The World in World Wars: Experiences, Perceptions and Perspectives from Africa and Asia (Studies in Global Social History)

The World in World Wars

Studies in Global Social History Series Editor

Marcel van der Linden International Institute of Social History, Amsterdam, The Netherlands Editorial Board

Sven Beckert Harvard University, Cambridge, MA, USA

Philip Bonner University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg, South Africa

Dirk Hoerder University of Arizona, Phoenix, AR, USA

Chitra Joshi Indraprastha College, Delhi University, India

Amarjit Kaur University of New England, Armidale, Australia

Barbara Weinstein New York University, New York, NY, USA

VOLUME 5

The World in World Wars Experiences, Perceptions and Perspectives from Africa and Asia

Edited by

Heike Liebau, Katrin Bromber, Katharina Lange, Dyala Hamzah and Ravi Ahuja

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2010

On the cover: “Farewell” by Pran Nath Mago. Collection of the Fine Arts Museum, Punjabi University. Patiala, India (with friendly permission of the descendants). This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data The world in world wars : experiences, perceptions and perspectives from Africa and Asia / edited by Heike Liebau . . . [et al.]. p. cm. — (Studies in global social history ; v. 5) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-18545-6 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. World War, 1914–1918—Africa. 2. World War, 1914–1918—Asia. 3. World War, 1914–1918—Social aspects—Africa. 4. World War, 1914–1918— Social aspects—Asia. 5. World War, 1939–1945—Africa. 6. World War, 1939–1945—Asia. 7. World War, 1939–1945—Social aspects—Africa. 8. World War, 1939–1945—Social aspects—Asia. I. Liebau, Heike. D575.W67 2010 940.3’5—dc22 2010028662

ISSN 1874-6705 ISBN 978 90 04 18545 6 Copyright 2010 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints BRILL, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change.

CONTENTS Acknowledgements ............................................................................

ix

Introduction ........................................................................................

1

PART ONE

WAR EXPERIENCES AND PERCEPTIONS Indian Soldiers’ Experiences in France during World War I: Seeing Europe from the Rear of the Front ............................... Claude Markovits

29

Front Lines and Status Lines: Sepoy and ‘Menial’ in the Great War 1916–1920 .............................................................................. Radhika Singha

55

Military Service, Nationalism and Race: The Experience of Malawians in the Second World War ....................................... Timothy J. Lovering

107

The Corrosiveness of Comparison: Reverberations of Indian Wartime Experiences in German Prison Camps (1915–1919) .................................................................................... Ravi Ahuja The Suppressed Discourse: Arab Victims of National Socialism ......................................................................................... Gerhard Höpp (with a prologue and an epilogue by Peter Wien) Egypt’s Overlooked Contribution to World War II .................... Emad Ahmed Helal

131

167

217

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contents PART TWO

REPRESENTATIONS AND RESPONSES Kaiser kī jay (Long Live the Kaiser): Perceptions of World War I and the Socio-Religious Movement among the Oraons in Chota Nagpur 1914–1916 .................................. Heike Liebau

251

Correcting their Perspective: Out-of-area Deployment and the Swahili Military Press in World War II .................................... Katrin Bromber

277

The First World War According to the Memories of ‘Commoners’ in the Bilād al-Shām ............................................ Abdallah Hanna

299

Ambiguities of the Modern: The Great War in the Memoirs and Poetry of the Iraqis ............................................................... Dina Rizk Khoury

313

Ardour and Anxiety: Politics and Literature in the Indian Homefront ...................................................................................... Santanu Das

341

Radio and Society in Tunisia during World War II ................... Morgan Corriou

369

PART THREE

SOCIAL AND POLITICAL TRANSFORMATIONS Peripheral Experiences: Everyday Life in Kurd Dagh (Northern Syria) during the Allied Occupation in the Second World War ....................................................................... Katharina Lange Military Collaboration, Conscription and Citizenship Rights in the Four Communes of Senegal and in French West Africa (1912–1946) .................................................................................... Francesca Bruschi

401

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“Our Victory Was Our Defeat”: Race, Gender and Liberalism in the Union Defence Force, 1939–1945 ................................... Suryakanthie Chetty

457

The Impact of the East Africa Campaign, 1914–1918 on South Africa and Beyond ............................................................. Anne Samson

483

From the Great War to the Syrian Armed Resistance Movement (1919–1921): The Military and the Mujahidin in Action ......................................................................................... Nadine Méouchy

499

Still Behind Enemy Lines? Algerian and Tunisian Veterans after the World Wars .................................................................... Thomas DeGeorges

519

The Creativity of Destruction: Wartime Imaginings of Development and Social Policy, c. 1942–1946 ......................... Benjamin Zachariah

547

Bibliography ........................................................................................

579

Indices General Index ................................................................................. Index of Names ............................................................................. Index of Places ...............................................................................

603 609 611

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS This book developed from an international conference with the title The World in World Wars: Experiences, Perceptions and Perspectives from the South held at the Zentrum Moderner Orient (ZMO) in Berlin in June 2007. This conference was jointly conceived and organized by a number of ZMO researchers then working on the history of the First and Second World War. The conference would not have taken place without the generous funding by the German Research Council (DFG). We are grateful to all who were involved into the production of the volume. Special thanks go to Svenja Becherer and Michael Schutz from the ZMO staff who advised us in questions of copyediting and technical details. We highly appreciate the work of our student assistants Ute Groß, Mounia Jammal, Larissa Schmid, Jolita Zabarskaite and Julian Tadesse who proofread the chapters with great care. The manuscript was reviewed by two outside readers. We wish to thank them for their constructive comments. To Brill Publishers and especially the series’ editor Marcel van der Linden we are grateful for their editorial advice and their patience. The Editors

INTRODUCTION1 While the two great conflicts of 1914–1918 and 1939–1945 are usually conceived of as ‘world wars’ in Western historiography, their history has largely not been written as global history. Europe, North America and, to some extent, Japan still dominate the international discourse about these wars. The academic establishments of the former two world regions have provided the dominant conceptual frameworks and their national spaces have constituted the principal geographical units of research. Even if ‘peripheral’ areas and actors have come under the purview of historical investigation, they have been examined frequently only with regard to their ‘contribution’ to metropolitan ‘war efforts’, i.e. from an unabashedly Eurocentric angle. As the ‘Age of World Wars’ receded into the past, the definition of what constituted the ‘world’ of these wars tended to become ever narrower. The presence of Africans and Asians on European battlefields, for instance, had been almost fully erased from historical memory by the end of the century and was hardly considered significant by most historians of the world wars. The definition of the spatial and chronological scope of the wars, as well as their very naming, are, moreover, still hegemonically and narrowly determined by European perspectives and conventions.2 This is all the more remarkable since even among those states which are conceived of as being directly (i.e. ‘officially’) involved in the Second World War, “basic questions such as ‘what’, ‘when’ and ‘who’” are still disputed at the turn of the twenty-first century”.3

1 Most of the contributions to this volume were presented at the conference The World in World Wars: Experiences, Perceptions and Perspectives from the South held at the Zentrum Moderner Orient (ZMO) in Berlin in June 2007. Funded by the German Research Council (DFG), this conference was jointly conceived and organized by a number of ZMO researchers then working on the history of the First and Second World War. It gave public expression to the emergence of a line of research that is now solidly rooted at the ZMO. 2 Joanna Bourke points out that even among the main participants in the Second World War, naming conventions differ: while it is referred to as ‘the Second World War’ in Britain, it is called ‘World War Two’ in the United States, ‘the Great Patriotic War’ in Russia and ‘the Greater East Asian War’ in Japan. See Joanna Bourke, The Second World War: A People’s History (Oxford, 2001), p. 3. 3 Bourke, The Second World War, p. 3.

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Whilst military historians or specialists continue to write on war technology, on battles or regimental honour, and while the focus of research continues to lie on European theatres of war, historical explorations of the impact of wars on societies and a ‘new military history’ investigating the social entanglements of armed formations have gained ground. Furthermore, as social history outgrows national frames and as the project of a ‘global social history’ acquires shape, studies of the impact of world wars on wider and multi-scalar social contexts, including social formations outside the North Atlantic region are slowly increasing ground. For several decades now, new trends in historical research, such as Minority4 and Gender studies,5 the exploration of the ‘everyday’ or of loci of memory (‘lieux de mémoire’) have opened up perspectives for the history of wars by focussing on their tremendous social and cultural significance. Until recently, world war history was mainly written ‘from above’ reflecting most notably the perspectives of the European (colonial) powers and officers. European historiography started to work on war history ‘from below’ comparatively late, attempting to write ‘the little man’s war’ by shifting the emphasis from the officers to the soldiers.6 Jay Winter’s observation that ‘war history’ has shifted from stories about generals, admirals, soldiers and sailors to narratives about the victims of war points to a new understanding of the world wars as a commemoration of those who died or were injured, whose families were torn apart or whose lives changed forever as a consequence thereof.7 This also entails looking at the soldier as a social human being, embedded, for instance, in a specific place of origin, and

4 See e.g.: Rozina Visram, The history of the Asian community in Britain (London, 2007). 5 Joshua S. Goldstein, How Gender Shapes the War System and Vice Versa (Cambridge, 2001). Karen Hagemann and Stefanie Schüler-Springorum, eds., Home/Front: The Military, War and Gender in Twentieth-Century Germany (New York, 2002). 6 Wolfram Wette, ed., Der Krieg des kleinen Mannes. Eine Militärgeschichte von unten (Munich, Zurich, 1994). 7 Jay M. Winter, Remembering war: the Great War between memory and history in the twentieth century (New Haven, Conn. et al., 2006), p. 6.

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in a network of family and friends.8 Rather than see the soldier as an atomistic individual thrown into the maelstrom of war, this, in other words, requires us to look at the ways households, classes and other social groups, consisting of combatants and non-combatants, women and men, sought to reproduce themselves and reconstitute their social relations in the times of world war. Despite the now sizeable number of publications devoted to them, the social effects and ‘cultural legacies’ of the First and Second World Wars9 have yet to be systematically researched with regard to non-European societies. Earlier studies of the impact of the world wars on South Asia, for instance, predominantly focused until the 1990s on elite and high-level politics or on macro-economic consequences.10 The last fifteen years have seen some growing interest in the war experiences of Indian soldiers,11 but the wider impact of the wars on social life in South Asia is still largely unexplored. Yet it is clear that demobilized Indian soldiers served as low-level cadres in many of the popular political movements that emerged in the post-World-War-I period12 and that popular political culture frequently mimicked military forms.13 Recovering quotidian war experiences in war theatres, recruitment regions and areas affected by war in other ways will thus contribute to a better understanding of the dynamics of popular politics and culture in the Age of World War. 8 Neil Hanson, The Unknown Soldier. The Story of the Missing of the Great War (London, 2005); Jean-Yves Le Naour, The Living Unknown Soldier: A Story of Grief and the Great War, transl. Penny Allen (London, 2005). 9 Anne Lipp, “Diskurs und Praxis. Militärgeschichte als Kulturgeschichte”, in Was ist Militärgeschichte? eds. Thomas Kühne and Benjamin Ziemann, Krieg in der Geschichte, 6 (Paderborn, 2000), pp. 211–227. 10 See for instance: Rudolf Albertini, “The Impact of Two World Wars on the Decline of Colonialism”, Journal of Contemporary History 4, 1 (1969), 17–35; Thomas G. Fraser, “Germany and the Indian Revolution, 1914–1918”, Journal of Contemporary History 12, 2 (1977), 255–272; Johannes H. Voigt, India in the Second World War (New Delhi, 1987). An interesting and somewhat exceptional volume combined the then prevalent focus with some attention to soldiers’ experiences: D.C. Ellinwood and S.D. Pradhan, eds., India and World War I (New Delhi, 1978). 11 See especially: David E. Omissi, ed., Indian voices of the Great War: soldiers’ letters, 1914–18 (Basingstoke, 1999); Susan C. VanKoski, The Indian Ex-soldier from the Eve of the First World War to Partition: a Study of Provisions for Ex-soldiers and Ex-soldiers’ Role in National Life (unpublished Columbia dissertation 1996). 12 See: Shahid Amin, “Some considerations on evidence, language and history”, Indian History Congress Symposia Papers (Delhi, 1994). See also Ahuja, in this volume. 13 See e.g.: Nandini Gooptu, The Politics of the Urban Poor in Early Twentiethcentury India (Cambridge, 2001).

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If more and more scholars are coming to realise the importance of world war history for the understanding of the social, political, economic and cultural history of South Asia,14 Africa and the Middle East,15 it is because two characteristic features of the ‘age of catastrophe’ are now better understood and their interdependence acknowledged. The first of these features is that millions of Africans, South Asians and Middle Easterners participated directly as soldiers in the two world wars. In the interwar period, the service of large numbers of colonial soldiers was publicly celebrated and discussed in order to promote loyalty among imperial subjects or to claim citizen rights for colonized peoples.16 Alternatively, the deployment of these ‘coloured’ soldiers on European soil was decried as a scandal that heralded the demise of the ‘occident’.17 Grudgingly or not, non-European participation in world war history was conceded in either case. The end of formal political empires and the firm establishment of the nation state as the undisputed standard polity since the mid-twentieth century appear to have rendered such discourses largely obsolete. Thereafter, few political pressures prevented historians of metropolitan nation states from assuming an even more radically Eurocentric stance than their imperialist predecessors. The emerging historiography of postcolonial nation states, for its part, often tended to emphasize traditions of anti-colonial struggle rather than the involvements of the colonized with ‘war efforts’ and other imperial projects (though the role of ex-soldiers in the making of nation states emerged as a major issue in postcolonial African historiography).18 Since the late twentieth 14 Consider, for instance, a 1997 conference at Wolfson College, Cambridge, where historians from different continents discussed “The New Military History of South Asia”. Clive Dewey, “The New Military History of South Asia”, IIAS Newsletter 9, http://www.iias.nl/iiasn9/south/sewey/html (accessed February 18, 2008); Randolph Cooper, “Review of: Small Arms of the East India Company 1600–1865, vol. I: Procurement and Design, vol. II: Catalogue of Patterns. By D. F. Harding, Foresight Books, 1997”, Modern Asian Studies 33, 3 (1999), 759–767. 15 For the Middle Eastern case there is, for instance, the conference on memories of the First World War in the Eastern Mediterranean hosted in April 2001 at the German Oriental Institute in Beirut, published in Olaf Farschid, Manfred Kropp and Stephan Dähne, eds., The First World War as Remembered in the Countries of the Eastern Mediterranean (Beiruter Texte und Studien) 99 (Würzburg, 2006); another example is the workshop The Middle East in Two World Wars hosted at Tufts University in May 2002. 16 See, for instance, the contributions by Bruschi, Chetty and Das in this volume. 17 Christian Koller, “Von Wilden aller Rassen niedergemetzelt.” Die Diskussion um die Verwendung von Kolonialtruppen in Europa zwischen Rassismus, Kolonial- und Militärpolitik (1914–1930) (Stuttgart, 2001). 18 For a detailed discussion, see the contribution by Lovering in this volume.

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century, the frequency of US-led military enterprises has alerted intellectuals to the imperial pre-history of the increasing tendency to deploy ‘multinational forces’ consisting, to a considerable degree, of non-European auxiliary troops. India was, for instance, warned by the famous writer Amitav Ghosh not to re-enact “one of the ugliest and most repugnant aspects of its colonial history” by sending soldiers to Iraq.19 Conversely, speakers for the ethnic minorities of postcolonial metropolitan states have revived and reinterpreted an old imperial war tune by reminding the public of their colonial subjects’ ‘contributions’ to the imperial ‘war effort’. Ironically the language of imperial loyalism is thus used to ‘reclaim’ minority history or, more precisely, to stake claims on imperial successor societies and states like Britain.20 There is, finally, a tendency in European historiography to reinterpret world war history as a history of global multicultural ‘flows’, as an episode in the history of globalisation.21 Reasons for unearthing a forgotten (or rather buried) history of the world wars are thus varied, contradictory and politically charged. Perspectives from former colonies may differ from those articulated in former imperial centres. Yet the present urge to recover the history of the ‘world’ in world wars appears to be shared by scholars of divergent persuasions in many parts of the world. The second feature of the ‘age of catastrophe’ that has been progressively acknowledged by historians is that the wars had various immediate and long-term effects on societies that were far removed from European battlefields. This impact on non-European soldiers and civilians alike and the changing social meanings of military service have indeed become a focus in the research on the social histories of colonial armies in South Asia22 and Africa.23 New questions have 19

Amitav Ghosh, “Lessons of Empire”, The Hindu, June 24, 2003. See e.g.: Visram, The history of the Asian community in Britain. The story of 600 unarmed South African troops who died on board the SS Mendi is similarly utilized for ‘Black History Month’ in British schools. See also Samson’s contribution in this volume. 21 See e.g.: David Omissi, “Europe through Indian eyes: Indian soldiers encounter England and France, 1914–1918”, English Historical Review CXXII/496 (2007), 371– 396; see also several contributions in World War I. Five Continents in Flanders, eds. Dominiek Dendooven and Piet Chielens (Tielt, 2008). 22 Tai Yong Tan, The Garrison State: the Military, Government and Society in Colonial Punjab 1849–1947 (Thousand Oaks, 2005); David E. Omissi, The Sepoy and the Raj: the Indian army, 1860–1940, (Studies in military and strategic history) (Basingstoke, 1994); Rajit K. Mazumder, The Indian army and the making of Punjab (Delhi, 2003). 23 Timothy H. Parsons, The African rank-and-file: social implications of colonial military service in the King’s African Rifles, 1902–1964 (Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 20

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been raised in the process. To what extent were class, ethnic, regional or gendered affiliations and roles recast by massive drafting? To what extent did these reconfigurations also inform the post-war social and political struggles? By tracing the transformation of gender and citizenship in Syria and Lebanon, Elizabeth Thompson has shown the significance of the world war experience for the shaping of political structures and civic orders in the colonial and post-colonial Middle East.24 In a number of other contexts however, both world wars have been studied as temporally discrete and spatially segmented events. This is the case for Africa, for example, the long-term social histories of the East and West African contingents being a noteworthy exception.25 The discrete approach here not only implies the ‘metropolitan point of view’ with its narrow focus on specific military operations; it also evinces erasures in the collective memory with regard to the mobility of African troops between various regions of Africa. Such is the case of the East Africa Campaign of 1914–1918, the representations of which primarily rest on the participation of colonial troops from German East Africa (today mainland Tanzania) and the Kenya Colony,26 and ‘omit’ the enlistment of South African troops. Overcoming the temporal discreteness and spatial segmentation of conventional historical perspectives creates, in this case, the conditions for a systematic assessment of the mobility of African troops within Africa during both world wars. Writing about perspectives from South Asia, Africa and the Middle East with an emphasis on cultural and social effects of the wars poses particular methodological challenges. Using, and sometimes uncovering, specific and new types of sources is a necessity. In addition to ‘classical’ archival material, new research draws on oral testimonies, autobiographical literature and newspaper archives. The question, however, is not just one “of countering local remembrance against authorized accounts” or of dealing with the “relationship between

USA, 1999); Myron Echenberg, Colonial conscripts: The Tirailleurs Sénégalais in French West Africa, 1857–1960 (Portsmouth, New Hampshire, USA, 1991); Brigitte Reinwald, Reisen durch den Krieg. Erfahrungen und Lebensstrategien westafrikanischer Weltkriegsveteranen, (ZMO-Studien) 18 (Berlin, 2005). 24 Elizabeth Thompson, Colonial Citizens. Republican Rights, Paternal Privilege, and Gender in French Syria and Lebanon (New York, 1999). 25 Parsons, The African rank-and-file. 26 Edward Paice, World War I: the African front (New York, 2008).

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memory and record”27—but one of the resorting to ‘classical’ historical, anthropological or sociological methods. While accessing new sources and developing new methodologies create new opportunities for innovative research, they pose a challenge that can be met only by collaborative, interdisciplinary and comparative efforts. Making previously ‘unknown soldiers’ visible28 and recovering their ‘voices’29 is all the more difficult, given that the majority of Indian, Middle Eastern and African soldiers deployed in the world wars were illiterate men of mainly rural background. Their letters, to the extent that they have been preserved, were mediated by various kinds of scribes and by the awareness of social control and censorship. They are often preserved only in translated form and in selections generated by European intelligence officers in accordance with their own preoccupations.30 The highly mediated character of the correspondence between combatants and their families requires that the analysis of such ‘plebeian sources’ be carried out with particular methodological and conceptual care in order to yield new insights into the ‘mentalities’ and ways of making sense of the world in this period.31 Furthermore, the ‘memory boom’ in war research32 has led to an increased interest in individual testimonies,33 and neglected types of sources such as sound recordings34 have been ‘discovered’. Looking, for example, at information flows into the colonies as well as at the circulation of war news within

27 Shahid Amin, Event, Metaphor, Memory: Chauri Chaura, 1922–1992 (Berkeley, Los Angeles 1995) p. 4. 28 Christopher Bayly and Tim Harper, Forgotten Armies: The Fall of British Asia, 1941–45 (Harvard, 2006); Hanson, The Unknown Soldier; Le Naour, The Living Unknown Soldier; Ian Gleeson, The unknown force: Black, Indian and Coloured soldiers through two wars, (South Africans at War) 12 (Rivonia, 1994); Arthur E. Barbeau and Florette Henri, The unknown soldiers: Black American Troops in World War I (Philadelphia, 1974). 29 Omissi, Indian voices of the Great War. 30 Ibid. See also the contributions by Markovits and Ahuja in this volume. 31 For perceptive methodological observations see: Amin, “Some considerations”. 32 Jay M. Winter, “The Setting: The Great War in the Memory Boom of the Twentieth Century”, Ch. 1 in Winter, Remembering War, pp. 17–51. 33 See Bourke, The Second World War. 34 For the Berliner Lautarchiv (sound archives) see: Jürgen Mahrenholz, “Recordings of South Asian Languages and Music in the Lautarchiv of the Humboldt University Berlin”, in “When the war began, we heard of several kings.” South Asian prisoners in World War I Germany, eds. Ravi Ahuja, Heike Liebau and Franziska Roy (forthcoming).

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these regions in various forms ranging from propaganda35 to rumour36 allows us to overcome a campaign-centred notion of wartime information and to identify the concrete long-term effects of communicative and other discursive practices. With regard to colonies and mandated territories, propaganda also included a heavy focus on imperial postwar planning and projects: it had to carefully prepare for the demobilization of thousands of soldiers by streamlining their war experiences in accordance with imperial necessities. The present volume seeks to contribute to this growing field of research by investigating social and cultural aspects of the world wars in African, South Asian and Middle Eastern societies. How were the ‘seminal catastrophes’37 of the first half of the twentieth century perceived outside Europe? How did they affect social relations and political structures, and what cultural transformations did they induce? Did African or Asian contemporaries regard the wars as ‘world wars’ at all, or as foreign conflicts which were fought ‘by proxy’ for the great powers by their fellow countrymen?38 While not attempting to give definite answers, this collection of essays seeks to supplement the historiography of the First and Second World Wars by focusing on experiences and perceptions from the aforementioned regions. To a large extent the contributions to this volume question established designations (‘First/Second World War’) and the standard chronologies (1914–18, 1939–45). By focusing on studies of the two world wars in and from Africa and Asia, the aim is to identify common lines of academic interest across the North/South divide. This publication thus aims at recovering both the diversity of perspectives and their intersec-

35 Rainer Gries and Wolfgang Schmale, eds., Kultur der Propaganda (Bochum, 2005); Sanjoy Bhattacharya, Propaganda and information in Eastern India, 1939–45: A Necessary Weapon of War (London, 2001); Katrin Bromber, Imperiale Propaganda. Die ostafrikanische Militärpresse im Zweiten Weltkrieg (Berlin, 2009). 36 Gyanendra Pandey, “The Long Life of Rumor”, Alternatives: Global, Local, Political 27, 2 (2002), 165–191; Pamela J. Stewart and Andrew Strathern, Witchcraft, Sorcery, Rumors, and Gossip (Cambridge, 2004); Indivar Kamtekar, “The Shiver of 1942,” Studies in History, 18, 1 (2002), 81–102. See also the articles by Liebau and Ahuja in this volume. 37 To paraphrase G. F. Kennan’s famous characterisation of the First World War. 38 Thus, Olaf Farschid on the First World War in the Eastern Mediterranean; see Farschid, “The First World War as a Factor of Political and Social Transformation,” in The First World War as Remembered in the Countries of the Eastern Mediterranean, eds. Farschid, Kropp and Dähne (Würzburg, 2006), pp. 1–19, here p. 1.

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tions. Recurrent themes and unexpected links within the geographical scope and time span covered in this volume suggest new research questions and conceptual ideas about how the world wars were perceived, lived through and fought. Moreover, the impressive oral histories of African soldiers’ experiences, the pertinent questions asked as to the implications of the wars for the civilian population of Arab lands, the attention given to South Asian soldiers’ letters—the juxtaposition of three distinct regional historiographies, each with its own achievements and shortcomings, reveals as yet unrealised potentials. The volume does not pretend to offer a definite account of the “world in world wars”. Rather, it seeks to contribute to a cumulative process that will produce a new global social history of the world wars by examining them through variable and interconnected spatial frames. II The volume consists of nineteen chapters that have been divided into three distinct yet interrelated sections. In War Experiences and Perceptions the contributions focus on the experiences of soldiers, combatants and followers on the frontline and in the rear of the front. In Representations and Responses the emphasis is on immediate or organized responses as fleshed out in public debates, propaganda activities and in individual and collective memories. Finally, Social and Political Transformations discusses the broader implications of the wars for African and Asian societies. The purpose of such a division was to avoid grouping the papers by geography or polity in order to encourage cross-regional readings and readings exploring the diversity of actors and institutions involved. On the assumptions that the two world wars should not be considered discrete events but rather the connected pinnacles of an ‘Age of World Wars’, and that they are tightly woven into the matrix of the colonial era, there was also no attempt at dividing the chapters according to the military conflict they dealt with. War experiences and perceptions The chapters in this section deal with experiences and perceptions of those largely neglected by the mainstream historiography of the world wars. They therefore turn away from high-ranking military personnel to look at soldiers in the trenches, follower-rank groups on the

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frontline and in the rear of the front and prisoners of war or people who became interned due to the war situation. Their varied experiences all implied the immediate encounter with the ‘enemy’. Their mobility, the transfer from their home regions to diverse theatres of war, brought them into contact with people whom they otherwise would not have met. Their war experiences may well have influenced their perception of class, caste, race, gender and tribe. The contributions look at the so-called unknown soldiers as human beings who were torn out of their former daily life and had to develop strategies to cope with the new situations war confronted them with. World views also changed in accordance with a new perception of geography they were able to acquire due to their war service. This new perception of geography emerges in the first paper dealing with South Asian soldiers in France during the First World War. Drawing on earlier scholarship based on the letters sent to their families by Punjabi and other Indian recruits during the First World War, when over a million Indian soldiers were drafted by the British and dispatched to various fronts, Claude Markovits looks at the experiences of ordinary Indian soldiers in France, focusing on their geographical and gendered representations of Europe from the rear of the front. Having been transferred to France, the soldiers, he shows, came to realize that Europe was constituted not just by the British vilayat (‘Englistan’), but indeed, by different vilayats (an observation also made by Ravi Ahuja in this volume). In that context, Markovits then endeavours to recover the ‘untold stories’ between the lines of their censored letters. Focusing on their encounter with European citizens, Markovits delineates the soldiers’ image of European women, finally asking what they brought home from these encounters after their return. The correlations between war recruitment, changes in labour regimes and questions of identity formation are at the centre of Radhika Singha’s chapter on the follower ranks of the Indian Army during the ‘Great War’ (1916–1920)—a very sizeable group of war participants sorely neglected by historians. Reading different types of sources ‘against the grain’, and combining them, Singha studies the South Asian departmental followers and the attached followers, public and private, who were treated as a permanent part of the army. She discusses the status of the follower ranks within the army hierarchy, which was coloured by notions of caste and ethnicity. The essay

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suggests that the social meaning ascribed to the services provided by these follower ranks was uneasily perched between the honourable and dignifying service of the soldier and the disreputable and demeaning labour of the ‘coolie’. The war, Singha argues, challenged and changed these meanings and the relative social status of soldier and follower ranks in accordance with the (strategic) importance of the work they did. Looking at Malawian soldiers during the Second World War, Timothy J. Lovering for his part shows how the war contributed to the development of a Nyasa/Malawian consciousness among them. Focusing on the categories of nationalism and race, he argues that Malawian troops defined themselves beyond ethnic affiliations in terms of African/Non-African and Malawi/Non-Malawi during and after the Second World War. His contribution adds to the recent scholarship on the social history of African soldiers and veterans of both world wars that has explored the link between military and post-military life histories of individuals and broader social processes. Lovering’s essay challenges earlier works, which perceived the participation (or nonparticipation) of soldiers in the struggle for independence as the sole indicator for progressive political thought, characterizing the veterans as conservative, loyal to the colonial powers or, at least, not interested in the independence movements. While a few case studies have been published on prisoners of war, a social history of POWs still needs to be written. The next two papers of this section are a contribution to just this. Ravi Ahuja’s chapter uses reports on war rumours in the recruitment area of Punjab, material from British and German archives on Indian soldiers in France and in German captivity and a unique corpus of transcripts of sound recordings conducted among these prisoners to take a fresh look at how Indian combatants made sense of their experiences during the First World War. The essay suggests that, by employing simplistic notions of izzat (honour, respect) and of economic interest, historians have tended to deny the existence of a political discourse among the peasant groups from which the British recruited their soldiers and to underrate the political implications of war experiences for plebeian South Asians. It further argues that deployment on European battlefields permitted new comparisons between the European powers, thus creating new possibilities for a critique of the colonial regime with potentially corrosive effects on political stability at home.

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The situation of Arabs in Europe during the Second World War is at the centre of Gerhard Höpp’s chapter.39 Starting from the assumption that the picture of Arab encounters with National Socialism is much more complex than has been previously described, the chapter tackles a gap in European historiography by bringing to light the fate of Arab victims of National Socialism in Germany between 1933 and 1945. Höpp describes different forms of discrimination and oppression ranging from everyday harassment and legal prosecution to enlistment in labour camps, imprisonment, internment and sterilization and analyses the impact of these measures on their Arab Muslim targets. Acknowledging the challenge of resorting to sources mostly written by the perpetrators, Höpp shows how difficult it can sometimes be to identify the ‘colonial’ soldiers in the files, such as when Arab soldiers were subsumed under the category ‘French’. Using statistics among other sources, Höpp brings out individual fates hidden behind the anonymous figures. Through the construction of various databases of individual names and other available information, Höpp attempts to reconstruct, categorise and typologise different forms of victimhood suffered at the hand of the Nazi regime. Shifting the focus to a macro-perspective, this section ends with an illustration of the source-related one-sidedness or ‘blank spots’ in the European historiography of the world wars, as regards the material and strategic roles the colonies played in them. On the basis of hitherto unexploited sources from the Egyptian National Archives, Emad Helal calls for a substantial re-evaluation of the Egyptian ‘contribution to the Allied war effort’ during the Second World War. His chapter quite boldly sets out to answer the question whether the Allied Victory over the Axis forces in North Africa would have come so quickly, if at all, without the Treaty of 1936 that bound Egypt to Britain. Using reports by various Egyptian ministries, Helal argues that the Egyptian role on the North African front and in the Middle East was much more important than has been acknowledged in what he calls the “Western narrative”. Helal’s evaluation of the reports addresses thematic areas as diverse as the military and security apparatus, economic and scientific

39

This article by the late Gerhard Höpp is a translated version of a previously published article in German: Gerhard Höpp, “Der verdrängte Diskurs. Arabische Opfer des Nationalsozialismus,” in Blind für die Geschichte? Arabische Begegnungen mit dem Nationalsozialismus, eds. Gerhard Höpp, Peter Wien and René Wildangel (Berlin, 2004), pp. 215–268. We are grateful to Peter Wien for his introductory and concluding remarks, which contextualize this article within current research debates.

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or intelligence cooperation, medical and social regulations. Implicit to his argument is the question of the legacy of the wartime measures for the post-war development of Egyptian society, especially in the areas of social order and labour. Representations and responses Section two of the volume explores individual and collective memories, propaganda activities and public debates. The chapters focus on questions such as how the populations saw the war and reacted to it and how the war was ‘presented’ to them through official channels, the media and imperial propaganda. On the one hand, the contributions ask how war experience was processed as temporal distance grew and became intertwined with new personal life agendas and external circumstances (memoirs, witness reports). On the other hand, contributions in this section approach the topic by dealing with newly emerging public spheres. They look at information on the wars that the media, propaganda and art preselected, prestructured and interpreted for soldiers and civilians alike. The aims of propaganda and the routes along which structured and target-oriented information about the war were circulated are the focus of the first two papers. Heike Liebau’s contribution investigates the ‘production’ of rumours, their transmission through specific channels of information and the conditions under which they materialised. The chapter focuses on the socio-religious uprisings among the Oraon tribe in North East Central India during the war years from 1914 to 1916, when local people used the image of the German Kaiser as a symbol for their fight against the local zamindars (landlords) and the colonial authorities. In trying to link the spread, perception and use of rumours among the Oraons to propaganda activities carried out under the auspices of the German Foreign Office, Liebau shows that propaganda and rumours could be mutually conditional, that rumours never arose out of ‘nothing’ but required an event or a consciously launched piece of information. Under the conditions of war, Liebau argues, there was obviously a special need for information that could provide answers to questions, fears, wishes and hopes. These answers were sometimes seen in rumours, which could then generate actions and ‘make history’.40 40 Lars-Broder Keil and Sven Felix Kellerhoff, Gerüchte machen Geschichte. Folgenreiche Falschmeldungen im 20. Jahrhundert (Berlin, 2006).

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The Second World War saw a mediatised imperial propaganda developing for civilian and military African audiences. Katrin Bromber’s chapter tackles the latter, i.e. propaganda devised in African vernaculars and directed at military personnel, adding to a research trend that, so far, has exclusively focused on structural aspects of wartime propaganda for civilian audiences. Resorting to army newspapers published in Swahili for East African contingents, Bromber shows that the main aim of the military was to discipline the combatants and to structure their wartime experiences in line with Imperial post-war projects. The high expectations of African soldiers towards their respective colonial administrations as well as towards the army with regard to future military careers were, to a great extent, the result of promises made by the military to keep them motivated. Representations of the First World War among Syrians from nonelite backgrounds are at the centre of Abdallah Hanna’s paper. By presenting oral narratives and unpublished memoirs, Hanna shows the degree to which the war affected daily life, accelerating social change and shaping political representations in Syria. Hanna’s paper is based on a unique corpus of sources, namely on interviews with Syrian veterans of the First World War, now deceased, which he conducted during the 1980s. Many of his interlocutors lacked a formal education; some of them were illiterate, originating from peasant or workers’ families, men whose perspectives would not have been heard if the historian had relied on written sources only. His paper also illustrates the wide range of experiences reflected in the divergent names given to the world wars in different regions of the world: in Syria, the First World War is mainly associated in popular memory with forced army recruitment for service abroad and called Safar Barlik (journey over land) accordingly. Dina Rizk Khoury’s study of the Iraqi-Ottoman elite at the end of the Ottoman Empire as well as of the perspectives of Arab nationalists and others who formerly supported the Ottoman Empire resorts to a specific range of literary sources. Working across time and genre, Khoury unfolds her argument by comparing memoirs written during the 1940s and 1950s, which reflect Iraqi elites’ memories of the First World War, and wartime poetry. She asks whether and how the world views of the authors changed as a result of war and to what extent they later defined themselves as an elite that was formed and shaped by the First World War. By highlighting the importance of the protagonists’ social and cultural roots in the Ottoman Empire for their “per-

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sonal narratives”, Khoury argues that these elites’ attitudes towards the ‘modernity’ that came about with the First World War remained highly ambivalent—despite its promises of political emancipation and Arab independence. The following two chapters shift the focus from memoirs to the public spheres of literature, art and media, asking how they reflected and debated contemporary war developments. Like the previous chapter, the contribution written by Santanu Das focuses on elites. Taking an interdisciplinary approach and relying on literary as well as on socio-political writings, Das investigates representations of the First World War by Indian native princes (most of whom supported the war), poets (like the famous Sarojini Naidu) and the educated middle class. He looks at the ways the war affected the professional and middle classes in India and how this was reflected in contemporary public discourses on nationalism, colonialism and imperial war service. By contrasting these with an exceptional Bengali play about local recruitment practices, Das shows how ambivalent reactions to the war were simultaneously articulated within a spectrum of sentiments ranging from loyalty to the empire to militant nationalism. Morgan Corriou for her part analyses the role played by radio listening in the Protectorate Tunisia during the Second World War. Combining material from French and Tunisian archives, published memoirs and oral testimony, she shows how local and foreign broadcasting to the Tunisian public became a highly politicized issue during the Second World War. Tracing debates about language use (French, Tunisian, Egyptian or standard Arabic), music and songs, she analyses the “national challenge” that Radio Tunis represented for the French colonial administration. Corriou discusses the influence of foreign broadcasting on different segments of the population and traces political attempts to control the listening public and restrict radio listening during the war. Pointing to the emergence of a young ‘native’ audience, often with an educated middle class background, Corriou demonstrates that radio listening was far more significant for the transformation of Tunisian society during and after the Second World War than previously assumed. Social and political transformations The third and last section of this volume discusses broader social and political implications of the wars for the transformation of African

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and Asian societies. The chapters link the history of the world wars to local developments, i.e. responses to colonialism, the anti-colonial struggle or nationalist movements. On the one hand, they provide new insights into the changes effected by the wars of local perceptions of time, space and agency. On the other hand, they discuss differential appropriations of specific symbols connected with the world wars, their adaptation to and integration into local narratives. The contributions of this section investigate how constraints caused by war were employed for the legitimation of future political and economical planning. They show that post-war politics determined why, how and when the wars and their participants were remembered or not. And they ask new questions about the political role of the returning soldier, whom both the colonial powers and the home societies recurrently perceived as a problem. The wars affected specific social groups within the civilian population in different ways. Processes of social change were accelerated or triggered. War history as social history also speaks of the effects of rationing, the everyday operation of personal networks in times of scarce resources and new types of exchange between urban and rural actors. Katharina Lange’s chapter on the war experiences of the civilian population in a marginal region of the Syrian ‘hinterland’ during the years of the Allied occupation (1941–1946) investigates these questions. Analysing the wartime implications for everyday life in the region of Kurd Dagh in North-West Syria, Lange relies on oral narratives by Syrian peasants, archival documents and published sources of Syrian and European provenance to reconstruct the social and economic effects of the Second World War. While the war situation introduced new regulatory regimes that affected local production and consumption, new spaces of action were opened up for young villagers of low social status. However, Lange’s analysis also indicates that the immediate shifts in local social relations caused by the war led to only very limited, long-term transformations of the social fabric. Most noticeably, the war experience provides a ground for local evaluations, and critique, of present-day regulatory regimes. Spanning a period that covers both world wars, Francesca Bruschi’s contribution demonstrates how African participation in the wars “permanently changed Franco-African relations”. French conscription and recruitment of West African soldiers led to fundamental social and political transformations in French West Africa. Veterans’ war experiences transformed their attitudes toward the colonial

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administration. French propaganda invoked “emancipation”, “equality” and promised French citizenship to attract recruits. This invocation of “Republican ideals” had considerable political impact: Bruschi shows how claims by African elites, including (ex-)soldiers, for equal status with French metropolitans after the First World War changed to demands for self-representation after the Second World War. This highlights a crucial aspect in the history of West African world war experiences that has received increasing attention in the historiography of West Africa. Empowerment through participation in the world wars is also the subject of Suryakanthie Chetty’s contribution, which discusses the expectations of black South African soldiers that arose from their service in the Union Defence Force during the Second World War. Chetty relies on interviews, combining them with other types of material. Her paper revolves around the life history of a former black South African soldier who participated in the Second World War. In doing so, she problematises the use of oral narratives about war experiences and memories, which are often told with considerable temporal distance from the events narrated. Arguing that immediately after the war South Africa could have opted for a political vision other than apartheid, Chetty looks at how these expectations developed and why they were disappointed. Her paper also deals with the role of white women who took up positions in auxiliary services in the war or replaced men in industry, thereby changing their pre-war status. Whereas Chetty’s paper deals with unfulfilled promises and lost possibilities, Anne Samson’s contribution asks how and why the deployment of (white) South African troops in the East Africa Campaign of 1914–1918 was erased from collective memory. Contributing a long-neglected African perspective to the historiography of the First World War, which has up to now mostly focused on colonial troops from German East Africa (mainland Tanzania today) and the Kenya Colony, her study points to a range of reasons that caused this ‘collective amnesia’: internal political divisions in South Africa after the First World War and the failure of the campaign, from a South African perspective, to attain the desired political outcome, but also the perception that, compared to the war in the trenches of the European theatre, participation in the East Africa Campaign lacked heroism and even “honourable ways of dying”. Nadine Méouchy investigates the Syrian resistance movement of local armed groups (Iṣābāt) opposed to the French after the First

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World War (1919–1921) on the basis of the unpublished memoirs of a rural notable and revolutionary in Northern Syria. Ego documents are a particularly valuable genre of materials for the historian of world wars, because their personalized angle situates the lived experience of war in a wider experiential context. Méouchy suggests that this post-war movement must be studied in the wider context of the First World War. Beyond larger political links between the First World War and the anti-French revolts in the years following the war, she points to vestiges of the war years, regarding organizational structure, weapons, military training and a culture of war that shaped the resistance movement. Méouchy’s analysis thus calls for a revision of conventional periodization, demonstrating that research on the First World War in Syria should not only take the years before 1914 into account, but also include the years following 1918. In discussing the role and fate of Tunisian and Algerian soldiers during and after the two world wars, Thomas DeGeorges makes use of diverse genres of sources, ranging from North African soldiers’ letters and other material stored in French and Tunisian archives to literary and cinematographic representations of our time. Asking how experiences of discrimination affected the self-perceptions of soldiers and veterans, DeGeorges shows the significance of veterans as political actors in (French colonial) North African societies. The veterans’ increasing disappointment with French policy figured significantly in Algerian and Tunisian nationalist politics. DeGeorges emphasizes the importance of ‘former colonial soldiers’ in the fight for independence after the Second World War. After independence, changing representations of the veterans’ roles in official (state) discourses followed larger political tendencies, DeGeorges argues. In recent years, the renewed interest in North African veterans, manifest in literary and cinematographic productions, thus reflects processes of political and economic rapprochement between North African countries and Europe, but are also the sites of conflicting contestations over past discrimination. Global political transformations, notably the often violent transitions of colonies into independent states, play a significant role for many of the detailed empirical and smaller-scale analyses given in this volume. This is also evident in Benjamin Zachariah’s analysis of economic ‘plans’ developed for India during the Second World War that were drafted for implementation after the war. Rather than look at their ‘actual’ effects, Zachariah reads these documents as contemporary visions and ‘languages of legitimacy’ in the realms of ‘social policy’ and

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industrial ‘development’. A prominent concern is the question of the expansion of state functions and apparatus during the Second World War. The chapter discusses schemes drawn up by British bureaucrats as well as Indian businessmen, showing how—despite the obvious differences between the various schemes—the war economy, as well as the volatility of the global political situation during the war, provided the backdrop for the formulation of strategies for India’s postcolonial ‘development’. III The chapters of this volume represent a contribution to the history of the world wars in the emerging framework of a global social history. The perspectives they offer generate new insights insofar as they put at the heart of world war history the questions of imperialism, colonial occupation and the struggle for independence. They also do so by casting the question of agency in class, ethnic, regional and gender terms. With regard to the limitations or scarcity of known sources for a social history of the world wars, the collective contribution of this volume’s chapters lies in its emphasis on the necessity for comparative research across time, space and source genres. The combined focus on Africa, South Asia and the Middle East reflects the editors’ attempt to transcend the intellectual and institutional boundaries implicit in the project of ‘area studies’ as well as the difficulties faced in the process.41 By doing so, the present volume does not purport to be more than one of many necessary steps towards a more inclusive, comprehensive and comparative historiography of the world in world wars. Its main contribution may well consist in drawing attention to several major themes that surface in essays focusing on very different problems. Studies that appear on first glance to be of strictly local relevance begin to ‘speak to each other’ through these major themes between the covers of this volume. The remaining part of this introduction is confined to pointing out some of the resonances and links inherent in this book, as well as emerging axes of investigation that future researchers might want to explore.

41 Comparative research should in the future also include other important regions such as China, Central Asia, South-East Asia and Latin America.

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The fundamental question that frames the whole book is: What made these wars ‘world wars’? Part of the answer is related to the nature of imperialism and colonialism, which is that a small number of empires controlled, dominated and exploited vast regions of the world. Hence, a global social history of the world wars has to consider these power relations. During wartime, the colonies not only served as important reservoirs of material and manpower, they also became battlefields and were affected in many ways by the consequences of the wars. Therefore, research needs to break away not only from a narrow focus on metropolitan powers and battlefields but also from an equally Eurocentric historiographical notion informing many writings on colonial history, namely that “each colony dangl[es] separately at the end of its own string” or, in other words, “is assumed to exist only in its relationship to the imperial center.”42 Recent research suggests that horizontal connections between colonies or across ‘peripheral regions’ need to be seriously considered. War situations in particular led to a reconfiguration of social space through movements of people, goods and ideas, but also to temporal immobility, scarcity of provisions and silence; the two sides of the translocal nature of wars—flows and closures—ought indeed to lend themselves to further exploration. Several essays of this volume demonstrate the productivity of this approach: Dina Rizk Khoury’s contribution, for example, considers Iraqi prisoners of the First World War in India and Burma. Radhika Singha’s essay deals with the same period, exploring the role of South Asian departmental and attached followers in Mesopotamia, among other questions. Studies of the dynamics between soldiers from different British colonies (and prospective nation states) in Africa (Lovering) and of propagandistic problems emerging from the deployment of African troops in South and South East Asia (Bromber) are also cases in point. Paradoxically, the world wars were also periods when colonial subjects transgressed imperial boundaries more frequently than in peaceful times—periods when their respective empires ceased to be the all-encompassing spatial frames of reference. The essays on the experiences of South Asian soldiers in France (Markovits) and Germany (Ahuja) hint at easily overlooked but potentially momentous

42 Thomas Metcalf, Imperial Connections. India in the Indian Ocean Arena, 1860– 1920 (Berkeley, 2007), pp. 6–7.

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implications of such encounters. Helal’s contribution demonstrates the multiple ways the Allied Forces relied on Egypt during the Second World War and how the relations between metropolis and colony changed consequently. The wars under review should also be perceived as world wars because they influenced and accelerated social and political movements worldwide and led to fundamental changes in popular mentalities. Whereas these questions have been extensively studied for the metropolis, a substantial number of recent publications are also concerned with whether the world wars had any impact on the growth of major political currents like nationalism, Pan-Islamism or communism in ‘peripheral’ countries. However, these publications have tended to focus on ‘elite’ intellectuals. Several contributions in this volume show that the political fallout of the world wars in the nonmetropolitan world needs to be conceived in much wider terms. They directly contradict the earlier view of both African and South Asian soldiers and world war participants as having been fundamentally ‘apolitical’.43 A broader approach to the political history of the world wars will have to trace the wars’ legacies in various political cultures, the new political infrastructures and forms of expression that emerged from this context. Studies on changes in the military culture of Syria (Méouchy) or in the politics of media consumption in Tunisia (Corriou) indicate possibilities in this field. As for the impact of educated classes, Markovits argues that an “occidentalism from below needs occidentalism from above”. This nexus had been facilitated through the person of the scribe (Markovits), the translator for the radio (Corriou), artists and literary figures (Das, Khoury). Moreover, the nationalism-imperialism binary proves to be an unsatisfactory tool even for the analysis of the multi-shaded elite discourses in the ‘Age of World Wars’, as is demonstrated for India (Das) and Iraq (Khoury) in two essays of this volume. Such presupposed binaries prejudice the results of the examination in predictable ways. Oral history accounts of Arab and Kurdish ‘commoners’ in Syria (Hanna, Lange), war rumours among peasants in the army recruitment areas of Punjab (Ahuja), the reports

43 See for instance: Omissi, “Europe through Indian eyes”; David Killingray, “Soldiers, Ex-Servicemen, and Politics in the Gold Coast, 1939–50,” Journal of Modern African Studies, 21, 3 (1983), 527.

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by Malawian ‘chiefs’ on the mood among ‘Nyasa’ soldiers (Lovering) and the role of North African soldiers and veterans as political actors (DeGeorge) contradict the facile assumption of politically indifferent rural population in the colonies, even though the content of plebeian political discourses may well escape conventional frames of analysis based on a nationalism-imperialism binary. That ‘Kaiser Baba’ became a symbol for ‘tribal insurgence’ in East India (Liebau) will be perceived as a pre-political, absurd and insignificant incident only if the prevailing ‘information order’ and the social dislocations caused by colonial policies towards the ‘tribal’ population are left unexamined. The war situation also changed stereotypes that informed the discourses of the colonizers and were, to some extent, internalized by the colonized. Social Darwinist ideology in general and the notion of martial races in particular thus altered in response to specific wartime requirements. While the First World War still allowed these categorizations, the dimensions of the Second World War made them less important. As several papers (Singha, Chetty, Lovering) demonstrate, this development had severe consequences for the biographies of veterans, especially with regard to gender relations and labour issues. Further studies are needed to reveal the extent to which military service in the world wars could supersede (or overlay) caste or ethnic affiliation as the key qualifier for future out-of-area deployment. Some of the most lasting, but rather under-researched effects of the world wars appear to have been that they favored the expansion of state functions and apparatuses and, in a wider sense, opened windows of opportunity for institutional change. If wars wrought violence, death and destruction, if famine and disease travelled in their train, they also unsettled social orders and prompted new institutional arrangements. The imperatives of the war economy, for example, resulted in the transformation of labour regimes, in new forms of market control (such as food rationing) and, more generally, in the development of more comprehensive regimes of state regulation that drew upon ideas of ‘planned development’ by the time of the Second World War. Furthermore, the technological developments behind the expansion of the range of media available for purposes of propaganda and information contributed to changes not only in the geography of war but also in world views. Several of the essays in this volume highlight the emergence of new regulatory regimes involving various state agencies and pertaining to problems like labour recruitment, organization of work or distribu-

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tion of provisions (Lange, Singha). Benjamin Zachariah´s contribution locates the emergence of discourses of state planning and of specific forms of postcolonial statehood in India in the context of the war economy—a theme that should be further explored from a comparative perspective. Institutional dynamics, the essays demonstrate, were no automatism, however. The window of opportunity for an assertion of citizen rights for colonial subjects was prised open with great effort in West Africa through the “Age of Wars” (Bruschi), but it was firmly closed in South Africa immediately after the end of the Second World War (Chetty). Examining the world wars in specific local contexts and analysing the results of this procedure against the backdrop of the larger context allows us to see how war-induced constraints implied that social orders, political regimes and economic relations were restructured and newly represented, even in regions that were not directly affected by military operations, and that these changes were effected in differential, highly heterogeneous forms. The axes of investigation that emerged throughout this volume also suggest a broad temporal approach that requires us to question and reconsider established periodizations and terminologies. Exploring the global social history of the world wars demands the inclusion of multiple non-metropolitan perspectives, of “cultures outside the evolutionary mainstream”44 or, in an alternative framework, of differential yet interconnected historical trajectories of societies beyond the North Atlantic. This multi-perspective approach unsettles not only the conventional temporality of the two world wars. It also challenges the very assessment of their nature or quality as events and the perception of their implications. Their very ends differed indeed for the various regions and populations affected by them. November 11, 1918, when Germany signed the armistice, did not signify the end of the World War the world over. For many South Asian soldiers of the British Army as well as for the population of future Iraq, the last major operation of the war began only in 1920 with the insurrection in Mesopotamia. The end of the war in Europe ushered in the beginning of another political and social seism of considerable magnitude, the breaking up of the Ottoman Empire and the establishment of the mandate system (Méouchy). Similarly as Chistopher Bayly and Tim Harper have

44

99.

William A. Green, “Periodizing World History,” History and Theory, 34, 2 (1995),

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shown, the ‘end’ of the Second World War triggered struggles for the termination of colonial domination in many parts of Africa, Asia and the Middle East.45 In these parts of the world, the commemoration of political independence often overshadows the memory of the end of the war. Moreover, if social movements were effectively suppressed in most countries during the world wars, the end of armed conflict signified the beginning of periods of intense social confrontation. Beverly Silver has given comprehensive proof of the hypothesis that strike movements reached high pitches not only in the metropolitan countries, but also in colonies and mandated territories after both world wars.46 At least in South Asia, these were also times of substantial peasant movements and insurrections. While, generally speaking, chronological tensions are inevitable between ‘memory’ and ‘record’, i.e. between authorized accounts and subjective narratives, such tensions are also appreciable between the histories of victors and victims, of the variegated social groups both in the metropolis and the periphery that gained from the war and those equally variegated and geographically dispersed social groups that suffered from its effects. Despite this fact, these latter tensions have as yet to gain the status of a historiographical problem. Thinking further along this line, the volume points to the problem of repressed or forgotten histories of the world wars that remain unwritten because they are at odds with the political trajectories of nationally or imperially framed histories. There are few takers, for instance, for the history of Arabs persecuted by the Nazi regime, but no scarcity of documentation, as is shown in one essay (Höpp/Wien). The war services of black South Africans do not seem to merit the establishment of public ‘lieux de mémoire’, and the presence of troops from the same country on the East African battlefields of the First World War are all but forgotten (Chetty, Samson). Struggles against forced recruitment in ‘tribal’ regions of India for Labour Corps for France sit uneasily with the support rendered by most Indian nationalists after 1914 for the imperial ‘war effort’ (Singha). The local history of a multiethnic border region that was deeply affected by the Second World War appears to resist

45 See Christopher Bayly and Tim Harper, Forgotten Wars. The End of Britain’s Asian Empire (Cambridge MA, 2007). 46 Beverly Silver, Forces of Labor: Workers’ Movements and Globalization since 1870 (Cambridge, 2003).

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integration in either Syrian Arab or Kurdish national(-ist) historical narratives (Lange). Many such histories remain to be ‘rediscovered’, and taken together in their ‘marginality’ they may well help to reconsider and recontextualize the ‘central’ features of the ‘Age of World Wars’. The Editors

PART ONE

WAR EXPERIENCES AND PERCEPTIONS

INDIAN SOLDIERS’ EXPERIENCES IN FRANCE DURING WORLD WAR I: SEEING EUROPE FROM THE REAR OF THE FRONT Claude Markovits The participation of Indian soldiers in vast numbers in the two World Wars has attracted a measure of interest mostly from military historians, to a lesser extent from political historians, preoccupied with its impact upon the development of Indian nationalism, but less so from social and cultural historians, with the exception of some Punjab scholars.1 Yet, with a view to exploring the transnational connections developed by different groups of Indians during the colonial era, the world wars deserve close attention. They produced the two greatest migrations of Indians in the colonial period, apart from the export of indentured labour to Africa, the Caribbean and the Pacific. This was of course ‘forced migration’ as well as ‘temporary migration’ in the clearest sense of the terms, and it did not result in settlement abroad on any significant scale (except that of thousands of dead soldiers who came to rest in various military cemeteries or whose scattered bones remained anonymous on numerous battlefields). However, apart from a biological descendance, the product of war-time liaisons between Indian soldiers and local women on the different theatres of war, about which little is unfortunately known, it left significant archival traces in the form of censored letters, particularly in the case of the First World War, which give us an extraordinary insight into the thoughts and feelings of thousands of ‘ordinary’ Indians, the kind who normally do not leave behind written traces. An excellent selection of this correspondence has been published as a volume under the title Indian Voices of the Great War, by the British military historian David Omissi, who has written an interesting introduction to the collection,

1

Susan VanKoski, “Letters Home, 1915–16: Punjabi Soldiers Reflect on War and Life in Europe and their Meanings for Home and Self,” International Journal of Punjab Studies 2 (1995), 43–63..

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but has seen it mostly from the point of view of military history.2 The approach chosen here is different, focusing on what the letters tell us about the way the Indian soldiers perceived the French and French society. I begin with a brief account of the Indian Expeditionary Force (IEF) in France in 1914–18, its composition and its actual role in warfare on the Western Front. I then move on to an examination of some of the methodological problems posed by the use of the soldiers’ censored mails as historical sources. Lastly, I offer a broad analysis of the material itself with a focus on the question of gender, as, in the eyes of the Indian soldiers, it clearly emerged as the main marker of difference between French and Indian societies. I reflect on two different possible interpretations, one emphasizing the internalization of certain norms of colonial discourse, and one giving more weight to the actual encounters which occurred ‘in the field’ (more precisely, in the rear of the front) between Indian male soldiers and French female civilians. The context: the Indian Expeditionary Force (IEF) in France 1914–1918 The Indian Army, the result of the merger, finally implemented in 1893, of the Bengal, Bombay and Madras Armies of the defunct East India Company, was endowed, in the then prevalent British military doctrine, with a dual mission of preserving internal order in India in cooperation with the British Army, particularly on the turbulent Northwest Frontier, and of serving as an imperial auxiliary force abroad. It had been used widely in its second capacity in different colonial expeditions,3 but its participation in a European conflict had been specifically excluded. The main rationale for this exclusion was that the Indian soldiery, although endowed, in British eyes, with courage and martial prowess, due to its being recruited, after 1858, from the so-called ‘martial races’ of India, was considered unsuited to the kind of ‘industrial’ warfare which was deemed to be characteristic of

2 David Omissi, ed., Indian Voices of the Great War: Soldiers’ Letters, 1914–1918 (Basingstoke and London, 1999). 3 For an interesting survey, see T. R. Metcalf, “Projecting Power. The Indian Army Overseas,” in Imperial Connections: India in the Indian Ocean Arena 1860–1920, ed. T. R. Metcalf (Delhi, 2007), pp. 68–101.

indian soldiers’ experiences in france during world war i 31 any future European conflict. Besides, its equipment was obsolete, its possession of modern weapons being considered politically dangerous, as the memory of the Sepoy Revolt of 1857 still haunted British statesmen.4 Therefore the dispatch of a large Indian Expeditionary Force to France in September 1914 represented a departure from the reigning military doctrine, and could be explained only by a specific convergence of factors which were both of a strategic and a political character. The strategic imperative was the existence of a large gap in British manpower on the Western Front, once the original British Expeditionary Force had been forced to retreat from Mons with its effectives severely depleted, and before Kitchener’s New Army was ready to take the field, which happened only in the summer of 1915. By the end of August 1914, the British General Staff was seriously short of troops, and they therefore asked the Government of India to send to France at least part of the expeditionary force which had been originally destined for Egypt.5 The reason why the Government of India responded positively, in spite of the serious doubts expressed by the top military brass, had a lot to do with the personal views of the Viceroy Lord Hardinge. Hardinge thought on the one hand that the participation of the Indian Army in the European conflict would raise the political profile of his Government, and help to rally Indian public opinion to the war,6 and he also, more cynically, calculated that sending away the 4 A modernization drive started by Kitchener in 1903 aimed at making the Indian Army capable of fighting the Russians came to an end in 1908 after the Anglo-Russian Agreement of 1907. See T. A. Heathcote, “The Indian Army and the Grand Strategy of Empire to 1913,” in Soldiers of the Raj: The Indian Army 1600–1947, eds. Alan J. Guy and Peter B. Boyden (Coventry, 1997), p. 23ff. 5 According to the diary of General Barrow, military secretary to the India Office, it was on 27 August that “in consequence of the bad news from France, the Cabinet decided that ‘K’ (Kitchener) was to have his way and that one Indian Division was to be sent to France”. On 31 August, Lord Crewe, the Secretary of State for India, acceded to Kitchener’s demand for a full contingent of four Indian divisions. The Great War, India Office Diary, Military Secretary, India Office, entries for 27 and 31 August 1914. Asian and African Collections of the British Library, Barrow Collection, Mss Eur E 420, File 36. 6 He was particularly worried about the financial aspect. He cabled to the Secretary of State Lord Crewe on 27 August: “If I am not in a position to say that one or two Indian divisions are going to Europe to join the fighting line, I have no doubt whatever that the proposal to contribute would be received by my Legislative Council with enthusiasm, but if I have to announce that they are merely going to do garrison duty in the Mediterranean and in Egypt, there would be no enthusiasm whatever.” Hardinge to Crewe, Telegram P, August 27, 1914, Hardinge Papers, vol. 101, Correspondence regarding the European War, volume I, no. 127, Cambridge University Library.

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best fighting units of the Army would be a radical way of preventing any possible military revolt in India,7 a danger which always lurked large in the minds of British policymakers. The Indian Expeditionary Force, soon organized as a separate Indian Corps within the British Army in France, under the command of General Sir James Willcoxs, consisted of two infantry divisions, the 3rd (Lahore) Infantry Division and the 7th (Meerut) Infantry Division, both including units belonging to the British Army in India, which were supposed to ‘stiffen’ the Indian units, and of two cavalry divisions, the 1st Indian Cavalry Division, and the 2nd Indian Cavalry Division. The first Indian troops arrived in Marseilles at the end of September 1914, then were sent by train to Orléans, from where they were dispatched directly to the frontline. These troops, which had been basically trained for colonial warfare in warm climates, were woefully short of warm clothing and modern weapons. They had to change their Indian army guns for the new pattern of the British Army, and they had neither grenades, nor mortars or searchlights. Yet, these underequipped troops, as soon as they reached the frontline, were sent into battle in an attempt to stem the German advance. The 129th Baluchis (a Punjabi regiment, despite its name) was the first regiment to see action, at the end of October, and it performed creditably, one of its sepoys winning the first Victoria Cross ever bestowed on an Indian soldier.8 However, with the onset of the cold weather, things became difficult and the troops had to be withdrawn from the front for rest, having suffered heavy casualties. During the winter of 1914–15, the Corps was built up to its full strength, consisting of some 16,000 British and 28 500 Indian troops. In the spring of 1915, the Corps was moved to the Neuve ChapelleGivenchy sector of the front, where it remained till the end of the year, although the Lahore division was briefly sent off to take part in the second battle of Ypres in April 1915. The Indian troops held a sector of the front which was some seven miles long, and they mostly fought a war of small ambushes. They took part however in three large-scale 7 Hardinge observed in August 1914: “after all it is the Native troops that present the greatest danger, so, say I, the more that go to the war, the less danger there is at home”. Quoted in Hew Strachan, The First World War, Volume I: To Arms (Oxford, 2001), p. 793. Quotation ‘provided by Dr G. Martin’, without more details of provenance. It has not been possible to trace this quote in the Hardinge Papers. 8 See Asgarh Ali Sardar, Our heroes of the Great War: a record of the V.C.s won by the Indian Army during the Great War (Bombay, 1922).

indian soldiers’ experiences in france during world war i 33 attacks, one at Neuve-Chapelle in March 1915, which was deemed a success, but did not result in any significant gains, a second one at the battle of Festubert in early May, which was inconclusive, and a third one at the battle of Loos in September, which did not have a clear outcome either.9 Having suffered almost 8000 casualties, and having in particular lost practically all their British officers, the troops were deemed incapable of facing a second winter in Europe, and, in early January 1916, the two infantry divisions, a total of some 30,000 men, left France for Mesopotamia, where they were immediately sent into battle to attempt the relief of Kut al-Amara, an operation which ended up in a humiliating defeat for the British and Indian forces. Later, reinforced by other troops from India, they would play a decisive role in the British conquest of Iraq. At the end of 1915 it was however decided to keep in France the cavalry troops, which had been amalgamated into an Indian Cavalry Corps. So some 13–14,000 cavalry remained in France till March 1918, when they were sent to Palestine and took part in Allenby’s conquest of that part of the Ottoman Empire. Since cavalry was of not much use in trench warfare, they saw very little fighting, being mostly employed at digging trenches and other similar tasks. They briefly saw some action on the Somme in 1916, and at Cambrai in November 1917, but always on a limited scale. Assessments of the military performance of the Indian troops on the Western front have varied widely, from the time they were sent there, and there is a debate still going on,10 into which I shall not enter. I shall be content with quoting from a letter written in December 1914 by F. E. Smith, the First Earl of Birkenhead, then an intelligence officer to the Indian Corps, later a Secretary of State for India: “the Indians haven’t done badly. They came at a most critical time in the war when we had not in France the necessary men to hold our lines and when we had not got them ready in any other part of the Empire. We were

9 Two semi-official accounts of the Indian campaign in France, written by British commanding officers, are J. W. B. Merrewether and F. E. Smith, The Indian Corps in France (London, 1918), and Sir James Willcocks, With the Indians in France (London, 1920). 10 An important contribution, although controversial, is Jeffrey Greenhunt, “The Imperial Reserve: The Indian Corps on the Western Front, 1914–15,” in Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History 12 (1983), 54–73.

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given a long line to hold- too long- and for two months the army corps held theirs absolutely intact.”11 A total of 90,000 Indian soldiers and non-combatant personnel, including some Imperial Service troops (from the princely states) were sent from India to the Western front, of whom 8557 were killed, and 50,000 wounded, including many crippled for life.12 Besides, 48,000 labourers were also dispatched, in 1917, forming an Indian Labour Corps which had been mostly recruited from the North-East (amongst Nagas and Mizos in particular).13 Altogether, this constituted by far the largest group of Indians to have ever gone to the West. They were actually more numerous than all the Indians who had made the trip in the preceding three centuries, including the lascars, the only other significant group of Indians having travelled to the West. There is no precise data on who these men were in terms of region and religion, but the composition of the IEF broadly reflected that of the Indian Army, which, in 1914, consisted of 40% Muslims, 30% Hindus, 19% Sikhs, 10% Gurkhas, and 1% others,14 of whom some 50% were from the Punjab, and most of the rest, except the Gurkhas, from other regions of Northern India. In ethnic terms, Punjabi Muslims and Punjabi Sikhs were the groups most represented, but Pathans, including some from the tribal areas, represented the third largest group, followed by Gurkhas, Garhwalis, Rajputs. The lingua franca of the Indian Army was a kind of Hindustani, which was closer to Urdu than to Hindi, but many soldiers were Punjabi or Pashto speakers. They represented a cross-section of the middle rungs of rural society in the Punjab and Northern India. Most of them belonged to families which had some land, but the majority were illiterate, the Indian Army having never encouraged education in its ranks. There is a lot of evidence tending to show that they had not been given much information as to where they were being sent, except for the fact that they were to

11 The Life of F. E. Smith, First Earl of Birkenhead by his son the second Earl of Birkenhead (London, 1965), letter dated December 29, 1914, p. 270. 12 Gordan Corrigan, Sepoys in the Trenches: the Indian Corps on the Western Front 1914–1915 (Staplehurst, 1999), p. 1. 13 They formed the second largest contingent of labourers recruited to serve at the rear of the front in France. The largest contingent, 96,000—strong, was from China, and there were other significant contingents from South Africa, Egypt, and the British West Indies, contributing to a total manpower of 193,500. Michael Summerskill, China on the Western Front: Britain’s Chinese Work Force in the First World War (London, 1982), p. 163. 14 S. D. Pradhan, “The Indian Army and the First World War,” in India and World War 1, eds. De Witt C. Ellinwood and S. D. Pradhan (Delhi, 1978), pp. 49–67.

indian soldiers’ experiences in france during world war i 35 fight the Germans who were the King’s enemies. They had a vague notion that they were going to Vilayati, a polysemic term which seems to have covered both Europe in general and Britain in particular, therefore a source of some confusion to the sepoys, who took some time to discover that France was a different country from Britain. They were however quick learners, and a look at their correspondence shows that they rapidly developed elaborate views on the country where their fate had taken them. Which brings me to the corpus of letters, that is the main source of this study. The corpus: the censored mails of the IEF and some methodological problems as to their use Censored mails represent our basic archive, and some explanation of the mechanism of military censorship of mails is necessary at this stage. All military mails are subjected to censorship in time of war, but the censorship of Indian mails presented certain specific characteristics. When the Indian troops reached France, no special measures had been taken for censoring their mail. However it became quickly apparent to the authorities that the ordinary censorship system of the British Army at the regimental level was inadequate to deal with letters which were mostly written in languages that British military officers, who were in charge of censoring mail in their regiments could not decipher (not more than 5% of the letters were written in English, mostly letters from clerks and a few Indian NCOs and officers). This kind of censorship, even with the help of Indian officers, remained very perfunctory and was mostly geared towards avoiding the leakage of ‘sensitive’ information (such as place names) to the enemy. Therefore it was decided to create a second layer of censorship, a special Indian Base Post Office, situated first at Rouen and then moved to Boulogne, composed of Britons and Indians with a good knowledge of the Indian languages most used by the troops (i.e. Urdu above all, but also Punjabi in the Gurmukhi script, Pashto, Hindi and Nepali, to name only the most common languages). The original purpose of this special outfit was to prevent ‘subversive’ letters from reaching the troops, since British Intelligence was convinced that Indian revolutionaries based in France,15 including the famous Madame Cama, would try to use 15

On these revolutionaries and British policies towards them, see A. C. Bose, Indian Revolutionaries Abroad, 1905–1922: In the Background of International Developments

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the mail to spread their propaganda to the soldiers, whom they were prevented from contacting directly by a close network of surveillance. At first that office limited therefore its work to examining the ‘inward’ letters sent mostly from India, but also from other countries, to the troops in France. The censorship was later extended to the ‘outward’ mails from the wounded in hospitals in England, and, in January 1915, to the outward mails of troops in France. The Indian soldiers were great letter writers (although most of them could not write, a point to which I shall come back). It is estimated that in March 1915 they wrote between 10,000 and 20,000 letters a week, except when actually fighting or on the march. Most of these letters were addressed to their families in India, but there were also letters to friends, generally other soldiers, who could be posted anywhere, in India or abroad. The censors, who were never more than eight, helped by two Indian postal clerks, could obviously not read them all; they appear to have selected them fairly randomly. After having read some of them, they sent each week a report, which was circulated to the major ministries (War Office, India Office, Foreign Office), to Buckingham Palace, and to the commanders of the Indian divisions. To the report was appended a collection of extracts from letters, translated into English, an average of some 100 by report. It is in these extracts that we find the voices of the soldiers, and they are the source which I, after a few other authors, have used. There are various sets of this collection, the most complete being probably in the India Office Military Records, but others are found in various collections of European manuscripts in the Asian and African collections of the British Library (in particular the Sir Walter Lawrence and E. B. Howell collections). Altogether, they form a large and fascinating corpus, which however poses serious methodological problems as to its utilization as historical source. These problems have been tackled reasonably well by David Omissi, in his introduction to his selection of extracts, and I shall here largely follow him, although my emphasis will be at times slightly different.

