of Evren’s agenda following the 1980 coup was neutralising the largenumbers of political activists operating throughout the country. To this end,martial law was extended to all regions and, within the first seven monthsof military rule, 122,609 arrests (more than 10,000 in the first week) were made.114 By the end of January 1981, 215 people had died, 108 hadbeen sentence to death and, as in the 1971 intervention, many had been


tortured.115 Newspapers were suspended and general guidelines on ‘selfcensorship’ were issued.116 A Higher Education Law was passed by aninterim cabinet led by former admiral Ulusu and dominated by ‘retired’staff officers in July 1981117 which ended universities’ political indepen-dence and permitted the martial law authorities to sack a great number of‘undesirable’ academics.118 This was supported by the establishment of aHigher Education Council (Yuksek Ögretim Kurulu – YÖK ) in November1981 which monitored student and staff and ensured that they did not joinpolitical parties or engage in ‘ideological activities’.119 Other professionalgroups such as lawyers, doctors, artisans and engineers were similarlyrestrained.120 By September 1981, 167 mass trials, including the leadershipof DI

.SK, were underway and by 1983 these had sentenced 39,529 people

to jail terms of various length.121 Trade unions were banned with the excep-tion of Türk-I

.s who was ‘prohibited from any form of political activity’.122

In January 1984, 102 WPT members were imprisoned for up to 12 yearsfor ‘attempting to establish the dictatorship of one class over another’.123

Similarly punitive measures were taken against members of the civilbureaucracy deemed to be politicised.124 In total, nearly 5,000 state employ-ees were dismissed (including 1,700 elected mayors) and a further 18,000received administrative or penal punishments.125 Although numerous right-ists were apprehended, including 588 members of the NAP who werecharged with inciting 600 murders, left-wing sympathies were perceived bythe high command as offering the greatest institutional threat. In all, of thearrests officially acknowledged between September 1980 and February1983, the government classified 54 per cent as leftists, 25 per cent asunknown, 14 per cent as rightists and 7 per cent as Kurdish separatists.126

David McDowall (citing The International League of Human Rights),however, puts the number of Kurds detained much higher at 81,000. Bydeploying 65 per cent of the second biggest army in NATO in the south-east the military was, he argues, able to force the PKK out of Turkey andinto Syrian-protected abeyance.127

In order for the military executive to prevent the kinds of particularistpolitical allegiances that polarised Turkish society during the 1970s, aconstitution was brought into force in 1982 which imposed much greatergovernmental controls on interest group formation and organisation.128

Supported by 628 additional pieces of legislation passed into law between1980 and 1983,129 it generally formalised existent restrictions on voluntary,professional and labour organisation implemented during the immediateaftermath of the coup. As part of a ‘well corseted framework … for theconduct of political participation by civilians’,130 commercial groups wereorganised into various chambers more designed to regulate them thanrepresent their political interests.131 Labour was similarly constrained


through legislation which significantly narrowed the definition of legitimateindustrial action and provided a mechanism whereby the cabinet couldpostpone a strike for 60 days in principle and almost indefinitely in prac-tice.132 The constitution also contained considerable implications for non-Turkish minorities:

Article 26 No language prohibited by law shall be used in the expressionand dissemination of thought.

Article 28 Publications shall not be made in any language prohibited by law.Article 89 No political party may concern itself with the defence, develop-

ment, or diffusion of any non-Turkish language or culture; normay they seek to create minorities within our frontiers or todestroy our national unity.133

A year later, these constitutional measures were reinforced by legislationwhich established Turkish as the mother tongue of the country’s entirecitizenry (as opposed to the official language) and banned the use of allothers. It also revised the 1938 penal code which outlawed ‘separatist’organisation and dissemination to include explicitly the expression ofKurdish ethnic identity.134 In a reintroduction of the discourse of the 1930s,‘the constitution also revitalised the Turkish Language and Turkish Historyinstitutes’.135 Amid a considerable increase in state-sponsored ethnographicstudies, these promulgated the idea that the Kurds were simply anotherbranch of Central Asian Turkomen.136 In the view of Henri Barkey andGraeme Fuller, the constitution as a whole contained ‘the most culturallyrepressive policies of modern times’.137

As Figure 3 shows, the constitution also solidified the position of themilitary within the executive. The NSC, chaired by the president, includedfive members of the general staff and was supported by a new StateSupervisory Council to work directly with the chief executive.138 For aperiod of seven years Evren was installed as president and given the rightto veto constitutional amendments and appoint constitutional courtjudges.139 Apart from their central role in state security, the high commandalso controlled military liaison officers in every ministry. The 1961 consti-tution was amended to abolish the senate and create a single house to whichthe NSC was not accountable. Furthermore, the military’s access to thecabinet was enhanced under a stipulation which obliged ministers ‘to givepriority consideration’ to matters put forward by the NSC.140 Althoughostensibly to be reserved for matters of national security, these were gener-ally interpreted to include ‘almost all issues which fall under the responsi-bility of government’141 thereby institutionalising the NSC as the ‘highestnon-elected decision-making body of the state’.142


Through a dual approach of pursuing geopolitical legitimacy andinstitutionalising high levels of domestic repression, it was hoped thatTurgut Özal, who was retained as Deputy Prime Minister, would be ableto pursue the stabilisation plan devised by him and Demirel undistractedby social unrest and international economic sanctions.143 Importationpractices were liberalised, a realistic exchange rate policy was adopted,export initiatives were promoted, monetary controls and debt managementprogrammes were put in place, a greater role for the private sector wasannounced and public spending was rationalised.144 Furthermore, with all political parties banned in November 1981 and most organised socialgroups either excluded from politics or carefully monitored, a highlycorporatist arrangement developed between the military state and thecapitalist elite.145 A key element of this was the need to return to partypolitics as soon as possible. As Vehbi Koç, one of the wealthiest men inTurkey, warned in a letter to Kenan Evren on 3 October 1980, if thereshould be any delay in this then ‘Western countries and their institutionswill be suspicious and will not deliver their promises’.146 In fact, the militaryelite had been long aware of this possible hazard.147 Nine days before the coup they had dispatched General Sahinkaya to Washington for high-level talks and in October 1980 Evren received four visits from theNATO Commander General Rogers. These were followed by loans ofUS$182 million from the World Bank and other private institutions.148 Inthis context, Evren’s decision to announce a transition timetable to returnto democracy within a few weeks of abolishing party politics (two yearsbefore they were actually re-established) can be seen as an attempt toreassure the West and, with few visible opponents at home, ‘hardly anythingto do with internal demands’.149


FIGURE 3: THE POSITION OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY COUNCIL INTURKEY’S STATE SECURITY STRUCTURE

Source: The Economist, 31 January 1998.

Prime minister PresidentNational Security Council

Turkish armed forcesNational IntelligenceOrganisation (MIT)

Interior ministry

Police

Police intelligence

“Specialteam”

Jandarma(Military police in

rural areas)

Army Navy Air force

Jandarma intelligence*(JITEM)

*Officially abolished

Nevertheless, within four months of the ban on political parties beinglifted in April 1983, 15 parties had registered their intention to compete inthe November elections.150 The NSC vetoed 719 of the prospective parlia-mentary candidates, however, and reduced the field to only three partiesbroadly centred on the middle ground of the political spectrum.151 Slightlyto the left, although deprived of labour and other grass-roots linkages withcivil society, was the Populist Party (Halkçı Parti – PP) which gained 30.5 per cent of the vote and 117 seats.152 On the right was the NationalistDemocracy Party (Milliyetçi Demokrasi Partisi – NDP) which was led by aretired four-star general and essentially stood on the electoral platform ofthe 1981 constitution.153 It performed poorly in the election, however, andgained only 23.6 per cent and 71 seats.154 Between the two was the extremelyheterogeneous Motherland Party (Anavatan Partisi – MP). Led by TurgutÖzal and consisting mainly of personnel recruited from the private sector,it maintained a pragmatic, and often paradoxical, approach by developingconciliatory links with the military, with moderate Islamism, with the NAPand, perhaps most importantly, with pro-Western capitalism.155 Not closelyassociated with the parties of the 1970s nor the first choice of the NSC(Özal had, in fact, resigned from the Evren government a year earlier)156

and with a broad economy-based appeal, the MP gained 41 per cent of thevote and 211 seats making it the first single-party majority government inTurkey since 1969.157 Indeed, this remained the case until 1991 when theTrue Path Party (Dogru Yol Partisi – TPP), essentially a reformed JP underDemirel, organised a government in coalition with the SDPP.158

The MP’s victory did not, however, mean the institutionalisation ofan entirely civilian administration. ‘Far from returning to the barracks,the military retained considerable influence over governmental policy-making.’159 This was most apparent in the areas of higher education (throughthe central agency YÖK),160 foreign affairs and, through their martial lawadministrators and associated system of military courts, tribunals andprosecutors.161 The presence of the military was further reinforced in 1985with the adoption of a Defence Industry Support Fund (DISF) which was‘nearly exempt from Turkish accounting and bidding laws’.162 Despite thefact that the Defence Ministry budget already exceeded the combinedallocations for Education and Health, the DISF, which was initially derivedfrom a 5 per cent levy on income tax, had reached a value of US$1.5 billionby 1991. By this time revenue from its investment interests had become ofcentral importance.163 This had two effects. The first was that it produceda much closer relationship between the military and capitalist elites. Theparticularly internationalist nature of the defence industry, coupled withthe huge wealth accumulated by the AMAA and three other similarlyconstructed foundations (organised by the Navy, the Air Force and the


Combined Land Forces),164 had led the military increasingly to regard theprivate sector, and their representatives in government, ‘as a major referentwith whom they have common interests’.165 The second was that it helpedTurkey to become ‘the biggest single importer of American military hard-ware and thus the world’s largest arms purchaser … all of which waseventually used on the Kurds’.166

Such a huge military expenditure programme has underpinned theperpetuation of the army’s jurisprudence in south-east Anatolia throughwhich authoritarian elements within the officer corps have retained anactive political role unavailable to them in 1960 and 1971.167 The declar-ation of a state of emergency in eight provinces in 1987 – two more wereadded in 1990 – facilitated what Mann terms ‘the politics of continuousrevolution’.168 In order to maintain the ideological momentum of the 1980coup and avoid an antithetical ‘institutional compromise’, the militaryrevived the social engineering and radical reformism of Kemal’s celebratedKurdish campaigns during the 1920s and 1930s. To this end, an extremeprogramme of Turkification was embarked upon.169 The region’s printmedia were heavily circumscribed with only one Kurdish weekly, Walate Me,appearing on a regular basis,170 the broadcast media were not permitted toschedule Kurdish language programmes and even the lyrics of popular ortraditional Kurdish songs were seen as potential vehicles of information forthe PKK and banned under Article 8 of the 1991 Anti-Terror Law.171

Within the region’s education system, which remains largely staffed byethnically Turkish personnel, ‘teachers frequently only attend[ed] toTurkish speakers and apparently ignore[d] Kurdish speakers as unworthyof attention’.172 Through the regional governor’s right to ‘order the tempor-ary or permanent evacuation of villages … [and] the resettlement orunification of inhabitants in such places’, in excess of 2,000 towns had beenemptied and destroyed rendering more than 750,000 people homeless, by1994.173 Also by 1994 around 60,000 men had been recruited into a state-sponsored, anti-PKK militia, the ‘village guards’, which provoked an intenseinternecine conflict and greatly increased the militarisation of the region.174

The results of this instability were the displacement of more than 3 millionpeople (mostly to the highly politicised gecekondu of Turkey’s major cities)and, as Table 14 shows, the loss of over 20,000 lives.175

In Ankara, the MP, in keeping with the contradictory make-up of theirmembership, pursued a dual policy of promoting a pro-Western culturaland economic discourse and attempting to incorporate Islamist sentimentsinto the state administration.176 The latter was broadly supported by themilitary as ‘a means of de-politicising society with the aim of combatingcommunist tendencies and undermining the growth of national aware-ness’.177 Özal, a high-ranking member of the Naqshbandi Sufi order who


once stood for election in Izmir on an NSP ticket, began to attend Fridayprayer with his ministers, undertook the Haj, placed other tariqa (religiousbrotherhood) members in charge of the Education and InformationMinistries and, in 1990, announced a 237 per cent increase in the budgetof the Religious Affairs Ministry.178 This was also accompanied, however,by the arrest of 3,000 people for ‘anti-secular’ activities in 1987, the dismissalof 813 officers and cadets for ‘having ties with fundamentalist organisations’in 1990 and the institutionalised state invigilation of all Friday sermons.179

As such, the ‘control of Islam became the main vehicle through which thestate reshaped modernity in line with the ideology of marketisation whilealso resolving the problem of legitimacy’.180 This combination of religiosityand export-orientated economics attracted a significant proportion of theAnatolian petite bourgeoisie, some of whom formed a number of pro-Islamic co-operative firms with considerable success.181 The result of thiswas that, under state tutelage, certain sections of the Islamist movementwere able to move from the political periphery to the centre.182

The MP was not, however, an entirely ideologically satisfactory homefor such interests. As part of a concerted effort by the government to de-bureaucratise its policy implementation structures, large numbers ofunelected technocrats were brought in who often operated with the PrimeMinister outside cabinet influence.183 Discomfiture over their Thatcheriteand anti-populist vision of an economy without redistribution, coupledwith the almost unmitigated assumption of cultural globalism, pushed theIslamists towards the xenophobes of the former NAP.184 This was com-pounded by the very high debt dependency on the United States, particu-larly in military assistance, and the widespread perception that Özal would‘do virtually anything in exchange for Western aid’.185 Furthermore thespectre of further military intervention, continually at Özal’s side, helpedto ostracise the religious wing of his party.186 With the arrival of MesutYılmaz, a ‘convinced secularist’,187 at the helm of the MP following Özal’selection to the presidency and his government’s decision to support theUnited States’ military action in Iraq in 1990, the position of the Islamists


TABLE 14: CIVILIAN, PKK AND SECURITY FORCES CASUALTIES,1984–95

Civilians PKK Security Forces Totals

1984–91 1,278 1,444 846 3,5681992–95 3,736 10,102 2,775 16,613Total 5,014 11,546 3,621 20,181

Source: K. Kirisci and G. Winrow, The Kurdish Question and Turkey: An Example of Trans-State

Ethnic Conflict (London, Frank Cass, 1997), p. 126.

became untenable. Many left to join Erbakan’s reformed NSP, the WelfareParty (Refah Partisi – WP), which went on to become the largest parlia-mentary party in the elections of December 1995.188 Following extendednegotiations to return to an MP coalition, allegedly ended by the military,Refah was eventually excluded from government by an alliance between thetwo centre-right parties (the MP and the TPP).189 The TPP, now underTansu Çiller’s leadership following Demirel’s move to the presidency in1993, contained a number of eminent security officials including a formerChief-of-Staff and the retired head of emergency rule in the south-east.190

For this reason, and to prevent a return to an Islamist influence within theMP, the TPP was permitted to form a coalition with Refah following theirsplit with the MP amid a corruption scandal three months later.191

Erbakan immediately began to provide the military with a basis fromwhich to undermine the coalition. In October 1996 he appeared ontelevision in Muammar Qadaffi’s tent as the Libyan leader accused Turkeyof being virtually ‘under occupation’ by NATO and the United States.192

He also negotiated a US$2 billion agreement with Iran against the wishesof the Pentagon and, in an echo of the events preceding the 1980 coup,invited their ambassador to a rally near Ankara at which the military wereaccused of ‘oppressing the people’.193 The military’s response was, as JeremySalt notes in a publication for which he was to be dismissed from his postat Bilkent University in Ankara, on the one hand to launch a mediacampaign associating Islamism with terrorism and, on the other, to ignorethe government wherever possible. ‘Over Erbakan’s head’,194 the high com-mand consolidated its relationship with Israel through a series of politicallyunauthorised visits and launched an anti-PKK incursion into northern Iraqof an unprecedented scale without informing the Prime Minister.195 Havingannounced in February 1997 that Islamism had become a greater threat tothe republic than the PKK,196 the military appealed to the constitutionalcourt to censure Refah on the grounds that the party had infringed thesecular basis of the Turkish state. This led to Erbakan’s resignation in June,the closure of Refah the following January, the exclusion of the partyleadership from organised politics for five years, innumerable arrests andthe dismissal of over 200 officials. As a result,

the military was able to enhance its autonomy to the point where it was ableto form an investigative body, the Western Study Group, that is not legallyaccountable … [and whose aim] is to collect evidence on fundamentalistsand other ‘public enemies’.197

Since the return of the military in 1960, and especially from 1980 on-wards, Turkey has taken on the characteristics of what T.L. Karl identifies


(in his study of El Salvador) as a system of ‘imposed electoralism’.198 Thiscombines representative institutions and mechanisms with high levels ofdomestic repression, often selectively deployed against certain out-groups,and limits on legislative power. Given the corporatist nature of Turkishpolitics, such a brand of ‘democracy’ has proven well suited to both themilitary and the capitalist elite. In this sense, the post-1980 era marks adeparture from earlier periods. Rather than being restrained by the per-petual threat of military intervention, political liberalisation becameappropriated by the military. The imperatives of territorial and ideologicalintegrity, apparently so threatened by the associated forces of Islamism andKurdish/leftist insurgency, legitimated the high command’s control overprocesses of social change. As Mark Muller points out, ‘since nationalsecurity is equated with national unity, and national unity with Kemalistideology, all political opposition to this ideology, in practice, falls within theambit of this jurisdiction … [making the military] the arbiters of whatconstitutes legitimate political consent’.199 The dual nature of this ideology,combined with the effects of industrial development, has, in a reflection ofthe bifurcated structure Mann identifies as inherent to capitalist expansion,led to a twofold application of state repression. The south-eastern provinceshave provided both an outlet for the authoritarian reformist wing of themilitary and, with the associated ‘evils’ of Islamism and leftism, a means oflegitimisation for the high command who, in true janissary tradition, havesuccessfully prevented such peripheral forces from entering the core.

