Kinross’s biography of Atatürk is a tome I've been avoiding for the best part of thirty years. Lackadaisically, I suppose, but mostly it's been from mild trepidation. Not that I expected the book to be full of awkward truths, since it has a kind of authorised status here in Turkey. In spite of its hallowed subject, I’m pretty sure the Turkish translation would be uncensored. My fear is of joining the Atatürk cult, his gradually diminishing band of diehards.
As a foreigner – we Brits have to admit that we too are aliens – as a foreigner here in Turkey you’re not expected to be more than respectful towards the great man’s name, and the public commemorations him. Though his legacy isn’t universally approved, you won’t hear much open criticism. It’s more like the dissenters tend to groan ever so softly when someone gets up to make a speech about him and his philosophy. It’s drummed into kids at school, when every morning elementary pupils take turns in reciting his address to students. And even those Turks who still bother to oppose his nationalist, statist politics, tend to use Kemalist arguments when it suits them. Just the same as how many Brits who know Churchill wasn’t all good will grudgingly admit his useful role in wartime.
Lord Patrick of Kinross, then, a career diplomat who served a good deal of his time in Turkey, is as much apologist as historian; his book, indeed now nearing sixty years old, has become a feature of the scene. Having finally got the paperback in my hands, I read it almost as much as an historical document as a plain life.
The early chapters especially can’t shake off the laudatory style of homegrown accounts. As Atatürk grows up and becomes a soldier, Kinross plays Uncle Storyteller in a style more than just a little condescending. Though he's candid enough about Mustafa Kemal’s preference for prostitutes, his early drinking and gambling, and his generally rakish character, it’s all rather Boys Own stuff, and somewhat lacks the first hand, eyewitness testimony you would expect from a more penetrating study. Was MKA a Young Türk, for example? Well, yes, but we’re not actually told this in so many words, as though it’s all still rather hush-hush. Reading through the lines then, not only was he a young Young Turk, he was a hothead rebel amongst rebels. There, I’ve said it.
At times, I can’t help wondering to what extent Kinross was party to the truth, or was just an educated guesser. For example, as a junior staff officer in the Ottoman Army, MKA had to traverse Egypt disguised as an Arab. Just before crossing into Libya (to help organise resistance to an Italian invasion) he was detained by British troops. He was apparently let go after a short time, with Kinross implying the British secretly approved of his mission. As a diplomat, I suppose, the author would often have occasion to know more than the general public. So he leaves you to fill in the details for yourself. In this case, the year was 1912 and Britain had a military alliance with Italy. If the Brits really did let him go on his way, then it suggests they opposed their ally’s expansionist policy in the Mediterranean, which is not uncreditable. This is about the first of many intimations that portray MKA as a player in what the British called The Great Game.
Of course, as everyone knows, soon MKA would be fighting the Allies on the Gallipoli peninsula. First establishing his dissent at the way Enver, Talat and Cemal (the Young Türk triumvirate then at the helm of the Ottoman Empire) had dragged their country into the war on Germany’s side, Kinross shows plenty of enthusiasm for the successful defence he makes of its exposed western gateway, invaded by the French, Italian and British Empires. British incompetence and Turkish tenacity, backed up by MKA’s inspired insubordination, contained the bridgehead long enough to ensure the invaders moved elsewhere, and earned the young commander his crucial laurels. This much is orthodox history.
But after the war, in The Bandırma affair, when MKA again twice gives the British the slip, we are left to wonder if this wasn’t all somehow with the complicity of the troops on the ground, if not tacitly sanctioned by Whitehall. Although UK prime minister Lloyd George was to finally lose his job over backing the Greeks in what the Turks call their Independence War, Kinross’s portrayal of the British is rather like that of referees, forever cropping up on the pitch and blowing their whistles in Turkey’s favour. Even after the establishment of the Turkish Republic at Ankara, one British ambassador after another is happy to join MKA’s drinking and gambling cronies.
I would have liked a clearer picture of MKA’s linguistic abilities. We are told he had assistance with his French from various Turkish society ladies in Istanbul, and during a brief sojourn as a military attaché in Sofia. But during the negotiations with the French over the sovereignty of Hatay province, we are told he had the help of a translator. And when he reads HG Wells’s “Outline of History”, we learn he immediately calls for the book’s translation into Turkish. Does that mean he has read it in the original English?