(Patna, 1971), and R. J. Poplewell, “British Intelligence and the Indian Revolutionary Movement in Europe, 1914–19,” in Intelligence and Imperial Defence: British Intelligence and the Defence of the Indian Empire 1904–1924, R. J. Poplewell (London, 1995), pp. 216–235. Madame Cama, a Parsi lady, came to France in 1909 and was the public face of the Indian Revolutionary Party in Europe.

indian soldiers’ experiences in france during world war i 37 The first, and massive problem is of course that we do not have the originals of the letters, but only translated extracts. This raises two questions, that of the selection and that of the translation. The latter can be considered secondary: the letters read well, and, although we cannot be sure of the quality of the translations, it seems reasonable to assume that the aim of the translators was to be as accurate as possible, even if, in the case of the translation of poetry for instance, there is a tendency to seek some kind of literary effect, which can probably be assigned to the personality of the Chief Censor, E. B. Howell (about whom more later). As to the principles of the selection, we are on more treacherous ground, since we have no ways of comparing the overall correspondence with the actual selection. We can only infer, as does David Omissi, that “the censors aimed at being representative”,16 and one can add that, if they had not aimed at representativity, they would have defeated the very purpose of the whole exercise, which was to gain an accurate idea of the morale of the troops. The second, and trickier problem is that, most of the soldiers being illiterate (although many did manage to acquire a minimum level of literacy during the war years),17 they could not as a rule write their own letters, but had to use the services of public writers. Who these writers were is not clear: most probably other soldiers or officers, including perhaps, as mentioned by David Omissi, some of the Indian officers who were themselves involved in the censorship. I quote again from Omissi: “it is thanks to the scribes that we can read the recorded thoughts of the illiterate (who are . . . normally marginal to the written historical record). But the intercession of scribes also affects the inscription,”18 mostly in two ways, firstly in privileging a formulaic kind of writing, and therefore in limiting spontaneity, and secondly in overemphasizing the socially acceptable, since the letters would be somewhat ‘public’, often read aloud to an audience of fellow soldiers before being posted, and it would not do to appear original in a milieu which placed high value on social (and sexual ) conformity. All this

16

Omissi, Indian Voices, p. 7. The Chief Censor of Indian Mails reported on 11 December 1915: “under stress of necessity many Indian soldiers during their stay in Europe have learned to read and write their own languages, and primers and spelling books come in large quantities from India to the Army.” Report from Indian Mail Censor of December 11, 1915, Asian and African Collections of the British Library, Howell Collection, Mss Eur D 681/17. 18 Omissi, Indian Voices, p. 5. 17

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makes for a relatively stereotyped corpus, in which however the individuality of the senders sometimes comes through, if not stylistically (with a few exceptions), at least in the contents and the level of analysis of the letters which vary widely, from the very simple, even the naive, to the fairly sophisticated. The third problem has to do with censorship itself. Did the soldiers know that their letters were read, and in what way did it affect the writing? It seems that, at first, the soldiers were not aware that their letters could be read, outside of the normal and perfunctory process of regimental censorship. But rapidly rumors spread, as is wont to happen, and most seem to have become aware of that possibility. It does not appear to have affected significantly the tone and content of the letters, except for the devising of certain kinds of codes, like “black pepper” for Indian troops, “white pepper” for British troops, or “fruit” for white woman, which, as Omissi remarks,19 were neither particularly elaborate nor sophisticated, and did not fool the censors, who easily deciphered them. There may however have been at work, hidden in individual letters, more subtle strategies of avoidance about which we can only speculate. All in all, given the fact that 97% of letters were passed by the censors, sometimes with passages deleted, the phenomenon of censorship does not significantly affect the value of the corpus as a historical source. The reluctance of the censors to detain letters was due largely to the fact that these letters fulfilled an important political function in relation to the Indian home front.20 The Indian population was very little informed about the actual events of the war, and in particular about the fate of the IEF, because of very strict censorship rules, and therefore, as is wont to happen in a largely illiterate society, all kinds of wild rumors flourished, which the letters could be hoped to somewhat stamp. It would have been highly impolitic to cut the flow of correspondence between the soldiers and their families and friends in India. The fourth problem, barely evoked by Omissi, is the personality of the Chief Censor of Indian Mails, an ICS officer who had been detached with a cavalry regiment of the Indian Army, Second Lieutenant Evelyn Berkeley Howell (1877–1971), later Sir Evelyn Berkeley

19

Omissi, Indian Voices, p. 9. On this point, see Tan Tai-Yong, “An Imperial Home Front: Punjab and the First World War,” The Journal of Military History 64 (2000), 371–410. 20

indian soldiers’ experiences in france during world war i 39 Howell, who ended his career as Foreign Secretary to the Government of India (1929–1932), before retiring in 1933. Howell was an interesting character, a good linguist and a litterateur, and he seems to have first conceived of the idea of publishing weekly extracts of the correspondence. It is clear that he viewed it as some sort of literary enterprise, and that there was, from his side, a kind of authorial input into producing a collection which would not only fulfill the political agenda that his masters had set before him, about which he had no qualms, but also provide him and his potential readers with some kind of aesthetic satisfaction. He remarked that, “if the publication of selections should ever be permitted, a very entertaining book would result”.21 His literary bend of mind comes out most conspicuously in his careful translations of poems. Soldiers did not resort to poetry very often, (and when they did, it was seen by the Censor, perhaps rightly, as a bad sign regarding morale), but those who penned verses were almost automatically assured a place in the selection. It is clear that Howell enjoyed translating even the worst of the soldiers’ doggerels so as to display his virtuosity as a translator of both Urdu and Pashto verse (later he was to edit with Sir Olaf Caroe an anthology of Pashto poetry). Although he left France at the beginning of 1916 to follow the troops to Mesopotamia, and no Chief Censor was appointed to replace him (the reason being that there were few troops left in France as a result of which the job had lost its political importance), he undoubtedly left his mark on the largest part of the collection, and his authorial personality has to be somehow taken into account. Given all these problems that I have evoked only briefly, can we, as Omissi asks, perhaps a bit naively, “take the letters at anything like face value?”. I tend to agree with his matter-of-fact answer, that some might find positivistic, that “the crucial issue is, surely, less, what we cannot learn from these letters than what we can learn from them”22 and that they reveal a lot about the experiences and mentalities of these Indian peasant-soldiers, about whom, otherwise, since no wartime diaries have miraculously surfaced in some barn in the Punjab, we would be informed only through the writings of their British officers, which, on the whole, and with a few exceptions,23 are not very 21

Quoted in Omissi, Indian Voices, p. 22. Ibid. p. 9. 23 Like the diary of Captain Roly Grimshaw, published as Indian Cavalry Officer 1914–15, eds. J. Wakefield and J. M. Weippert (Tunbridge Wells, 1986). 22

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perceptive, informed as they are by a mixture of paternalism and pretentious pseudo-ethnography. Fictional accounts, in English, include four Kipling stories,24 not amongst his best, and a novel by Mulk Raj Anand,25 of greater interest, but they are altogether few. An inquiry amongst specialists of Punjabi literature regarding Punjabi novels about the First World War gave negative results, a fact I find intriguing but probably reflects a certain kind of segmentation between the world of the peasant-soldiers and that of the town-dwelling literati. As will already be apparent, this is a very rich corpus, which covers a wide variety of topics, but I am going to focus on one particular aspect of this vast material, that which concerns the views of the Indian soldiers on France and French society. The reason for this is that I am above all seeking to open up an area of enquiry about cultural interaction between France and India, which is largely absent from French as well as from Indian historiography. Reading the corpus: occidentalism from below In trying to interpret this corpus as a kind of discourse, I find useful the notion of ‘occidentalism from below’. Firstly I have to explain my use of the term ‘occidentalism’. I must make it clear that I do not use it as the reverse of ‘orientalism’ in Edward Said’s sense, not only because the power-knowledge link implicit in the former is not present there, but also because not enough is known about representations of the West in the non-West in general, and in India in particular, to develop a kind of grand theory about it. I call ‘occidentalism’ any body of knowledge and any representation concerning the West developed by non-Westerners. If I see in the soldiers’ letters a manifestation of ‘occidentalism from below’, it is simply because their views seem to bear little direct relationship (a point to which I shall return) to a body of texts written about the West in India which had been produced at various moments in time by members of the elite. I am not making any claim about the absolute originality of their ideas, but I am inclined to view their universe of discourse as relatively autonomous vis-à-vis that of the élites. A brief survey of the latter is in order at

24 Rudyard Kipling, The Eyes of Asia (Gordon City, N.Y., 1918). Three of the stories are fictional letters sent home by soldiers of the IEF. 25 Mulk Raj Anand, Across the Black Waters (London, 1940).

indian soldiers’ experiences in france during world war i 41 this stage. The earliest text in the élite ‘Indian occidentalist corpus’ is probably Tuhfat-al-Mujahidin of Shaikh Malabari,26 written around 1570 in Arabic by a Kerala Muslim, a treatise on jihad, which also discussed the Portuguese and narrated, in an understandably hostile fashion, their doings on the Malabar coast in the sixteenth century. Another early modern text which can be considered ‘occidentalist’ is Dabistan-al-Mazahib, written in Persian in the 17th century by an author who was probably a Parsi, which was the first systematic exposé of the Christian religion for an Indian public. These were texts written by members of the Indian elite who had not gone to the West, but had observed Westerners in India and collected different kinds of materials about them.27 In the period of transition to colonialism, treatises were written, in Persian, by Indians, mostly members of the Muslim elite, who had travelled to the West, some of which have been analyzed by Michael Fisher in a recent publication.28 In the later colonial era, as more members of the Indian elite took to travelling to Europe, a more comprehensive body of knowledge about the West developed, although it was never formalized in the way knowledge about the Orient was in the West. Elite occidentalism was not a homogeneous corpus. It included, on the one hand, writings by members of the intelligentsia who had never left India and had formed their idea of the West on the basis of their readings and of contacts with British officials in India. This was the case, for instance, with the great Bengali novelist Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay.29 On the other hand, there were writings by Indians who had actually visited the West, and sometimes sojourned there for lengthy periods. Although they were mostly male, there were a few women amongst them, including the famous Pandita Ramabai, a remarkable Maharashtrian woman from an upper-caste background who went to England in 1883 and later to the United States, and wrote at length about her stay in the West, during which she converted to

26 Known to me through a Portuguese version. See David Lopes, trans., Historia dos Portugueses no Malabar por Zinedim (Lisbon, 1898). 27 For a perceptive analysis of this body of literature, see Sanjay Subrahmanyam, “Taking stock of the Franks: South Asian views of Europeans and Europe, 1500–1800,” The Indian Economic and Social History Review 42 (2005), 69–100. 28 In particular Mirza Abu Talib Khan Isfahani’s Masir Talibi fi Bilad Afranji. See Michael Fisher, Counterflow to Colonialism: Indian Travellers and Settlers in Britain 1600–1857 (Delhi, 2004), pp. 104–109. 29 See Tapan Raychaudhuri, Europe reconsidered: Perceptions of the West in Nineteenth Century Bengal (Delhi, 1988), pp. 103–218.

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Christianity. While in an earlier period most travellers had been Persian-speaking members of the Muslim aristocracy, late nineteenth and early twentieth-century visitors were mostly Hindus, belonging to the middle-class intelligentsia, who wrote in various Indian languages. The most influential of them was undoubtedly Swami Vivekananda, the disciple of Ramakrishna, whose intervention at the Chicago Parliament of World Religions in 1893 instantly made into a well-known figure worldwide. Altogether he spent five years of his short adult life (he died at 31) in the West, mostly in the United States, but also in England and France.30 During his travels, he formed a view of the West as worldly and materialist in contrast to India’s high spirituality, which became canonical in India and strongly influenced Mahatma Gandhi, whose core ‘occidentalist’ text Hind Swaraj, written in 1909, remained however little-known in India before 1914, having been barred by the authorities for being ‘subversive’. Some of the ideas about Britain and the West developed in elite circles may have filtered downwards, and a systematic study of vernacular tracts would probably yield some clues about that process, but, to my knowledge, no such study has been attempted. Regarding more specifically France, the Indian elite seems to have been split in its appreciation of that eternal rival of Britain. In the early nineteenth century, one of the first Indian visitors to that country, Mirza Sheikh I’tesamuddin, the author of the well-known The Wonders of Vilayet, a generally very favorable and even effusive account of a visit to Britain, seems to have basically absorbed British prejudices against the French. Thus, during a two week stay in Calais, he conceived a lot of irritation vis-à-vis them and wrote: “I realized clearly that the French are a conceited race, whose convention was always an attempt to display their own superiority and to unfairly belittle other nations.”31 Harsh words indeed, although may be not totally unjustified, but what a contrast to the attitude of Rajah Rammohun Roy, who, a few decades later, is known to have insisted on boarding a French ship at the Cape and expressed his admiration for the French Revolution,32 starting a 30

Ibid. p. 255. I’tisam al-Daula, Wonders of Vilayet: Being the Memoir, Originally in Persian, of a visit to France and Britain, trans. Kaiser Haq (Leeds, 2002), Chapter V. That book, which was published in an abridged English translation for the first time in 1827, seems to have circulated widely in manuscript form and to have inspired later authors. See Fisher, Counterflows, p. 90. 32 See Iqbal Singh, Rammohan Roy (Bombay, 1958). 31

indian soldiers’ experiences in france during world war i 43 tradition of Francophilia, which was particularly strong amongst the Bengali intelligentsia. As to what idea of France our mostly illiterate North Indian soldiers entertained when they embarked upon their journey, nothing comes out clearly from a perusal of their correspondence, except the fact that most of them somewhat identified Europe with Britain and were surprised to discover that France was a different country,33 where people spoke a different language, and where they had no King. But once they had overcome the initial shock of discovery of this Other of the Other, the soldiers, with the help of the scribes, were quickly able to develop various discursive strategies to deal with this new reality. Before embarking upon a more detailed analysis, one has to keep in mind that the purpose of the letters was to inform, reassure, and also, in a certain measure, entertain people at home, primarily of course the families of the soldiers, but, given the fact that the letters were generally read in public, the home village at large, and also fellow soldiers in other locations. This constrained somehow the writers, who, with significant exceptions, did not tend to dwell at length on their most intimate feelings and experiences, but, for today’s reader, it has the advantage of privileging ‘reporting’, which sometimes borders on ethnography, and lends itself better to analysis than intimate outpourings. There are many layers of signification in this rich corpus, and I can offer here only a few preliminary insights, as this is still very much a work in progress. Interestingly, one of the modalities of the soldiers’ apprehension of French reality recalls very much one that Stephen Greenblatt in a famous text,34 saw as informing the perceptions by the first Spaniards of the realities of the New World, that is ‘wonder’. This attitude, which preempts precise description and analysis, is present in many letters and concerns different aspects of French reality. Thus an Afridi Pathan soldier wrote to his brother: “such a sight no man has seen as we have seen. If I were to spend Rs 40 000, I should not get such a sight for it. There is no country like the country of France. It is a most beautiful country and the women of this country are women like the

33 In his fictional account, based on his own son’s story, Mulk Raj Anand quotes the sepoys, on their arrival in Marseilles, asking “Where is France?” and “Is that England?” (Anand, Across the Black Waters, p. 12.). 34 Stephen Greenblatt, Marvellous Possessions: The Wonders of the New World (Oxford, 1991).

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good fairies.”35 A Punjabi Muslim sepoy wrote to another soldier, after having enthused at length about the fertility of the French countryside: “Each house is a sample of paradise. The people far surpass the Egyptians. The wits are set wool-gathering by rosy cheeks and dainty ringlets. Wherever you look you see the same. One is tempted to exclaim: “O merciful God, that hast made all this from a little dirty semen! Praise be to God!”.36 One could find many other similar quotes, but the question arises of how formulaic these expressions of wonderment are. They strongly recall the kind found in Wonders of Vilayet about England, in particular the topos about white women being compared to the houris of Paradise and one is strongly tempted to suspect that the scribes had ready-made formulas that they inserted in many letters, probably also with the intention of reassuring the families, which must have entertained dark fears about the fate of their loved ones, stranded beyond the black waters, and exposed to mortal danger. So in this particular instance, ‘occidentalism from below’ meets with ‘occidentalism from above’ through the person of the scribes. To keep the record straight, one has to mention that some, who appear to have been in a minority, held a completely different view of France. Far from being dazzled by its wonders, they saw it as a godless land, full of uncleanliness and a danger to the purity of the faithful, whether Hindus or Muslims. Thus one Punjabi Muslim soldier wrote to this brother: “this country all belongs to the infidels, and the people are all Europeans. They all keep ‘junglies’ (censor’s note: i.e. pigs, but he will not soil his pen by using the word) in their houses and kill them and eat them day and night. God release our people from this country in safety of their lives.”37 A feeling which was echoed in a letter sent by a pious Baluchi sowar (cavalry soldier) to a friend who had asked him for a Holy Qoran from France: “Be it known to you that this land is a land of heathendom and infidelity. There is no word of the faith here”38 (he was obviously unaware that there was already in France a significant Muslim community, made up mostly of recent immigrants from North Africa).

35

Omissi, Indian Voices, p. 72. Ibid. no. 121, p. 90. 37 Urdu letter, 7 February 1915, from Muhammedan of the Punjab serving in France to his brother in India, India Office Records, Military Records, L/MIL/5/828, Part II. 38 Urdu letter, September 5, 1915, from Baluchi sowar serving in France, to a Baluch in Bahawalpur State. Ibid. 36

indian soldiers’ experiences in france during world war i 45 A Pathan soldier attempted an interesting synthesis between these two contradictory positions. He wrote: “There is no doubt that in the whole world this is the country of Paradise except in respect of religion [. . .] It is a country which has not the true religion. God is well pleased with the people and if only they had the true religion, they would, doubtless, after the resurrection, be dwellers in Paradise.”39 I want now to focus specifically on one very important topic in the soldiers’ correspondence, i.e. gender. It emerges as one of the major themes in their letters, and it is seen by most as a crucial marker of difference between French society and Indian society, more so than for instance technology, although the latter, especially its uses in agriculture (the soldiers were not exposed to modern industry, except in the form of the weapons it had produced and which maimed or killed them on the battlefield), is also often invoked. The writers are struck not only by the beauty of French women, on which they generally comment admiringly, a point to which I have already alluded, but also by their self-sufficiency, what they see as their heroic forbearance in the face of loss, their level of education and above all by the prominent place they occupy in public spaces, and by what they perceive as a pattern of gender equality. One Sikh lancer wrote to his wife: “It is very wrong of you to work yourself into a state of illness through anxiety for me. Just look at the people here. The women have their husbands killed, and yet they go on working just as hard as ever.”40 Another Sikh cavalry soldier wrote to a friend: “As regards marriage, there is affection first between the two parties, who are never less than eighteen years of age. After marriage there is never any discord between husband and wife. No man has the authority here to beat his wife. Such an injustice occurs in India only. Husband and wife dwell together here in unity.”41 Another Sikh of the cavalry wrote to his grandfather: I know well that a woman in our country is of no more value than a pair of shoes and this is the reason why the people of India are low in the scale. When I look at Europe, I bewail the lot of India. In Europe, everyone- man and woman, boy and girl- is educated. The men are at the war and the women are doing the work. . . . You ought to educate your girls as well as your boys.42

39

Urdu letter, May 28, 1916, from Pathan serving in France to a Pathan in Peshawar. Ibid. 40 Omissi, Indian Voices, p. 276. 41 Ibid. no. 334, p. 197. 42 Ibid. no. 448, pp. 257–258.

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Cavalry soldiers, including many Sikhs, who stayed behind at the end of 1915 and did not have much fighting to do, were of course particularly well placed to observe the French, and they figure prominently in the archive as amateur anthropologists. The important question here is whether this idealization of gender relations in French society (where wife-beating, although perhaps not as prevalent as in rural Punjab, was far from being an unknown practice) and this construction of gender relations as a crucial marker of difference between France and India was simply a function of the hegemonic power of colonial discourse over the minds of colonized subjects, or whether it reflected at some level lived experience and an independent assessment based on empirical observation. It is of course always difficult to disentangle the various strands and layers of a discourse, especially when it appears in a fragmented form, torn as it were from an archive. It is however possible to make a certain number of observations. The first one has to do with the exceptional circumstances of the war, and the impact it had on gender relations in France as they could appear to an outside observer without previous knowledge of French society. Because most of the adult males (those who had not been already killed) were at the front, where they were ‘invisible’ including to the Indian soldiers, who had very little contact with them, France during the War could appear as a female-dominated society. Women were very conspicuous in public spaces, accomplishing some of the tasks which were normally reserved for men, and male control over women had perforce been somewhat loosened. Although recent feminist scholarship has tended to belittle the changes brought by the War in the place occupied by women in the public arena,43 these, even if superficial, were at least conspicuous, especially in the rural areas,44 and there is no doubt that there was some outward change in gender

43 Margaret Darrow, summing up the debate, writes: “In the case of France, the war did not suddenly catapult women into the public arena; they had been there for decades already” and she quotes James Mc Millan’s remark that the War had little impact upon French women’s status, except, perhaps, to accelerate trends already well under way. See Margaret H. Darrow, French Women and the First World War (New York, 2000), p. 3. 44 Where, with 3.7 million peasants mobilized for the war, only 1.5 million adult males were left on the farms, together with 3.2 million women. 850 000 wives of agriculturists found themselves managing the family farm. Françoise Thébaud, La femme au temps de la guerre de 14 (Paris, 1986), p. 148.

indian soldiers’ experiences in france during world war i 47 roles. This is an element the soldiers understandably appear to have missed, as they took the somewhat special gender arrangements of the war for the normal state of things. It can partly, but not entirely, account for their misreading of gender relations in France as much more equal and harmonious than they really were. This misleading impression of gender equality was reinforced, in the rural areas situated at the rear of the front where the Indian troops spent most of the time between combat, by the often generous hospitality extended to them by rural households which had become female-dominated. A particular empathy seems to have developed between French rural female heads of households, some of whom were widowed by the War, and these Indian soldiers of rural background who stayed with them and could offer some help in accomplishing the most demanding physical tasks that women were forced to perform in the absence of their men. While sexual and amorous liaisons occurred between the soldiers and some of the younger women and girls (a point to which I shall come back), a different kind of relationship developed between the older women and the young Indian soldiers, to whom they acted as kind of godmothers or surrogate mothers. A Punjabi Muslim cavalry soldier wrote to a friend: Some time ago we were established for about three months in a village. The house in which I was billeted was the house of a well-to-do man, but the only occupant was the lady of the house, and she was advanced in years. Her three sons had gone to the war. One had been killed, another had been wounded and was in hospital, and the third was at that time in the trenches. There is no doubt that the lady was much attached to her sons [. . .]. During the whole three months, I never once saw this old lady sitting idle, although she belonged to a high family. Indeed, during the whole three months she ministered to me to such an extent that I cannot adequately describe her kindness. Of her own free will she washed my clothes, arranged my bed and polished my boots- for three months [. . .]. Every morning she used to prepare and give me a tray with bread, butter, milk and coffee [. . . .]. When we had to leave that village the old lady wept on my shoulder. Strange that I had never seen her weeping for her dead son and yet she should weep for me.45

In this case, the French woman clearly saw the Indian soldier as a surrogate son, a pattern which was apparently quite common, judging from its regular recurrence in the correspondence.

45

Omissi, Indian Voices, no. 212, pp. 135–136.

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While they had very little contact with the French male population, except with old men and young boys, the Indian troopers had many opportunities to engage with French women, either in the homes where they took shelter or in the estaminets where they whiled away the hours in the intervals between combat, or in the shops where they spent some of their meager pay on trinkets, and it would seem that they suffered little from the kind of racial stigmatization which attached to France’s own colonial troops,46 and which often created tensions between them and the French population. As to why Indians generally seem to have escaped the kind of racial stigmatization which attached to other ‘colored’ troops, including the Black American troops, I can only put forward some hypotheses. It would appear that they benefited from the prestige attached to the fact that they were perceived as a part of the British Army (the French were then going through one of their rare periods of Anglophilia), and also that their allure, due to their often high stature, and their complete ‘strangeness’ made them an object of curiosity and attraction to France’s female population. There was a lot of popular enthusiasm for ‘Les Hindous’, as the Indian soldiers, most of whom were Muslims and Sikhs, were known, in a semantic confusion between ‘Hindous’ and ‘Indiens’ which is still common in France at the popular level, and which sheltered Muslim soldiers from anti-Muslim, or rather anti-Arab prejudices, which were already well entrenched. The fact that they did not know a word of French when they arrived, contrary to the French colonial troops which often spoke some kind of pidgin (‘petit nègre’) also worked to their advantage. They cut a good figure, and being seen with them was not something one was ashamed of or tried to hide. It was rather a feather in one’s cap. The more specific question of the kind of sexual and amorous encounters which took place between the Indian soldiery and the French female population is one which is surrounded by a considerable amount of mystery, which I have been able to pierce only slightly.47

46 Regarding this point, see Joe Lunn, Memoirs of the Maelstrom: A Senegalese Oral history of the First World War (Portsmouth, N.H., 1999), in which one Senegalese soldier having fought in France during World War I is quoted as saying: “The French thought we were cannibals (even though) we never ate anybody”. 47 For an appraisal of the problem, from which I somewhat differ, see Philippa Levine, “Race, Sex and Colonial Soldiery in World War I,” Journal of Women’s History 9 (1998), 104–130.

indian soldiers’ experiences in france during world war i 49 The mystery is due to the fact that there is little very explicit material about it in the soldiers’ correspondence or official reports, and that no sources from the French side have come to light. Soldiers sometimes boasted, in their letters to male friends, about their sexual exploits, at times in pretty crude terms (the letters were amongst those which were not passed, or with the incriminated passages deleted), but of course it is difficult to disentangle fantasy from fact, as males everywhere are prone to exaggerate their prowess on this kind of battlefield. A Punjabi Muslim soldier, writing to a friend, presented France as a kind of erotic paradise where “the opportunity for love-making comes to all.”48 A Pathan sowar, using fairly transparent code language, wrote: “The apples have come into excellent flavours [. . .]. They are ripe. We wander in the orchards all day.”49 More often, the letters alluded to some kind of intimacy, but with sufficient vagueness to allow for different interpretations. As to the censors, they took stock of some facts, but do not appear to have formed a general idea of the size of the phenomenon. Some stray remarks by the Chief Censor about mail sent from France to Indian soldiers hint at a pattern of contact which may have been however wider than the authorities themselves were prepared for. Thus Howell remarked in his report of 23 November 1914 that he had come across letters addressed by French girls to members of the IEF which seemed to indicate “intimacies of a nature which cannot be regarded as desirable”. But, since the guilty were clerks, he added sarcastically that “they might find it perhaps somewhat difficult to satisfy their admirers’ demands for captured German rifles, badges and other trophies of their prowess in the field.”50 He also noted in his report of 4 January 1915 that “the bags received from the French postoffice occasionally contain correspondence between French women and members of the Indian contingent.”51 He was more precise about goings-on in Marseilles in his report of 24 April 1915:

48 Urdu letter, 20 October 1915, from Punjabi Musulman, 19th Lancers, serving in France to Punjabi Musulman, Hoshiarpur, India Office Records, L/MIL/5/828, Part 3. 49 Urdu letter, October 25, 1915, from Pathan sowar to Havildar in Khurram militia. ibid. 50 Report from Indian Mail Censor of November 23, 1914, Howell Collection, Mss Eur D 681/17. 51 Report from Indian Mail Censor of January 4, 1915, Ibid.

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claude markovits It would appear from the tenor of certain letters passing between the Base Camp at Marseilles, where the scum of the Army has naturally tended to collect, and the front, that the Indian soldiers in camp at Marseilles have been able in some cases to obtain access to the women of the neighborhood and that a certain amount of illicit intercourse with them is going on. This cannot be but very prejudicial to general discipline.52

The most interesting allusion is found in a report of 21 August 1915 about the French bag, in which Howell notes the presence of “a fair number of letters addressed by French women residing in the neighborhood where the Indian Cavalry Corps spent the winter to Indian members of the Corps [. . .]. Some of these letters were of a violently amatory nature.”53 We do not have much to go by, but it seems indubitable that ‘stuff happened’. Given the well-known sensitivity of the British to such a topic as interracial sex and their insistence on the necessity of maintaining the prestige of the white race by preventing such ‘undesirable’ occurrences, it might appear surprising. Although there were attempts on the part of the British military authorities to prevent contacts between Indian troops and French female civilians,54 they do not appear to have been pursued with great energy,55 and this contrasts sharply with the strict measures that the American military in France took to prevent contact between black American soldiers and French women, which largely succeeded in limiting contacts.56 It is worth noting that Howell’s attitude in his reports oscillates between censoriousness and sarcasm, but that he seems more worried about the impact of sexual liaisons on army discipline than panicked by their racial implications. The explanation for the relative leniency of the British authorities regarding liaisons between Indian soldiers and

52 Report of Indian Mail Censor of 24 April 1915, Howell Collection, Mss Eur D 681/17. 53 Report of Indian Mail Censor of August 21, 1915, Ibid. 54 See Jeffrey Greenhunt, “Race, Sex and War: the Impact of Race and Sex on Morale and Health Services for the Indian Corps on the Western Front, 1914,” Military Affairs 45 (1981), 72. 55 A note by the Chief Censor offered some kind of rationale for this relative leniency. He observed that “the exultation of a few individuals who may have had some success with white women is probably preferable to the resentment of a whole class, who feel that they have done their best for the British cause and have not been altogether worthily treated. A certain amount of restriction is of course necessary, but for the men to feel that they are being kept like prisoners is dangerous”. Note appended to his July 31, 1915 Report, L/MIL/5/828, Part 3. 56 See Arthur E. Barbeau and Florette Henri, The Unkonwn Soldiers: Black American Troops in World War I (Philadelphia, 1974), pp. 108ff.

indian soldiers’ experiences in france during world war i 51 French women seems to have been both a national and a class one. French women likely to enter into liaisons with Indians belonged generally to the lower classes, they were not British and therefore the danger to white British prestige was limited. The same authorities were less philosophical about such liaisons when they happened in Brighton between English girls and wounded and convalescent Indian soldiers in the military hospital there, although they do not seem to have been able to prevent them either. As to the French, they seem to have considered that policing the Indians was the job of the British, and not their own, and, besides, their attitudes to interracial sex were probably slightly more relaxed than those of the British. Some of the soldiers undoubtedly had liaisons with young French women and many others developed affective ties with older women. This could partly explain the gender bias of the correspondence, the large place it gives to the role of women in its assessment of French society. In a way the lived experiences of the soldiers, the generally kind treatment they had received from French women, reinforced the colonial stereotypes about the superiority of the Western pattern of gender relations over the Indian one. Of course there were also many, particularly amongst the Muslim soldiery, who deplored the sexual license of the West, were shocked at the absence of purdah and saw Western gender arrangements as a marker of the decadence, and of the moral inferiority of Western societies. But they appear to have been in a minority, judging from the published extracts. An intriguing point is that many writers took to exhorting their families and friends to follow the example of the French by treating better their women and educating them. However, when they went back to India, they do not seem to have been behind a push for greater female education and emancipation. Or at least no trace of a particular change in this domain has been recorded for the districts which had provided most of the troops.57 It would seem that this enthusiasm for female education was short-lived. Could it have been purely rhetorical, or even devised specifically for the benefit of the military censors? This seems a bit far-fetched, but I shall nevertheless mention it as a possible explanation of a striking disjunction between speech and action.

57 For a survey of the impact of the war on Punjab village life, see Malcolm Darling, Wisdom and Waste in the Punjab village (London, 1934), pp. 185ff.

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In trying to sum up some of the findings of this work, which is still at a preliminary stage, I would like to focus on the relationship between occidentalism from ‘below’ and from ‘above’. The main originality of the corpus of soldiers’ letters is that they gained an insight into the lives of ordinary French people that no literate Indian traveler to the West had been able to gain, given the kind of social milieu in which élite Indians, including the revolutionaries, were bound to move in. Their sharing the lives of peasant households in Northern France brought out to the soldiers, themselves of rural background, a certain commonality of experience in rural lives across a cultural and political divide. But it was also a considerable limitation: the sample of French people, rural inhabitants of a border region, some of whom were Flemish-speaking, whom they got to know were not very representative even of rural France, in a country which had already a high rate of urbanization. Eventually the store of experience and knowledge represented by that corpus was totally lost, as it was never put into print and no one in India could make use of it. In particular, it would appear that it remained unknown to members of the elite, who continued to write about the West in fairly stereotyped terms. The two forms of occidentalism remained therefore largely separate. As regards the question whether the soldiers’ views on gender as a crucial marker of difference between French and Indian societies, to which I have given central importance in this paper, were a reflection of the hegemony of colonial discourse or a translation of lived experiences and the forging of relationships of different nature with French women, I think the best answer probably lies in the notion of ‘bricolage’ as put forward by Michel de Certeau, to account for the capacity of ordinary folk to appropriate elite categories to their own ends.58 Indian soldiers were genuinely struck by the forbearance and pluck of French women during the War (as were also British soldiers),59 and they appreciated the general friendliness (even sometimes more than that) displayed towards them, which made their experience of a cruel war less unbearable. Since they were also aware that the sahibs had often lectured them on how better women were treated in the West than in India, and how it largely explained the superiority of the West

58

Michel de Certeau, L’invention du quotidien.1. Arts de faire (Paris, 1980). As noted in Craig Gibson, “Relations between the British Army and the Civilian Population on the Western Front, 1914–18”, PhD thesis (Leeds, 1998). 59

indian soldiers’ experiences in france during world war i 53 over India, they merged the two into a narrative which answered their need to record their experience as well as to broadly conform to their colonial masters’ ideas, given that they had a low level of political awareness and had not been significantly influenced by the nationalist critique of colonialism. How much they believed in that narrative, even leaving aside the significant minority which dissented from it, remains in doubt, judging by the fact that, when they went back to India, their attitudes towards women and the gender question do not seem to have undergone any palpable change. This opens up the whole question of the global impact on colonial societies of the massive participation of colonial subjects in inter-imperialist wars, about which I would argue we still do not know much.

FRONT LINES AND STATUS LINES: SEPOY AND ‘MENIAL’ IN THE GREAT WAR 1916–19201 Radhika Singha Inspecting the Lady Hardinge Hospital at Brockenhurst for Indians from the Expeditionary Force in France, Sir Walter Lawrence noted an act of local kindness. A burial plot had to be found for a sweeper belonging to a peculiar sect which never cremates. We asked the Woking Muhammadan Burial ground to allow us to bury him there, but they flatly declined. We then had recourse to the Rev. Mr. Chambers, the Vicar of Brockenburst. He came forward and kindly allowed us to bury him in his Churchyard.2

Lt. General George MacMunn embroidered this incident into a story about untouchable life, seeking to strike “a mingled vein of sorrow and glory”.3 The latrine sweeper ‘Bigha’ of MacMunn’s account is of the Lalbeghi community, whom he describes as “nominal” Muslims though untouchables. They therefore buried their dead instead of cremating them, so that they “might face the recording angels like any other follower of the prophet”.4 The Imam refuses to bury the outcaste in his “cleanly plot” but the other hospital sweepers are “insistent that he must be buried”. Learning of the dilemma, the vicar declares, “Surely Bigha Khan has died for England, I will bury him in the churchyard [. . .] And so Bigha, outcaste Lalbeghi, lies close to a crusader’s tomb,

1 I am grateful to Ravi Vasudevan, Ravi Ahuja, Heike Liebau, Douglas Peers, and Katrin Bromber for incisive comments. A fellowship from the L. M. Singhvi foundation, Centre of South Asian Studies Cambridge, allowed me to use archival sources in the U. K. Epithets such as ‘untouchable’, bhangi, and mehtar are offensive, but blander words would excise the operations of power bound up with such terms. All manuscript references are from the National Archives of India, Delhi, unless otherwise stated. 2 Walter Roper Lawrence to Lord Kitchener, February 15, 1915, India Office Records, British Library, London, (henceforth BL, IOR) Mss Eur. F143/165, negative. 3 George MacMunn, The Underworld of India (London, 1933), pp. 44–45. In AngloIndian literature, the broom-wielding latrine sweeper was a figure of pathos, as also the subject of an all too familiar line of humour about the fanciful hierarchies of the servant compound. 4 Ibid. p. 44.

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in the churchyard of St Agnes Without [. . .] Lalbeghi and Norman the alpha and the omega of social status”.5 There is no churchyard of St Agnes Without, but the grave of one Sukha Kalloo sweeper lies by the side of some New Zealand graves in the churchyard of St. Nicholas at Brockenhurst.6 Sukha was probably the sweeper of Lawrence’s report, and the ‘Bigha’ of MacMunn’s fictional account, for his grave-stone is indeed subscribed to by the parishioners of Brockenhurst, and it has an Islamic arch, instead of the cross which outlines the grave of an Indian Christian sapper nearby.7 MacMunn added a second such tale of “pathos and glory” fashioned, he claimed, on another real incident. In this, Buldoo, a regimental latrine sweeper, inspired by his child-hood play at soldiers with a golden-haired English boy, assumes the identity of a Rajput sepoy and dies leading a heroic counter-attack from a trench in Mesopotamia.8 Clearly MacMunn was suggesting that it was in empire alone, in such spaces as the British home and regiment, that the untouchable found succour, not, as he crudely put it, in “Gandhi and his blather”.9 The demands which empire had made on India for the Great War, and the

5

Ibid. p. 45. www.ypressalient.co.uk/New/Zealand/Memorial/Brockenhurst, (accessed August 5, 2008). 7 Ibid. 8 “The war story of an outcaste sweeper”, in The Underworld of India, pp. 261–277. The war- journalist Candler refers to an incident in Mesopotamia, where “a sweeper of the -th Rifles took an unauthorized part in an assault on the Turkish lines, picked up the rifle of a dead sepoy, and went on firing till he was shot in the head”. E. Candler, The Sepoy (London, 1919) p. 233. In a slightly different version, sweeper Itarsi, of the 125th Napier’s Rifles snatches up a rifle and fights in the battle of Sannaiyat in 1916, after which the other sweepers appoint him “to be their officer”. T. A. Heathcote, The Indian Army, The Garrison of British Imperial India, 1822–1922 (West Vancouver, 1974) p. 114. 9 “The war story of an outcaste sweeper”. Transferred from a Rajput regiment to a British one where he breathes more freely, Buldoo is be-friended by a British private who teaches him how to handle a rifle. Ibid. Bakha, the protagonist of Mulk Raj Anand’s novel, Untouchable, is, like MacMunn’s hero, a regimental latrine sweeper, who models himself on the Tommies who “had treated him like a human being”. Mulk Raj Anand, Untouchable (1935, London, 1940), p. 9. European households, regiments or hospitals could keep ‘untouchables’ at a distance, citing sanitary reasons, or the sensitivities of other servants, but there was room for manoeuvre. Hazari, recalls that his grandfather and father longed for service with a European household where they would be treated “not as Untouchables but as servants”. Hazari, I was an outcaste, the autobiography of an ‘untouchable’ in India (The Hindustan Times, New Delhi, 1951) pp. 10, 45, 61. 6

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political fluidity this created, had broadened official understandings about the kind of subjects who should be lauded for ‘war service’. There is an excellent body of work on the ‘martial caste’ construct, the contention that in India, unlike Europe, only a select list of ‘martial castes and tribes’ could be turned into sepoys.10 In World War I this stereotype would be elaborated through ever more tense contrasts with the ‘effeminate’ educated Indian.11 Less explored is the way in which ‘martial caste’ status was also anchored in the institutional distinctions which the Indian Army made between sepoys and the follower ranks, where the recruiting pool was understood to be wider and less discriminating, and where the epithets ‘coolie’ or ‘menial’ were loosely used for certain workers and their work.12 The respectability of sepoy service, and its first call upon the recruiting pool, was affirmed by placing it institutionally above the follower slab.13 But this was not all. For the British private, his access to ‘menial’ services from the ‘follower lines’ was a crucial index of his standing as a white man, one whose body was being tended to by natives. The relationship as he saw it, was one of master and servant, and therefore one in which boot and fist could be used to exact services, but it was also a relationship defined by his acute dependence on them on the march, in the field, and in hospital.14 This is one reason for the paradoxical swing in colonial descriptions of the follower ranks, from ‘scum of the 10 David Omissi, The Sepoy and the Raj (London, 1994); Heather Streets, Martial Races: The Military, Race and Masculinity in British Imperial Culture, 1857–1914 (Manchester, 2004); Lionel Caplan, Warrior Gentlemen, ‘Gurkhas’ in the Western Imagination (Oxford, 1995). 11 The raising of an infantry battalion from ‘effeminate’ Bengal in World War one was an experiment doomed from the start, because to concede success would have meant abandoning the ‘martial caste’ trope. BL, IOR/L/Mil/7/17768. 12 ‘Caste’ in the follower ranks was of concern when it affected the sepoy ranks. MacMunn observed that stretcher-bearers should always include some castes from whom Hindu sepoys would accept a drink of water. G. F. MacMunn, The Armies of India (London, 1911), p. 189. 13 In many narratives of the 1857 uprising, it is some follower who ignites the mutiny by taunting the sepoy about new service conditions which compromised the latter’s status pretensions, such as the ‘polluting’ grease in his cartridges. 14 In July 1857, pulling up the discipline of the British forces besieging Delhi, General Wilson resolved “above all. [. . .] to protect the camp-followers, whom in their unthinking hatred of the coloured races, they had treated with insolent cruelty [. . .]. (I)gnorant soldiers too often repaid the camp-followers, without whose services, given at the risk of their lives, they could not have existed for a day, with brutal words and savage blows; and few of their officers cared or ventured to restrain them [. . .]”. T. R. E. Holmes, A History of the Indian Mutiny (London,1888), pp. 339–342.

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bazaar’, to praise for the ‘gentleness’ with which the kahar and bhisti tended to the Tommy.15 Military authorities used a language of ‘rurality’ to suggest that sepoy service was the prerogative of a superior yeomanry, with no connection to bazaar or construction site, the spaces of coolie-menial recruitment. This idealized opposition was concretized through symbolic and institutional distinctions between the terms of service for sepoys and those for the follower ranks. This essay suggests that sepoy recruitment was in fact, connected, not sealed off from labour markets emerging along the frontier tracts of India from the late nineteenth century, particularly those concerned with non-agricultural employment involving mobility, such as construction work, porterage, lumber extraction, or sea-faring. Man-power hunger threw this inter-linkage into sharp relief during the Great War, thereby increasing the tensions of maintaining the sepoy-follower hierarchy.16 The growing importance of military logistics and changes in the environment of work and combat, shifted the perceptual framework for assessing follower services.17 The related issue, which I only gesture towards, is the degree to which the increased weight assigned to the ‘ancilliary services’ changed the forms in which the colonial regime expected the body and labour of the sepoy to be at its disposal. Sepoys gave their allegiance to the sovereign by military oath and were rewarded by security of service, and paternalist concern for their families. While substantial amounts of construction work could in fact be exacted from sepoys, it was termed ‘fatigue duty’ or ‘pioneer work’ and performed in militarised forms to distance it from ‘coolie work’. The follower ranks, contaminated by their association with ‘the bazaar’, merited a more disciplinary version of paternalism, an inferior order of institutional care, and fewer marks of honour and acknowledgement. In particular the attached or general followers, who did not form their separate ‘departments’ but served a regiment or some other unit, were hemmed into ‘menial’ status. I have explored this condition of institutional ‘menial-ity’, arguing that it was in part structured by 15 kahar: a particular caste, but also the term for stretcher-bearers, whatever their caste. 16 Ravi Ahuja helped me to sharpen this argument. 17 For important insights on the value of colonial labor to British logistics in World War one see Kristian Coates Ulrichsen, The logistics and politics of the British campaigns in the Middle East, 1914–1922, PhD thesis, Cambridge University, U.K., 2005, chapter 4.

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the fiscal logic of making the British soldier and to some extent the Indian sepoy, contribute to the cost of their ‘domestic’ care while in service. Finally, porter and construction labour was mobilized variously through summary impressments, regularized corvee, or the prevailing wage in a ‘free’ labour market. Though a regular feature of frontier-making, coolies were not treated as part of the standing military establishment, so there was no paternalist gloss to their work regimes. In World War one however, they were formally enrolled as ‘temporary followers’ and, the designation, ‘Coolie corps’ was replaced by the term Labour and Porter Corps. I touch upon this strata only to highlight the inter-connected nature of the labour pool for combatant and non-combatant labour along the frontier belt. The sheer variety of artisanal, service and construction work required from followers meant that the lines of caste and wage in the Indian Army did not always fall smoothly along the sepoy-follower status divide. There were high castes, for instance, Brahmin cooks, among the ‘menial’ followers, and some skilled artisans, like carpenters and smiths, although of low caste, earned more than the sepoy. However the official stance was that the follower ranks had to be kept distinct from the combatant ranks precisely because recruitment was socially mixed. The valency of the ‘martial caste’ label was maintained by the emphasis on selective recruitment and the institutional investment in upholding sepoy respectability. The understanding that these issues were not of the same institutional importance for the follower ranks could tinge all with ‘menial’ status. The Dogra sepoys of Mulk Raj Anand’s novel, can bully Santu, their high-caste Brahmin cook because he was a follower: it was the prestige of rank and higher pay which was the proper measure of authority created by the Sarkar . . . And to Santu . . . every sepoy was a man of higher species.18

The sepoy-follower distinction was upheld through wages, pension benefits, kit, rations and fuel allowance, even through what was put into the Christmas boxes distributed to the Indian contingent in France in 1914:

18 Mulk Raj Anand, Across the Black Waters (London, 1940, new edition, Orient Paperbacks, 2000), p. 213.

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radhika singha The Gurkhas were to receive the same gift as the British troops; Sikhs the box filled with sugar candy, a tin box of spices and the Christmas card; all other Indian troops, the box with a packet of cigarettes and sugar candy, a tin box of spices and the card. Authorised camp followers, grouped under the title of ‘Bhistis’ were to receive a tin box of spices and the card.19

Higher and menial followers This essay takes up the stretcher-bearers and the drabis, muleteers, to illustrate the situation for the ‘higher ranks’ of followers, those who belonged to the medical, transport and ordnance ‘departmental’ services. To examine the position of the ‘menial’ followers it picks out the cook, bhisti (water-carrier), sweeper and syce (groom). The ‘higher’ followers are listed explicity in rule 8 formulated under the Indian Army Act (Act VIII of 1911) as the mule, bullock and camel drivers in standing transport of the Supply and Transport Corps, the Transport veterinary dafadars, lascars in Arsenals and Depots of the Ordnance Department and the men of the Army Bearer Corps. As with sepoys, the ‘higher’ followers were not only enrolled, they were also attested, that is, they took an oath of fidelity. Attestation conferred certain privileges, for instance, higher military authority had to confirm the discharge of attested personnel, whereas, a commanding officer could summarily dismiss followers who were merely enrolled.20 The ‘higher’ followers usually worked in their own distinct units under their own structure of command, instead of being attached to combatant units. The second category I deal with are the attached followers, of whom the regimental followers, those attached to infantry or cavalry units, figure prominently in military memoirs. However followers were also assigned to the departmental services, such as to the Supply and Transport Corps. The attached followers were made up of a ‘public’ and ‘private’ element. The ‘public’ followers were those deemed essential to the mobilization of a unit as a fighting formation and therefore paid from the central exchequer. So for instance an Indian cavalry

19

Collections iwm.org.uk/server/show/ConWebDoc.994/viewPage/5, (accessed May 4, 2007). 20 Only attested personnel were eligible for non-commissioned rank. Manual of Indian Military Law (Calcutta, 1922), p. 111.

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regiment enjoyed the services of a langri (cook for Indian troops), bhisti (sweeper) and a mochi (saddler), whereas just the one sweeper was considered sufficient for a Transport unit of 96 mules. However, infantry and cavalry units could not manage with their authorised public followers alone. Through mess funds, subscriptions and small deductions in the wages of British privates and NCOs, they generated money for ‘private’ followers—barbers, dhobis (washer-men), messbearers (waiters), tailors, and black-smiths.21 The British officer in the Indian service, received an extra-allowance because he was expected to keep his own horse and syce. When he went into active service he took along his syce and his personal bearer (valet) who were added to the list of ‘private’ followers and received rations from the regiment, but on payment. In the ranks of the regimental followers therefore, one might find public followers, regimental private followers and officer’s servants.22 Such arrangements reveal the pre-war Indian Army’s considerable reliance upon regimental ‘house-keeping’ to mobilize manpower, mounts, housing and kit.23 Some of these strategies had to be abandoned as man-power and resource mobilization were centralized

21 The Adjutant General India (AGI) pointed out that while government undertook to provide public followers, the entertainment of regimental kahars (palanquin-bearers) barbers, gurgas (utensil washers) and dhobis (washer-men) was “a purely private and regimental matter”. AGI to General Officer Commanding (GOC), 8th (Lucknow) Division, September 28, 1915, Army Department Proceedings (AD), War, 1916–17, I, No. 3386, p. 119. 22 Regiments prided themselves on the smartness of their mess servants as much as in their silver. One K. Mahmood Shah, military outfitter in Ludhiana, regularly advertised the sale of “Servants bands and crest in your Regd. Colour, waist and pugri bands, plated buckle and runner”, Times of India, April 27, 1918. 23 In the sillahdar cavalry for instance, the recruit contributed some money towards his horse and equipment and his regiment advanced him the rest, to be repaid to its loan fund. Yeats Brown mourned the passing away after World War one of this ‘individualistic’ arrangement, declaring that it had attracted the yeoman of substance, who enlisted for izzat, honour. Francis C. C. Yeats Brown, The lives of a Bengal Lancer (New York, 1930), p. 23. In another such arrangement, sepoys were given a ‘hutting’ allowance and constructed their own lines. The allowance was withdrawn in 1919 and Military Works took responsibility for barracks and ‘essential’ buildings. Brigadier E. V. R. Bellers, The History of the 1st King George the V’s Own Gurkha Rifles, Vol. II, 1920–1945 (Aldershot, 1956), p. 2. An officer of the British Army Ordnance Services in liaison with the Indian troops in France was astonished at the degree to which India ‘furnished its native troops with only a bare quota of essential fighting equipment, leaving them to provide for their own domestic wants.’ Major General A. Forbes, A History of the Army Ordnance Services, III, The Great War (London, The Medici Society Ltd, 1924), p. 273, pp. 32–33.

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and intensified in World War one, and training schedules became more rigorous. Public followers were enrolled, which, by the terms of the 1911 Indian Army Act, committed them to general service, but they were not considered worthy of attestation. ‘Private’ followers were often simply ‘entertained’, that is hired, but not formally enrolled. However with the outbreak of the Great War, as regiments moved into active service, efforts were made to enroll private followers, so that they could be threatened with court-martial if they deserted. The attached followers were often termed ‘the menial establishment’ because some of their ‘trades’ were associated with ‘low-caste’ status, and because of the numerical prominence in their ranks of the cook, syce, bhisti and sweeper, whose work seemed to resemble the dependency of domestic service.24 In colonial civil offices, ‘menial establishment’ was the formal categorization for the lowest employee rung, from the peons (messengers), downwards to file-suppliers, bhistis, and sweepers. I haven’t come across a clear list of ‘menial’ followers for the military establishment. One reason perhaps, was that their numbers fluctuated according to the season, the station and peace-time or active service.25 From about 1901–05 the status of followers who made up distinct standing units such as the Army Bearer Corps and the mule drivers of the Supply and Transport corps began to improve through a ‘militarization’ of their service conditions. The instructions of the Army in India Committee (1912) on the Army Bearer Corps, reveal how ‘coolie’ labour, that is labour deemed unskilled and lowly, could be turned into waged service of some institutional standing, if done in squads under military command, wearing ‘fatigues’, and rewarded by a promotional and benefits structure.26 However such shifts entailed a rise in establishment costs. Recommending a sharp increase in the number of stretcher-bearers, the Committee accepted that in peacetime they would have to be put to other work, as in Arsenals and Ordnance depots, but stressed that, “all work should be carried out in accordance with military custom, and not be allowed to degenerate

24

The Hindustani translation for ‘menial followers’ is probably chakar, servant. Some were hired for only part of the year, for instance, the punkah (fan) pullers of the ‘hot weather establishment’ or servants hired locally when the regiment sojourned at a hill-station. 26 BL, IOR/L/Mil/ 7/6700; BL, IOR/L/Mil/7/6730. 25

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into mere ‘coolie labour’”.27 In the new dispensation each stretcherbearer was issued a kukri, and nomenclature reminiscent of a labourgang i.e. head sirdar, sirdar, senior and junior mate—was replaced by military terminology—havildar, lance-havildar, naik, and lance-naik.28 The orders conceded that stretcher-bearers could be employed as orderlies or peons in peace-time, but emphasized that the work should “not take the form of cooly labour. Private employment of any kind is prohibited”.29 On 22 August 1914 the stretcher-bearer’s wage was raised from Rs.7/- a month to Rs.9/-.30 However, in other respects, for instance in the scale of field service allowances, quality of kit, or medical treatment, the higher followers continued to be classed with the ‘menial’ followers.31 Stretcher-bearers and mule drivers complained that this slide downwards reduced them to the level of the bhangi, or mehtar, that is, the latrine sweeper, the epitome of ‘menial’ condition.32 I found it difficult to plot wage-shifts as between the sepoy and various follower categories over the period of the Great War, because of gaps in my research material. However the problem also arose from the very local frame which determined the wages of regimental followers, public and private, unlike the standardized wage fixed for the Indian infantry. This arrangement kept establishment costs down, so it persisted, despite efforts in 1910 to fix a standard all-India rate for

27

BL, IOR/L/Mil/7/5320. In December 1913 the strength of the Army Bearer Corps was increased, from 1500 on the active list to 4500 with a reserve of 1500. Secretary (Secy), AD, to Director, Medical Services, December 22, 1913, AD, War, 1914–1915, No. 3625, pp. 133–136. 28 Ibid. The kukri, a flat curved all-purpose knife had come to be understood as a Gurkha warrior accoutrement. 29 Ibid. p.136. (emphasis added). 30 Secy AD, to Director, Medical Services, August 22, 1914, AD War, 1914–15, No. 3623, p. 127. 31 For instance, in May 1915, the Deputy Field Accountant at Rouen, France, was informed that ‘menial follower’ meant “men performing menial duties as opposed to clerical or superior duties”. AD, 1916–17, War, III, Appendix, p. 2213. However in 1918 the Commander in Chief, India (CCI), explaining that ‘menial followers’ were not entitled to a special field service allowances, said the term included “those noncombatants who are in receipt of Rs.100 per month and less”. CCI to GOC, Cairo, 23 April 1918, WW1/1023/H, Vol. 465, Diary No. 31867, p. 103 (World War One, war diaries, National Archives of India). The first definition probably excluded the ‘higher’ followers, the second included them. 32 Bhangi: the term for those who cleared away human excreta, is also a term of abuse.

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public followers.33 The other complication was that the Army Department preferred to meet war-time short-falls of departmental followers by top-ups in temporary forms, such as an enlistment bonus and additional pay for every so many months of service, so it could keep their basic pay a step behind the sepoy’s. At the outbreak of the war the sepoy’s pay, last raised in 1911, was Rs.11/- a month. The stretcher-bearer in the Army Bearer Corps received Rs.7/-, raised in August 1914 to Rs.9/- and the mule driver of the Transport Corps Rs.8/-, raised in June 1915 to Rs.9/-. The Supply and Transport Manual (War) prescribed a somewhat higher scale for public followers attached to departmental units, than for those assigned to infantry or cavalry regiments, even if they did the same work. The official explanation was that regimental followers were moved around less and the regiment offered them a ‘home’ where they and their family got food and extra money through supplementary work for British privates.34 So for instance, the departmental scale for the cook, bhisti, syce and sweeper was Rs.8/-, whereas those attached to regiments got Rs.6/- to Rs.7/- a month, with the sweeper getting the lowest.35 Wages for private followers depended upon the individual officer and upon prevailing rates in the locality. A skilled cook or bearer would get higher wages than a sepoy, but without his status, security of employment or retirement benefits. Pressures on the sepoy-follower divide Race and imperial rivalry: the coolie shadow over the sepoy From the late nineteenth century escalating imperial rivalry meant that Indian soldiers and armed police units circulated with greater frequency between garrisons around the Indian Ocean.36 Simultaneously 33

AD, June 1913, No. 1302–1308 and appendix. The syces, grooms, with British cavalry regiments and batteries earned Rs.2/- to Rs.4/- a month extra by cleaning kit and saddlery for British troopers. Syces with ammunition columns were discontented because they got only their official pay. Sweepers attached to regiments could count on hand-outs of food. It was difficult to get sweepers for Indian troop hospitals where they could not. AD, June 1913, Appendix 1, Establishment, Regimental, A. 35 Government of India (GOI), AD to SOS, May 19, 1916, AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 38134, p. 1073. 36 For an excellent discussion, Thomas R. Metcalf, Imperial Connections, India in the Indian Ocean Arena 1860–1920 (Ranikhet, 2007). 34

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the colour-bar against Indian settlers in certain British colonies began to create situations in which the figure of the sepoy was sometimes rhetorically collapsed into the figure of the Indian coolie-emigrant. A significant number of Pathan and Punjabi ex-sepoys had hoped that their service to empire would assist them in entrepreneurial migration to Canada, Australia and South Africa. In their sense of themselves they were different from the pitiable indentured coolie because they could arrange for their own passage and were of a superior social stamp.37 As these aspirations were thwarted, there were reports from South Africa of incidents in which ex-sepoys had publically burnt their uniforms, and military papers, a declaration that these trappings were ‘worthless’, that service to empire had not rendered them in any way better than the resourceless coolie. Britain’s rivals for global power and those such as the Boers who had felt the edge of the imperial harrow, also provocatively reduced the image of the sepoy to that of the coolie, in implied critique of Britain’s dependence on coloured and colonised man-power.38 In 1899 with British troops over-extended in the South African war, Indian infantry and cavalry units were prominent in the contingent which joined the international forces assembled to crush the Boxer uprising in China. Henry Vaughan, an officer of the 7th Rajputs, recalled that many foreigners “used to mistake, or possibly pretended to mistake, the followers for sepoys and thus got the idea that they were an untidy and unsoldierly lot”.39 His explanation was that Indian followers were 37 The Indian intelligentsia also underlined the distinction between sepoy and coolie-menial. To refute the allegation that Indians in South Africa came from “the lowest class”, that is, from indentured coolies, Gandhi extolled the gallant sepoy and the industrious trader. “The Indian Franchise appeal”, December 16, 1895, Collected Works of Mahatama Gandhi, vol. 1, 1895, en_wikisource.org/wiki (accessed March 3, 2006). 38 In World War I, Boer soldiers taunted Indian sepoys in East Africa, calling them coolies. Major R. S. Waters, History of the 5th Battalion (Pathans) 14th Punjab Regiment (London, 1936), p. 174. 39 Lt. Col. H. B. Vaughan, St George and the Chinese Dragon (1902, The Alexius press, 2000), p. 117. Major General L. C. Dunsterville said the French “affected to believe” that the British had dressed up coolies as soldiers. L. C. Dunsterville, Stalky’s reminiscences (London, 1928), pp. 178–179. However, in his private diary, Amar Singh, a Rajput officer commanding a princely state cavalry unit, insisted that the epithet ‘coolie’ was appropriate, because of the shabby treatment meted out to Indian officers, the VCOs. They were supposed to stand upon the same footing as the British NCOs, but: “British sergeants and soldiers never salute Indian officers [. . .]. Now if an Indian officer did not salute a British officer there would be hell of a row [. . .]. I do not blame the French for calling Indians coolies, considering the way the British

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issued the same pattern of winter clothing as the sepoys.“Anyone acquainted with India is aware how utterly filthy and disreputable the Indian coolie becomes [. . .]”. Followers ought to be clothed differently, “the more so”, he added, “as united action by the European power against offenders of international law will probably be more frequent in the future, and the Indian Army will be taking its share in them”.40 However, the trend, as I pointed out, was in fact towards a narrowing of the status gap between the sepoy and departmental followers such as those in the Army Bearer Corps and mule transport companies. Over the course of the Great War, an even more homogenising military frame would have to be put around follower services, first for disciplinary and then for inspirational purposes. In the case of the Labour and Porter Corps, a stormy campaign in India against the system of sending indentured coolies overseas, gave the Government of India a strong political reason as well to cast their work as ‘military service over-seas’.41 Financial considerations, and a persistent unease about bringing ‘low’ and ‘polluting castes’ into the domain of ‘martial status’, put certain limits to institutional change in the Indian Army. Yet such were the pressures of manpower rationalisation by 1918–19 in overseas theatres of war, that some officers found it possible, to suggest at least, that the term ‘follower’ be abolished, and all followers be absorbed as soldiers. Sepoy, menial, and coolie: village, bazaar and construction site Pre-war military accounts implied that the sepoy-follower divide largely followed the line of status difference between a sturdy ‘yeomanry’ and ‘village menials’, the latter conceptualized as a dependent rural strata providing services or craft skills to more substantial peasants and landowners.42 However from the Afghan War of 1878–79 we also

treat them”. S. H. Rudolph and L. I. Rudolph with Mohan Singh Kanota, Reversing the Gaze, Amar Singh’s diary, A colonial subject’s narrative of Imperial India (Oxford, 2002), p. 159. 40 St George and the Chinese Dragon, p. 121. 41 This allowed GOI to distance the sending of labour to theatres of war from indentured migration to colonial sugar plantations, as well as to by-pass the formalities of the Indian Emigration Act. Radluika Singha, “Finding labor from India for the war in Iraq: The Jail Porter and Labor Corps, 1916–1920”, Comparative Studies in Society and History, 2007, 49, pp. 412–445. 42 George MacMunn, The Armies of India, pp. 131, 189.

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find military accounts complaining that the ‘true’ kahars, characterized as ‘traditional’ palanquin-bearers, drawn from hardy rustic castes of upper India, were dwindling away because of the modernization of transport and high wages on public works. Expeditionary forces they stated, had to make up follower numbers from ‘mere bazaar coolies’, described as a de-skilled and socially indeterminate strata.43 The bazaar environment, rather than inadequate food and clothing, could thereby also be blamed for follower invaliding on active service.44 Intertwined with such complaints was the presumption that the best military material was obtained from the more remote villages, not from those cast as socially uprooted elements hanging about markets and pilgrim centres, or from children born ‘in the lines’.45 As a corollary, the Government of India was always more willing to make a long term financial commitment to family reproduction when it involved the sepoy, rather than the follower, hoping thereby to strengthen its ties with dominant peasant communities.46 Yet if one shifts from this discursive opposition between sepoy and follower, village and bazaar to appraise the migrant streams pooling around road and railway heads, cantonments, hill-stations and garrisons along India’s land frontier, one discovers overlaps between the recruiting base for combatant units, transport and stretcher-bearer

43 “Correspondence between the Government of India and the Secretary of State in Council respecting the proposed changes in the Indian Army system [. . .]”. Parliamentary Papers, House of Commons, 1884–1885, No. 17, p. 152, para. 422. Col. Robert J. Blackman, Scalpel, sword and stretcher, Forty years of work and play (London, Sampson Low, 1931), p. 84; also BL, IOR/L/Mil/7/5320. 44 “The army hospital native corps is [. . .] composed of the scum of the bazaars [. . .]”. Miss Watt, “The work of the Indian Army Nursing Service”, The American Journal of Nursing, 3, 2, November 1902, pp. 93–96. Requesting healthy men for the Army Bearer Corps, the Surgeon General noted that in former wars “a sweep of the bazaars was made, a horrible practice that produced the vilest specimens of humanity”. Surgeon-General to Chief Secy, Madras, September 18, 1914, Public, G. O. No. 1233–1234, September 25, 1914, Tamil Nadu State Archives, Chennai, (TNSA). 45 Lionel Caplan, Warrior Gentlemen, pp. 96–97. General Sir O’Moore Creagh, Indian Studies (London, 1918), p. 262. 46 The Bombay government held that remissions of land revenue were a mark of status, and should therefore be conferred only on the landholding classes who put more at risk by what they left behind, and by their choice of combatant service. The non-land holding classes it contended, preferred non-combatant service, with its high pay and low risk, so they had “much to gain and little to lose by enlisting”. Secy Bombay Govt, Revenue Dept to Secy, GOI, November 13, 1918, in Despatch to Secretary of State for India (SOS), Finance Dept., No. 41, February 6, 1919.

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services, and ‘coolie’ gangs.47 Some umeedwar, ‘hopeful’, hanging about a cantonment in Peshawar or Shimla, might also accept work as a regimental cook, syce, or private bearer if rejected as a combatant.48 The Indian Army used ethnic criteria in recruitment to reinforce the standing of combatant service, but political and economic factors could dilute the formula. For instance, it insisted that Magar and Limboo Gurkhas at the Gorakhpur recruiting depot be kept solely for army units, giving the Assam and Burma military police access only to other Gurkha communities.49 But if the demand for combatants suddenly spiked, or if the favored communities veered away to other employment sites along the circuits of movement and settlement between Nepal and India, then the army had to embrace a wider range of Gurkhas.50 Along the North-West frontier some of these competing work nodes emerged from the 1880s as a consequence of F. S. Robert’s policy of ‘defence in depth’, that is, a communications structure from Quetta upwards which would allow rapid troop movement across the border and towards Afghanistan.51 An important plank in colonial policies of pacification was to deepen the channels of migration which drew recalcitrant border communities into dependency on the wage labour and commodity markets in British India. Tribal chiefs were often coopted as overseers and labour contractors. For instance, in 1912, to prevent the famine-stricken Mahsuds of Waziristan from raiding in

47

Transport officers, claiming that they too needed ‘martial’ material, preferred to pick over men from the Punjab and the North-West Frontier Province, who had been rejected for combatant units, instead of diversifying their recruitment to other provinces. Military Department (MD), A, November 1888, 190–192. Thus in March 1915 the GOC Quetta Division said practically all the mule drivers were from Punjab, the Sindhis being “naturally non-combatant” and the GOC of the Poona Division held that the local “Parwari caste (depressed classes) . . . are not the best material” for transport units, and complained about the difficulty of getting Punjabi Muslims. AD, War, 1914–15, No. 13706–711, pp. 459–61; BL, IOR/L/Mil/7/6712. 48 Langris, cooks, were usually from the same community as the sepoys they cooked for. 49 Home, Police, B. December 1890, 32–33; Home, Police, June 1895, No. 137–141. Rinku Arda Pegu supplied these references. 50 Alban Wilson, Sport and service in Assam and elsewhere (London, 1924), p. 30; W. B. Northey, a Gurkha recruiting officer during the Great War, was seriously concerned that the channels of Gurkha migration to India had widened too much, enabling unauthorized recruitment for coal-mines and rubber-planting. C. G. Bruce and W. Brook Northey, “Nepal”, The Geographic Journal 65, 4, April 1925, pp. 281–298. 51 R. A. Johnson, “ ‘Russians at the Gates of India’. Planning the Defence of India, 1885–1900”. Journal of Military History 67, July 3, 2003, pp. 697–743.