CONCLUSION

During this period, the military was able to secure an increasing amountof political power in Turkey. What emerged was an unstable amalgamationof three forms of regime strategy. Following the 1960 intervention, themilitary elite established a blend of domestic repression and social repre-sentation broadly comparable to Mann’s ideal-type of semi-authoritarianincorporation. Initially conceived as a return to power of the traditionalstate elite, the takeover was born of sentiments broadly unsympathetic tothe rising levels of political expression afforded to the emerging capitalistclass. In an echo of Bismarck’s strategy of ‘negative integration’, the 1961constitution aimed to permit the existence of extensive networks of decen-tralised social organisation without allowing them access to the politicalcentre. As in imperial Germany, geopolitical issues (Cyprus and NATO)were deployed to distract attention from the domestic class struggle, socialpalliatives were introduced to incorporate bourgeois liberalism and social-ists were vigorously repressed. Similarly, a key feature of this strategy was


the existence of a powerful and highly autonomous military cadre withinthe state elite.

As Mann points out, however, the durability of such autonomy withinthe military’s domestic repression function tends to be limited. Post-WorldWar Two industrialisation had produced greater social mobility, outlinedin Chapter 4, and reduced the status of traditional roles, such as the armedforces, in favour of politically ascendant professional and mercantile associ-ations. The RPP’s movement leftwards and the JP’s victory in the 1965election provided an opportunity for the military elite to recruit a sympa-thetic referent group. Beneath the generals’ gradual movement towardsbourgeois capitalist affiliation with Demirel, however, the armed forcesremained divided. Some senior officers found authoritarian expression inMaoist organisations and others in the modernist nationalism of the NAP.This and the more fundamental disjunction between constitutional andanti-democratic versions of Kemalism can be seen in the generals’ reluc-tance to take a more prolonged interest in government following the 1970intervention. Instead, they preferred to support covertly the activities of theNAP as a means of repressing decentralised left-wing groups. Nonetheless,once it became clear that these fractures threatened the traditional homeof old-regime power – their international economic linkages – militaryintervention was highly probable.

Here, however, the perennial problem of how to keep the radical officersout of power appeared. Mahmud Sevket had found a partial solution inthe First World War, Kemal in the War of Independence and Gürsel andSunay in pre-emptive purges. Now, however, domestic and geopoliticalconditions precluded both internal expulsions and external adventures.Group unity, first inside the armed forces then within society as a whole,was to be established through the identification of an endogenous foe. Forthis reason, a bifurcated blend of social representation and domesticrepression was institutionalised in Turkey during the 1980s. Outside thesouth-east, the policing of civil society did not, for the most part, escalatebeyond the deployment of civilian forces. Within areas affected by Kurdishinsurgency, however, regular troops were the backbone of the state’sattempts to protect order and property. Coercive reforms such as the villageclearance programme, the organisation of the village guard system and theclose supervision of all expressions of non-Turkish identity were instigatedwith neither civilian input nor monitoring. In this way, the institu-tionalisation of a small oligarchy of military commanders in the south-eastfollowing the 1980 coup, unhindered by political restraints, provided a rolefor the authoritarian wing of the officer corps which had been lacking inthe interventions of 1960 and 1971. In other words, in establishing an‘enemy of the people’ who were prepared to engage the state violently,


Kurdish activism offered modernist nationalists within Turkey an opponentfor their dogma of civil war who was politically, ethnically and culturallyidentifiable.

Consequently elements of capitalist-liberal and autocratic militarismwere blended with the semiauthoritarian incorporation of the 1960s. Whilethe 1982 constitution institutionalised workers’ rights, collective organis-ation remained extremely difficult to effect. Throughout Turkey the con-tinuing influence of the military elite within civil politics, coupled with thevery broad interpretation of what constituted a matter relating to nationalsecurity, meant that the nominally independent judiciary could be deployedby the state to promote the interests of property and capital. In a mannercomparable to the ways in which the United States controlled labouropposition to large-scale economic changes between the American CivilWar and the First World War, these injunctions were particularly targetedat socialists and attempts to organise large-scale unions. In response, labourcould do little. Since democratic party politics in both the Turkish and theAmerican assemblies were dominated by cross-class, local-regional andethnic-religious coalitions, representatives of the proletariat were few.Although the presence of a semi-autonomous and permanent militarycadre within the government ensured that the capitalist class did not entirelycontrol domestic repression levels in the same way that Mann identifies asa feature of American social organisation, the gradual ‘bourgeoisification’of the general staff led to a considerable overlap in the two groups’ interests.The military’s investments and corporate position, both within the defenceindustry and in the private sector, and the DISF-led increases in stateextraction generally furnished the high command with similar anti-labourincentives as the capitalist elite.

This relationship between domestic repression and social representationin the south eastern provinces was more indicative of Mann’s ideal-type,autocratic militarism. As in Tsarist Russia, state, and state-affiliated, elitesran the economy. These ‘responded to unions, strikes, and socialist partiesas they did to all such manifestations of collective organisation. All werebanned as a threat to public order’.200 Unlike the Russian imperial state,however, military governors in the ten provinces covered by emergencylegislation adopted strategies which incorporated certain elements withinthe social hierarchy they governed. These were pursued both throughmilitary recruitment incentives to combat the PKK and by economicdevelopment packages administered via GAP. By developing the villageguard system, the Turkish state was able to utilise traditional civil powerstructures to fracture Kurdish organisation and prevent the emergence ofextensively held notions of class consciousness.201 It also sufficiently polar-ised Kurdish opinion to obviate the possibility of moderate civil response


strategies. Amid high levels of internecine violence, the state’s policy in thesouth-east can be seen as an extension of Kemal’s methods of institution-alising state links with a coterie of traditional leaders aimed at maintainingperipheral segmentalisation. This has served to hinder the spread of decen-tralised capitalist exchange thereby impeding the emergence of extensivelyheld notions of popular sovereignty within the south-east.

NOTES

1. M. Mann, States, War and Capitalism (Oxford, Blackwell, 1988), p. 124.2. See ibid., p. 130.3. See M. Mann, The Sources of Social Power, Vol. 2 (Cambridge, Cambridge University

Press, 1993), p. 86.4. Ibid., p. 373.5. In Italy, for instance, foreign affairs remained a matter for the king well into the

twentieth century. In Great Britain, the Foreign Secretary was normally a hereditarypeer, second in power only to the Prime Minister and insulated from the Commonsby the catchall rubric of ‘the national interest’ (see Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 2,pp. 414–15).

6. Ibid., p. 403.7. Mann, States, War and Capitalism, p. 138.8. Ibid., pp. 132–6.9. Ibid., p. 134.

10. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 2, pp. 682–6.11. See ibid., pp. 660–6.12. Ibid., p. 662, emphasis in the original.13. See Mann’s IOTA model outlined in Chapter 4.14. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 2, p. 683.15. Ibid. p. 669.16. See ibid., pp. 644–59.17. A figure second only to Russia where between 2,000 and 5,000 workers died. In France

it was around 35, ibid., p. 635.18. Ibid., p. 647.19. Ibid., p. 653.20. Ibid., p. 683.21. Mann suggests that this was achieved by using geopolitical competition to distract

attention away from the domestic class struggle, by including liberal elements of thebourgeoisie through the introduction of social welfare palliatives and by excludingethnic minorities and socialists (ibid., pp. 671–8).

22. G. Roth, The Social Democrats in Imperial Germany (Totowa, NJ, Beminster Press, 1964),p. 8.

23. See Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 2, p. 438.24. Ibid., p. 439.25. Ibid.26. M. Mann, ‘A Political Theory of Nationalism and its Excesses’, in S. Periwal (ed.),

Notions of Nationalism (Budapest, Central European Press, 1995), p. 57.27. ‘Anyone could’, as Mann puts it, ‘repent and join the nation’ (ibid., p. 59).28. Ibid., p. 58.29. Though, as Mann notes, it remains ‘in a more symbolic aggression, requiring few

commitments from citizens, directed against hate figures in the less developed world’(‘Nation-States in Europe and Other Continents: Diversifying, Developing, Not


Dying’, Daedalus, 122 (1993), p. 120).30. M. Mann, ‘The Intended and Unintended Development of European Social Virtues’,

keynote speech to the Biannual Meeting of the International Society for the Study of EuropeanIdeas (Bergen, Norway, 2000), p. 8. See also A. Giddens, The Nation-State and Violence(Cambridge, Polity Press, 1985), p. 192.

31. M. Mann, ‘The Dark Side of Democracy: The Modern Tradition of Ethnic andPolitical Cleansing’, New Left Review, 235 (1999), p. 40. See also C. Tilly, Coercion, Capitaland European States AD 990–1990 (Oxford, Blackwell, 1990), p. 125.

32. Mann, ‘The Dark Side of Democracy’, pp. 29–30.33. C. Fox, ‘Turkish Army’s Role in Nation-Building’, Military Review, 67 (1967), pp. 73–4.34. Quoted by the General Secretariat of the National Security Council in, 12 September

in Turkey: Before and After (Ankara, 1982), p. 224.35. M. Birand, Shirts of Steel: An Anatomy of the Turkish Armed Forces (London, I.B. Tauris,

1991), p. xiii.36. Ibid., p. 77.37. W. Hale, ‘The Turkish Army in Politics, 1960–1973’, in A. Finkel and N. Sirman (eds),

Turkish State, Turkish Society (London, Routledge, 1990), p. 57.38. See M. Halpern, The Politics of Social Change in the Middle East and North Africa (Princeton,

NJ, Princeton University Press, 1963), pp. 58–9.39. This is perhaps particularly obvious in their ideological affiliation to the West. See

A. Karaosmanoglu, ‘Officers: Westernisation and Democracy’, in M. Heper, A. Öncüand H. Kramer (eds), Turkey and the West (London, I.B. Tauris, 1993), passim.

40. S. Vaner, ‘The Army’ (trans. R. Benatar and I. Schick), in I. Schick and E. Tonak (eds),Turkey in Transition (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1987), p. 238.

41. Two of the leaders of the takeover, Colonels Yurdakuler and Kaplan later commentedrespectively that the Menderes administration ‘were leaving the civilised road Atatürkhad outlined’ through ‘a policy of greed based on group domination under the guiseof economic development’. Quoted and translated in C. Baskut, Y. Kemal and E. Güresin, Interviews with Members of Turkey’s National Unity Committee (Washington, DC,Joint Publications Research Service, 1960), p. 14. See also E. Özbudun, The Role of theMilitary in Recent Turkish Politics (Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1970),pp. 15–21.

42. Sydney Fisher described Türkes as ‘a Pan-Turkist and a firm follower of the ideologyof Yusuf Akçura’ in ‘The Role of the Military in Society and Government in Turkey’,in S. Fisher (ed.), The Military in the Middle East (Columbus, OH, Ohio State UniversityPress, 1963), p. 34. See also K. Karpat, ‘The Military and Politics in Turkey: A Socio-Cultural Analysis of a Revolution’, American Historical Review, 75 (1970), p. 1666.

43. See W. Weiker, The Turkish Revolution 1960–1961: Aspects of Military Politics (Washington,DC, The Brookings Institute, 1967), pp. 133–4.

44. Ibid., p. 134.45. K. Karpat, ‘Military Interventions: Army–Civilian Relations in Turkey Before and

After 1980’, in M. Heper (ed.), State, Democracy and the Military: Turkey in the 1980s (Berlin,Walter de Gruyter, 1988), p. 141.

46. See F. Ahmad, The Turkish Experiment in Democracy 1950–1975 (London, C. Hurst, 1977),pp. 171–2.

47. E.K. Trimberger, Revolution From Above (New Brunswick, New Jersey, TransactionBooks, 1978), p. 132.

48. See E. Özbudun, ‘Stages of Political Democratic Government in Turkey: Crises,Interruptions and Re-Equilibriums’ [sic], in E. Özbudun (ed.), Perspectives on Democracyin Turkey (Ankara, Turkish Political Science Association, 1988), pp. 83–4. SamuelHuntington comments that ‘the army had placed its guns behind the programme oftechnocrats and ideologues of the RPP in order to increase political participation andmandate more equitable distribution’ in Political Order in Changing Societies (New Haven,CT, Yale University Press, 1968), p. 232.


49. Dogu Ergil comments that this Chamber was established by ‘the ruling Turkishmilitary/civil intelligentsia … to safeguard the democratic institutions created throughelite decisions rather than popular action’ (Türkiye’de Teror ve Siddet (Ankara, TurhanKitabevi, 1980), p. 144).

50. See L. Pevsner, Turkey’s Political Crisis: Background, Perspectives, Prospects (New York,Praeger, 1984), p. 34 and C. Erogul, ‘The Establishment of Multiparty Rule: 1945–71’,in I. Schick and E. Tonak (eds), Turkey in Transition (New York, Oxford University Press,1987), pp. 122–9.

51. See W. Weiker, ‘The Aydemir Case and Turkey’s Political Dilemma’, Middle EasternAffairs, 14 (1963), passim, C. Dodd, Democracy and Development in Turkey (Huntingdon,Eothen Press, 1979), p. 137 and G. Lewis, ‘Political Change in Turkey Since1960’, inW. Hale (ed.), Aspects of Modern Turkey (London, Routledge, 1976), p. 16.

52. See Vaner, ‘The Army’, p. 249.53. Former Justice Minister Irfan Baran quoted in M. Agaogulları, ‘The Ultranationalist

Right’, in Schick and Tonak (eds), Turkey in Transition, p. 193.54. J. Landau, Radical Politics in Modern Turkey (Leiden, E.J. Brill, 1974), p. 210. Often

deploying strongly racist rhetoric in an attempt to appeal to Sunni Turks, Türkes had,by the late 1960s, begun to interpret Turkish nationalism as a ‘doctrine of civil war’,H. Bozarslan, ‘Political Crisis and the Kurdish Issue in Turkey’, in R. Olson (ed.), TheKurdish Nationalist Movement in the 1990s (London, University Press of Kentucky, 1996),p. 141. See also N. Yalman, ‘Intervention and Extrication: The Officer Corps in theTurkish Crisis’, in H. Bienen (ed.), The Military Intervenes: Case Studies in PoliticalDevelopment (New York, Russell Sage Foundation, 1968), p. 133.