His personal life is gone into in some detail, though no doors of skeleton-bearing cupboards are suddenly allowed to swing open. Close both to his mother and sister, we learn, the stepfather (like the real father, who died while he was a child) was a remote person who didn’t do much to help his advancement, or to form his character. The women he lived with openly were not allowed to interfere in his politics or his drinking habits, leading to separation; followed by divorce in one case and suicide in another. Names of casual partners are not given, though we are led to believe he sometimes carried on with married women, even the wives of foreign diplomats. His affairs seem to have been conducted above scandal. If this led him into a certain amount of manipulation, we’re not told. I get the feeling His Lordship the author simply preferred not to go into sordid details, though surely some penetration of the man’s psychology would have been appropriate, even sixty years ago.
Likewise his adoption of several children - with whom he liked to live in a semblance of family life - is reported in the ‘he was fond of the young’ vein. Atatürk saw himself as a teacher to his nation, often examining youngsters (and the not-so-young) in a brusque, dialectical manner. He seems to have taken some delight in weighing up young people’s worth, and on occasion would elevate some bright spark whose answers impressed him. The airwoman Sabiha Gökçen was one of his prodigies. We hear nothing about any illegitimate offspring he is alleged to have had.
Mostly Atatürk, as he became known when surnames were introduced, surrounded himself with good old boys. Of Celal Bayar, he’s reported to have remarked, “I gave him a bag of gold, and he gave me a bank.” İsmet İnönü, the comrade in arms he named as his successor, was too much of a family man to have been a close friend. MKA liked the company of rich, or at least of ambitious, businesses men – many of whom profited from accompanying him at the all-night sessions of rakı and mezzes that would eventually kill him. He would call famous musicians and poets to perform, often at short notice; on one occasion even Nazım Hikmet was summoned, though Lord Kinross fails to tell his readers that the poet was a communist who had recently been released as a political prisoner. He enjoyed his many processions around the country, where crowds greeted him as “Gazi” - a term actually meaning wounded veteran. In many ways, he was a fitting successor to the padishas who had ruled the empire. Some evenings he would slip out of his Dolmabahçe palace on the Bosphorous and only several hours later would his minders find him, drinking with some locals in a fisherman's tavern. In other words, MKA led the life of a dapper bachelor. As President of the Republic he created, he was its principal playboy.
On the political stage, named president for life, he took delight in winding up the clockwork dolls of democracy, in order to see them strutting about, knocking into each other and falling flat on their faces. His purpose – the transformation of a decrepit, superstitious empire into a lean & thriving modern democracy - was true and lasting reform. But as a human being, Kinross points out, he was a dictatorial, misogynistic dilettante. In doing away with the caliphate, he traduced Turkey’s standing in the Moslem world. In transforming the alphabet, he cut off the nation from its literary roots. In searching for the roots of Turkishness, he set scholars off on a scientific wild goose chase. Moreover, he didn’t seek rapprochement with the large Kurdish speaking minority, which has left deep scars on the nation’s identity. Again, you have to read between the lines to understand that Izmir was burned on his watch, that he was actually in the city while it was looted and torched, to say nothing of the fate of the people who lived there.
This biography, subtitled “The Rebith of a Nation”, not only leaves many questions unanswered, it fails to address key points. Published as it was sixty years ago (soon after a military coup in which the then prime minister was hanged), neither can it address the question of what MKA would have made of the modern Turkish state, or its current rulers. The progress I've seen in the twenty eight years I've lived here has been immense. Despite charges of political oppression and many unresolved issues regarding the position of women, the fourth estate and the Kurds, modernisation has been swift and mainly sure. The soaring economy that (despite what many foreigners and Turks alike believe) seems to rebound from every setback would surely have impressed the Gazi. While the role of religious values, an issue on which MKA was adamant, has repeatedly gnawed at the secular lives of a powerful, modernist, Westward-looking minority. As the Turks approach the centenary of the Republic Atatürk created for them, they are a nation still struggling to discover who they really are.