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British territory, they were enlisted in the army and their maliks were given petty contracts to bring labour to the Lakki Pezu railroad line.52 Political suasion could bring a trans-frontier community such as the Hazaras, tapped for quarry and construction work, into consideration as a source for military labour. Combatant enlistment brought status, and a regular wage with medical care and a gratuity or pension. Construction work gave no guarantee of continuous employment, but it offered more flexibility at roughly comparable wages.53 Sometimes frontier communities chose between these two labour regimes or even combined them. The journalist Candler, wrote of some Pathan sepoys who used their three and a half month military leave to enlist in the ‘Coolie corps’ on the Bolan Pass because wages were high there and they were free to gamble, so “the place had become a kind of tribal Monte Carlo”.54 In uncovering the channels connecting the pools for combatant and coolie labour along the frontier, it is also worth noting how much construction work was exacted from sepoys and military police units but under the label ‘fatigue duties’ or ‘pioneer work’. Lansdowne in the central Himalyas, the headquarter of the Garhwal regiment, was made by literally carving away a mountain top, involving sepoys in intensive fatigues on and off for twenty years. The regimental history admitted that the principle of making the men contribute labour for their accommodation had been “carried to extremes”.55 From 1904 the Burma Military police received extra-pay for the construction and repair of roads and barracks, termed ‘pioneer work’.56 Lastly, at the outbreak of the war, the Indian Army had twelve Pioneer Battalions, whereas the British army had none. As MacMunn pointed out: “India

52

Railway Board, Railway Construction, A, August 1912, No. 330–331. The wage for male porters and construction workers along the frontier hovered at around 8 annas a day. One estimate put the monthly wage in 1915 for coolies at Kohat and Bannu, two military stations on the North-West frontier at Rs.15/- and Rs.11-4 annas respectively, and at 8 annas a day for Peshawar. AD, War, 1916–17, III, Appendix, No. 73290–72293; and AD, War, 1916–17, I, No. 11205, p. 282. A 1907 estimate put the daily wage for coolies on government construction in the Khasi hills on the North-East frontier at 8 annas. P. R. Gurdon, Khasis: A tribe of Meghalaya in the North-East India, 1907, www.fullbooks.com/The-Khasis (accessed January 2, 2005). Assuming the (unlikely) situation of full employment, 8 annas a day adds up to Rs.15/- a month, which compares well with the sepoy’s Rs.11/-. 54 Candler, The Sepoy, p. 80. 55 J. T. Evatt, Historical record of the 39th Royal Garhwal Rifles, vol. 1, 1887–1922 (Aldershott, 1923), p. 213. 56 Despatch, GOI to SOS, Finance Dept, No. 11, January 19, 1919. 53

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alone of the British empire has pioneer corps, since India alone expects campaigns by way of goat-tracks and mountain courses”.57 As World War I lurched on, the list of communities in whom the Indian Army discovered martial qualities grew longer. The parallel hunger for non-combatant labour meant that the ‘class’ that is, the ethnic criteria for departmental follower services, always looser than for combatant units, became looser still.58 In short, the overlap between the recruiting base for combatant and non-combatant labour increased, but the advantage did not always lie with combatant units. Improved wages for departmental followers and for the Labour and Porter Corps, added to lower casualty rates in these units, began to affect sepoy recruitment.59 Anxious that the attractions of sepoy service were waning, the Army Department made a forceful intervention to preserve the combatant pool. In March 1917, in the context of Labour Corps recruitment for France, it formally prohibited the recruitment of followers from “Punjabis of all classes, Garhwalis, Rajputs, Nepalese, cis-Frontier Pathans”.60 The expansion of military employment both combatant and noncombatant created conflicts with other labour regimes as well. As the army began to pick up Gurkhas around tea-gardens and bazaars in upper Bengal and Assam, planters complained vociferously that recruiting parties were panicking their labour.61 Where once men at the recruiting depot were paraded before tea-planters to ensure they were not runaway coolies, now the Assam government said the practice was demeaning to soldiers, and stopped it.

57 MacMunn, The Armies of India, p. 186. By the later stages of the war the Pioneers were regarded as too valuable to be used as assault battalions. Ian Sumner, The Indian Army, 1914–1947 (Oxford, 2001), p. 46. 58 In 1904 the prescribed classes for mule and pony Transport units were Punjabi and Hindustani Muslims, Sikhs (Lobanas, Mahtons, Sainis and Kamboks), Dogras (including Girths and Rathis). Army Regulations, India, vol. 5, Supply and Transport, GOI, 1904, p. 13, para 116. By May 1917 the criteria for Transport followers had changed to: “All classes except Chamars and Sweepers”. Military, B, 1917, File 3, Chief Commissioner’s office, Delhi State Archives (DSA). In 1919 the criteria for camel drivers and for railway labour for Mesopotamia was “all castes including Chamars but not sweepers”. File 38, 1915, DC, DSA (emphasis added). 59 Complaint of Major C. R. Lyall, Recruiting officer for Sikhs to AGI, September 9, 1916, AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 49821, pp. 1584–1585. 60 Foreign and Political (F&P), Internal, B, Aug 1919, Nos. 110–115. 61 The Army said that in Assam it was targeting only Gurkhas and Jharuas, the latter “a generic term for [. . .] certain forest tribes”. The Pioneer, October 1, 1916, p. 13.

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Military and civil interests clashed at the same conjuncture over officially-sanctioned corvee in Kumaon and Garhwal, in the central Himalayas. The war had given the Indian Army a strong investment in underlining the ‘Rajput martial-caste’ identity of Kumaonis and Garhwalis. General O’Moore Creagh held that state corvee, particularly corvee to carry head-loads, humiliated such “warlike races” and subjected them to oppression at the hands of “the unwarlike scribe caste bureaucracy”.62 Kumaonis and Garhwalis who enlisted as sepoys got some exemption from corvee, utar and bardaish, a concession extended in World War one to military pensioners and reservists as well.63 However district officials in Kumaon and Garhwal resisted this depletion of the corvee pool, complaining that sepoys began to defy village officials.64 The army’s point of view was enthusiastically endorsed by the Garhwali educated classes who deployed the Rajput ‘martial caste’ model as the defining one for regional patriotism, and as a platform from which to address government for favours.65 They too sought to distance Garhwali identity from the image of the coolie and porter. The Hindi fortnightly Garhwali exhorted its readers to ensure Garhwal figured among the leading districts supplying combatants. However it also appealed to government to liberate Garhwalis from the stigma of coolie utar, corvee, and warned against people in the sub-montane towns of Dehradun and Najibabad who enticed Garhwali migrants to enlist in the Labour Corps.66

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Creagh, Indian Studies, pp. 140–141. Index to the Proceedings of the Government of Indian in the Army Department for 1918, Calcutta, 1919, p. 654 64 Creagh, Indian Studies, pp. 140–141. 65 Hindi fortnightly Garhwali for 1917, microfilm No. 4193, Nehru Memorial Museum and Library (NMML). Some contributors argued that Garhwali Brahmins could be accommodated within this ‘martial caste’ frame, a few that special companies could be raised even from ‘untouchable Doms’ who should be rewarded by admission to ‘clean caste’ status. Garhwali 8 December 1917. 66 It pointed out that absorption into the United Provinces Labour Corps also obscured the specific manpower contribution of Garhwal. Garhwali, September 15, 1915, September 1, 1918. In 1917 the periodical reported with satisfaction that Government had formally prohibited the recruitment of Garhwalis to the ‘coolie corps’. Garhwali, September 29, 1917. 63

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radhika singha The attached followers and the construction of ‘menial’ status

While combatant and non-combatant labour could flow in interconnected channels, the labour supply was much more restricted when it came to finding attached followers, particularly for work which was regarded as ‘polluting’. In exploring the construction of institutional ‘menial-ity’ I draw upon a valuable body of writing which has shown how caste tradition was invoked to hem the more powerless castes and communities into the hardest and most stigmatized sectors of work regimes being re-fashioned under the drives of capital and colonial power. Thereby ‘untouchability’ was recast in new contexts and low pay, degrading conditions of work and corporal discipline could be ‘naturalized’.67 The attached followers found it particularly difficult to challenge their consignment to institutional ‘menial-ity’ because of the presence in their ranks of ‘untouchable’ castes who swept, cleaned latrines, washed clothes, and crafted leather, work characterized simultaneously as a ‘trade’ that is, as a traditional specialization, and as ‘polluting’.68 The other dimension of ‘menial’ status, this essay argues, was the reproduction, in an institutional context, of regimes of highly discretionary discipline and an indefinite requirement of being ‘on call’ which resembled the dependency of domestic service.69 It was the element of

67 Peter Mayer, “Inventing Village Tradition: The late 19th Century Origins of the north Indian ‘Jajmani System’ ”, Modern Asian Studies 27, 2, (1993) 357–395. Vijay Prashad, Untouchable Freedom, A Social history of a Dalit Community (Delhi, 2000); Ramnarayan S. Rawat, “Struggle for Identities: A Social History of the Chamars of Uttar Pradesh, 1881–1956”, PhD thesis, Delhi University, 2006; Shahana Bhattacharya, “ ‘Untouchable’ leather: caste and work in the leather industry”, unpublished paper, Seventh International Conference on Labour History, March 27–29, 2008, V. V. Giri Institute, New Delhi. 68 One response among attached followers, much to the chagrin of their employers, was to erect their own ‘internal’ status lines. For instance, sweepers who did the ‘dry’ conservancy work of sweeping barracks and mule lines would refuse to do the ‘wet’ conservancy work of cleaning latrines. 69 Ravi Ahuja argues persuasively, that the absence of defined work hours was a general characteristic of colonial legal regimes. These tended to interpret wage contracts as putting the labourer “comprehensively” at the disposal of employers, not simply as fixing wages for a fixed portion of work-time. Ravi Ahuja, “Networks of subordination—networks of the subordinated. The ordered spaces of South Asian maritime labour in an age of imperialism (c. 1890–1947)”, in The limits of British colonial control in South Asia, eds. Ashwini Tambe and Harald Fischer-Tine (New York, 2009), pp. 13–48, 16. Extrapolating from this, regimes of personal subordination would require different justifications in different contexts. I suggest it was the frame-

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‘personal attendance’ which gave R. V. Russell, the ethnographer of Central India, the connecting link he sought between the traditional work of the kahar, that is, of carrying the landlord’s palanquin and getting a rent-free plot of land for it, and the kahar who worked as a bearer in a European household: “Our use of the word ‘bearer’ in the sense of a body-servant developed from the palanquin-bearer who became a personal attendant on his master”.70 Regimental followers, public and private, were, in the manner of domestic servants, expected to be at hand to tend to the physical needs of their institutional superiors, who felt they had a personal right to chastise them for inadequate service, evasion or insolence. The fact that regiments were expected to supplement the income of public followers and to employ ‘private’ followers blurred the line between public employee and domestic servant.71 But the line was also effaced by a conviction on the part of the British Tommy, in which he was supported by his British NCOs, that he had the white man’s right to deference and care from ‘menials’, and that services could be appropriated by force even if not always authorized or paid for.72 The Tommy’s violence to some punkah puller or sweeper was embarrassingly public and therefore more problematic institutionally than the beating an officer might administer to his syce behind the walls of his compound.73 Some efforts were made from the late 19th century work of ‘domestic service’ which denied regimental followers the more rule-governed work-regime and therefore the higher status of ‘public employees’. 70 R. V. Russell, Tribes and Castes of the Central Provinces of India, (London, 1916), vol. 1–4, vol. 1, p. 291. Colonial ethnographies suggested that the services which ‘village menials’ performed for a landed patron in return for a share of the harvest or a land lease provided the template for analogous caste-specific services in the ‘servants’ compound’ of European households or in municipalities and cantonments. Russell’s example shows the analogies could be quite stretched. 71 For instance, 12 annas a month was deducted from the British private’s pay to maintain regimental dhobis, washer-men. Frank Richards, Old Soldier Sahib (USA, 1936), p. 181. 72 One Private Crickett punched an Indian Christian cook who had the temerity to protest against abuse and that too in English. He got off with an entirely nominal punishment because of a sympathetic British Lance Corporal and Colonel. Richards’ account also mentions a sweeper punched for not immediately dropping his work to attend to another order, and a servant kicked for entering a soldier-bungalow with his shoes on. British privates were said to hate Curzon for his insistence that Commanding Officers punish men for violence inflicted on natives. Richards, Old Soldier Sahib, pp. 163–167, 181, 184. 73 When a British cantonment magistrate asked what he should do if a European military officer assaulted his native servant, as for instance by the “infliction of castigation by means of a Horsewhip”, his superior said he “couldn’t imagine” such an incident.

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to curb British privates and NCOs from ‘disciplining’ natives with too much violence, initiatives countered by stubborn collective resistance. However the prescribed alternative, that is, institutional arrangements for follower discipline, were also marked by a high degree of summariness, and by the use of corporal punishment. In fact, contemporary interpretations of the Indian Army Act, reveal a highly paternalist understanding of disciplinary procedures, not only for followers but also for sepoys. It was an article of faith among British officers that the 1857 Mutiny had demonstrated that in an Asiatic army, the personal prestige of the Commanding Officer was all-important, and it had to be upheld by summary powers of trial and punishment.74 This was enshrined in a tribunal “peculiar to the Indian Army”, the summary court-martial, in which the sole deciding authority rested with the Commanding Officer of any corps, department or detachment.75 Similar arguments were deployed to justify the retention right up to 1920, of military flogging, “on the bare back, with the regulation cat”, for sepoys and followers, a punishment abolished in 1881 for the British soldier.76 British officers claimed that summary court martial and corporal punishment, though rarely used in the Indian Army, were indispensable, because they created an aura of power around the Commanding Officer which preserved authority down the whole chain of command.77 The flogging of sepoys by summary court-martial was indeed infrequent, and sentences were recorded and scrutinised. However, I

However he conceded that if the military authorities at Neemuch failed to take action, a report could be sent to the Agent to the Governor General. Malwa Agency, No. 258 of 1870. Punkah: fan. 74 MD, Judicial, A, September 1894, No. 1226–50, pp. 15, 18; Manual of Indian Military Law (Calcutta, 1922), pp. 12–13, 20, 146. 75 A summary court-martial could award any sentence permitted under the Indian Army Act except death, transportation or imprisonment for a term exceeding one year, and it could be carried out forthwith. Section 64, clause 1 (a) and (b), Section. 74, 75, 76, clause 1, The Indian Army Act, 1911 (VIII of 1911). The summary court-martial was the court “most frequently met with in the Indian army”. Manual of Indian Military Law, 1911, Calcutta, 1922, pp. 13, 19. 76 A maximum of 30 lashes could be awarded to any person under the rank of warrant officer, at any time for the offence of dishonestly receiving or retaining the property of Government, any military mess, or any person subject to military law. It could also be awarded for any civil offence punishable by whipping under the law of British India, which was triable by court-martial. On active service a flogging could be awarded for any offence. Act VIII of 1911, section 31 (d), sections 45–46. 77 MD, A, September 1894, No. 1226–50.

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suspect that for the follower ranks, summary caning without benefit of court-martial was deployed with greater informality and frequency.78 One of the new features of military law as re-drawn by the 1911 Indian Army Act was a strong emphasis on the formal enrollment of all public followers. The aim was to enhance combat readiness by legally binding the follower to march with his unit into active service. The 1912 edition of the Manual of Indian Military Law explained that enrollment was important because, “no person should be permanently subjected to an exceptional and severe code, like that contained in the Indian Army Act, without a definite act on his part, such act being susceptible of easy proof ”.79 If enrollment clearly subjected the public follower to all the provisions of the Indian Army Act, did it also bring more formality to his disciplinary regime? The 1911 Indian Army Act seemed to reserve the most summary form of discipline now for the un-enrolled native follower ‘if he was a menial servant’ This description applied to private followers, who were often simply ‘entertained’, not enrolled. The Commanding Officer of any unit could for “any offence, in breach of good order” on active service, in camp, in the march, or at any frontier post, summarily sentence “the native follower if he was a menial servant” to seven days imprisonment or to “corporal punishment not exceeding twelve strokes of a rattan”.80 There are two notable features about section 22. Firstly the cantonment seems to be the only work-space where a summary caning was not permitted. Secondly, the phrase ‘menial servant’ was not defined.81 The Chief Secretary of the United Provinces, claimed that “some persons” consulted on the 1911 Army Act said summary corporal punishment should be allowed at all military stations, not only 78 This may explain why the figures for military flogging under Indian Articles of War between 1878 to 1886, show 299 cavalrymen and sepoys were sentenced, but only 9 followers. MD, A, Sept 1892, 1226–50. 79 Manual of Indian Military Law, 1911 (Calcutta, 1912), p. 7, para. 6. 80 Act VIII of 1911, section 22 (i), emphasis added. This additional clause was considered necessary even though the Act stated clearly that its provisions were also applicable to “persons not otherwise subject to military law, who, on active service, in camp, in the march, or at any frontier post [. . .] are employed by, or are in the service of, or are followers of, or accompany any portion of, His Majesty’s Forces”. Act VIII of 1911, section 2 (c). 81 The non-menial follower ‘not otherwise subject to military law’ could be summarily sentenced to fifty days imprisonment, or a fine for breach of good order. The maximum sentence of imprisonment for the ‘menial servant’ under this provision was a mere seven days, and a fine is not even mentioned, indicating the lack of interest in looking beyond corporal punishment. Act VIII of 1911, section 22.

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in camp or on the march, and that the term ‘menial’ should include “troublesome classes of servants such as ‘darabis’ and ‘syces’ ”.82 The complaint suggests that formerly all regimental followers, enrolled or unenrolled, could be vulnerable to a summary caning. By permitting a summary caning only for ‘menial servants’, the 1911 Indian Army Act seems to have circumscribed this authority. However so far as porter gangs were concerned, a group which did not come under the term ‘menial servants’, accounts of frontier expeditions, both before and after the 1911 Act make it amply clear that summary caning remained the favored method of discipline.83 From April 1917 all private followers also had to be formally enrolled.84 This was because Commanding Officers were complaining that if private followers refused to march into active service, or deserted at the last moment, they could be threatened with civil action, but not with court-martial.85 The Labour and Porter corps were also formally enrolled under temporary follower agreements. Formal enrollment should have meant that section 22 was no longer applicable to these groups. The indignation or perplexity of some Commanding Officers of Indian Labour and Porter corps in Mesopotamia and France, when they were informed that they would have to hold a summary courtmartial to inflict corporal punishment, indicates that this was a new and unwelcome formality.86 However, along India’s own borders, can-

82 Chief Secy, United Provinces to Secy GOI, Legislative Dept., October 7, 1910, Leg, March 1911, No. 158–179. 83 For the 1911 Abor expedition see A. J. W. Milroy, diary, BL, IOR, Mss Eur. D1054, p. 31. 84 AD, War, 1916–17, I, No. 11207, pp. 282, 296. 85 GOC, 6th (Poona) Division to AGI, 24 April 1915, AD, War, 1916–17, I, No. 11207, p. 295. 86 Puzzling over section 22, Lord Ampthill, advisor to the War Office for the Indian Labour Corps in France, pointed out that it permitted twelve strokes of the rattan without summary court-martial for un-enrolled followers who were menial servants. However the men in the Indian Labour Corps were enrolled and they were not menial servants. Ampthill suggested a special ordinance for the Indian Labour Corps which would permit corporal punishment without a court-martial. Ampthill to Director of Labour July 31, 1917, BL, IOR/L/Mil/6/5/738, p. 206. In Mesopotamia, Commanding Officers of jail-recruited and free Indian Labour and Porter Corps had, at first, handed out flogging sentences without any court martial, till the army authorities objected. Home, Jails, B, January 1921, 9–11, p. 12, para 15. Major Thakur Hukam Singh, commanding the Jaipur Transport Corps, a princely state unit in Mesopotamia, was charged with “illegal flogging and fining” of the mule-drivers, but a report conceded that, “he was no doubt efficient in a certain way”. F&P, Internal, B, June 1920, No. 11.

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ing continued to be used with the same informality to discipline porter gangs during and after the Great War. The militarization of follower labour The central follower depots In September 1916 the Army Department decided to introduce centralized territorially-based recruitment for public followers. The Adjutant-General in India had recommended this step much earlier, in March 1915, arguing that central follower depots would cast the net wider, check competitive bidding, ensure healthier men, and build up a reserve.87 However the Government of India had held off, hoping that Indian labour contractors, connected with the Public Works Department and the army commissariat would supply followers more cheaply. However Commanding Officers reported that contractors were not responsive to the financial terms on offer, that they did not guarantee a constant supply and they passed off inferior men.88 Loosely organized followers camps, starting with the one at Meerut, began to be re-organized as Central Follower Depots with a Commanding Officer and subordinate staff. Public followers recruited through the Central Depots were uniformly enrolled for ‘the period of the war’ and were liable for service with any unit.89 The depots suffered from inadequate accommodation, much of it often tentage, and Commanding Officers struggled to get kit and equipment for recruits.90 The lines of the Meerut Depot, its Commanding Officer complained, resembled “a large city”, made up of recruits of all classes with no sense of discipline or sanitation.91 Nevertheless, the imperative of separating followers from their families, and from work opportunities in the vicinity, encouraged a militarization of the depot’s 87

AGI, 13 March 1915, AD, War, 1916–17, I, No. 11201. AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 49806–No. 49814, pp. 1556–1564. 89 Secy AD to AGI, 20 Sept 1916, AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 49827, pp. 1596– 1600. Central Follower Depots were also set up at Lucknow, Kirkee, Amritsar, and Rawalpindi. The departmental followers and the Labour Corps had separate depots On October 13, 1916 all recruiting for combatant, non-combatant and labour units was placed under the Adjutant General India. AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 49836, pp. 1605–1606. 90 F&P, War, B. March 1918, No. 384–386. 91 CO, Followers Central Depot Meerut, to AGI January 8–9, 1917, AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 49849, p. 1613. 88

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regime. Pensioned Indian officers, appointed as ‘escorting officers’ and subordinate staff, took an initiative in this direction. Khaki blouses, khaki pagris (turbans), and ammunition boots indicated that the men in the depot were now military property. Drill and sanitary routines attuned them to institutional life and stricter time-management.92 ‘Straggling and disorder’ had been blamed for the high casualty rates among followers in certain campaigns. The depots permitted follower service rolls and discharge papers to be compiled with greater care, an indication of the greater value now placed on this labour, with a correspondingly greater determination to track down the deserter.93 Commanding Officers were also asked to record caste and profession so recruits could be assigned to appropriate work.94 However follower indents were usually framed very broadly, specifying. only religion or region, as for instance, requesting a ‘Hindu cook’ or a ‘Gurkha bhisti’. On the supply side however, there had been incidents in which ‘low-castes’ had resisted their assignment to ‘polluting’ work.95 In his “Recommendations for Improving Medical and Sanitary Efficiency on Field Service”, Colonel P. Hehir reported that some followers “of the wrong class” had refused to do conservancy work but conditions of field service in Mesopotamia had necessitated compulsion.96 The emphasis on improving paperwork suggests the continuation of a trend inaugurated by the 1911 Army Act, that of replacing, or at least supplementing, informal methods of disciplining the follower, by contractual obligation under military law, as for the sepoy. On 23 December 1916 Major P. Bramley, at the 3rd Echelon Branch, Basra noted approvingly that the long roll sent with a batch of followers from the newly organized Meerut depot, was correct in

92 For such suggestions see GOC, 6th (Poona) Division to AGI, April 24, 1915, AD, War, 1916–17, I, No. 11207, p. 295; and Captain A. H. R. Dodd, to GOC Cdg , 4th Cavalry Brigade, June 22, 1916, AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 49815, pp. 1568–1571. 93 Ibid. Logistical complexity and mounting paper-work led to a significant rise in the employment of military clerks, an addition to the educated Indian element in the colonial army, which historians have over-looked. 94 F&P, War, B, Secret, March 1918, Nos. 384–86. 95 Officer Cdg, 6th (Poona) Division to AGI, August 7, 1916, ibid. 96 BL, IOR/L/Mil/7/18281; see also “Finding labour”. Much as the ‘Santhali tribals’ in Labour Corps were praised for their steadiness at earth-work, there are signs that they resisted porter work, Candler, The Sepoy, p. 223; Ampthill, Note, 10 Feb 1917, BL, IOR/L/Mil/ 5/738. I suggest this was because of the association between carrying head-loads and corvee and because, on construction sites in India this was regarded as women’s work.

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all details. “All followers were correctly labelled and in possession of identification discs [. . .] Service rolls were correctly written up in every particular”.97 If a centralized militarized regime of follower recruitment offered disciplinary advantages, it also provided the infrastructure for generating a paternalist relationship with their families, on the pattern in place for the sepoy. Those characterized as rootless denizens of the bazaar were turning out to have relatives and creditors, who would hold them back unless they were re-assured. Officers pointed out that families would be able to enquire about their relatives at the depot and receive an allotment from their wages: “(L)arge stations, such as Meerut, are full of women and children who have received no pay of any sort and in many cases have not even heard of their husbands for months and are consequently in a destitute condition and frequently even starving”.98 Destitute families were applying for relief from the Imperial War Fund, an additional reason for insisting that followers assign a portion of their wages to dependents.99 “An integral part of the fighting machinery” The other reason why the design for sepoy ‘welfare’ began to be extended to the follower was that, as the war stretched on, and shipping became difficult and costly, the manpower already present in theatres of war had to be conserved and deployed more flexibly. The effects of colonial backwardness in the form of a workforce too easily exhausted and prone to break down in health became evident very rapidly. Scurvy among sepoys and followers in Mesopotamia reduced the effective fighting strength to an alarming extent.100 The collapse of the reserve system revealed the quick physical deterioration of the much vaunted ‘martial castes’ when they stayed at home on meager pre-war pensions. On 1 January 1917, the Viceroy announced, as a

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F&P, War, B, Secret, March 1918, Nos. 384–386. Captain A. H. R. Dodd, June 22, 1916, AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 49815, p. 1569. 99 GOC, 6th (Poona) Divisional Area to AGI, April 24, 1915, AD War 1916–17, I, No. 11207, p. 295; F&P, War, B, March 1918, No. 384–386. 100 BL, IOR/ L/Mil/7/1828. Martin Swayne, In Mesopotamia (London, Hodder and Stoughton, 1917), p. 142. From East Africa, Major General T. E. Scott, comparing the ration scale of the Indian sepoy with that of the British soldier, stated flatly that it was “ungenerous”. Major-General T. E. Scott to Chief of Imperial General Staff, December 31, 1917, WW1/991/H, vol. 433, 1918, Diary No. 15882. 98

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New Year boon, that all combatants would get free rations in active service. Malnutrition in peace time, he pointed out, had caused heavy invaliding in the field.101 The measure was said to mean a pay-increase of Rs.3-8-0, but the reason for giving it in kind was to ensure that sepoys ate better, instead of stinting themselves to send money home.102 However the follower ranks, sent with difficulty and expense overseas also had to be kept out of hospital. The pre-war understanding that the follower could be sent on active service with a lesser quantity of free rations and fuel than the sepoy, no longer seemed logical, and was held to compromise efficiency.103 “I have never been able to discover,” commented General O’Moore Creagh, “Why the appetite of a non-combatant was supposed to be smaller than that of a combatant”.104 On 20 August 1915 regimental and departmental followers were sanctioned free rations for active service overseas on the sepoy’s scale, and on 6 December 1915, the same quantity of free fuel.105 However whereas from 1 January 1917 the sepoy got free rations both in and out of active service, for most followers at peace stations the Army held to the cheaper pre-war formula of ‘wages at the lowest local rates, with compensation for dearness of food grains at the follower scale’.106 The need to conserve all manpower is also reflected in proposals to reduce the disparity in standards of medical treatment, as between British and Indian troops, and between sepoys and followers. The Makin committee appointed on October 31, 1917 to enquire into the standard of hospitals for British troops felt inspired to declare that It is no longer reasonable, if it ever was, to rule that the Indian soldier requires less cubic air space than the British, and the Indian follower still

101 WW1/773/H, Vol. 215, 1916, Diary No. 97275. Free rations put the Indian sepoy on the same footing as the British soldier, although the latter’s rations were more varied and nutritious. 102 Candler described the difficulty of preventing Dogra sepoys from stinting themselves to send money home. Candler, The Sepoy, p. 98. 103 See GOC, 2nd (Rawalpindi) Division to QMG, February 27, 1915, AD, War, 1914–15, No. 13704, p. 455. In August 1917 the Army Department suggested free rations and better kit for stretcher-bearers in peace time, arguing that this would enhance their capacity to train intensively for improved efficiency. AD, Adjutant General’s Branch, Medical, A, May 1919, 2238–2246. 104 Creagh, Indian Studies, p. 267. 105 F&P, Internal, B, January 1916, No. 12. 106 File No. 3/1917/Military, Confidential list, Delhi State Archives (DSA). However in December 1918 Labour and Porter Corps and Railway Construction Companys serving within India were also granted free rations on the combatant scale. AD, B, May 1919, No. 510.

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less than the Indian soldier, A patient once admitted to a Government institution must be given the best and quickest chance of recovery possible, whatever his colour or social status.107

The Director, Medical Services responded repressively that the correlation of conditions between British and Indian hospitals was “desirable where practicable”.108 The Tommy’s call upon the British public’s sympathy and attention provides a more indirect reason why follower services began to be evaluated in a different kind of way, and with a greater emphasis on the need to make inputs of technology and training. In the 1911 Encylopaedia Britannica’s entry for the Indian Army Hospital Corps, the followers working as ward-servants, cooks, water-carriers, sweepers and washermen are criticized for not being as “efficient or trustworthy” as the European soldiers of the Royal Army Medical Corps performing the same services in Britain.109 Nor could the Indian Army always provide the Tommy in hospital with the ‘womanly’ sympathy of a British nurse. Official reports may have made it a point to underline the tenderness and devotion of the follower ranks to reassure the British public that the broken body of the Tommy was being tended to. In the past, one of the arguments used by Army Department to request better terms for Indian stretcher-bearers, was that “in Asiatic warfare, every wounded man must at once be carried off the field to the rear. Humanity to the wounded cannot be expected from semicivilised races [. . .]”.110 For the wounded Tommy in the Great War it was the kahar once again, who allayed his fear of possible mutilation at the hands of ‘vengeful Pathan women’ along the Afghan border, or ‘ghoulish’ Arabs in Mesopotamia. The steadiness of stretcher-bearers, water-carriers and mule drivers under fire was praised anew.111 But the Indian Army 107

Report of the Committee under the Presidency of Sir G. H. Makin, February 12, 1918, AD, April 1919, No. 36660–36666, para 13. 108 Ibid. 109 www.1911encyclopedia.org/Ambulance (accessed March 31, 2008). 110 “Changes in Indian Army system”, Parliamentary Papers, House of Commons, 1884–1885, p. 152, para 421. A Royal Engineers Officer, reminiscing about his 1917 stint in Waziristan declared that capture could result in “death by torture, in which, so I was told, the womenfolk used to luxuriate”. Francis Stockdale, Walk warily in Waziristan, (Devon, 1982), p. 24. 111 James Willcocks, Commander of the Indian Corps in France, described Bhutia stretcher-bearers as rendering first aid with “touching tenderness”. James Willcocks, “India’s military potentialities”, The Indian Review (June 1917), p. 374. Colonel Hehir

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also began to take credit for having drilled a workable kind of bravery, into classes said to lack the ‘hereditary’ spirit of the martial castes and tribes.112 Signs of a more impulsive bravery were observed among the ‘menial followers’, but as a touching aberration.113 Candler wrote that at Givenchy, sweepers carried ramrods over the open ground to the men in the firing line. “In Mesopotamia,” he added, “a sweeper of the -th Rifles took an unauthorized part in an assault on the Turkish lines, picked up the rifle of a dead sepoy, and went on firing till he was shot in the head”. But Candler hastened to add that this was an exceptional man.114 In the “normal drudge” signs of bravery were attributed to lack of imagination, fatalism and most of all to “order, continuity, routine [. . .]”.115 The fact was that the drastic reverses of 1915–1916 in Mesopotamia had subjected the Indian Army to intense criticism for the ‘backwardness’ of its support services, so too the complaints of the Territorials sent out to India. The British public had to be satisfied that measures were being taken to improve the food, sanitation and medical treatment of the British soldier-citizen. Followers began to be referred to as “an integral [. . .] part of the fighting machinery” and an “efficient

of the Indian Medical Services, characterizing Indian stretcher-bearers in Mesopotamia as “invariably kind”, said they ought to be liberally treated. BL, IOR/L/Mil/7/18281. 112 An officer who had laughed at the “antics” of “ill-conditioned” Indian stretcherbearers drilling on a troop-ship in August 1914, said it was hard to realize they were the “smart, well-set-up” units he later saw in France. H. M. Alexander, On Two Fronts, Being the adventures of the Indian Mule Corps in France and Gallipoli (London, William Heinemann, 1917), p. 19. Candler pointed out, that at Shaiba and Sahil in Mesopotamia, six members of the mule Transport Corps were awarded the Indian Order of Merit, whereas before August 1914 only one instance was recorded. Candler, The Sepoy, p. 208. In the aftermath of the Great War, public and private followers also became eligible for the India General Service Medal 1908 clasp, awarded earlier only to troops and attested followers. 113 In the fighting around Cambrai, an officer of the 19th King George’s Own Lancers recorded this note: “In the afternoon, the Squadron Sweeper asked to see me [. . .]. His father, he said had served the regiment for thirty-five years, and he had been born and brought up in it. If the squadron was going into battle, he should go with it [. . .] if it [. . .] was going to suffer he wanted to be with it. Might he have a bandolier and rifle and march with the squadron? [. . .] I searched his face for signs of his being an actor but found none [. . .]. He was a nice, clean-made fellow with a good face and chin—the chin was what I looked for. My eyes smarted [. . .]”. General Sir H. Hudson, History of the 19th King George’s Own Lancers, 1858–1921 (Aldershot, 1937), p. 202. 114 Candler, The Sepoy, p. 233. 115 Ibid.

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menial establishment” as “an aid to fighting efficiency”.116 “No one can doubt,” stated the Makins Committee, “the capacity of the Indian to develop into one of the best personal attendants in the world, or an excellent house servant”. Yet nothing had been done, it complained, to develop this material in the Army Hospital Corps. Cooks and dhobis were using the most primitive appliances.117 Concessions for ‘the higher’ non-combatants: the drabi and the kahar The pressure to improve follower conditions also came from British officers of the departmental services, seeking to improve morale and make their own war-service more visible. British officers felt that an appointment to the Supply and Transport Corps was less prestigious than service with a regiment, entailed administrative drudgery and brought fewer opportunities for promotion.118 A British captain in Mesopotamia buttonholed a British M. P. to complain that Indian cavalry officers were covered with medals but those of his mule transport unit were overlooked despite the dangerous and onerous nature of their duties.119 He drew up a chart to explain the disparity between sepoy and mule driver:

Increase of pay Compensation for dearness of food Kit money Annual allowance

Sepoy

Mule driver

Rs.2/- per month Rs.3/- to Rs.3-8-0 per month Rs.60/Rs.17/-

Rs.1/Rs.1-10-0 to Rs.2/Rs.10/Rs.10/-

116 Army Instruction, India, No. 318 of 1919, April 22, 1919, in AD, AG’s branch, Estab, Regimental, A, May 1919, No. 1869–1873 and Appendix. Commanding Officers invoked sepoy well-being to ask for more followers and on better terms. The Commanding Officer of the Kohat Brigade demanded more cooks, pointing out that regiments had expanded in numbers, and young recruits had to be fed well and punctually to accelerate their training. Brig General A. Eustace to AGI, 5 February 1916, AD, War, 1916–17, I, No. 15330, p. 405. 117 Report of the Makin Committee, February 12, 1918, para. 6. 118 BL, IOR/L/Mil/7/6700. 119 Mons, Anzac, Kut, By an M. P. (London, 1919), pp. 246–247.

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He described the mule drivers’ sensitivity to the inferiority inscribed in the quality of their kit, the lack of concern for their rest and cleanliness, and their place at the back of the line in the distribution of ‘comforts’. They had to work the longest hours without relief, their clothes became rags but they didn’t get fresh ones, their tents were more flimsy and cramped, they didn’t get milk, cigarettes, tobacco or any presents.120 ‘Concessions in kind’ were a material and public signifier of institutional status, the medium through which the Indian Army conferred status on sepoys, constructed a paternalist relationship with them and improved the quality of its manpower. The mule drivers were attested, just as sepoys were, but in quality of food, kit, medical treatment, they were placed with the other followers. Some Transport drivers, returning invalided, refused to accept Hindustani clothing on the follower’s scale of Rs.8/-, when they discovered that invalided combatants received clothing to the value of Rs.15/-.121 The drabis’ idiom for expressing their vulnerability about status was that they were put on par with that most ‘menial’ of figures, the mehtar, the latrine sweeper. Major H. M. Alexander described the mule drivers’ ire about the “coat, followers” they got for the winter in France: “a short shapeless, garment of dirty yellow colour, lined with thin, worn-out blanket [. . .] useless for any purpose [. . .] in appearance [. . .] horrible. The men called them mehtar ke brandi, or sweeper’s overcoats—the sweeper being the lowest type of menial in the Indian domestic system”.122 He said mule drivers in France questioned their inferiority vis a vis the Indian cavalry soldiers, because they had worked side by side with the British mule drivers of the Army Service Corps who were paid more than the British cavalry trooper.123 British transport officers contended that their drabis should be placed on the same footing as

120

Ibid. pp. 246–247. This was the picture around mid-1915 when the drabi’s monthly wage had risen from Rs.8/- to Rs.9/-. Whereas sepoys had followers to draw water, sweep and cook for them, the mule drivers had only one sweeper per troop of 96 mules, this meant additional duties at the end of the day. GOC 3rd (Lahore) Division to QMG, March 2, 1915, AD, War, 1914–15, No. 13705. 121 The AD sanctioned the combatant scale. Brigadier General W. Knight, Bombay Brigade to AGI, January 1916, and Secy, AD, to AGI, March 15, 1915, AD, War, 1916–17, I, Nos. 10800–801, pp. 270–272. 122 Alexander, On Two Fronts, p. 40. brandi: brandy? That which actually kept the sweeper warm? 123 Ibid. p. 40.

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sepoys, because their war-work was as important, and their heroism no less. Major H. M. Alexander added that, “the drabi is recruited from exactly the same classes as the sepoy, the only difference being that men of slightly inferior physique are accepted”.124 In these accounts the drabis seem to stress this second argument, namely, that they came from the same social strata as cavalry troopers, so they did not belong with the follower ranks. In 1915 explaining why it was so difficult to get mule drivers, the GOC Lucknow Division wrote: “Many of our drivers have relations in the combatant branches, and the fact of being rated as followers and laughed at as such in their villages [. . .] has greatly retarded recruiting [. . .]. The expression ‘followers’ among Indians includes sweepers and the better class man objects to be graded in this category”.125 The drabis also complained that they were treated in the cantonment general hospital “along with the lowest class of menials” instead of in the troop hospital.126 Interestingly, one doesn’t find any reference to changed conditions of combat for the Indian cavalry in France, a possible argument for closing the status gap between drabi and cavalry trooper. In France Indian cavalry units operated largely as dismounted troops, using bayonet and spade rather than sword and lance. British cavalry officers certainly noted this change with regret.127 In his fictionalized account of ‘Ram Singh’ an Indian cavalry dafadar in France, Captain Roly Grimshaw describes him as feeling very peeved about not being allowed to wander into town after disembarkation at Marseilles, especially because he had noticed many drabies of the Supply and Transport Corps moving about with the utmost freedom [. . .]. As these good people were the very lowest caste, it annoyed Ram Singh [. . .]. Besides what could the townspeople think of the Indian Army if the only representatives they saw were these dirty untidy creatures?128

124

Ibid. p. 248. GOC 8th (Lucknow) Division to QMG, February 27, 1915, AD, War, 1914–15, No. 13710, p. 461. 126 Viceroy to SOS, March 7, 1917, AD, April 1919, No. 1452. 127 Major-General Pratap Singh to Viceroy, October 11, 1916, describing the work of the Jodhpur Lancers. Chelmsford correspondence, vol. 15, No. 17, microfilm, NMML. 128 Col. J. Wakefield and Lt. Col. J. M. Weippert eds., Captain Roly Grimshaw, Indian Cavalry Officer 1914–15 (Kent, 1986), p. 105. 125

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Later ‘Ram Singh’ complains about the way in which the cavalry man’s work had come to resemble that performed by follower ranks: “This kind of fighting is for coolies who dig, lohars and such like who make all these arms and shells [. . .]. I have paid 500 rupees for the privilege of serving the Sirkar as a Cavalry soldier, not to be made dig morchas like a sweeper whilst standing up to my knees in filth and water”.129 Grimshaw was referring to an incident which occurred among the Jodhpur Lancers, but much later, in July 1920 and back in India. In France itself I could not trace any significant protest.130 The fact is, that Indian sepoys and cavalry men were having to adapt to substantial changes in routines of life and combat at the front, yet the ‘martial caste’ label, shored up by a war allowance, a field service allowance and free rations, acted as a status shield.131 It was this protection which the follower ranks also aspired to, so perhaps there was no point highlighting the changed conditions of ‘martial’ work.132 On 20 March 1917, with the Viceroy stating that he needed 1000 muleteers monthly, but was getting only 600, and that desertions were on the rise, the Secretary of State for India sanctioned the conversion of mule drivers from follower to combatant service, a shift which involved formal discharge, re-enrollment and attestation.133 The drabi’s

129 Ibid. p. 148. morchas: trenches; lohar: blacksmith—‘Ram Singh’ is referring to ordnance labour, another departmental service. 130 When the Jodhpur Lancers, a princely state unit returned to India in July 1920, they went on a ‘strike’ demanding free rations in peace, like sepoys of the Indian Army. The complaint which Grimshaw puts in his fictional hero’s mouth came seventh in a petition dealing with discharge, land grants, and promotions: “Our, sepoys, work is to give head in the war and field, and not to undertake the duty of a coolie, but unfortunately for [. . .] about two years we are compelled to do that [. . .] cutting pala grass, trees, wood, carry them on our heads, and plucking Sangris, Kairs, carry earth from one place to another, ploughing, moving well, and other big and small coolie’s work etc. [. . .]”. F&P, Internal, B, October 1920, Nos. 120–125. 131 On the frontline Indian Army soldiers were now eating in platoon messes with their uniforms and leather boots on. They cleared away putrefying corpses from their trenches, work both repellant and ‘polluting’. Their hours in fatigue dress were extending, not only because of the time spent making roads and embankments in theatres such as Mesopotamia, but also by the increased emphasis on group games such as football and hockey, which re-organized their leisure. 132 It was sometimes by the choice of his mode of death that the sepoy indicated that he was losing faith in the power of colonial military service to uphold his social standing. In the 1916 siege of Kut in Mesopotamia, the sepoys who chose to starve rather than eat mule flesh, seem to have decided to die preserving their family’s izzat, honour, instead of prolonging their lives under medical directives to die for the state. 133 Viceroy to SOS, March 7, 1917, and SOS to Viceroy, March 20, 1917, BL, IOR/L/ Mil/7/17483.

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basic pay remained the same, Rs.9/- a month, as against Rs.11/- for the sepoy, and his wound and injury pension was Rs.1/- less than for the sepoy, but he now received good service pay, like the sepoy and free rations and fuel on the combatant’s scale, in active service and in peace. The length of service for a family pension was reduced from 31 years to 21 years, the period prescribed for the sepoy, but the pension was 8 annas less.134 The Viceroy admitted that combatant status for mule drivers might necessitate a similar change for other departmental followers, the Army Bearer Corps, the Army Hospital Corps and the Ordnance lascars.135 He did not have to wait very long. With the announcement on 1 January 1917 that the sepoy would get free rations on active service and in peace and the extension of this benefit to the mule-driver in March 1917, the Army Bearer Corps waited anxiously for a similar concession. Food prices had risen so sharply during the war that without free rations it was difficult to send money home. In the peace station of Peshawar, in July 1917, a stretcher-bearer was getting Rs.9/- a month with a grain compensation allowance, which amounted to Rs.1-12-9, at the follower’s scale. In contrast the sepoy’s monthly rations were valued at Rs.6-12 using the Peshawar nirikh rate, and he also received a messing allowance of 10 annas a month.136 In June–July 1917 the No. 7 Combined Field Ambulance at Peshawar reported incidents in which stretcher-bearers had deserted, or refused to turn up for a parade or a route march.137 On 10 August 1917, 94 Gurkha stretcher-bearers, “in a perfectly orderly manner”, tied up their kit, deposited it in front of the guard-house and marched away down the Nowshera Road.138 Their grievance was that on a wage of Rs.9/- they could not even eat enough.139 They wanted the 50% war

134 Ibid. Interestingly some drivers decided not to opt for combatant status. As noncombatants they had the option of leaving with a gratuity after a shorter term of service, and they could qualify for one of the higher-paid artificer ranks. AGI to Deputy AG, Basra January 10–11, 1918, WW1/966/H, vol. 408, Diary No. 3153. pp. 43–44. 135 Viceroy to SOS, March 7, 1917, AD, War, 1917–18, No. 1452. 136 CO, Indian General Hospital to Assistant Director Medical Services (ADMS), 1st (Peshawar) Division, July 9, 1917, AD, AG’s Branch, Medical–A, May 1919, No. 2238–2246 and Appendix. 137 Ibid. 138 CO, No. 1 Company, ABC to ADMS, 1st (Peshawar) Division August 10, 1917, ibid. 139 CO, Indian General Hospital to ADMS, 1st (Peshawar) Division, July 9, 1917, AD, May 1919, No. 2238. One Havildar Jiwand Singh was reported to have told No. 1

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allowance and the free rations they would have got if sent on active service.140 Some Gurkhas claimed that they had been deceived into thinking they were enlisting as sepoys, adding, that since all castes were recruited to the Army Bearer Corps, they would be out-casted at home.141 Whatever the actual ‘misunderstanding’, the fact that it was the most valued ‘martial tribe’, the Gurkha, who had taken the decisive lead may explain why the General Officer Commanding took a lenient view of the incident.142 On 23 April 1918 a set of concessions were announced for the Army Bearer Corps. The stretcher-bearer remained an attested follower, and would continue to receive the same pay. However, he would now, like the mule-driver, enjoy benefits nearly equivalent to those of the sepoy: a wound and injury pension at Rs.1/ less than the sepoy, a family pension at 8 annas less, free rations both in active service and in peace, at least for the duration of the war, and, in place of a skimpy kit allowance, a free initial issue of clothing and better kit.143 The public followers: “we are at their mercy” The Army Department was particularly reluctant to raise the permanent wage bill for attached followers, public and private, because it meant forfeiting a variety of local economies. Some officers warned that sepoys, feeling aggrieved that their inferiors, the regimental followers, were catching up with them, would press for higher wages.144 However, others were quite clear that inflationary pressures had long

ABC Company Peshawar that free rations would be sanctioned in August, and disappointment over this precipitated the desertion. Proceedings of a Court of Enquiry, August 17, 1917, ibid. 140 Ibid. 141 Ibid. 142 “I consider that the men in question did not realize the seriousness of their offence and appear to have ground for grievance in view of the promises held out to them on enlistment and after”. GOC, 1st (Peshawar) Division to AGI, September 15, 1917, ibid. 143 The stretcher-bearer who received a family pension of Rs.4/- at the higher rate and Rs.3/- at the lower, would now get Rs.4-8 at the higher rate and Rs.3-8 at the lower. GOI, AD, Army Instruction (India) No. 395, April 23, 1918, in AD, AG’s Branch, Medical—A, May 1919, No. 2238–2246 and appendix. 144 Follower committee, Delhi, January 12, 1915, AD, War, 1916–17, I, Appendix, No. 11226–11236, p. 322.

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eroded follower wages, and that the increase would have to be permanent, not just for the duration of the war.145 From 1911 onwards, infantry and cavalry regiments had been complaining of the difficulty of making up their ‘menial’ establishment.146 If army stations still succeeded in getting followers at wages below the nirikh rate, the local market scale, it was because they could offer the follower and his family supplementary food and work. The Bannu Brigade managed to retain bhistis and sweepers only because every sepoy also contributed some flour from his rations.147 But in World War one when followers were expected to accompany their regiment for long periods overseas, such benefits were compromised and the authorized pay alone simply did not suffice. Follower reliance on family labour to put together a livelihood was also revealed by the sudden visibility, during the Great War of young boys, old men and even women among followers at certain military locations.148 In 1916, explaining the acute difficulty of getting followers the Government of India observed that the Indian frontier expedition was usually of short duration and follower casualties insignificant, but in the present war, conditions at the front had “been abnormally hard, and losses, due both to sickness and casualties in action, extremely heavy”.149

145 GOC 2nd Rawalpindi (Division), to AGI, June 15, 1915, AD, War, 1916–17, I, No. 3351, p. 109. 146 The S&T reports for 1910–11, and 1911–12 reveal intense dissatisfaction about pay in the menial establishment. BL, IOR/L/Mil/17/5/259. The military contingents gathering in Delhi for the 1911 imperial assembly found it very difficult to get sweepers, bhistis and beldars (navvies). Deputy Commissioner Delhi’s office, File No. 31, 1911, DSA. 147 CO, Bannu Brigade to QMG, September 20, 1915, AD War, 1916–17, I, No. 3383, p. 118 148 The CO, Bannu, reported that there were a dozen women and many children among the syces of the 31st Lancers because men simply couldn’t be found at the authorized rate. March 28, 1917, AD, War, 1916–17, II, Appendix, No. 73290–73293. There were many complaints that old men or young boys were fraudulently substituted for enrolled followers. F&P, War, B March 1918, No. 384–286. Walter Lawrence remarked upon the youth of some of the Indian followers at Marseilles and in the Indian hospital at Brockenhurst—a ten-year old bellows blower, two twelve-year old syces. Walter Lawrence to Kitchener February 15, 1915, BL, IOR Eur Mss F/143/65. Some of this substitution probably took place by family arrangement. 149 GOI to SOS, May 19, 1916, AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 38134.

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Theatre

Dead from all causes Indian officers

France East Africa Mesopotamia Dunsterforce Persia Egypt Gallipoli Aden Muscat Frontier operations Grand totals

176 67 365 – 25 74 33 7 1 17 764

Indian other ranks Followers 5,316 2,405 17,567 158 1,779 3,713 1,591 500 39 2,245 35,303

2,218 500 11,624 23 670 555 127 79 2 1,621 17,419

Source: Table 4: War Office, ‘Statistical abstract of information regarding the armies at home and abroad, 1914–1920’, London, 1920, p. 786. Italics mine.150

By spring-summer 1915 the follower demand from Indian Army divisions in France, Gallipoli, and Mesopotamia had outstripped supply, while units at home were struggling unsuccessfully to maintain the minimum.151 The Army Bearer Corps, the Army Hospital Corps and the Transport and Supply Corps were reported to be bidding for followers at whatever rate they were obtainable.152 The Adjutant General’s Branch declared, “We are at their mercy, which of course is absolutely wrong and must be stopped”.153 Follower discontent was attributed not only to their wages being too low, but also to the high variation which prevailed, even within the same category of work.154 The accumulation of different units in theatres of war as well as the circulation of personnel between them was

150 The follower toll for wounds was much lower. The wound total was 1,590 for Indian officers, 61,806 for Indian other ranks, and 954 for followers. Table 5: War Office, “Statistical abstract [. . .]”, p. 786. Figures for follower invaliding would have sharpened the picture. 151 AD, War, 1916–17, I, No. 3351–3352, pp. 109–123. 152 Note, AGI’s branch, Jan 1915, AD, War, 1916–17, I, Appendix, p. 323. 153 Ibid. 154 Walter Lawrence reported that Indian followers had been recruited from different places at different rates of pay for hospitals in England, creating tension amongst them, and discontent amongst sepoys. A sweeper from Peshawar was getting Rs.10/a month, one from Bombay or Poona, Rs.24/- Walter Lawrence to Lord Kitchener, February 15, 1915 and March 10, 1915, BL, Eur. F.143/65, IOR; also Viceroy to SOS, May 19, 1916, AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 38134, p. 1074.

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throwing a sharp light on wage disparities. Public followers attached to departments got a higher wage than those attached to regiments, and those recruited at short notice for the duration of the war got even higher wages.155 Competitive bidding for followers enhanced wage disparities and created confusion in disbursing pay.156 In May 1915 the Army Department sanctioned a war allowance of 50% on the basic pay and free rations for all public followers on active service.157 From July 1915 follower wage discrepancies in overseas theatres began to be ironed out in an upward direction.158 However a sweeper or syce attached to a departmental unit would still receive a higher wage than one attached to a regiment.159 In May 1916 with follower shortage continuing, the Viceroy suggested that the wages of all public followers serving overseas, whether departmental or regimental, be standardized using the scale sanctioned by the Supply and Transport Manual (War).160 Order No. 805 of 1916 thereby introduced the principle of same pay for same work for all public followers, but only for those posted overseas.161 The shift to the Supply and Transport (War) scale meant that the authorized pay for regimental bhisti, cook and sweeper, rose from Rs.6-8-0-, Rs.6/-, and Rs.5-8-0 respectively, to Rs.8/-. Adding a 50% war allowance, that is Rs.4/-, and a field service allowance of Rs.1/-, this brought their active service pay to Rs.13/-.162 The Secretary of State for India noted anxiously that this sum was only Rs.1-8-0 less than the sepoy’s pay on active service.163 The other change was that the regimental sweeper’s wage had leveled up to that of the cook and bhisti.

155

Ibid. GOC 6th (Poona) Division to AGI, April 24, 1915, AD, War, 1916–17, I, No. 11207, p. 295. 157 At peace stations a money allowance would replace free rations. Secy AD to AGI, May 22, 1915, AD, War, 1916–17, I, No. 11218, p. 310. 158 SOS to Viceroy, July 6, 1915, AD, War, 1916–17, III, Appendix, p. 2214. 159 Deputy Field Accountant General IEF (A) to India Office, June 18, 1915, AD, War, 1916–17, III, Appendix, p. 2224. 160 A 50% war allowance (batta) would be added to this, and a field service allowance of Rs.1/-, together with free rations. Despatch No. 44 (Army) May 19, 1916, AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 38134. 161 Sanctioned by Order No. 805 of November 6, 1916, AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 38137. 162 Enclosure to Despatch No. 44 (Army) May 19, 1916, AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 38134, p. 1076. The syce got Rs.7/- a month both before and after. Ibid. With allowances this added up to Rs.11-8-0 on active service. 163 SOS to Viceroy, July 12, 1916, AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 38135, p. 1075. 156

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Back in India however the Supply and Transport scale was not proving attractive enough to attract fresh follower recruits.164 In September 1916 the Commanding Officer of the newly inaugurated Meerut Follower’s Depot was instructed to offer wages at “a scale fixed for each class by striking a mean of the local rates quoted by civil authorities of the territorial division for which the Central Follower Depot had been set up”.165 In other words, the follower’s basic wage had to be allowed to climb up to the prevailing market rate. However, to contain this rise, it was the local market rate which was used as the frame of reference. Using an all-India average would have meant a much steeper hike, because wages in western and Southern India and Burma were higher than those in upper India.166 The principle of standardization seemed to falter again. However subsequently the Meerut scale, that is, an average wage derived from the upper India region, was accepted as the universal one for all Central Follower Depots.167 This Meerut scale was for fresh follower recruits, sent overseas through the Central Follower Depots. Followers already overseas received the Supply and Transport scale, which had now been topped by the Meerut scale. For instance, the Supply and Transport scale was Rs.8/ for the cook, bhisti and sweeper and Rs.7/- for the syce. By the Meerut scale fresh recruits to these jobs would get Rs.10/-.168 Adding a 50% batta, allowance, and Rs.1/- field service allowance, I calculate, that whereas the public follower sent earlier was now getting Rs.13/-, the new recruit sent overseas would get Rs.16/-, together with a bonus of one month’s pay for the first six months of service and one month’s pay for every three months.169 “It is recognised”, admitted the Viceroy, “that these proposals will raise pay of followers above that of fighting men, but as demand exceeds supply this is unavoidable”.170 He tried

164 Punjab officials said cooks and bhistis would not enroll for overseas service for less than Rs.20/- a month. AD War, 1916–17, II, No. 49821, pp. 1584–1593. 165 Secy AD, to AGI, September 20, 1916, AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 49827, p. 1598. Emphasis mine. On active service the follower would also get a 50% allowance on this wage, a field service allowance of Rs.1/- and free rations. Ibid. 166 “Memorandum on recruitment in India”, AG’s Branch, May 1917, Military, B, 1917, File 3, DSA. 167 On 19 January 1917 the Army Department decided that in future the terms for follower labour of a particular category were to be of “universal application”. Secy AD, to AGI, January 19, 1917, WWI/791/H, vol. 233, Diary No. 4756, p. 72. 168 For the S&T (War) scale see AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 38148, p. 1083. For the Meerut depot scales see AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 49836, p. 1607. 169 Viceroy to SOS, August 30, 1916, AD, War, 1916–17, II, No. 49816, p. 1582. 170 Ibid.

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to re-assure the Secretary of State that this pay rise would not affect the recruitment of fighting men, as followers were drawn from ‘nonfighting classes’.171 Followers now preferred to join the Central Depots for overseas service, instead of regiments stationed in India where the pay was much lower. The latter tried to draw upon the Central Depots, even if it meant offering higher wages, but were discouraged from doing so, lest it raise local rates and drain away followers collected for overseas service.172 However follower wages for regiments stationed in India could not really be sealed off from wages for overseas service. Army Instruction No. 64 of 22 January 1918 reveals another attempt to rationalize wages for home and overseas service, but this meant accepting another spike in pay.173 A cook, bhisti sweeper or syce enrolled on or after 1 February 1918 would get a bonus of Rs.20/- on enlistment and a fixed wage of Rs.12/- a month for service within India. On overseas service, an allowance at 50% of this pay would bring the figure up to Rs.18/-.174 By February 1919 with peace conditions, these rates were considered too high and the Viceroy proposed to bring them down to Rs.9/- for service in India and Rs.14/- for service overseas.175 A tentative comparison of wages and allowances as between the sepoy and the follower ranks in mid-1917 gives the following picture:176 Infantry sepoy: Rs.11/ a month, Rs.5/- war batta, Rs.2/- special field service allowance = Rs.18/- on active service with a Rs.50/- bonus on enlistment. Free rations in and out of active service. Transport mule driver: Rs.9/- a month, Rs.5/- war batta, Rs.2/special field service allowance = Rs.16/- on active service with a Rs.50/- bonus on enlistment. Free rations in and out of active service.

171

Ibid. F&P, War, B, March 1918, No. 384–386. 173 BL, IOR/L/Mil/7/8727. 174 Ibid. Followers hired before this date were supposed to continue on the scale fixed by the Central Follower Depots. WW1/999/H, Vol. 441, 1918, Diary No. 19703. However, syces at the India Base Remount Depot at Marseilles, some stationed overseas for over three years, complained and were granted the consolidated pay of Rs.18/-. BL, IOR/L/Mil/7/18727. 175 Viceroy to SOS, February 15, 1919, and Order No. 318 of 1919, AD, AG’s Branch, Estab-Regimental, A, May 1919, No. 1869–1873 and Appendix. 176 The figures are based on data from Secy Recruiting Board, to Chief Commissioner Delhi, 29 June 1917, File No. 3/1917, Military, DSA; and Secy AD, to AGI, July 9, 1917, in F&P, War, B, Secret, March 1918, No. 384–386. 172

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radhika singha Army Bearer Corps: Rs.9/- a month, Rs.4–8 war batta, Rs.2/- special field service allowance = Rs.15–8 on active service. Sweeper, cook for Indian troops, bhisti and syce (Central Depot scale): Rs.10/- a month, Rs.5/- war batta and Rs.1/- field service allowance = Rs.16/- on active service. Labour Corps in Mesopotamia: Rs.15/- a month with Rs.5/- war batta = Rs.20/-. LabourCorps in France: Rs.20/- a month and on discharge a bonus of one month’s pay for the first six months, then one month’s pay for every subsequent three months (that is a bonus of Rs.60/for their one year contract). The predictable justification for giving the Labour Corps in France a higher wage than the sepoy, was that the men were drawn from a different social strata, and were not part of the permanent military establishment, so this would not affect combatant recruitment. However from April 1918 the total pay of the sepoy on active service was also raised to Rs.20/-.177

On field service sepoys and followers were now getting free rations at the same scale. However in peace time, whereas combatants continued to get free rations, followers received free rations at a lower scale, or a money allowance or compensation for dearness of grain at a lower follower’s scale.178 Overall, the Indian Army seems to have managed, though with difficulty, to keep the sepoy’s basic pay and total active service pay somewhat ahead of the departmental follower and the lower public followers.179 The new pension rules sanctioned in January 1915 also tried to keep the sepoy somewhat ahead in evaluations of life and limb. Departmental followers and public followers earning a wage of Rs.13/- and above received the same wound and injury pension as the sepoy and the same family pension.180 Those earning Rs.8/- and above received a

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Rs.11/- a month, with Rs.5/- war batta and Rs.4/- war allowance = Rs.20/-. Combatant now included the mule-driver. 179 Within the parameters of ‘unskilled labour’ sepoy service retained its wage and status precedence. But did this ‘ascendancy’ also inhibit the ability of the sepoy to reframe his work as ‘skilled labour’? 180 Army Regulations (AR), No. 1062, No. 1073, in AD, War, 1914–15, No. 2250, pp. 74, 77. 178

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wound and injury pension at three-fourths the sepoy rate.181 I assume this was the scale for mule drivers and stretcher-bearers, till their position improved in 1917–18. Those with a wage below Rs.8/-, received a wound and injury pension at half the sepoy rate, with a minimum of Rs.3/.182 This slab would include a substantial number of public and ‘private’ followers. The heirs of “temporary public followers [. . .] engaged on high rates of pay for a particular service” and of “private followers of the servant class” would get the lowest pension of Rs.3/a month if the men died in action or from wounds.183 This ‘temporary’ category came to include “organized labour and unorganized labour”, that is the Labour and Porter Corps and other discrete labour categories, such as boatmen, watchmen, guides etc, “classes not ordinarily represented in the army in peace time”. From January 1918 the worth of a ‘life’ in this ‘temporary’ category, was reduced even more. If “organised labour, unorganized labour and temporary followers engaged for service overseas” died on field service, their heir would get a gratuity of Rs.300/-, not a pension.184 The Great War and the servant problem Putting the servant bill on the public account The higher risk of wounds and fatalities in this war and the reluctance of servants to travel into theatres overseas created a problem for the officer ranks as well. In November 1914 the Adjutant General in India observed that to expect the British officer to assist his servant’s family if he died or was disabled on active service was an “unfair liability [. . .] seeing that civilian servants are taken to relieve the State of providing soldier servants, as in European armies, and leave the latter available

181 AR No. 1062. They got a family pension which was Rs.4/ at the higher rate and Rs.3/- at the lower rate, as compared with Rs.5/ and Rs.4/ respectively for the sepoy. AR No. 1073. Ibid. pp. 74, 77. 182 AR No. 1062, ibid. p.74.“Private followers of the servant class” received a wound and injury pension on this same scale. AR No. 1063, ibid. p. 75. 183 AR, No. 1074, AR No. 1075, ibid. p. 84. The heirs of “temporary public followers” could receive the capitalized value of the pension instead, if they requested this, or if it was difficult to arrange for pension payment. Ibid. 184 If the man died before embarkation, the heirs would receive a gratuity of Rs.150/-. AD to AGI, January 2, 1918, BL, IOR/L/Mil/7/18302, Pt.

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to strengthen the effective firing line”.185 He proposed that Government extend the benefit of the lowest class of pension to private followers, and to “the recognized servants engaged and paid for by the troops, and taken into the field under authority”.186 The new pension rules of 1915 sanctioned this.187 Further problems arose when private followers were taken prisoner of war in Mesopotamia. Officers, whether prisoners themselves, or still at large, chafed about being expected to go on paying wages or sending an allowance to their servant’s family.188 Regiments did not want to dip into mess funds to support the family of some mess-bearer taken prisoner. More generally, officers complained of the difficulty of getting servants to accompany them into active service and the high wages they demanded. The Adjutant General said the Army was not officially obliged to provide private followers but suggested that officers fix servants wages using the nirikh rate and stick to it.189 Nevertheless on 30 June 1916 when British officers of the Indian service were given the benefit of free rations overseas, the concession was also extended to their horses and their authorised private servants.190 Eventually on 29 March 1917 the Central Follower Depots were ordered to undertake the recruitment of private followers, both for officers and regiments. Private followers would be enrolled, given an identity disc marked E. P. F. (enrolled private follower) and clothing on the follower’s scale. Government would pay them a lower fixed wage while they waited at the depot, and their employer would pay a higher fixed wage once they joined him overseas.191 Officers were instructed to pay enrolled private followers exactly those wages which were written into their service book.192 Government also accepted the responsibility of paying servants taken prisoner-of-war, at half their depot scale, from which an allowance of a quarter of their wages could

185

AGI’s report, November 26, 1914, AD Progs, War, 1914–15, No. 2230, p. 46. Ibid. 187 AR, No. 1063, No. 1075 prescribed a wound and injury pension of “half the combatant scale with a minimum of Rs.3/-” for “private followers of the servant class authorized to be taken on active service”, and, in case of death on service, a family pension of Rs.3/-. AD, War 1914–15, No. 2250–2251, pp. 75, 84. 188 BL, IOR/ L/Mil/7/18061. 189 Note, AGI’s branch, January 1915, AD War, 1916–17, I, Appendix, p. 324. 190 AD, War, 1916–17, I, No. 8898. 191 Deputy Secy, AD to AGI, March 29, 1917, BL, IOR/ L/Mil/7/18061. 192 Ibid. See also IA Order No. 114, 14 Feb 1919, BL, IOR/L/Mil/17/5/261. 186

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be remitted to the family.193 The Army justified this expansion in its administrative and financial responsibilities by arguing that “the lack of servants was liable to react on the health and efficiency of officers on field service”.194 The ‘servant problem’ in World War one may have driven the tradition of expecting domestic work at public expense deeper into the Indian Army. Such was the popularity of servants from India that even British officers who were entitled to a British soldier-servant at Basra, preferred to take a ‘coloured batman’.195 The Deputy Adjutant General there actually ran a Servants Bureau, which allocated Indian servants and trained more from the Indian Labour and Porter Corps.196 However the ‘officialisation’ of the private follower system increased the Indian Army’s administrative burden, one of the reasons perhaps for a discussion at the close of the war about shifting to the British Army practice of assigning combatants as servants and grooms on active service.197 Public employment and personal subordination: the regiment as ‘family’ Remember an orderly is not a servant.198

The epithet ‘menial’ for someone employed entirely by one household for domestic services was not quite archaic in Britain on the eve of the Great War. The Encyclopaedia Britannica of 1911 had this to say: “Menial, that which belongs to household or domestic service, hence, particularly, a domestic servant. The idea of such service being derogatory has made the term one of contempt”.199 193

BL, IOR/L/Mil/7/18061; also F&P, War, B, Secret, January 1918, No. 192–196. C. C. Monroe to SOS, July 26, 1918, AD Despatch No. 57 of 1918, BL, IOR/L/ Mil/7/18061. 195 GOC ‘D’ to Chief of General Staff, January 23, 1917, WW1/791/H, vol. 233, Diary No. 4942. 196 Memorandum December 8, 1917, WW1/959/H, vol. 401. 197 Assistant AG, 3rd Echelon Basra to Chief of General Staff, January 5, 1917, WW1/783/H, vol. 225, pp. 152–153; Chief of General Staff to GOC, ‘D’, January 7, 1917, WW1/789/H, vol. 231, Diary No. 3623, p. 41. 198 A General to his bride, who had just handed their tiffin basket to his orderly, a Dogra Brahmin. John Travers (pseud) Sahib-log (London, 1910), p. 56. See below. 199 Certain amendments to the British National Insurance Act in 1914 stated that “the expression ‘domestic servant’ shall be deemed to include a menial servant employed in whole time service in and about a private residence”. The London Gazette, June 30, 1914. 194

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This hierarchical attitude probably affected the standing of the British soldier-servant, that is the batman, in the British army as well. A Digger cartoon commented upon this tradition: “No ‘e cant play soldiers, ‘is father was a batman”.200 In India there was an even more pervasive expectation that Europeans in official employment, ought to have access to ‘menials’ for sweeping, cooking, and laundry, and if they could not pay for these personally, they should be provided institutionally or from the public exchequer. Related to this was an understanding that the performance of these services could extend fluidly from the circumference of official duty into the domestic sphere. Indians in official positions had much the same expectations of their subordinate staff.201 Douglas Peers points out that in India servants satisfied a number of roles played by wives of British soldiers in England, so the latter were valued less in the colony.202 Certainly marriage was discouraged for British Tommies sent out to India. They had to carve out a domesticity for themselves in their barrack or shared bungalow, drawing upon public followers and those paid out of regimental funds, such as the cook-boy, the dhobi, the barrack sweeper and ‘latrine-wallah’ but also pooling their money to get ‘line-boys’ to polish, clean, fetch and carry, and cook special meals. Frank Richards recalled that at the canton-

200 Cartoon titled “The future Generation” where one child is excluded from playing soldiers. http://www.diggerhistory2.info/nz1917/pages/section 6 (accessed January 1, 2008). Harvey Cushing, the famous Harvard surgeon in France was delighted with his British batman: “these Britishers of the lower classes make extraordinarily good servants”. However his next one was disappointing. Harvey Cushing, From a Surgeon’s Journal, 1915–1918 (Boston, 1936), p. 143. 201 Specific regulations were formulated to prohibit police officers from using village watchmen and constables for ‘menial’ duties. A Madras Police Order of 1863 stated that under no circumstances were the police to be employed in domestic or personal service. E. S. B. Stevenson, The Station House Officers’ Vade-Mecum (Madras 1879), p. 708. In the contemporary context, one of the questions posed by The Sixth Central Pay Commission (24th March, 2008) in India was, “Abolition of feudalism: Should all vestiges of feudalism in the country like huge residential bungalows sprawling over several acres, large number of servant quarters, retinues of personal staff, bungalow peons, use of uniformed personnel as batmen or on unnecessary security or ceremonial duties etc. be abolished? Please make concrete suggestions”. 202 D. M. Peers, “The Raj’s other great game, Policing the sexual frontiers of the Indian Army in the first half of the nineteenth century”, in Steven Pierce and Anupama Rao, Discipline and the other body (Durham and London, 2006), pp. 115–150, 132. Yet, wives of British soldiers and of Indian followers did assist, for paltry sums, in station hospitals, before the Indian Army Nursing Service was set up in 1893. Col. A. Ghosh, History of the Armed Forces Medical Services in India (New Delhi, 1988), p. 99.