55. See Erogul, ‘The Establishment of Multiparty Rule’, p. 127.56. See A. Evin, ‘Anti-Americanism in Turkey’, in A. Rubenstein and D. Smith (eds), Anti-

Americanism in the Third World (New York, Praeger, 1985), pp. 129–30. Given that Turkeyhad received almost US$4 billion of aid (53 per cent was military items and services)between 1948 and 1962, Johnson’s views were difficult to ignore. See F. Shorter,‘Military Expenditures and the Allocation of Resources’, in F. Shorter (ed.), Four Studieson the Economic Development of Turkey (London, Frank Cass, 1967), pp. 48–9.

57. See, K. Karpat, ‘Socialism and the Labour Party of Turkey’, World Politics, 21 (1967),p. 166.

58. For a discussion on how Türkes exploited the crisis in Cyprus see Landau, Middle EastThemes, p. 284.

59. N. Abadan, ‘Four Elections of 1965: Turkey’, Government and Opposition, 1 (1966), p. 340.60. Berberoglu, Turkey in Crisis, p. 91. See also B. Ecevit, ‘Labour in Turkey as a New Social

and Political Force’, in K. Karpat (ed.), Social Change and Politics in Turkey: A Structural–Historical Analysis (Leiden, E.J. Brill, 1973), passim.

61. Berberoglu, Turkey in Crisis, p. 92.62. See N. Entessar, Kurdish Ethnonationalism (Boulder, CO, Lynne Rienner, 1992), p. 90.

Kemal Kirisçi writes that during the election campaign of 1963 the WPT’s ‘partyleadership organised meetings in eastern parts of the country to raise public conscious-ness of what it termed the “eastern and Kurdish reality”’ (‘Minority/MajorityDiscourse: The Case of the Kurds in Turkey’, in D. Gladney (ed.), Making Majorities(Stanford, CA, Stanford University Press, 1998), p. 240). This contrasts with theattitude of General Gürsel who stated, while standing on an American tank inDiyarbakır, ‘there are no Kurds in this country. Whoever says he is a Kurd, I will spitin his face’, quoted in M. Muller, ‘Nationalism and the Rule of Law in Turkey: TheElimination of Kurdish Representation During the 1990s’, in R. Olson (ed.), TheKurdish Nationalist Movement in the 1990s (London, University Press of Kentucky, 1996),p. 177.

63. Berberoglu, Turkey in Crisis, pp. 97–8.64. Agaogulları, ‘The Ultranationalist Right’, p. 192.65. See Landau, Middle East Themes, p. 266.


66. For instance, in 1969 a bill aimed at restoring political rights to former DP membershad to be hastily withdrawn in the face of hostility from the military. See M. Hyland,‘Crisis at the Polls: Turkey’s 1969 Elections’, Middle East Journal, 24 (1970), p. 2.

67. Karpat, ‘Political Developments in Turkey’, p. 365. See also S. Sayarı, ‘Party Politicsin Turkey’, unpublished PhD dissertation, Columbia University, 1971, p. 180.

68. Vaner, ‘The Army’, p. 249.69. See ibid., pp. 251–3.70. From 360,285 workers in 1965 to 2,088,219 workers in 1970 (Isıklı, ‘Wage Labour

and Unionisation’, p. 316) and from 92,080 student to 149,119 students over the sameperiod (A. Samim, ‘The Left’, in Schick and Tonak (eds), Turkey in Transition, p. 174,no. 20. There were also great increases in urbanisation. Between 1965 and 1970 allfive of Turkey’s largest cities grew by more than a quarter (Ankara increased its sizeby a third). See W. Weiker, ‘Decentralising Government in Modernising Nations:Growth Centre Potential of Turkish Cities’, Sage Professional Papers in International Studies,1 (1972), p. 19).

71. Samim, ‘The Left’, p. 159.72. Türk-I

.s ‘preferred to remain … apolitical it preferred national consciousness over class

consciousness and hence over the Turkish Workers Party’ (A. Levy, ‘The Justice Party,1961–1980’, in M. Heper and J. Landau (eds), Political Parties and Democracy in Turkey(London, I.B. Tauris, 1991), pp. 142–3. See also Agaogulları, ‘The UltranationalistRight’, p. 192 and Erogul, ‘The Establishment of Multiparty Rule’, p. 135.

73. Berberoglu, Turkey in Crisis, p. 103.74. H. Barkey, ‘Crises of the Turkish Political Economy 1960–1980’, in A. Evin (ed.),

Modern Turkey: Continuity and Change (Opladen, Leske Verlag & Budrich Gmbh, 1984),p. 54.

75. See K. MacKenzie, Turkey After the Storm (London, Institute for the Study of Conflict,1974), pp. 5–6.

76. Vaner, ‘The Army’, p. 253.77. General Mushin Batur cited and translated in Hale, ‘The Turkish Army in Politics’,

p. 70.78. See G. Lewis, ‘Political Change in Turkey Since 1960’, in W. Hale (ed.), Aspects of

Modern Turkey (London, Routledge, 1976), p. 18.79. See Ahmad, The Turkish Experiment in Democracy, pp. 295–6.80. See Landau, Middle East Themes, p. 287.81. See Pevsner, Turkey’s Political Crisis, p. 55.82. See G. Harris, ‘The Role of the Military in the 1980s: Guardians or Decision Makers?’,

in M. Heper (ed.), State, Democracy and the Military: Turkey in the 1980s (Berlin, Water deGruyter, 1988), p. 191.

83. Serif Mardin records that 517 students were killed in clashes between violently radicalpolitical groups from autumn 1973 to spring 1977 (‘Youth and Violence in Turkey’,Archives Europa Sociologica, 19 (1978), p. 230).

84. See J. Landau, ‘The Nationalist Action Party in Turkey’, Journal of Contemporary History,17 (1982), pp. 587–660.

85. Enrolment in religious I.mam-Hatip schools, for instance, rose from 10,961 in 1965 to

44,275 in 1970 (Landau, Radical Politics in Modern Turkey, p. 176). See also R. Scott’stwo articles (‘Turkish Village Attitudes Towards Religious Education’, The MuslimWorld, 55 (1965), pp. 222–9 and ‘Qur’an Courses in Turkey’, The Muslim World, 61(1971), pp. 239–55) and D. Shankland, Islam and Society in Turkey (Huntingdon, EothenPress, 1999), p. 88. For an authoritative study of the party’s history see Landau, Politicsand Islam.

86. T. Alkan, ‘The National Salvation Party in Turkey’, in M. Heper and R. Israeli (eds),Islam and Politics in the Modern Middle East (New York, St Martin’s Press, 1984), p. 83.See also Ü. Ergüder, ‘Post-1980 Parties and Politics in Turkey’, in E. Özbudun (ed.),Perspectives on Democracy in Turkey (Ankara, Turkish Political Science Association, 1988),


pp. 114–24.87. This was particularly apparent following the death of I

.nönü (the last living link with

Kemal) in 1974. Indeed, as Frank Tachau notes, ‘the leftward shift of the RPP seemedto the military to move the party to and anti-statist stance’, ‘The Republican People’sParty, 1945–1980’, in M. Heper and J. Landau (eds), Political Parties and Democracy inTurkey (London, I.B. Tauris, 1991), p. 112.

88. This can be seen in the election results of 1977 where the NSP lost half their 48deputies compared to an NAP gain of 13 (see Landau, ‘The Nationalist Action Partyin Turkey’, pp. 591–2).

89. See Ü. Cizre-Sakallıoglu, ‘The Ideology and Politics of the National Action Party ofTurkey’, Cahiers d’Etudes sur la Mediterranée Orientale et le Monde Turco-Iranien, 13 (1992),pp. 151–2. The NAP was also able to secure virtual control over the EducationMinistry through a close affiliation with the right-wing JP deputy Ali Naili Erdem who‘appointed their partisans headmasters in all Anatolian secondary schools’ (Keyder,‘The Political Economy of Turkish Democracy’, p. 56). This also served to strengthenthe campus activities of its direct action units (see I. Schick and E. Tonak, ‘Conclusion’,in Schick and Tonak (eds), Turkey in Transition, p. 369).

90. Parlamentoda Demirel, Sokakta Türkes (see Ahmad, The Turkish Experiment in Democracy,p. 347.

91. Schick and Tonak, ‘Conclusion’, p. 369. They go on to claim that the NAP maintaineda persistent policy of infiltration at all levels of government, including the police andarmed forces.

92. Ahmad, The Turkish Experiment in Democracy, p. 347.93. See Karpat, ‘Military Interventions’, pp. 147–8 and E. Özbudun, ‘The Turkish Party

System: Institutionalisation, Polarisation and Fragmentation’, Middle Eastern Studies, 17(1981), p. 233.

94. Confrontations between labour-affiliated Alevi groups and broadly NAP-supportingSunnis, for instance, claimed more than 100 lives in the town of Kahramanmaras in1978. See G. Harris, ‘The Left in Turkey’, Problems of Communism, 29 (1980), pp. 37–8.

95. See M. Jafar, Under-Development: A Regional Case Study of the Kurdish Area in Turkey(Helsinki, Social Policy Association, 1976), pp. 67–8.

96. See K. Nezan, ‘Kurdistan in Turkey’ (trans. M. Pallis), in G. Chaliand (ed.), PeopleWithout a Country: The Kurds in Kurdistan (London, Zed Books, 1980), p. 97.

97. See N. Entessar, Kurdish Ethnonationalism (Boulder, CO, Lynne Rienner, 1992), p. 92.98. For more detailed surveys of these groups, see N. Entessar, ‘The Kurdish Mosaic of

Discord’, Third World Quarterly, 11 (1989), p. 94 and S. Bölükbasi, ‘Anakara, Damascus,Baghdad and the Regionalisation of Turkey’s Kurdish Secessionism’, Journal of Southand Asian and Middle Eastern Studies, 14 (1991), pp. 16–19.

99. Since over 50 per cent of the Turkish middle classes are descended from non-Anatolianrefugees who arrived during the turmoil of the nineteenth century, Kurdishnationalism is unlikely to gain widespread public sympathy (D. Barchard, Turkey andthe West (London, Royal Institute of International Affairs, 1985), p. 13). As a result,‘the Turkish ruling class is all too aware of the disruptive effect of non-Turkishnationalism’ (A. Hyman, Elusive Kurdistan: The Struggle for Recognition (London, Institutefor the Study of Conflict, 1988), p. 10).

100. Data for 1977 calendar year. See Pevsner, Turkey’s Political Crisis, pp. 68–9.101. With declining industrial production (5.4 per cent down in 1979), the business

community were horrified and organised an anti-RPP advertising campaign. SeeCizre-Sakallıoglu, ‘Labour and State in Turkey’, p. 726 and K. Boratav and O. Türel,‘Notes on the Current Development Problems and Growth Prospects of the TurkishEconomy’, New Perspectives on Turkey, 9 (1988), p. 38.

102. Berberoglu, Turkey in Crisis, p. 119.103. Schick and Tonak, ‘Conclusion’. p. 369. In addition, see J. Chediac, ‘Turkish Govern-

ment Brutally Suppresses Demonstrations’, Workers World, 4 January 1980 and ‘Turkey


on the Road to Revolution’, Workers World, 22 February 1980. It should also be notedthat the NAP’s influence within sectors of the civil bureaucracy was somewhat offsetby the fact that ‘throughout the 1970s Alevis gained increasing power both in centralgovernment and the municipalities, sometimes beyond their population ratios’(A. Ayata, ‘The Emergence of Identity Politics in Turkey’, New Perspectives on Turkey, 17(1997), p. 67).

104. K. MacKenzie, Turkey Under the Generals (London, Institute for the Study of Conflict,1981), p. 10.

105. See Pevsner, Turkey’s Political Crisis, pp. 78–9.106. See MacKenzie, Turkey Under the Generals, p. 14.107. See Pevsner, Turkey’s Political Crisis, p. 80.108. See Harris, ‘The Role of the Military in Turkey in the 1980s’, p. 192.109. Quoted in M. Briand, The Generals’ Coup in Turkey (London, Pergamon Press, 1991),

p. 187.110. See A. Çaglar, ‘The Greywolves as Metaphor’, in A. Finkel and N. Sirman (eds), Turkish

State, Turkish Society (London, Routledge, 1990), p. 79.111. See B. Yesilada, ‘New Political Parties and the Problems of Development in Turkey’,

New Perspectives on Turkey, 1 (1987), p. 38.112. Cited in W. Hale, ‘The Traditional and the Modern in the Economy of Kemalist

Turkey: The Experience of the 1920s’, in J. Landau (ed.), Atatürk and the Modernisationof Turkey (Boulder, CO, Westview Press, 1984), p. 163.

113. See F. Ahmad, ‘Military Intervention and the Crisis in Turkey’, Middle East Researchand Information Project Reports (Washington, DC, No. 93, 1981), passim. An example ofthis new, tighter control of the coup’s forces can be seen in Evren’s decision not toallow anyone but himself to discuss politics publicly, see M. Heper, ‘The State, theMilitary and Democracy in Turkey’, Jerusalem Journal of International Relations, 9 (1987),p. 57.

114. NSC figures quoted in United States Helsinki Watch Committee, Human Rights inTurkey’s ‘Transition to Democracy’ (New York, USHWC, 1983), p. 10 and the FinancialTimes, 18 September 1980.

115. See J. Cousins, Turkey: Torture and Political Persecution (London, Pluto Press, 1973), passimand Berberoglu, Turkey in Crisis, p. 130.

116. This was universally adhered to – especially after one editor was sentenced to sevenand a half years’ imprisonment.

117. See C. Dodd, ‘Developments in Turkish Democracy’, in V. Mastny and C. Nation(eds), Turkey Between East and West (Boulder, CO, Westview Press, 1996), p. 133.

118. See W. Hale, ‘The New Turkish Education Law’, Index on Censorship, 11 (1982),pp. 38–9.

119. These regulations were extremely broad and included instructions on, amongst manyother things, the wearing of facial hair. By autumn 1981, 300 academics had beensacked. See C. Dodd, The Crisis of Turkish Democracy (Beverley, Eothen Press, 1983),pp. 48–9.

120. See Pevsner, Turkey’s Political Crisis, p. 99.121. See W. Hale, Turkish Politics and the Military (London, Routledge, 1993), p. 253 and

B. Yesilada, ‘Problems of Political Development in the Third Turkish Republic’, Polity,21 (1988), p. 351.

122. Yesilada, ‘Problems of Political Development in the Third Turkish Republic’, p. 353.123. Quoted in Pevsner, Turkey’s Political Crisis, p. 92.124. The focus of this on left-leaning groups has been particularly detrimental to the Alevi

presence within the state bureaucracy (see Ayata, ‘The Emergence of Identity Politics’,p. 67).

125. Pevsner, Turkey’s Political Crisis, p. 93.126. Ibid. p. 88 and 91. This included the former Minister of Public Works, Serafettin Elçi,

who was jailed for two years and three months for stating in an interview ‘I am a Kurd.


There are Kurds in Turkey’ (New York Times, 27 March 1981).127. McDowall, A Modern History of the Kurds, p. 414 and 420. For the Syrian government,

support of the PKK proved a useful bargaining chip in their negotiations with Turkeyover the Euphrates water flow which, in 1984, was supplying only 11.3 per cent of herrequirements. See A. Kibaroglu, ‘Prospects for Co-Operation in the Euphrates–TigrisRiver Basin’, Turkish Review of Middle East Studies, 8 (1994), p. 143. This becameparticularly pertinent following the commencement of work on the South-EastAnatolian Development Project (Güney Dogu Anadolu Projesi – GAP) whichproposed to construct 21 dams, 19 hydroelectric power stations and a vast irrigationsystem. See J. Kolars and W. Mitchell, The Euphrates and the Southeast Anatolian DevelopmentProject (Carbondale, IL, Southern Illinois Press, 1991), passim and M. Van Bruinessen,‘Between Guerilla War and Political Murder: The Workers’ Party of Kurdistan’,Middle East Report, 18 (1988), p. 44.

128. See W. Weiker, ‘Constitution-Making for Turkey’s Third Republic’, in S. Akural (ed.),Turkic Culture: Continuity and Change (Bloomington, IN, Indiana University Press, 1987),pp. 36–9. In a referendum of November 1982, in which participation was obligatory,the constitution was accepted by 92 per cent of the 95 per cent who voted. The choice,however, was between the constitution and a continuation of military rule. See Pevsner,Turkey’s Political Crisis, p. 97.

129. See E. Özbudun, ‘The Post-1980 Legal Framework for Interest Group Associations’,in M. Heper (ed.), Strong State and Economic Interest Groups: The Post-1989 Experience (Berlin,Walter de Gruyter, 1991), p. 41.

130. N. Ludington and J. Spain, ‘Dateline Turkey: The Case for Patience’, Foreign Policy, 50(1983), p. 161.

131. See M. Heper, ‘Interest-Group Politics in Post 1980 Turkey, Lingering Monism’, in Heper (ed.), Strong State and Economic Interest Groups, pp. 166–7.

132. Özbudun, ‘The Post-1980 Legal Framework for Interest Group Associations’, p. 54.133. See M. Gunter, ‘The Kurdish Problem in Turkey’, Middle East Journal, 42 (1988), p. 399.134. This was regularly used to prosecute Kurds and even their defence lawyers. See

Entessar, Kurdish Ethnonationalism, p. 96.135. K. Kirisci, ‘Minority/Majority Discourse’, in D. Gladney (ed.), Making Majorities

(Stanford, CA, Stanford University Press, 1998), p. 242.136. See M. Izady, ‘Persian Carrot and Turkish Stick: Contrasting Policies targeted at

Gaining State Loyalty from Azeris and Kurds’, Kurdish Times, 3 (1990), p. 35.137. H. Barkey and G. Fuller, ‘Turkey’s Kurdish Question: Critical Turning Points and

Missed Opportunities’, Middle East Journal, 51 (1997), p. 73. See also N. Watts, ‘Alliesand Enemies: Pro-Kurdish Parties in Turkish politics, 1990–1994’, International Journalof Middle East Studies, 31 (1999), p. 635.

138. The NSC comprised of the Prime Minister, the Ministers of Foreign Affairs, InteriorAffairs and National Defence, the Chief of the General Staff, the commanders of thearmy, navy, air force and gendarmerie and the President. See M. Heper, ‘TheExecutive in the Third Turkish Republic, 1982–1989’, Governance, 3 (1990), p. 307.

139. See J. McFadden, ‘Civil–Military Relations in the Third Turkish Republic’, Middle EastJournal, 39 (1985), pp. 72–3.

140. See Hale, Turkish Politics and the Military, p. 258.141. Quoted in G. Gürbey, ‘The Kurdish Nationalism Movement in Turkey since the

1980s’, in R. Olson (ed.), The Kurdish Nationalist Movement in the 1990s (London, Univer-sity Press of Kentucky, 1996), p. 13. Since Kurdish attempts at self-realisation havelong been regarded as a threat to the ‘indivisible unity of the state’s people andterritory’, the NSC remained ‘the primary decision-maker in the Kurdish issue’ (ibid.).

142. Hikmet Özdemir quoted in G. Karabelias, ‘The Evolution of Civil–Military Relationsin Post-War Turkey’, Middle Eastern Studies, 35 (1999), p. 135.

143. See Yesilada, ‘Problems of Political Development in the Third Turkish Republic’,pp. 349–50.


144. See T. Baysan and C. Blitzer, ‘Turkey’s Trade Liberalisation in the 1980s and Prospectsfor its Sustainability’, in T. Arıcanlı and D. Rodrik (eds), The Political Economy of Turkey:Debt, Adjustment and Sustainability (London, Macmillan, 1990), passim. The result of thiswas, as Korkut Boratav notes, a drop in real wages from an average of US$2.46 in1979 to US$1.11 in 1985 (‘Inter-Class and Intra-Class Relations of DistributionUnder “Structural Adjustment”: Turkey During the 1980s’, in Arıcanlı and Rodrik(eds), The Political Economy of Turkey, p. 209). For a broader discussion of the effects ofthese changes during the 1980s, see Z. Önis, ‘The State and Economic Developmentin Contemporary Turkey: Etatism to Neoliberalism and Beyond’, in V. Mastny andC. Nation (eds), Turkey Between East and West (Boulder, CO, Westview Press, 1996),passim.

145. See S. I.lkin, ‘Businessmen: Democratic Stability’, in M. Heper, A. Öncü and

H. Kramer (eds), Turkey and the West (London, I.B. Tauris, 1993), p. 193.146. Quoted in Y. Arat, ‘Politics and Big Business: Janus-Faced link to the State’, in

M. Heper (ed.), Strong State and Economic Interest Groups: The Post-1989 Experience (Berlin,Walter de Gruyter, 1991), p. 142.

147. See A. Karaosmanoglu, ‘The International Context of Democratic Transition inTurkey’, in G. Pridham (ed.), Encouraging Democracy: The International Context of RegimeTransition in Southern Europe (Leicester, Leicester University Press, 1991), pp. 172–3.

148. See J. Paul, ‘The Coup’, Middle East Research and Information Project Reports, No. 92(Washington, DC, 1981), p. 4.

149. I. Dagı, ‘Democratic Transition in Turkey, 1980–1983: The Impact of EuropeanDiplomacy’, in S. Kedourie (ed.), Turkey: Identity, Democracy and Politics (London, FrankCass, 1996), p. 138.

150. See McFadden, ‘Civil Military relations in the Third Turkish Republic’, p. 74 andYesilada, ‘Problems of Political Development in the Third Turkish Republic’,pp. 360–1.

151. See Hale, ‘Transition to Civilian Government in Turkey’, pp. 170–3.152. The PP merged with the Social Democracy Party (Sosyal Demokrasi Partisi – SODEP),

which had not been allowed to compete, to become the Social Democrat Populist Party(Sosyal Demokrat Halkçı Parti – SDPP) in 1985. See A. Ayata, ‘Ideology, Social Bases,and Organisation Structure of the Post-1980 Political Parties’, in A. Eralp, M. Tünayand B. Yesilada (eds), The Political and Socioeconomic Transformation of Turkey (London,Praeger, 1993), p. 43.

153. See McFadden, ‘Civil Military relations in the Third Turkish Republic’, p. 74.154. See I

.. Turan, ‘Evolution of the Electoral Process’, in M. Heper and A. Evin (eds),

Politics in the Third Turkish Republic (Boulder, CO, Westview Press, 1994), p. 55. ErgunÖzbudun writes that ‘this seems to be related to the fact that most voters perceivedthe NDP to be an extension of military rule’ (‘Development and Consolidation ofDemocracy in Turkey’, in E. Özbudun (ed.), Turkey in the Year 2000 (Ankara, TurkishPolitical Science Association, 1989), p. 14).

155. See Ü. Ergüder, ‘The Motherland Party, 1983–1989’, in M. Heper and J. Landau (eds),Political Parties and Democracy in Turkey (London, I.B. Tauris, 1991), pp. 155–61.

156. In fact, Henri Barkey argues that Özal was forced out by the pro-import substitutioninterests of the giant conglomerates of Koç and Sabançi holdings (The State and theIndustrialisation Crisis in Turkey (Boulder, CO, Westview Press, 1990), p. 184).

157. See Ü. Ergüder and R. Hofferbert, ‘Restoration of Democracy in Turkey? PoliticalReforms and the Elections of 1983’, in L. Lane (ed.), Elections in the Middle East (Boulder,CO, Westview Press, 1987), pp. 44–5.

158. For a discussion of the gradual rise of the TPP, see Ü. Cizre-Sakallıoglu, ‘Liberalism,Democracy and the Turkish Centre-Right: The Identity Crisis of the True Path Party’,Middle Eastern Studies, 32 (1996), passim.

159. A. Evin, ‘Demilitarisation and Civilianisation of the Regime’, in M. Heper and A. Evin(eds), Politics in the Third Turkish Republic (Boulder, CO, Westview Press, 1994), p. 25.


160. See J. Szylowicz, ‘Education and Political Developpment’, in Heper and Evin (eds),Politics in the Third Turkish Republic, passim.

161. See H. Barkey, ‘Why Military Regimes Fail: The Perils of Transition’, Armed Forces andSociety, 16 (1990), passim.

162. G. Günlük-Senesen, ‘Some Economic Aspects of Turkish Armaments Spending’, NewPersepctives on Turkey, 13 (1995), p. 84.

163. See Karaosmanoglu, ‘Officers, Westernisation and Democracy’, p. 33.164. See O. Karasapan, ‘Turkey’s Armaments Industry’, Middle East Report, 144 (1987),

pp. 29–30.165. Karaosmanoglu, ‘Officers, Westernisation and Democracy’, p. 33.166. Jonathan Randal quoted in N. Chomsky, Rogue States: The Rule of Force in World Affairs

(London, Pluto Press, 2000), p. 42.167. Hakan Yavuz writes that ‘The blunt and incompetent counter-insurgency tactics of

the Kemalist generals have … drained the economy of over $8bn a year’ (‘The Closureof Refah: The Irony of Turkey’s “Westernisers”’, Middle East International, 13 February1998, pp. 20–1.

168. See M. Mann, ‘The Contradictions of Continuous Revolution’, in I. Kershaw and M. Lewin (eds), Stalinism and Nazism: Dictatorships in Comparison (Cambridge, CambridgeUniversity Press, 1997), pp 142–4.

169. This has been compounded by recent trends in military recruitment. Despite thesouth-east making up 6.3 per cent of the population, it supplied only 1.8 per cent ofarmy cadet intakes between 1982 and 1984. Amongst general staff officers (1984–85),though, the figure was 10.6 per cent. See J. Brown, ‘The Military and Society: TheTurkish Case’, Middle Eastern Studies, 25 (1989), pp. 395–7.

170. Its future is unclear since its editor was sentenced to two years in prison for ‘instigatinghostility in the population’ (Kurdish Human Rights Project & Medico International,Cultural Language and Rights of the Kurds (London, 1997), p. 26).

171. This reads ‘No-one may engage in written and oral propaganda aimed at disruptingthe indivisible integrity of the state’ (Ibid., p. 10).

172. Kurdish Human Rights Project, Surviving For a Living: Report on the Current Conditions ofKurds in Turkey (London, 1996), p. 9. In response, the PKK had, by 1995, murderedmore than 150 teachers, forced the closure of 5,210 schools and burnt down a further192 (Miliyet, January 1995).

173. See McDowall, A Modern History of the Kurds, p. 426.174. Some traditional leaders prospered greatly from this arrangement. Sadun Seylan, the

chief of the Alan tribe in Van, for example, fielded a force of 500 guards for whichhe received US$115,000 monthly – in 1989 the PKK murdered his son and two ofhis cousins. See T. Jacoby, ‘Social Power and the Turkish State: An Historical Approachto the Kurdish Question’, unpublished MA thesis, University of Kent at Canterbury,1998, pp. 38–9.

175. See Kurdish Human Rights Project & Medico International, The Destruction of Villagesin South-East Turkey (London, 1996), passim.

176. The so-called ‘Turk–Islam’ synthesis. See J. Szyliowicz, ‘Religion and Democracy: TheTurkish Case’, in Ç. Balım and C. Imber (eds), The Balance of Truth: Essays in Honour ofProfessor Geoffrey Lewis (Istanbul, Isis, 2000), p. 376 and Ö. Gençkaya, ‘Revival of thePeriphery: Need for Consensus or Threat to National Integrity in Turkey’, Journal ofBehavioural and Social Sciences, 1 (1997), p. 81.

177. S. Laizer, Martyrs, Patriots and Traitors (London, Zed Books, 1996), p. 101, althoughEvren thought that Özal underestimated the possibility that the Islamic movementmight get out of hand. See M. Heper and A. Güney, ‘The Military and Democracyin the Third Turkish Republic’, Armed Forces and Society, 22 (1996), p. 624.

178. See S. Ayata, ‘Patronage, Party and State: The Politicisation of Islam in Turkey’, MiddleEast Journal, 50 (1996), pp. 44–5.

179. See J. Brown, ‘Islamic Fundamentalism and Turkey’, Journal of Political and Military


Sociology, 16 (1988), p. 241 and S. Ayata, ‘The Rise of Islamic Fundamentalism andits Institutional Framework’, in Eralp, Tünay and Yesilada (eds), The Political andSocioeconomic Transformation of Turkey, p. 64.

180. Ü. Cizre-Sakallıoglu, ‘Parameters and Strategies of Islam–State Interaction inRepublican Turkey’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 28 (1996), p. 245. Seealso F. Birtek and B. Toprak ‘The Conflictual Agendas of Neo-Liberal Reconstructionand the Rise of Islamic Politics in Turkey: The Hazards of Rewriting Modernity’,Praxis International, 13 (1993), p. 196. It was also deployed with some effect in the south-east where the military adopted a policy of encouraging young people ‘to joingovernment directed Hizbullah anti-PKK squads’ (Laizer, Martyrs, Patriots and Traitors,p. 103).

181. The biggest of which, MUSIAD (founded in 1990), had, by 1998, over 3,000 corporatemembers representing an annual revenue of US$ 2.79 billion. See N. Narlı, ‘The Riseof the Islamist Movement in Turkey’, Middle East Review of International Affairs, 3 (1999),pp. 3–4 and Z. Önis ‘The Political Economy of Islamic Resurgence in Turkey: TheRise of the Welfare Party in Perspective’, Third World Quarterly, 18 (1997), pp. 757–61.

182. See N. Göle, ‘Towards the Autonomisation of Politics and Civil Society in Turkey’, inHeper and Evin (eds), Politics in the Third Turkish Republic, passim, and ‘Secularism andIslamism in Turkey: The Making of Elites and Counter-Elites’, Middle East Journal, 51(1997), passim.

183. See M. Heper, ‘The State and Debureaucratisation: The Case of Turkey’, InternationalSocial Science Journal, 42 (1990), p. 610. Like the MP’s attempt to control, and benefitfrom, civil religiosity, these changes in the state bureaucracy can be seen as a meansof increasing governmental tutelage. See E. Kalaycıoglu, ‘Decentralisation andGovernment’, in Heper and Evin (eds), Politics in the Third Turkish Republic, pp. 90–1,on Özal’s so-called ‘decentralisation’ initiatives.

184. For a related, but somewhat different, view see A. Kadıoglu, ‘The Paradox of TurkishNationalism and the Construction of Official Identity’, in S. Kedourie (ed.), Turkey:Identity, Democracy and Politics (London, Frank Cass, 1996), pp. 189–91 and M. Tünay,‘The Turkish New Right’s Attempt at Hegemony’, in Eralp, Tünay and Yesilada (eds),The Political and Socioeconomic Transformation of Turkey, pp. 22–3.

185. F. Ahmad, ‘Islamic Reassertion in Turkey’, Third World Quarterly, 10 (1988), p. 767.Total grants and loans to Turkey amounted to approximately US$750 million in 1986– having peaked at about US£900 million in 1984 – compared to around US$175million in 1977. Of this the military component was between US$600 and US$700million. See T. Arıcanlı, ‘The Political Economy of Turkey’s External Debt: TheBearing of Exogenous Factors’, in T. Arıcanlı and D. Rodrik (eds), The Political Economyof Turkey: Debt, Adjustment and Sustainability (London, Macmillan, 1990), p. 245.

186. Disagreements between the military and civilian elements of the government wereparticularly commonplace on issues related to religious expression. Whenever thesemade it to public attention, they were generally reported within the framework of apossible military intervention. See, for instance, Ahmed Evin’s discussion of a 1987crisis provoked by a report on growing Islamic ‘fundamentalism’ (‘Demilitarisationand Civilianisation of the Regime’, in Heper and Evin (eds), Politics in the Third TurkishRepublic, p. 31).