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ment the British private only had to clean his own rifle and bayonet.203 He was absolved of the barrack duties he had to perform in England, peeling potatoes, washing dishes, the stuff of jokes about the ‘feminine’ roles men assume in army life.204 British officers in the Indian Army expected their domestic comforts to stretch quite a bit into ‘active service’, but conversely official accoutrements underpinned many domestic amenities. Officers received an allowance for a syce (grass-cutter and groom) and took him into active service as a ‘private follower’.205 However they also took along their household bearer, whose ingenuity in rustling up food and hot tea in the most extraordinary circumstances was a staple of war anecdotes. The reader of a tribute to a fallen friend in Mesopotamia learns more about the hero’s private servant, Antoni, a “Madrasi Christian”, than about the hero himself. It is the devotion which his friend inspires in Antoni which does him credit. Antoni can ride, sew, string a racquet, cook a priceless dinner, and is ready to resort to deeds of felony to ensure that if his master “gave voice to a want [. . .] the want did not exist any longer”.206 However British Officers of Indian regiments were also assigned a sepoy as an orderly, who on active service took messages, cleaned his kit, found him food and a billet. Memoirs and novels of army life reveal that the orderly was also inducted into the officer’s house-hold arrangements and might accompany him like a personal retainer from one posting to another: “Tulsi, my soldier orderly, regarded himself as being superior to the servants [. . . .] In a peace station orderlies could not be used as domestic servants but a point was stretched in letting them look after a car [. . .]”.207 203 Frank Richards, Old Soldier Sahib, pp. 182–184. He recalled that in Britain recruits had to wash up and remove the urinal tub, but their laundry was done by wives of corporals and old soldiers. Ibid. 204 Ibid. Forced to darn his own socks the Harvard professor of surgery Harvey Cushing fumed that the British War Office should penalize suffragettes, “Damn the Votes, Darn the Socks”. Cushing, From a Surgeon’s Journal, p. 159. 205 British officers in pre-war India, whether in the British army or in the Indian Army were not allowed a British soldier-servant, that is, a batman. The official reason was that white combatant strength had to be kept up. However I suspect that British privates also resisted the performance of ‘menial’ tasks in the sight of natives. 206 A Mug in Mesopotamia, By Joatamon, (Poona, 1918), pp. 33–35. 207 Brigadier R. C. B. Bristow, Memories of the British Raj (London, 1974), p. 78. In the contemporary context a retired Pakistani Brigadier blames the inflation of 1970 for encouraging officers to dispense with their private servants and shift the load of domestic work onto their batmen. “Recollections from memory about batmen”, Brig

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The orderly expected to gain some patronage from this connection, but the relationship could also cast the shadow of ‘menial’ work over a combatant. This, one surmises, is the reason why institutional accounts of the Indian Army find it necessary to stress, then as now, that the orderly was a combatant, not a domestic servant carrying out menial tasks.208 Through narratives about the devotion of the sepoy orderly, not only to his officer’s person, but also to his officer’s personal effects, and about the fidelity of the follower ranks to ‘their’ regiment, the military establishment reassured itself that the ‘extra’ measure of care was given out of attachment, not from a position of subordination.209 By the close of World War one, the Indian service was said to be unpopular with British officers, so it was felt that they had to be offered more ‘concessions in kind’. The Esher Committee appointed in 1919–20 to suggest army reforms proposed that officers of the British service be allowed a British soldier-servant (a batman) from the ranks when in India, as they were in the U.K., and British officers of the Indian service a soldier-servant from the Indian ranks, deploying special enlistments if necessary.210 To paraphrase, if high caste sepoys objected to ‘menial’ work, lower castes could be specially recruited as soldier-servants. The committee also recommended a free charger for the British cavalry officer and an Indian groom who would again be “an enlisted soldier, paid, rationed and clothed by Government”.211

(retd) Muhammad Akhtar Khan http://www.defencejournal.com/2001/july/batmen. htm (accessed March 16, 2008). For contemporary controversy in India about combatants doing domestic work in the guise of orderly duty, see Arati Jerath, “Anthony bats for soldiers”, http://www.dnaindia.com/dnaprint, January 13, 2007 (accessed January 3, 2008). 208 C. C. Trench, The Indian Army and the King’s enemies, 1900–1947 (New York, 1988), p. 26. Gordon Corrigan’s attempt to clarify the position only succeeds in underlining the ambiguity of the orderly’s status.“The British officer’s orderly was emphatically not a servant—although he did carry out some menial tasks [. . .]”. Gordon Corrigan, Sepoys in the Trenches. The Indian Corps on the Western Front 1914–1915 (Staplehurst, 1999), p. 19. 209 One of the heroes of World War one was Bhan Singh, orderly of Captain Banks of the 57th Wildes Rifles. In April 1915, near Wieltje in Belgium, Bhan Singh, though wounded himself, carried his dying officer away under heavy fire, and retrieved his personal belongings. Sikhs.nl/world.war.1.htm (accessed December 21, 2007). 210 Report of the Committee appointed by the Secretary of State for India to enquire into the administration and organization of the Army in India, Cmd. 943, 1920, II, p. 41 (Esher report, ER). It also suggested a soldier-orderly for the Indian officers, the VCOs, who were probably allocating themselves one unofficially “The Indian Officer is not allowed a soldier servant by regulation. We think this should be permitted and regularized”. ER, II, p. 59, para 57. 211 ER, II, p. 41.

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To understand why such suggestions could be made at all, one has to keep in mind the severe manpower shortage of spring 1918 which forced the Indian Army, particularly units stationed over-seas, to discuss ways of using sepoy labour more flexibly. Visions of manpower rationalization [. . .] the follower is an anachronism and his continued existence as a class is irrational.212

In April 1918 the Commander in Chief in India was urging the War Office, and the General Officers Commanding overseas to use noncombatant labour from India with stringent economy, to substitute it with local labour, and finally to take more ‘fatigue duties’ from soldiers.213 He pointed out that the demand for sweepers simply couldn’t be met “despite every inducement”, and suggested that those already at hand could be confined to latrine work and removing filth, and soldiers and other labour could clean camps: “There should be no difficulty in making some such arrangements provided long handle brooms, rakes and spikes for picking up waste paper were provided, thereby eliminating all question of assimilating the work to that ordinarily performed by the sweeper in India”.214 Here the suggestion was that a change of tools could ‘de-stigmatize’ certain kinds of work thereby permitting combatant labour to be used more flexibly.215 In February 1919, H. Cooke, the Director of Organization, implied that by enlisting the follower and changing his designation, for instance, by replacing the word ‘syce’ by the term ‘horse orderly’, follower-work could be made more honorable, thereby persuading the sepoy to diversify his tasks.216 The sole exception he made was that sepoys should not be put to ‘sweeper’s work.217 212 H. Cooke, Director of Organization to SOS, February 15, 1919, AD, AG’s Branch, Estab., Regimental, A May 1919, No. 1869–1873 and Appendix. 213 CCI to War Office, London 23 April 1918, WWI/1023/H, vol. 465, Diary No. 31812, p. 86. 214 CCI to GOCs, 23 April 1918, WWI/1023/H, Vol. 465, Diary No. 31810, p. 85. 215 For the poet idealist in Untouchable, it was the flush system, “the machine which cleans dung without anyone having to handle it”, which would allow sweepers to change their profession, thereby freeing themselves from untouchability. Mulk Raj Anand, Untouchable, p. 155. 216 H. F. Cooke to SOS, February 15, 1919, in AD, AG’s Branch, Estab., Regimental, A May 1919, No. 1869–1873 and Appendix. Ibid. 217 Ibid.

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The Esher Committee’s proposals took the same direction. Indian soldiers could not be called upon to touch the polluting leather of the bhisti’s water-sack, but there was no reason why they could not draw piped water.218 Dhobis could be eliminated from the unit establishments; the sepoy could wash his own clothes in the field and attend, like the British soldier, to his own morning toilet, instead of requiring a barber.219 Such suggestions also indicate that the army was claiming a much larger share now of the sepoy’s off-duty time. The Esher Committee suggested that the ‘Hindustani’ clothing issued to sepoys as off-duty dress and for fatigue duties, be replaced by a ‘fatigue order of dress’—the khaki shirt and shorts which, it pointed out, had become so common during the war.220 With respect to British soldiers, the report underlined the need to give them more domestic comforts, stating that their barracks could not “be regarded solely as dormitories”. However, it also suggested that in hill stations they could undertake some of the barrack duties they performed in the U.K.221 If one way to rationalize the use of manpower was to diversify the sepoy’s work, the other way was to equip the non-combatant for combat duties. “How often in this war,” wrote H. Cooke, “has the stupidity of the follower class caused casualties from hostile fire which might otherwise have been avoided”.222 A 1919 follower committee proposed that all public followers be enlisted, that is given combatant rank, and trained to defend themselves.223 Soldiers would not have to be deputed to guard baggage trains and it would reduce the number of follower casualties.224 The short two page section on followers in the Esher report is quite remarkable, though it didn’t attract the attention of the two Indian members on the committee.225 It begins by declaring that “the term

218 ER, II, p. 87. Medical opinion had also condemned the goatskin massakh as unsanitary. Report of Colonel P. Hehir, February 4, 1917, BL, IOR/L/Mil/7/18281. 219 Here the Tommy seems to provide the model for a self-sufficient masculinity appropriate to military service. In fact British soldiers routinely pooled their money for an Indian barber who would shave them in bed while they caught some extra-sleep in the morning. 220 ER, II, pp. 66–67. 221 Ibid. p. 55, para 47 (1). 222 H. F. Cooke to SOS, February 15, 1919, AD, AG’s Branch, Establishment, Regimental, A May 1919, No. 1869–1873 and Appendix. 223 Ibid. 224 Ibid. 225 ER, II, pp. 87–88.

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‘follower’ should disappear”.226 The “departmental followers” it pronounced were “properly speaking, the subordinate Indian personnel of various departments and services”. “Regimental followers” should be enlisted and attested men trained to defend themselves. “The term ‘sweeper’ should be abolished. The necessary personnel for sanitary duties should be enlisted from low caste men and trained as soldiers”.227 Caste was therefore still in the picture. Neverthless the Esher report explored the possibility of using the designation ‘soldier’ as a unifying homology along which tasks could be restructured for the economical and trained use of manpower. I can offer only a sketchy picture of the changes which were actually implemented. The improved status of departmental followers was confirmed and extended in the 1920s, because the Indian Army realized that it had to compete with wages in the expanding industrial and commercial sector.228 However, de-mobilization and cost-cutting may have pushed out low castes once again from combatant units and the departmental services, restricting them to the ‘menial’ ranks. A comparison between the position of the stretcher-bearers in the new Indian Hospital Corps constituted in June 1920, and that of the general followers, the ‘menials’, indicates that the institutional ceiling imposed by social stigma stayed in place for the latter. The stretcherbearers were placed in the ‘Non-combatant Branch’, a category which embraced the nursing, clerical and store-keeping staff as well. In this category all personnel were attested, and received rations, batta, furlough, leave, clothing and equipment on the combatant’s scale.229 However the ‘menials’, those formerly in the Army Hospital Corps, or attached to Indian station hospitals, were relegated to a ‘General Section’, where personnel were enrolled but not attested, and where clothing and equipment were issued on an inferior scale. The Viceroy’s explanation for this distinction was that, “owing to the caste and status of some of the personnel necessary for Hospital work, eg. dhobis and sweepers, it is considered undesirable to include them in the NonCombatant Branch”.230 In the ‘General Section’, the epithet ‘menial’

226

Ibid. p. 87, para 6. Ibid. p. 87. 228 The lascars of the Indian Ordnance Department were given combatant status in the 1920s. 229 Viceroy to SOS, No. 67, August 28, 1919, BL, IOR/ L/Mil/7/324. 230 Ibid. 227

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was replaced by the term ‘trade denominations’, but in the frame of colonial understandings about caste, this phrase implied specialised work associated with lowly status.231 In regiments too, a ‘menial’ follower strata persisted, one for which work regimes and work discipline continued to take very personal and summary forms. British officers did not get the enlisted syces envisaged by the Esher Committee, but continued to receive a monthly allowance for a civilian groom, expected to accompany them into active service.232 The private follower system was cheap because men could be entertained and laid-off without any long term financial and institutional commitment. In the light of complaints that military service in India had become very unpopular with British officers and privates after the war, followers and ‘barrack boys’ continued to provide some of the luxuries of a colonial posting. Their presence absolved British privates and NCOs of ‘dirty’, tedious or exhausting duties even as it also elevated their status as white men.233 The persistence of the menial trope in institutional culture is also evident from the fact that while the Indian Army Act was amended in 1920 to abolish corporal punishment for the sepoy and the enrolled follower, section 22, which permitted summary punishment with a rattan for ‘the native follower if he was a menial servant’ was retained. There are anecdotes which suggest that on active service summary punishment may have continued to constitute the norm for all followers ‘of the servant type’. Major L. W. A. Lyons, in the reserves of the 4th Indian Division at Genifa, Egypt in World War two recalled that Indian camp-followers such as the sweepers and the cooks, ‘wore uniforms, but carried a certificate to prove they were non-combatants 231

Ibid. Officers complained that the syce allowance of Rs.15/- was too low, and that there was no guarantee that a civilian syce would accompany them into active service. AD, 1922, Note. No. 377 of 1922. 233 Major Hore Belisha, voiced this expectation about the conditions of service in India. He complained in the House of Commands that personnel of the Royal Army Medical Corps at some temporary depots and hospitals in India were having to subscribe to pay for native labour. By “the custom in the British army in India”, he pointed out, it was this native labour which did “the menial work of various regiments, such as lavatory cleansing, water carrying, etc”. and the Government of India paid for it in depots with British regiments. July 15, 1924, http://hansard.millbanksystems.com (accessed August 1, 2009). For one Indian critic, it was British troops who inflated the number of followers, and therefore, dispensing with white soldiers, would curtail wasteful expenditure. Captain G. V. Modak, Indian Defence Problem (Poona, 1938). 232

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and protected as such by the Geneva Convention. They were also subject to a special code of discipline and could be flogged or summarily imprisoned, though I never heard of this ever happening.’234 Conclusion Nationalists such as Gokhale had pressed for universal conscription as something which in India, as in Japan, could create the appropriately masculine and patriotic citizen of a self-governing India. The strategies which evolved to deal with follower shortage in the course of World War one, and the proposals put forward to rationalize man-power use outlined a more technocratic vision of modernity. Follower recruitment could potentially cover the entire social spectrum, reaching into low caste and tribal communities, and the follower enrolled at a Central Depot could be sent to any unit.235 The discussions of the Makin Committee and the Esher committee on improving the quality of follower services, offer some parallels with the language of those deposing before the Indian Industrial Commission of 1918. They indicate an aspiration to move away from the conception of the Indian Army as a kind of jajman, patron, drawing upon ‘caste-based’ qualities and work-skills, and to visualize it working like an industrial organization, one which would integrate all ranks fully into its operations, and by technology and training add value to colonial labour. This essay charted the emergence of such tendencies over the course of the war, but also noted some persistent constraints. The greater demand for all forms of labour, and the increased importance of the ‘ancilliary services’ encouraged the positing of a new, more integrated model of military organization, one in which differences between

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Rupert Lyons, ‘Audio memoirs of Major L. W. A. Lyons’, www.bbc.co.uk/ ww2peopleswar/stories/88/a6062988 (accessed July 31, 2009). 235 AD order, July 9, 1917. In the recruiting returns of 1917 for Rajputana and Central India, combatants are entered against a caste heading, “Rajputs, Jats, Gujars, Ahirs, Mers and Merats, and Ahirs, Musalmans, Others and Muleteers”. Muleteers are entered as combatants but described by their unit of allocation, not by their caste. In the column for non-combatants there is no reference to caste. Figures are simply entered against the allocated units: “Transport, Regimental followers, Overseas labourers” And yet it is clear that there were higher castes in all these categories. “Monthly recruiting returns of Central India and Rajputana”, Central Indian Agency, File 9–A of 1917.

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sepoys and followers, began to be narrowed down. Followers, circulating with greater velocity between stations, and theatres of war, comparing wages, service conditions and labour markets, also contributed to this shift. However followers associated with ‘polluting’ trades, and those whose work kept pulling them back from the status of ‘public employee’ into the position of ‘domestic servant’ found it difficult to climb up from the menial rung. In addition, as the Indian Army demobilized, caste and ethnic criteria for combatant service narrowed again. Nevertheless the figure of the follower gives us a much wider social and spatial vista on recruitment into military work. It shows how migration networks intersecting at bazaars, construction sites, and cantonments along the frontier, and labour regimes emerging at these sites, could generate both ‘martial races’ and their non-combatant ‘others’. Sukha Kalloo’s resting place is therefore one of those sites from which one can excavate a history of the different forms of work which make up the practice of war, one in which actual combat is only the most spectacular: Sukha’s epitaph236 This stone was erected by Parishioners of Brockenhurst To mark the spot where is laid The earthly body of Sukha A resident of Mohulla Gungapur City Barielly United Provinces of India He left country, home and friends to save our King and Empire in the Great European War As a humble servant in the Lady Hardinge Hospital for Wounded Indian Soldiers In this parish He departed this life on January 12th 1915 Aged 30 years By creed he was not Christian But this earthly life was sacrificed in the interests of others There is one God and Father of all who is For all and through all and in all Ephesians IV

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www.newforest-life.com/ww1–memorial-India-html (accessed August 5, 2008).

MILITARY SERVICE, NATIONALISM AND RACE: THE EXPERIENCE OF MALAWIANS IN THE SECOND WORLD WAR Timothy J. Lovering Introduction The political impact of military service upon African colonial soldiers who served in European-led armies during the Second World War has been a contentious issue since the 1960s. This debate emerged particularly strongly in a West African context, where the involvement of ex-servicemen in the Gold Coast riots of 1948 was regarded in early nationalist accounts as a key moment in the rise of nationalist sentiment. Some historians regarded this moment, and the development of the nationalist impulse in general, as a direct outcome of wartime experiences. This argument was made specifically in relation to Nyasaland (present day Malawi) by George Shepperson in 1961, when he wrote that: There can be little doubt that the Second World War accelerated the nationalist tendency in Nyasaland. One element here [. . .] was the lowering of the European’s prestige. The main factor in this was probably not so much the spectacle of the whites fighting each other as the increasing recognition of the fact that all Europeans did not enjoy a privileged position. Service in the Southeast Asian theater [sic] of war introduced Central African askari [African soldiers—T.L.] to large numbers of British private soldiers [. . . .].1

Shepperson goes on to identify a number of other features of the war which accelerated the development of nationalist tendencies among soldiers, including contact with Indian nationalist ideas, the stimulation of a sense of belonging to Nyasaland engendered by service in homogenous military units, and contact with black American soldiers.

1 George A. Shepperson, “External Factors in the Development of African Nationalism, with Particular Reference to British Central Africa,” Phylon: The Atlanta University Review of Race and Culture 22, 3 (1961), 219–220.

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Criticisms of this account of African experience of the war have focussed upon two key areas; the impact of soldiers upon wider colonial society, and the strictly political content of soldiers’ experience during the war. A number of authors have questioned the political significance of soldiers’ involvement in the wider political arena. As early as 1968, G. O. Olusanya argued that returning Nigerian soldiers had a minimal impact upon the nationalist movement, ending an article with a section entitled “The political unimportance of exservicemen”; however, he acknowledged the essentially political character of soldiers’ grievances against the military authorities, which he characterised as discrimination in clothing, pay, access to promotion, and wartime experience of white racism.2 In the same year, a paper on Ghanaian and Ugandan ex-servicemen by Eugene Schlech was published, which described a high level of political engagement by former servicemen, although he also argued that this ultimately had little effect in the national political sphere. In 1973, Richard Rathbone described the role of soldiers in the rise of nationalism in Ghana as a “myth”, and specifically argued that the idea that West African soldiers were directly influenced by personal contact with Indian nationalists “stretches the imagination”.3 In 1983, again focusing on the case of Ghana, David Killingray provided a more sustained case for Rathbone’s position, concluding that ex-servicemen had no significant political role. Moreover, he specifically characterised soldiers’ concerns—including promotion, seniority, pay, and education—as “not politics”.4 The importance of the Second World War as a watershed for African nationalism continued to be discussed, but it was increasingly changes in the civilian sphere which became the focus of this debate.5 Adrienne Israel made a persuasive case for the political impact of African soldiers, and for the political nature of their grievances, but her focus remained on the case of 2 G. O. Olusanya, “The Role of Ex-Servicemen in Nigerian Politics,” Journal of Modern African Studies 6, 2 (1968), 221–232. 3 Richard Rathbone, “Businessmen in Politics: Party Struggle in Ghana, 1949–57,” Journal of Development Studies 9, 2 (1973), 392. 4 David Killingray, “Soldiers, Ex-Servicemen, and Politics in the Gold Coast, 1939–50,” Journal of Modern African Studies 21, 3 (1983), 527. 5 See David Killingray and Richard Rathbone, “Introduction,” in Africa and the Second World War, eds. David Killingray and Richard Rathbone (London, 1986), p. 16; Nicholas Westcott, “The Impact of the Second World War on Tanganyika, 1939–49,” in Africa and the Second World War, eds. David Killingray and Richard Rathbone (London, 1986), pp. 143–159.

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Ghana.6 Significantly, the non-political account of soldiers’ wartime experiences has continued to echo through recent works on African soldiers. In his important 1999 work on the King’s African Rifles, Timothy Parsons implicitly recognises the political character of soldiers’ complaints over pay, promotion, family policy and discrimination, but still denies the transfer of these to a higher political level, writing that “Collective resistance in the army was rarely inspired by larger political issues in colonial East Africa; only the most educated askaris were overtly nationalistic”.7 This is a point which, for Parsons, applies not only to the impact of the Second World War, but to the totality of colonial military experience. In his study of African servicemen, Kevin Brown also provides an extensive and detailed overview of soldiers’ grievances and the resistance that they engendered, but he also fails to relate these directly to overtly political aspirations.8 Ashley Jackson, in his study of wartime Botswana, recognises a similar set of tensions inherent in military service, but ultimately comes to the conclusion that soldiers’ concerns were parochial, and shares the view that their impact upon the development of nationalist politics was minimal. This paper is not explicitly concerned with the question of returned veterans’ and ex-servicemen’s impact upon the development of nationalist politics, but rather with the political character of soldiers’ attitudes and experiences, and the influence upon these of the lived reality of the war. These two areas have become conflated, so that the low impact of soldiers in the national political arena after the war has been used to imply that the wartime experiences of African servicemen were politically unimportant. This conflation fails to recognise the multiple levels on which the political operates, so that issues which may have been highly political both in their content and in soldiers’ reactions to them, played out within the military environment. By focusing on the importance of the discourse of African Nationalism, it also fails to acknowledge the impact of the war upon perceptions of complex territorial or proto-national identities. This paper seeks to redress these

6 Adrienne M. Israel, “Measuring the War Experience: Ghanaian Soldiers in World War II,” Journal of Modern African Studies 25, 1 (1987), 159–168; Adrienne M. Israel, “Ex-Servicemen at the Crossroads: Protest and Politics in Post-War Ghana,” Journal of Modern African Studies 30, 2 (1992), 359–368. 7 Timothy H. Parsons, The African Rank and File: Social Implications of Colonial Military Service in the King’s African Rifles, 1902–1964 (Oxford, 1999), p. 209. 8 Kevin K. Brown, “The Military and Social Change in Colonial Tanganyika,” PhD thesis, (Michigan State University, 1991), pp. 316–347, and 415–419.

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issues by disaggregating soldiers’ wartime experience from their postwar political impact. Malawians in the Second World War Despite their location in the Southern African economic sphere, Malawians9 formed a key element in the military forces of British-controlled East Africa from the turn of the century. In peacetime, Malawians provided the personnel for two battalions of the King’s African Rifles (KAR), fulfilling a reserve function which ensured that at any time a large proportion of the Malawian soldiery were stationed outside the Nyasaland Protectorate, principally in Tanganyika and Kenya, but occasionally as far a field as Somaliland, the Gold Coast, and Mauritius. In 1938, less than 800 men were serving in Nyasaland units of the KAR,10 performing a function which was essentially focussed upon providing support to the civil authorities as the ultimate guarantor of colonial authority.11 Significant numbers of Malawian individuals also enlisted in the Northern Rhodesia Regiment, reinforcing an identification between the forces of the two territories. The Second World War transformed the East African forces, including those elements which were manned by Malawian personnel. Well over 30,000 Malawians served in British controlled armed forces during the Second World War.12 Crucially, the army’s recruiting base shifted away from a pre-war emphasis upon rural, poorly educated groups, as the demands of modern warfare required educated personnel who could fulfil a range of technical and support functions. In 1945, it was estimated that 4,000 trained drivers would be returning to

9 The term Malawian is adopted throughout as there is no adequate contemporary equivalent term for the inhabitants of Nyasaland. However, references to ‘Nyasas’ in contemporary extracts may be taken as a synonym for Malawians. 10 The National Archives: Public Records Office, CO 820/30/4, Colonial Office: Military: King’s African Rifles and West African Frontier Force: Inspector-General’s Report: King’s African Rifles: Southern Brigade, 1938. 11 See Risto Marjomaa, “The Martial Spirit: Yao Soldiers in British Service in Nyasaland (Malawi) 1895–1939,” Journal of African History 44, 3 (2003), 413–432 and Timothy John Lovering, “Authority and Identity: Malawian Soldiers in Britain’s Colonial Army, 1891–1964,” PhD thesis (University of Stirling, 2002). 12 Malawi National Archives (hereafter MNA), S 33/2/1/1, History of World War II, December 1939 to March 1946. It is difficult to give precise figures due to ongoing discharges of personnel, and the recruitment of large numbers of Malawians into the armed forces of Northern and Southern Rhodesia.

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Malawi alone at the end of hostilities, in addition to artisans, medical, educational and clerical personnel.13 During the war, large numbers of Malawians, in common with other East African forces, were stationed in—or fought in—Kenya, Abyssinia, Madagascar, Ceylon, India, and Burma. Malawian soldiers form an important object of study for the question of the political impact of the war for a number of reasons. Malawian-manned units of the KAR and East African Artillery remained much more homogenous than units drawn from Kenya, Uganda and Tanganyika. This was principally a result of their use of Nyanja as a lingua franca, in contrast to the Swahili of the remainder of the East African forces. Detailed annual reports—deeply concerned with any signs of disaffection amongst the troops—which were assiduously compiled during peacetime, were abandoned for the duration of the War. Such issues were increasingly dealt with at a macro level, producing a record from which is it is difficult to separate out the experience of particular national or regional groups from East African soldiers as a whole. In this respect, the homogeneity of Malawian forces provides an opportunity to ask questions which cannot so readily be asked of other East African soldiers. On the other hand, it can also be argued that the specific Malawian experience of the war has been subsumed in accounts of the experiences of much more numerous Kenyan servicemen. The post-war histories of East African soldiers have also been influential in this respect; the involvement of Kenyan, Ugandan, and Tanganyikan servicemen in the mutinies of 1964 has emphasised the political content of their service in contrast to soldiers serving in other territories. Malawian soldiers’ grievances: pay As would be expected, many soldiers’ concerns were of the mundane character described by Killingray, when he argues that “In all probability [. . .] the main topics of conversation among West African soldiers, like soldiers everywhere, were women, families, and the immediate social and physical surroundings”. This is often confirmed by official accounts, such as a report by the General Officer Commanding the 13 MNA, LB 8/2/4/92, Memorandum, “Post-War Training and Employment for African Ex-servicemen in Nyasaland”, n.d. [1945].

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East Africa Command, in 1944, in which he stated that “The most prominent topics that cropped up amongst Africans wherever I went [in Ceylon—T.L.] were—news from the homeland, mails and remittances” (a proportion of pay which soldiers either chose or were compelled to send home to their families).14 In 1944 and 1945 chiefs from the East African territories, including Nyasaland, took part in visits to East African servicemen in East Africa, and South and South East Asia. Although these visits were organised by the army and the civil authorities for morale purposes, the chiefs almost universally collected complaints from the soldiers, and many presented these to the local administrators on return to their home territories. It is certainly the case that many of the complaints they recorded dealt with the themes of money and families. Soldiers particularly complained that wives attending government offices to collect remittances were routinely delayed, while others felt that money which was received by their families was squandered in their absence.15 It is notable that these subjects also formed a central theme in the literature of military propaganda to African servicemen. Once we move beyond this core body of complaints, Malawian soldiers’ grievances begin to take on a much more political character. The level of pay is consistently cited as a principal complaint of African soldiers, and another factor supporting the economic explanation for soldiers’ resistance. Wages received by East and West African soldiers were consistently lower than those received by equivalently ranked British soldiers, white soldiers in African units, and Indian Army personnel.16 In the case of Malawian soldiers, pay rates, which had been a mainstay of peace-time complaints, feature comparatively little in accounts of wartime grievances. This may owe something to the fact that, unlike many other jurisdictions, army pay was generally superior to civilian pay levels in Nyasaland (although inferior to that available to Malawians in the mines of the Rhodesias and South Africa). It was also the case that pay for Nyasaland units, which had always been

14 MNA, S 41/1/1/13/1, General Officer Commanding-in-Chief, East Africa Command, to Sir Edmund Richards, Governor of Nyasaland, February 16, 1944. 15 MNA, S41/1/23/4/53B, “Report on a visit to Nairobi and Somaliland by Chiefs”, by NA S. C. Mwase [n.d.]; MNA, S 41/1/23/4/55A, Report by NA Gomani, “Journey of Chiefs to the North”, January 1945; Chief Secretary Nyasaland to Chief Secretary to Conference of East African Governors, April 9, 1945. 16 See Israel, “Measuring the War Experience”, pp. 160–162.

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lower than that pertaining in the remainder of the KAR, was brought in line with other East African forces during the war. It is striking that when the issue of pay did arise, it was often presented in specifically national terms. Chief Chikumbu, reporting the complaints of soldiers serving in South-East Asia, recorded the following: We are also complaining because we soldiers from Nyasaland do not get any increases of pay. Our forefathers fought very hard in the last Great War of 1914–18, and in this one we agreed very quickly to go and fight, and have obeyed every order of our King. Our chiefs were asked to spare men to join the Military, and when these same men ask for their increment the Europeans say: ‘We will not increase your increment because your chiefs were fools to agree to the bargain before they knew anything about your pay.’17

In this account, pay is certainly presented as an issue which is deeply implicated in a concept of an unspoken reciprocal contract between the colonial state and the colonial soldier, who earns privileges in return for service. Promotion While a specifically national or nationalist aspect to the question of pay only occasionally emerged, nationalism was a much more obvious element in the issue of promotion opportunities for Africans in the army. In common with all African forces, promotion to the status of commissioned officer was limited to white personnel prior to the war, and in practice most officers in the colonial forces were found from British Army officers on secondment. The expanded requirement for officers after 1939 was met both from that source, and from the recruitment of white settlers in East Africa. In 1942, a new rank of Warrant Officer Platoon Commander (WOPC) was introduced for African personnel. The WOPC was intended to replace a European officer in one platoon in each of a battalion’s four companies, thereby reducing the requirement for white junior officers at the same time as enhancing the prestige of African NCOs. The rank of WOPC was

17 MNA, S 41/1/23/5/63B, Copy of Letter from Chief Chikumbu to PC Southern Province, n.d. [August 13, 1945].

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opened to East African servicemen from all territories, and WOPCs were appointed in many Malawian-manned units. However, whilst a WOPC carried out many of a commissioned officer’s duties, it lacked the status of a commissioned rank. During the war, a limited number of West African soldiers were commissioned, but in East Africa there was a general resistance to the promotion of Africans to the full status of an officer. This partly reflected genuine uncertainty on the part of the military authorities regarding the availability of suitable candidates, but was mainly driven by a desire to mollify the sensibilities of the white settler community in East Africa for whom the elevation of Africans to such status was socially unacceptable. The only exception to this was the commissioning of a small number of Ugandans, most of whom were relatives of the Kabaka, and were appointed for internal political reasons.18 It is generally recognised that the failure to promote Africans to commissioned rank created discontent among African personnel. However, amongst Malawian soldiers, this engendered a ‘national’ response, which identified racial inequalities within the army as specifically biased against Malawian personnel. The majority of Malawian chiefs visiting soldiers in East Africa collected complaints regarding the unfairness of the failure to promote Malawians: “Why cannot we become Officers like Uganda asikari? Are we not fighting just as they are?”19 and We Nyasaland soldiers co-operatively with Northern Rhodesia and Uganda soldiers have always fought side by side, yet to our surprise we see that our fellow Africans from the latter country are being awarded and promoted to the ranks of Lieutenants and Captains, even men from Somaliland are similarly being treated and are promoted to these ranks, whereas, we Nyasaland and Northern Rhodesia soldiers our limit of promotion is only the rank of Regimental Sergeant-Major.20

The concept that Malawian soldiers had earned the right to commissioned status through their wartime service was developed by Chief Chikumbu, whose report following his visit to Malawians in Nairobi suggested that demands for improved status for African soldiers should

18

Parsons, The African Rank-and-File, pp. 108–109. MNA, S 41/1/23/4/49B, Report by NA Kadawere, December 21, 1944. 20 MNA, S 41/1/23/4/53B, Report by NA Mwase, “Report on a visit to Nairobi and Somaliland by Chiefs”, n.d. [1945]. 19

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be closely tied in with a general advancement in African responsibility in Nyasaland. He argued: Amongst [many] praises we saw no Nyasaland African Soldiers being raised to Army higher ranks as an OFFICER. But African Soldiers of other countries are being raised to the ranks of an OFFICER according to courage of their country in the Army. [. . .] we think that we are doing war work worth a promotion to an OFFICER. [. . .] This makes us feel ashamed and think too much about the British injustice. And we see that those who are honoured with high ranks as African OFFICERS are persecuting us in many ways with injustice. Therefore, we implore that our Nyasaland be raised by honouring its African Soldiers to promote one or more of them to a rank of an African OFFICER. We want our British leaders to raise our Nyasaland by action not raise it by words only. We therefore want to see Nyasaland with a (1) 2/Lieutenant (2) Lieutenant (3) Captain (4) Colonel. And if Nyasaland African Soldiers will not get the above honour during this war they will complain a lot more than they are today and none will believe praising words from British leaders, and the whole Nyasaland will complain and cry.21

It is notable that this account implicitly suggests the idea of military service as part of a contract between the metropole and Nyasaland. In fact, the issue of commissioned status for African soldiers was one which concerned African soldiers from all territories. In this context, the issue of African promotion was perceived as one of general racial prejudice. However, Malawians clearly interpreted the issue in a specifically national context, identifying not a general discrimination, but rather a specific bias against Malawians in particular. Racism A similar phenomenon appears to have arisen in relation to the broader question of racial discrimination. Malawians certainly shared the experience of other African soldiers encountering explicit racism by white personnel, particularly in the South-East Asia, where contact with ordinary white British soldiers was much more common than in African theatres of war. Here, Malawian complaints closely echo those

21 MNA, S 41/1/23/4/49A, Report by NA Chikumbu, “Native Authority Chikumbu’s journey to Nairobi to visit his soldiers”, n.d. [1944].

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of other East and West Africans. The racist use of the term ‘monkey’ to describe Africans appears to have been a universal complaint among those serving in South-East Asia. This grievance was raised by Malawians serving in Ceylon as early as 1942.22 Following his visit to soldiers in Nairobi in 1944, Chief M’mbwela reported this complaint in the following terms: All European soldiers and some of the officers call us by this awful and annoying name ‘MONKEY’ and they further say that we have joined the war to fight against the enemies for no object and that we are fighting because of poverty and we only want to earn money. Many times our mothers and fathers are also cursed at for no reason. It really makes us rather ashamed to hear that we only want to earn money as we do in ordinary work, we are also surprised if not astonished, with our white masters to see them treating us like this.23

Ironically, scholars seeking to avoid simplistic notions of colonial servicemen as ‘collaborators’ have repeated the vision of African recruitment as driven primarily by economic factors, and by coercion. There is evidence for this, including the oral testimonies of some veterans.24 However, it must be recognised that Malawian men joined the army for a complex variety of motivations. These undoubtedly included the prestige enjoyed by servicemen in colonial society. But the universal appeal of the prospect of adventure drew others, such as Wilfred Chipanda, who recalled ‘I was very inquisitive for going to war’.25 Several veterans interviewed by the author argued that their motivation in enlisting was ‘to protect my country’.26 The importance of martial prowess appears to be confirmed by contemporary letters making exaggerated claims, such as ‘ “I am in England fighting the Germans who are being greatly harassed by the British Empire” ’, or ‘ “We have captured the King of the Germans”.27 In any case, regardless of their initial motivation, it is striking that Malawian soldiers were offended at the suggestion that they were fighting only for material wealth.

22 MNA, S 34/1/4/1/7, Political Intelligence Bulletin No. 5 of 1942, August 22, 1942. 23 MNA, S 41/1/23/4/53A, Report by M’mbelwa II, Edingeni, December 14, 1944. 24 Parsons, The African Rank-and-File, pp. 75–83. 25 Interview with Wilfred Chipanda, Zomba, February 19, 1999. 26 Interviews with Joseph Kalilombe, Seckson Philip Nkhoswe, and Ordnance Zulani, Zomba, October 2000. 27 MNA, S 33/2/1/1, f. 29, K. L. Hall, Acting Governor of Nyasaland, to Secretary of State for the Colonies, March 30, 1940.

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In South Asia, Malawians also experienced discrimination based upon the crudest racial stereotypes. A complaint of this nature was recorded by Chief Chikumbu: The Europeans tell the natives of this country [India—T.L.] not to fraternise with us or let us visit them. They tell them that we are not people at all but had our tails cut off quite recently. Furthermore they say that we Africans have a long penis which reaches down to our knees, so they must not let their wives go with us otherwise they will be killed by our long penis.28

In fact there is evidence that the military authorities went to some lengths to counter such perceptions of African troops among Ceylonese and Indian civilians. Nevertheless, they appear to represent the beliefs of African soldiers about white attitudes. It is important to note that these complaints refer to experience of white racism against Africans in general, in contrast earlier complaints of specific anti-Malawian bias. This also applies to other complaints recorded in South-East Asia: “The Europeans in SEAC do not like the Africans to go into the towns [. . .]. They post MPs [Military Police—T.L.] all over the place who, if they find you wandering about, put you in prison”.29 However, as in the issues of pay and promotion, the issue of discrimination took on a much more nationally oriented character among Malawian soldiers serving in East Africa. Specific strands of apparent anti-Malawian bias were identified. Outside the confines of the largely homogenous fighting units of the KAR and artillery, many Malawians served alongside men from the other East African territories, in support units, in transit camps, and in some training establishments. Some soldiers in these situations felt that they were treated unfairly by Kenyan African personnel, “Jaluo (Luo) people are put in authority over us to teach us drill. They regard us as if we were cattle”.30 A number of complaints suggest that Malawians believed that white settlers recruited into the army from Kenya treated Kenyan and other East African personnel preferentially. Soldiers returning from East Africa in 1942 complained that “Kenya Europeans call Nyasaland Natives

28 MNA, S 41/1/23/5/63B, Copy of Letter from Chief Chikumbu to PC Southern Province, n.d. [August 13, 1945]. 29 MNA, S 41/1/23/5/63B, Copy of Letter from Chief Chikumbu to PC Southern Province, no date [August 13, 1945]. 30 MNA, S 41/1/23/4/49B, Report by NA Kadawere, December 21, 1944.

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dogs”.31 Chief Gomani recorded a number of complaints along the theme that Malawians were specially discriminated against: Europeans burn our clothing which we buy with our money when we proceed on leave while Uganda and Tanganyika soldiers are allowed to take them home. [. . .] At Mpagasi we have no Nyasaland Sergeant so that we may have an N.C.O. from our country to whom we can complain. [. . .] Nyasaland soldiers are given few days when they proceed on leave whereas the local soldiers are given sufficient days.32

Complaints recorded by Chief Kawinga made a similar claim, emphasising the universality of such experiences: We do not receive good treatment from local Officers, they look after their own people of this Country. ‘Ajaluwa’ [Luo] ‘Amasai’, ‘Kikuyu’. If these people loose [sic] any Government property, they have no case, but if any Nyasalander looses even one button, he is accused, and fined 40/- including imprisonment for 40 days. This is the main complaint by all the Askari from Nyasaland.33

By late 1944, complaints of overt generalised racism as experienced in South-East Asia were also being received from soldiers serving in Kenya and Somaliland: We joined the K.A.R. to protect our country. We joined whole heartedly. When we were fighting we trusted our Officers as it they were our mothers. But now that we are no longer fighting the friendship is finished. They regard us as if we were monkeys, just as Hitler said we were monkeys.34

Soldiers here also identified a level hypocrisy in the emergence of discriminatory behaviour on the part of European personnel, arguing that “When we were fighting together we were well looked after but when the war is far the Europeans are being rude to us and they abuse our mothers.”35 Similarly, it was asserted that “While we were at war if a driver overturned a lorry it was considered as an accident,

31

MNA, S 34/1/4/1/7, Political Intelligence Bulletin No. 5 of 1942, August 22, 1942. MNA, S 41/1/23/4/55A, Report by NA Gomani, “Journey of Chiefs to the North”, January 1945. 33 MNA, S 41/1/23/4/52A, Report by NA Kawinga, “Native Authority Kawinga’s journey to Nairobi”, January 11, 1945. 34 MNA, S 41/1/23/4/49B, Report by NA Kadawere, December 21, 1944. 35 MNA, S 41/1/23/4/55A, Report by NA Gomani, “Journey of Chiefs to the North”, January 1945. 32

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but if that happens now you are brought on a charge.”36 However, in East Africa these complaints continued to exist alongside resistance to specific anti-Malawian behaviour. Chief Chikumbu gave some idea of the impact of these experiences following his visit to soldiers stationed in Nairobi: Nyasaland African Soldiers are suffering very much because of Kenya Europeans with their people of the tribe of KAMBA and JALUWAS, these people persecute Nyasaland African Soldiers in all camps where they are. If a camp is staffed with KAMBAS and JALUWAS of higher ranks and when they instruct Nyasaland African Soldiers and if a Nyasaland Soldier makes a very slight mistake when being instructed, there, the Nyasalander has to undergo a very heavy kick, he is beaten just like a wild beast. [. . .] Kenya Europeans like their people the KAMBAS and JAJUWAS but they hate us Nyasaland African Soldiers because of our being praised for bravery and good actions; for that reason they call us bad people and curse at us. For all these sufferings many Nyasaland African Soldiers are missing or do hang themselves or shoot themselves or commit suicide in many ways.37

In fact, detailed official statistics on Malawian casualties suggest that officially identified suicides from the beginning of 1942 to the end of the war numbered just ten, but the true figures may be masked by general descriptions such as ‘gunshot wound’, or by inefficient reporting. In any case, the perception that they were initiated by experience of ill treatment was doubtless an important one.38 National identity and ‘Nationalism’ The experience of bias against Malawians by East African personnel, both black and white, engendered calls for Malawians to serve only in completely homogenous Nyasaland units.39 In addition to the

36 MNA, S 41/1/23/4/55A, Report by NA Gomani, “Journey of Chiefs to the North”, January 1945. 37 MNA, S 41/1/23/4/49A, Report by NA Chikumbu, “Native Authority Chikumbu’s journey to Nairobi to visit his soldiers”, n.d. [1944]. 38 MNA, S 33/2/1/1, History of World War II, December 1939 to March 1946. 39 In fact, KAR infantry battalions in which Malawians served were largely homogenous, since units raised in Nyasaland used Nyanja rather than Swahili as their lingua franca. The use of Swahili in the remainder of the KAR enabled Kenyan, Ugandan, and Tanganyikan troops to intermix to a much greater extent. Malawians were mixed with other East African troops principally when employed in support units and when undergoing initial training.

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experience of Malawians in mixed units and camps, some complaints seem to identify specific resistance to any non-Malawian elements in homogenous units. Kawinga noted: If it was possible, Government should arrange that Nyasaland Soldiers should have its own Battalion under the control of people from Nyasaland of the Ranks of R.C.M. and S.C.M.40 [sic] including Sergeants, Corporals and Lance Corporals. If that was done, it would be very good indeed. This also applies to European Officers, they should be Officers from Nyasaland, Northern or Southern Rhodesia.41

Similar demands were recorded by Chikumbu, who stated that “If it were practicable that Nyasaland Europeans had to be appointed to instruct Nyasaland African Soldiers it would be better because, we, Nyasaland African Soldiers regard Nyasaland Europeans as our mothers.”42 It is possible that these complaints originated with men in support units with mixed Malawian and East African personnel. However, few such Malawian soldiers can have been unaware of the existence of homogenous Malawian units. Therefore, it is likely that these complaints represent resentment of the presence of significant numbers of East African (especially Kenyan) white officers in the Nyasaland battalions, as well as resentment of the presence non-Malawian African NCOs in some situations. A feature which emerges very clearly from these accounts is the strong sense of ‘Nyasa’ identity which appears to have been shared by Malawian soldiers. Grievances overwhelmingly refer to the specific experience of ‘Nyasas’ rather than to ‘Africans’. This accords with Shepperson’s observation that service in homogenous ‘Nyasaland’ military units engendered a “growth in the idea of ‘Nyasaland’ in a territorial and cultural sense”.43 (Shepperson’s observations, although made as part of a work of scholarship, were based upon personal experience; he served with a Nyasaland battalion in East Africa and South-East Asia during the war). This represents an important development at a period when tribally or regionally focussed native associations remained the 40 Kawinga presumably intended the terms RSM (Regimental Sergeant Major) and CSM (Company Sergeant Major). 41 MNA, S 41/1/23/4/52A, Report by NA Kawinga, “Native Authority Kawinga’s journey to Nairobi”, January 11, 1945. 42 MNA, S 41/1/23/4/49A, Report by NA Chikumbu, “Native Authority Chikumbu’s journey to Nairobi to visit his soldiers”, n.d. [1944]. 43 Shepperson, “External Factors in the Development of African Nationalism”, p. 220.

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primary vehicle for African political expression in Nyasaland.44 It should also be recognised that the extensive labour migration to the Rhodesias and South Africa, which had been occurring almost continuously from the beginning of the colonial period, must have had a similar impact, a point which is also emphasised by Shepperson. From an internal military perspective, the growing sense of Nyasa consciousness may also have been aided by a definitive shift in the army’s focus, away from tribal identities, and from the associated pseudoscience of the theory of martial races and warrior tribes. Before the Second World War, white officers in the KAR had been inculcated with a belief in the martial superiority of particular tribes; in the case of Nyasaland, principally the Yao, Ngoni, and Tonga. During this period, Malawian soldiers of all backgrounds were routinely referred to as ‘Yaos’. However, changes in the base from which officers were obtained, combined with the official rejection of tribally based recruiting and organisation, created an official adoption of the term ‘Nyasas’, which closely mirrored the use of the term by Malawian soldiers themselves.45 While it is easy to find the locus of a growing national identity among Malawian soldiers, it is much more difficult to locate the roots of a more generalised African nationalism in wartime military service. In particular, there is little evidence for encounters between Malawians and Indian nationalists, or indeed between Malawians and Indian nationalism in general. This can partly be explained in terms of the active attempts on the part of the authorities to prevent contact between African soldiers and Asian civilians, which are alluded to above. However, the nature of communal relations within colonial Nyasaland was also a significant factor. In common with other East African territories, Indian traders and minor officials held a privileged role in colonial society, which created tensions with African civilians

44 See John McCracken, “The Ambiguities of Nationalism: Flax Musopole and the Northern Factor in Malawian Politics, c. 1956–1966,” Journal of Southern African Studies 28, 1 (2002), 67–87. 45 Rhodes House Library, Oxford (hereafter RHL), MSS Afr.s.1715 (8), f. 18, Patrick William George Barnes, 1942–45; RHL, MSS Afr.s.1715 (36), f. 65, Major G. N. Burden, 1940–42; RHL, MSS Afr.s.1715 (105), f. 24, Lieutenant-Colonel Harold Patrick Lepel Glass (1937–53); RHL, MSS Afr.s.1715 (154), ff. 15, 18, “Memorandum from R. W. Kettlewell concerning the role of British forces in Africa”, July 20, 1979; Jennifer Ann Warner, “Recruitment and Service in the King’s African Rifles in the Second World War,” M.Litt. diss. (University of Bristol, 1985), p. 60.

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from the emergence of the Indian presence in the 1890s. These tensions were exaggerated by the perception that Indians in Nyasaland avoided participation in recruitment for military service during the war, a belief which led to a number of attacks on Indian life and property by Malawian soldiers and civilians.46 Some of the soldiers’ experiences in India did little to disabuse them of their negative preconceptions, as they were sometimes met with hostility as overt as that experienced at the hands of some white servicemen. George Shepperson recalled the Malawian soldiers under his command being routinely subject to low-level racism in India: Africans would go into the towns, say Ranchi, and Indian barbers would refuse to cut their hair, just ‘Get out jungli wallahs, you’re jungli wallahs’. [. . .] We had a headquarter company clerk, a very nice chap [. . .] his name was John Leyo [. . .] John was one of nature’s splendid men, pretty well educated, bright type, all the rest of it, got on extremely well with the European NCOs and the orderlies. He went to town and was told they wouldn’t serve him. He went for some sweets. He just tore the store apart. He was reduced to the ranks.47

Another KAR officer, attached to the Indian Police, found himself questioned by Indian officers who were obsessed with the “alleged sexual prowess” of the African troops, perhaps explaining the rumours referred to by Malawian soldiers.48 An unfortunate conflation of unfavourable preconceptions on the part of Malawian servicemen and racial stereotypes on the part of some Indian civilians therefore militated against a direct meeting of minds between African and Indian nationalists. While direct evidence of political discussions between Malawian soldiers and Indian nationalists is lacking, the idea that such contacts took place cannot be discounted. The war certainly provided some opportunities for contact with western political ideologies. Donald Bowie, the officer accompanying Malawian soldiers to the 1945 victory

46 MNA, S 34/1/4/1/12, Political Intelligence Bulletin No. 2 of 1943, February 10, 1943; MNA, S 45/3/2/4/3/O, Mussa Ahmed to Hussen Ahmed, November 18, 1943. 47 Interview with Professor George Shepperson, Peterborough, March 2000; see George Shepperson, “America through Africa and Asia,” Journal of American Studies 14, 1 (1980), 51. 48 RHL, MSS Afr. s. 1715 (24A) II, Donald Ferguson Tait Bowie, “A Colonial’s Experiences in the 2/2nd Bn. of The King’s African Rifles (Later Known as 22nd Bn K.A.R.) during World War 2, 1940–1947”, 1981.

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celebrations in London, noted that “Communist agitators [. . .] were continually talking to the men in their spare time”; it was to this that he ascribed his own orderly’s belief that “the European in the Colonies paid low wages merely to enrich himself at the expense of the African”.49 Bowie’s identification of communists must be treated with caution, as this was a common interpretation of any attitudes which questioned the colonial order. Nevertheless, the observation adds weight to the idea that military service led to contact with new political ideas. However, Bowie also noted that his men were almost universally impressed by the absence of a colour bar in Britain, and it is equally likely that their shrewd observations of colonial society were based upon nothing more than a rational comparison. In fact, as can be seen by the practical efforts of soldiers and former soldiers to influence the status quo, it was the simple fact of having experienced conditions outside the confines of Malawi, and particularly beyond the shores of Africa, which had the greatest impact upon soldiers’ outlook. New attitudes to civil authority in Nyasaland There is much evidence that wartime experiences caused soldiers to question structures of authority in Nyasaland. This did not simply take the form of nationalist resistance to the colonial state at a macro level but also occurred at a local scale. It was a perennial fear of colonial civil authorities in Africa that returning soldiers would be ‘detribalised’, that is, effectively urbanised by their military service, and therefore unable to reintegrate into rural society, or to recognise ‘traditional’ authorities. In contrast to this, the military authorities often encouraged servicemen in the expectation that they would be able to use skills and experience acquired in the army in order to build a new place for themselves in colonial society.50 Some soldiers, both serving personnel and veterans, do appear to have rejected local social structures, although this sometimes took an implicit form. ‘Truculent’ behaviour by troops towards civilians

49 RHL, MSS Afr. s. 1715 (24A) III, “Account of 22nd Bn. King’s African Rifles (Nyasaland) in Action Burma (Khabaw Valley) 1944 by Donald Bowie (Intelligence Officer)”, 1945. 50 Parsons, The African Rank and File, pp. 231 ff.

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was reported from early in the war, and later reports from 1943 cite assaults on civilians and extortion by soldiers.51 Other soldiers made more directed attacks upon ‘traditional’ authority. The stress caused by the circumstances of prolonged overseas service, and particularly the social anxieties caused by soldiers’ separation from their wives and families, created tensions in relation to traditional leadership, as soldiers questioned the efficacy of Chiefs’ management of their family affairs in their absence. Despite attempts by the authorities to allay soldiers’ fears of their wives’ infidelity through newsletters and radio, Malawians stationed in Nairobi in 1944 used radio broadcasts home (which were intended for morale boosting messages to their families) as a means of chastising chiefs for “allowing their wives to commit adultery”.52 Moreover, the Malawian chiefs visiting soldiers in the Far East in 1945, whose reports provide much of the evidence used in this paper, found that some soldiers resented their presence. A senior chaplain serving with Malawian troops recorded complaints against visiting chiefs that “their work is to look after our wives and families at home. [. . .] If they come here, let them take rifles and march with packs on their backs”.53 It is possible that this resentment, and the apparent failure of their role as morale-boosters, played an important role in motivating chiefs to record soldiers’ grievances, thus emphasising their value as intermediaries to both the authorities and African servicemen. Other soldiers made more concerted attacks on traditional authorities. Malawian Corporal MacHamilton Makoka of the Army Pay Corps wrote to the Nyasaland Times to demand “Better Chiefs”, a desire which was firmly based in his wartime experiences: Through travelling as a soldier, [the African—T.L.] has seen other countries and thereby widened his experience. He has also been in touch with other nation’s affairs through reading news papers and listening to the broadcasts. All these factors have shown to the African how necessary

51 MNA, S 34/1/4/1/7, Political Intelligence Bulletin No. 5 of 1942, August 22, 1942; MNA, S 34/1/4/1/16, Political Intelligence Bulletin No. 6 of 1943, n.d. 52 MNA, S 34/1/4/1/17, Political Intelligence Bulletin No. 1 of 1944, April 29, 1944; MNA, NNK 1/10/1, ff. 36; 37, Specimen Newsletter, October 1943; “A message from N. A. Kyungu K.M. to his people in Ceylon”, NA Kyungu to DC Karonga, Bwiba, November 26, 1943. 53 MNA, S 41/1/23/5/72B, “Extract from Report by Rev J. M. Rose of (C/S) 22 (EA) Inf Bde. Visit of African Chiefs”, n.d. [October 1945].

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it is to develop if he is to cope with the modern world. This development will have to be affected by the African’s own leadership and sense of responsibility. Undoubtedly we need leaders of competitive nature in every department, and on the whole the chiefs ought to have a wider influence on the population than any other leaders in Nyasaland. The majority of the present chiefs can hardly be the medium of development. Most of them still entertain the ‘ancient’ African culture. How can such leaders who are so closely concerned with the African development put up with the ideals of the many plans and programmes that are intended to improve our country?54

MacHamilton called for the “elimination” of unprogressive chiefs, and for the formation of a “Chief’s Advisory Council”, made up of “the most enlightened members of the community”. It seems likely that this last phrase was intended to imply those who, like himself had experienced conditions in other territories as part of their war service. Probably in response to the fear that returning soldiers would feel politically disenfranchised, the authorities did advise chiefs to appoint returning soldiers as advisors, thus providing “a man of some knowledge of the world and mankind beyond the narrow boundaries of local experience and a man whom the ex-soldiers may know as one who has shared their life in the army and can understand their points of view”.55 Soldiers’ attacks upon the colonial system went beyond the confines of local political structures. An unfortunate feature of this was the attitude of soldiers towards Nyasaland’s Indian community, an obvious site of conflict given their perceived privileged position in trade in the protectorate. A political intelligence bulletin of 1943 hinted at tensions, writing that “Feelings of resentment have been expressed by some African soldiers concerning Indians in Nyasaland, and the fact that none of them have joined up”.56 What such resentment meant in practice is well demonstrated in a letter from Mussa Ahmed, a trader in Nyasaland, to his brother in India:

54 MNA, S 41/1/23/5/60B, DN 17545 Corporal J. MacHamilton Makoka H. A. 1883 Company APC (E.A.), South East Asia Command, to the Editor, Nyasaland Times, June 19, 1945. 55 MNA, S 41/1/1/1/1A, R. H. Keppel-Compton, PC Southern Province, to DCs Southern Province, September 1945. 56 MNA, S 34/1/4/1/12, Political Intelligence Bulletin No. 2 of 1943, February 10, 1943.

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timothy j. lovering The attitude of Nyasaland natives towards members of the Indian Community here is getting worse by the day. Many incidents have taken place, such as—abusing our Indian brothers, storming in our Indians’ stores and robbing goods from our Indian stores. But, worse than that, a few days ago a native ‘Askari’ beat one of our Indians heavily somewhere near Palombe. A complaint was made and the said Askari was sentenced to one year’s imprisonment.57

In addition to challenges to the structure of colonial society, wartime experiences also fed into direct challenges to European authority in Nyasaland. The experience of the wider world which was gained through military service could be used to counteract colonial knowledge at a relatively simple level. McCracken has noted that when in 1953 an Agricultural Officer attempted to encourage Malawian subsistence farmers to construct bunds or ridges by claiming that the Garden of Eden had been turned to desert because of the lack of bunds, “An old soldier got up & said [he] was talking balls; he’d been to Aden & they still had lots of people living there, with gardens too”.58 Experience of economic conditions outside Nyasaland led to specific calls for higher wage levels in Nyasaland (a distinct issue from calls for higher wages within the army). As early as 1943, a Nyasaland Government “political intelligence bulletin” noted that many educated Malawians in particular were “speculating as to the extent of social advancement to which the African will attain after the war”, and anticipating “[T]hat their social standard will be raised to a considerably higher level, that salaries will be higher, and that better prices will be paid for their produce”. The bulletin emphasized that “This feeling is fostered by African Troops returning from such places as Ceylon, where they had experienced social equality with Indian Troops”.59 This phenomenon was intensified when soldiers returned to Nyasaland at the end of the war. In November 1945 veterans being lectured on the various possibilities for post-war employment complained angrily about the low wages paid in Nyasaland. One Malawian Sergeant who 57 MNA, S 45/3/2/4/3, Report from Director of Intelligence, Security & Censorship, No. 104, December 2, 1943: letter from Mussa Ahmed, P.O. Box 19, Limbe, Nyasaland, to Hussen Ahmed, Kotda-Sangani, India, dated November 18, 1943. 58 RHL MSS Afr. V 123, Griff Jones, “Ulendo Diary”, August 2, 1952, quoted in John McCracken, “Conservation and Resistance in Colonial Malawi: the ‘Dead North’ Revisited”, unpublished paper presented at a conference on African Environments Past and Present, St. Antony’s College (Oxford, July 1999). 59 MNA, S 34/1/4/1/13, Political Intelligence Bulletin No. 3 of 1943, June 17, 1943.

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had served in South-East Asia made specific reference to his experience during the war, complaining that everywhere the troops had served, wages were higher than in Nyasaland. He continued: You say that we have done well in the war. We always hear this from Europeans, but when we return to our country you forget us and nothing is done for us. We come back to poverty. We soldiers have got used to a higher standard of living and we cannot be expected to be content with the wages Europeans pay us in Nyasaland.60

Such concerns can be read as essentially economic issues, but economic grievances were almost invariably linked with discussions of discrimination. Moreover, the fact that comparisons with conditions in other territories universally drew upon experience of other parts of the empire inevitably led to claims of British hypocrisy. In 1945, a Malawian soldier writing under the pseudonym of ‘St. Boniface’ wrote to the Askari journal, bitterly criticising British hypocrisy, and comparing conditions in Nyasaland unfavourably with those encountered elsewhere in the Empire: Your attitude to the native is that you do not want him to know the truth: you think he is easily deceived as he is like a child and satisfied with small things. This is a dangerous thing to say to people who are like yourselves. If you don’t want to be deceived why do you deceive others? This shows cruelty to people whose skin is different to your own. You do not consider the work but the colour of a person’s skin (Colour Bar). [. . .] You look at the white skin and not at the character and you appear as though you were ruling not people but animals. I am saying this as at all times the English are issuing cunning propaganda to the natives. One thing you excel in and that is deceiving the natives; you think they are unlearned do you! [. . .] It is all cunning propaganda. There is no righteousness. [. . .] In Nyasaland there are stores run by Indians, Europeans and also Africans. Often we natives are allowed to purchase from the Indian and native stores; the European stores are not open to natives. This shows that the Europeans have no sympathy and are very rude as in these stores they chase a native out as though he were a dog. Is there a particular brand of money known as ‘African Currency’? Or as Nyasalanders Money? If this is not the case why is it that natives are not allowed in these stores? Many askari have saved a great deal of money to purchase what they desire. They have seen the customs of other countries and they wish to copy these after the war. If

60 MNA, LB 8/2/1/163, “Lecture to the Troops at Ntondwe on Labour matters— 20th November 1945”, Labour Commissioner, Zomba, to Chief Secretary Nyasaland, November 21, 1945.

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timothy j. lovering the Nyasaland Government makes such laws how can you expect the askari who have been told to save their money to trust you. As I see it there is no reason why the natives should be prevented from entering therein. Why is it that in other countries of the British Empire they do not have this kind of thing?61

While focusing upon issues which could be read in economic terms, the implications of St. Boniface’s plea are ultimately political. By questioning the knowledge upon which the colonial state was founded, he challenges the very basis of the state and of British colonial authority. Conclusion It has not been the aim of this paper to measure the political impact of Malawian veterans of the Second World War, but rather to gauge the political character of their experiences. It is undoubtedly the case that only a minority of educated soldiers developed overt political ideas of the kind expressed by ‘St. Boniface’ as a result of their wartime service. The weight of evidence also suggests that the major persistent concerns of Malawian soldiers were, indeed, social and economic. A particular emphasis was placed upon the status of absent soldiers’ wives, and the issue of remittances. However, the evidence of the Malawian chiefs’ visits to the troops provides strong evidence of the universality of the extent of Malawian experience of perceived discrimination by Kenyan personnel, both black and white, discrimination in promotion opportunities, and experience of racism at the hands of white troops in South-East Asia. The extensive use of the concept of shared ‘Nyasa’ experience suggests that the war was an important source of a Nyasa/ Malawian consciousness, which arose at least in part from the sense of injustice and bewilderment at ill-treatment. It must also be recognised that, from the perspective of the army, many of these grievances were not new. The questions of pay, the status of soldiers’ wives, and remittances were consistent throughout the colonial period. The issue of commissioned status for Malawians can be traced to the period before the First World War, and remained contentious until independence in 1964, when the first Malawian officers were finally appointed. Equally, there is occasional evidence of

61 MNA, S 41/1/23/5/60A, Translation of letter from ‘St. Boniface’ to the Editor of Askari, n.d. [1945].

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Malawian soldiers identifying specific discrimination against them as a body before 1939, although this was rarely couched in explicitly national germs. What was newly important about these issues in the context of the Second World War was their exposure to a much wider base of the Malawian population. By contrast, the explicit experience of racism by Malawian servicemen does appear to have been new, although awareness of it may have owed as much the greater presence of English-speaking Malawian personnel as to changes in the demography and attitudes of the white personnel Malawians came into contact with. Whatever the case, this clearly had a profound impact upon many soldiers’ perceptions of the relationship between Nyasaland and the metropole.