187. See S. Cornell, ‘Turkey: Return to Stability’, Middle Eastern Studies, 35 (1999), p. 213.188. An important part of Refah’s electoral base was the south-east. Huri Türsan writes that

they were able to ‘gain the confidence of Kurdish voters who could not vote for theKurdish Democracy Party’ which was forced to withdraw after a state-led campaignof violence (‘Ersatz Democracy: Turkey in the 1990s’, in R. Gillespie (ed.), Mediter-ranean Politics, Vol. 2 (London, Pinter, 1996), pp. 224–5).

189. Cornell, ‘Turkey: Return to Stability’, pp. 211–12.190. See N. Pope and H. Pope, Turkey Unveiled (London, John Murray, 1997), p. 313.191. Svante Cornell argues that the military additionally hoped that these allegations of


corruption, also levelled at Erbakan, would end Refah’s ‘untarnished’ image (‘Turkey:Return to Stability’, p. 214).

192. See J. Nathan, ‘Turkey on Edge’, International Relations, 13 (1997), p. 24.193. See K. Couturier, ‘Ignoring US, Turkey and Iran Sign Trade Accords’, Washington Post,

22 December 1996, p. A31 and E. Kalaycıoglu, ‘The Logic of Conteporary TurkishPolitics’, Middle East Review of International Affairs, 1 (1997), p. 8.

194. J. Salt, ‘Turkey’s Military Democracy’, Current History, February 1999, p. 75.195. See G. Jenkins, ‘Army Fights Enemies on Both Fronts’, The European, 22–28 May 1997,

p. 5.196. The Commander of Naval Forces speaking in Miliyet, 25 February 1997.197. C. Çandar, ‘Redefining Turkey’s Political Centre’, Journal of Democracy, 10 (1999),

pp. 131–2. This was to complement the high command’s virtually unfettered controlover MIT whose extra-judicial violence (occasionally in collusion with Mossad) andcriminality (which the notorious Susurluk incident reveals) had reached new heights.See The Economist, 31 January 1998 and The Independent, 24 January 1998.

198. T.L. Karl, ‘Imposing Consent? Electoralism versus Democratisation in El Salvador’,in P. Drake and E. Silva (eds), Elections and Democatisation in Latin America, 1980–1985(San Diego, CA, University of California Press, 1986), p. 35.

199. Muller, ‘Nationalism and the Rule of Law in Turkey’, pp. 177–8.200. Mann, Sources of Social Power, Vol. 2, pp. 661–2.201. See Mann’s IOTA model discussed in Chapter 4.


Conclusion

To conclude, this chapter will look at three inter-related areas. First, Mann’sframework of social power will be reconsidered. His system of fourorganisational networks will be traced over the Ottoman/Turkish patternof change with particular reference to the different institutional attributesof each. The ways in which he accounts for the emergence of state central-isation will also be considered in relation to his five-phase account ofnationalism. Second, key aspects of Mann’s historiography will be com-pared to the account of Turkish social development presented in the pre-ceding chapters. This will aim to highlight deficiencies and strengths withinMann’s narrative and to present the Turkish trajectory as a complement or counterpoint to his analysis of large-scale historical change in Europe.Finally, the concluding section of this chapter will comment on methodo-logical issues pertinent to both this text and Mann’s account of the past. Itwill also position this work within the tradition of historical sociology andre-examine the scholarly debate which surrounds the discipline as a whole.

POWER STRUCTURES

This text has followed Mann’s account of social power and combined boththe ‘predatory’ view of governance, as in Levi’s analysis, and the collabo-rative system which Skocpol and others have emphasised. For instance, onlyat its most intensive and logistically narrow, can military power be organisedwithout institutional reference to the ruled. In order to ensure complianceover a more extensive population, collaboration with local elites – apparentfrom Sargon’s temple legislatures to the Turkish state’s village guard system– has been imperative. Economically, too, maintaining control over themeans of production has consistently necessitated devolving a degree oforganisational power to institutionalise specialised functions essential in theperpetuation of an elite’s supervisory position. Similarly, ideological powercan either be used collectively to reinforce extensive social identities byinstitutionalising a belief structure which transcends existing organisational

forms or immanently to intensify the distributive power of an establishedelite. The state, as the primary organisational form of political power, alsorepresents, on the one hand, a collective means of attaining extensively-held social goals and, on the other, a potential vehicle for elite domination.In this sense, states tend to act in a combination of two ways. First, theyattempt to extend their infrastructural power by institutionalising essenti-ally collaborative linkages with civil groups. Second, they wield distributiveforms of despotic power without reference to non-state actors. Since theemergence of statehood in Akkadian Mesopotamia, these two dimensionshave combined in different ways to produce imperial, feudal, democraticand authoritarian forms of governance.

The primary motor of such dynamics is the ways in which the foursources of power have interrelated. Throughout the past, certain organisa-tional networks, or combinations of networks, have been more influentialin this struggle for power than others. Mann is correct in identifying politicalpower as the fundamental organisational source in the establishment andmaintenance of imperial governance. The tension between centralisingand decentralising forces was the predominant power structure during theperiod of imperial state development which culminated in the infra-structural extensiveness of the western Roman Empire. As Table 15 shows,the Ottoman Empire was no exception. It, too, was largely defined by afundamentally political divide between the askeri and the reaya whichprevented civil groups from organising sufficient power resources to chal-lenge its economic, military and ideological hegemony. As in Rome, thepolitical position of the Ottoman imperial state was eventually challenged


TABLE 15: LARGE-SCALE CHANGE IN THE DEVELOPMENT OF THEOTTOMAN/TURKISH STATE

(emboldened text represents the predominant power source of the period)

Power Source

Social Change Politics Ideological Economic Military

Ottoman change

The end ofEmpire

Multi-partypolitics

The rise of themilitary

Decreasing eliteunity

Bureaucraticascendancy

Bureaucratic decline

Bifurcated domesticrepression

Proto-nationalism

Secularnationalism vs

theocracy

Industrial-capitalistnationalism

Modernistnationalism

Rising marketforces

Corporatistcapitalism

Eliteintegration

Bourgeoiscapitalism

Increasinglydecentralised

Defensivemodernisation

Decline

Military-industrialcomplex

by highly extensive ideological networks of power leading to a decline inelite unity. In Mann’s study of western Europe, these provided, in the formof the Christian Church, sufficient normative pacification to re-coherefeudal elites and to form the basis for an intensification of the decliningempire’s trading networks. In the eastern Mediterranean region, a combi-nation of imperial contraction and colonial encroachment strengthenedperipheral elites and ended the rigidity of the askeri/reaya axis. As a result,contention along ideological lines, particularly between the forces of proto-nationalism and theocratic traditionalism, began to predominate over otherpower networks.

In both regions, such decentralised ideological networks were graduallyabsorbed by non-religious modes of social explication as emergent capital-ism began to gain significant levels of extensiveness during the late medievalperiod. Mann argues that, in Europe, this economic preponderance had,by the late eighteenth century, been instrumental in empowering and infra-structurally organising the modern nation-state. Much later, in Turkeyduring the inter-war years of the twentieth century, an integrated elite ofindustrialists and large-estate-farmers institutionalised close ties with thestate bureaucracy, around which there coalesced an extensive, albeit region-ally varied, penumbra of capitalist groups. From this basis, a reorderingemerged from the Second World War which marked the beginning of aperiod of economic power contention as bourgeois interests challenged the ideologically legitimised administration. In Europe, Mann outlines aperiod of comparable middle-class ascendancy which he identifies as thelocus for resistance to the rising power of military organisational networksduring the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. While the Turkish bour-geoisie did not become the basis of popular sovereignty with anything like the extensiveness of the European middle classes, they did attempt toreduce the political power of the military high command. Eventually,though, capitalist and military elite interests conflated. This marked thebeginning of a period of power contention between the state, as represen-tatives of ‘the people’, and various ‘internal enemies’ which kept Turkishmilitarism away from the European focus on geopolitics and concentratedon organisational networks primarily aimed at domestic repression.

THE POLITICS OF EMPIRE

As outlined in Chapter 1, the autonomy and power of a state, as the primaryorganisational form of political power in society, derives from the central-ised regulation of social relations. As empires coalesced and expanded,Mann argues, alternative bases for social order – such as force, custom and

Conclusion 167

exchange – could not govern social interaction as efficiently as an organisedand centralised administration. Although the pattern of imperial develop-ment within these power networks makes up much of the first volume ofThe Sources of Social Power, Mann makes no mention of the Ottoman state.Neither is there a discussion of the ways in which the eastern RomanEmpire differed in its organisation of political power from the essentiallyunilinear account of western European development which Mann presents.As a result, Mann’s narrative loses some of its comparative breadth andexplanatory power.

This is particularly apparent in Mann’s treatment of imperial levels ofinfrastructural power. He is mistaken to claim that the western RomanEmpire possessed ‘about as high a level of intensity of territorial control ascould be attained within the logistical constraints imposed on all agrariansocieties’.1 In contrast to Rome’s reliance on a universal ruling class, theOttoman system of governance, as outlined in Chapter 2, eliminated theneed for an intermediary, and potentially decentralising, social stratum. Incontrast to Mann’s analysis of Rome, where a ‘three-way power stand-off ’between the state, an economically decentralised ruling class and the peopleprevailed, the Ottoman state maintained sufficient levels of infrastructuralreach to prevent local elites from organising extensive, and thus potentiallychallenging, networks of power. Moreover, through the strict enforcementof a meritocratic system of appointments and promotion, the use of sum-mary dismissals/transferrals, the seizure of private property and prohibi-tions on the inheritance of position or wealth, the capacity of state agentsto decentralise power was also heavily circumscribed. Furthermore, withinthe non-clerical branches of the askeri, the widespread use of prisoners-of-war and indentured provincial recruits, many of whom were also prohibitedfrom marrying until retirement, meant that they were, by and large, keptseparate from social networks in civil society and from the masses in general.The result was that, unlike in Rome, the Ottoman state was not obliged todelegate authoritative power in order to rule. So instead of the multiple andcross-cutting social cleavages that developed in western Europe, the Otto-man Empire continued to be defined by a primary axis dividing the statefrom all social strata.

This is not to say, however, that the Ottoman Empire was not subject toconstraints similar to those Mann identifies as a feature of other pre-modern systems. The fundamental problem for expanding states is that, asthe number of their citizens increases, both the variety of actions whichthey can be compelled to undertake and the degree to which they can becoerced decreases. In other words, as power extensiveness grows, its com-prehensiveness and intensity diminishes. In accordance with the argumentspresented in Chapter 1, this is for three main reasons. Supervision becomes


more difficult, decentralised challenges increase and the character ofpower-subjects diversify. In this sense, empires such as Rome and theOttomans became victims of their own successful enlargement. Accordingto Mann, Rome attempted to offset these perennial problems by empower-ing a gigantic common market which integrated a senatorial elite throughwhich it ruled. The Ottomans, in contrast, governed through the greaterinfrastructural reach of an extensive and cohesive system of state agents.Both states were, however, unable to deal effectively with territorial stag-nation which tended to undermine their capacity to organise politicalchange. Thus, Mann’s elucidation of Roman political change offers a usefulcounterpoint to the greater infrastructural reach and political centrality ofthe Ottoman Empire. Comparing the two systems helps to explain whywestern Europe eventually became dominated by a decentralised class offeudatories while the Turkish republic continued to be defined by a rigidstate/subject divide.

Similarly, Mann’s account of the very early signs of what he calls‘national crystallisation’ also provides a fruitful means of examining lateOttoman political change. Of the five nationalist phases he identifies, thefirst two – religious and commercial-statist – are termed ‘proto’ or pre-modern stages. The former initially emerged as a form of collective identitybased on the Western Church’s relationship with the European monarchiesin the wake of the Roman collapse. Mann argues that the Roman senatorialclasses were able to use the pacifying effects of the spread of Christianityto solidify their position in the post-imperial ecumenical order whichemerged in western Europe. These decentralised and legally protectedeconomic linkages eventually merged with the authoritative structures ofthe Papacy to organise power networks that were of sufficient extensivenessto form a basis for nascent notions of a ‘national’ collective identity. TheOttoman polity, in contrast, was structured around a complex array ofperipheral cleavages aimed at maintaining a segmentalised class structurefundamentally divided by both religious affiliation and a centrally con-trolled system of status allocation. This largely restricted collective percep-tions of group identity to non-Muslim minority groups (millet) and inhibitedthe development of extensive ‘religious’ proto-nationalist sentiments.

Indeed, the empowerment of the Ottoman ulema meant that the limitedforms of religious proto-nationalism that did emerge within the Muslimmajority were much more multi-ethnic and universalist in character thanin Europe. The clerics’ role in connecting the masses to the global umma

through the traditional office of the caliph, which guaranteed the loosenessof the bond between the state and periphery, ensured that less centralisedideological networks remained localised and intensive. This emphasis onflexibility and diversity maintained a vertical loyalty to the centre quite

Conclusion 169

unlike Mann’s account of the horizontal homogeneity of Roman culturalexpansion. The Ottoman state made few efforts to promote the diffusionof cultural ties to, and within, the periphery. Instead, a rarefied state vern-acular, unintelligible to all but the higher echelons of officialdom, wasmaintained which excluded peripheral elites from the politics of the centreand prevented the organisation of decentralised power networks compar-able to those within Rome’s ruling-class culture. Reinforced by the vertical-ity of state agency, this ensured that no extensive, and therefore potentiallydecentralising, perceptions of group identity took hold within the masses.As a result, the emergence of proto-nationalism in the Ottoman Empirecould not follow the same pattern as in Europe.

Another reason for this was that, although the Christian Church sharedthe extensiveness of the ulema, it was more vulnerable to politicisation andthus less cohesive. As a result, the emergence of scientific rationalism tendedto limit the clerics’ exegetic legitimacy. The eventual effect was to excludethe Church from the political power networks of the centre which were,instead, utilised by secular authorities to increase their infrastructuralcapacity to reach, and therefore tax, their citizens. Ultimately, this gave riseto a system of feudatories and monarchs which began to curtail theextensiveness of the Church’s relationship with the masses thereby institu-tionalising the beginnings of, what Mann terms, ‘commercial-statist’ proto-nationalism. Within the Ottoman Empire, however, the state had feworganisational linkages with the masses outside the theocracy. The ulema’shighly immanent role in transmitting messages from the centre to theperiphery, combined with their well-entrenched tradition of politicalautonomy, meant that they were less susceptible to proto-nationalistabsorption. The Ottoman state, with its rarefied position and intra-elitelanguage, could neither dominate the ulema nor use it to increase itscentralised control of civil society and thus it could not follow the Europeanmodel of displacing peripheral identities in favour of more extensivenotions of group consciousness. In all, rather than non-religious forcesgradually absorbing ecumenical networks of power along the lines of theEuropean monarchies, Ottoman commercial-statism emerged in parallelto the political infrastructure of the theocracy.

This division was accentuated by the growing extensiveness of Europeanchannels of ideological power. The segmentalised nature of the Ottomanperiphery left it particularly vulnerable to such cultural expansion. Withinthe diffuse economic networks of non-Muslim millet, modernist Europeanthought immanently reinforced the position of ascendant mercantile elitesproviding, what Mann terms, normative pacification (or, in other words, acommon set of authoritatively determined values offering a more cohesivebasis for interaction than systems merely founded on exchange or coercion).


Since the millet elites had enjoyed many centuries of institutionalised andoften enforced ideological autonomy, Western notions of collective identityalso proved to be a powerful basis for transcending the segmentalisingeffects of state policy. As a result, post-Enlightenment rational instrumen-talism began to increase both the intensiveness and extensiveness of proto-nationalist networks within the millet by challenging the ideologicallydefined Ottoman superstructure. In this way, religious perceptions of groupconsciousness were eroded in favour of non-religious commercial statist,proto-nationalism.

THE IDEOLOGY OF MODERNISM

Indeed, according to Mann, a similar process had occurred in medievalEurope as the ideological structures that underpinned the organisationalextensiveness of feudalism began to share power with the economicnetworks of emergent capitalism. Many commentators have, however,challenged Mann’s account of the ecumene. They argue that it was themilitary power of the western European monarchs, rather than thenormative pacification of the Papacy, which provided the authoritativebasis for increasing trade. Here Mann’s narrative is impaired by a lack ofcomparative breadth. By favouring a linear account of Western develop-ment, his claim that ideological networks, as a connection between the statewith the masses, acquired causal powers that were intrinsically differentfrom existent military and economic linkages, is considerably weakened.Significant support could have been found in an exploration of Ottomanmethods of ideological organisation. There, Islam offered the state a highlyimmanent means of normative pacification largely independent of otherpower sources. Not only did the authoritative power of the ulema legitimisetributary systems of extraction, it also enforced the rule of the state throughthe Sharia and the örf. By immanently incorporating the theocracy’s juri-dical infrastructure, the state was able to segmentalise economic networkswithin civil society, prevent ideological transcendentalism inside its armedforces, recruit jihadi and maintain its agents as the empire’s only significantsurplus-collecting social group. In contrast to the mercantile dominatedcommercial-statism of ecumenical Europe, Istanbul presided over an ideo-logical regime that was fundamentally anti-entrepreneurial. The ulema’shighly centralised role controlling the education system and the judiciary,strengthened by its localised and autonomous recruitment and trainingsystem, acted as a hinge between the imperial centre and the Muslimperiphery. Their network of judges and pedagogues permitted the state tomaintain control over provincial cultural traditions and artisan exchange

Conclusion 171

thus ensuring that potentially decentralising networks remained intensivelyorganised.

The centrality of the clerics’ role in the Ottoman polity explains whynon-religious modes of social explication imported from the West throughthe millet did not develop the extensiveness of European commercial-statism. The ulema’s greater capacity to resist the secularising influences of‘modernism’ largely restricted the spread of proto-nationalism to non-Muslim peripheral elites. The threat of federalism and the territorial lossesof the early part of the nineteenth century, however, reinforced the needto develop close infrastructural ties between the state and the imperialperiphery. As a result, Istanbul greatly expanded its bureaucracy byincorporating an ever-greater number of provincial recruits. Many of theserepresented prosperous ayan families alarmed at the comparative advantageand proto-nationalist irredentism of the millet. Thus, the new bureaucraticschools emerged as a locus for Muslim commercial-statism. Nonetheless,the ulema continued to retain their autonomous power base and ‘modern-ist’ thought remained restricted to a state elite largely excluded from the‘people’ that they claimed to represent. As a result, influences from Europewere generally institutionalised in parallel to clerical traditionalism, theresilience of which meant that bureaucratic reforms, leading to a signifi-cant growth in non-clerical state administrators, were based on Europeanmodels of the rational state imposed by Istanbul and unsupported byorganic changes in civil society. Without the presence of a diffused capitalistclass, however, these social networks lacked extensive links to the mass ofcivil society. As a result, no broadly held notions of citizenship comparableto those of Europe could be institutionalised.

Another corollary of the lack of proto-nationalist extensiveness in theOttoman Empire was that the Porte remained highly autonomous. Unlikein Europe, there emerged little resistance from the nascent Muslim middleclasses to the rise in state militarism during the nineteenth century. In muchof the West, on the other hand, increases in state extraction to fundmilitarised geopolitical competition was, Mann suggests, regarded by muchof the bourgeoisie as a process of retrogression thereby reinforcing nation-alist sentiments. He argues that male, middle-class citizens from the domi-nant religious and ethnic groups, prompted by fears of populist radicalismin the wake of the French Revolution, began to define themselves as anation to which the state should be coterminous. As a result, the trans-national trade-based elements of ‘commercial statism’ were gradually dimi-nished and its ‘proto-national’ discursive media became imbued with whatMann calls ‘militarist’ nationalism. In contrast to the decentralised growthof notions of exclusive political citizenship based on civil perceptions of‘the people’ in western Europe, majority nationalism in the late Ottoman


Empire continued to be closely affiliated to the centrality of the state andits attempts to induce ideological change. Since both the late OttomanEmpire and the early republic lacked comparable levels of capitalistdiffusion, and thus the infrastructural means to connect the rural masseswith the urban centre, entrepreneurial groups did not follow the Westernmodel and seek greater power decentralisation and a more restrictedeconomic role for the state. Instead, the centrism of western Anatolianmercantilism fused with the Istanbul intelligentsia to create an elite ideologythat was largely unconnected to civil societal notions of popular sovereignty.

The failure to extend commercial-statism beyond an alliance of westernAnatolian provincial elites and a state-affiliated coterie of literati led to aradicalisation of its nationalistic elements and a strengthening of statepowers. It also meant that, rather than being centred on geopoliticalexpansion, chauvinist conceptions of Turkish nationhood were primarilyaimed at increasing intra-state homogeneity. While European versions ofmilitarist nationalism did contain notions of an internal threat, the morerestricted progress of religious and commercial-statist proto-nationalism inthe late Ottoman Empire produced a form of militarist nationalism thatwas intensive rather than extensive. Thus, the modernising ideology andpolitical growth of the inter-war republic was resisted in localised ‘pockets’which tended to polarise state/civil and centre/periphery divides in a waywhich the more outward-looking militarism of nineteenth-century Europedid not. In this sense, the greater territorial uniformity of the Westernnation-states not only produced a more populist form of militarist nation-alism, it also weakened the political efficacy of the peoples’ internal enemy.

In the early years of the Turkish republic, on the other hand, theembattled defensiveness of the independence struggle, coupled with theignominy of huge territorial losses, reinforced the need to institutionalise amore homogeneous polity. However, less mercantilist elites who hadgenerally prospered little from European imperialism, continued to favourthe loose political ties with the Ottoman centre which were embodied inthe multiethnicity of the umma-caliph relationship. Therefore, Turkishmilitarist nationalism, unlike the old-regime homogeneity of the nineteenth-century European nation-state, was defined by an intra-elite conflict withinboth political and ideological power networks. As such, it became focusedon institutionalising a wide-ranging programme of ideological reformsaimed at increasing the power of the state over decentralised organisationalnetworks of theocratic traditionalism. Victory for Kemal, and the sub-sequent shift from religiously-legitimised, multiethnic empire to secular,quasi-fascist republic through an enlarged network of state administrators,thus continued the Ottoman tradition of imposing political links upon theperiphery from a despotic and highly autonomous core. The overall result

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was that, in contrast to Mann’s Europe, Turkish militarist nationalismemerged as an intensive, intra-national, authoritarian-statist ideology ratherthan an extensively held, predominantly geopolitical form of populist anti-statism.

THE ECONOMICS OF LIBERALISATION

Centrally planned economic development was a key area of the republicangovernment’s attempt to bring the masses closer to the power of the state.Here, Mann’s account of late development and the institutionalisation ofindustrial-capitalist nationalism is particularly instructive. In common withlate nineteenth-century policies in countries such as Sweden, Japan, Russiaand Austria, Turkey established authoritative plans for greater industrial-isation. During the 1930s, an extensive programme of infrastructuralprojects was initiated in Turkey. These were, in a similar way to industrial-ising countries in late nineteenth-century Europe, aimed at boostingcapital-intensive sectors such as mineral extraction, engineering and rail-way construction. As in Europe, this resulted in the emergence of hugecartels which relied heavily on the civil bureaucracy for subsidies, favour-able lending terms and strategic planning and were, as a result, closelyaffiliated to the economic infrastructure of the state. In the militarisedenvironment of late nineteenth-century Europe, however, there existed anobvious geopolitical aspect to this form of industrialisation. The defensiveprotectionism of Turkish industrial-capitalism during the 1930s had nosuch facet. As a result, emergent manufacturers, mostly from westernAnatolia, remained, in the absence of significant international links, author-itatively connected to the nationalist ideology and political infrastructureof the state bureaucracy.

As Mann points out, however, the long-term maintenance of suchcentralised power is extremely difficult to effect. Civil groups will, particu-larly through inherently diffuse networks of economic power, tend to builddecentralised organisational linkages beyond the control of even authori-tarian levels of state infrastructure. During the inter-war period, manylarge-estate-farmers from western Anatolia became immensely wealthyand began to invest in urban centres. In doing so, they formed collectivenetworks of power with occupational and professional groups originallydeveloped by the state to support their bureaucracy’s administration of theperiphery. This eventually became the basis for integration with theindustrial elite of western Anatolian cities. In keeping with Mann’s accountof European industrial-capitalist nationalism, this integrated elite alsobegan to press for greater political representation within the centre, a


decrease in military expenditure in favour of large-scale, state-led, infra-structural enterprises, restraints upon the ever-growing bureaucracy’setatist controls and, primarily perhaps, greater international connections.Unlike in much of early industrialising Europe, however, the subsequentgrowth in the state’s civilian functions was not at the expense of local andregional identities.

As in Russia and Austria, the continuing economic power of the agrarianelite and their opposition to liberalising land reforms in Turkey tended toincrease social instability and obstruct territorial cohesion. The result wasthat the extensive narrowing of the rural/urban divide, which Mann argueswas so indicative of early industrial-capitalist development, failed to occurin these countries. Rather than the fairly evenly diffused, commercialisedcivil societies, which Mann identifies in some late developers (such asSweden and Japan), capitalist growth did not lead to a reduction inprovincial diversity. In Turkey, this was exacerbated by the 1929 crash whichended the western Anatolian peasantry’s partial marketisation, widenedsocial stratification within the agrarian sector and further enhanced thepower of conservative large-estate interests. Thus, as in Mann’s character-isation of Austria and Russia, Turkish smallholders did not becomeproletarianised and remained a huge (still more than 40 per cent of thepopulation in 1945) and disparate workforce with little class consciousness.Moreover, unlike much of western Europe where a collective sense ofcitizenship produced mass political parties which obliged states to incorpor-ate, however imperfectly, labour representation, Kemal’s regime made nosuch acknowledgement. Instead, the republican state pursued the Germanimperial model of maintaining old-regime rule through the partial incor-poration of the bourgeoisie. In all, the result was that neither within norbetween non-elite Turkish agriculture and the urban workforce did theredevelop political links that could cohere class sentiment.

So, rather than purely as a consequence of features within the relationsof production themselves, the emergence of class consciousness in Turkeywas primarily prevented by a combination of sectional and sectoral factionssimilar to those which Mann identifies as key features of European indus-trial relations. In the Turkish case, these were significantly compounded bythe persistence of three age-old and fundamentally non-economic cleav-ages – the divisions between the political centre and the periphery, betweenstate-affiliated and non-state-affiliated actors and between the differinginstitutions and development of eastern and western Anatolia. In bothTurkey and western Europe, industrial-capitalism created only the poten-tial for extensive, political and dialectical classes. Compartmentalisedperceptions of social unity, illustrated through Mann’s IOTA model, were,in both regions, rare. Neither produced extensively held notions of shared

Conclusion 175

‘identity’ nor of ‘opposition’ to other class interests. Similarly, these twocomponents seldom combined to produce a perceived ‘totality’ that definedclass members’ social situation, nor did they generally offer an ‘alternative’to existing power relations. In Turkey, as Mann concludes of Europe, classesdid not emerge as ‘pure’ features of modernity. Instead, they were dividedby other networks of social interaction, both from within the relations ofproduction and through the influence of non-economic forces. Thedifference in Turkey was that these non-economic forces had much greaterdivisive power.

Not least was the growing differential between western and easternAnatolia – especially the predominately Kurdish speaking south-east. Asnoted in Chapter 4, the peculiar artificiality of this area’s border delimita-tion, its topography and its intensively localised culture made it particularlyresistant to the political infrastructure of the centre. The result was thatindustrial-capitalism had little impact on the regions’s local elites whocontinued, by and large, to maintain their position through a combinationof traditional political power structures and corporatist links with the state.During the single-party period, the debilitating effects of the Sheikh Saidrebellion and an extensive programme of state investment in the largeagricultural estates of the Aegean and Mediterranean seaboards hadexacerbated the west/east division still further. The result was that theemergence of industrial-capitalist nationalism failed to follow the moreinternationalist outlook of Sweden, Japan and the early developers. Onlywithin the economic networks of the western Anatolian integrated elite didsuch geopolitical concerns appear with any significant organisationalpower. Since, as Mann notes, industrial-capitalist advance tends toempower the forces of political representation, this social group was,following its rise during the Second World War, successful in securing aprocess of political decentralisation by primarily citing the importance ofjoining the international order which emerged from Bretton Woods in1944.

In other ways, however, industrial-capitalism continued to be deter-mined by the intra-state focus of the previous militarist phase therebyintensifying Turkey’s internal divisions. For much of the old regime ofbureaucrats and soldiers who had been forced to share power with theeconomic technocrats of the post-war middle-class governments, the neworder was a heretical departure from the statist nationalism of Kemalistauthoritarian dogma. For others, though, the advent of competitive politicsand the arrival of the capitalist classes within the government of therepublic was a natural continuation of Kemal’s pro-Western vision. Thiscleavage ran right through the old regime. For the most part, the civilbureaucracy represented the former. They were largely divided between


nationalist or pan-nationalist semi-religious authoritarianism – a partialreflection of Mann’s characterisation of European state-affiliated rightism– and a more left-wing, reformist, yet equally anti-democratic, statism. Themilitary, on the other hand, represented a wider spread of opinion, beingideologically unified only by a shared determination to improve their eco-nomic position. Within the officer corps, some welcomed the new bourgeoisorder as a means of organisationally outflanking leftist sentiment, ‘national-ising’ the state in a less coercive, ‘Western’ manner and endearing therepublic to financial multilaterals and their colleagues in NATO. Others,however, saw the presence of conservative farmers in government as anaffront to their self-designated role as guardians of Kemalist reformism.

THE MILITARY/INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX

Parallels can be drawn between these fissures and Mann’s account of theend of old-regime preponderance following the First World War. He arguesthat, in countries which had institutionalised more authoritarian versionsof industrial-capitalist nationalism, the pressure of growing civil demandsfor greater political representation, accentuated by the increasing organi-sational strength of decentralised economic networks, split the ruling classesinto two factions – one conservatively committed to constitutional reform,the other advocating an anti-democratic, ‘modernist’ nationalism. In Turkey,a similar process materialised. The integrated elite and their merchant andprofessional affiliates had been successful in considerably diminishing theeconomic role and status of the old-regime bureaucracy. In doing so,though, they radicalised rightist sentiment inside sections of the armedforces, especially within the field ranks of the officer corps. Thus, whatMann terms ‘aggressive’ modernist nationalism (or, in other words, chauvin-ist, xenophobic and militarist notions of cultural identity) appeared inTurkey in state-careerist sectors of the military and civil bureaucracy insimilar ways to Europe. Moreover, as in Western versions of modernistnationalism, the intensity of such views declined as seniority within thebureaucratic hierarchy increased. In both regions the staff commanders ofthe armed forces, for instance, tended to be both more cautious in geo-political terms and not so inclined towards radical reformism as less secureand more state-sensitive mid-ranking officers or bureaucrats.

Indeed, the Turkish high command’s long-established propensity forcentrist conservatism fitted well with the interests of the integrated eco-nomic elite. For their part, the industrialists were, by the late 1950s, muchless reliant on provincial links and were therefore largely indifferent to thebourgeois government’s policy of pandering to the peasantry in order to

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secure re-election. The result was a divergence between political andeconomic elite networks and a growing connection between industrial-capitalist interests and a military elite keen to position themselves withinthe new bourgeois order. In this sense, what emerged from the 1960 coupwas an uneasy accommodation between the generals and the capitalist elite.Through considerable investments in the private sector and an increasingrole in publicly funded economic projects, the military elite were at the heartof what turned out to be record growth rates during the 1960s. Much ofthe urban proletariat was, however, excluded from this period of prosperityand burgeoning leftist disorder prompted a number of authoritarianrevisions to the 1961 constitution and an ever-closer relationship betweenthe state and extreme right-wing activists.