THE CORROSIVENESS OF COMPARISON: REVERBERATIONS OF INDIAN WARTIME EXPERIENCES IN GERMAN PRISON CAMPS (1915–1919)1 Ravi Ahuja The Problem Historians have discussed the impact of the ‘Great War’ of 1914–18 on Indian society predominantly within the conceptual and empirical frames of elite nationalism: the qualified or unqualified support of British war efforts by political operators like Tilak and Gandhi, the contributions and calculations of the numerous princes, the middleclass demand for opening commissioned army ranks to Indians, hopes for fundamental constitutional reform as a reward for loyalty in times of crisis, and the ensuing disappointment, the increasing fragility of the imperial polity and the outrage against a violent martial-law regime in Punjab, the very province that had sent forty percent of all South Asian combatants to the various theatres of war.2 The censors’ reports and

1 This essay results from a research project developed in the congenial atmosphere of the Centre for Modern Oriental Studies (Berlin) and funded by the German Research Council. While the idea of individual authorship is always more closely linked to bourgeois notions of private property than to the realities of the intellectual labour process, the present text is the result of collective endeavour to an unusual degree. First, the project itself would not have been conceived without the groundbreaking work on the ‘Halfmoon Camp’ of the late Gerhard Höpp (see his contribution to this volume). This essay is, therefore, dedicated to the memory of this fine scholar and wonderful colleague. Second, the discovery of recordings of the voices of Indian POW by the anthropologist Britta Lange and the filmmaker Philipp Scheffner has been an invaluable input. Third, and most fundamentally, this essay is based on archival research jointly undertaken by Heike Liebau, Franziska Roy and myself. It uses material recovered by all three cooperators and draws on ideas developed in a process of collective reflection, though the argument and its flaws are admittedly mine. Finally, I thank the participants of a seminar at the Centre of South Asian Studies, Cambridge, for helpful questions and comments. The following acronyms are used for archival locations: BL: British Library, London; LA: Lautarchiv der Humboldt-Universität, Berlin; NAUK: The National Archives of the United Kingdom, London; NAI: National Archives of India, New Delhi; PAAA: Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amts, Berlin. 2 See e.g.: Hugh Tinker, “India in the First World War and After”, Journal of Contemporary History 3, 4 (1968), 89–107; Judith M. Brown, “War and the Colonial Relationship: Britain, India, and the War of 1914–18”, in: India and World War I,

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translations of Indian soldiers’ letters from Europe had been referred to earlier by several scholars3 but it is mainly due to David Omissi’s work4 that these letters have been recognised as a means of transcending this historiographical perspective: when this very unusual corpus of material at last came to the attention of a wider circle of historians the question emerged of how the experience of the world war might have affected the world view of non-elite South Asians and, more specifically, of the middling peasantry of the regions that provided the majority of recruits for the British Indian Army. Various historians have since approached this question from various angles. They have looked more closely at instances of insubordination,5 at the impact of medical institutions6 or, most recently, at the soldiers’ “occidentalism from below” to use Claude Markovits’s suggestive phrase.7 Yet this debate is fraught with unresolved problems. On the level of the materials available to historians the problem is clearly discernible and apparently without solution: plebeian experiences8 of the war pass through more filters before they become available to the historian than those of bourgeois and aristocratic Indians.

eds. D. C. Ellinwood and S. D. Pradhan (New Delhi, 1978), pp. 19–47; Keith Jeffery, “ ‘An English barrack in the Oriental seas’? India in the aftermath of the First World War”, Modern Asian Studies 15, 3 (1981), 369–386; Gregory Martin, “The influence of racial attitudes on British Policy towards India during the First World War”, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History 14, 2 (1986), 91–113; Aravind Ganachari, “First World War: purchasing Indian loyalties. Imperial policies of recruitment and ‘rewards’ ”, Economic and Political Weekly 40, 8 (2005), 779–788. 3 See e.g.: Susan van Koski, “Letters Home 1915–16: Punjabi Soldiers reflect on war and life in Europe and their meanings for home and self ”, International Journal of Punjab Studies 2, 1 (1995), 43–63. 4 David E. Omissi, ed., Indian voices of the Great War: soldiers’ letters, 1914–18 (Basingstoke, 1999). 5 Gajendra Singh, The anatomy of dissent in the military of Colonial India during the First and Second World Wars (Edinburgh Papers in South Asian Studies) 20 (2006), http://www.csas.ed.ac.uk/papers.php (accessed January 21, 2009). 6 Mark Harrison, “Disease, Discipline and Dissent: The Indian Army in France and England, 1914–15,” in Medicine and Modern Warfare, eds. Cooter, Roger, Mark Harrison and Steve Sturdy (Rodopi, 1999), pp. 185–203. See also the forthcoming work on military hospitals by Samiksha Sehrawat. 7 David Omissi, “Europe through Indian eyes: Indian soldiers encounter England and France, 1914–1918”, English Historical Review CXXII/496 (207), 371–396; see also Claude Markovits’ contribution in this volume. 8 The attribute ‘plebeian’ will be used as a descriptive term for a broad array of ‘popular’, lower and middling classes—in the specific context of this article mainly the middle peasantry that provided a large share of the recruits of the British-Indian Army.

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We can read, on the one hand, Sarojini Naidu’s ambivalent war poetry calling Indians to arms in defence of the British Empire for the honour of the nation9 along with her brother Virendranath Chattopadhyay’s revolutionary anti-British correspondence.10 And we can read these texts verbatim, in the language and the words chosen by the authors themselves. The ‘Great War’ is also reflected upon in autobiographies and other ‘ego documents’ of literate, upper-class Indians11—a genre rarely appropriated by plebeians of these generations (though the assumption that this is so tends to impede the search for rare but important exceptions).12 The soldiers’ letters underwent, on the other hand, several mediations before they were entered into the records of the India Office. Omissi and other writers have pointed out that many of them were written not by the soldiers themselves but by regimental scribes or other literate persons, that they were often read out openly in the trenches and thus subject to collective appraisal, that they may have been authored in full awareness of military censorship, that they were selected and translated by the censors according to political criteria and, in some cases, to their literary ambitions.13 The utterances of the subordinated are thus more rigidly framed by the powerful giving them often the appearance of indistinct, hushed murmurs. This is a matter of continuing methodological reflection. The censored letters require, as Shahid Amin has put it, the “careful, almost painful reassembling of signs” that were available to Indian soldiers at that time for expressing the new, intellectually as well as mentally upsetting experiences of the war.14 Another more basic question is whether historians have not focused too exclusively on these censorship reports as a corpus of material that is comparatively easy to access and have merely assumed its singularity without systematically looking for alternative traces of plebeian wartime experiences. Even the best study of

9

See the contribution by Santanu Das in this volume. See especially: Nirode K Barooah, Chatto: the life and times of an anti-imperialist in Europe (New Delhi, 2004). 11 See especially: DeWitt C. Ellinwood, Between two worlds: a Rajput officer in the Indian army, 1905–21. Based on the diary of Amar Singh of Jaipur (Lanham and Oxford, 2005). 12 See for instance: Amir Haider Khan, Chains to lose. Life and struggles of a revolutionary, ed. Hasan N. Gardezi, 2 vols., (Karachi, 2007). 13 Omissi, Indian Voices, pp. 4–9; see also Markovits in this volume. 14 Shahid Amin, “Some considerations on evidence, language and history” (Indian History Congress, Symposia Papers) 10 (Delhi, 1994), p. 13. 10

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militarization in Punjab, namely Tan Tai Yong’s The Garrison State,15 is confined to an institutional perspective that is no doubt useful, but also limited as it does not attempt to recover local histories of the ‘European War’ in major recruitment districts. Fieldwork in these areas and an exploration of popular traditions is required to effect a change of perspective on Indian war experiences, but there are also other untapped ‘reservoirs’ as will be shown in this paper. On the level of analysis, much of the debate on Indian soldiers’ experiences appears to have been haunted by a problematic ex post facto procedure, by reading history backwards. There seems to be an implicit assumption that the undeniable absence of a major rising of active or demobilised soldiers in Punjab and other major recruitment areas is a direct proof of loyalty or, at least, of political indifference before World War II.16 This conclusion is, to my mind, less than compelling and resonates suspiciously with two sets of stereotypes that are distinct but not mutually exclusive and originate from colonial as well as elite-Indian writings of the period under review. The first of these stereotypes holds that Indian soldiers were bound to their British superiors by their izzat (respect, respectability, honour), which forbade them to turn against those whose salt they ate. Specific meanings of izzat are rarely spelled out, an identity of the concepts of izzat and namak-halali (loyalty to superiors) is alleged and a rather impoverished as well as static idea of ‘honour’ is thus assumed to have controlled the Indian sepoy troops in each of their movements like an army of so many string puppets. Such conceptions of the South Asian so-called ‘martial races’ were very much in currency during the Great War itself—a bizarrely crude rendering can be found for instance in Talbot Mundy’s pulp novel Hira Singh, first published in late 1917, about a group of Sikh soldiers who struggle their way back to India

15 Tai Yong Tan, The garrison state: the military, government and society in colonial Punjab 1849–1947 (New Delhi, 2005). 16 For a recent elaboration of this idea see: Rajit K. Mazumder, The Indian Army and the Making of Punjab (New Delhi, 2003). For a perceptive criticism see Gajendra Singh’s excellent essay The anatomy of dissent. Singh rightly points out the implausibility of the prevalent binary depiction of the sepoy as an apolitical “rice soldier” before World War II on the one hand and as the fervently nationalist soldier of Subhas Chandra Bose’s Indian National Army on the other. In trying to explain the transformation of the one into the other he may have, however, constructed a somewhat too linear trajectory.

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from a German prison camp.17 Bizarre is not the story itself, as we shall see. The point is rather that the group is presented as a quarrelsome, often rather infantile bunch that is held together only by the towering aristocratic leadership of the Sikh officer Ranjoor Singh and by their honour, which bound them to the British-Indian Army in unwavering loyalty. If British commercial literati like Mundy may well have picked up their tropes from the discourse of colonial officialdom, the idea of innate loyalty could also be sold to readers of the contemporary Punjabi press. Wrote the Khalsa Advocate in September 1914: The Sikhs are a fighting nation and the first duty that is inculcated among them is the duty of sacrifice. They are hardy, robust, bold and courageous. For instance, a Sikh when asked by somebody whether he would fight, replied he knew nothing else. To fight for those under whose protection they live is the sole business of the Sikhs, and really they know nothing else.18

The association of the South Asian soldier with the qualities of reckless bravery and unquestioning loyalty was, as Lionel Caplan has shown convincingly for the ‘Gurkhas’, an essential ingredient of British conceptions of ‘martial race’. South Asian soldiers were believed to be as unconditionally brave and loyal as their British counterparts, though these behavioural qualities were asserted to be of an inferior kind insofar as they were based on instinctive impulses and not on conscious reflection.19 While the theory as a whole has been condemned and discarded as a racist construct by most historians, elements of it appear to have survived in a fairly widespread acceptance of a decontextualised, reductionist interpretation of izzat.20 Contemporary ethnographic studies among Punjabis suggest an understanding of izzat as ‘respect’ based on compliance with a comprehensive set of community norms or culturally specific social rules. These sets of norms and rules include an emphasis on hierarchy, but cannot be

17 Talbot Mundy, Hira Singh. When India came to fight in Flanders (Indianapolis, 1917). 18 ‘Khalsa Advocate’ (Amritsar), September 26, 1914, quoted in: Native Newspaper Reports Punjab (hereafter: NNRP), p. 900. 19 Lionel Caplan, Warrior gentlemen: “Gurkhas” in the Western imagination (Providence, 1995). 20 For a recent and rather crude example of this interpretation see: George M. Jack, “The Indian Army on the Western Front, 1914–1915: a portrait of collaboration”, War in History 13, 3 (2006), 352–353; for more nuanced variations of the theme see: Omissi, Indian Voices, p. 12; Ellinwood, Between two worlds, pp. 364–65.

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reduced to absolute and unqualified submission to the powers that be.21 Historians need to look out for the many shades of the complex notion of izzat—shades that contained the possibility to turn this concept to a variety of purposes and against a wide range of grievances. With regard to the Indian combatants of the Great War, it appears that neither was martial valour the only (or necessarily most important) route nor was the Indian Army the only (or necessarily most important) social sphere for the acquisition or defence of izzat. The army was but one of several interlinked fields-of-force where respect and honour were constituted through various exchanges between diverse social actors. And the relative weight of each of these interlinked fields-offorce was contingent on the specific historical context. This contextual ambiguity of the meanings of izzat is even borne out by the limited evidence presently at hand. Loyalty to the King-Emperor and namakhalali are no doubt among the criteria that Indian soldiers associated with respectability or izzat in their censored letters. Yet there were other criteria, too. “There is an abundance of everything, but there is no izzat,” opines one of the translated censored letters—the complaint was directed against the severe restrictions imposed on the mobility of wounded Indian soldiers in Brighton in order to prevent affairs with British women. In this case it was the perceived injustice of the authorities, not the insubordination of the ruled that destroyed izzat.22 From Omissi’s selection of translated letters written by and to soldiers a more complex picture of questions of izzat emerges than is borne out by his otherwise useful introduction. Several letters state that no izzat was to be had, that no respect was being commanded in the army for the respective soldier’s community. “[F]or the sake of God and his Prophet do not come over here, for our people have no izzat,” wrote one soldier to an officer in Sialkot, “[i]f you can preserve your lives, stay in India”.23 The wife of a Pashtun officer made it fully clear that the home and not the army was the principal sphere where masculine honour was to be gained or lost: “If you want to keep your izzat then come back here at once; but what you are after is wealth. Have you 21 Gerd Baumann, Contesting Culture: Discourses of Identity in Multi-ethnic London (Cambridge, Eng., 1996), pp. 103–4; Kamala Elizabeth Nayar, The Sikh Diaspora in Vancouver: Three Generations Amid Tradition, Modernity, and Multiculturalism (Toronto, 2004), passim. 22 Harrison, “Disease, Discipline and Dissent”, pp. 193–95. 23 Omissi, Indian Voices, p. 325, letter 594. See also: p. 254, letter 440; p. 320, letter 583.

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got anyone except God who can run your house? Then why do you not return? [ . . . ] I don’t care a rap whether you are made a dafadar. If you were a man you would understand, but you are no man.”24 And a Sikh soldier responded to exhortations from a senior male friend or relative in Ambala District as follows: “It sounds very fine to be in the Army, but there are drawbacks. First of all, you have to be ready at any moment; secondly, you have to take orders from men you would not think of employing as labourers in your own village; and thirdly, you have much more inconvenience to put up with than in your own home. There may be honour [izzat] to be won in the Army, but, after all, it is nothing when compared to one’s family pride.”25 One would have liked to know how the last and crucial sentence was phrased in the Urdu original, but there seems to be no way of recovering it. What it does tell us even so is that martial izzat could be weighed and found wanting in comparison with other sources of respectability such as ‘family pride’. The letter even indicates that the various sources of honour could be at odds with each other, that they could be mutually consumptive: the command structure of the army did not necessarily endorse local status. The question whether and to whom loyal service in the British-Indian Army conferred izzat was, moreover, getting more complex at a time when, as Radhika Singha shows, the distinction between the ‘menial’ follower and the ‘martial’ soldier became ever more precarious.26 And finally, when the World War turned out to last not months but years, when wounded soldiers were not sent home but returned to the trenches after convalescence in military hospitals, when the British refrained from demobilizing considerable parts of the Indian army after the end of the European war and continued to deploy them as occupation forces in Mesopotamia, more and more soldiers felt that they had to return to their village to ensure their hold onto the land: By 1920, in the specific historical context of six years of unprecedented army recruitment in South Asia, the appeal that soldiering usually held as a source of izzat had long given way to the perception that continuing overseas employment posed a threat to the all-important village roots of a peasant-soldier’s respectability.27

24

Omissi, Indian Voices, p. 248, letter 429. Omissi, Indian Voices, pp. 177–178, letter 296. 26 See Radhika Singha’s contribution in this volume. 27 As early as in 1915, the following observations had been made by a senior official regarding the mood among wounded soldiers: “The hundreds of Sepoys’ letters which 25

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If the first stereotype revolves around a uni-dimensional interpretation of the concept of izzat, the second is based on an equally narrow understanding of economic interest. The colonial authorities undeniably took great care to develop social, economic and political mechanisms in the major recruitment areas, and namely in Punjab, to make sure that soldiers as well as veterans stood much to lose if they turned against the British. Clive Dewey has given an optimistic account of the economic and social ‘linkage effects’ of military expenditure in Northwest Punjab; Imran Ali has taken a critical look at the system of military tenures in the Canal Colonies; Tan Tai Yong has convincingly shown how major efforts were undertaken during and after World War I to intensify political control over the major recruitment districts, which effectively resulted in a thorough militarization of local administration.28 There can also be little doubt that these policies were largely successful. Turning against the colonial regime was likely to have dire consequences and was an unlikely option even for those who were inclined that way. Peasant-soldiers certainly had a comparatively narrow leeway for mediating what they wanted to do with what they felt compelled to do by the circumstances. This does not mean, however, that the tension between the two was not resolved by conscious decisions or that alternative options available to peasant-

I have read show that Sepoys serving in Europe are genuinely anxious to get back home to look after their affairs. Their enemies in the village are trying to seize their land; they have trouble about their debts; and they are anxious to look after marriages and other domestic details which form so important a part in the life of an Indian.” Letter from Sir Walter Roper Lawrence to H. H. Kitchener, 15 June 1915, BL, OIOC, MssEur F143/65. When 1,100 Gurkha soldiers on leave from Egypt or Mesopotamia did not return to their units in late 1918, one of their British officers gave the following explanation: “To cite typical cases a man goes to Nepal after several years’ absence, finds his home dilapidated, his land uncultivated; in the hands of another, or, perhaps the commonest—himself the sole support of his home. It is not unnatural that the man under such circumstances overstays his leave, owing to fear of punishment and loss of promotion does not return.” Officer commanding 2nd Batallion, 2nd Gurkha Rifles, to Deputy Assistant Adjutant and Quartermaster General, Derajat Brigade, 29 October 1918, NAI, Home Department, War, February 1919, 42–52, part B. For post-war deployment of Indian troops in Mesopotamia see: Thomas Metcalf, Imperial Connections: India and the Indian Ocean arena, 1860–1920 (Berkeley/Los Angeles, 2007), pp. 100–101. 28 Clive Dewey, “Some consequences of military expenditure in British India: The case of the upper Sind Sagar Doab, 1849–1947,” in: Arrested development in India. The historical dimension, ed. idem, (Riverdale, 1988), pp. 93–169; Imran Ali, The Punjab under imperialism, 1885–1947 (New Delhi, 1989); Tan, The garrison state, esp. chapter 4. See also: S. L. Menezes, Fidelity and honour. The Indian Army from the seventeenth to the twenty-first century, (New Delhi, 1993), pp. 306–307.

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soldier households were left unexplored. The mechanical idea that mental processes of the lower classes are directly linked to their gut movements gives evidence for the continuing bourgeois resentment of the so-called ‘masses’, but has little explanatory purchase. Such prejudices prevailed already in the period under review among the educated and prosperous Indian classes who considered the peasant-soldiers of the Raj as lowly mercenaries without any kind of political understanding. “It must be remembered,” wrote the Prabhat in Lahore in August 1914, that Indians are divided into two distinct classes—the educated and the illiterate. To pit the latter against German soldiers who are fighting with a spirit of patriotism is ridiculous. What Government should do is to enlist the services of educated Indians. Such men have a conception of the meaning of patriotism and would thus be fit to meet Germans in the battlefield.29

Colonial officials conversely conjured up the idea of a politically unspoilt, loyal countryside, which they pitted against an unreliable, treacherous urban environment. Such proclamations find odd echoes even in very recent historical writings, for example when David Omissi places the soldiers of the British-Indian army strictly outside the domain of “‘political’ India”.30 However, the hypothesis of the politically infantile sepoy seemed rather unreliable as a basis for political praxis even during the war. Reviewing the political atmosphere among Indian soldiers in France, the India Office noted in 1916 that better Indian language newspapers were required as there was “a real demand for news, and the present official ones are looked on as ‘baby talk’”.31 The politics of infantilization had thus become a target of ridicule among the ‘infants’. Evidence from major recruitment areas, too, does not suggest any lack of interest in the politics of the Great War. Right from the beginning of the war newspapers abounded with condemnations of rumours that appear to have spread easily through the Punjab—both town and countryside. As so often, the urban bazaar

29 ‘The Prabhat’ (Lahore), August 29, 1914, quoted in: NNRP, August 30, 1914, p. 839. 30 Omissi, “Europe through Indian eyes”, pp. 395–396. For a less sophisticated version of the argument see: Jack, “The Indian Army on the Western Front”. 31 BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/17517. Quoted in: Susan C. vanKoski, The Indian Ex-soldier from the Eve of the First World War to Partition: a Study of Provisions for Ex-soldiers and Ex-soldiers Role in National Life, PhD thesis (Columbia 1996), p. 131.

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was mentioned as a production site of rumours, but reports insisted also on the village as the primary node of unsanctioned and recalcitrant information circuits. The Akhbar-i-‘Am (Lahore) stated early in October 1914 that it is generally rumoured in the villages that the Germans have reached Paris; that they have defeated the Russian and the French armies and that they have reached London. There is also another rumour that while the German soldiers fought with the British soldiers, they refused to fight against the Indians, on the plea that the latter were their friends.32

The editors of that journal returned to this issue a few weeks later and commented that “[ . . . ] even the most trustworthy of men fail to convince the villagers of German defeats. Villagers still maintain that the Germans are brave, that they are now invincible, that they have got control over the elements and that it is an ordinary thing for them to send mechanically-made soldiers to the battlefield.”33 The Siraj-ulAkhbar of Jhelum reported in November 1914 “of a rumour current among the peasants that German airships come to India and drop bombs in the country. Some of these people assert that a bomb fell on a railway train near Pathankot and that, therefore, Government has closed the Batala-Amritsar line.”34 A correspondent to the same journal recounted in December that he had been unable to convince a zamindar (land owner) who had asked him for war news of the righteousness and successes of Britain’s ‘cause’: “the zamindar replied that the emperor of Germany was not only a well-wisher of the Muhammedans but had also embraced Islam.”35 Other rumours of the early months of the war stated that Sikhs were being forced to shave their heads before being sent to the European war theatres36 or that the colonial administration was reverting to compulsion for army recruitment. A rumour 32 ‘Akhbar-i-’Am’ (Lahore) October 2, 1914, quoted in: NNRP, p. 917. The last rumour is also mentioned in: ‘Jhang Sial’ (Lahore), September 22, 1914, quoted in: NNRP, p. 881. 33 ‘Akhbar-i-’Am’ (Lahore) October 25(?), 1914, quoted in: NNRP, October 31, 1914, p. 968. 34 ‘Siraj-ul-Akhbar’ (Jhelum) November 16, 1914, quoted in: NNRP, November 16, 1914, p. 1034. 35 ‘Siraj-ul-Akhbar’ (Jhelum) December 7, 1914, quoted in: NNRP, p. 7. Rumours involving and celebrating the Kaiser circulated also in other regions of the subcontinent. See Heike Liebau’s contribution to this volume. 36 ‘Amrit’ (Lahore) September 25, 1914, quoted in NNRP, p. 919. There was also a ‘counter-rumour’ to the effect that 12,000 Sikh prisoners of war had been shaved by the Germans. ‘Naurattan’ (Amritsar), October 1, 1914, quoted in NNRP, p. 917.

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that twenty blacksmiths and carpenters were to be coerced into service and sent to the front led to the flight of artisans from Gujranwala as early as in October 1914—long before forcible recruitment became a real issue in Punjab.37 Numerous contradictory rumours circulated through Punjab and the ones quoted above cannot be assumed to be in any way representative of the political atmosphere in the recruitment districts of the British-Indian army. They demonstrate, however, what was conceivable and considered plausible in these areas: doubts in the military and technological superiority of Britain and her allies, detachment from the colonial state and apprehension of its coercive powers, even sympathies for and hopes in the enemies of the British Empire (though German atrocities against Indian soldiers were imaginable, too).38 By the end of the year it was reported that “an Association had been formed in Lahore to disseminate correct war news and stop the circulation of baseless rumours. The public, however,” observed a doubtful Siraj-ul-Akhbar, “hold that the voice of the people is the voice of god and that a rumour often proves to be correct. It is difficult to stop a rumour.”39 Rumours affecting not only the town, but also the rural recruitment areas of Punjab were thus clearly a matter of concern for the colonial state and its loyalist supporters. There were also theories on the origins of dangerous rumours. “[I]lliterate villagers are,” informed the same newspaper in March 1915, to some extent, the originators of absurd war rumours; but in these days the wounded, who come to the hospitals of our country, narrate before the common people or their relatives strange stories of what they have witnessed with their own eyes, which conflict with the contents of official newspapers. They should be prohibited from telling anything about the war, as such rumours especially raise obstacles in the way of recruiting new men for the army.40

37

‘Zamindar’ (Lahore) October 12, 1914, quoted in NNRP, p. 929. The ‘Paisa Akhbar’ (Lahore) of 20 September 1914 thus reported “a rumour that the Germans have cut off the heads of some Gurkha and Sikh soldiers and have sent them to the Powers with the complaint that the English are sending Indian soldiers to the front”, quoted in: NNRP, p. 881. This rumour resonates interestingly with the contemporary German outrage about the deployment of non-European soldiers in Europe. See: Christian Koller, Christian, “Von Wilden aller Rassen niedergemetzelt.” Die Diskussion um die Verwendung von Kolonialtruppen in Europa zwischen Rassismus, Kolonial- und Militärpolitik (1914–1930) (Stuttgart, 2001). 39 ‘Siraj-ul-Akhbar’ (Jhelum) December 7, 1914, quoted in: NNRP, pp. 7–8. 40 ‘Siraj-ul-Akhbar’ (Jhelum) March 15, 1915, quoted in: NNRP, p. 154. 38

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There was thus a feeling that the way peasant-soldiers made sense of their experiences in the Great War impacted upon the political atmosphere in the Punjab countryside and that this impact was at variance with both the war efforts of the colonial government and the ‘imperial patriotism’ of Indian elites. Certain Punjabi folk songs from this period also seem to indicate an equidistance from all war parties and an understanding that the war meant suffering for the poor.41 Official statistics on desertion among Punjabi recruits for the Great War do confirm a more differentiated response of the rural population to the demands of the British-Indian Army than usually conceded: 11.4 percent of all recruits deserted between August 1914 and May 1918. Even more significantly, 44.3 percent of these deserters were reported as being “still at large” suggesting a considerable level of local support for those who decided to evade military service.42 In 1917, the number of desertions in Punjab rose to 26,702 or 25 percent of the recruits of which 9,364 or 35.1 percent could not be traced.43 Monitoring and controlling public opinion in the recruitment districts thus turned into a major concern for the colonial authorities in the course of World War I as is underlined by Tan Tai Yong’s account of the formation of District Soldier Boards and their functions.44 Further doubt is cast on the image of the apolitical mercenary by reports on the various popular mobilisations in the years after the end of war in Europe. This has been recognised, but not explored by Shahid Amin in a perceptive methodological essay: Military service overseas had a novel social and political impact on the peasantry recruited to the ‘Imperialist War’, whether from U.P. or the Punjab. The figure of the returned soldier, deferential as a peasant as before—feted by the landed elite yet wearing his uniform lightly—that we find in pro-recruitment literature, symbolizes the real danger which

41

Amarjit Chandan, How they Suffered. World War One and its Impact on Punjabis (paper for the Across the Black Waters One-Day Symposium at the Imperial War Museum, London, November 7, 1998), http://apnaorg.com/articles/amarjit/wwi/ (accessed January 22, 2009). 42 ‘Govt. of Punjab to Adjutant-General in India for Information. Desertion statistics up to March/May 1918’, NAI, Home Department, War, February 1919, 42–52, part B. 43 V. N. Datta, ed., New Light on the Punjab Disturbances in 1919. Volumes VI and VII of Disorders Inquiry Committee Evidence, Indian Institute of Advanced Studies, vol. I (Simla, 1975), p. 92. 44 Tan, The Garrison State, chapters 3 and 4.

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the experience of war, and the reward of state-sponsored tenancies were thought to pose to rural peace. Demobilized soldiers in uniform, flaunting their war ribbons, figured prominently in many anti-police and antilandlord battles during the course of a prolonged peasant movement in the Awadh districts.45

In Punjab, the widespread discontent of demobilised soldiers (as well as of soldiers who were denied their return to India after the end of the European war and kept in Mesopotamia as an occupation force)46 was a matter of grave concern for the colonial authorities.47 Former soldiers participated and sometimes figured prominently in the ‘Punjab disturbances’ of 1919. A particularly revealing case was that of the sacking of Wagha railway station, which was, as the judges pointed out, not due to the machinations of urban miscreants even though Lahore was only at a distance of 30 kilometres. “The principal mover,” it was stated in the official report, “was a havildar in a Sikh regiment, a man hitherto of exemplary character.”48 While participants in similar incidents were frequently sentenced to death under the martial law regime, the judges’ verdict in the Wagha case betrays a profound sense of unease: Sulakhan Singh (1) is a havildar in the—[not mentioned in printed report] and he was the leader both in Maniala and in the attack of Wagha. He has an exemplary conduct sheet for his 14 years’ service and some remarks about him by the Officer Commanding the Depot of the regiment have been put before us. We find it difficult to account for his behaviour of 13th April, and in deciding not to sentence him to death, we have had regard to his past record. As the leader has been sentenced only to the lesser penalty of transportation for life this is also the sentence which we have pronounced on the remaining accused.49

45

Amin, “Some Considerations”, pp. 13–14; see also: Shahid Amin, Event, Metaphor, Memory. Chauri Chaura 1922–1992 (Delhi, 1995), pp. 38–39. 46 See Metcalf, Imperial Connections, pp. 100–101. See also an interesting ‘soldier’s letter’ reproduced in ‘Siyasat’ (Lahore) February 13, 1921, quoted in: Punjab Newspaper Abstracts (hereafter: PNA), p. 72. 47 See Indu Joshi, Nationalist Politics in the Punjab, 1919–22, unpubl. PhD thesis (Himachal Pradesh University, Simla, 1981), pp. 12–13. 48 Memorandum on the Disturbances in the Punjab, April 1919, Lahore: Superintendent, Government Printing, Punjab, 1920 (reprinted: Lahore: Sang-e-Meel, 1997), p. 49. 49 Sheikh Umar Baksh, Martial Law in the Punjab, n. l., n. y., p. 49.

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The fear that insurgency might spread to the rural recruitment districts of Punjab is palpable in the official accounts. “Cutting of wire on the railway had now become so persistent that Lahore was practically isolated except by wireless. There is no doubt that unrest was steadily extending to the villages on the Amritsar line, and there was a suspicious assembly, convened by the beat of drum, held at Padhana,” noted the official memorandum on the ‘Punjab disturbances’ in words that betray a barely overcome sense of panic.50 Large numbers of military pensioners continued to participate in tenant agitations and in the Sikh Akali movement over the next decades prompting the colonial authorities to reduce the proportion of Sikhs in the army from 20 percent in 1914 to 13 percent in 1930.51 Indian troops had been deployed to areas outside the subcontinent for decades, but mainly to police other British colonies in the Indian Ocean region.52 The First World War was different in that great numbers of non-European soldiers appeared on European battlefields and engaged directly with European societies for the first time. Almost 90,000 Indian soldiers and officers as well as a further 50,000 ‘followers’ and other non-combatant Indians were sent to France alone.53 Never before had a comparable number of Indians been in Europe as Claude Markovits rightly points out.54 There was a sense in the postwar years that the new European experiences of large numbers of plebeian Indians did have an impact on the political dynamics of the subcontinent. Wrote the paper East and West in May 1919: The economic and social fixities of the country have been loosened, and India is changing in response to world conditions with which it has been brought into direct touch. [. . .] The Punjabi particularly has travelled, heard and thought. [. . .] He has been to other lands, and heard and seen and fought along with men of other nations, and had opportunities of measuring [emphasis added] his courage, endurance and intelligence on many a battlefield.55

50

Memorandum on the disturbances in the Punjab, p. 50. VanKoski, The Indian ex-soldier, pp. 237–45; Singh, The anatomy of dissent, p. 26, Menezes, Fidelity and honour, p. 322. 52 Metcalf, Imperial connections, chapters 3 and 4. 53 Statistics relating to Indian contribution to the Great War, BL, IOR/L/ MIL/7/18716. 54 Markovits in this volume. 55 ‘East and West’ (Simla) May 1919, quoted in: Punjab Press Abstracts, p. 190. 51

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This opportunity and practice of measuring (or comparing) not merely degrees of military prowess but a wide range of social and institutional practices accounted for much of what was new about Indian experiences in World War I Europe. This paper is a preliminary attempt to approach the problem of everyday comparison in the times of war. It cannot be more than preliminary since this phenomenon has largely remained outside the purview of a historiography that has been entrapped in one or the other simplistic determinism when investigating the social behaviour of Indian peasant-soldiers: either in economic determinism (by way of an impoverished understanding of ‘interest’) or in cultural determinism (by way of an impoverished understanding of izzat). Equally unhelpful has been the tendency to impose narrow nationalist conceptual frames on a politically much richer plebeian history. Historians attached to various shades of Indian nationalism thus do not appear to have been attracted to an exploration of the politics of military service in any major way. This may reflect the uneasy and ambivalent stance taken by most nationalist politicians and intellectuals towards the soldiers of the British Army. Be that as it may, the present paper attempts an exploration of the politically corrosive potentials of measurements taken and comparisons made by Indian soldiers in Europe by focusing on those who were swept one way or the other to the opposite side of the front, on those Indian ‘sepoys’ who encountered German wartime society and state as prisoners of war. The Setting The Indian soldiers who were shipped to the front almost immediately after the beginning of the War had little information or knowledge about where they were going.56 Many believed they were on their way to vilayat, which they identified with Britain, but found themselves in France and Belgium instead.57 The hazy epithet of vilayat thus came to include other areas of Europe and it may thus seem to categorize 56 This was true both for officers and soldiers. Cf. Ellinwood, Between two worlds, p. 362; Report on visit to the Camp in Zossen by Dr. Mansur Ahmed, January 4, 1915, PAAA, R21244, f. 117; Interrogation of POW Mohammed Arefin in officers’ prison camp Heidelberg, January 20, 1915, PAAA, R21245, f. 10. 57 See e.g.: Interrogation of Indian prisoners of war in the military hospital of Koblenz, March 5, 1915, PAAA, R21245, f. 135.

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the soldiers’ experiences as encounters with ‘European society’. Yet numerous soldiers were confronted with more than one European social setting and we should not assume that they were unable to distinguish them. Of the 90,000 Indian soldiers who served in Western Europe the majority belonged to two Infantry Divisions who reached Marseilles in late September 1914 and fought in Flanders until they were redeployed to Mesopotamia before the end of 1915. A smaller part of the Indian contingent, two cavalry divisions, stayed on in France until early 1918 though they were mainly employed for digging trenches. They were supplemented by a sizeable Indian ‘Labour Corps’ of 50,000.58 Given the large number of casualties suffered by the Indian Expeditionary Force, more than 14,000 wounded Indian soldiers were sent to various hospitals in Britain in 1914 and 1915. They thus had occasion to experience ‘vilayat proper’ directly.59 A smaller and as yet almost unnoticed group of Indians traversed the frontline as captives or deserters. Their number cannot be determined with precision. Fifty Indian officers and 3,148 “Indian other ranks” were reported missing among the Indian Corps in France up to the 19th November 1915 and a fair share of this number would have been captured by German troops.60 British and German records lead us to the estimate that about one thousand Indian soldiers were held in German prison camps61 and at least the same number of civilians. The latter group consisted mainly of lascars, Indian seamen with a peasant background very comparable to that of the social strata considered most suitable for army recruitment by the colonial regime, though many of them hailed from Eastern India. There were also a few traders and other middle class men as well as the odd domestic servant. Elite Indians who resided in

58 Statistics relating to Indian contribution to the Great War, IOR/L/MIL/7/18716; Omissi, “Europe through Indian Eyes”, p. 374. 59 Jack, “The Indian Army on the Western Front”, p. 355. 60 J. W. B. Merewether and Frederick Smith, The Indian Corps in France (London, 1919, 2nd ed.), p. 469. In June 1915, the British authorities even believed that there “should be from 1500 to 2000 Indian ranks prisoners of war in Germany”: handwritten official note, BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/17276. 61 In June 1916, the Times reported that the Indian Soldiers’ Fund was providing food and other goods to 700 Indian POW in Germany. The Times, June 17, 1916. In October 1918, the British authorities were informed of about 600 surviving military POW (still in German camps, held in neutral territories or exchanged), but believed (rightly) that their figures were incomplete. Reply to question in Parliament, October 21, 1918, FO 383/417. These figures did not include deserters and those who had died in captivity—see below.

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Germany at the beginning of the war were for propagandistic reasons not interned until much later. Most of them were students, merely had to report to the local police regularly and were permitted to continue their studies. The experiences of civilian prisoners of war were shaped to a large extent, as Franziska Roy shows in a forthcoming article, by their being forcibly employed in an arms factory at Grossenbaum near Duisburg, in a potash mine near Hannover, on road works, railway tracks and farms in various parts of Germany.62 The situation of the military prisoners of war was radically different. The first large group of Indian soldiers was captured near Ypres in November and December 1914 and arrested in the fortress of Lille where a German Missionary, Paul Walter, who had lived in India and acquired some fluency in Hindi, questioned them and explored the potential for propagandistic activities with regard to Indian troops.63 They were then transferred to military hospitals and prison camps in various parts of Germany and particularly to Wittenberg.64 In the last days of December 1914, the first Indian prisoners were sent to the newly opened so-called Halbmondlager (Halfmoon Camp) in ZossenWünsdorf near Berlin,65 which was explicitly categorised as a “propaganda camp” for captured Muslim soldiers of the British, French and Russian armies. By February 1915, most Indian prisoners of war, whether Muslim, Sikh or Hindu, were concentrated in this camp.66 The separation of the Indian prisoners from the Muslims of other regions was soon contemplated67 and a special Inderlager was established within the camp. It comprised probably never more than 650

62 Franziska Roy, “ ‘Part of the machine’? Indian civilian prisoners and the question of forced labour in Germany during World War I,” in “When the war began, we heard of several kings.” South Asian prisoners in World War I Germany, eds. Ahuja, Ravi, Heike Liebau, and Franziska Roy, (New Delhi, 2009, in preparation). 63 [Walter, Paul] (ed. at the command of Armeeoberkommando 6), Die indischen Truppen in Frankreich, Lille: Liller Kriegszeitung, 1915, p. 3; PAAA, R21244, f. 68; Captain C. C. Darley’s report on his captivity in Germany 1915/16, NAUK, WO/161/95/32. 64 270 Indian POW were reported to have been detained in the camp in Wittenberg in mid-December 1914. PAAA, R21244, f. 40. 65 Report on visit to the Camp in Zossen by Dr. Mansur Ahmed, January 4, 1915, PAAA, R21244, f. 117. This measure was soon known to the British authorities: letter by Ernest B. Maxse, British Consulate General Rotterdam, January 7, 1915, BL, IOR/L/ MIL/7/17276 and January 7, 1915, NAUK, FO 383/065. 66 PAAA, R21244, f. 133. 67 Official report on visit of Zossen camp, February 20, 1915, PAAA, R21245, f. 42.

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Indian prisoners of war at one time.68 In 1916, it was reported that 569 Indian prisoners of war were held in Wünsdorf whose composition was as follows: 300 Gurkhas, 100 Sikhs, 106 Muslims and 63 Thakurs.69 Openly pro-British and recalcitrant prisoners were isolated from their Indian fellow-captives and sent to other camps.70 The administration of the camp was taken care of by German military authorities, but political and propagandistic efforts were predominantly coordinated by an interdepartmental unit of German Foreign Office and General Staff, the Nachrichtenstelle für den Orient (Information Centre for the Orient). This had been initiated and founded by the diplomat and orientalist Max von Oppenheim with the express goal of “revolutionising the Islamic areas of our enemies”. For at least one year, the main objective of the Nachrichtenstelle was to convince Maghrebian, Tatarian, West African, Georgian and South Asian prisoners of war to enrol in special military units that were to be sent to Constantinople, where they were to be attached to the Ottoman forces and fight the armies of the Entente. They were supported in this effort by ulema sent to Berlin by the Ottoman authorities and by a range of anti-imperialist exiles who were drawn to that city in their search for powerful allies. In the Indian case, these supporters had formed the famous Indian Independence Committee of which Mohammed Barkatullah, Virendranath Chattopadhyay, Bhupendranath Dutt, Taraknath Das and, for some time, Har Dayal were among the most influential members. The objectives of this Committee included the creation of an “Indian Legion” that was to be deployed to Afghanistan in order to fight the British on Indian territory.71 Both of these plans found little response among the prisoners of war and met with little interest of the Ottoman authorities. Only about fifty South Asian prisoners were finally sent off to Constantinople along with 2,000 Muslims from other regions. Most South Asian recruits were Pashtuns whose home villages were in Afridistan, well outside the control of the colonial administration. The recruitment plans were finally scrapped in May 1916 and a number of the recruits were subsequently returned 68 This is the figure mentioned in a report of the Indian Independence Committee, December 23, 1915, PAAA, R21252, f. 318. 69 Third Report of the Indian Soldiers’ Fund (21 November 1915–30 November 1916), BL, OIOC, EurMSS F120/8. 70 See e.g. the case of the Gurkha officer Sher Singh Rana who was interned among British POW in Clausthal, NAUK, FO 383/288. 71 “Instructions for the propaganda camps”, December 1915, PAAA, R21252, f. 183.

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to Germany though a minority actually struggled their way back to South Asia.72 A more durable propagandistic objective of the German foreign office consisted, however, in creating what one official called a “living cable” between Germany and the Indian ‘bazaar’:73 lasting links to Indians who sympathised with Germany that could be drawn upon and activated in the future when politically opportune. The Nachrichtenstelle drew on the skills of the most talented German orientalists and indologists (including, for instance, Eugen Mittwoch and Helmuth von Glasenapp) and produced regular camp journals in various ‘oriental’ languages. All of these journals were entitled Jihad with the exception of those for Indian prisoners in Urdu and Hindi.74 These were named Hindostan on the request of the Indian Independence Committee. While panislamism was the propagandistic strategy preferred by von Oppenheim and the Foreign Office, it was conceded with some reluctance that giving nationalism precedence over panislamism (without fully giving up on the latter) was the more promising strategy in the Indian case.75 The masthead of the Hindi edition thus contained two mottos—Bankimchandra’s “Bande Mataram” and Iqbal’s “Sare jahan se achha Hindostan hamara”.76 At least 83 issues of this journal were published between March or April 1915 and July 1918.

72 For a detailed account of the difficult propagandistic cooperation between Nachrichtenstelle and Indian Independence Committee see: Heike Liebau, “The German Foreign Office, Indian emigrants and propaganda efforts among the ‘sepoys,’” in “When the War began”, eds. Ahuja, Liebau and Roy. 73 Memorandum on propaganda among Indian POW, December 23(?) 1915, PAAA, R21252, f. 323, 325. 74 See Baron von Oppenheim’s proposal for the publication of these newspapers of January 9, 1915: PAAA, R21244, ff. 146–149. On Barkatullah’s and Har Dayal’s intervention (January 28, 1915) the title Jihad was changed to Hindostan for the Indian editions. PAAA, R21244, f. 166. For a discussion of theses camp journals (with a focus on the Arabic edition) see: Gerhard Höpp, Muslime in der Mark. Als Kriegsgefangene und Internierte in Wünsdorf und Zossen, 1914–1924 (ZMO Studien) 6 (Berlin, 1997), pp. 101–112. The full editions of the Hindi and Urdu editions will be published along with the following volume of essays: Ahuja, Liebau and Roy, “When the war began”. 75 Baron von Oppenheim’s memorandum “Organisation der Behandlung der muhammedanischen und indischen Kriegsgefangenen”, February 27, 1915, PAAA, R21245, f. 78. 76 “Bande Mataram” (“Hail to the Motherland”) was composed as a poem by the Bengali intellectual Bankimchandra Chatterjee in the 1870s and had become a nationalist hymn in the first decade of the twentieth century. It failed to gain popularity among Muslims, however, by equating the nation with the Hindu goddess Durga. Muhammad Iqbal was an important Urdu poet who later became associated with the demand for a separate homeland for Indian Muslims, i.e. Pakistan.

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A content analysis shows that about three quarters of the articles contained pro-German war propaganda whilst the remaining quarter dealt with Indian issues from a radical nationalist perspective—the latter sort of contributions declines with the progressive disillusionment with the German authorities and final relocation to Stockholm of the Indian Independence Committee. In striking distinction to similar journals in other German camps there do not seem to be any contributions from the prisoners themselves.77 Correspondingly, neither the German authorities nor the Indian nationalists78 were particularly confident about the effectiveness of Hindostan and the prisoners of war, if they mentioned these journals at all, did not seem overly impressed. Its circulation was soon reduced to 200 copies and the distribution remained restricted to the Halfmoon Camp.79 Other forms of propaganda were considered more efficient and important, which included regular lectures to and informal discussions with the prisoners by the missionaries Ferdinand Graetsch and Paul Walter as well as by Dr. Mansur Ahmed, Bhupendranath Dutt and other nationalists.80 On 13 July 1915, an Ottoman-style mosque was inaugurated in the Halfmoon Camp,81 festivals like “Bayram” (Id) and Holi were celebrated and provisions were made that allowed the observance of behavioural norms linked to religion or caste.82 The distribution of cigarettes was considered “the most effective means of propaganda”.83 Other propagandistic tools included the provision of clothes84 and of facilities for the prisoners to slaughter goats and sheep, to cook for themselves as well as of certain foodstuffs like coarsely

77 A more detailed analysis of Hindostan will be provided in: Ahuja, Liebau and Roy, “When the war began”. 78 See a statement of the Indian Independence Committee with regard to the camp journal, which they considered a security risk, February 23, 1915: PAAA, R21245, f. 49. See also von Oppenheim’s statement, February 28?, 1915: ibid., f. 55–58. 79 Official note, September 26, 1915, PAAA, R21250, f. 282. 80 PAAA, R21252, f. 24, 131, 255; PAAA, R21253, f. 455–456. 81 Höpp, Muslime in der Mark, pp. 113–119. 82 PAAA, R21252, f. 27; PAAA, R21254, f. 157; PAAA, R21261, f. 161; handwritten official note, dated c. June 1915, BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/17276; statement by Jemadar Suba Singh Gurung, April 1918, BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/18480; report on Wünsdorf by John B. Jackson for the US Embassy, March 23, 1916, NAUK, FO 383/153. 83 PAAA, R21252, f. 260. Similar views were held in Britain, cf. Proceedings of the General Committee of the Indian Soldiers Fund, June 16, 1915, BL, OIOC, EurMSS F/120/2. 84 PAAA, R21246, f. 112.

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ground wheat flower (Atta), butter and spices.85 The German authorities competed in this regard with the Indian Soldiers Fund, initiated by Curzon on the grounds that “any negligence [. . .] will react terribly after the war”,86 and with other British associations that sent parcels to the prisoners. There were also occasional excursions to Berlin that were meant to give the prisoners “a notion of German order, power and energy” (von Oppenheim).87 Returned prisoners reported to their British questioners that they had received excellent medical care in German hospitals after having been wounded and captured, though the “general belief among the soldiers” was with regard to the military hospital in Zossen “that those who go [. . .] never return.”88 Tuberculosis and other respiratory diseases were rampant and the mortality rate among Indian prisoners of war was particularly high:89 the military graveyard of Zehrensdorf, near the site of the former “Halfmoon Camp” contains 206 identified Indian graves, 185 of which refer to the remains of soldiers.90 German statistics similarly state that 187 Indian soldiers died in the Inderlager between early 1915 and April 1917.91 Most military prisoners of war were transferred to a state farm

85 PAAA, R21252, f. 83; PAAA, R21256, f. 196; report on prisoners’ camps in Germany by US Senator Beveredge, recorded February 22, 1915, NAUK, FO 383/065; James Gerard to Mr. Page, US Embassy reports on Indian POW, July 1915, NAUK, FO 383/065; Proceedings of the General Committee of the Indian Soldiers Fund, November 29, 1916, BL, OIOC, EurMSS F/120/3. 86 Curzon in the House of Lords, May 18, 1915, BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/17276. 87 Baron von Oppenheim’s memorandum “Organisation der Behandlung der muhammedanischen und indischen Kriegsgefangenen”, February 27, 1915, PAAA, R21245, f. 76; see also his successor Schabinger’s memorandum, April 19, 1915, PAAA, R21246, ff. 25–27; report of the command of the ‘halfmoon camp’, September 10, 1915, PAAA, R21250, f. 260; report of the command of the ‘halfmoon camp’, October 10, 1915, PAAA, R21251, f. 145. 88 Letter by Indian Independence Committee, February 10, 1916, PAAA, R21253, f. 470. 89 Report of the command of the ‘halfmoon camp’, October 10, 1915, PAAA, R21251, f. 147; see also: PAAA, R21261, f. 127. See also: report on Wünsdorf by John B. Jackson for the US Embassy, March 23, 1916, NAUK, FO 383/153. The extraordinary high incidence of fatal diseases was also perceived by the prisoners themselves. Hence Jemadar Suba Singh Gurung stated in March 1918 to his British interrogator that between one third and half of the original prisoners died in Zossen, BL, IOR/L/ MIL/7/18480. Indian soldiers were severely affected by tuberculosis also in the trenches of the Western Front. See: Harrison, “Disease, Discipline and Dissent”, p. 188. 90 Commonwealth War Graves Commission Records, Cemetery Report: Zehrensdorf, http://www.cwgc.org/search/cemetery_reports.aspx?cemetery=34721&mode=1 (accessed January 22, 2009). 91 Snouck Hurgronje’s report on a visit to camp Morile-Maculesti, March 4, 1918, BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/18504.

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in Romania in the following months.92 This transfer was decided upon against the protests of the Indian Independence Committee93 when all official hopes of triggering off insurgency in India had vanished, when the presence of ‘oriental’ prisoners of war near Berlin thus ceased to be politically opportune, when their economic exploitation seemed more necessary and because the climate of Romania was considered to be more conducive to lower levels of mortality.94 Even so, a further 39 Indians were stated to have died in the following eight months in Morile-Maculesti,95 the manor allotted to the Indian inmates of the so-called “Deutsche Landbaukolonien farbiger Kriegsgefangener in Rumänien” (German agricultural colonies for coloured prisoners of war in Romania).96 Assuming a total number of 1,000, almost a quarter of the ‘privileged’ military prisoners of war had died in three years. The Inderlager in Wünsdorf was thereafter used as the “Stammlager” (i.e. basis camp) for civilian Indian POW, from where they were sent to various work sites all over Germany.97 When the war ended, many of the surviving military and civilian prisoners of war were repatriated to India via Egypt, Marseilles or London. In order to detect those who had changed sides, most of these returnees were subjected to close interrogation. Those deemed “suspect” were to be “segregated”, some were imprisoned in India, though the political intelligence officer

92 Openly Pro-British Indian POW continued to be interned separately in various German camps; a group of Pashtun POW was transferred to Göttingen for purposes of linguistic studies (though the British authorities suspected propagandistic motifs); a group of Afridi deserters was secretly transferred to one of the Kaiser’s manors in Cadinen (East Prussia). See: statements of Subedar-Major Sher Singh Rana, Jemadar Suba Singh Gurung and J. P. Walsh, March and April 1918, BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/18480 and NAUK, FO 383/390; note on “Prisoners Camp in Göttingen”, January 3, 1918, FP 383/387. 93 See the Committee’s letters dated February 15, 1917, PAAA, R21261, ff. 109–113, and April 1, 1917, ibid., f. 185. 94 The original idea, in December 1916, of ridding the German Empire from its Indian prisoners by transferring them to Dalmatia or Adana had to be given up as Austria-Hungary and the Ottoman Empire did not prove to be co-operative. PAAA, R21261, ff. 38, 56, 64. For the transfer to Romania see especially: letter from Hoffmann, Ministry of War, to Foreign Office, March 8, 1917, PAAA, R21261, ff. 182f. See also: ibid., ff. 96–97, 127, 209, 218, 237–239, 244–245, 297; PAAA, R21262, ff. 58–62. See also: BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/18474. 95 Snouck Hurgronje’s report on a visit to camp Morile-Maculesti, March 4, 1918, BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/18504. See also: PAAA, R21262, ff. 118–119. 96 For this designation see: PAAA, R21261, f. 218. 97 See e.g.: protocol of the interrogation of Frank Williams-Gonzague, December 6, 1918, in BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/17276; protocol of the interrogation of William Stevenson, June 22, 1918: BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/18480. See also: Roy, “‘Part of the machine’?”.

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Major Wallinger recommended a strategy of quick repatriation and, where necessary, of “win[ning] them back”.98 German attitudes and interests in the Indian prisoners were multiple and contradictory, the propagandistic approach being only one of them. Christian Koller has analyzed the strong repugnance and racist opposition in Germany and other European countries against the deployment of ‘coloured’ soldiers on European soil.99 This was seen as a clear indication for the demise of the occident for which the British and French governments were made responsible.100 This perception was accompanied by excessive fears. Rumours circulated among German troops that Indian enemy soldiers approached the trenches stealthily and “tierartig” (in animal-like manner) in order to butcher Germans with “their long knives”.101 There was consequently a tendency at first to make no prisoners when confronted with Indian troops much to the dismay of the military authorities. The Western Command of the German army had a booklet written by the former missionary Paul Walter in 1915 that sought to allay these fears, show that Indians were “no devils” and prevent the slaughter of wounded captives by providing some information on the Indian Army and by stressing the potential political and military value of Indian prisoners of war for Germany. It also contained a few simple Hindustani sentences to be shouted across the trenches (“Mat darroo! Ham tumko nahie marenge”—don’t fear, we won’t kill you.)102 Another attitude perceived the presence in Germany of numerous non-European men as an exotic marvel that could be exploited for various artistic and commercial purposes. “A Hagenbeck show” read the headline of an article on the “Halfmoon Camp” in a Berlin daily103 and “Our enemy’s 98 Major Wallinger’s handwritten note, December 13, 1917, and other documents in: BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/18500; see also: BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/18440. 99 Koller, “Von Wilden aller Rassen niedergemetzelt.” 100 See e.g.: Oswald Spengler, Jahre der Entscheidung, vol. I: Deutschland und die weltgeschichtliche Entwicklung (München, 1934). 101 Private letter from Lieutenant of Reserve Schniewind, to the minister (of foreign affairs?), dated January 13, 1915. PAAA, R21077–2, ff. 115–116. 102 Walter, Die indischen Truppen in Frankreich, pp. 18–19, 22. The spelling is adapted to German pronunciation. Walter had earlier written to von Oppenheim (December 7, 1914) that English press reports on Indian soldiers were mere ‘fantasies’ that spread terror, however, among German soldiers. Yet he was confident that they would soon realize that the captured sepoys of the 9th Bhopal Infantry were no devils. PAAA, R21244, f. 68. 103 Berliner Lokalanzeiger, May 1, 1915, according to a complaint by Schabinger to the Foreign Office, May 3, 1915: PAAA, R21246, ff. 84–85.

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circus of peoples” was the title of a successful book publication;104 painters and photographers received the permission to portrait prisoners in Wünsdorf as did a commercial film company who used them as extras in a colonial silent picture.105 A related but more academic approach saw the “Halfmoon Camp” as an ideal place for field studies under the prevailing wartime conditions. Anthropologists conducted craniological measurements, which was unsuccessfully opposed by the nationalists of the Indian Independence Committee. They argued that “such measurements are associated by Indians with criminals”, would be resented by the Sikhs in particular and warned that the “laudable scientific curiosity of German Professors will be attended with very unpleasant consequences”.106 More importantly for our purposes, the linguist Wilhelm Doegen succeeded in securing very considerable funds for a large-scale linguistic study among prisoners of war from various European and non-European backgrounds. Systematic sound recordings were at the heart of this project and while a standard text was used for the recordings in various European languages and dialects (the biblical story of the prodigal son), this was not the case with the South Asian sound recordings. Indian soldiers were asked to tell a story, sing a song or even talk about their war experiences.107 In sum, a comparatively small group of Indian plebeians attracted an extraordinary level of attention from German as well as British military staff, from secret services and diplomats, from Indian revolutionary nationalists, from German academics, artists and missionaries. An unusually dense picture emerges from the various materials created and left by these agencies. Among these materials are translated letters, reports on the progress and problems of propaganda, sound recordings and their transcripts in Punjabi, Urdu, Hindi, Nepali and Bengali as well as detailed protocols of interviews conducted among the returnees. They are particularly useful because they give an inkling of

104 Leo Frobenius, ed., Der Völkerzirkus unserer Feinde (Berlin, 1916). One year later, the editor was given the command of the prison camps for non-European soldiers in Romania. Today he is known as an influential cultural anthropologist of Africa. 105 There was also a plan as late as in early 1918 to have a “great Indian propaganda film” produced by the Flora-Film-Gesellschaft. PAAA, R21262, ff. 165–166. 106 Letter from Indian Independence Committee to German Foreign Office, May 31, 1916, PAAA, R21256, f. 271. 107 See: Britta Lange, “Ein Archiv von Stimmen. Kriegsgefangene unter ethnografischer Beobachtung”, in Original/Ton. Zur Mediengeschichte des O-Tons, eds. Nikolaus Wegmann, Harun Maye and Cornelius Reiber (Konstanz, 2007), pp. 317–341.

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the experiences of men who were for the first time in their life outside the reach of the British imperial state (though their families were not and they themselves were subjected to the coercive force of another military power). These experiences were frequently made sense of and turned into practical agency by referring to one particular figure of thought: comparison. The final part of this paper will discuss the significance of this phenomenon. Comparisons That Indian soldiers recurred to the figure of thought of comparison when confronted with new facets of European life is plausible and has been pointed out by several historians: they tried to find analogies for the unfamiliar, especially if they described their experiences in their letters to those at home who had not shared them. David Omissi and Claude Markovits have looked at the comparisons Indian soldiers drew in their letters between their perceptions of French and British societies on the one hand and social conditions in their home regions on the other. They have particularly emphasized cases when soldiers failed to find an analogy, when the European was conceived in terms of an incommensurable occidental difference and when a sense of wonder, admiration or disorientation is palpable. When soldiers likened in their letters the French countryside or the Kitchener Hospital in Brighton with “heaven” or “paradise” they clearly wished to convey the notion that their European experiences were beyond comparison.108 Yet the idea that the Punjabi or Nepali peasant-soldier must have been absolutely dumbfounded when confronted with complex European realities can be misleading if rendered in terms of absolutes. If supposedly ‘primitive tribals’ from the northwestern mountain ranges of the subcontinent made inventive use of intricate administrative structures of European statehood (such as passport laws) and established their own communication channels across frontlines and continents,109 we

108 Translated Excerpt from a letter from Jemadar Ghulam Muhiyudin, Kitchener Hospital, Brighton, quoted in: Letter from Sir Walter Roper Lawrence to H. H. Kitchener, June 15, 1915, BL, OIOC, MssEur F143/65; Omissi, “Europe through Indian eyes”, p. 396; Markovits in this volume; Harrison, “Disease, discipline and dissent”, p. 191; Jack, “The Indian Army on the Western Front”, p. 357. 109 Missionary Graetsch thus reported in August 1918 that several Indian prisoners who earlier had agreed to fight against the British were intent to acquire the Romanian

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have reason to suspect that amazement was merely the starting point of the cognitive and practical appropriation of Europe by the Indian peasant-soldier. Comparison between European powers was one of the devices used for such appropriation. Sib Singh, son of a Sikh peasant in the village Chota Bhagua in Amritsar District, had visited a regimental school, where he had learnt to read and write Gurmukhi. He was 26 years old when Wilhelm Doegen recorded his voice on 9th December 1916. In Punjabi, he narrated a tale of a king and his four unruly daughters, recited a series of aphorisms on the theme of ignorance and added the following observations: The German badshah [emperor] is very wise. He wages war with all the badshahs. A lot will be printed when the war is over. The Angrez [Englishman] is badshah in India and we did not know there were other badshahs. When the war began we heard of several badshahs. One flaw in India is that people are without knowledge [be-ilm], they don’t know anything.110

Some of Sib Singh’s utterances are oblique and we cannot ascertain whether this obliqueness is purposeful. Is there an irony in linking the Kaiser’s wisdom to his waging war with all the emperors? Why did he refer to future printed accounts of the war and not to the stories that were to be told? Does the context suggest a hint at the untruthfulness of printed, official representations? Yet Sib Singh was clearly concerned about questions of knowledge and stated in no uncertain terms what difference the war had made: we have learned what we couldn’t know in India—the Angrez is not the only badshah, there are several. In other words, the war had provided scales to assess the relative weight of the King-Emperor—scales that had not been available earlier. British power could be compared to that of its imperialist rivals and this is what Indian soldiers did in letters they sent from Germany, Turkey and France. They pointed out that Germany’s population and army

citizenship, which they saw as a means to facilitate their return to India. Others, he reported, applied for German passports, apparently to avoid transportation to India after the end of war. PAAA, R21262, ff. 219–220. Gajendra Singh interestingly suggests a “conversation” by means of letter writing between Pashtuns in France and South Asia—a conversation that extended, as our material demonstrates, even further to Germany and the Ottoman Empire. Singh, The anatomy of dissent, pp. 19–21. 110 LA, P.K. 610.

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were larger,111 that German trenches were better,112 that the military was nowhere stronger than in the Ottoman Empire.113 Amar Singh, the aristocratic Rajput Officer and addictive diarist, encountered the following view among Indian soldiers in Flanders: “The men have the firm belief that the Germans have excellent guns and bombs which we have not and that they are very good at mechanical things which our Government has not.”114 The prisoners’ comparisons were not always favourable to the adversaries of the British Empire, however. They complained about the quality of food and clothing stating that their condition would have been better under the British.115 They were outraged about the abusive language used by a Eurasian sentry in the “Halfmoon Camp” and opined: “they want us to believe they are good, but they are no better than the English”.116 Comparisons were also perpetually drawn, as we have seen, in the war rumours circulating in their home regions. And it is interesting to note that the question of technological superiority, of the equipment of the war parties with airships, submarines and mechanical arms loomed as large in rural rumours in Punjab as in the everyday comparisons the soldiers drew in the trenches of Flanders. The soldiers’ experiences were based on individual perception. Yet the European war theatres should not be conceptualised as a ‘contact zone’, where atomised Indian individuals encountered the wider world. Experiences were communicable and acquired social relevance only after they had been ‘processed’, undergone a process of reflection for which categories and patterns of thought were required. These categories and patterns had to be produced socially. They would frequently have been in the intellectual baggage the soldiers had carried along all the way from India, though they could also be acquired locally, which was a point where the propagandists of the rival powers could hope to

111

Letter from a wounded Garhwali from England to his brother, February 12, 1915, translation by censors from the Hindi, in: Supplementary letters forwarded by the Censor, Indian Mails in France, March 20, 1915, p. 18, BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/17347. 112 Protocol of interrogation of Chundra Parsad Pun, 2/3 Gurkhas, BL, IOR/L/ MIL/7/17276. 113 Translation of letter by “Chan Gull” to “Adal Beg Chan”, recorded May 6, 1916, PAAA, R21256, f. 70. 114 See Ellinwood, Between two worlds, p. 391. 115 Mahendra Pratap’s report on his visit to Camp Zossen, March 28, 1915, PAAA, R21245, f. 170. 116 Report by the Indian Independence Committee on a visit of Bhupendra Dutt to the Zossen Lager, December 23, 1915, PAAA, R21252, f. 318.

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make an impact. But even more importantly, the British as well as the German authorities sought to frame the Indian soldiers’ experiences at the primary stage by delimiting and shaping the range of possible perceptions of ‘Europe’ through institutional arrangements. The army itself was, of course, the most important of these perception-framing institutional structures but hospitals also played an important role on both sides of the front. Ram Nath Singh, a sepoy of the 9th Bhopal Infantry who was captured in Festubert in December 1914, gave a detailed account to his British interviewers of a curious encounter with the German Kaiser during his stay in a German hospital: The Kaiser [. . .] enquired through the vazier whether in my judgment his hospital and the arrangements thereof were not superior to an English hospital. Being a prisoner in his hands and therefore completely under his thumbs I was obliged to give a reply that would tickle his vanity and please him.117

The propagandistic, perception-framing aspect of military medicine was clearly expressed and understood. On the British side, Lord Hardinge believed that the military hospitals tended “to increase our prestige in this country, and also the attachment the lower classes have to the Sircar [government].”118 Both powers generated specific and competing propagandistic spaces to which Indian soldiers were confined and which could be left by them only under close supervision. The propaganda camp in Zossen-Wünsdorf was, in this respect, an almost exact mirror image119 and the direct institutional competitor of the Kitchener hospital in Brighton:120 Indian soldiers could generally not leave these institutional spaces except for rare and closely moni-

117 Mr. Sahai’s Report on conversation with ‘Exchange wounded prisoner’ from Germany, BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/17276. 118 Private letter to Sir Walter Roper Lawrence, quoted in the latter’s letter to H. H. Kitchener, May 27, 1915, BL, OIOC, MssEur F143/65. 119 This practice of ‘mirroring’ was undertaken quite consciously. For a German analysis of British measures for securing the cooperation of Indian soldiers (including ‘propaganda institutions’ like specially equipped hospitals) see a letter from the Kriegsministerium (War Ministry) to the Auswärtiges Amt (Foreign Office), dated December 31, 1914: PAAA, R21244, f. 95. For a summary of the propagandistic objectives and the institutional structures envisaged for their pursuit see a report on a meeting in the German Ministry of War on January 16, 1915: PAAA, R21244, f. 142. 120 See the memorandum of the command of the ‘Halfmoon Camp’ on necessary propagandistic measures, May ?, 1915, PAAA, R21246, ff. 318–319; “Instructions for the propaganda camps”, December 1915, PAAA, R21252, f. 183–185; Memorandum on propaganda among Indian POW, December 23?, 1915, PAAA, R21252, f. 324.

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tored tours to London or Berlin;121 they were provided with prayer facilities and various other culturally specific conveniences;122 they were exposed to printed propaganda (the Hindostan was mirrored in Brighton by the Akhbar-i-Jang),123 slide shows, film screenings and lectures,124 occasional visits of notables and royalties.125 Letters to their families in South Asia were welcomed as a potentially very effective means of propaganda that required, however, strict control.126 British authorities were concerned that correspondence from German prison camps, sometimes written on the reverse of leaflets showing photographs of the Inderlager, bypassed censorship on the way to comrades in France or families in Afghanistan or India.127 News about deserters fighting for the Germans apparently even played a role in triggering off a mutiny among Pashtun sepoys in Kohat on the Northwest Frontier of the Raj.128 The censors observed that deserters informed their comrades that the Germans had built a mosque for them.129 The official coloured postcards showing the Wünsdorf mosque were frequently used by prisoners who keenly enquired whether they had reached their families. Others attached photographs to the letters that showed them, as the censors pointed out, “very well dressed, and in many

121 Schabinger’s memorandum, April 19, 1915, PAAA, R21246, ff. 25–27; Letter by Nadolny, stellv. Generalstab, June 23, 1915, PAAA, R21247, f. 96; Omissi, “Europe through Indian eyes”, p. 382; Jack, “The Indian Army on the Western Front”, p. 359; see also: Major Wallinger’s handwritten note, December 13, 1917, BL, IOR/L/ MIL/7/18500. 122 Harrison, “Disease, Discipline and Dissent”, pp. 190–191; Second Report of the Indian Soldiers’ Fund, BL, OIOC, EurMSS F120/7; Jack, “The Indian Army on the Western Front”, pp. 356–357. 123 The Akhbar-i-Jang was issued twice a week in Hindi and Urdu. It was distributed to the Indian soldiers in British hospitals and on the Western Front. See the relevant material in the papers of Sir Walter Roper Lawrence: BL, OIOC, MSS Eur F143/75. See especially folio 45, a letter to the editor from a Havildar Abdurehman Khan reporting from France on Army arrangements for Id celebrations in 1915. 124 Letter by Nadolny, stellv. Generalstab, June 23, 1915, PAAA, R21247, f. 96; Schabinger’s memorandum, April 19, 1915, PAAA, R21246, ff. 25–27; Jack, “The Indian Army on the Western Front”, p. 359. 125 Harrison, “Disease, Discipline and Dissent”, pp. 190–191. 126 Schabinger’s statement on censorship, December 8, 1915, PAAA, R21252, f. 213–216. 127 Draft letter from Gen. E. G. Barrow to Government of India, Army Department, July 14, 1915, BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/17276; letter from the Government of India, Army Department, January 14, 1916, BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/17277; letter by E. B. Howell, chief censor of Indian mails, October 21, 1915, BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/17347. 128 Singh, The anatomy of dissent, p. 20. 129 BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/17347.

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instances wearing wrist-watches prominently exposed”.130 The Home Department of the Government of India was alerted to the fact that a “post card photograph” had reached Agra from Berlin in August 1916 showing the prisoner Ibnay Hasan, son of a “respectable family”, “in European dress sitting in the open air at a small table covered with an ornamental cloth on which are a gramophone, a vase of flowers and a bottle, apparently of foaming German beer. He has a cigarette in one hand and a glass of beer in the other”.131 German planes dropped leaflets onto the trenches of British-Indian troops with photographs of laughing Sikh prisoners in Wünsdorf entertaining themselves with club swinging.132 One of the Ghadr-affiliated propagandists, Kartar Ram, was even reported to have had “a postcard and photograph shop outside the camp”.133 When Indian prisoners were finally released and interrogated by British intelligence officers in Marseilles, it was noted with concern that propagandistic activities on the part of the Germans and especially of members of the Indian Independence Committee were denied by many soldiers, even though some Indian officers had submitted detailed information to this effect.134 It was stated with some exasperation that some former prisoners interpreted the treatment they had received from the German authorities as a proof of their chivalry.135 The tone that emerges from these reports is not dissimilar from the statement of Lalu, the protagonist of Mulk Raj Anand’s novel The Sword and the Sickle, on his experiences as a German prisoner of war: Barkat Ullah, Pillai Sahib and Chattopadhyayaji came to speak to us but none of us prisoners were interested. When we recovered, those of us

130 Extract from a summary of Correspondence contained in Report XXXVI on the situation of British Prisoners-of-War in Germany, BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/17276. 131 Chief Secretary, Government of UP, to Secretary, Government of India, Home Department, September 12, 1916, BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/18715. See also the relevant correspondence in NAUK, FO 383/166. 132 BL, OIOC, Proscribed Publications (PP) Hin/F/29. These flyers are also mentioned by Amar Singh in his diary: Ellinwood, Between two worlds, p. 399. 133 Protocol of an interrogation of Joseph Faithful, April 16, 1916, BL, IOR/L/ MIL/7/18795. 134 BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/18501. Propaganda activities were confirmed in the statements of Subedar-Major Sher Singh Rana, Sepoy Mardan Khan, Jemadar Suba Singh Gurung and J. P. Walsh, March and April 1918, BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/18480 and NAUK, FO 383/390. 135 BL, IOR/L/MIL/7/18440.