This prevented the decline in ‘aggressive’ modernist nationalismapparent in most of Europe in the post-war era and maintained the militaryelite’s close involvement in civil politics. Moreover, the inability of bothbureaucratic and class rule to extend social citizenship and economicdevelopment to much of eastern Anatolia meant that the diminution inmilitarism, which Mann argues tends to accompany areas of uniformlyorganised capitalist exchange, also failed to occur in Turkey. Instead, the1960s led to a further institutionalisation of aggressive notions of modernistnational identity. Through a collusive arrangement with the integrated eco-nomic elite, the Turkish armed forces perpetuated a super-strong executivein the tradition of Ottoman monarchic office and, by continuing to represslabour organisation and favour quasi-fascist groups, ensured that noliberalising challenge could emerge with sufficient power to threaten theirrole as self-appointed and sole guardians of the ‘organic’ nation. Whilemost European states experienced a considerable decline in domesticrepression levels in the post-war era, militarised networks of political andideological power within the Turkish state elite endured by accommodat-ing dominant economic class ascendancy and institutionalising a semi-authoritarian, if highly volatile, version of what Mann identifies as aBismarckian strategy of ‘negative integration’. This afforded a controlledlevel of political expression for the emerging capitalist classes whilemaintaining a permanent position for military interests within the heart ofgovernment.

While liberal and totalitarian regimes tend to suffer from only limitedlevels of social conflict, being respectively inclusive and repressive enoughto obviate rebellion, semi-authoritarian forms of incorporation are likelyto be particularly prone to instability. This is because they are usually suffi-ciently exclusive to motivate challenges, but not despotic enough to suppresspower-contentious organisations. By the end of the 1970s, it became clearin Turkey that a regime based on semi-authoritarian incorporation could


not maintain organisational control over military power networks nowmuch more decentralised, polarised by growing levels of violence and over-laid with ethnic and religious cleavages. As Islamist, rightist and left-wingorganisations led an increasingly militarised challenge to the pro-Westerncapitalist order, the state began to lose organisational control over politicalpower networks and to become isolated, producing a social vacuum whichdestabilised constitutional politics and consolidated bourgeois support forthe Turkish armed forces. When proletariat unrest took on internationaldimensions (particularly through Iranian and Soviet connections), whichappeared to jeopardise the elite’s geopolitical and economic alignment withthe West, the high command, following a number of key meetings withsenior US agents, stepped in.

In this sense, the industrial/military cabal which assumed power in 1980did not, as some commentators have claimed, represent a return of the oldregime akin to the intervention of 1960. Instead, the post-1980 adminis-tration was based on a new elite coalition born of the high command’sposition in the domestic and global economy. This political manifestationhad two primary sources of social power. First, in economic terms, anaccommodation had been reached between emergent capitalism and theold regime in which military power filled the organisational space vacatedby the collapse of both the civil bureaucracy and elected officialdomthereby becoming, in the minds of much of the bourgeoisie, the only basisfor a politically stable future. This was supported by a shared commitmentto a root-and-branch revision of the economy. IMF-based structural adjust-ments were made to the exchange rate, the trading regime, monetarycontrols, public spending and debt management. In response, the inter-national banks delivered a financial package of hitherto unprecedentedsize. Thus, coupled with Turkey’s almost unrivalled arms purchasingprogramme, the obfuscatory Defence Industry Support Fund and theenormous military assistance foundations, the high command was able toassume a new position at the centre of Turkey’s economy.

Second, in ideological terms, a role had been found for the ‘aggressive’nationalism of the junior field ranks by institutionalising, in effect, twosystems of government. Outside south-east Anatolia, the military-industrialcomplex consolidated their political position by blending elements of whatMann calls the ‘capitalist-liberal’ regime strategy with the abiding semi-authoritarian techniques of incorporation still prevalent from the 1960s.As such, the vigorous promotion of free-market mercantilism was com-bined with moderately repressive measures against labour organisationsand leftist groups. Legitimised through the pro-Western, classless ideologyof Kemalism and the catch-all defence of national security and solidifiedby the growing embourgeoisment of the military elite, this combined

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structure became increasingly firmly embedded throughout the 1980s and1990s. In economic terms, a similar policy was pursued in the south-eastthrough numerous state-led attempts to extend capitalist links into theregion and encourage private capital – most notably through the huge GAPinitiative. However, the failure of this project to institutionalise territoriallyuniform free-market capitalism surrendered centralised control over net-works of political power to ‘aggressive’ nationalists within the militaryhierarchy. The result was that over much of the ten predominantly Kurdish-speaking provinces of the south-east, a more autocratic regime emerged.Emergency legislation empowered an almost exclusively military system ofgovernance in which nominally democratic institutions were renderedimpotent by severe levels of domestic repression legitimised by threats tonational security. Highly reformist assimilatory measures undertaken byfield officers and irregular paramilitaries producing a regime quite differentfrom the core areas of western Anatolia where the state deployed less coer-cive measures aimed at fragmenting potential class unity and promotingcorporate interests. In this way, semi-authoritarian incorporation gave wayto, what Mann terms, an ‘autocratic militarist’ regime in the south-east.The 1980 intervention’s institutionalisation of such a bifurcated system ofgovernment thus represented, on the one hand, a means of managing ideo-logical radicalism within the field ranks and, on the other, a way of reinforc-ing a formalised collaboration between elite capital and high commandconservatism.

In conclusion, this text has, in keeping with Mann’s macro-historicalrubric outlined in Chapter 1, presented an account of large-scale changein Ottoman/Turkish development with five primary objectives. First, as set out in the opening section of this chapter, it has utilised an analysis ofthe past to consider more general propositions about social power andstate–civil relations. Second, through the use of variant historical sources,it has constructed a causal analysis of the conditions which have given rise to modern institutions. Key areas of change have been summarisedunder the four headings above. Third, it has sought to understand thevariation between Turkish and European social dynamics. A comparativeanalysis of this kind refines our understanding of large-scale change in theeastern Mediterranean in three ways. First, in highlighting the common-alities which both regions possess, light can be cast on their shared socio-historical heritage. To this effect, the text has applied Mann’s universaltheory of power organisation and contention in order to elucidate social‘crystallisations’ such as nationalism, secularism, class and militarism andeconomic development which are of general relevance. Second, by lookingat the significant areas of difference between the two evolutionary patterns,a greater understanding of Turkish specificity can be obtained. Not least


among these has been the rapidity of social change and the persistence ofsocial cleavages built around ethnicity, religiosity and social status. Third,in bringing a new case to Mann’s account of historical continuity, a refinedcomprehension of social power can be sought which better explains Turkishpatterns of organisational development. Significant points of comparativecontinuity and change within these three areas have also been highlightedin the preceding sections of this chapter.

The fourth of the text’s primary objectives has been to underlineimportant areas of similarity and difference between Western and Easterntrajectories. As such, it has attempted to rectify an omission in Mann’saccount and a Euro-centrism within macro-historical sociology generally.The fact that he fails to analyse both the differing imperial heritage of Westand East and their contrasting institutionalisation of phenomena such assecularism, state centralisation and capitalism means that comparativeaspects to his treatment of European social change are lost. Furthermore,he misses the opportunity to vary his historiographical argument withexamples which might have reinforced his thesis on the specificity of north-west European development. This is a pity as a greater degree of contactwith non-Western cases would have brought greater explanatory value toMann’s more general account of the emergence of the early nation-states.It would also have further allowed him to test his theoretical rubric and thusstrengthen his claim upon general applicability. Nonetheless, Mann’sanalysis of European development offers the student of Middle Easternhistory a useful scholarly tool. By selecting areas of both his theoretical andhistoriographic explication, insights into the emergence of Ottoman andTurkish social institutions can be obtained and, in the fifth and last of thetext’s objectives, Mann’s contribution to historical sociology can be assessed.

In particular, this application of a leading approach within macro-historical sociology offers support for the discipline as a whole. As withMann’s work, the argument presented above seeks to adopt a holisticperspective without suggesting events have a teleological inevitability tothem. Actors and their motives are linked to historical occurrences andprocesses both wittingly and as a result of unintended causes and con-sequences. Rather than referring to actors and events simply in terms offunctional structures or role differentiation, this macro-historical approachemphasises the specific cultural and temporal context in which, andthrough which, phenomena were reported. In this sense, both this text andMann’s encyclopaedic analysis attempt to balance theoretical generalityand social context. Or, put another way, each adopts a structured com-bination of nomothetic sociology and idiographic historiography in orderto offer an explanatory account of variance and continuity within a deliber-ate and explicit analytical framework.

Conclusion 181

In all, it is hoped that this account can be seen as part of a broader returnto a more ambitious approach to world issues apparent during the lastfifteen or so years. For if, as Mann points out, ‘we do not think in macro-sociological terms, then our empirical work will produce the conventionaltheories of own socialisation experiences’.2

NOTES

1. M. Mann, The Sources of Social Power, Vol. 1 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press,1986), p. 250.

2. M. Mann, ‘In Praise of Macro-Sociology’, British Journal of Sociology, 45 (1994), pp. 46–7.


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AMAA (Army Mutual AssistanceAssociation) (Ordu Yardımlasma Kurumu),137, 147

Abadan, N., 136Abbasids, 66Abduh, Muhammed, 67–8, 83Abdul Aziz, Sultan, 45Abdul Hamid, 45–6, 68, 72, 74Abdul Mecid, caliph, 79Abdul Qadyr, Sheikh, 76–7Abdullah, Tatarcik, 41Adalet Partisi (Justice Party) see JPAdana, 108Aegean region, 98, 176Al-Afghani, Jamal al-Din, 67, 83Agaogulları, Mehmet, 114Agri, 101Agricultural Bank (Ziraat Bankası), 98Agriculture, Ministry of, 98Ahmad, Feroz, 46, 72, 75, 140Ahmed III, Sultan, 67Akçura, Yusuf, 68–9, 73, 83, 114Al- for names beginning al- see following

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85, 101, 102, 104, 105, 108, 113, 115,118, 127, 141, 148, 149, 173, 174, 175,176, 178, 179, 180

Anavatan Partisi (Motherhood Party) see MPAnderson, Perry, 17, 18, 19, 20Ankara, 77, 78, 79, 105, 108, 141, 148,

150Antalya, 77Anti-Terror Law (1991), 148Al-Aqsar, 62Arabic, 17, 64, 69, 70, 74, 85, 113Arabs, 17, 19, 73, 74, 76Armenians, 71, 73, 76, 77Army Mutual Assistance Association (Ordu

Yardımlasma Kurumu) see AMAA

Atatug, Halit Ziya, 114Atatürk see Kemal, Mustafa (Atatürk)Atatürkist Society, 115Atlantic seaboard, 64Austria, 66, 72, 96, 98, 103, 174, 175Austria-Hungary, 130Aydınlık (Enlightenment), 110

Baldus, Bernd, 21Balkans, 72, 73, 78Baltic seaboard, 64Barkey, Henri, 145Barzani, Mullah, 110Basiret (Insight), 45Berberoglu, B., 107Berkes, Niyazi, 68Berlin, Treaty of (1878), 44Bilkent University, 150Birand, Mehmet Ali, 133Birtek, Farük, 98Bismarck, Otto von, 131, 138, 151, 178Blalock, Hubert, 21Bolivia, 137Bosnia-Herzegovina, 72Bozkurt (Grey Wolf), 114Bretton Woods, 176Britain, 10, 66, 70, 84, 94, 95, 96, 128 see also

EnglandBruinessen, Martin Van, 77Bryant, J., 22Büyük Dogu (The Great East), 114Byzantium, 18

CUP (Committee of Union and Progress),72, 73, 74–5, 76, 79, 81, 83, 84

Cairo, 68Carlowitz, 40Carolingian Franks, 19Carr, E. H., 14Catholics/Catholicism, 65, 96Caucasus, 49Central Asia, 115Central Intelligence Agency, 141Chartist movement, 95

Index

China, 10, 19Christianity, 17, 18–19, 32, 62, 63, 83, 169

see also ChurchChurch, 62–3, 64–5, 83, 167, 169, 170 see

also Christianity; Orthodox ChurchÇiller, Tansu, 150Cizre-Sakallıoglu, Umit, 113Committee of Union and Progress see CUPComte, Auguste, 68Confederation of Revolutionary Trade

Unions (Devrimci I.sçi Sendikaları

Konfederasyonu) see DI.SK

Confederation of Turkish Labour Unions(Türk-I

.s), 109, 137, 141, 144

Confucianism, 17Constitution: 1876, 71, 72; 1909, 74; 1961,

135, 138, 151, 178; 1982, 144–5, 153Counter-Reformation, 64Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi (Republican People’s

Party) see RPPCumhuriyetçi Köylü Millet Partisi (Republican

Peasant National Party) see RPNPCyprus, 136, 139, 151

DISF (Defence Industry Support Fund), 147,153, 179

DI.SK (Devrimci I

.sçi Sendikaları Konfederasyonu)

(Confederation of Revolutionary TradeUnions), 138, 141, 144

DP (Demokrat Parti) (Democratic Party), 93,103, 105–6, 107–8, 109, 110, 111, 112,113, 114, 134, 135, 137

Dahl, Robert, 8Damad Ferid Pasha, 76Darülfünun, 70, 76Defence Industry Support Fund see DISFDefence Ministry, 147Demirel, Süleyman, 136, 138, 141, 142, 146,

147, 150, 152Demokrat Parti (Democratic Party) see DPDepartment of Religious Affairs see Religious

Affairs: Department ofDersim, 101, 110Descartes, René, 67Dev Genc (Türkiye Deverimci Genclik Federasyonu)

(Federation of Revolutionary Youth inTurkey), 137, 141

Devrim, 135Devrimci I

.sçi Sendikaları Konfederasyonu

(Confederation of Revolutionary TradeUnions) see DI

.SK

Diocletian, 38Directorate of Religious Affairs see Religious

Affairs: Directorate ofDiyarbakır, 110Dogru Yol Partisi (True Path Party) see TPPDulles, John Foster, 106Durkheim, Émile, 9, 35, 69

East, the, 181Eastern Church, 18Ecevit, Bülent, 138, 140, 141, 142Education Ministry, 76, 149Eisenstadt, S., 44El Salvador, 151Emin, Ahmed, 75Engels, Friedrich, 94, 97England, 22, 118, 127 see also BritainEnlightenment, 84Entente, 74, 76Enver Pasha, 75, 78, 81Erbakan, Necmettin, 139, 142, 150Erogul, Cem, 103–4Erzerum, 77Euphrates basin, 9Europe: conclusions comparing Turkey with,

168, 169, 170, 172, 173, 174, 175–6, 178;Mann’s analysis of, 2, 15–24, 62–6, 93–7,116, 118, 127–33, 167, 168, 169, 171,181; brief mentions, 42, 49, 85, 101, 102;see also names of countries

Evren, General Kenan, 141, 142, 143, 145,146

Federation of Revolutionary Youth in Turkey(Türkiye Deverimci Genclik Federasyonu – DevGenc), 137, 141

Findley, Carter, 71First World War (1914–18), 60, 74–5, 76, 78,

84, 110, 114, 116, 131, 152, 177Five Year Plans, 100, 102, 135Forum, 110Fox, Colonel, 133France, 10, 66, 70, 96, 118, 130Franks, 19Free Republican Party (Serbest Cumhuriyet

Firkası), 100French Revolution, 66, 84, 172Froude, J., 22Frey, Frederick, 100Fuller, Graeme, 145

GAP (South-East Anatolian DevelopmentProject) (Güney Dogu Anadolu Projesi), 153,180

Galileo, 67Genc Kalemler (Young Pens), 70Germany, 10, 14, 75, 76, 96, 98, 101, 102,

130–31, 138, 139, 151, 175Gershenkron, 97, 102Giddens, Anthony, 9Gökalp, Ziya, 69, 70, 73, 76, 81, 82, 83, 114Goldthorpe, John, 22Great East, The (Büyük Dogu), 114Great Powers, 76, 129Greeks, 77, 98Gregorian calendar, 81


Gromyko, Foreign Minister, 136Guevara, Ché, 137Gülhane Rescript (1839), 43Güney Dogu Anadolu Projesi (South-East