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who did not sign a pledge which Barkat Ullah gave us were put to making roads, while the others were given easier work [. . .]. But we were well treated. And everything that was said to us was open for us to believe or not to believe [. . .]. I can’t say we did not listen. Only Mitha Singh, however, agreed to work with them: he is now married with a German Mem and has opened a shop there.136

The efficiency of propaganda should thus not be overstated. While officials of the Nachrichtenstelle observed with satisfaction that there was a considerable demand for war news and other information among the Indian prisoners, we also find the following laconic comment: “the camp journal is read with great interest in the Inderlager; the effect is hardly anything to speak of ”.137 What emerges from some of the accounts of Indian captivity in Germany is a sense of indifference to the British authorities or even equidistance to the imperial powers that resembled the attitudes apparent in some of the rumours circulating in Punjab. When questioned by members of the Indian Independence Committee early in 1915, some prisoners stated that they would have left the country very reluctantly had they known they were going to be shipped to the European war theatre, but pointed out that to fight was still better than to mutiny. Others stated that money was the reason why they had fought for England and that they would fight for Germany, too. Yet others felt betrayed by England, but all mainly wished to return home as soon as possible.138 While such statements were certainly coloured by the situation of captivity in which they were extracted, they are not altogether dissimilar from attitudes to be found in the censored correspondence of Indian soldiers in France. For the Afridi soldiers, whose homes were outside British India and who deserted more frequently from the British lines than members of other communities, it was variously stated that the war “was not their quarrel”139 and that their main objective consisted in acquiring weapons for their own local conflicts from whichever

136

Anand, Mulk Raj, The Sword and the Sickle (London, 1942), p. 21. PAAA, R1510, dok. 25363, Z. 4976. 138 Report by M. Ahmad on a visit to Camp Zossen by Dr. Mansur Ahmad, P. T. Acharya and Taraknath Das, January 4, 1915, PAAA, R21244, ff. 117–119. The number of the interrogated soldiers was 12, consisting of 7 Gurkhas, 3 Rajputs, 1 Sikh and 1 Pashtun. 139 Ellinwood, Between two worlds, p. 399. 137

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political power.140 However, there is also an interesting report that Afridi soldiers who had agreed to fight against Britain and were transferred to Constantinople asked for a medal or official certificate as a proof of their military service for Germany. This, they claimed would enhance their credibility on returning home—izzat could be gained, as it were, in German as much as in British service.141 Equidistance from the imperial powers was, moreover, not necessarily apolitical and sometimes expressed in patriotic terms. “We love Hindustan,” says the voice of Baryam Singh, a 28–year old literate Sikh soldier from the village of Khundur in Ludhiana District, “because it is our home country [mulk]; even if they tempt us [kucch lalac dena], we will still love Hindustan.”142 The origins of temptation are not spelled out in this recording of 11th December 1916 and it seems likely that the ambiguity was purposeful. The statement is introduced as the “dusri kahani” (second story) and directly follows upon a moral announcement by the same soldier that emphasizes the importance and godliness of putting an earnest effort into one’s work. Various interpretations of how (and to what extent) temptation, patriotism and work ethics were linked by Baryam Singh are equally plausible: the Germans, the British or both could have been perceived as tempters trying to undermine the patriotism of the Hindustani soldier and to distract him from his work and duty. Yet it seems significant that the motif of love for the home country (and not that of imperial patriotism) is explicitly referred to in this sound recording. A report by the Indian Independence Committee of 9th January 1916 on their propagandistic activities among prisoners of war can be read as an interesting commentary on Baryam Singh’s statement: “[. . .] the Hindu soldiers have privately expressed their willingness to fight for India, but not for Turkey or Germany. This is exactly as it should be.”143

140

Ibid.; Jamadar Mir Mast, an Afridi deserter is quoted by his interrogator with the following advice for further German propaganda across the lines: “[. . .] if you want to do something, just write: ‘We’ll give you a Mauser pistol and a good German rifle.’ That’s enough, all of them will come” (my translation, RA). Paul Walter’s report on the interrogation of Afridi deserters in Lille, March 6 and 7, 1915, PAAA, R21245, f. 111. See also: Ferdinand Graetsch’s report on transfer of Afridi soldiers to Constantinople, August 9, 1915, PAAA, R21250, f. 45. 141 Ferdinand Graetsch’s report on transfer of Afridi soldiers to Constantinople, August 9, 1915, PAAA, R21250, f. 44. 142 LA, P.K. 616. 143 Indian Independence Committee, January 9, 1916: ‘Programme for Wünsdorf’, PAAA, R21253, f. 77. The category ‘Hindu’ tended to include the Sikhs in the cor-

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The camp authorities were not amused about this development and denounced the Indian propagandists as “die schärfsten Anarchisten” (“the most extreme anarchists”).144 An uneasiness to fight for the British against Muslims or on holy land is quoted repeatedly as a prevalent attitude among the Indian (and especially Afghan) prisoners of war, though it is hard to determine to what extent this observation was conditioned by the wishful thinking of German propagandists.145 The memoirs of Amir Haidar Khan may give us a clue when he remembers the political mood in 1915 of Punjabi soldiers in Basra as one of resentment against deployment in Muslim lands and of a vague, latent panislamism.146 Gajendra Singh’s argument that revolutionary nationalist and panislamic discourses were selectively appropriated and integrated into existing popular discourses seems useful in this context.147 Experiences and comparisons could thus be framed and shaped by the authorities only to a limited extent. Moreover, and this is the final aspect to be discussed in this essay, comparison was not merely a cognitive procedure or a rhetorical figure, but also a device of social praxis, of conflict resolution by way of negotiation and sometimes even by way of direct confrontation. Indian prisoners used the comparison of treatment meted out by German and British authorities as a means to improve their situation by negotiation—to increase their food rations, secure a supply with butter,148 acquire clothes and boots,149 stop abuses respondences of the IIC. In an official note, dated January 10, 1916, there is also a reference to a “strongly nationalist movement” that was believed to have developed among the Sikh POW: PAAA, R21253, f. 74. 144 PAAA, R21253, f. 84. 145 See e.g.: Report on propaganda among Indian POWs, April 11, 1915, PAAA, R21246, ff. 116–117. Doubts regarding the efficiency of jihad propaganda were also uttered in the German diplomatic establishment, e.g. by Ambassador Paul Graf Wolff Metternich, who believed that the Muslim POWs were ‘people in a primitive mental state’ and thus not susceptible to political propaganda. March 18(?), 1916, PAAA, R21255, f. 3. Yet see also a report by Dr. Mansur Ahmad on his interrogation of five deserters in November 1915, which gives a matter-of-fact account of the reasons for desertion (e.g. for two Sikh deserters Mita Singh and Sardara Singh: “Both were tired of fighting and being assured of the fact that the Germans do not butcher their prisoners sought relief in German imprisonment”). They same account also states that two Muslim deserters, Sher Ali and Samtullah Khan “say, they came over this side in order to take part in Jehad against the English. They express their desire to be sent to Turkey as soon as possible.” PAAA, R21250, ff. 192–193. 146 Khan, Chains to lose, vol. I, p. 88. 147 Singh, The anatomy of dissent, pp. 23, 38. 148 PAAA, R21245, ff. 170, 196. 149 Mahendra Pratap’s report on his visit to Camp Zossen, March 28, 1915, PAAA, R21245, f. 170.

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by sentries.150 Afghan soldiers who had volunteered to fight in Turkey, wrote back to their comrades that they were no doubt better off than under the British,151 that staying on in the Inderlager would be worse and that those who told them to stay were their worst enemies.152 Sundar Singh, a literate 32 year-old peasant-soldier from the village Ghalab in Ludhiana District, used Doegen’s linguistic project to record a demand on the part of the Sikh prisoners on 5th January 1917. The Sikh inmates of the Inderlager had apparently asked for a bastar (garment), i.e. a cover sheet or rumal for their Adi Granth (the holy scripture and ‘final Guru’ of the Sikhs). Were they in India, said Sundar Singh, they would have refused to eat until a bastar was provided for the Guru Granth Sahib, but here they would soon die if they refused to eat, emaciated as they were due to the lack of Indian food. But, if they had no bastar, what was the meaning of the English sending us our Guru Granth Sahib? Think about this yourself and respond quickly. We are very happy when we see the inhabitants of Germany, yet we do believe that the Germans do not think of us the way we think of them. If the Germans did think that way, they would honour the abode of our Guru.153

The German authorities apparently failed to react and lost out in this comparison. A few weeks later, the Government of Punjab permitted the Maharaja of Patiala to send rumals to the Sikh prisoners in Germany.154 Comparison could also be turned into a polemic device against discrimination. This is discernible in an account of an incident in the British-Indian Army that was referred to in the correspondence between the Indian soldiers who had volunteered for service against Britain in the Ottoman Empire and their comrades in the ‘Halfmoon Camp’. Havildar Sher Ali thus wrote to his friend Ram Anand Thakur about a verbal exchange between one Havildar Nidhan Singh and a (British) officer. On being asked why he had returned from France, the Havildar replied that the Germans did not allow anyone to make

150 Report by the Indian Independence Committee on a visit of Bhupendra Dutt to the Zossen Lager, December 23, 1915, PAAA, R21252, f. 318. 151 German translation of letter from Havildar Bahadur Khan to Abdul Gadir Khan, recorded May 6, 1916, PAAA, R21256, f. 79. 152 Official note, March 31?, 1916, PAAA, R21255, f. 100. 153 LA, P.K. 676. 154 Das in this volume.

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progress. The officer opined that the Indians were not fighting wholeheartedly to which the havildar replied that it was also the case that the Indian soldiers received merely 11 Rupees pay, while the English soldier received 40. The Indian soldier was fighting according to his pay. The British military authorities had, wrote Sher Ali, sentenced Havildar Nidhan Singh to three years of severe imprisonment on account of this statement.155 We cannot ascertain whether this story has an origin in a real incident, but it certainly shows that the comparison of military wages could be conceived of by contemporaries as a way of questioning the hierarchies of the imperial army, as an act of military insubordination. I will conclude my paper with an episode from the Rae Bareilly district of the United Provinces in 1921. A serious agrarian confrontation occurred in the village of Karhia on the 20th March of that year. Hundreds kisans (peasants) had assembled despite a prohibitory police order when the police arrested a kisan sabha organizer named Brijpal Singh, a sepoy attached to the 9th Bhopal Infantry, who was on leave and had tried to address the crowd. 700 kisans attacked the police with stones and lathis (batons) and succeeded in freeing Brijpal Singh. The police fired into the crowd, but could only overcome the resistance of the peasants after reinforcements had been sent from Rae Bareilly. Brijpal Singh invoked Gandhi and also declared that “being a soldier he was not afraid of machine guns, cannons or cavalry.” The judge who later sentenced him to four years of rigorous imprisonment stated that it “looked as though Brijpal Singh found himself for the time being in the battlefields of France.” What had led to this escalation? The events that preceded the kisans’ attack on the police have been recounted by Kapil Kumar as follows: The Station Officer ordered the handcuffing of the prisoners. Brijpal Singh protested that for four years he had been a prisoner of war in Germany and even the Germans did not put handcuffs. He pleaded that he was prepared to accompany the police anywhere without handcuffs. His protest was replied with a shower of abuses by the police officer.156

155

Recorded May 6, 1916, PAAA, R21256, f. 71. Kumar, Kapil, Peasants in Revolt. Tenants, Landlords, Congress and the Raj in Oudh, 1886–1922, (Delhi, 1984), p. 166. See also: Telegram from Chief Secretary to Govt. of UP to Secretary to Government of India (Home Department), March 22, 1921, NAI, Home Political A, F. Nos. 335–339, March 1921. 156

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His prison experiences in Germany had provided Brijpal Singh with a standard of comparison, with an external measure for gauging the ethical value of the colonial state’s proceedings. The sarkar (government) had lost its singularity and, in this case, it was deemed to score low on the international scale of justness and tyranny that had become available through the ‘Great War’. This comparison, when drawn at a decisive moment of the peasant’s confrontation with the police, ceased to be confined to the sphere of cognition. It also ceased to be a means of negotiation. Instead, it came to signify the turning point when further negotiations were perceived to be futile by the peasants and a more dangerous register of social conflict was resorted to. Comparison revealed in that moment its potential to corrode authority. This figure of thought, when applied to the new experiences of the World War, could be turned into a device for the practical critique of the colonial state.

THE SUPPRESSED DISCOURSE: ARAB VICTIMS OF NATIONAL SOCIALISM1 Gerhard Höpp (with a prologue and an epilogue by Peter Wien) Prologue The following article is a first glimpse of what the late Gerhard Höpp had envisaged as a larger research project on Arab experiences as victims of Nazi terror. Höpp was probably the leading expert on the biographies of Muslims and Arabs in Germany, from the nineteenth century to the second half of the twentieth century. For the last 15 years of his life or so he had developed a strong interest in the fate of Arabs in Germany during these tumultuous years. He had published—among other things—on Muslim Prisoners of War in German camps, on Arabs as entertainers in Berlin’s “demi-monde” of the 1920s and during the Nazi period, and on Arab students in Germany. When he died untimely in the spring of 2003 after a short but grave illness, he had only started to write up what he had found in numerous European archives about Arabs as victims of National Socialism,—an expansive collection of biographical material. The following article therefore remains somewhat inconclusive, a sketch and first attempt without definite conclusions. Gerhard Höpp was aware that his research would have political ramifications in the context of the struggle for hegemony in the memory cultures of the Middle East conflict. He addressed the problems in the introduction to his article, but he does not mention that he himself was reproached for considering Arabs as victims of Nazi atrocities. The editors of this volume deemed it necessary that for a better understanding, this peculiar

1 This article has been translated from the German original, published in 2004: Gerhard Höpp, “Der verdrängte Diskurs. Arabische Opfer des Nationalsozialismus,” in Blind für die Geschichte? Arabische Begegnungen mit dem Nationalsozialismus, eds. Gerhard Höpp, Peter Wien and René Wildangel (ZMO Studien) 19 (Berlin, 2004), pp. 215–268. Gerhard Höpp passed away in December 2003. Severe illness hindered him from revising more than part of the German article, which was reviewed and supplemented by Türkan Yilmaz.

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research context should be outlined in a brief epilogue following this article. P.W. Introduction About ten years ago, in the introduction to “The Other Victims,” her book devoted to the non-Jewish victims of National Socialism, Ina Friedman wrote: “Fifty years after the Holocaust, many people believe that only Jews were victims of the Nazis.2 This is not correct. While six million Jews were killed in the Holocaust, five million Christians were also intentionally killed by the Nazis.”—Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Shintoists, not to mention atheists, to stick with the author’s diction, seem to be beyond the scope of the author’s view. This observation is not intended to give rise to criticism here. Rather, it draws attention to how little we still perceive people outside our Judeo-Christian civilization as affected by, and in particular as victims of, National Socialist rule. This is true of Arabs, who are the focus here, as well as of members of other African3 and Asian peoples who found themselves in the sphere of power and influence of the National Socialist regime between 1933 and 1945. Aside from collaborators like the notorious Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, Amīn al-Ḥ usaynī,4 their encounters with National Socialism have found no place in the collective

2 Ina R. Friedman, The Other Victims: First-Person Stories on Non-Jews Persecuted by the Nazis (Boston et al., 1990), p. 1. 3 For about the last ten years, intensive research has been done on African victims of National Socialism. See Robert W. Kesting, “Forgotten Victims: Blacks in the Holocaust,” The Journal of Negro History 77, 1 (1992), 30–36; idem, “The Black Experience during the Holocaust,” in The Holocaust and History. The Known, the Unknown, the Disputed, and the Reexamined, eds. Michael Berenbaum and Abraham J. Peck (Washington et al., 1998), pp. 358–365. Susann Samples, “African Germans in the Third Reich,” in The African-German Experience. Critical Essays, ed. Carol Aisha Blackshire-Belay (Westport, 1996), pp. 53–69. Marianne Bechhaus-Gerst, “Afrikaner in Deutschland 1933–1945,” 1999. Zeitschrift für Sozialgeschichte des 20. und 21. Jahrhunderts 12, 4 (1997), 12–31; Maguéye Kassé‚ “Afrikaner im nationalsozialistischen Deutschland,” Utopie kreativ 115,116 (2000), 501–507; Clarence Lusane, Hitler’s Black Victims. The Historical Experiences of Afro-Germans, European Blacks, Africans, and African Americans in the Nazi Era (New York, London, 2003). 4 On the discourse about the Mufti and his collaboration with the National Socialists, Rainer Zimmer-Winkel, ed., Eine umstrittene Figur. Hadj Amin al-Husseini, Mufti von Jerusalem (Trier, 1999). [Arabic proper names, terms, and titles of secondary literature are transliterated when they are quoted from the Arabic; in other cases—i.e. quotes from sources in German or other European languages—their spelling in these sources is adopted; eds.].

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memory of the nations, including of their own nations. Their sufferings under National Socialism and their struggle against the regime are still a blind spot in memory. There are general and specific reasons for this. The cultural, historical, and political horizon of the following generations seems to be greatly restricted, their imagination in regard to the totality of the reach and diversity of National Socialism’s methods of persecution and oppression is still insufficient. Added to this, the memories of non-Jewish and non-Christian, or non-European, victims of National Socialist oppression have been very rarely written down and hardly ever disseminated, in contrast to the relatively numerous published reminiscences of the collaborators. There is little mention of them and their fates in the memoirs of their European comrades in suffering. This general “threat to memory”5 was joined, after the end of National Socialist rule and in connection with the Arab-Israeli conflict, by a specific one: a politics of history and memory whose protagonists try to “monopolize their status as victims”6 and thereby mutually tend to minimize, ignore, or even deny the suffering of members of the respective other side, including suffering under National Socialism.7 This politics has crucially contributed to the situation that nothing is mentioned or written anywhere about Arab victims and opponents of National Socialism, in contrast to writings about the 5 Jan Assmann, “Die Katastrophe des Vergessens. Das Deuteronium als Paradigma kultureller Mnemotechnik,” in Mnemosyne. Formen und Funktionen der kulturellen Erinnerung, eds. Aleida Assmann and Dietrich Harth (Frankfurt am Main, 1991), p. 344. 6 Tom Segev, “Der Holocaust gehört in seinen konkreten historischen Kontext,” Universitas 51 (1996), 90. Steinbach explains this behavior by pointing out that the “subdivision or tabooization of events important to collective history” leads to an “exclusion of experienced suffering” and a “mental blockade of empathy”; the result, he says, is a “very consciously chosen narrowing of commemoration, which no longer consoles, but injures and is often perceived as a form of ‘fanatic commemoration’ of solely ‘one’s own victims’”. Peter Steinbach, “Die Vergegenwärtigung von Vergangenem. Zum Spannungsverhältnis zwischen individueller Erinnerung und öffentlichem Gedenken,” Aus Politik und Zeitgeschichte 3–4 (1997) pp. 4–5. 7 On the Arabic Holocaust discourse, see Rainer Zimmer-Winkel, ed., Die Araber und die Shoa. Über die Schwierigkeiten dieser Konjunktion (Trier, 2000). On current debates, see Karin Joggerst, “Koexistenz und kollektives Gedächtnis. Israelische und palästinensische Historiker suchen eine Annäherung,” INAMO 6, 22 (2000), 28–30 and the answer by Ghassan Abdallah, INAMO 6 (2000), 23–24 and 42, as well as Souad Mekhennet, “Warum wussten wir es nicht? Der Holocaust und die arabischen Opfer: Der Nachrichtensender Al Dschazira bricht ein politisches Tabu,” Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, January 6, 2003 and Aviv Lavie, “Partners in Pain. Arabs Study the Holocaust,” CounterPunch, February 12, 2003.

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Arab collaborators: There is a discourse about Arab perpetrators, but none about Arab victims. So if we want to change this situation and achieve something like historical justice, we must first reconstruct a memory of the victims. To this purpose, we have access to sources, mostly in archives, which for the most part do not stem from the victims, but from their persecutors and tormenters. If we sift and evaluate this material, we encounter more “threats to memory.” The greatest of these originate from the fact that Arabs, like members of other African and Asian peoples, were generally registered as citizens of the respective European colonial powers. For example, on September 11, 1939, Reichsführer SS and head of the German Police Heinrich Himmler wrote an urgent communiqué on the archiving of foreigner files in Germany, in which he directed government offices to use “the color of the mother country” for “members of colonies, mandates, and protectorates of colonial empires.”8 Arabs—and not only they, and not only in National Socialist files—appear, thus colonialistically encoded, usually as “French” and occasionally as “Spaniards,” “Italians,” or “British.” Their names therefore provide almost the only chance of unveiling their national identity. Against this background, I have conducted research, primarily in Belgian, German, and Austrian archives, on Arab victims of National Socialism.9 By this I mean people who, especially in Germany and in occupied Europe, had direct, usually life-threatening, and in all cases extreme encounters with the National Socialist apparatus of oppression. Recognizable in the sources are at least eight situations of oppression or groups of victims that so far have hardly been examined—or not at 8

Bundesarchiv Berlin (BArchB), R 58, Nr. 459, Bl. 45(RS). For valuable and generous support for my research, I would like to thank above all the Bundesarchiv, the Geheimes Staatsarchiv, the Landesarchiv, the Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amtes, the Deutsche Dienststelle (formerly WASt), and the Senatsverwaltung für Stadtentwicklung und Umweltschutz, Abt. Gräberwesen, in Berlin; the Service des Victimes de la Guerre in Brussels; the Bundesarchiv/ Militärarchiv in Freiburg im Breisgau; the Staatsarchiv Hamburg; the Thüringische Staatsarchiven in Gotha, Meiningen, and Rudolstadt; the Sächsisches Staatsarchiv in Leipzig; the Kulturamt/Stadtarchiv in Meersburg; the Landeshauptarchiv SachsenAnhalt in Merseburg; the Stadtarchiv and the Regionalmuseum in Neubrandenburg; the Brandenburgisches Landeshauptarchiv in Potsdam; the Gedenk- und Dokumentationsstätte KZ Drütte in Salzgitter; the Stadt- und Kreisarchiv Schmalkalden; the Landeshauptarchiv and the Stadtarchiv in Schwerin; the Garten- und Friedhofsamt Stuttgart; the Dokumentationsarchiv des österreichischen Widerstandes; and the Österreichisches Staatsarchiv/Archiv der Republik in Vienna. 9

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all. I explicate them on the basis of examples and name them in a sequence that tries to take into consideration the chronology of the situations and, connected with that chronology, the increasing suffering of the victims. The everyday harassment and persecution of Arab migrants in Germany and Austria before World War II The experiences of Arabs with National Socialists before and during the first years of the latter’s rule have never been systematically investigated before. The cases sketched here are individual, but can definitely be regarded as symptomatic and certainly are not isolated. In January 1932, the Egyptian Student Association in Graz, Austria informed the Egyptian consulate in Vienna that National Socialists had accosted some of its members and thrown “beer steins and armchairs” at them, injuring them, and that “oddly enough” the police had not arrested the perpetrators, but the victims of the attack. The Consul immediately informed the Austrian Foreign Ministry in Vienna and expected appropriate measures. The General Direction for Public Security, which was assigned to look into the incident, thereupon launched a court investigation, which ended with the National Socialist perpetrators’ acquittal. However, this body decided to avoid informing the Egyptian Consulate of the result of the proceedings “as long as the latter does not bring the matter up of its own accord.” One of its officers, incidentally, penciled the word “Jude,” “Jew,” after the names of three of the attacked Egyptians.10 In February 1934, the Egyptian Embassy in Berlin complained to the Reich Ministry of the Interior that the student Fuad Hassanein A. had been attacked and insulted in a dance hall in Tübingen. The perpetrator had opined that he was not permitted to dance with a “German” because he was “black” and of a “lower race” and had punched him. The attacker was not punished.11 As early as July 1933, the diplomats had inquired whether Berlin’s law banning “people of foreign race” from using the public open-air swimming pools also applied to Egyptians. The Foreign Ministry did

10 See: Österreichisches Staatsarchiv, Vienna/Archiv der Republik (ÖStArchW/ AdR), Neues Politisches Archiv, Karton 540, Liasse Egypten. 11 BArchB, R 43 II, Nr. 1423, Bl. 172ff.

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not find itself able to answer until May 1934 that the ban referred solely to “Jews.”12 The Egyptians Mustafa El Sherbini and Ahmed Mustafa, who in the 1930s operated a popular jazz and swing club, had their own experiences with the National Socialist regime. Under the sign of a supposed openness to the world before and during the 1936 Olympic Games, the government had to grit its teeth and tolerate the “Nigger” music that was played there despite official ostracism. But it took action against Jewish performers. In this, the publisher of the newspaper “Das deutsche Podium” (the German podium), Hans Brückner, played an especially perfidious role: whenever he identified Jewish musicians, he publicly denounced them and the establishments in which they played, placing them on an index in his periodical. In the fall of 1935, this verdict also threatened the Sherbini Bar, whose owner, himself a drummer, employed not only the “colored” jazz trombonist Herb Flemming,13 but also the Jewish violinist Paul Weinapel. When this was published in the “deutsche Podium,” El Sherbini’s competitor Mustafa quickly hired the “non-Aryan” for his Ciro Bar. When Brückner noted this and put this bar on the index in his paper, as well, Weinapel quietly returned to El Sherbini again in the spring of 1936.14 It is not known how long this risky cat-and-mouse game with the National Socialist “preservers of culture” went on and whether this was a reason why the Sherbini Bar was shut down soon thereafter. Mustafa apparently survived the Nazi regime—at any rate, the actor Meyerinck encountered him in Berlin as late as April 1945 in Berlin.15 But the fate of El Sherbini is uncertain. The last trace of him is the registration of his name in the “Deutsches Fahndungsbuch” (German manhunt book) of March 1, 1941.

12

BArchB, R 43 II, Nr. 1423, Bl. 177f. The US citizen Flemming, who had played in Berlin since 1935, had a Tunisian mother and an Egyptian father. The renewal of his work permit in Germany through 1937 is alleged to have come about through Ambassador William H. Dodd’s intervention with the Reich Propaganda Ministry. See Egino Biagioni, Herb Flemming, a Jazz Pioneer around the World (Alphen, 1977), p. 5 and pp. 49ff. 14 See Michael H. Kater, Gewagtes Spiel. Jazz im Nationalsozialismus (Cologne, 1995), p. 86. 15 See Hubert von Meyerinck, Meine berühmten Freundinnen. Erinnerungen (Düsseldorf, Vienna, 1967), p. 112. 13

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The sterilization of the so-called Moroccan half-breeds Arabs, their German partners, and their descendants were also affected quite directly by the racist policies of the regime, which escalated after the passage of the Nuremberg Laws of 1935. In the spring of 1937, a Special Commission formed at Gestapo (Secret State Police) headquarters ordered the “inconspicuous sterilization of the Rhineland bastards.”16 This referred to children and youths who had been conceived by “colored” soldiers and German women during the Allied occupation of the Rhineland in the 1920s. According to a list presented in 1935 to the “Specialists Advisory Board for Population and Race Policy” at the Reich Ministry of the Interior, this category included 385 persons,17 but other estimates run from 500 to 800.18 An unknown number of these were rendered sterile as bearers of “racially foreign” blood in the summer of 1937 on the recommendation of the Sterilization Commission. These included so-called Moroccan halfbreeds,19 the children of North Africans who served in the French army of occupation. Among these unfortunates was 17-year-old Josef F., of Mainz. The sterilization directive of June 12, 1937 designated him as a “descendant of a member of the former colored occupation troops (North Africa),” who displayed “clearly the accompanying anthropological traits”. He was “therefore to be made infertile.”20 It is not known whether the then 14-year-old Lucie M. was also sterilized. She was sent in February 1943 to Ravensbrück concentration camp as “asocial” and a “Moroccan half-breed.” The internment of Arab civilians at the outbreak of World War II Immediately after the beginning of the war, on September 5, 1939, the “Ordinance on the Treatment of Foreigners” stipulated the 16 See Reiner Pommerin, “Sterilisierung der Rheinlandbastarde”. Das Schicksal einer farbigen deutschen Minderheit 1918–1937 (Düsseldorf, 1979), p. 78. 17 BArchB, Film 14198, Bl. 471257. 18 Ibid., Bl. 471161. 19 See Wolfgang Abel, “Bastarde am Rhein,” Neues Volk 2, 2 (1934), 4–7; idem, “Über Europäer-Marokkaner- und Europäer-Annamiten-Kreuzungen,” Zeitschrift für Morphologie und Anthropologie 36 (1937), 311ff. Abel was an “anthropological evaluator” for the sterilization commissions. 20 BArchB, R 1501, Nr. 1271, Bl. 31.

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reporting and registration21 and the internment22 of citizens of socalled enemy states. The regulations on executing this order included in this designation the inhabitants of British and French colonies, protectorates, and mandate areas, as well as of Egypt, Sudan, and Iraq.23 From October on, Arabs in Germany, annexed Austria, and occupied Poland were thereupon arrested, jailed, and for the most part sent to the internment camp Wülzburg near Nuremberg (Ilag XIII). This affected above all Arab Palestinians and Egyptians. While the former were soon replaced by “Palestine Jews,”24 the latter were earmarked for exchange for German civilians who had been interned in Egypt. Among these hostage prisoners were nine Egyptians, including the President of the German-Egyptian Chamber of Commerce, Aziz Cotta,25 who was arrested in Berlin on October 3 and then, in a demagogic propaganda measure, released seven weeks later for 30 days, supposedly to demonstrate the regime’s “good will” and to test the will of the Egyptian government to pursue the “interests of the Egyptians in Germany” and to free German prisoners in turn. After the Egyptian government failed to comply, the Egyptians were sent to Wülzburg camp again.26 While this maneuver was still going on, Reich Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop ordered the internment of additional Egyptians “in the proportion that for each German interned in Egypt, two

21 The surveillance of foreigners was the purview of the Reichssicherheitshauptamt (Reich Security Main Office) (BArchB, R 58/459, Bl. 77) and, from August 1940 on, of a department of its Office IV, the Gestapo (ibid, Bl. 152). On September 16, 1939 all Iraqis and on October 24 all subjects and citizens of French colonies, protectorates, and mandate territories who were in the Reich were called upon to report to local police authorities for the purpose of registration. See ibid., Bl. 48 and 66. 22 Reichsgesetzblatt (Reich legal bulletin), Vol. 1939, Part I, p. 1667. 23 BArchB, R 58/459, Bl. 94. 24 Politisches Archiv des Auswärtigen Amtes, Berlin (PArchAAB), R 40750. Many of the Jews with passports from Britain’s Palestine mandate who were in the camps and ghettos of the Reich (including Austria) and the occupied territories were earmarked for exchange for Germans interned by the British authorities in Palestine. Ibid., R 41527 through 415535. Since October 1943, at the latest, the lists of “exchange-willing” Palestinians presented by the Swiss legation included Arabs from the Reich, including Austria. Some who were judged to be not “German-friendly” were interned in Ilag VII Laufen and in Ilag Saint-Denis. Ibid., R 41532 and R 41533. 25 On him see Wolfgang Schwanitz, “Aziz Cotta Bey, deutsche und ägyptische Handelskammern und der Bund der Ägypter Deutscher Bildung (1919–1939),” in Fremde Erfahrungen. Asiaten und Afrikaner in Deutschland, Österreich und in der Schweiz bis 1945, ed. Gerhard Höpp (Berlin, 1996), pp. 359–382. 26 PArchAAB, Nachlass Hentig, Vol. 150.

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Egyptians are interned here”. Only those were to be left in freedom “whose activity is provably useful.”27 The deadline had hardly passed when, on January 3, 1940, Himmler ordered the internment “of all male Egyptian citizens between the ages of 18 and 60.”28 The new arrests increased the number of Egyptians imprisoned in Wülzburg to more than twenty. In the spring of 1940, four were arrested in Leipzig alone, along with Algerians and a Lebanese possessing Egyptian citizenship.29 Iraqis were officially exempt from internment.30 Most of the Egyptians interned in Ilag XIII had to stay there until June 9, 1941; only two diplomats had been permitted to leave the Reich on July 27, 1940. After a long tug-of-war among the Foreign Ministry, the NSDAP’s foreign organization, and the Reichsführer SS, Ribbentrop finally ordered the prisoners released from internment. He explicitly declared “a great political interest” in “also politically exploiting the now approved release in a suitable manner, advising the freed prisoners in a most friendly manner and making their labor power useful to us. A number of released persons,” he hoped, “can be expected to receive employment in the radio or language services, perhaps also in military offices.” A few Egyptians followed this cynical recommendation and worked for the Reich after their release. But the internment left others, like George Kh., “completely physically shattered and an old man” or, like Abdel Hamid A., “with severe 27

BArchB, Film 14188, Bl. 200197f. Ibid., R 58/459, Bl. 82. 29 Sächsisches Staatsarchiv Leipzig (SStArchL), Untersuchungshaftanstalten Leipzig, Nr. 434. 30 BArchB, R 58/459, Bl. 48. On January 31, 1941 the German military commander in France ordered to exclude all “ethnic Arabs” living in the occupied territory from internment, “in particular citizens of the states of Oman, Iraq, and Palestine”, as well as of Egypt. PArchAAB, Botschaft Paris, Nr. 2378. On June 19, 1941, he confirmed: “Iraqi citizens of ethnic Arab descent have not been interned in the occupied territory of France or in the Reich.” Ibid., Nr. 2342. Apparently this was done out of consideration for assumed “German-friendly” feelings among the Iraqi and Palestinian Arab elites. But this altered nothing about the ban on emigration: On May 7, 1943, when the Afghan Embassy, as provisional representative of Iraq, informed the German Foreign Office that the Iraqi government had ordered all Iraqis living in the realm of the Axis powers to return to their homeland under threat of punishment, including the confiscation of all their property, and requested the issuance of exit visas, the German office refused. Instead, it offered that Iraqis who wanted to leave be exchanged for German men fit for military service who had been interned in Iraq at the beginning of the war and then taken to British India. The office had no interest in the Germans in the Iraqi internment camp Amara, who were “non-Aryan and Jewish-related citizens of the Reich and ethnic Germans married to Orientals”. Ibid., R 41516. 28

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lung disease.”31 Lutfi M., who was subsequently transferred to internment camp Tost near Gleiwitz (Ilag VIII) and Tewfik M., who was put in the branch prisoner of war camp Falkensee (Stalag III D/Z),32 were as little able to enjoy their regained freedom as was Cotta, who remained under house arrest in Tyrolia until the end of the war. The last Egyptian internee, Rida M., left Wülzburg camp on July 22, 1941.33 Also among this so far completely unnoticed group of victims, the civilian internees, were the Arab seamen who had been imprisoned since summer 1941. They were interned initially in the prisoner of war camp Sandbostel (Stalag X A) and then in the newly erected marine prisoners’ camp Westertimke near Bremen (Milag Nord). Most, i.e. 112 of them, came from the Egyptian steamer “Zamzam,” which the German auxiliary cruiser “Atlantis” had torpedoed on April 17, 1941 in the South Atlantic off the African coast. The Zamzam had allegedly carried “military-related goods to a country engaged in war with Germany.”34 In reality, in New York the ship had taken 140 American and Canadian missionaries and family members on board who intended to evangelize in Africa.35 The other Arab marine prisoners were from other ships, including the Dutch freighter Barneveld, which the German battleship Admiral Graf Scheer had sunk on January 20, 1941 north of the island St. Helena. Finally, another ten or so “Arabs” of unclear descent and about 20 “colored Frenchmen” were in the camp.36 At first, a release or transfer of the “colored” prisoners to “climatically more favorable” Italy was apparently considered. An employee of the radio-political department of the Foreign Ministry, Kurt Menzel, had visited the prisoners in the beginning of August. He advised 31

Ibid., R 29863. Ibid., Nachlass Hentig, Vol. 150. 33 Ibid., R 41673. 34 Ibid., R 41483. Six Greeks and Croats were also crew members on the Zamzam. 35 They were rescued and returned to their homelands. Whereas their fate has attracted public sympathy right to the present, see Swan Hjalmar Swanson, ed., Zamzam. The Story of a Strange Missionary Odyssey, by the Agustana Synod Passengers (Minneapolis, 1941); Isabel Russell Guernsey, Free Trip to Berlin” (Toronto 1943); Susan G. Loobie, “Responding to the Storms of Life. Remembering the Zamzam,” Latin America Evangelist, January–March (1999), online at http://www .lam.org/lae/9901/stormsoflife.html (accessed before 2003); Eleanor Anderson, Miracle at Sea: The Sinking of the ZamZam and Our Family’s Rescue, (Bolivar 2000), the fate of the Egyptian crew is apparently mentioned only by Muḥammad Kāẓim, Zamzam al-gharīqa, n.p. 1945. 36 PArchAAB, R 40967. 32

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against broadcasting the recordings of the seamen’s greetings to their families at home via the German short-wave broadcasters, since they “could not be harmonized with the propagandistic orientation of our broadcasts in standard Arabic”. For the same propagandistic reasons, he recommended their early release. In October, the Ministry asked the German Embassy in Rome to inquire whether Italy would accept the prisoners, but received a refusal at the end of December.37 Earlier, on September 29, the Camp Commander Spiess had recommended exchanging the Egyptian marine prisoners for the civilian internees in Egypt who had still not returned. A few weeks later, the Supreme Command of the Navy seconded this suggestion and recommended their exchange for the “same or a greater number” of Germans. The Egyptian seamen thus found themselves in the hostage position earlier occupied by their countrymen who had meanwhile been released from Wülzburg.38 The fate of these new prisoners was more severe than that of the civilian internees. Except for the ship’s doctor, who, after his transfer to internment camp Laufen, near Traunstein (Ilag VII), was exchanged in summer 1943, they had to wait longer for their release. They also suffered more from cold and disease, and at least three of them died during internment.39 One of these groups entered the service of Grand Mufti Amīn al-Ḥ usaynī, some others sought to improve their situation by becoming foreign workers in Berlin, Bremen, and Vienna. Ninety-eight former members of the crew of the Zamzam did not go free until the end of 1944. Together with about a dozen countrymen who had been selected from a much larger group of “exchangewilling” Egyptians from the Reich, Austria, the “Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia,” and occupied Western Europe in August, they were brought in August to the Bulgarian border town of Svilengrad to be deported to Turkey in exchange for Germans from Egypt. Although Bulgaria’s declaration of war against Germany delayed this process, the Egyptians probably arrived in their homeland by October 1944 at the latest. It is not known what became of their

37

Ibid. Ibid.; in July 1942, the German military commander for Belgium and Northeast France offered the Supreme Command of the Army four of the 34 Egyptians living in his command area, for the purpose of exchange. Ibid., R 41483. 39 Ibid., R 41714. 38

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“exchange-willing” comrades. In July, they had sought to be exchanged through the intercession of the Grand Mufti and of the German diplomat Werner Otto von Hentig, but the archives provide no information whether this exchange happened.40 It is not known how many Arab civilians were interned in Germany and in German-occupied territories during World War II. The search for these victims of National Socialism is made more difficult because, as noted at the beginning, many of them may be listed as Frenchmen and Englishmen. Arab, especially North African, soldiers of the French army as prisoners of war The same difficulties in identification also apply to what is probably the largest group of victims, the Arab prisoners of war. In the unpublished (and today also in the published) sources, they are almost without exception designated as belonging to the states in whose armies they served—Algerians, Moroccans, and Tunisians from the French army therefore are registered as Frenchmen. This practice was intensified by a June 16, 1941 order from the Supreme Command of the Wehrmacht (OKW) that clarified the “repeatedly arising uncertainty about the affiliation of members of foreign peoples” by ruling “that the uniform as external sign of affiliation to the army in question is decisive.”41 In addition, the German statistics often lumped the Arab, usually North African, prisoners of war together with Senegalese, Malagasy, and other Africans and Vietnamese as “blacks and colored.” This makes their identification even more difficult. In the course of and after the conclusion of the French campaign, the “coloreds,” including the North African prisoners from the French army, were mostly housed in front primary camps (Frontstalags) that were set up on occupied French territory. These included the camps 121 Epinal, 122 Chaumont, 124 Joigny, 132 Laval, 133 Rennes, 135 Quimper, 141 Vesoul, 153 Chartres, 161 Nancy, 191 Saumur, 184 Angoulême, 190 Charleville, 194 Châlons-sur-Marne, 195 Onnesse-

40

Ibid., R 41483, R 41484, and R 41485. Quoted in Helmuth Forwick, “Zur Behandlung alliierter Kriegsgefangener im Zweiten Weltkrieg,” Militärgeschichtliche Mitteilungen 2 (1967), 127. 41

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Laharie, 200 Verneuil, 221 Saint-Médard (Camp de Souge), 222 Bayonne-Anglet, 230 Poitiers, and 232 Saveney-Luçon.42 Although the literature occasionally states that “colored” prisoners of war were kept outside the borders of the Reich,43 many of them were initially taken to Stalags in the old Reich, annexed Austria, or occupied Poland. Apart from the camps named by Uwe Mai—I A Stablack, I B Hohenstein, II A Neubrandenburg, II B Hammerstein, II D Stargard, III A Luckenwalde, III B Fürstenberg/Oder, IV B Mühlberg, IV (D) Elsterhorst, VII A Moosburg, VIII C Sagan, IX A Ziegenhain, XI A Altengrabow, XI B Falling bostel, XIII D Nuremberg, XVII A Kaisersteinbruch, XVII B Gneixendorf-Krems, XX A Thorn, XXI A Schildberg and XXI C Wollstein,44 it is documented that Arab prisoners of war were also interned in Stalag III D Berlin, IV A Hohnstein, VI A Hemer, VI B Neu-Versen, VI C Bathorn, VI D Dortmund, X B Sandbostel, XII A Limburg, XII B Frankenthal, XII F/Z Bliesmengen-Bolchen, and XVIII C Markt Pongau, as well as in the Oflags (Officers’ Main Camps) IV D Elsterhorst, VI A Soest, and XVII A Edelbach. North Africans and Egyptians, Palestinians, and Syrians, who were captured primarily during the Allied advance in Italy in 1944, were taken to such stalags as IV E Altenburg, V C Offenburg, VIII B Lamsdorf, and VIII C Sagan. Near the end of the war, Stalag 194 Gottenheim in Military District V also took in “coloreds” from evacuated camps in France, Poland, and Austria.45

42

PArchAAB, R 40769 and R 40770. For example, Georg Hebbelmann, Stalag VI A Hemer. Ein Kriegsgefangenenlager in Westfalen (Münster, 1995), p. 13. 44 Uwe Mai, Kriegsgefangen in Brandenburg. Stalag III A in Luckenwalde 1939– 1945 (Berlin, 1999), p. 148. 45 Researched using the following sources: BArchB, Film 15125, 15557, 57408, 57409, 57410, and 57690; PArchAAB, R 40723, R 40726, R 40747, R 40769, R 40770, R 40987, R 40988, R 40989, R 40990, R 41039, and R 67003; Bernd Boll, Fremdarbeiter in Offenburg, 1940–1945. Working manuscript (Offenburg, 1988); Pierre Gascar, Histoire de la captivité des Français en Allemagne (1939–1945) (Paris, 1967); Georg Hebbelmann, Stalag VI A Hemer; Achim Kilian, Mühlberg 1939–1948 (Cologne et al., 2001); Erich Kosthorst and Bernd Walter, Konzentrations- und Strafgefangenenlager im Dritten Reich. Beispiel Emsland. Zusatzteil: Kriegsgefangenenlager, vols. 2 and 3 (Düsseldorf, 1983); Eva-Maria Krenkel and Dieter Nürnberger, Lebensskizzen Kriegsgefangener und zwangsverpflichteter Ausländer im Raum Fritzlar-Ziegenhain 1940–1943 (Kassel, 1985); Dieter Krüger, “. . . Doch sie liebten das Leben”. Gefangenenlager in Neubrandenburg 1939 bis 1945 (Neubrandenburg, 1990); Joachim Rotberg, Zwangsarbeiter und Kriegsgefangene in katholischen Einrichtungen im Bereich der Diözese Limburg: ein Werkstattbericht (Limburg, 2001); Stanislaw Senft and Horst Wieçek, Obozy jenieckie na obszarze śląskięgo okręgu Wehrmachtu: 1939–1945 [The 43

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With the exception of the inmates of the last-named camps, the “coloreds,” including Arab, prisoners of the stalags were transferred to front stalags and finally concentrated in the climatically favorable camps, especially in Southern France (184, 195, 221 und 222). These transfers began in winter 1940 and continued incrementally until the end of 1942. The affected internees included the 115 North African prisoners of war—61 Algerians, 52 Moroccans, and 2 Tunisians— who were transferred between November 1943 and June 1944 from the northern French stalags Chartres and Rennes and from Alderney to the climatically favorable Channel island of Jersey.46 The number of Arab, specifically North African, prisoners of war is unclear until now. The main reason for this is the aforementioned practice in the German statistics of lumping together the “blacks and coloreds” in the front stalags and stalags and the uncritical citation of these numbers in the literature. Only Belkacem Recham has attempted to scrutinize the various figures, although he does not consider the stalags.47 Based on his investigations and my own calculations, the following picture can be reconstructed: from the beginning of the war until the French capitulation in June 1940, approximately 67,400 North African prisoners were in the front stalags.48 In the stalags mentioned by Mai at the same time, 28,722 “coloreds” were registered (I was able to find hardly any figures for the additional stalags I mentioned). Experience shows that about 65 percent of those called “blacks and coloreds” in the statistics were North Africans, which means an additional 18,700. The resulting figure of 86,100 prisoners comes close to the number Yves Chatel gave in January 1941–90,000—which Recham obviously wrongly doubted.49

prisoner of war camps of the Wehrmacht on Silesian territory, 1939–1945] (Wrocław et al. 1972); Tadeusz Sojka, Zbrodnie Wehrmachtu na jeńcach wojennych w Żaganiu 1939–1945: studium kryminalistyczno-historyczne [The crimes committed by the Wehrmacht against the prisoners of war in Sagan in the years 1939–1945: a criminalist-historical study] (Zielona Góra, 1982). 46 See Margaret Ginns, “French North African Prisoners of War in Jersey,” Channel Islands Occupation Review (1985), 50–70. 47 “Despite all efforts, we were unable to acquire precise information on the number of North African prisoners of war in the Oflags and Stalags.”, Belkacem Recham, Les Musulmans Algériens dans l’armée française (1919–1945), PhD thesis (Paris, 1995), p. 219. 48 Recham, Les Musulmans Algériens, p. 222. 49 Recham, Les Musulmans Algériens, p. 222.

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If we take into consideration that 38,145 “colored” prisoners of war—including an estimated 24,800 North Africans—were released between August 1940 and February 194150 and another 12,000 were released in July 1941,51 then the result is ca. 49,300. This comes close to the 44,000 that Recham cites for October.52 By the end of 1941, the number was reduced to about 39,000, primarily due to the release of the ill and of family men.53 By Fall 1943, in particular due to the “Relève,”54 the change in status,55 and escapes,56 the number of prisoners fell further to not quite 22,000,57 rising again in Summer 1944 to between 25,000 and 35,000.58 The reason for this was the capture of North African and other Arab soldiers from the Free French and the British armies, especially during the Allied advance in Italy. Little secured knowledge exists about the treatment of Arab prisoners of war in the camps. Neither the inadequately preserved archival materials, nor the published experiences of “white” fellow prisoners, nor the research literature provide adequate, much less systematic information. Hardly any memoirs of imprisoned Arabs are known. The Arab prisoners of war, like the other “blacks and coloreds,” were housed in “special departments” in the front stalags59 and presumably also in the stalags. This segregated housing was in accordance with the 1929 “Geneva Convention Relative to Prisoners of War,” which stated that “the gathering of prisoners of different races

50

PArchAAB, R 40768 and R 41106. Recham, Les Musulmans Algériens, p. 224. 52 Ibid. My own research on twelve of nineteen front stalags resulted in a figure of almost 30,000 prisoners; in fall 1941, the number in six of the eight front stalags rose to about 5,000 prisoners. 53 Recham, Les Musulmans Algériens, p. 221 and BArchB, Film 57690. 54 In the course of the “Relève” proclaimed by the Vichy government in June 1942, the dispatch of three French workers to Germany could “relieve” one prisoner of war. See Helga Bories-Sawala, Franzosen im “Reichseinsatz”. Deportation, Zwangsarbeit, Alltag. Vol. 1 (Frankfurt am Main et al., 1996), p. 263ff. 55 At the beginning of 1943, the Vichy regime and the Reich agreed on the “Eased Statute”, according to which each French worker who took work in Germany would shift one prisoner of war to the status of a civilian worker. See Bories-Sawala, Franzosen im “Reichseinsatz”, p. 237ff. 56 Recham, Les Musulmans Algériens, p. 225ff. 57 Ibid. 58 BArchB, Film 4923, Bl. 393375; ibid., Film 3660, Bl. 650600. 59 Bundesarchiv/Militärarchiv, Freiburg (BArch/MArchF), WF03/14247, Bl. 307, 329, 332 and 339. 51

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and nationalities in one camp should be avoided if possible.”60 To the degree that it was carried out for “climatic reasons,” the transfer of prisoners from the stalags to the front stalags and finally their concentration in South France adhered to the Geneva Convention.61 But it is impossible to overlook that the translocation to a “warmer climate” was clearly subordinated to military-economic requirements. As the OKW determined in September 1942, this transfer could be deferred “in consideration of work assignment, especially in agriculture.”62 Likewise, the release of North African prisoners of war was not only a humanitarian act in accordance with the Geneva Convention.63 Rather, it took account of both military-economic and propagandistic aspects: as the German Embassy in Paris assured the Foreign Ministry in October 1941, it would “mean no burden to the labor market” and at the same time “contribute to a limited extent to an improvement of the mood in North Africa.”64 Something else soon joined these considerations: after the landing of the Allies in North Africa in November 1942, the Ministry recommended the release of additional prisoners of war from Algeria and Morocco. This was done with the explicit expectation that, after “political influencing,” they would “energetically seek their home communities, come into unpleasant contact with the Giraud authorities, in no case be willing to serve in the military, and cause ill humor among the French”.65 The released prisoners would thus “bring a disturbing element into enemy territory.”66 Worth mentioning in this context is that in summer 1944 the head of the SS Hauptamt, Gottlob Berger, suggested to the Reichsführer SS that volunteers be recruited from among the North African prisoners of war to “fight bands” in France “because these coloreds are primarily soldiers and want to be used as such. The use of these troops in the French Maquis would be of the highest importance and would be more effective than using the militia, which is understandably reluctant to move against their own countrymen.”67

60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67

Reich legal bulletin, Vol. 1934, Part II, p. 235. Reich legal bulletin, Vol. 1934, Part II, p. 235. PArchAAB, R 67003. Reich legal bulletin, Vol. 1934, Part II, p. 249. PArchAAB, R 67003. BArchB, Film 15810, Bl. E026316. PArchAAB, R 60660. BArchB, Film 3660, Bl. 650601.

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Usable for propaganda was also the permission granted to the Muslim Arab prisoners of war to practice their religion.68 In accordance with the Geneva Convention69 and based on the OKW’s May 12, 1941 order,70 communal prayers could be held and the major Islamic holidays could be observed in many front stalags. This is documented for camps 132, 153, 161, 181, 184, 190, 195, 222, 230, and 232 and in part on their external work details. There were mosques at the front stalags 132 Laval, 181 Saumur, 184 Angoulême, and 230 Poitiers,71 the only one erected in a regular stalag was probably in the branch camp Großbeeren of Stalag III D.72 The religious services and ceremonies (in which incidentally German counter-intelligence officers were required to take part with interpreters) were led by imams and marabuts who were prisoners of war in the camps. In February 1941, the imam of the Paris mosque, Kaddur Ben Ghabrit, suggested sending civilian North African clergy as chaplains for Muslim Arab prisoners in Germany, including to Stalag III A Luckenwalde. The OKW rejected the idea, in part because of “substantial counter-intelligence reservations.”73 Religious prescriptions were also generally to be taken into account regarding the food provided to Muslim Arab prisoners of war. Thus, on September 18, 1943, the quartermaster of the commander for Northwest France ordered that “instead of pork, beef or mutton is to be provided. The fat ration to be provided shall not be bacon or pork lard, but mutton or beef tallow or margarine. The seminola required

68

The relevant literature provides no information on the religious life of the Muslim prisoners of war. See, among others, Yves Durand, La vie quotidienne des prisonniers de guerre dans les Stalags, les Oflags et les Kommandos 1939–1945 (Paris, 1987), p. 173ff.; Markus Eikel, Französische Katholiken im Dritten Reich. Die religiöse Betreuung der französischen Kriegsgefangenen und Zwangsarbeiter 1940–1945 (Freiburg, 1999). 69 Reich legal bulletin, Vol. 1934, Part II, p. 237. 70 Reich legal bulletin, Vol. 1934, Part II, p. 235. 71 PArchAAB, R 40769, R 40770, R 40988 and R 40989. 72 “Eine Moschee in Großbeeren? Kein Hirngespinst—es gab sie wirklich!”, Amtsblatt Großbeeren 11 (1999), 12; Regina Clausnitzer, “Moschee in Großbeeren—Suche nach einer Fotoaufnahme nun doch noch erfolgreich”, Ibid. 5 (2000), 17. A photo of the mosque was also enclosed in an propagandistic article about a prisoner of war camp that is supposed to have housed ca. 500 North Africans. “Ziyāra li-muʿaskar al-asrā al-maghāriba al-qāʾim fī ḍawāḥī Berlin”, [A visit to the camp of the North African prisoners of war situated in the outskirts of Berlin], Barīd ash-Sharq 2 (1941), 27. 73 At Luckenwalde there was also a “Tunisian who can read the Koran and who provides his co-religionists with pastoral guidance”. PArchAAB, R 40747. See also ibid., R 67003.

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for the preparation of couscous (national dish of the Mohamedans), if possible coarse-grained, is to be distributed in the framework of the food ration the prisoner of war is entitled to.” This “special provision” was made conditional on the “kitchen situation” and “other external circumstances.”74 The burial of deceased Muslim Arab prisoners of war, however, was not carried out in accordance with Islamic precepts. An OKW guideline “for the burial of deceased French prisoners of war” from January 30, 1942, at any rate, stipulated that “deceased who belong to a non-Christian confession” were to be “buried in a simple, dignified, worldly form.”75 But it was permitted to adorn the grave with a “symbol corresponding to his ritual,” in the case of Muslims “with the fez”.76 The inscriptions on the gravestones77 had to be in German.78 Muslims among the Arab prisoners of war were usually buried in separate fields of graves, as were members of other religions or confessions. Forms of expression of the religious life of Arab prisoners of war were among the themes of German war propaganda. This is evidenced by readers’ letters like that of the Algerian Muḥammad al-Ḥ asan al-Wārt ̣ilānī about an ʿĪd al-Fit ̣r in the camp,79 or the report on the burial of Muslim victims of an Allied bombing attack on a front stalag.80 Such letters and reports were printed in publications distributed not only in the camps, but also among the civilian population in North Africa and the Middle East. Among the former was

74 BArch/MArchF, RH 49, Nr. 67. Muslims in the Wehrmacht were permitted to slaughter animals in accordance with ḥalāl regulations (permissible according to Islamic prescriptions, eds.). On June 1, 1944 the OKW ordered this permission expanded to include “the prisoners of war of the Mohammedan religion” (quoted in Helmuth Forwick, “Zur Behandlung alliierter Kriegsgefangener im Zweiten Weltkrieg.”, 129–130.). This probably applied primarily to Muslims among the Soviet prisoners of war, among whom efforts were being made to recruit for the ‘ethnically alien’ units of the Wehrmacht and SS. 75 PArchAAB, R 67004; BArch/MArchF, RH 49, Nr. 51. 76 PArchAAB, R 67004. 77 The grave markers planned for Muslims were of “oak or fir wood, impregnated, scorched, board thickness (untreated) 8 cm”. Brandenburgisches Landeshauptarchiv, Potsdam (BrLHArchP), Rep.6 B Jüterbog-Ludwigsfelde, Nr. 371/4, Bl. 105. 78 PArchAAB, R 67004. 79 “Al-Iḥtifālāt bi-ʿīd al-fitṛ fī aḥad al-muʿtaqalāt al-almānīya li’l-asrā al-muslimīn.” [The celebrations of ʿĪd al-fiṭr in one of the German camps for Muslim prisoners of war.] Barīd ash-Sharq 4, 44 (1942), 31–32. See also Lisān al-Asīr 1, 7 (1941), 6–7. 80 Lisān al-Asīr 1, 1 (1941), 3ff. and 2 (1941), 4.

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the Arabic prisoners’ newspaper “Lisān al-Asīr,”81 which was published since May 15, 1941 and distributed primarily in the front stalags, the Arabic-language newspaper “al-Hilāl,”82 which was published in Stalag III A Luckenwalde, and the “Trait d’Union,” which was published for all French-speaking prisoners of war. Among the periodicals aimed at Arabs abroad was the Arabic-language magazine “Barīd ash-Sharq,”83 which, however, was also distributed in front stalags.84 Despite these and other military and propagandistic considerations, we cannot speak of a “privileged” treatment of the (Muslim) Arab prisoners of war as had been practiced in World War I85 and as was occasionally demanded again now.86 Especially in the first years of the war, the prisoners as well as the French inspectors of the “Mission Scapini” decried the “often catastrophic” housing in the front stalags and stalags, which apparently were poorly prepared for their wards.87 Poor clothing and inadequate food88 also contributed to a high mortality, especially in the northern French and German camps. The prisoners died primarily of tuberculosis, other lung diseases, and dysentery.89 Especially poor conditions prevailed in the numerous work details of the front stalags. In 1943, for example, 10,000 Arab prisoners of

81 “Editor in chief ” of the periodical printed in Bordeaux was an Aḥmad alḤ anṣālī; the last known issue (Nr. 13) is from March 1942. 82 I was unable to obtain copies of the periodical, which probably was issued only in 1940 and was edited by a Ṣāliḥ bin Muḥammad. It is mentioned by Jamaʿ Baiḍā, “al-Maghrib wa’d-diʿāya an-nāzīya.” [The Maghrib and Nazi Propaganda], al-Maghrib wa Almāniyā. Aʿmāl al-multaqā al-jāmiʿī al-awwal (Rabat, 1991), p. 24. 83 Published between 1939 and 1944 and edited by the Egyptian Kamāl ad-Dīn Galāl on commission from the Reich Propaganda Ministry. Gerhard Höpp, Arabische und islamische Periodika in Berlin und Brandenburg 1915–1945. Geschichtlicher Abriss und Bibliographie (Berlin, 1994), p. 16. 84 PArchAAB, R 67003. 85 See Gerhard Höpp, Muslime in der Mark. Als Kriegsgefangene und Internierte in Wünsdorf und Zossen, 1914–1924 (Berlin, 1997). 86 In World War I, Max von Oppenheim had suggested giving special treatment to Muslim prisoners of war, which was then indeed practiced. In Juli 1940, he addressed the Foreign Office and, referring to this experience, suggested, among other things, a “special, friendly treatment of captured Moroccans, Algerians, and Tunisians”; this would bear “good fruits” for Germany. BArchB, Film 14882, Bl. 326020. 87 Recham, Les Musulmans Algériens, p. 220. 88 Ibid., p. 220ff. 89 Recham, Les Musulmans Algériens, pp. 217–218. All the death certificates of North African prisoners of war from Stalag III A Luckenwalde available to me, without exception, name tuberculosis as the cause of death.

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war supported the German war effort, especially by building fortifications, another ca. 1,400 worked in the arms industry,90 and more than 5,000 were employed in agriculture and forestry, especially in Southern France. The meager pay—generally 10 francs or 0.70 Reichsmarks for an 8- to 12-hour day—at least put them in a position to purchase additional food and tobacco.91 An improvement in the poor living conditions in the camps was achieved by the aforementioned evacuation of “colored” prisoners to climatically more favorably located front stalags and by the possibility to receive “gift parcels” from the International Committee of the Red Cross and other aid organizations. Participating in this program to a certain degree was the “Services diplomatiques des prisonniers de guerre” created in 1940 by the Vichy regime and headed by Georges Scapini. This institution, nicknamed the “Mission Scapini,” with its headquarters in Paris was responsible for caring for French prisoners of war in the Axis camps. After inspecting camps and questioning prisoners, its officers sometimes pointed out deficits to German civilian and military offices and in some cases were able to achieve improvements. Racist attacks and even massacres, as the literature has depicted against “black” prisoners of war,92 are unknown to date against Arab prisoners of war. But this does not mean that Arabs were safe from discriminatory and humiliating treatment in the camps. For example, the Polish prisoner of war Mikolaj Caban, who came to Stalag II D Stargard in December 1939, recalls: “It seldom occurred that a Pole or Frenchman was beaten; Moroccans were treated worse and Jews the worst.”93 In July and November 1940 in Stalag XVII A Kaiser-

90 In October 1944, some 170 Moroccan prisoners in Rammersweier had to carry out a labor commando at Stalag V F Offenburg, “Loading work for the Wehrmacht”; in addition, they were, “on demand, assigned to the farmers in small troops under a guard to harvest potatoes”. Bernd Boll, Fremdarbeiter in Offenburg, p. 57. 91 Recham, Les Musulmans Algériens, pp. 222ff. In addition to the front stalags named by Recham, Camps 124, 132, 135, 161, 181, 184, 190, 200, 230, and 232 also had labor units. 92 David Killingray, “Africans and African Americans in Enemy Hands,” in Prisoners of War and their Captors in World War II, eds. Bob Moore and Kent Fedorovich (Oxford, Washington, 1996), pp. 181–204; Catherine Akpo, “Africains dans les stalags,” Jeune Afrique 38, 1934 (1998), 46–49; Peter Martin, “‘. . . auf jeden Fall zu erschießen.’ Schwarze Kriegsgefangene in den Lagern der Nazis“, Mittelweg 36, 8, 5 (1999), 76–91. 93 Mikolaj Caban, Flucht aus dem Jenseits (Berlin, 1971), p. 87.

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steinbruch, “racial-physiological” and “anthropological” examinations were carried out on North African prisoners of war, among others. These involved blood sampling, measurements of their heads, and the production of plaster masks of their faces.94 The segregation and concentration of Arab and other “colored” prisoners of war, which the Geneva Convention called for, nonetheless permitted and eased the use of racist stereotypes in the Germans’ administrative and practical treatment of the prisoners. Addressed to the German civilian population probably shortly after the beginning of the war, a leaflet on dealing with Polish, Western European, and “colored” prisoners of war asserted: But a new aspect has been added: colored Frenchmen! Though these are for now not being used for work, their contact with the civilian population is possible; and if they are later used, it is certain. Due to their lack of intelligence, the coloreds will hardly appear as spies, but their wellknown animal instincts must not be permitted to break out in any form whatsoever [. . .] The healthy instinct of the German people will reject all intercourse with the colored ‘bringers of culture,’ but exceptions often prove the rule! Anyone who has dealings with the coloreds in any way, without being officially assigned to supervise them, will be held accountable not only in terms of the law to protect the military power of the German people, but also of the racial laws. Inevitably and with no right of appeal, these call for prison and under some circumstances even for the death penalty for both parties!95

And in December 1942, the commander of front stalag 204 Péronne, von Schierbrandt, formulated in a “Memorandum for Guarding French Colored Prisoners of War”: The French colored prisoner of war is a North African [. . .] is a Mohamedan, his religious customs are to be respected and their practice not to be denied, especially at the time of Ramadan. He is not a good worker, but lazy, lethargic, truly oriental, but with sufficient instruction is willing to work. Not stupid, in specific situations he displays surprising shrewdness and skill . . . He is not dangerous and incomprehensible, like

94 See Robert Stigler, “Rassenphysiologische Untersuchungen an farbigen Kriegsgefangenen in einem Kriegsgefangenenlager,” Zeitschrift für Rassenphysiologie 13, 1–2 (1943), 26–57; Josef Wastl, “Anthropologische Untersuchungen an belgischen und französischen Kriegsgefangenen,” Anzeiger der Akademie der Wissenschaften in Wien. Mathematisch-naturwissenschaftliche Klasse 78, 13 (1941), 103–106. 95 Stadtarchiv Schwerin, MB 699.

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gerhard höpp a Bolshevist, but he is difficult to see through. He understands only unconditional authority that treats him justly, but curtly and severely.96

This fits with the June 22, 1940 order from the quartermaster of the Army Supreme Command 9 that “coloreds” can be used as orderlies for captured officers.97 It cannot be doubted that such racist proclamations influenced the behavior of the guard details as well as of the population toward the Arab prisoners of war in the camps and work details. The recruiting and enlistment of Arab workers in France and North Africa Arab, in particular North African foreign and forced laborers in National Socialist Germany have never been thematized before. The meanwhile very extensive literature on the labor of foreigners in the war economy of the Third Reich does not mention this group—not even as a desideratum for further research.98 The only reason for this that can justly be assumed is the aforementioned difficulties in identifying them among the foreign, especially French workers, among whom the sources silently count them. Other reasons to ignore them, for example considerations of quantity, can be excluded due to their large number. The recruiting and enlistment of Arab foreign and forced laborers were carried out basically in the same temporal and organizational framework and rhythm as those of the French: Yves Durand speaks of the mostly voluntary individual enlistment to work for the Reich until Fall 1942, of “forced voluntariness” after the “Relève” until February 1943, and of “forced labor” after the “Service de travail obligatoire” (STO) proclaimed by the Vichy regime.99

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BArch/MArchF, RH 49, Nr. 67. Ibid., WF-03/14247, Bl. 305. 98 See, among others, the standard works by Ulrich Herbert, Fremdarbeiter. Politik und Praxis des “Ausländer-Einsatzes” in der Kriegswirtschaft des Dritten Reiches (new edition Bonn, 1999 [Berlin, Bonn, 1985]) and Wilfried Reininghaus, ed., Zwangsarbeit in Deutschland 1939–1945. Archiv- und Sammlungsgut, Topographie und Erschließungsstrategien (Bielefeld et al., 2001). 99 See Yves Durand, “Vichy und der ‘Reichseinsatz’”, Europa und der “Reichseinsatz”. Ausländische Zivilarbeiter, Kriegsgefangene und KZ-Häftlinge in Deutschland 1938–1945, ed. Ulrich Herbert (Essen, 1991), pp. 184–199. 97

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Immediately after the ceasefire, the intentionally accelerated immigration of Algerian workers to support the French defense efforts was discontinued. By 1941, almost 14,000 Algerian labor migrants were sent back to their homeland “more or less voluntarily”, presumably because of German security concerns. But after the German attack on the Soviet Union, at the beginning of 1942 at the latest, the recruitment of North African labor immigrants began again. While the volume remained below expectations in Morocco and Tunisia,100 these efforts found resonance among the Algerians; for an hourly wage of seven to eight francs, they obligated themselves to work for French companies in the unoccupied part of France. But when many entrepreneurs failed to fulfill or only partially fulfilled their contractual obligations, numerous workers, especially Kabyles, “deserted” to Germany, as Jean-Jacques Rager writes. At that time, they were there offered more favorable conditions, including vacation with paid fare home every six or twelve months.101 In May 1942, the Leunawerke factory in central Germany, for instance, sent its own recruiting agent to Paris to hire laborers from among the North African migrants. The agent reported, “I have personally spoken to several Algerians who made a healthy and solid impression. They are Mohamedans who, for religious reasons, drink no alcohol and are thrifty.” The recruited workers received 1000 francs premium each.102 After the proclamation of the “Relève” in June 1942, several thousand applicants registered with the German Consulate in Algiers for work programs in the Reich. They were referred to the regional labor offices of the Departments of Algiers, Constantine, and Oran, which registered several thousand candidates and collected them for transports. Many of the applicants, however, probably never saw Germany, since they

100 Jacques Evrard, La déportation des travailleurs français dans le IIIe Reich (Paris, 1972), p. 53; Patrick Weil, La France et ses étrangers. L’aventure d’une politique de l’immigration de 1938 à nos jours (Paris, 1991), p. 45. 101 Jean-Jacques Rager, Les Musulmans Algériens en France et dans les Pays Islamiques (Paris, 1950), pp. 74ff. Since all the following descriptions (among others, Alain Gilette and Abdelmalik Sayad, L’immigration algérienne en France (Paris, 1984), p. 84; Belkacem Hifi, L’immigration algérienne en France. Origines et perspectives de non-retour (Paris, 1985), p. 118; Benjamin Stora, Histoire politique de l’immigration algérienne en France (Paris, 1991), pp. 206ff.) cite this source almost verbatim, I will quote only it in the following. 102 Martin Pabst, “Auch vor außergewöhnlichen Maßnahmen ist nicht zurückzuschrecken”. Die Fremdarbeiter im Kreis Merseburg während des II. Weltkrieges. Eine Dokumentation (Halle, 1997), p. 32.

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were sent to work in the Organisation Todt (OT), primarily in occupied France.103 The Allied landing in North Africa ended the recruiting of laborers in Algeria and Morocco in November 1942 and in Tunisia a little later. The forced recruiting of foreign laborers for use in the German war economy, which set in soon after this with the STO, therefore affected only those North African labor migrants who already lived in France. To determine the number of Arab foreign and forced laborers employed in almost all parts of the Reich and its occupied territories is much more difficult than to calculate the number of those held as prisoners of war or otherwise interned. Indeed, it seems almost impossible. Apart from the problematic of identifying them, the search for them is made difficult by the great number and unsurveyability of the sites of their employment, as well as by the loss of relevant, especially person-related documents. There are still hardly any data banks that would ease their identification and quantification; special inventories that could support the search for them in the archives exist only in special cases.104 The sparse and completely inadequate figures given in the literature generally are not based on original empirical surveys, but often uncritically refer to contradictory data from old statistics and—in our case—almost exclusively to Algerians. In the course of the first phase of recruiting after the ceasefire in France, fewer than 2,000 Moroccans and between 5,500 and 8,000 Algerians are supposed to have come to Vichy France. About 400 of them in the Marseille region alone “deserted” for Germany.105 After the “Relève”, probably about 14,000 more Algerians left their home-

103

Rager, Les Musulmans Algériens, p. 77f. Marion Külow et al., Archivalische Quellennachweise zum Einsatz von ausländischen Zwangsarbeitern sowie Kriegsgefangenen während des Zweiten Weltkrieges, 2nd edition (Veröffentlichungen des Sächsischen Staatsarchivs Leipzig) 4 (Leipzig, 1994); F. Diaz-Maceq Zwangsarbeiter in Südthüringen während des Zweiten Weltkrieges. Archivalisches Quelleninventar (Schriften des Thüringischen Staatsarchivs Meiningen) 2 (Meiningen, 1995); Frank Schmidt, Zwangsarbeit in der Provinz Brandenburg 1939–1945. Spezialinventar der Quellen im Brandenburgischen Landeshauptarchiv (Frankfurt am Main, 1998); Kerstin Bötticher, Spezialinventar Quellen zur Geschichte der Zwangsarbeit im Landesarchiv Berlin (1939–1945) (Berlin, 2001). 105 Evrard, La déportation, p. 53; Rager, Les Musulmans Algériens, p. 75ff. The figure of 16,000 given by Gillette and Sayad, L’immigration algérienne, p. 58 and Hifi, L’immigration algérienne en France, p. 118, is probably an error in writing and copying. 104

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land to work for Germany.106 Many of them were requested by the OT, especially after the introduction of the STO. In 1944, 19,000 are supposed to have worked for this organization, though this figure seems exaggerated.107 North Africans, like other foreigners, could be hired by French and German sub-companies, directly by the OT’s recruiting offices or else by local employment offices.108 They were employed primarily in the Einsatzgruppen West (Work Groups West), here particularly by the Oberbauleitungen (Supreme Construction Directions, OBL) Cherbourg and Seine,109 on the Canary Islands,110 in Work Group Biscay,111 and a few also in the Work Group Germany. In the West, they took part particularly in building the Atlantic Wall and other military fortifications, in expanding and maintaining airfields, and in constructing submarine bunkers. In the hierarchy among OT workers, the North Africans probably belonged among the “front laborers” “of non-Germanic race” as well as to the “Einsatzarbeiter” (project workers) and thus probably wore uniforms.112 The social conditions in the OT at the beginning of the 1940s were still comparatively attractive: foreigners were paid “enticing wages” and special premiums.113 This and clean housing, adequate food, and good health care may have motivated many Arab labor migrants in France to accept employment with the OT, despite the quasi-military order prevailing in it.

106

Rager, Les Musulmans Algériens, p. 78. Stora, Histoire politique, p. 208. A German source from 1944 mentions only 5,000 contracted North Africans and a few thousand more who worked for the OT in subcontracting firms. BArchB, Film 4923, Bl. 393375. In any case, the statement made by a Vichy functionary that only 200 North Africans were recruited by the OT is inaccurate. Maurice Guillaume, “North Africans in France” France during the German Occupation 1940–1944, Vol. 2, (Stanford, 1959), p. 733. 108 Franz W. Seidler, Die Organisation Todt. Bauen für Staat und Wehrmacht 1938–1945 (Coblenz, 1987), p. 133. 109 BArchB, R 50 I/238, Bl. 11; ibid., R 50 I/210, Bl. 100ff. 110 See Handbook of the Organisation Todt by the Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force Counter-Intelligence Sub-Division MIRS/MR-OT/5/45 (Osnabrück 1992), p. 185. 111 “At the Working Group Biscay, OT Camp Lindemann was set up for Moroccan men in the former French barracks Caserne Coloniale in the harbor Bacalan (in Bordeaux—G.H.)”. Seidler, Die Organisation Todt, p. 141. 112 Seidler, Die Organisation Todt, p. 178ff. 113 Bernd Zielinski, Staatskollaboration. Vichy und der Arbeitskräfteeinsatz im Dritten Reich (Münster, 1995), p. 69. 107

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This changed with the new regulation of payment for foreign OT laborers in the occupied territories in February 1943, at the latest. The social benefits, in particular, were now clearly “racially” and politically differentiated. This meant that, under the same working conditions, foreign OT laborers received markedly lower hourly wages than Germans (who were paid between 0.65 and 0.96 Reichsmarks/ RM). French workers (“non-Germanic”), as which the North Africans were generally counted, received lower wages (between 0.38 and 0.50 RM) than, for example, Flemish workers (“Germanic”).114 The premiums for construction auxiliary wages were accordingly re-ordered for foreign OT laborers: Frenchmen, Belgians, and Dutch received between 28 and 36 percent of the basic wage, “Red Spaniards [Spanish Republicans] and Moroccans” only 23 percent.115 Comparable differences arose in the granting of vacation leave: whereas German OT workers received 18 days of vacation a year as well as up to seven days of special vacation, foreign workers were granted only one day of vacation per month of employment, starting after three months. This vacation “need be granted, however, only if the demands of the work permit.” Finally, unlike Germans, foreigners had to pay for their accommodations.116 However, Muslims among the North African OT workers could count on receiving vacation and additional food on Islamic holidays. For example, on September 27, 1943, on the occasion of ʿĪd al-Fit ̣r, the front leader of the OBL Cherbourg directed units under his command to grant North African workers a day of paid vacation on October 1 and the opportunity to take part in the central celebration in Querqueville.117 The “Service Social de Chantiers de Travaux” (SSCT)118 provided “mutton and seminola” for this purpose.119 The working and living conditions of the other Arab foreign and forced laborers were not markedly different from those of OT workers. The following examples come from research done primarily in the German regions of Berlin-Brandenburg, Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt,

114

Seidler, Die Organisation Todt, p. 165ff. BArchB, R 50 I/210, Bl. 49. 116 Seidler, Die Organisation Todt, p. 166ff. 117 BArchB, R 50 I/209, Bl. 32. 118 On this “parallel organization for OT front leadership” created in 1943 for the social care of French OT workers, including North Africans, see Seidler, Die Organisation Todt, p. 155. 119 BArchB, R 50I/209, Bl. 33. 115

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and Thuringia. This research focus was chosen because special inventories and data banks were available, and also because the Reich maintained important economic centers there. The data gained cannot be regarded as fully representative, because it is far from exhaustive. Of the approximately 150 Arab foreign and forced laborers whose names have been found—among them 67 Algerians, 22 Moroccans, 2 Tunisians, 2 Egyptians, and an Iraqi—61 worked in the aforementioned regions. Another 45 worked for IG Farben in Auschwitz; and the rest were employed at the Reichswerke Hermann Göring in Gebhardshagen, Hallendorf, and Watenstedt and at Dornier in Friedrichshafen, among other places. No fewer than 20 Algerian, Moroccan, and Tunisian workers have been identified in Berlin-Brandenburg, Saxony, and Thuringia for the first phase of the work program between 1940 and summer 1942. Most of them were employed by the armaments supplier Leipziger Metallguss GmbH. These workers generally had contracts for six months or a year. Their hourly wage was between 0.40 and 0.70 RM. Thus, the smelter Mohamed Ahmed Ban Mbarek, the father of four children, earned 0.70 RM/hour and 7.00 RM/month separation compensation. The unmarried caster Ali Chegroun received 0.64 RM/RM and 6.00 RM/month separation bonus. All workers were housed in company camps or in camps run by the Deutsche Arbeitsfront (German Work Front, DAF).120 Only 12 Algerians and Moroccans are known from the second phase between summer 1942 and spring 1943. Most worked in the BerlinBrandenburg area, including at the AEG electrical works in Berlin and Hennigsdorf, the Siemens-Schuckert plant in Berlin’s Siemensstadt district, and the Daimler-Benz motor works in Genshagen. The terms of their contract were between one121 and two-and-a-half years. Most of the Arab workers whose records have been found, at least 34, were recruited after the STO was implemented122—16 in BerlinBrandenburg alone, 8 in Saxony, and 6 in Thuringia. As far as is known, labor contracts were no longer concluded for periods of less

120

SStArchL, Metallguss GmbH Leipzig, Nr. 11. As in the case of the Algerian Said Ferkane, who was employed by DaimlerBenz motor works in Genshagen. BrLHArchP, Pr.Br.Rep.20 B Arbeitsamt Luckenwalde, Nr. 2, Bl. 93(RS). 122 This alone already refutes Guillaume’s claim that “all North Africans” were spared by the STO; Guillaume, “North Africans in France”. 121

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than one year. The wage level varied considerably by region and company, generally exhibiting a falling tendency. While the lathe operator Martial S. still earned 0.70 RM/hour in August 1943 at the Mechanische Werke (mechanical works) in Cottbus,123 the Aktiengesellschaft Sächsische Werke (Saxon works stock company, ASW) in Espenhain paid the unmarried carbonization worker Mohamed Remechi 0.68 RM/hour in June of the same year,124 the year’s earnings of the machine worker Hocine Q. at AEG in Hennigsdorf were 2,564.01RM,125 and the Egyptian Ralph S. who worked in the cloth factory Lehmanns Witwe & Sohn in Guben received only 79.56 RM for the month of December.126 In addition, money was withheld in most cases for accommodation in barracks camps. As early as summer 1942, there were clear signs that the situation of Algerian and Moroccan workers employed by the French subcontractor Sotrabé at IG Farben in Auschwitz127 was worsening rapidly and soon resembled that of the concentration camp inmates there.128 Increasingly poor working and living conditions and rising death rates due to diseases, especially tuberculosis, accidents, and allied bombing runs against the facilities and companies where they worked and the camps where they lived,129 led to an increase in worker dissatisfaction and a deterioration in discipline, including in the OT. Collaborationist institutions and organizations, like the SSCT for OT workers and the “Mission Bruneton”130 and its extension, the “Union des Travailleurs Nord-Africains”131 for the other Arab foreign and forced laborers, tried to counter this development, as did the DAF and other German offices responsible for the political and social

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BrLHArchP, Pr.Br.Rep.6 B Cottbus, Nr. P 1184. SStArchL, ASW Espenhain, Nr. 340. 125 BrLHArchP, Pr.Br.Rep.75 AEG Hennigsdorf, Nr. 24, Bl. 17. 126 Ibid., Pr.Br.Rep.75 Lehmanns Witwe & Sohn, Tuchfabrik Guben, Nr. 498. 127 Archivum Pa Bürgermeister Auschwitz 1/59, Bl. 59. 128 Evrard, La déportation, p. 268; Karl Heinz Roth, “I.G. Auschwitz. Normalität oder Anomalie eines kapitalistischen Entwicklungsursprungs?,” in “Deutsche Wirtschaft”, Zwangsarbeit von KZ-Häftlingen für Industrie und Behörden (Hamburg, 1991), pp. 86–87. 129 Of the seventeen Arabs buried in the Islamic Cemetery and in the BerlinFrohnau and Berlin-Heiligensee cemeteries, five died due to “enemy activity” in 1944. See Senatsverwaltung für Stadtentwicklung und Umweltschutz, Abt. Gräberwesen, Grundliste 14 l, as well as Listen 20a und 20b. 130 Durand, La vie quotidienne, p. 191. 131 Charles-Robert Ageron, “Les populations du Maghreb face à la propagande allemande,” Revue d’Histoire de la Deuxième Guerre Mondiale 29, 114 (1979), 22; Mahfoud Kaddache, Histoire du nationalisme algérien Vol. 2 (Algiers, 1993), pp. 624ff. 124

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“care” of foreign workers. National Socialist propaganda supported these efforts, for example in January 1943 with a radio report on Arab OT workers in the Bordeaux area. According to this report, these people were initially “somewhat self-conscious” but then regarded themselves as “fortunate” “to be able to work for Germany.”132 In February 1945, a weekly periodical was published in Arabic and German, “al-Maghrib al-ʿarabī. Al-Magreb al-ʿarabi. Der Arabische Westen” (The Arab West). The newspaper was to “be a link between the North Africans in Germany, from the Gulf of Syrte to the Atlantic Ocean, and their homeland, between them and Germany,” but only two issues were published.133 It is not known whether and how propaganda influenced the work morale of the Arab foreign and forced laborers. The following examples of politically and ideologically motivated eagerness to work for the Reich were probably exceptions: As early as January 1937, Abdul Karim Kannuna, an Iraqi working in Bonn, had sought to enter the Reichsarbeitsdienst (Reich Labor Service, RAD) with the aid of his country’s envoys. Eventually, the Reich Ministry of the Interior left the decision to the applicant.134 Whether Kannuna joined the RAD, and if so, with what result, is unknown; at any rate, the man was in Switzerland in the year the war broke out.135 In June 1942, the Moroccan Larbi ben Brahim ben Houssine wrote a letter to Adolf Hitler asking to be allowed “to work with all my strength for Germany.” Two months later, after he had accepted recruitment as a foreign worker in Paris, he renewed his request, this time from the worker settlement “Große Halle” in Berlin’s Spandau district. A January 1943 note in the files of the Foreign Office indicates that he never received an answer; instead, Larbi made “a very unfavorable impression. He has been without work and without money for 7 months”. The Reich Security Main Office was asked to ensure that “the police take a closer look at him.”136

132

PArchAAB, Paris Embassy, Nr. 1116c. The periodical was published by the Tunisian nationalist Yūsuf ar-Ruwaisī. On it and on him, see ʿAbd al-Jalīl at-Tamīmī (ed.), Kitābāt wa mudhakkirāt al-munāḍil Yūsuf ar-Ruwaisī as-siyāsīya maʿa wathāʾiq jadīda tunshar li-awwal marra [Political writings and memoirs of the fighter Yūsuf ar-Ruwaisī with new documents, published for the first time] (Zaghouan, 1995). 134 PArchAAB, R 47666. 135 On him, see Gerhard Höpp, Texte aus der Fremde. Arabische politische Publizistik in Deutschland, 1896–1945. Eine Bibliographie (Berlin, 2000), p. 59. 136 PArchAAB, R 27327. 133

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On June 12, 1943, Larbi died of pleurisy and was buried in Berlin’s Heiligensee district.137 In October 1943, the aforementioned Algerian Martial S., who had signed a contract for one year and worked in the Mechanische Werke in Cottbus, asked the local police office to “be helpful in making contact with the local German Labor Front and with the responsible office of the Gestapo.” He said he was a member of the Parti Populaire Français (PPF), which strove for “a close collaboration with Germany” and saw “the enemies of our continent in Bolshevism and the Anglo-Saxon powers’ grasp for world domination”. He asserted that he was assigned “to work for the movement in Germany among my countrymen.”138 The files do not say what became of this. Inasmuch as they had volunteered to work for Germany, the overwhelming majority of Arab foreign and forced laborers presumably saw working for the Reich primarily as an urgently needed source of income. Otherwise, they probably experienced it as oppression and exploitation, especially after the introduction of the STO and the deterioriation of living conditions. Numerous violations of the work regulations, including in the OT, increasing absenteeism, and increasing attempts to escape, testify to this. “Wanted” lists, especially for the occupied Western territories, show that in the last two years of the war, flight, “evasion,” and “absence without leave” were among the most frequently prosecuted violations by far.139 It is documented that at least eight of the Arab foreign and forced laborers whose names I learned left their workplaces, six since 1943: Amor B. of ASW Espenhain,140 Hami ben H. from IG Farben in Premnitz,141 as well as Georges ben A. and three Algerians for whom the Gestapo offices in

137 Senatsverwaltung für Stadtentwicklung und Umweltschutz, Abt. Gräberwesen, Liste 20 B, p. 40. 138 BrLHArchP, Pr.Br.Rep. 6 B Cottbus, Nr. P 1184. On the role of the PPF in Algeria, Mostéfa Haddad, “L’Algérie de l’entre-deux-guerres: Crise economique et action de propagande des groupuscules d’extrème-droite française dans le Constantinois au cours de années trente”, Mélanges Charles-Robert Ageron, vol. 1 (Zaghouan, 1996), 306ff. 139 BArchB, Sammlung Research (formerly BDC), Nr. 813. 140 SStArchL, ASW Espenhain, Nr. 310. 141 BrLHArchP, Pr.Br.Rep.75, IG Farben, Werk Premnitz, Nr. 1707.

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Weimar142 and Nordhausen143 searched in August 1943 and January 1945, respectively. Police and court persecution of Arabs in the Reich and in occupied Europe Symptomatic of this development on a large scale is an “Urgent Directive” from Himmler to the offices of the Security Police (Sipo) and of the SD, the Higher SS and Police Leaders, the Commanders and Inspectors of the regular police force and local police regarding a “war manhunt (dragnet for fleeing prisoners of war and foreign workers) and increased surveillance of persons.” The letter states that the “number of contract-breaking foreign workers who wander about aimlessly or try to return to their home countries and the number of escaped prisoners of war” had recently “risen substantially”; as a result, the number of “political and criminal crimes committed by these escapees” had also increased, so that “their continued threat to public security” must be expected. The dragnet was within the purview of the criminal investigation police, who were thereby expected to transmit to the Gestapo “acquired information that is important for researching and combating opponents.”144 Spot checks in the unsurveyable plethora of relevant sources, including in the “Deutsche Fahndungsbuch” (German manhunt or dragnet book), the “Deutsche Kriminalpolizeiblatt” (German criminal investigation police bulletin), the files of the public prosecutors’ offices, and prison accessions registers, confirm that since 1943, at the latest, police and juridical persecution of Arabs in the Reich and in the occupied territories had also markedly increased. Foreign and forced laborers and prisoners of war were especially affected. The great majority of the approximately 80 individual cases I researched were various forms of property offenses, usually committed by Algerian foreign and forced laborers. Predominant among them

142 Thüringisches Staatsarchiv Gotha (ThStArchG), Amt Schönstedt, Nr. 53, Bl. 186. Georges ben A. was apparently caught; in 1944, at any rate, he was registered in the Alternate Prison Riebeckstraße in Leipzig. SStArchL, Untersuchungshaftanstalten Leipzig, Nr. 1061. 143 Geheimes Staatsarchiv, Berlin (GStArchB), XVIII. Hauptabteilung, Anhang C, Nr. 10, Bl. 72. 144 Sojka, Zbrodnie Wehrmachtu [Crimes committed by the Wehrmacht], pp. 203–204.

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were “theft” and “contraband trade,” many of which were petty crimes committed out of hunger and need, but some of which were gang crime.145 Next came “fencing” and “embezzling.” This often meant the production and trade in counterfeit food ration cards. For this, Special Court V sentenced the Moroccan Abdallah ben Ahmed to two years in Brandenburg prison, where he died of tuberculosis on March 28, 1944.146 In some cases, such crimes were also treated as violations of the war economy regulations and often punished with extreme penalties. The Special Court Braunschweig punished the Algerian Larbi G. in September 1942 relatively mildly with four months in prison,147 but Special Court IV in Berlin handed down a terror sentence against his countryman Salem Ammamouche on April 1945, sentencing him to death for the acquisition and distribution of counterfeit food ration cards; Ammamouche was executed in April 18, 1945 in Berlin-Plötzensee prison.148 The Algerian Mohammed Raachi was tried in Leipzig in May 1943 as a “Volksschädling”—a pest on the folk’s body;149 he was sent to Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, where he died on March 7, 1945. The next most frequently prosecuted crimes committed by Arab foreign and forced laborers were various forms of “violation of labor contracts.”150 These included “laxness in work,” “disturbance of the industrial peace,” “leaving the workplace,” and finally “refusing to work.” The penalties imposed ranged from wage cuts and arrest to being sent to an Arbeitserziehungslager (labor education camp, AEL)151

145 On this form of “resistance”, see Ulrich Herbert (ed.), Europa und der “Reichseinsatz”, pp. 344ff. 146 BrLHArchP, Pr.Br.Rep.29, Zuchthaus Brandenburg, Nr. 1692. 147 BArchB, R 3001, IV g 14/4537/42, Bl. 3ff. 148 Landesarchiv Berlin (LArchB), A Rep.358–02, Nr. 89681; BrLHArchP, Pr.Br. Rep.214, Hammer, Nr. 37, Bl. 180. 149 SStArchL, Untersuchungshaftanstalten Leipzig, Nr. 420. On this, see the “Verordnung gegen Volksschädlinge” (regulation against pests on the body of the folk) of September 5, 1939, Reich legal bulletin, Vol. 1939, Part I, p. 1679. 150 For a thorough account of this, Stefan Karner, “Arbeitsvertragsbrüche als Verletzung der Arbeitspflicht im ‘Dritten Reich,’ Archiv für Sozialgeschichte 21 (1981), pp. 269ff.; Wolfgang Wippermann, “Sanktionierung der Zwangsarbeit: ‘Arbeitsvertragsbruch’ and ‘Arbeitserziehungslager’ in Berlin-Brandenburg,” in Zwangsarbeit während der NS-Zeit in Berlin und Brandenburg, eds. Winfried Meyer and Klaus Neitmann (Potsdam, 2001), pp. 85ff.; also see Herbert, ed., Europa und der “Reichseinsatz”, pp. 344ff. 151 For a thorough account of this, see Gabriele Lotfi, KZ der Gestapo. Arbeitserziehungslager im Dritten Reich (Stuttgart, Munich, 2000).

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or concentration camp. While the Algerian Mohamed R. in the ASW in Espenhain, charged with “cutting a shift,” got off in May 1944 with a “company fine” amounting to half a day’s earnings and the loss of his bonus card for one week,152 Ahmed T., a former sailor on the “Zamzam,” was sent in March 1943 to AEL Bremen-Farge for a “labor contract violation.”153 For “laxness in work” and “refusal to work,” the Moroccan Ibrahim M. and the Algerian Bougouffa M. were sent to AEL Oberlanzendorf154 and the Moroccan Ali ben M. and the Algerians Allaoua J. and Mohamed A. were sent in 1942 to AEL Maltheuern.155 The first were then sent to Mauthausen concentration camp and in 1943, Allaoua J. was sent to Buchenwald concentration camp. The Moroccan Mohammed Bachir died in AEL Liebenau156 and the Algerian Ahmed Smili was shot dead on October 4, 1944 while trying to escape AEL Hallendorf.157 Arab prisoners of war were punished for crimes including “disobedience,” “battery,” and “rape,” i.e., for crimes greatly encouraged by the perpetrators’ isolation from the external world and by tensions in camp society. “Mutiny” can also be counted among these; in 1943, the Algerian Ahmed Gh. was sentenced to five years in prison for it.158 In a certain way, this category also includes “forbidden dealings with German women”; at the same time, however, this accusation also embodies the racist approach that the Nazi regime generally took to the “ethnically alien” in its sphere of power. Soulayman K., born in Lebanon, was sentenced to one-and-a-half years in prison for this in

152

SStArchL, ASW Espenhain, Nr. 323. PArchAAB, R 41484. On this AEL, see Nils Aschenbeck, Rüdiger Lubricht, Hartmut Roder et al., Fabrik für die Ewigkeit. Der U-Boot-Bunker in Bremen-Farge (Hamburg, 1995), pp. 46–47. 154 See (tm)StArchW/AdR, Häftlingsbuch des ehem. “Gestapo” Arbeitserziehungslagers “Ober Lanzendorf”, Gefangenen-Buch B, 1.1.1944–13.7.1944. See also Heinz Arnberger, “Das Arbeitserziehungslager Oberlanzendorf”, Widerstand und Verfolgung in Niederösterreich 1934–1945. Vol. 2 (Vienna, 1987), pp. 573–586. 155 SStArchL, Polizeipräsidium Leipzig, Gefangenentagebücher des Polizeigefängnisses, Nr. 8524 und 8525. 156 Staatsarchiv Stade, Rep.171 Verden, acc. 66/88. See also Rolf Wessels, Das Arbeitserziehungslager in Liebenau 1940–1943 (Nienburg, 1990), p. 32. 157 BArchB/Stiftung Archiv der Parteien und Massenorganisationen der DDR (SAPMO), By 5/V 279/109; Gedenk- und Dokumentationsstätte KZ Drütte. 158 BrLHArchP, Pr.Br.Rep.29, Zuchthaus Brandenburg, Do 5, Bl. 61(RS); Thüringisches Staatsarchiv Meiningen (ThStArchM), Zuchthaus Untermaßfeld, Gefangenenkartei. 153

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1944;159 he and Ahmed Gh. were sent to Brandenburg and Untermaßfeld prisons to serve their sentences.160 In the civilian realm, Arabs were also subject to police and juridical persecution. This is made clear by the various following cases. In September 1942, the price control office sent an administrative penalty notification to the Palestinian owner of the Carlton Bar on Berlin’s Rankestraße, Mohammed el K., forbidding him “any occupation in the restaurant and accommodations business” and requiring him to sell his establishment to a “person to be named by the police.” The man had allegedly allowed sparkling wine to be sold at excessive prices. But soon an unsavory political background to the affair emerged: the purchaser recommended by the police and the Security Service was a war invalid, an SS Unterscharführer (junior squad leader), who acquired the successful restaurant for the bargain price of about 6,000 RM. This was less than 10 percent of the purchase price that an owner threatened with a trial would normally have received. Both the Foreign Office and the Grand Mufti questioned the actions of the police and SD, arguing, among other things, that the “police surveillance of the Orientals” would “be easier” in a restaurant with an Arab owner. Despite this, the concession went to the German. Hardly had this happened when, in January 1943, the responsible District Court decided to indefinitely postpone proceedings against the Palestinian. Among the reasons given, it was said that the arraignment was “not adequately legally prepared” and the case should be viewed as “not all too serious,” since after all “sparkling wine is not a necessity of life.”161 The Grand Mufti Amīn al-Ḥ usaynī played a role in the two other cases, as well. In that of his countryman Boutros S., it was a very inglorious one. The Gestapo arrested the Palestinian in December 1943 for “political expressions” that were not further described. As documented by a handwritten notice of the Foreign Office in January 1944, he was sent “at the behest of the Grand Mufti to a labor camp near Berlin,” namely the AEL Berlin-Wuhlheide.162 When the unfor-

159

See ThStArchM, Zuchthaus Untermaßfeld, Gefangenenkartei. See Katharina Witter, “Das Zuchthaus Untermaßfeld 1813–1945”, Archiv und Regionalgeschichte. 75 Jahre Thüringisches Staatsarchiv Meiningen (Meiningen, 1998), pp. 255–294. 161 PArchAAB, R 27327. 162 On this camp, see Wolfgang Wippermann, “Nationalsozialistische Zwangslager 160

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tunate man requested eased prison conditions and food, al-Ḥ usaynī’s secretary Farḥān al-Jandalī indicated that there was “no interest” in S. on “the part of the Grand Mufti.” The office thereupon left it up to the Gestapo to decide what would now happen with the Palestinian.163 In December 1943, the Iraqi student Sayd Daud Y. was arrested in Schweinfurt on suspicion of aiding and abetting the desertion of his future brother-in-law, a grenadier in the Wehrmacht. Y. was engaged to the soldier’s sister and had a child with her, but “for racial considerations” was not allowed to marry her. His brother, an employee of the former Iraqi Prime Minister in German exile, Rashīd ʿAlī al-Kailānī, tried to help him by appealing to al-Kailānī and to the Grand Mufti to intercede. It is not known whether this ever happened, but it appears questionable. At any rate, Y., who had provided the deserter with money and contact addresses in Arab countries, was sentenced by Special Court Würzburg to three years in prison in May 1944. His “good-naturedness” was considered one of several extenuating circumstances. But having “overstepped the rights of guests” and having assisted an act “that directly affected the defensive power of the German Reich” were recognized as “compounding factors.”164 Y. was brought to Dachau concentration camp in April 1945. The persecution of Arab opponents of the Nazi regime in the Reich and in the occupied territories As the last remarks imply, Arabs were also persecuted for opposition to National Socialism and for active resistance against its regime. As early as May 13, 1939, the Superior State Court in Vienna had sentenced Ali ben M., who had been born in Tangier, to two years in prison for preparations to commit high treason. The Moroccan, who had deserted from the French army in the early 1920s, was now accused of “having prepared to act to alter the constitution of the Reich through violence or through the threat of violence, by orally spreading communist propaganda” in the Styrian district of Leibnitz. It was considered an exacerbating factor that the accused, who once

in Berlin II. Das ‘Arbeitserziehungslager’ Wuhlheide,” in Berlin-Forschungen II, ed. Wolfgang Ribbe (Berlin, 1987), pp. 179–188. 163 PArchAAB, R 41532. S. was “released” on June 1, 1944; ibid., R 41535. 164 BArchB, R 3001, Iv g 11/2225/44, Bl. 1–24.

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before in August 1938 had already been expelled from the country for “defamation to elicit contempt of state authorities,”165 had uttered “revilements of the Führer.”166 In 1929 his countryman Othmar ben M. had been baptized, had changed his name, and had married an Austrian. He too had deserted and, on January 9, 1940, the same court sentenced him for the same crime to two years and six months in prison. The road worker in Lavanttal in the province of Carinthia had listened to broadcasts from Radio Moscow and talked with colleagues about them. The court saw in this the intention “to exert influence with comm. intent” and thereby “to prepare communism’s revolutionary goals of violent change.” The court found compounding factors in the “particular venom” of his utterances and the fact that “he should have felt obligated to greater gratitude to his host country.”167 After the beginning of the war, Arabs also took part in armed resistance to the Nazi regime and were thus exposed to special persecution. Gestapo commander Heinrich Müller issued an urgent dispatch in November 1943 ordering a search for the British agent Ali Mohamed—a “typical Arab”168—who had parachuted into Germany near Düsseldorf. Like Mohamed, some Arabs took part in missions of the “Special Operations Executive” (SOE)169 and other Allied commando actions. But the largest anti-Nazi contingent joined the French Résistance. The student Othman ben Aleya belonged to the “Bataillons de la jeunesse” in Paris,170 the Tunisian soldier Hassan ben Mohamed to the resistance network Vélite at the country manor By, near Lyon,171 and Mohamed Mould Abdallah to the Georges-Aubert

165

See Dokumentationsarchiv des österreichischen Widerstands, Nr. 11240. Ibid., Nr. 6939. 167 Ibid., Nr. 7384. The matter had an aftermath: on June 9, 1943, when the Austrian Ludmilla Z. was sentenced for high treason, one of the court’s accusations against her was that she had helped Othmar ben M.’s wife in the latter’s hour of need; ibid., Nr. 8274. 168 ThStArchG, Kreisamt Eisenach, Nr. 307, Bl. 47ff. 169 See William J. M. Mackenzie, The Secret History of SOE: The Special Operations Executive 1940–1945 (London, 2002). 170 Albert Ouzoulias, Die Bataillone der Jugend (Berlin, 1976), p. 58 and p. 67. 171 Philippe Wacrenier, “Le réseau Vélite et le corps franc Liberté.”, Raymond de Lassus Saint Geniès, Si l’écho de leurs voix faiblit . . . (Paris, 1997), pp. 147ff. 166

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group;172 the Algerians Bouzid Kheloufi173 and Mohamed Tirouche,174 who had fought on the Republican side in the Spanish Civil War, continued their struggle against fascism in the Résistance. And they made sacrifices in this struggle. On September 20, 1941, Anṭuwān al-Hajj (Antoine Hajje), a Lebanese by birth, was executed in Fort Mont Valérien in Suresnes near Paris. The communist attorney who had made a name for himself by defending Algerian nationalists175 was arrested in June and then executed by firing squad in retaliation for a German soldier killed by the Résistance.176 In January 1942, Essaid Haddad suffered the same fate.177 On August 1, 1942, the Algerian hospital orderly Mohamed Sliman was shot dead in La Santé prison in Paris. This father of five children belonged to the Diot group of the “Organisation Spéciale” and had taken part in several attacks.178 Before joining the “Francs-Tireurs et Partisans,” his countryman Mohamed Thami-Lakhdar had distributed leaflets against the Nazi occupiers in Paris; he was arrested on January 31, 1943 and executed in the same year.179 In Algeria, the resistance was directed primarily against the Vichy regime, which collaborated with the National Socialists. The communists Mohamed Kateb, alias Kateb Yacine, and Ahmed Smaili, who had fought in Spain, did this with their party’s illegally appearing publication “La Lutte Sociale”. In 1942, this led to Smaili being sentenced to death in absentia.180 Many resistance fighters had to serve their prison sentences in the notorious “internment camps” in southern Algeria.181 172 Dominique Lormier, Histoire de la France militaire et résistante. First part: 1939–1942 (Monaco, 2000), p. 264. 173 Dictionnaire biographique du mouvement ouvrier français (DBMOF). Vol. 32 (Paris, 1988), p. 368. 174 Ibid. Vol. 42 (Paris, 1992), p. 232. 175 Les mémoires de Messali Hadj 1898–1938 (Paris, 1982), pp. 190f. and pp. 218f. He earned a doctorate in Paris in 1926 with a dissertation titled “Etudes sur les locations à long terme et perpétuelles dans le monde romain” and one year later published the work “Histoire de la justice seigneuriale en France. Les origines romaines”, which he dedicated to his parents and his Jewish wife. 176 Fuʾād Ḥ addād and Ḥ ikmat al-Murr, “ash-Shahīd al-lubnānī” [The Lebanese martyr], aṭ-Ṭ arīq 1, 1 (1941), 24. 177 Serge Klarsfeld, Le Livre des Otages (Paris, 1979), p. 50. 178 Klarsfeld, Le Livre, p. 90. 179 Denis Peschanski, Des étrangers dans la résistance (Paris, 2002), p. 111. 180 Jean-Luc Einaudi, Un Algérien: Maurice Laban (Paris, 1999), pp. 44ff. and p. 60. 181 Christine Levisse-Touzé, “Les camps d’internement en Afrique du Nord pendant la seconde guerre mondiale,” Mélanges Charles-Robert Ageron, vol. 2 (Zaghouan, 1996), pp. 601–608.

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Among them were 22 members of the nationalist Parti Populaire Algérien (PPA), who had been sentenced on March 17, 1941 by a military court in Algiers. Most of them were not released until months after the Allies landed in North Africa. One such camp, Djenien Bou Rezg near Ain Safra, held the PPA members Maamar ben Bernou, Mohamed Arezki Berkani,182 Mohand Amokrane Khelifati, and Ahmed Mezerna, as well as the communists Mohamed Badsi, Larbi Bouhali, Amar Ouzegane, Kaddur Belkaim, and Ali Rabia. The latter two lost their lives.183 The communist Ali Debabèche served his sentence in Lambèse prison near Batna, the PPA member Mohamed Douar died there.184 One special group consisted of the so-called NN prisoners. The term for and the status of these prisoners was based on the “Guidelines for the Prosecution of Crimes Against the Reich or the Occupying Power in the Occupied Territories”185 issued on December 7, 1941 by the head of the OKW, Wilhelm Keitel, and on an accompanying letter of December 12 that stipulated: “An effective and sustained deterrence can be achieved only with the death penalty or with measures that keep family members and the population in the dark about the fate of the perpetrator. This purpose is served by transferring him to Germany.”186 Such a transfer was to be carried out covertly, by “Nacht und Nebel” (night and fog, NN). The arrestees, generally Résistance fighters, their families, and sympathizers, were sentenced by military and then civilian Special Courts and by the “Volksgerichtshof ” (People’s Court) in closed session. Then, if they were not executed, the military police or the Gestapo brought them to prisons or concentration camps, where they were given insignia marking them as NN prisoners and where they were strictly isolated.

182 Unfortunately, I did not have access to his report on his experience, “Mémoire. Trois années de camp. Un an de camp de concentration, deux ans de centre disciplinaire Djenien-Bou-Rezg, Sud oranais, 1940 à 1943 (régime Vichy), Sétif 1965”. 183 Yves Maxime Danan, La vie politique à Alger de 1940 à 1944 (Paris, 1963), pp. 40ff. and André Moine, La déportation et la résistance en Afrique du Nord (1939– 1944) (Paris, 1972), pp. 189f. 184 Benjamin Stora, Dictionnaire biographique de militants nationalistes algériens. E.N.A., P.P.A., M.T.L.D. (1926–1954) (Paris, 1985), pp. 174f. 185 Lothar Gruchmann, “‘Nacht- und Nebel’-Justiz. Die Mitwirkung deutscher Strafgerichte an der Bekämpfung des Widerstandes in den besetzten westeuropäischen Ländern 1942–1944,” Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte 29 (1981), 344ff. 186 Quoted in Volker Schneider, Waffen-SS SS-Sonderlager “Hinzert”. Das Konzentrationslager im “Gau Moselland” 1939–1945 (Nonnweiler-Ötzenhausen, 1998), p. 144.

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The Special Courts in Cologne and Essen were the venue for NN prisoners who had been arrested in France, including Arabs. As a result of increasing Allied bomb attacks, the courts were shifted in 1943 to Breslau and Oppeln, and the prisoners, too, were evacuated to prisons further and further to the east.187 I found records of about 40 Arab NN prisoners in the prisons in Beuthen, Bochum, Brandenburg, Bruchsal, Diez, Dortmund, Esterwegen, Graudenz, Groß-Strehlitz, Hameln, Kassel, Cologne, Rheinbach, Saarbrücken, Siegburg, Sonnenburg, Trier, Warsaw and Wittlich. Among them were Said A., Said ben D., and Belaid Berkane. On July 29, 1942, the Algerian Said A. had been brought from Loos-lès-Lille prison to Brussels and, after stays in Bochum and Cologne prisons, was taken to Sonnenburg prison between April 5 and June 14, 1943.188 There his trail is lost. The agricultural worker Said ben D. was arrested as a partisan and, presumably without trial, shifted from Châlons-sur-Marne via Kassel and Rheinbach prisons to Brandenburg prison on September 27, 1944.189 Nothing is known about his further fate. Berkane was sentenced on April 7, 1941 to ten years imprisonment for possession of firearms and was taken on December 20, 1944 from Orleans via Rheinbach and Siegburg to Brandenburg, as well, where he died of tuberculosis on February 24, 1945.190 A French deportee’s report shows that Arabs were also completely arbitrarily suspected and arrested. Among resistance fighters, Spanish emigrants, and Jews in Fort de Montluc prison in Lyon, he encountered a Tunisian who, “completely consternated to find himself there,” constantly said, “Just don’t think too hard about it, my friend.”191

187

Gruchmann, “ ‘Nacht- und Nebel’-Justiz”, 348ff. Przemyslaw Mnichowski, Obóz koncentracyjny i więzienie w Sonnenburgu (Słońsku) 1933–1945 [The concentration camp and prison in Sonnenburg (Słońsku) 1933–1945] (Warsaw, 1982), p. 93. 189 Service des Victimes de la Guerre, Brüssel, Zuchthaus Brandenburg. He may also have been arrested due to the “Sperrle Edict” of February 3, 1944, one of whose stipulations was to treat members of the Résistance as “partisans”. Ahlrich Meyer, Die deutsche Besatzung in Frankreich 1940–1944. Widerstandsbekämpfung und Judenverfolgung (Darmstadt, 2000), p. 129. 190 BrLHArchP, Pr.Br.Rep.29, Zuchthaus Brandenburg, Do 8, Bl. 11; ibid., Pr.Br. Rep.35 H, Nr. 2, Bl. 38a; ibid., Ld.Br.Rep.214, Hammer, Nr. 16. 191 Jean Degroote, Prisons de la Gestapo et camps de concentration (Steenvorde, 1995), p. 23. 188

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This group of victims, who were long practically unknown, has been at the center of my research up to now.192 Since interim results of this work have meanwhile been published,193 the following elucidations are restricted to summary remarks and a few supplementations and corrections. So far, I have found the names of more than 450 Arab prisoners. Their actual number, however, is probably substantially higher. They were in literally every concentration camp: in Auschwitz (34 persons), Bergen-Belsen (21), Buchenwald (148), Dachau (84), Flossenbürg (39), Groß-Rosen (12), Mauthausen (62), Mittelbau-Dora (39), Natzweiler (37), Neuengamme (110, of these 73 in Aurigny external camp), Ravensbrück (25), Riga-Kaiserwald (1), Sachsenhausen (42), Stutthof (3), Warsaw (2), and Wewelsburg (2), as well as in the SS Special Camp Hinzert (3), Security Camp Schirmeck-Vorbruck (7), and Extermination Camp Lublin-Majdanek (4). The majority of these prisoners came from North Africa—from Algeria (248), Morocco (27), and Tunisia (22); some came from Egypt (5), Iraq (4), Lebanon (1), Palestine (4), and Syria (1).194 The documents still extant in archives provide only sparse indications of why these people were sent to the camps. But at least five reasons are recognizable: 1. Participation in or support for the resistance struggle against the Nazis, especially in France. Some of the Arabs arrested for this reason were the aforementioned NN prisoners. I found records of at least 17 of them being in concentration camps. They were taken primarily to Buchenwald, Groß-Rosen, Mauthausen, Natzweiler, and

192 For their always willing and expert support for my research, I would here like to explicitly thank the staff of the Memorial Sites of the concentration camps Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen (especially Mr. Horstmann), Buchenwald (Ms. Stein), Dachau (Ms. Hammermann), Flossenbürg (Mr. Skriebeleit and Mr. Ibel), GroßRosen, Mauthausen, Mittelbau-Dora (Ms. Janischefski, Mr. Wagner, and Mr. Mertens), Neuengamme (Mr. Römmers), Osthofen (Ms. Welter), Ravensbrück (Ms. Schindler-Saefkow and Ms. Schnell), Sachsenhausen (Ms. Schwarz and Ms. Liebscher), and Stutthof, as well as the former inmate of Natzweiler and Dachau, Ernest Gillen in Howald, Luxembourg. 193 Gerhard Höpp,“‘Gefährdungen der Erinnerung’: Arabische Häftlinge in nationalsozialistischen Konzentrationslagern,” asien, afrika, lateinamerika 30 (2002), 373– 386. 194 The origins of the remaining prisoners could not be determined.

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Sachsenhausen, as well as to the SS Special Camp Hinzert. Among them were Ali ben M. and Mohamed A.195 In 1940, the Special Court Esterwegen/Essen sentenced the Moroccan Ali ben M. to five years in prison. He was taken to Sonnenburg prison in September 1943, then, in November 1944, to Sachsenhausen concentration camp, and in February 1945 to Mauthausen, where American troops liberated him on May 5. Mohamed A. was taken in January 1944 from Loos-lèsLille via Hagen to Esterwegen. In May, he was evacuated to GroßStrehlitz prison, before being sent in February 1945 without trial to Buchenwald concentration camp, which he probably survived. The Algerian Akli Banoun did not belong to the NN prisoners, but to the “political” or “protective custody” prisoners marked with red triangles, who were the great majority of Arab concentration camp inmates. He had lived in France since 1916, was a functionary of the Etoile Nord-Africaine (ENA) and a member of its nationalistic successor organization PPA. However, he broke with the latter’s leadership when the majority tended toward collaboration with the Germans. In 1942, the Vichy authorities arrested and interned him.196 On May 24, 1944, presumably because of the “Sperrle Edict,” he was deported from the Gestapo’s central police arrest camp in Compiègne to Neuengamme concentration camp. He experienced his liberation in Bremen-Farge external camp.197 His countryman Salah Bouchafa had no such luck. Like Banoun, Bouchafa was a co-founder of the ENA, then a functionary of the North African Section of the communist trade union association CGTU and a graduate of the Moscow Comintern University.198 On January 25, 1943, he was taken from Compiègne to Sachsenhausen concentration camp and on July 15, 1944 to Dachau. He died on April 6, 1945, probably during the transport to Flossenbürg concentration camp. 195

GStArchB, XIII. Hauptabteilung, Groß-Strehlitz, Paket 371/1 A and 372 A. Benjamin Stora, Dictionnaire biographique, pp. 45–46. In the early 1970s, Banoun was interviewed in the course of an ‘oral history’ survey conducted by the Algerian National Library among veterans of the war of liberation. The interviewer unfortunately edited out of the publication the “passages of the report dealing with the life of Algerians in German-occupied France” and thereby also Banoun’s imprisonment in a concentration camp. Mahmoud Bouayed, L’histoire par la bande. Une expérience de la Bibliothèque Nationale d’Algérie (Algiers, 1974), pp. 31ff. 197 On this external camp, see Nils Aschenbeck, Rüdiger Lubricht, Hartmut Roder et al., Fabrik für die Ewigkeit, pp. 47ff. 198 DBMOF. Vol. 20, Paris 1983, p. 35. 196

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2. Participation in the Spanish Civil War on the side of the Republicans. Former soldiers of the Republic—Spaniards or internationals— and sympathizers with the Spanish Republic, as so-called Red Spaniards, wore blue triangles. Most were sent to Mauthausen concentration camp. This was also the fate of several Arabs who had taken part in the defense of the Republic.199 Among them were the Moroccan Tahar ben Mokadem and the Algerian Kermiche Areski. On April 7, 1941, Ben Mokadem was taken from Stalag XVIII A K Kaisersteinbruch to Mauthausen; on August 28, 1941, he fled into an unknown fate;200 Areski was taken on January 19, 1944 from Compiègne to the notorious “Small Camp”201 of Buchenwald concentration camp, which he survived. 3. Many prisoners were former foreign or forced laborers, OT members or prisoners of war who, for aforementioned reasons, were initially imprisoned and then sent to concentration camps as “criminals against the war economy” or “labor contract violators” or in the course of “combing out actions” and “purges.” As already mentioned, this is what happened to the “Volksschädling” Raachi, who came to Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, and the AEL prisoners Allaoua J., Ibrahim M., and Bougouffa M., who were taken to Buchenwald or Mauthausen respectively. Between February 1943 and January 1944, the authorities sent the “labor re-education prisoners” Mohamed A., Mohamed B., Mohamed T., and Amar Gougam, among others, to Dachau. Gougam was transferred to Flossenbürg concentration camp on December 11, 1943 and died there on September 22, 1944. The Gestapo arrested Mohamed S. in Danzig on July 4, 1944 for “work absenteeism” and took him to Stutthof concentration camp. El Hachin M. was brought as an “Arbeitsscheuer” (work-shy person, ASR) from the police arrest camp Metz to Heddernheim prison and, on April 30, 1943, to Buchenwald. On January 7, 1943, the Gestapo in Frankfurt

199 Gerhard Höpp, “Salud wa Salam. Araber im Spanischen Bürgerkrieg,” INAMO 9, 33 (2003), 53–55. 200 Manuel Razola and Mariano C. Campo, Triángulo azul. Los republicanos españoles en Mauthausen, 1940–1945 (Barcelona, 1979), p. 321, erroneously name April 9, 1941 as the date of the escape. 201 On this, see Katrin Greiser, “ ‘Sie starben allein und ruhig, ohne zu schreien oder jemand zu rufen’. Das ‘Kleine Lager’ im Konzentrationslager Buchenwald,” Dachauer Hefte 14, 14 (1998), 102–124. At least eighteen Arab prisoners were interned in the ‘Small Camp’ between May 1943 and January 1945; at least five of them died.

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am Main arrested the Egyptian Abdrahman B., also as an ASR prisoner, in the city of Höchst and sent him to Buchenwald, as well. In March, he was transferred to Riga-Kaiserwald concentration camp. It is unlikely that he survived. The Frankfurt Gestapo also arrested Mohamed Merbouche on February 28, 1943 and in April sent him to Buchenwald’s external camp Leipzig-Thekla as an ASR prisoner, with black triangle. One year later he came to Flossenbürg’s external camp Mülsen, where he died on March 28, 1945. 4. Some prisoners were in the camps for violations of the law on expulsions from the Reich. As early as May 26, 1937, Himmler had ordered the “implementation of expulsion arrest in concentration camps.” Accordingly, on the basis of the law on expulsions from the Reich,202 stateless foreigners who had been sentenced to expulsion or who were ruled “dangerous or especially burdensome” could be “verwahrt” (held or stored) in a concentration camp.203 This happened to at least four Algerians regarded as stateless. After having committed property crimes in Frankfurt am Main, Leipzig, and elsewhere in the 1920s, in April 1936 Salah B. was sentenced in Brandenburg/Havel for violating the law on expulsions from the Reich and initially sent to the prison there and later to Sachsenhausen concentration camp. In February 1945, he came to Mauthausen, where he was “released” two months later. Belgasem K. had a similar experience. From May 1939 to January 1940, he served time in Berlin-Plötzensee prison, then was sent as a deportation prisoner to Sachsenhausen, and in October 1942 to Dachau, where he was “released”. In 1939, two other Algerians were arrested in the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia, where they apparently lived as migrant laborers: Mohammed R. was initially in “protective custody” as an ASR prisoner to Buchenwald, then in Troppau (Opava), before returning to Buchenwald as an expulsion prisoner. In November 1940, he was “released” into the police prison in Trier. Finally, the “Czech” Mohamed Malek was sent as an expulsion prisoner first to Sachsenhausen and then in August 1940 to Dachau, where he died on February 27, 1941.

202 Reich legal bulletin, Vol. 1934, Part I, pp. 213f. According to a ruling by the Sächsisches Oberverwaltungsgericht of November 20, 1937, an ‘ethnically alien foreigner’ could also be expelled from the Reich for “endangering the maintenance of the purity of the German race”. Juristische Wochenschrift 67, 11 (1938), 704. 203 BArchB, R 58/270, Bl. 82.

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5. Being Jewish. The reason given for the arrest of many Arab concentration camp inmates was “Jude” (Jew), and these were doubtless brought to the camps for “racial” reasons. Along with the so-called exchange Jews from Yemen and Libya who were “held” or “stored” in Bergen-Belsen concentration camp and in internment camps,204 the majority came from Algeria and others from Morocco, Tunisia, and Iraq. Among them was David S., who had been born in Baghdad and who had been sent on January 20, 1944 from Judenlager Drancy (Drancy Jews camp) to Auschwitz and then at the end of January 1945 to Mauthausen, where he was liberated. Among the Jewish Arabs were many whom the Gestapo or SS had not placed in the lifethreatening category of “Jew”. Some, like the Moroccan Mohamet Z. and the Algerian Alfred Benhamou, who were also taken from Auschwitz to Mauthausen, were even listed as belonging to two religions, the “mos.” (-aic) and the “moh.” (-ammedan). Here it seems likely that—apart from a possible fateful “reading mistake” or “writing mistake”—Jewish prisoners were mistaken for Muslims or Christians or perhaps even posed as such, which may have preserved them from an even worse fate.205 Buchenwald, Flossenbürg, Lublin-Majdanek, and Ravensbrück concentration camps also interned Arab women and European wives of Arabs. As far as can be seen, the reasons for their imprisonment were quite varied. In July 1944, the Saarbrücken Gestapo initially brought the Algerian Taous M. to Ravensbrück concentration camp as a “political”. She was then transferred via Leipzig to Buchenwald’s external camps Schlieben and Altenburg and experienced her liberation near Meerane during the April 1945 evacuation march. Ursula B., a German married to Loutfy B., an Egyptian who lived in Cairo, was taken to Ravensbrück in May 1944 as a “political Egyptian.” She had submitted an application to be exchanged along with her 1939born son Mahmoud Riad for a German interned in Egypt, but the Gestapo arrested her in April 1943, so that reservations for “defense

204 Rachel Simon, “It Could Have Happened There: The Jews of Libya during the Second World War,” Africana Journal 16 (1994), 391–422. See also the files the author did not use, PArchAAB, R 41507, R 41508, and R 412583. 205 On March 20, 2003, in a different context, Ernest Gillen told the author from his own experience that smaller “groups from other nations had no interest in revealing themselves as such. It wouldn’t have been of use; rather, it was likely to be damaging.”

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reasons” were raised against her exchange.206 In March 1944, the Hanseatic Superior State Court sentenced her to ten months in prison for “revealing state secrets.” Although the sentence was considered already served because of her time in pre-trial detention,207 the Gestapo ordered protective custody for her “for the duration of the war”. They argued that it had to be feared that Ursula B. would “damage the interests of the German Reich again.”208 In December 1944, she was transferred from Ravensbrück to Flossenbürg concentration camp’s external camp Dresden-Trachau,209 where she was probably liberated. On February 17, 1943, 20-year-old Lucie M. was transferred as a “Moroccan half-breed” together with four “Jewish half-breeds” and a “Gypsy half-breed” from Jugendschutzlager Uckermark (Uckermark youth protective camp)210 to Ravensbrück concentration camp.211 As the reason for her arrest, she was listed as “antisocial.” M. obviously belonged to the aforementioned group of children of German women and “colored” French occupation soldiers from the Rhineland, who were threatened by sterilization, among other things. The further fate of Lucie M. is unknown. Little specific information is available thus far on the living conditions and treatment of Arab concentration camp prisoners. In his testimony for the Cologne public prosecutor in 1966, Josef R., a former prisoner in Sachsenhausen, reported about an “Arab who couldn’t speak any German at all” at the external camp Berlin-Lichterfelde Süd.212 This man, whom the other prisoners called “Ali” and who could make himself understood in French, had been “severely manhandled by an SS man”. “It was a cold winter (1944/45—G. H.) and ‘Ali’ had to stand for hours outdoors, where cold water was poured 206

PArchAAB, R 41483. Staatsarchiv Hamburg, Tägliche Zu- und Abgänge der Schutzhaftgefangenen im Polizeigefängnis Fuhlsbüttel; ibid., Gefängnisverwaltung II, UG-Kartei alt, Frauen. 208 PArchAAB, R 41484. 209 On this camp, see Michael Hepp, “Vorhof zur Hölle. Mädchen im ‘Jugendschutzlager’ Uckermark,” in Opfer und Täterinnen. Frauenbiographien des Nationalsozialismus, ed. Angelika Ebbinghaus (Nördlingen, 1987), pp. 191–216. 210 BArchB, Film 41351, Bl. 616. 211 On this camp, see Rainer Kubatzki Zwangsarbeiter- und Kriegsgefangenenlager. Standorte und Topographie in Berlin und im brandenburgischen Umland 1939 bis 1945. Eine Dokumentation (Berlin, 2001), p. 177. 212 Archiv Sachsenhausen, JD 22/2, Bl. 52–53. This may deal with the Tunisian Ahmed ben A., who had been born in 1898 and had come from Neuengamme. His death, assumed by R., has not been proven. 207

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over him and he was punched and kicked. ‘Ali’ was about 45 years old at that time and it was surely more than he could take. But I don’t know which SS man did that to ‘Ali’ at that time.”213 This kind of abuse, which is also known from many other former prisoners’ accounts of their experience, was clearly not “typical” of dealings with Arab concentration camp prisoners. But it casts a particular light on Ernest Gillen’s experience that, “The francophone Arabs had only advantages by calling themselves Frenchmen when speaking among fellow prisoners.”214 R.’s statement shows us that the Muslims among the Arab prisoners—who were the great majority—certainly practiced their religion in the camp. “I remember quite clearly,” he said, “that we always smirked a little about him (‘Ali’—G. H.) when he prayed facing the East, simply because it seemed funny to us.”215 The recollections of fellow prisoners revealed something else: the Arabs’ contribution to the self-liberation of Buchenwald concentration camp. According to Pierre Durand, the President of the International Buchenwald Committee, the Algerians Kermiche Areski and Messaoud ben Hamiche belonged to the “Brigade française d’Action liberatrice” that formed in the camp in June 1944.216 The Spanish Civil War veteran Areski had come on January 19, Ben Hamiche on May 14, from Compiègne to Buchenwald. On April 11, 1945, the brigade took part in the prisoners’ armed revolt that made it possible to transfer the camp to the American troops. Occasionally, the question is raised whether there were racist reasons why the National Socialist apparatus of repression persecuted Arabs or Muslims and sent them to prisons and concentration camps. This question is answered in the negative. For example, Hermann L. Gremliza asserts, “that anti-Semitism never put a single Arab in a German gas chamber.217 Certainly, it cannot be assumed that the Moroccan Mohamed Bouayad was killed in the gas chamber in Maut-

213

Personal communication from Gillen to the author, March 20, 2003. Archiv Sachsenhausen, JD 22/2, Bl. 52–53 215 Pierre Durand, Les armes de l’espoir. Les Français à Buchenwald et à Dora (Paris, 1977), pp. 292ff. and 304–305. 216 Durand, Les armes de l’espoir, pp. 298ff. 217 Hermann L. Gremliza, “Ein skandalöser Text,” Israel, die Palästinenser und die deutsche Linke, Beiträge einer Tagung der Marx-Engels-Stiftung (Wuppertal, Essen, 2002), p. 58. 214

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hausen concentration camp on April 24, 1945 for anti-Semitic motives or that he was killed because he was an Arab. Rather, like millions of other non-Jewish people, he fell victim to the perfectly “normal” terror of the Nazis. Apart from the fact that Gremliza apparently does not honor non-Jewish victims of National Socialism as much as Jewish ones, he seems to ignore that the fundamental structure of National Socialist terror was racist. Arabs experienced this clearly. As mentioned before, Arab students were attacked for belonging to “a lower race.” Arab prisoners of war, as “coloreds,” were on principle to be held outside the boundaries of the Reich and were separated from the “whites” in the camps. When Arab criminals were prosecuted in court, their “coloredness” definitely proved to be an exacerbating factor, and the “anti-social” Lucie M., put in the category of “Moroccan half-breed,” was sent to Ravensbrück concentration camp for unambiguously racist reasons. Epilogue Any historian who works on topics related to Arab-Israeli relations can hardly avoid a minefield of contestations and claims about the right version of particular historical events. Underneath the surface of the violence of the battlefields of 1948 and subsequent wars, as well as of the sinister game of retaliation and spiraling levels of violence in terror, guerilla warfare and occupation, there is a deeply rooted conflict about memory: Memories of belonging to the land, and memories of blame and victimhood, about who started and who radicalized the conflict. Consequently, the history of the Arab-Israeli conflict is one of immediate, physical confrontations, but it is also a history of denigration and de-legitimization of the opponent’s stance—both in order to gain allies and supporters on a regional and international stage, and in order to justify and put oneself into a position of righteousness. This dynamic is at work both ways, on both sides of the conflict. In a broader Palestinian and Arab public sphere, it finds expression in a vitriolic vilification of Jews as “others” based on anti-Semitic imagery borrowed from a European context—a trend that gained momentum after the war of 1948 only, and which many scholars would consider as quite alien to the Islamic tradition. The equivalent among right wing Israelis and their supporters is a trend to vilify Arabs as naturally inclined towards anti-Semitism, based on

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religion and tradition. The argument is that this rendered them natural allies of the Nazis, and—either actively or potentially—willing collaborators in the Holocaust. A major protagonist in this conflict of memory has been Amin alHusayni, the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, who was a leading figure of the Palestinian National Movement during the years between the two World Wars and after. His leadership in the Palestine Revolt (19361939) forced him into exile, which he chose to take up, after stopovers in Baghdad and Tehran, in Berlin from 1941 to 1945. There, he adopted the role of chief propagandist of Nazi anti-Semitic ideology that was broadcast into the Middle East via Arabic wireless propaganda. His language, which had started to become radically anti-Jewish while he was still in Palestine, now became indistinguishable from Nazi Jew hatred. In addition, al-Husayni tried to use his close relationship with Himmler and other Nazi grandees to prevent the evacuation of Bulgarian, Romanian and Hungarian Jewish children to Palestine in exchange for Germans who were detained abroad. This, as well as further collaborative activities, his alleged contacts with Adolf Eichmann and an alleged visit to a concentration camp provided enough justification for many, including the leaders of the Zionist movement, to present the Mufti as an arch villain after World War II.218 There is no doubt that this is deserved, and the Mufti’s Nazi years have remained a heavy burden on the Palestinian national movement ever since. Until today, there are only few voices in the Palestinian and Arab public who call for a realistic assessment of Amin al-Husaini’s activities during the war instead of maintaining his image as a heroic leader. Zionist and Israeli leaders, however, have exploited the Mufti’s activities to denigrate the Palestinian resistance against Israeli occupation as in fact Nazi inspired from the beginning and thus as fundamentally anti-Semitic.219 The latest exam-

218 On the Mufti’s activities see Klaus Gensicke, Der Mufti von Jerusalem, Amin elHusseini, und die Nationalsozialisten (Frankfurt am Main, New York, 1988). A revised edition appeared in 2007 (Darmstadt). 219 For this paragraph see Gerhard Höpp, “Der Gefangene im Dreieck: Zum Bild Amin al-Husseinis in Wissenschaft und Publizistik seit 1941. Ein bio-bibliographischer Abriß,” in Eine umstrittene Figur: Hadj Amin al-Husseini. Mufti von Jerusalem, ed. Zimmer-Winkel (Trier, 1999), 5–23. A recent book builds on the thesis of wide spread anti-Semitic inclinations among Arabs in the 1930s: Klaus-Michael Mallmann and Martin Cüppers, Halbmond und Hakenkreuz: Das Dritte Reich, die Araber und Palästina (Darmstadt, 2006).

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ple for these efforts is Israeli Foreign Minister Avigdor Liebermann’s circulating of a photograph of a meeting between the Mufti and Adolf Hitler in Berlin in 1941 in order to provide a convincing argument why Israel had the right to expand building activities in East Jerusalem.220 Gerhard Höpp, who made a crucial contribution to studies about the Mufti when he edited al-Husayni’s speeches and other writings of his years in Berlin,221 had taken up the task during the last years of his life to complicate this overly simplistic image of Arabs and their links with Nazi Germany that was so heavily overshadowed by the towering figure of the Mufti. He initiated and led a research project at the ZMO in Berlin inquiring into the different facets and individual experiences of “Arab Encounters with National Socialism.” The present author examined the position of Fascism and Nazism in an Iraqi Arab nationalist discourse. René Wildangel wrote about the reception of Nazism in Palestine, whereas others, associated members of the project inquired into both contemporary and historical manifestations of this encounter.222 An international workshop in 2002 resulted in an edited volume on the topic that also contained the original German version of Gerhard Höpp’s article in this volume.223 It was his intention in this piece as well as in his last research project as a whole to recover the biographies and fates of men and women of Arab origins (and Berber, in the case of North African descent), who perished in the Nazi machinery of annihilation. The numbers are comparatively low, traces are few and difficult to find, and the information is sketchy, sometimes not beyond a mere note in the endless death records of a camp such as Mauthausen. What is at stake here is the exact opposite 220 Haaretz.com, “Israel circulates photo of Hitler greeting late Palestinian mufti,” 22/07/2009, http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1102225.html (accessed September 25, 2009). Liebermann argued that the building activities covered land owned by the late Mufti’s family. East Jerusalem was annexed by Israel after the 1967 war, but it remains predominantly Arab. The Palestinian Authority claims it as the future capital of a Palestinian state. 221 Gerhard Höpp, Mufti-Papiere: Briefe, Memoranden, Reden und Aufrufe Amin al-Husainis aus dem Exil, 1940–1945. (Berlin, 2001). 222 Peter Wien, Iraqi Arab Nationalism: Authoritarian, Totalitarian and Pro-Fascist Inclinations, 1932–1941 (London, New York, 2006), René Wildangel, Zwischen Achse und Mandatsmacht: Palästina und der Nationalsozialismus (Berlin, 2007), Götz Nordbruch, Nazism in Syria and Lebanon: the ambivalence of the German option, 1933–1945 (Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon; New York, NY. 2008). 223 Gerhard Höpp, Peter Wien and René Wildangel, Blind für die Geschichte? Arabische Begegnungen mit dem Nationalsozialismus. (Berlin, 2004).

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of a contest over numbers and primacy in victimhood, however. It is to restore for memory the shared individual experiences of those, who, no matter what their ethnicity or faith (or lack of it) was, were murdered by the Nazis. It may facilitate the mutual recognition of memory in a conflict that is so much about identity rooted in a history of violence. P.W.

EGYPT’S OVERLOOKED CONTRIBUTION TO WORLD WAR II Emad Ahmed Helal Introduction The war began on the Egyptian front with the advance of the Italian Marshall Rodolfo Graziani across the Egyptian-Libyan border on September 1940. The crossing released a series of attacks and counter-attacks and the removal of one general and the appointment of another. General Sir Archibald Wavell succeeded in pushing Graziani back and occupying the city of Benghazi on February 1941. Graziani was then removed and General Erwin Rommel appointed as the Head of the Axis Forces in North Africa, succeeding in standing up to Wavell and forcing him out of Libya. Wavell in turn was removed and a series of British Generals were subsequently appointed and removed in countering Rommel of whom the last was General Auchinleck who managed to score some victories and eventually was forced to retreat back to the Egyptian territories. He finally managed to achieve a Pyrrhic victory after a battle that lasted six days halting Rommel’s attacks in El Alamein on June 6, 1942. The position of the British remained tenuous to the extreme and in an attempt to save the situation, Winston Churchill issued some important changes in the British leadership of the Armed Forces in the Middle East by appointing General Montgomery as head of the Eighth British Army and General Harold Alexander as the General Command to the British Forces in the Middle East succeeding General Auchinleck. Montgomery successfully repelled Rommel’s attacks in August and September, turning the defensive into an offensive and achieving victory in the Battle of El Alamein (October 23–November 4, 1942). He forced Rommel to retreat to Tripoli in January 1943, then further into Tunis where the British Armed Forces in collaboration with the Americans on both the Eastern and Western front managed to encircle him. Rommel kept the fighting going until April 1943 when he fell ill and was transported to Germany; the Axis Forces were defeated in North Africa in May. The Allied Forces

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crossed over from Sicily in July, laying the ground for the invasion of Italy which surrendered in September 1943.1 The history of the war on the Egyptian Front just summarized above can be described as the standard narrative of attack and retreat which hundreds of volumes reproduce as they focus on the brilliance of Rommel and the genius of Montgomery. In all these narratives Egypt is presented as a theatre of war rather than a participatory player. The two questions this paper sets out to answer are thus the following: Would it have been possible for the Allied Forces to withstand the attacks of Graziani and Rommel without help from Egypt? After dozens of battles on the North African front, would an Allied victory have been possible had Egypt taken the side of the Axis Forces and declared war against Britain and its Allies? In Western narratives of war which focus on the fact that Egypt did not have much to offer militarily and economically to the Allies, the answer to these usually comes out as a straightforward yes. On the basis of new sources which reveal the extent of Egypt’s overlooked contribution to WWII, this paper contends otherwise. Britain realized early on the important role Egypt could play—with its army, its resources and its strategic position—in the case war broke out. This explains the reason behind the 1936 Treaty where Britain required Egypt to offer all possible assistance in case of war. As the international situation became more complex in Europe throughout the month of August 1939, the British Ambassador to Egypt Miles W. Lampson warned the Egyptian Prime Minister Maher Pasha that the situation in Europe is moving toward war and that Egypt should prepare to declare martial law and take the necessary precautions to inspect the ships arriving to the Egyptian ports according to the provisions of the 1936 Treaty.2 The Egyptian government did indeed comply and on August 28, 1939 set up a special commis-

1 For further details regarding these military operations see ʿAbd-ar-Raḥmān ar-Rāfiʿī, Fī aʿqāb ath-thawra al-miṣrīyya [After the Egyptian Revolution] (Cairo, 1951), pp. 122–130. Also note the bibliographic list in footnotes 14 and 15. 2 Document number 0075–051082; “Naval Examination Service at Egyptian Ports,” and two other documents with no number entitled “From the British Ambassador to the Prime Minister of Egypt, August, 4 and 25, 1939”. Dār al-Wathāʾiq al-Qawmīyya, Arshīf Majlis al-Wuzarāʾ.