Anatolian Development Project) see GAPGürsel, General, 134, 135, 152

Habsburgs, 37Hacova, 38Hakkı, I

.smail, 76

Haldon, John, 20Halk Firkası (People’s Party), 79Halkçı Parti (Populist Party) (PP), 147Hall, John, 9Halpern, Manfred, 134Harris, George, 139Hart, Nicky, 21Hayrullah Efendi, 45Hechter, M., 20–21Heper, Metin, 112, 116Hershlag, Zvi, 99Higher Education Council (Yuksek Ögretim

Kurulu) see YÖKHigher Education Law (1981), 144Higher Education Youth Association (Yüksek

Tahsil Genclik Dernegi), 111Hijaz, the, 49, 62Hinduism, 17Hintze, Otto, 11Hirsch, Abraham, 103Hirsch, Eva, 103Holy Lands, 62Hungary, 131

IBRD (International Bank forReconstruction and Development) (nowWorld Bank), 107, 108 see also World Bank

IMF (International Monetary Fund), 108,141, 142, 143, 179

Ibn Khaldoun, Abdul Rahman, 33, 66I.leri Yurt (Future Homeland), 110

I.nalcık, Halil, 34–5

Indo-China, 137Industrial Development Bank, 108Industrial Revolution, 20Information Ministry, 149I.nönü, I

.smet, 103, 104, 136, 138

Interior, Ministry of, 79International Bank for Reconstruction and

Development see IBRDInternational League of Human Rights,

144International Monetary Fund see IMFIran, 150, 179Iraq, 110, 149, 150Islam, 2, 17–18, 29, 30, 31, 32, 35, 47, 61,

63, 67, 68, 69, 77, 81, 83, 105, 113, 114,139, 149, 171 see also Islamism/Islamists

Islamism/Islamists, 79, 113, 114, 119, 142,147, 148, 149–50, 151, 179

Israel, 150Istanbul, 38, 39, 62, 70, 72, 73, 77, 78, 85,

108, 111, 138, 141, 171, 172, 173Istanbul Chamber of Commerce, 109Istanbul University, 135Italy, 72, 77, 78, 131Izmir, 77, 108, 149

JP (Justice Party) (Adalet Partisi), 136, 137,138, 139, 141, 142–3, 147, 152

Japan, 10, 14, 98, 130, 132, 174, 175, 176Jemal Pasha, 75Johnson, President, 136Jouvenel, Bertrand de, 7, 8Justice, Ministry of, 76Justice Party (Adalet Partisi) see JP

Al-Ka’aba, 62Kadro, 100Kaplan, Abraham, 21Karl, T. L., 150–51Kayalı, Hasan, 74Karpat, Kemal, 107, 110, 111Kautsky, 95Kemal, Mustafa (Atatürk), 2, 3, 72, 77, 78,

79–82, 100, 103, 109, 111, 114, 118, 138,143, 148, 152, 154, 173, 175

Kemal, Namik, 45–6Kemalism, 82, 83–4, 85, 98, 102, 111, 112,

113, 114, 115, 119, 127, 134, 137, 139,143, 151, 152, 176, 177, 179

Keyder, Çaglar, 71, 98, 101, 118Khaldoun, Abdul Rahman Ibn, 33, 66Kiser, E., 20–21Koç, Vehbi, 146Kocaeli, 138Kochu Bey, 67Korea, 106Korutürk, Fahri, 139Küçük Kaynarca, 40Kurdish language, 79, 104, 148Kurdish Workers’ Party (Partiya Karkareni

Kürdistan) see PKKKurdistan, 77Kurds, 74, 76–7, 79, 80, 101, 108, 110, 115,

118, 136, 138, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144,145, 148, 151, 152–3, 153–4, 176, 180

Land Code (1858), 43Latin America, 109Latin script, 81Lausanne, 79, 99, 102Law for the Maintenance of Order, 80Law of Associations, 110Lenski, G., 12–13, 21Leontief, Wassily, 21

Index 223

LePlay, Frederic, 68Levant, the, 62Levi, Margaret, 14, 165Lewis, Bernard, 67, 114Libya, 72, 150Lijphart, Arend, 24Lufti Pasha, 66Luther, Martin, 64

MIT (National Intelligence Organisation)(Milli I

.stihbarat Teskilatı), 136

MP (Motherland Party (Anavatan Partisi), 147,148–9, 150

McDowall, David, 101, 144MacKenzie, Kenneth, 141Al-Madina, 62Manastir, 72Mann, Michael: and conclusions reached by

this study, 3–4, 165, 166, 167–8, 169,170, 171, 172, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178,179, 180, 181, 182; and economics ofliberalization, 3, 93–7, 97–8, 116, 117,118, 119, 174, 175, 176, 177; andideology of modernism, 2, 60–66, 69, 70,71, 72, 76, 83, 84, 171, 172; andmilitary/industrial complex, 3, 127–33,138, 139, 143, 148, 151, 152, 153, 177,178, 179, 180; and politics of empire, 2,29, 30, 31, 32, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40,41, 42, 44, 47–8, 49, 51, 52, 167–8, 169,170; and social power and historicalsociology, 1–2, 5–27; and structure of thisstudy, 1–4

Maoism, 137, 152Mardin, Serif, 31, 82Marmara, 108Marx, Karl, 9, 94, 95Marxism, 5, 11, 111, 130; Marxism-

Leninism, 141Mayan development, 17Mechveret (Consultation), 68Mediterranean region, 64, 167, 176, 180Mehmed II, 33Mehmed V, 72Mektabi Mülkiye, 73Mektebi Tibbiyeri Askeriye (Military Medical

School), 47Menderes, Adnan, 105, 111, 113, 114, 135Merovingian Franks, 19Mesopotamia, 1, 15, 16, 166Middle East, 134, 181Military Medical School (Mektebi Tibbiyeri

Askeriye), 47Mill, John Stuart, 10, 16Milli Demokratik Devrim (National Democratic

Movement) see NDMMilli Güvenlik Kurulu (National Security

Council) see NSC

Milli I.stihbarat Teskilatı (MIT) (National

Intelligence Organisation), 136Milli Selamet Partisi (National Salvation Party)

see NSPMilliyet Haraket Partisi (National Action Party)

see NAPMilliyetçi Demokrasi Partisi (Nationalist

Democracy Party) (NDP), 147Mills, C. Wright, 23Ministries see name of MinistryMithraism, 34Mizan (Balance), 68Moore, Barrington, 9, 10, 11, 13, 78Moscow, 100Mosul, 36Motherland Party (Anavatan Partisi) see MPMouzelis, Nicos, 23Mudros armistice (1918), 76Muller, Mark, 151Murad Bey, 68Murphey, Rhoads, 36Müteferrika, I

.brahim, 67, 69–70

NAP (National Action Party) (Milliyet HareketPartisi), 139, 140, 141, 144, 147, 149, 152

NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organisation),136, 146, 150, 151, 177

NDM (National Democratic Movement)(Milli Demokratik Devrim), 137, 138

NDP (Nationalist Democracy Party)(Milliyetçi Demokrasi Partisi), 147

NSC (National Security Council) (MilliGüvenlik Kurulu), 135, 137, 145, 146 (fig.3),147

NSP (National Salvation Party) (Milli SeametPartisi), 139, 142, 149, 150

Napoleonic Wars, 66Naqshbandiya, 44, 148National Action Party (Milliyet Haraket Partisi)

see NAPNational Assembly, 77, 81, 100National Democratic Movement (Milli

Demokratik Devrim) see NDMNational Intelligence Organisation (Milli

I.stihbarat Teskilatı) (MIT), 136

National Salvation Party (Milli Selamet Partisi)see NSP

National Security Council (Milli GüvenlikKurulu) see NSC

Nationalist Democracy Party (MilliyetçiDemokrasi Partisi) (NDP), 147

Native Americans, 128Nazis/Nazism, 102, 132, 135Neyzi, Nezih, 109Nihri, 44Nile system, 17North Atlantic Treaty Organisation see

NATO


Nur, Riza, 114Nurcular, 113Nursi, Saïd, 113

OEEC (Organisation for EuropeanEconomic Development), 108

Öcalan, Abdullah, 141Ordu Yardımlas Kurumu (Army Mutual

Assistance Association) see AMAAOrthodox Church, 18, 84Osmanlı I

.ttıhat ve Tarakkı Cemiyetti see Young

TurksOttoman Empire, 2, 17–18, 29–59, 60–61,

63, 64, 66–78, 82, 84–5, 166–7, 168–71,171–3, 181

Ottoman Society of Union and Progress seeYoung Turks

Özall, Turgut, 142, 146, 147, 148–9Özbudun, Ergun, 67, 78, 104Özgürlük Yolu (The Road to Freedom), 141

PDA see Public Debt AdministrationPKK (Kurdish Workers’ Party) (Partiya

Karkareni Kürdistan), 3, 141, 143, 144, 148,150, 153

PP (Populist Party) (Halkçı Parti), 147Papacy, 62, 169, 171Paris, 67, 68, 76Paris Commune, 130Paris peace settlement (1919), 131Parsons, Talcott, 7, 12, 13, 16Partiya Karkareni Kurdistan (Kurdish Workers’

Party) see PKKPassarovitz, 40Payaslioglu, Arif, 112Pentagon, 150Peoples Party (Halk Firkası), 79Persian, 64, 69, 70, 85Poitiers, 17Polatkan, Finance Minister, 135Politburo, 77Populist Party (Halkçı Parti) (PP), 147Porte, the, 2, 40, 72, 172Progressive Republican Party (Terraki-perver

Cumhuriyet Firkası), 79Protestantism, 18, 64, 65Province Law (1864), 43Prussia, 66, 98Public Debt Administration (PDA), 46, 74Public Works, Ministry of, 74

Qadaffi, Muammar, 150Qadiriya, 44

RPNP (Republican Peasant National Party)(Cumhuriyetçi Köylü Millet Partisi), 135, 139

RPP (Republican People’s Party) (CumhuriyetHalk Partisi), 103, 104, 105, 106, 109, 110,

111, 113, 114, 116–17, 118, 135, 136,137, 138, 139, 140, 141, 142, 152

Refah Partisi (Welfare Party) (WP), 150Reform Edict (1856), 43Religious Affairs: Department of, 114;

Directorate of, 82–3; Ministry, 149Republican Peasant National Party

(Cumhuriyetçi Köylü Millet Partisi) see RPNPRepublican People’s Party (Cumhuriyet Halk

Partisi) see RPPRibbentrop, Foreign Minister, 114Riza, Ahmet, 68, 73Road to Freedom, The (Özgürlük Yolu), 141Rogers, General, 146Rome/Roman Empire, 1, 2, 15, 17, 18, 31,

32, 34, 35, 38, 47–8, 49, 60, 62, 166, 168,169, 170

Roth, G., 131Rumelia, 18, 72Runciman, W. G., 11, 12, 13, 14, 15–16Russell, Bertrand, 5, 6Russia, 10, 41, 73, 98, 103, 114, 129, 153,

174, 175 see also Soviet UnionRussian émigrés, 110Rustow, Dankwart, 78, 113, 114

SDPP (Social Democrat Populist Party)(Sosyal Demokrat Halçı Parti), 147

Sabahaddin, Prince, 68, 73Sack, Robert David, 8Sahinkaya, General, 146Said, Sheikh, 79, 176Salonika, 72Salt, Jeremy, 150Sanderson, Stephen, 13Sargon, 165Second World War, 3, 93, 99, 103, 110, 114,

118, 167, 176Selim I, 30Selim III, 41, 42, 67, 70Serbest Cumhuriyet Firkası (Free Republican

Party), 100Sevket, Mahmud, 72, 77, 138, 143, 152Sèvres, 77Sharia, 17, 33, 36, 47, 68, 76, 171Skocpol, Theda, 10–11, 13, 14, 16, 165Social Democrat Populist Party (Sosyal

Demokrat Halçı Parti) (SDPP), 147Social Democratic party (Germany), 131Society for the Defence of the Rights of

Eastern Anatolia, 77South-East Anatolian Development Project

(Güney Dogu Anadolu Projesi) see GAPSoviet Union, 100, 104, 111, 115, 136, 179Spain, 19Spencer, Herbert, 2, 35Stalin, Joseph, 111State Planning Organisation, 135

Index 225

State Supervisory Council, 145Sufis, 44, 113, 148Sugar, Peter, 43Sumer, 19Sunar, I

.lkay, 46, 112

Sunay, General, 137, 138, 139, 152Sung dynasty, 19Sunnis, 30, 140Sweden, 98, 174, 175, 176Swiss legal code, 81Syria, 144Szyliowicz, Joseph, 73

TCP (Turkish Communist Party (TürkiyeKomünist Partisi), 110–11

TPP (True Path Party) (Dogru Yol Partisi), 147,150

Talat Pasha, 75Tanzimat, 42, 43, 44, 76, 104Third Army Corps, 72Thrace, 78Ticaniya, 113Tilly, 95Toprak, Binnaz, 113Tours, 17Trade Union Act (1947), 109Treason Laws, 79True Path Party (Dogru Yol Partisi) see TPPTuran, I

.lter, 81

Türk Barisseverler Cemiyeti (Turkish Associationof Peace-Lovers), 111

Türk-I.s (Confederation of Turkish Labour

Unions), 109, 137, 141, 144Türk Solu (Turkish Left), 135Türkes, Colonel Alparslan, 115, 134, 135,

136, 139–40, 142Turkey: conclusions of study, 3–4, 165, 167,

173–81; economics of liberalization, 3,93, 97–119, 174–7; ideology ofmodernism, 2, 78–82, 82–4, 85, 173–4;military/industrial complex, 3, 127,133–54, 177–80; nationalism ascendant,72–82; and structure of study, 1–4; see alsoOttoman Empire

Turkish Armed Services Internal Service Code, 133Turkish Association of Peace-Lovers (Türk

Barisseverler Cemiyeti), 111Turkish Communist Party (Türkiye Komünist

Partisi) (TCP), 110–11Turkish language, 42, 74, 145Türkiye Deverimci Genclik Federasyanu

(Federation of Revolutionary Youth inTurkey) see Dev Genc

Türkiye I.sçi Partisi (Workers Party of Turkey)

see WPTTürkiye Komünist Partisi (Turkish Communist

Party) (TCP), 110–11

Ubaidullah, 44, 73, 76Ulusu, 144United States, 14, 70, 96, 106, 107, 127, 128,

130, 136, 149, 150, 153, 179

Vaner, Semih, 138Vienna, 37, 40Viet Cong, 137Vikings, 19

WP (Welfare Party) (Refah Partisi), 150WPT (Workers Party of Turkey) (Türkiye I

.sçi

Partisi), 136, 141, 144Walate Me, 148War, Ministry of, 74War of Independence, 77, 78, 79, 152Washington, 146Weber, M., 9, 10, 14, 16, 17, 95Weiker, Walter, 134Weir, M., 14Welfare Party (Refah Partisi) (WP), 150Western Study Group, 150Wickham, Chris, 18–19, 20Workers Party of Turkey (Türkiye I

.sçi Partisi)

see WPTWorld Bank (formerly IBRD), 146 see also

IBRDWrong, Dennis, 7, 8

YÖK (Yuksek Ögretim Kurulu) (HigherEducation Council), 144, 147

Yegen, Mesut, 79Yerasimos, Stephane, 102Yılmaz, Mesut, 149Young Ottomans, 45, 50, 71, 72Young Pens (Genc Kalemler), 70Young Turks (Ottoman Society of Union

and Progress) (Osmanlı I.ttıhat ve Tarakhı),

47, 50, 66, 67, 68, 70, 71, 77, 82, 83Yuksek Ögretim Kurulu (Higher Education

Council) see YÖKYüksek Tahsil Genclik Dernagi (Higher

Education Youth Association), 111

Ziraat Bankası (Agricultural Bank), 98Ziya Pasha, 45Zorlu, Foreign Minister, 135Zurich, Treaty of (1960), 136


Documents

Jacoby T. Social Power and the Turkish State