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sion to inspect all ships arriving to the Egyptian ports in the case of war.3 With the advance of the German army across Poland on September 1, 1939 Egypt declared martial law and Ali Maher was appointed Military Governor. Political relations between Germany and Egypt were severed and the Egyptian government thought that matters would not exceed the inspection of ships on its ports and offering some logistical support to Britain. Matters soon escalated when Italy joined the war on June 10, 1940, making Britain vulnerable on three fronts at the same time. The presence of Italian Forces in Libya and Ethiopia would expose the British Forces in Egypt, Sudan and Somalia to grave danger. Britain expected Egypt to declare war on Italy; Ali Maher affirmed “the policy of protecting Egypt from the misfortunes of war” while needing to honor its pledges in “offering the most possible assistance to its ally in its defense of truth and freedom within the boundaries of a Treaty of friendship and cooperation”. Egypt’s position, however, remained defensive: it was limited to severing political ties to Italy and arresting most of its nationals.4 It was Britain that saw this as insufficient support, accusing the Egyptian government and the monarchy of leniency toward Italy. The British Embassy sent a warning to King Farouk regarding the absence of cooperation on the part of Ali Maher’s government, eventually obtaining his resignation on June 23, 1940. His successor, Hasan Sabri Pasha, insisted on adopting the same policy in “protecting Egypt from the misfortunes of war” until his death on November 14, 1940. He was followed by Hussein Sirry Pasha, known for his leanings toward Britain; he offered all possible assistance but was neither able to defy the conspiracies of Mustafa al-Nahhas, the very popular leader of the Wafd party, nor to deal with the conspiracies of King Farouk, known for his leanings toward the countries of the Axis as their armies were advancing toward the Egyptian borders under the leadership of Rommel. Demonstrations broke out at the King’s

3 Document number 0075–051082–0002; Majlis al-Wuzarāʾ, based on the law number 99 for 1939 that established a system for inspecting ships in the port of Alexandria, August 28, 1939. 4 For more information regarding the position of Ali Maher regarding the war see ar-Rāfiʿī, Fī aʿqāb, pp. 82–83 and ʿAbd al-Khāliq Lāshīn, “Aḍwāʾ ʿalā mawqif wizārat ʿAlī Māhir min al-ḥarb al-ʿālamīya ath-thānīya—dirāsa wathāʾiqīya” [Spotlights on the attitude of Ali Maher’s ministry towards the Second World War], Al-majalla at-tārīkhīya al-miṣrīya, 24 (1977), 225–264.

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instigation it was rumored, where the people called for the fall of Britain and repeated slogans such as “Proceed Rommel, move forward Rommel”.5 The demonstrations upset Miles Lampson who saw the solution in appointing Mustafa al-Nahhas Pasha as Prime Minister. Al-Nahhas’ immense popularity gave him leverage to confront the power of the King and his sympathies toward the Axis Powers. He was known for his faith in democracy and perceived the victory of the Axis countries as entrenching the tyranny represented in the person of King Farouk. Despite his opposition to the British occupation of Egypt, al-Nahhas Pasha believed in the necessity of supporting Britain in the war.6 When British tanks eventually besieged the Palace of Abdeen on February 4, 1942, the King was forced to appoint al-Nahhas to form a government.7 Al-Nahhas not only followed up on the obligations mandated by the Treaty of 1936 but went further in offering Britain more support than what was stipulated therein. This is what will be discussed in this paper. The Sources The King attempted to remove al-Nahhas on more than one occasion, at which point Britain would interfere and stop the monarch. In the beginning of 1944, after victory has been achieved on the North African Front and Italy had surrendered, al-Nahhas began to prepare for negotiations with Britain in order to reappraise the Treaty of 1936. To that end, he requested his various Ministries to prepare detailed reports on the services offered to Britain and its allies in order to win the war. The end result never came to fruition because Britain ruined the opportunity that al-Nahhas had been waiting for throughout the war years by giving the King the green light to depose

5 For additional information on the policy of Egypt toward Britain during this period see Muḥammad Jamāl ad-Dīn al-Masadī et. al, Miṣr fi-l-ḥ arb al-ʿālamīya aththānīya [Egypt in World War Two] (Cairo, n.d.), p. 240; ar-Rāfiʿī, Fī aʿqāb, pp. 83–100; Wajīh ʿAtīq ʿAbd-al-Ṣādiq, al-Malik Farūk wa-Almāniyā an-nāzīya: khams sanawāt min al-ʿalaqāt as-sirrīya [King Faruk and Nazi Germany: five years of secret relations] (Cairo, 1992), p. 91. 6 Muḥammad Ṣābir ʿArab, Ḥ ādith 4 fibrāyir 1942 wal-ḥ ayāt al-siyāsīya al-miṣrīya [The incident of February 4, 1942, and Egyptian political life] (Cairo, 1985), pp. 132–136. 7 ar-Rāfiʿī, Fī aʿqāb, pp. 101–3; Muḥammad Ṣābir ʿArab, Ḥ ādith 4 fibrāyir, pp. 138– 140, 154–169.

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the Prime Minister after he had served his purpose. The King deposed al-Nahhas on October 8, 1944. Matters got complicated when his successor, Ahmad Maher Pasha, was assassinated on February 24, 1945 and was then replaced by Mahmud Fahmy al-Noqrashi who furthered assistance to the Allies until the war was over. By declaring war on Germany and Japan two days after taking office, al-Noqrashi went further than any of his predecessors in abandoning the policy of safeguarding Egypt from the misfortunes of war. This he did though in the hope of bringing Egypt nearer to independence and preparing the grounds for its participation in the conference in San Francisco.8 Al-Noqrashi continued to gather reports from the various Ministries on the role of Egypt during the war. It appears here that he was planning on engaging Britain in negotiations when the war was over, using these reports as documentary evidence. After the war ended on August 15, 1945, al-Noqrashi prepared a memorandum for the British government that he presented on December 20, 1945. The memorandum called for negotiations and a review of the Treaty of 1936. By ignoring the memorandum, Britain placed al-Noqrashi in a humiliating position with regard to the occupier. The demonstrations incited by the Wafd Party ended in bloodshed, eventually leading to the fall of al-Noqrashi’s government on February 16, 1946.9 The priorities of his successor, Ismail Sidky, included forming a delegation to negotiate with Britain the amendment of the Treaty of 1936, a decision he took on March 12, 1946.10 The Egyptian Ministry of Foreign Affairs sought to use these reports, in which various Ministries describe their separate contributions to the war effort, in an attempt to bolster the position of the Egyptian negotiators. In May 1945, its deputy sent a letter to the Secretary of the Cabinet requesting that copies of these reviews be included in a “White Book”.11 The Secretary, however, noticed that some Ministries had not sent in their reviews or that they were incomplete. See Muḥammad Ṣābir ʿArab, Ḥ ādith 4 fibrāyir, pp. 389–403. al-Rāfiʿī, Fī aʿqāb, 145–152. 10 Dār al-Wathāʾiq al-Qawmīya (DWQ), Wathāˇiq ʿAbdīn #0069–001126–0001, ‘The decision of the Prime Minster to form an official delegation that would undertake the negotiation to review the friendship Treaty between Egypt and Britain, March 12, 1946.’ 11 Ibid., # 0075–051084–0038, ‘From the Deputy of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to the General Secretary General of the Cabinet, May 1946.’ 8 9

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The material mostly documented the services offered by these respective Ministries from the beginning of the war until 1944 only. The matter was brought to the attention of Ismail Sidky who ordered the recalcitrant Ministries to comply and the incomplete reviews to be supplemented.12 In fact, all the Ministries eventually submitted comprehensive reports on their services during the war, but the “White Book” was never issued and the negotiations known as “Sidky-Bevin” failed. The reports were kept in ministerial archives with copies sent to the archives of Abdeen Palace and subsequently moved to the National Archive Center.13 None of the many researchers who have investigated the role of Egypt in WWII have glanced at these documents,14 which explains why many of the Egyptian researchers who have depended on Western archives have fallen captive to the Western narrative which completely ignored the role of the British and French colonies—such as India, Iran, Egypt, Algeria and others—in the war. This narrative essentially treats the war as if it were a purely Western operation to which East and South were mere war theatres. The Western historical writings treat the Egyptian front as such; some writers even insist on viewing Egypt as an independent nation that chose not to enter the war and whose role was limited to that of a spectator.15 Some go

12 Ibid., # 0075–051084 is a document with no number attached to the previous document and compromises a memorandum to be presented to the Prime Minister with regard to the situation of these reports, May 11, 1946. 13 Dār al-Wathāʾiq al-Qawmīyya: Archive of the Cabinet # 0075–051084 entitled: Egypt’s help to Great Britain during the War. ʿAbdīn Archive # 0069–007383. 14 The studies that have been issued on the role of Egypt in the Second world War that have not used these reports include the following scholars: ʿĀṣim al-Disūqī, Miṣr fi-l-ḥ arb al-ʿālamīya al-thāniya 1939–1945 [Egypt in World War Two, 1939–1945] (Cairo, 1976); Muḥammad Jamāl al-Dīn al-Masadī and Yūnān Labīb Rizq, Miṣr fi-lḥ arb al-ʿālamīya ath-thānīya [Egypt in World War Two]. ʿAbd al-Wahhāb Bakr, al-Wujūd al-Brīṭānī fi-l-jaysh al-Miṣrī 1936–1947 [British presence in the Egyptian Army 1936–1947] (Cairo, 1982); Muḥammad Farīd Ḥ ashīsh, Muʿāhadat 1936 waatharihā fi-l-ʿalāqāt al-Brīṭānīya ḥ attā nihāyat al-ḥ arb al-ʿālamīya ath-thānīya 1945 [The 1936 Treaty and its influence on the British relations until the end of World War Two] (Cairo, 1994); ʿAbd al-ʿAẓīm Ramaḍān, Miṣr wal-ḥ arb al-ʿālamīya ath-thāniya, maʿrakat tajnīb Miṣr waylāt al-ḥ arb [Egypt and World War Two, the struggle to keep Egypt out of the miseries of war] (Cairo, 1998); Muḥammad Ṣābir ʿArab, Ḥ ādith 4 fibrāyir. 15 Some of the Western sources on the role of Egypt during the Second World War include Jean Lugol, Egypt and World War II: the Anti-axis Campaigns in the Middle East (Cairo, 1945); Winston Churchill, The Second World War (Boston, 1948); Basil Henry Liddell Hart, History of the Second World War (New York, 1999[1971]); Thomas E. Griess, ed., The Second World War: Europe and the Mediterranean (United

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further to claim that Egypt accumulated riches as a result of the war due to the money Britain poured into the country as it prepared for the conflict by purchasing supplies.16 This paper attempts to review these Egyptian documents and to use them in order to evaluate the actual role Egypt played during the war. A few preliminary observations are in order regarding these documents: First, these reports were written with the full knowledge of the individuals involved, whether during the war or immediately after it was over. They were mostly written by officials and not by politicians. The compilation was a complex process, as their various components, preserved in the National Archives, testify. They were written by subsidiary agencies, then integrated by a more general body before being subsequently collected by the Ministry. On their basis, the Ministry compiled its own more comprehensive report and sent it to the Cabinet with an attachment consisting of the sub-reports. Second, these reports are supported by charts, figures and specific statistics in the areas of economics, health and security. While the figures do not seem exaggerated, the reports demonstrate an attention to the smallest if not the most irrelevant detail. Third, most of the information contained in these documents does not contradict what is known of the events of the war. In most cases it reveals truths or partial truths that have been deliberately overlooked in Western historical writings. Fourth, attached to these reports are hundreds of original letters that were received by these Ministries and other Egyptian Agencies from Allied generals asking for aid, an increase in aid or expressing gratitude for the aid delivered. The Governorate of Cairo, for example, received sixty-seven letters of thanks from the Allied authorities for the aid it extended to them. These are documents that are obviously not available in Western Archives as it is natural that they be conserved by the agencies they were sent to. On the basis of these Egyptian archives, the following section reviews in detail the various domains covered by Egyptian assistance to the Allies.

States Military Academy, Dept. of History, 2002); Ashley Jackson, The British Empire and the Second World War (London and New York, 2006). 16 Jackson, The British Empire, pp. 118–119, 121.

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The Egyptian war effort began before the war when the Egyptian Forces were deployed to construct the military barracks that were used to house the British troops at the cost of 12,000,000 Egyptian Pounds. Egypt was also responsible for building fortifications and defense lines whose expense tallied up to 45,000,000 Egyptian Pounds according to the plan that was presented by the National Minister of Defense to the Cabinet a few months before the war.17 It is clear from the report issued by the National Ministry of Defense to the Cabinet on May 29, 1946 that Egypt was already involved in the war even though it had not openly declared that. The Egyptian military were placed as front observation units and received the first attack shock when Graziani crossed the Egyptian borders in September 1940, suffering much loss in men and ammunition. During Rommel’s campaign the British Forces conducted their fight with their right (or Northern) wing to the Mediterranean and their left (or Southern) wing toward the Western desert—the Egyptian army single-handedly taking the responsibility of protecting the left wing of the British Forces from any encirclement by using the oasis of Siwa as a center for its operations. At the same time, it took part alongside the British Navy in securing the right wing of the Eighth British Army by preventing any infiltration or maritime enforcements behind its lines. The Egyptian army also had the task of keeping order in the back lines of the Allied Forces when the situation proved difficult in El Alamein. They formed a defense line behind Allied troops, thus protecting their back and keeping open the lines of communication with the front.18 Montgomery relates in his memoirs that, when he reached Cairo on August 12, 1942, he met with General Auchinleck who presented him with his military plan. This stipulated that the Eighth Army must be maintained at all costs and not be obliterated in battle. When

17 DWQ # 0069–007383, a document with no follow-up number, ‘Report presented to the Prime Minister from Hussein Sirry Pasha the Minister of National Defense, July 8, 1939’. 18 DWQ #0075–051084–0047, ‘From the Head of the Office of the Ministry of National Defense to the Secretary of the Cabinet, May 29, 1946’ attached to it is document #0075–051084–0048 entitled ‘A Statement of Participation from Ministry of National Defense (Egyptian Forces) in securing victory and the costs it incurred of the war’.

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Rommel attacked—and that was expected—the Eighth Army should retreat to the Delta. If it were not possible to remain there or in Cairo, it should either head South by the Nile or toward Palestine. Preparations were made to remove the headquarters of the Eighth Army toward the Nile.19 The reports of the Ministry of National Defense confirm these plans, pointing out that during the withdrawal of the British Forces ahead of Rommel’s advance, they had indeed thought of retreating from the line of El Alamein to another defense line between Cairo and Alexandria and that the Egyptian Forces bore the responsibility of preparing that line of defense in addition to being asked to safeguard the water line west of Cairo. Sufficient numbers of Egyptian troops participated in this operation and continued to perform these duties until it was pulled out in mid 1942 when the Germans advanced to El Alamein. Thereafter, they were reorganized as an attack unit in the Delta-Cairo-Fayyum region.20 On the other hand, Egyptian ground forces were participating in the war on a daily basis through their resistance to assault planes with anti-aircraft missiles. In mid-August 1940, the Italians began their air-raids on the Suez Canal from their bases on the Dodecanese Islands, 350 miles away from Port Said. With the beginning of 1941, the German air force began to take part in these raids by dropping anti-naval mines. On the night of January 30 and 31, a parachuted mine exploded aboard a British military ship. Ten days later, another exploded aboard a Greek ship. The German Forces continued to target the Suez Canal almost daily. For that reason, Egyptian infantry men were posted along the Canal every 200 meters in order to keep watch, remove and destroy anti-naval mines dropped by the Axis planes.21 The Egyptian navy, for its part, was directly engaged in the military operations. Transporting fighting forces, ammunition, supplies, assignments, wounded and prisoners of war, they organized navel sorties between the Egyptian ports at great human and material cost. The Egyptian navy also participated in surveillance of the Egyptian ports 19 Montgomery, Mudhakkirāt al-Mārshāl Montgomery [The memoirs of Marshall Montgomery], transl. Farīd Jabr (Beirut, n.d.), p. 117. 20 DWQ # 0075–051084–0048. 21 Muḥammad ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Burj, Qanāt al-Suways, ahamiyyatuhā al-siyāsīya wal-istrātijīya wa-taʾthīruhā ʿalā al-ʿalāqāt al-miṣrīya al-brīṭānīya min sanat 1941 ilā sanat 1965 [The Suez Canal, its political and strategic importance and their influence on Egyptian-British relations from 1941 to 1965] (Cairo, 1968), p. 140.

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and coasts, controlling the ships and steamboats that entered these ports in addition to performing regular naval inspections. The Egyptian navy selected ten of its speedboats to guard the waterways that led to the port of Alexandria, surveillance was kept up on enemy planes that dropped naval mines and their location identified. In addition, they participated in rescue missions to the Allied naval fleets.22 The Egyptian military intelligence also collected information on the enemy from the nomadic tribes across the Egyptian-Libyan border and offered the Allied Forces relevant military information. Britain had not prepared to portion out a part of its military to guard POWs and had turned over that responsibility to the Egyptian army who collected, deported and guarded the prisoners, who numbered by the thousands by the end of the war.23 Despite its limited capacity, even the Egyptian Royal Air Force took part, along its British counterpart, in defending the areas of the Suez Canal and Cairo. It conducted sorties in the Red Sea to protect the caravans that carried supplies from India and South Africa, detecting enemy submarines and controlling air traffic. When the British Air Force encountered a shortage of pilots, their counterparts from the Egyptian Royal Air Force took their place on coastal airports where they assumed the same responsibilities and functions. As the pilot shortage increased, the British Air Force handed over the parachute department in the Suez Canal Zone to the Egyptian Air Force who undertook their commission to the best of their abilities.24 In a report published by Major General Kiltrick, the Head of the military delegation to Egypt in 1945, it is mentioned that in taking over the administration of the air power, the Egyptian army had saved Britain a thousand men that were deployed elsewhere in other areas.25 With the progress of fighting on the North African front and the advance of the Allied Forces into Libya and further into Tunis, the Egyptian airports proved less relevant and an operation began to transfer airports, supplies and airplanes further West. The severe shortage of pilots is attested in a request from the British Embassy to al-Nahhas Pasha (20th of August 1943) urging the enlistment of all Egyptian pilots in the transfer of British military planes between 22 23 24 25

DWQ # 0075–051084–0048. DWQ # 0075–051084–0048. DWQ # 0075–051084–0048. Ar-Rāfiʿī, Fī aʿqāb, p. 133.

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various fighting fronts.26 The Egyptian government agreed to provide the British army with a number of its Egyptian pilots for the transfer of its planes across various areas in the Middle East.27 Egypt also allowed some of its retired officers assigned to the Merchant Naval Fleet to volunteer in the ranks of the British army.28 Moreover, all engineers and pilots of ‘Egypt Air’, the commercial Egyptian Airline, joined the ranks of the British Forces.29 The core of Egyptian engineers participated in operations that involved de-mining fields or guarding areas in El Alamein and Siwa, in addition to establishing, maintaining, guarding and running the water pipelines between Sidi Abdel Qader and Mersa Matruh. They thus ensured that clean water was available to the Allied Forces. They also participated in operations that involved laying railroads tracks across the Western desert.30 Generally speaking, when Britain engaged the Egyptian army in the war, it assigned to it the most dangerous operations with the intention of protecting its own Forces. The assignments given to the Egyptian army were operations that involved spying, guarding, and maintaining fixed observation posts. These assignments were ambivalent—neither warlike nor peaceful—depleting transportation facilities of human capacity without actual combat and consuming supplies. The casualties the Egyptian army suffered in the war, which many say it never fought, mounted to 1,125 dead and 1,308 injured without counting, of course, the dead and injured civilian casualties. After the war, Britain made sure that the Egyptian army could not replace its depleted supplies, thus keeping the upper hand in the defense of the Suez Canal.31 On the other hand, most of the British Forces that did arrive in Egypt were largely untrained. Montgomery complained about this in his memoirs, but omitted how he decided to solve this dangerous state

26 DWQ #0069–007383, document with no number, ‘From the British Embassy to the Prime Minster of Egypt, August 20, 1943’. 27 DWQ #0075–051084–0048. 28 DWQ #0069–007383–0090, ‘From the Deputy of the Minister of Foreign Affairs to the Secretary General of the Cabinet, May 17, 1942’. 29 Dār al-Wathāʾiq al-Qawmīya, Arshīf Wizārat al-Khārijīya, # 0081–051008–0008; ‘Memorandum from the Minister of Finance to the Cabinet concerning offering subsidies given to Egypt Air Company, October 1, 1944’. 30 DWQ # 0075–051084–0048. 31 Bakr, al-Wujūd al-Brīṭānī, p. 232.

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of affairs.32 The reports of the Egyptian Ministry of Defense reveal that several joint exercises between the Egyptian and British Forces were conducted with the aim of training the British Forces.33 In general, some of the British officers appreciated the efforts on the part of the Egyptian army that had spared them what would be the equivalent of two complete divisions.34 Security Assistance One of the characteristics of World War II was the important role played by spies in the decisive conclusion of the war. The Germans were brilliant in their espionage operations; many conditions were in their favor on their North African front. Egypt was packed with large numbers of foreign nationals from the Axis countries, especially Italians and Germans. There were around 70,000 Italian residents, for example, of which 12,000 were of military age and well trained. When Ali Maher issued his military decree that set to confiscate weapons from the populace, large quantities of arms were confiscated from the Italians that were intended for use against British camps or in destructive operations.35 The Axis Armies succeeded in sending many spies into Egypt, most of whom were Italian or German officers of Egyptian roots or had resided in Egypt before the war and were therefore proficient in the Arabic language, especially the Egyptian dialect. Anwar al-Sadat, who was then an officer in the Signal Division of the Egyptian army, relates that he had been contacted by two German spies before the battle of El Alamein in order to have their dysfunctional short-wave radio device repaired. He did indeed receive the radio and took this as an opportunity to get in touch with Rommel to inform him that the Egyptian army would be able to rebel against the British on condition that the Germans guarantee the independence of Egypt. His 32

Mudhakkirāt Montgomery, p. 119. DWQ # 0075–051084–0053, ‘From the Head of the Office of the Ministry of National Defense to the Secretary General of the Cabinet, May 29, 1946’ attached to it is document #0075–051084–0054, ‘An Invoice of the services performed for the British and Allied Forces toward winning the war to the end of August 1945’. 34 Burj, Qanāt al-Suways, 140. 35 Rifʿat al-Saʿīd, “al-Ītạ̄ liyūn fī ghimār al-siyāsa al-Miṣrīya,” [The Italians in the adventure of Egyptian politics], Majallat Miṣr al-ḥ adītha 5 (2006): 95–120, here p. 113. 33

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attempt failed and they were all arrested, with Sadat remaining in prison until the end of the war.36 The Military Office as well as Special Operations were in charge of all the investigations regarding espionage cases. Many of those arrested were detained for expressing doubt in “the democratic states”. Many Germans and Italians of the Fifth Column were arrested and placed in a special detention, their numbers totaling almost 7,000.37 The Egyptian Police was also responsible for arresting derelict soldiers who had forfeited their duty, whether from the Axis or Allied camps.38 One should also mention the provisions of food, medicine and shelter provided by the headmen of many rural villages to the British pilots whose planes had fallen into their fields.39 When British planes would crash in desert areas or other uninhabited locations, the responsibility of finding the aircrafts and missing pilots fell on the Egyptian Camel Corps.40 In the area of rescue operations the Firefighter Forces in Cairo had the responsibility of protecting the military barracks of the British army in the city. The same went for the Firefighter Forces in Alexandria who undertook 1783 operations to save or protect steamships and oil carriers, in other words, about one operation per day throughout the war years. Egypt also facilitated the entry and exit of the British Forces in and out of the country. The ‘Passport and Nationalization Division’ that was under the aegis of the Egyptian Ministry of Internal Affairs began issuing ‘military cards’ to all members of the British naval, air or infantry divisions so that they would be able to travel without visas or entry passes. At the end of 1941 the Egyptian government agreed to issue the ‘military passes’ to French, Polish, Yugoslav and Greek soldiers. On the 20th of December 1941 around 15,000 soldiers of the Free French crossed the Egyptian territories from Palestine. The Egyptian government agreed to transport them to the Western front without any complications. In June 1942, the same privileges were extended to the American Forces.

Anwar al-Sadāt, al-Baḥ th ʿan adh-dhāt (Cairo, n.d.), pp. 49–59. DWQ # 0075–051084–0002. 38 DWQ #0075–005073–0001, ‘From Head of Police of Alexandria to the Administrative Director of Public Security, January 8, 1942’. 39 DWQ # 0075–051084–0002. 40 DWQ # 0075–051084–0048. 36 37

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During the war years, the Egyptian police also doubled its efforts to protect the British barracks, armories, and ammunition depots from thieves and destructive elements. The Bureau of Criminal Investigation in Cairo succeeded in capturing stolen items worth 10,977 Egyptian Pounds and returned them to the British army. The value of the stolen goods in the Sharqiyyah governorate was worth 13,937 EP and the same expertise was demonstrated in Alexandria where recovered items reached a total of 110,276 EP.41 In an attempt to protect the Allied Forces from sexually transmitted diseases, the Vice Squad worked hard on closing down houses of ill repute which operated without licenses and whose prostitutes had not undergone regular medical check-ups. This close monitoring was exercised in zones that had a heavy concentration of Allied Forces. A special surveillance team set up for the protection of soldiers from the hustling of pimps and from patronizing illegal whorehouses also served to monitor the existence of spies and other anarchist elements among the pimps and prostitutes. These surveillance campaigns resulted in capturing a large number of spies of which the best known case happened in April 1940. Two employees of the “Nile” cruise ship had smuggled in a large quantity of bombs with the intention of blowing up the military port in Alexandria. The two employees were eventually indicted; one was imprisoned and the second committed suicide.42 On the legal front, Egypt granted British soldiers immunity from prosecution for all offenses they committed against Egyptians. This resulted in a large number of British personnel engaging in crimes across Egyptian cities without facing trial.43 In 1944, the American Forces stationed in Egypt received the same legal immunity.44 Economic Assistance Despite the importance of military and security assistance that Egypt offered the Allies, these appear dwarfed in comparison with the eco41

DWQ # 0075–051084–0002. DWQ # 0075–051084–0002. 43 DWQ # 0076–001742–0003, ‘A report from the Military Postal Officer in Ismāʿīlīya to the Officer in charge of the Canal Zone and East Delta’. 44 DWQ # 0075–055404–0009; a xerox of correspondence between the Minister of Foreign Affairs to the American Ambassador in Cairo, March 1, 1944. 42

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nomic aid extended and in light of the latter’s impact on Egyptian society. Economic assistance can be categorized as follows: Provisions The Allied Forces depended on the resources of Egypt for their provisions. Before the war, the agricultural policy adopted by the British occupiers focused on cotton production necessary for British industry. The circumstances of war, however, led Britain to pressure Egypt into cutting back on its cotton production and increasing the production of grain and vegetables. The influx of hundreds of thousands of soldiers and an equal number of refugees into Egypt increased Britain’s dependence all the more after a naval blockade by Italy barred the naval routes in the Mediterranean. The Egyptian Ministry of Agriculture issued several legal decrees making it compulsory for the Egyptian peasants ( fallāḥ īn) to follow these guidelines. The Ministry also allowed the British authorities to distribute potato seedlings so that the peasants could plant them for the British army. The Ministry took it upon itself to control these ‘seedlings’ and offer essential directions on how to grow them.45 The Farm Cooperative in the Ministry of Social Affairs provided the British Forces with potatoes. The figures show that it exported in 1943 alone 2010 tons at the low price of 9 EP/ton at a time when a ton of potatoes would sell from between 23–25 EP on the local market. It agreed to export 1410 tons of potatoes in 1944. The Farm Cooperative in Alexandria encouraged planting in the areas close to the city—where the Allied Forces congregated—providing them with seed and the necessary fertilizer so as to cover the needs of all the Allied Forces in the city in addition to local consumption.46 Britain sought to implement a similar agrarian policy across most of the Middle East. With the aid of the Egyptian Ministry of Agriculture and its immense expertise in seeds, fertilizers and pesticides, it provided the British authorities with its needs of seedlings and vegetables. It also sent a delegation to Palestine to examine citrus shipments exported to the Allied Forces. The Ministry of Agriculture also took to providing meats to various agencies of the Allied Armies, its hospitals and its resident employees. In addition, they contributed the 45 46

DWQ # 0075–051084–0041. DWQ # 0075–051084–0008.

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essential veterinarian staff who would examine the meats in the abattoirs of the Allied armies.47 The Egyptian Ministry of Supplies also delivered to the Allied armies over 45,000 tons of wheat and maize from the 1943 production, in addition to 20,000 tons of wheat, 6,000 tons of corn, 4,000 of barley and 800 tons of wheat bran from the 1944 general production. It also licensed the British authorities to receive the surplus of the rice production for the years of 1942 and 1943; the total of what the Ministry of Supplies handed over was 107,679 tons of rice.48 In 1943 the ‘Administration of Companies’ directed by the Egyptian Ministry of Finance lent the British Authorities around 50,000 tons of processed sugar. During the last two years of the war, it lent another 31,876 and sold 19,303 tons of sugar.49 As for the Ministry of Supplies, its report indicates that the total amount of sugar handed over to the British Forces from November 1 until the end of February 1944 reached 68,003 tons.50 Montgomery relates in his memoirs that when he entered with the Eighth Army Tripoli in January 1943, the city was on the verge of starvation. At this point he ordered his army to set up their barracks outside the city to avoid depending on its rations. Despite the fact that he ignored the role of Egypt in his memoirs focusing solely on his military genius, he did indeed overlook the truth that “armies march on their stomachs” according to a saying of Napoleon Bonaparte. Most of the food rations that Montgomery needed in his campaign from El Alamein to Tunis were supplied by Egypt. Otherwise he would have ordered his men to attack Tripoli and capture their provisions there if they had to.51 The Egyptian Ministry of Supplies also met the demands of the British Authorities when it came to the production of cotton. From August 1941 until the end of January 1944, the Ministry of Rations handed to the British authorities 395,522 spools of thread; it also

47

DWQ # 0075–051084–0041. DWQ # 0069–007383; document with no number ‘From the Minister of Rations to the Prime Minister, April 27, 1944’. 49 DWQ # 0075–051084–0163. 50 DWQ # 0069–007383; document with no number ‘From the Minister of Rations to the Prime Minister, April 27, 1944’. 51 Mudhakkirāt al-Mārshāl Montgomery, pp. 156–157. 48

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forced the national Egyptian Company of Yarn and Textiles to meet the British Authorities’ needs of fabric.52 Exemption from Tariffs and Custom Duties The Egyptian Customs Department offered exemptions from custom duties on goods, equipment and raw materials imported by the Allied Authorities to its armies in Egypt. The net worth of these tariffs reached around 62 million Egyptian Pounds, a large sum at the time. The following chart shows clearly the details of these exemptions:

Item British Authority imports for 1939–1940 British Authority imports for 1940–1941 British Authority imports for 1941–1942 British Authority imports for 1943–1944 American Authority imports for 1942–1943 British Authority imports for 1943–1944 American Authority imports for 1943–1944 British Authority imports from May 1st 1944 to end of Sept. 1945 American Authority imports from May 1st 1944 to end of Sept. 1945 Total sum of exemption from imports53

Pounds 1104472 2162304 5765778 12001287 11356 18043955 30371 22651286 1981 61772790

At the same time the Customs Agency offered tariffs exemption on Egyptian exports that went to supplying the Allied armies in the Middle East. Their value reached almost ten million pounds as illustrated in the following chart:

52 DWQ # 0069–007383, document with no number, ‘From the Minister of Rations to the Prime Minister, April 27, 1944’. 53 DWQ # 0075–051084–0162; document with no number ‘From the General Director of the Egyptian Customs Agency to the General Director of the Department of Import in the Ministry of Finance, April 13, 1944’; DWQ # 0075–051084–0159 ‘From the General Director of the Custom Agency to the Deputy of the Ministry of Finance, December 2, 1945’.

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Item

Pounds

Exemption from export tariffs on rice Exemption from export tariffs on sugar Sum of export exemption54

8972812 1215487 10188299

In addition to the above, the Customs Agency would refund the British Authorities the interest and custom duties on foreign goods that the Authorities had to purchase from local vendors. Interestingly, the Agency also paid the British Authorities a drawback on cigarettes that were produced locally and consumed by the forces in Egypt.55 The Public Treasury offered large scale exemptions to the Allied Forces from taxes on civil buildings that were set up by the British Authorities in Cairo, the Canal zone, Suez, Giza and Munufiyya governorates. These amounted to 21414 EP in addition to exemptions from entertainment taxes worth 41196 EP on the entertainment compounds and artistic activities that the Allied Forces organized. At Britain’s request, the Agency of Royal Properties did an inventory of the properties owned by Italian nationals without getting paid the mandatory dues for these surveys.56 Labour Force Egypt encouraged hundreds and thousands of its civilian employees to work in the workshops, factories and barracks of the Allied Forces. Because Egypt was a nation open to many nationalities, the British Forces feared that anarchist elements would infiltrate the workers. The Egyptian Police were thus given the task of doing background checks on these workers before allowing them to enter the barracks. The ‘Agency for Identity Verification’ conducted background checks and issued identity papers for the workers and those who wished to get employed with the British and Allied Forces. In the first four

54

DWQ # 0075–051084–0162. DWQ # 0075–051084–0161, ‘A statement on the services that the Egyptian Custom Agency offered the British Authorities and the Allied Forces in order to win the war’. 56 DWQ # 0075–051084–0163, ‘From the Ministry of Finance to the Prime Minister, July 31, 1946 with regards to the services provided by the agencies and the divisions of the Ministry of Finance to the British the Allied Forces in order to win the war’. 55

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years of the war, their numbers reached 878,349. The Agency eventually received thank you letters from the leaders in the British Army on these services. The Criminal Investigation Agency in Alexandria also aided the military authorities in conducting background checks on its workers in the Alexandrian sector before allowing them to work in the various army units. The number of workers there reached around 30,000.57 The Work Agency, a subsidiary to the Ministry of Social Affairs, was responsible for placing skilled workers in workshops and factories belonging to the British Army in Egypt. This concerned 8,258 skilled workers in electrical and various specialization such as woodwork and carpentry, in addition to 1,518 young recent graduates who undertook clerical, administrative and translation work in the areas where the Forces were stationed. The Agency cooperated with the British Authorities in resolving work-related conflicts in institutions run by the British army, as these often erupted in demonstrations and strikes. The Agency would intercept these cases on a request from the British Military Authorities. In this regard, Military Order #75, issued on July 24, 1941, prohibited shut-downs and strikes in order to guarantee a continuation of work in the camps, workshops and British factories in Egypt.58 The Egyptian workforce put at Britain’s disposal also consisted of prisoners. The Alexandria prison released 4,200 prisoners who were put to work at the low rate of 3.5 Piasters and another 404 prisoners who worked for no wages at all.59 In organizing its economy and workforce to meet the needs in manpower of the British and Allied Forces during wartime, Egypt was preparing to face a large unemployment crisis when around one million workers were released after the war was over.60

57

DWQ # 0075–051084–0002. DWQ # 0075–051084–0007, ‘From the Deputy of the Ministry of Social Affairs to the Secretary General of the Cabinet on June 18, 1944’; attached to it is file # 0075–05184–0008,’A Statement on the services rendered by the agencies of the Ministry and its divisions for the British Forces and the Allies in order to win the war’. 59 DWQ # 0075–051084–0050, ‘From the Deputy of the Ministry of Social Affairs to the Secretary General of the Cabinet, June 27, 1946 with regards to the services the Prison Agency rendered to the British Authorities and the Allies in order to win the war’. 60 DWQ # 0081–087271–0032, ‘A memorandum from the Minister of Interior to the Prime Minister with regard the results and discussions that were conducted by the Ministers of Public Works and National Defense, Transportation, Internal and 58

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Services in Transportation The Administration of Traffic in Cairo and Alexandria facilitated the movements of the British and Allied Forces that included large convoys. Many transportation vehicles in the city were confiscated or captured and handed over to the British army. The Administration had to make sure there were enough Egyptian drivers to operate these cars. The Traffic Administration in Alexandria helped in transporting large containers of cannons and spare parts for airplanes.61 The Egyptian Agency for Roads and Bridges was burdened with the task of constructing a large number of roads to facilitate the movement of the British Forces on its various fronts. In order to relieve the British campaign in Syria, Lebanon and Iraq, the Egyptian Agency for Roads and Bridges took on the project of paving a 227 kilometers road between Ismailia-Awja on the border of Palestine as well as another road between Mersa Matruh-Sidi Barrani that measured 134 kilometers. The Agency paved another 118 kilometers of desert road that connected the Port of Suez with Cairo and which was later extended to Alexandria; the Cairo-Alexandria route measured 190 kilometers, among many other roads.62 The Ministry of Rations provided the British Authorities with car tires, as well as 1639 external parts and 2178 internal types of various sizes.63 It is important to note that the movement of tanks and lorries on the streets of Cairo and Alexandria and other Egyptian cities destroyed the asphalt paving of these roads, leaving them in a pitiful Social Affairs, Trade, Industry and Finance in the hope of finding a solution to the social problem that will result when the war is over due to the redundancy of a large number of Egyptian workers and others working in the British camps, May 7, 1944’. Also see the subsequent document around the same subject; file # 0081–087271–0037 ‘From the General Secretary of the Cabinet to the Manager of the Office of Minister of Finance’; 0081–087271–0046, ‘From the Prime Minister to the Minister of Social Affairs’; 0081–087271–0038, ‘From the Secretary General of the Cabinet to the Manager of the Office of the Minister of Social Affairs, May 18, 1944’. 61 DWQ # 0075–051084–0001, ‘From the Minister of Interior to the Prime Minister, June 14, 1944’; attached to it is a document # 0075–051084–0002, ‘A Report on the services provided by the agencies and divisions of the Ministry of Interior to the British Forces or its Allies in order to win the war’. 62 For more details on these roads see file # 0069–007383, document with no number, ‘A review of the projects that had been undertaken with the knowledge of the Agency of Roads and Bridges’. 63 DWQ # 0069–007383, ‘From the Minister of Rations to the Prime Minister, April 27, 1944’.

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state. The Minister of Labor estimated the comprehensive paving of the streets of Cairo alone to be worth two million Egyptian Pounds.64 The repair of roads in the cities of Port Said, Suez, Damanhur, Benha, Zaqaziq would amount to 350,000 Egyptian Pounds.65 In the area of communications, the Deputy of the United States requested permission for its military delegation in North Africa to set up a wireless station as well as a local telegraph and telephone station in its camp in Heliopolis. The Egyptian Cabinet granted the request on the 30th of June 1943.66 Facilitations in Shipments and Unloading of Goods In naval ports, the Customs Agency facilitated the reception of large shipments of crates used to store military material within the Customs headquarters in Alexandria, Port Said and Suez free of charge. It handed over a large part of its customs infrastructure, such as offices, and turned some quays in the Egyptian ports as ‘war zones’ over to the use of the British authorities. The space allotted to British use during the war reached 1,569,556 cubic meters. The Customs Agency facilitated the transporting and unloading of goods connected to the United Kingdom Trade Union, Agency of Malta, and the Military Mess, as these agencies were deputized by the British Authorities to supply rations to the fighting Forces. Across all airports the British Authorities were given similar facilitations so they could load their military and civilian planes; one should also mention here the restrictions of al-Dekheila Airport in Alexandria and the Heliopolis Airport in Cairo to military use only. The American Forces were given the same privileges as their British counterpart.67

64 DWQ # 0075–051084–0010, ‘From the Minister of Labor to the Prime Minister, August 20, 1944’. 65 DWQ # 0075–051084–0028, ‘From the Minister of Labor to the Prime Minister, December 7, 1944’. 66 DWQ # 0069–007383; document with no number ‘From the Deputy of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to the Secretary General of the Cabinet, May 22, 1945, the services rendered by the Minister of Foreign Affairs to Great Britain and to the United States during the current war’. 67 DWQ # 0075–051084–0161; ‘A Report on the services that the Customs Agency has given to the British and Allied Forces in order to win the war, February 5, 1944’.

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Lands and buildings free of charge or in exchange for token rent The Royal Lands Agency offered the British Forces land, whether within city precincts or open agricultural or desert space. This amounted to a total of 786,012 feddans of desert land, 597 feddans of agricultural land and 17,067,435 free cubic meters within city precincts. This agency handed over the fortresses of the Royal Guard in Ras al-Tin as well as granaries and other buildings free of charge.68 Energy supplies and building materials The Ministry of Supplies offered the British Authorities a monthly quota of cement that represented seventy percent of the total of what Egypt consumed.69 The Agency for Mines and Quarries handed to subsidiary companies of the Allied Forces areas where they could excavate minerals that had military relevance such as tungsten, mould, zinc and lead. The agency helped American companies in obtaining licenses to drill for oil in order to supply the Allied Forces with much of the needed fuel, oil and gas, sparing them the costs of paying dues worth one hundred thousand Egyptian Pounds. The British Army also took what oil fuel it needed locally, forcing Egypt to import it at a higher rate than the local cost by 2.250 Egyptian Pound per ton. The total import of oil fuel reached 20,000 tons a month.70 Scientific and Medical Assistance Would it have been possible for the Allied Forces to achieve victory without the scientific assistance of Egypt? This question will surprise those who assume that Egypt is a backward country with no scientific advancement. The truth is that Egypt offered much in the scientific field without which the Allied soldiers would have been lost in uncharted desert or succumbed to diseases and epidemics. The Egyptian Agency for Land Survey tops the list; battleground areas were uninhabited and unstudied terrain, the geological, topographical and water resources were virtually unknown. The Agency for Land Survey undertook geological and topographical studies of

68

DWQ # 0075–051084–0163. DWQ # 0069–007383, document with no number, ‘From the Minister of Rations to the Prime Minister, April 27, 1944’. 70 DWQ # 0075–051084–0163. 69

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terrain and climate conditions and sent out skilled groups to conduct surveys of the areas between El Alamein to the East, the Libyan borders to the West and the Oasis of Siwa to the South, working on a series of triangular grids to ensure a precise calculation of the territory. It undertook valuable projects to increase the water resources in the Western desert such as digging wells, testing the salinity of the water resources and tracing new beds for their flow. These services allowed for soldiers to be deployed to these areas. The Agency of Land Survey presented the British Authorities with reports of special calculations of the entire Sinai, the coastline of the Red sea and the Suez Canal Zone. It calculated the necessary budgets for various locations occupied by the army. The division in charge of topographical surveys composed a total of 81 maps at the scale of 1/25,000. In addition it surveyed new terrain for eleven maps of areas extending West of the Delta and Wadi alNatrun. It conducted detailed survey and meticulous maps for all the areas across the entire defense line of the Egyptian nation state. As for the Division of Drawing and Printing, it prepared 2,739,678 maps for the entire British army, 21,000 maps with specific information, and 157,909 provisional maps in case of emergency. It also printed 238,556 naval maps, 152,820 blocks for naval maps, 108,695 diagrams and maps, 1,504 charts for the fleets. Hundreds of books were printed on the military areas in Barqa, Turkey, Syria and the Islands of the Dodecanese. Another 1,700 drawings were printed for the British air force, 14,020 sundials for British sorties. The Division also printed 669,060 banknotes of 100 Egyptian Pounds for the National Bank of Egypt. These were used to purchase goods but were never paid back, eventually leading to an enormous financial crisis known as “the security crisis”. It also printed millions of stamps for the governments of Iraq, Syria and eastern Jordan; and around a million and a half consular stamps for the Greek government in exile in Egypt, as well as 17,425,916 Syrian banknotes of various denominations that were needed by the Allied Forces.71 The achievements of the Egyptian Agency of Land Survey were largely recognized by the British Authorities. The British Ambassador and the Commander-in-Chief of the British Forces stationed in the Levant expressed on more than one occasion their gratitude and

71

DWQ # 0075–051084–0163.

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appreciation of the role played by the Agency. The general even went so far to acknowledge that “90% of the charts issued from the Levant Station Chart Depots originated from that singular source”, that is, the Agency of Land Survey.72 It is important for us to imagine what would have been the fate of the Allied Forces stranded in these large deserts without these maps and topographical drawings. In the same venue the Egyptian Chemical Department undertook chemical research on behalf of the Allied Authorities which numbered 4,382 research and analysis papers.73 The scientific support of the Egyptian Ministry of Agriculture was also remarkable. Its laboratories, for example, took the responsibility of testing the spinning cotton used in the production of airborne material in local factories, in addition to producing fabric with specific qualifications for the Air Force and testing the weave of the enemy outfits as a way of deducing the economic conditions of their territory. The laboratories also undertook the production of document paper utilized by pilots that could be chemically destroyed in case of danger. They also prepared special paper for solar photography of sites, as well as paper fortified by fabric for secret missives. Thanks to its knowledge of the Egyptian terrain, the Ministry of Agriculture offered the essential instructions for the treatment of seeds and other edible products that were stored in ration depots. Its expertise in the preservation of various fruits and meat was equally invaluable. It demonstrated problem solving capacities with regard to pest-control in cases like the storage of wheat in the Sudan or in resisting viruses related to potato tubers in Eritrea, or the ant invasion of wooden constructs in al-Qasasin and al-Tell al-Kabir. It also conducted various studies to extract pesticides from plant and grass samples collected by pest specialists in the Allied Forces from Iraq and Iran, evaluating the active anti-insect ingredients contained in these substances. The Ministry of Agriculture offered the British Authorities veterinary compounds, examined samples sent in for chicken and animal diseases, and supervised the health of sick animals. The

72 DWQ # 0075–051084–0139, ‘From the British Ambassador to the Prime Minister of Egypt, May 18, 1943’; also see file # 0075–051084–0045, ‘From the British Ambassador to Ahmed Loutfi el-Sayed Pasha, Minister of Foreign Affairs and to the Prime Minister of Egypt, April 18, 1946’. 73 DWQ # 0075–051084–0028, ‘From the Minister of Labor to the Prime Minister, December 7, 1944’.

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British authorities assigned the analysis of land samples from across the Middle East to the Ministry of Agriculture in order to detect their suitability for the construction of airports.74 As for the Egyptian Meteorological Agency, it constructed various machines and instruments that were desperately needed by the British Forces. Here is a partial list: 300 carburetor jets, 200 calibrated range scales; 2,000 plane plugs, 104 stereoscopes, 50 saddles 4.5/5.5; 52 protector object glasses, 65 timing discs with pointers, 181 slide rulers, 487 hydrometers up to 1,000 capacity; 503 key door locks.75 If we move on to medical assistance we find that Egypt offered the Allied Forces very important support. The medical division of the Egyptian army actively participated in the military operations with ambulatory assistance, transporting and evacuating the injured from Sidi Barrani when Graziani attacked and the Jaghbub area. Two rail hospitals were set up to aid in medical surgeries.76 With regard to the Egyptian Ministry of General Health, one report reveals the extent of the dangerous assignments it undertook for the Allies in the medical field. These can be summarized as follows: – The “Hospital Department” organized a system where it could treat the prisoners of war and the military personnel in Egyptian hospitals in December 1940. – The Epidemiology Department had the responsibility of medically supervising the entire Egyptian workforce that joined the British and American troops in order to protect them from contagious diseases and protecting those in the fighting Forces who came in contact with them. The Epidemiology Department set up sanitation stations with fumigation capacities and the necessary personnel to eradicate lice in centers that had large number of workers. These services existed outside or within work camps. Around 6,000 workers were subjected to monthly fumigations, not to mention immunization against typhoid and small pox.

74

DWQ # 0075–051084–0041. DWQ # 0075–051084–0067; ‘A report of the instruments that were constructed by the Department of Electricity and the scientific instruments in the Egyptian Department of Geophysics, with no date’. 76 DWQ # 0075–051084–0048. 75

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– The Cairo Health Inspection Services supervised the medical and food condition of the incoming migrants from the Mediterranean who were resettled in Cairo. – The Abbasiyya Hospital for the Treatment of Fever treated the fighting forces. The head of the hospital gave several lectures to the American medical team on the contagious diseases in Egypt and placed a laboratory, complete with all the equipment, within the hospital in order to conduct research on typhoid. – ‘The Malaria Division’ struggled against the Gambia bug that had spread into Upper Egypt as a result of the British military planes arriving from central Africa. Efforts were made for protection against malaria in crowded zones such as camps and the military airports according to a plan set up by a joint committee. – The Pharmacology Department delivered all the supplies in anesthetics and medical tablets requested by the British authorities for the Middle East, and that the UKCC Company wanted to purchase on the market despite local demand for them. It also managed to provide the British Army with large quantities of tartar emetic and zinc oxide ampoules. More than 5,000 insulin serum packs set to expire in 1943 were exchanged for an updated supply from the repositories of the Ministry of Health in order to prevent the UKCC from incurring losses. – The Laboratory Department prepared the immunization against small pox for the Allied Forces in North Africa, Cyprus and Syria in addition to analyzing medicine, food supplies, water and urine samples that were sent from the British Medical Division. It cooperated with the British medical research teams against typhoid, placing books and scientific journals at their disposal. – The Quarantine Division participated in the fight against the spread of disease. It was prepared to meet large military fleets that would arrive with no prior notification. Throughout the war, the Division lent the British Authorities its fully equipped quarantine quarters in Alexandria, al-Arish, al-Shatt and Uyun Musa, in addition to its buildings and fumigation facilities in Port Tewfiq and Alexandria.77

77 DWQ # 0075–051084–0026; ‘The services rendered by the Ministry of Health to the Allied Forces in order to win the war’, no date on document.

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– The British Military Authorities requested use of the steamer Fawziyya as a floating hospital for military operations during its campaign on Libya. Permission was granted by the Egyptian Government on 23rd of December 1940.78 Social Assistance The services that Egypt rendered to the Allied Forces on the social scale should also not be underestimated. The Egyptian authorities closed an eye to the lack of enforcement of security regulations by the British in factories, workshops, dangerous zones or the presence of hazardous material amid residential areas. The Egyptian Labor Agency exempted the owners and contractors who were performing assignments related to the British Ministry of Military Transportation from contracting compulsory insurance against work-related accidents. These measures reflect how the interests of the Egyptian workers were sacrificed to the benefit of the Allies and their objective of winning the war. The Administration of Social Services, a subsidiary of the Ministry of Social Affairs, offered recreational activities to the Allied Forces by organizing soccer matches and other games between the various military Forces and the Egyptian club teams. It granted the Allied Forces access to soccer fields or swimming pools as venues for organizing events and parties. The Egyptian authorities went so far as to construct special clubs for the Allied Forces; in Luxor in Upper Egypt, a recreational club was built to entertain the British Forces that was cited in a thank you letter from the wife of the British Ambassador.79 The Ministry of Education placed the Opera House at the service of the British Forces. Professional and amateur troupes performed programs to entertain the troops or collect donations for the war effort. In 1943, the Ministry constructed a swimming pool in Helwan in a scout camp and permitted the New Zealand Forces to use it three days a week without charge. The General Agency for the 78 DWQ # 0069–007383, document with no number, ‘From the deputy of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to the General Secretary of the Cabinet, May 22, 1945, the services rendered by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to Great Britain and the United States during the current war’. 79 DWQ # 0075–051084–58, ‘On the mechanical and electrical services rendered to the British and Allied Forces in order to win the war’.

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Education of Girls in the Ministry organized special studies for women officers in its Institute for the Education of Girls.80 Media Assistance The Ministry of Internal Affairs played an important role in the scrutiny and surveillance of various media outlets to fight against all types of propaganda against the Allied cause. The Print Agency agreed to publish several daily newspapers, as well as weekly and monthly magazines for authorities and institutions that were subsidiary to the Allied Forces. It helped set up the Arab news agency and the Free France news agency. It closed down the offices of Havas News Agency’s telegraphic services and disrupted its news broadcasts when they took a position that was not in favor of the Allied countries. In these efforts the Supervision Department of Publications within the Ministry of Internal Affairs established a strong barrier that was effective in preventing the dissemination of rumors by the enemy regarding British losses, or their attempts to have Egyptians turn against the Coalition, or despair of achieving victory especially in the difficult times when the armies of the Axis were flying close to Alexandria and dropping leaflets on its population. Political Assistance A report presented by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to the General Secretary of the Cabinet on May 22, 1944 reveals the great political role that Egypt played in the interest of the Allied cause.81 Egypt was one of the first countries to express its support of Britain and the Allies by breaking diplomatic ties with Germany, Italy, Japan, Hungary, Romania and Bulgaria—nations that opposed the British in the war. It also severed diplomatic relations with the Vichy government,

80 DWQ # 0069–007383, document with no number, ‘From the deputy of the Ministry of Education to the Secretary of the Cabinet in relation to the services that the Ministry of Education have rendered to the British and Allied Forces in order to win the war, May 8, 1944’. 81 DWQ # 0069–007383, document with no number, ‘On the services rendered by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to Great Britain and the United nations during the current war’.

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arrested nationals of these countries and froze their assets. Various foundations and institutions that proved to be potential sources of propaganda were closed down, among them Italian religious schools. The Egyptian Ministry of Foreign Affairs banned some commissions and consulates from sending and receiving Morse telegraphs. A similar ban was imposed on diplomatic bags: all their communications were placed under surveillance in order to prevent the leaking of news that would be harmful to the war effort. Some consulates were forced to close in areas that housed important military installations such as Alexandria, Suez and the Canal Zone in order to ensure the safety of the Allied fighting armies. The position of Egypt as a leading center in the Eastern countries had a large impact in supporting the case of the Allies. Its official statements carried resonance and therefore Egypt had an indirect role in quelling the rebellion that emerged in Iraq, Syria and Lebanon. During the revolution of Rashid Ali al-Kilani in Iraq, the Egyptian Commissioner in Baghdad protected the British interests by standing in as Deputy for the British employees and banks as requested by the British Embassy in Cairo. Egypt helped meet the objective of the ‘Fighting French Commission’ by protecting the interests of the French who were not affiliated to the Vichy government and who resided in Egypt. Privileges were granted, and restrictions eased, for the ‘French Commission for National Liberation’ that eventually replaced the former. Both the Greek and Yugoslav governments were allowed to take Egypt as their headquarters; both were enabled to conduct their government business during their presence in the country. Conclusion Let us finally revert to our initial question: what would have happened if the Egyptian army had not fought on the side of the Allies but against them? What would have happened if a million Egyptian workers had gone on strike in the camps, barracks and workshops of the Allies? What would have happened if they had conducted sabotage operations that involved burning and destroying these barracks and workshops? What if Egypt had not prepared 90% of all the maps, drawings, publications that the Allied soldiers and officers carried with them on the North African front, and what if Egypt had not

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supplied the Allied needs of grain, vegetables, sugar, vaccine serums against chicken pox, malaria, or the Gambian bug and other diseases that are prevalent on the African continent? No doubt the answers to these questions and scores of other questions would alter to a great extent the Western discourse and dampen its arrogance. This supercilious post-war Western discourse was initially a scream for help at the beginning of the war. It even was somewhat complimentary and grateful for the assistance of Egypt. On the 15th of February 1940 Eden said that Britain’s alliance with Egypt had provided her with moral and material support that was of immense importance in fulfilling the duty it took upon herself to accomplish. He admitted that it gave him great pleasure to see for himself the efforts and cooperation of Egypt to help the Allies meet their objective.82 After General Wavell succeeded in blocking Graziani’s attacks and pushing him back into Benghazi, he wrote to the Egyptian Prime Minister on January 28, 1941: I would like to express my thanks for the cooperation and help which I have received from the Egyptian Military Authorities during the campaign [and for t]he assistance of different kinds furnished by the Imperial Troops under my command.83

Churchill sent al-Nahhas a telegram in response to his congratulatory note on the victory achieved by the Eighth Army. He expressed that he still remembered with admiration the steadfastness of the Egyptian government and its people when danger was at its peak, acknowledging that this spirit of commitment to high principles provided trust in the success of the Allied nations. To the journalists present in the British Embassy in Cairo on November 1, 1943, he said that despite Egypt being formally a neutral country, one should by no means overlook the honorable and important role it played, not only in defending itself but also in driving the international struggle forward to its conclusion.84

82 DWQ # 0069–007383, document with no number, ‘On the services rendered by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to Great Britain and the United nations during the current war’. 83 DWQ # 0069–007383, document with no number, ‘General Wavell to H. E. Hussein Sirry Pasha Prime Minister of Egypt, February 24, 1941’. 84 DWQ # 0069–0073783; document with no number, ‘On the services that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs rendered to Great Britain and the United Nations during the current war’.

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One should here conclude these declarations by quoting from a letter sent by the Head of the British Forces in the Suez Canal Zone, A. Durand, to the Egyptian Military Governor to the Canal Zone on May 16, 1945: During the short time I have been in this country, I have been greatly impressed with the active assistance, cooperation and goodwill of the Egyptian Army and Police, without which I feel that the great Day would inevitably have been long delayed.85

Durand’s assessment was no doubt correct in admitting that without the support of the Egyptian Army and Police the victory would have been indeed delayed. Could one add that the victory would have been delayed even longer, or perhaps not have come at all, if Egypt had turned against Britain and sided with its enemies? What if it had offered Germany and Italy all of its military, security, economic, medical and scientific assistance? As we do know, it is the victory achieved on the North African front that resulted in the withdrawal of Italy from the war, playing a significant role for victory on all the remaining fronts.

85 DWQ # 0075–051084–0033, ‘From A. Durand, British Headquarter, Canal Zone, to Chirine Pasha the Military Governor, Canal Zone, Ismailia, May 16, 1945.’

PART TWO

REPRESENTATIONS AND RESPONSES

KAISER KĪ JAY (LONG LIVE THE KAISER): PERCEPTIONS OF WORLD WAR I AND THE SOCIO-RELIGIOUS MOVEMENT AMONG THE ORAONS IN CHOTA NAGPUR 1914–19161 Heike Liebau Introduction Soon after the outbreak of the First World War in August 1914, people in all parts of India were confronted with the war situation in many ways. Contributing men, money and material to the war, India as the biggest British colony became a major supply region for the English Army. More than one million Indians fought in the war, on the Western Front in France as well as in Mesopotamia. In view of the visible mobilization campaigns in different parts of the country and the war’s obvious effects on trade and economic development,2 people tried to get as much news and information as possible about the war situation in Europe and other parts of the world as well as in India. Within an atmosphere of restrictive mass media policy operated by the colonial authorities,3 and given that the majority of the population was illiterate, information could take a specific shape and form. Besides the local newspapers, different kinds of propaganda activities, as well as rumours, contributed to a high degree to the

1 This essay results from a research project conducted at the Centre for Modern Oriental Studies (Berlin) and funded by the German Research Council. 2 See: Bernhard Waites, “Peoples of the Underdeveloped World,” in Facing Armegeddon: The First World War Experienced, eds. Hugh Cecil and Peter H. Liddle (London, 1996), pp. 596–614; and DeWitt. C. Ellinwood and S. D. Pradhan, eds., India and the First World War (New Delhi, 1978). See also Radhika Singha’s contribution in this volume. 3 The colonial government tightened the control of newspapers. A London newspaper complained that several Indian newspapers were not distributed to London although the post steamship had arrived on time. Among those Indian newspapers were the Indian Patriot, the Bombay Chronicle, the Hindu, New India and Commonwealth. The paper conjectured that this could be a result of increasing censorship. An unmentioned “Indian organ” listed newspapers that were not allowed to be distributed to the public reading rooms. Der Neue Orient IV, No. 3 and 4, November 25, 1918, p. 133.

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perception of the contemporary political events. While only a small section of the urban population read and discussed the daily newspapers, rumours spread quickly also among agricultural communities and tribes in remote villages. Analysing perceptions of the First World War in different public spheres in India at that time, one inevitably has to ask which kind of experiences, knowledge and information formed the basis of a particular perception. How was information passed from one place to another? Under what conditions did legends, myths and rumours arise out of an event or out of a specific piece of information? When and how did these supposed truths become integrated into people’s everyday life and when could they have an impact on their social action? Recent historical research shows that rumours extend and spread quickly especially in times of war. They could become an important element in social communication. Soaked up by the people, they could not only fill in a certain information vacuum but, being continuously reproduced, changed and adapted to particular needs and situations, they could sometimes also “create history”.4 So far, rumours have been mainly in the focus of anthropological studies.5 Concerning the history of wars as well as of periods of great historical upheavals, they are becoming a more and more interesting topic for historians, too.6 This is also the case for the Indian context in which Indivar Kamtekar, for instance, studied the role of rumours in the Second World War, Gyanendra Pandey analysed rumours during the period of partition, Veena Das examined rumours related to the assassination of Indira Gandhi in 1984 and Sandip Hazareesingh looked at rumours in Bombay during the First World War.7 Rumours 4 Lars-Broder Keil and Sven Felix Kellerhoff, Gerüchte machen Geschichte. Folgenreiche Falschmeldungen im 20. Jahrhundert (Berlin, 2006). 5 See the introduction to: Pamela J. Stewart and Andrew Strathern, Witchcraft, Sorcery, Rumors and Gossip (New Departures in Anthropology) (Cambridge, 2004), pp. 1–28. 6 For the European context, see: Keil and Kellerhoff, Gerüchte machen Geschichte. Jörg Requate focuses on rumours as a constitutive factor in German media in the 18th and 19th centuries. Jörg Requate, “‘Unverbürgte Sagen und wahre Fakta.’ Anmerkungen zur ‘Kultur der Neuigkeiten’ in der deutschen Presselandschaft zwischen dem 18. und in der ersten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts,” in Kommunikation und Medien in Preußen vom 16. bis 19. Jahrhundert, ed. Bernd Sösemann (Beiträge zur Kommunikationsgeschichte)12 (Stuttgart, 2002), pp. 239–254. 7 Indivar Kamtekar, “The Shiver of 1942,” Studies in History 18, 1 (2002), 81–102. Gyanendra Pandey, “The Long Life of Rumor,” Alternatives 27 (2002), 165–191; Veena Das, Life and Words. Violence and the Descent into the Ordinary (Berkeley

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were seen either as a means to solve problems, in which case they could create hope, or as a channel to transport fear. In both cases, they could be absorbed and integrated into the people’s everyday life. As Sumit Sarkar has pointed out, news and rumours influenced and sometimes even considerably changed tribal movements in India that, although they might have started as specific revolts with narrow targets, could take a different direction or even become part of other political movements on an all-India level.8 One of the tribal movements that underwent substantial changes during the First World War consisted of the religious and sociopolitical uprisings among the Oraon communities in Chota Nagpur in East India. Starting in 1912/13 as a rebellion against local authorities in a messianic shape with mystic elements, it flared up again after the outbreak of the First World War and took a new direction in summer 1915, when the movement began to primarily articulate social grievances and political visions. The Jesuit priest and later bishop in Ranchi, Oscar Severin wrote in 1917: By August 1915, among natives and Europeans alike, there were but two topics of conversation: the war and the Bhagats. The Ranchi authorities took alarm: police were sent to several autposts where the seditioners were heard to have planned a general slaughter of non-Oraons. Then all seemed to be quite again; but the movement went on unabated and spread like wild fire eastwards and southwards.9

Within the prevalent atmosphere of tension and rumour, the socalled Tana Bhagat movement grew quickly and gained an evidently political dimension when the erection of an independent Oraon kingdom emerged as its final goal. The incorporation of the German Kaiser as an important symbol of insurgency rendered this movement highly suspicious in the eyes of the colonial authorities. The “German Baba” was praised in Oraon hymns and was shown on pictures together with traditional Oraon gods. Based on rumours such as that of German troops coming to India to kick out the British sahibs, the movement spread not only among the Oraons in Chota Nagpur, but through Oraon migratory workers it also became a powerful et al., 2007); Sandip Hazareesingh, The Colonial City and the Challenge of Modernity: Urban Hegemonies and Civic Confrontations in Bombay 1900–1925 (Delhi, 2007). 8 Sumit Sarkar, Modern India 1885–1947 (Delhi, 1983), pp. 153–154. 9 Oscar Severin, The Bhagat Movement in Chotanagpur (Kurseong, 1917). (I am thankful to Dr. Joseph Bara from JNU Delhi for a copy of this text.).

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movement in the tea gardens in Bhutan. The revolts posed a real threat both to local landlords (zamindars) and to British planters and were suppressed by police actions and arrests. In 1917, the Tana Bhagats came into contact with Mahatma Gandhi and later joined the Non-Cooperation Movement.10 While anthropologists have studied various aspects of the movement, historians have rarely paid attention to these tribal rebellions. This chapter takes a closer look at the immediate effects of the war situation on these Oraon uprisings from 1914 to 1916. On the one hand, it tries to reconstruct the path and the contents of the information that reached these rural areas of North-East Central India at that time. Even though there are not many authentic written sources, it seems comparatively easy to describe the movement, but it is much more difficult to explain why it happened in this particular way. It is therefore necessary to look at it from different angles to explore various agents involved in this process—each with its own interests— in order to find out, who created and spread information and which path the information took. On the other hand, the chapter addresses the issue of how the Oraons received, perceived and integrated the information into their worldview, as well as into their religious, social and political praxis. How did traditional religious thoughts affect the Oroans’ perception of the war and how did the war affect their religious thinking, giving it in the end a stronger social and political direction? How did the experience and knowledge of war turn into common cultural goods among the non-elite villagers of this region? Furthermore, I will analyse how the events among the Oraons in Chota Nagpur were interpreted and instrumentalized by various contemporary social, religious and political forces. Thus, several local rulers tried to reduce the uprisings to pure religious questions, the British authorities came to see the Oraon unrest as an anti-colonial act directed by German missionaries, whereas the German Foreign Office in Berlin regarded it as an anti-colonial uprising useful for the German position as the enemy of Great Britain in the war. The first section of the chapter presents a sketch of the events from 1914 to 1916 in the Oraon regions of Chota Nagpur as well as in the tea gardens of Bhutan. It examines the historical, political and eco-

10 For a history of the movement see: Sangeeta Dasgupta, “Reordering a World: The Tana Bhagat Movement, 1914–1919,” Studies in History 15, 1 (1999), 1–41.

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nomic background of the movement and also the main aims and means of action, including the taking of the German Kaiser as an important symbol. The second section concentrates on the perception of World War I among the Oraons and asks how this perception could turn into the idea of the German Kaiser being the coming ruler of India who would grant the Oraons an independent state. Therefore, this section examines various channels of information, propaganda and rumours created and used by various political, religious and economic agents. The main focus of the third and final section is to evaluate how these agents interpreted the Oraon movement and what implications the movement had for local power relations. Religious myths and political action: Reflections on the history of the Tana Bhagat movement Chota Nagpur fell under British suzerainty in 1765; it came under direct rule of the East India Company in 1817. It became part of Bengal as a non-regulation province in 1854 and of the newly founded province of Bihar in 1912. The British started to introduce land reforms in 1869 (the Chota Nagpur Tenure Act); further reforms were instituted in 1883, 1903 (Tenancy Amendment Act) and 1908.11 Since the British implemented these land reforms in the 19th century, the Bhūinhār, the local landowners had certain privileges. With the introduction of new taxes to be collected by these zamindars, the economic situation of a great part of the local population deteriorated. Like other tribes, the Oraons rose in revolt and opposed these measures time and again with revolts and unrest. The implementation of new land rights exposed them to a high degree of exploitation and interfered with their traditional way of life, according to which forest and land were regarded as ancestral property. Protest movements developed among different ethnic and social groups, for instance among the Mundas (1832), among the Santals

11 Lydia Icke-Schwalbe, Die Munda und Oraon in Chota Nagpur. Geschichte, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft (Berlin, 1983), pp. 54–57; Abhik Ghosh, History and Culture of The Oraon Tribe (Some Aspects of their Social Life) (New Delhi, 2003), pp. 89–90; John Hoffmann and Arthur Van Emelen, Encyclopedia Mundarica, vol. 1, pp. 512–521.

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(1869/70) and among the Sardars (1881).12 One of the main revolts against the established administration and land rights was the movement under the leadership of Birsa Munda in the 1890s, which expressed popular resistance against the pressure imposed by the policies of the British administration. Birsa Munda was a former Christian (educated by Lutheran missionaries), who broke with this religion, proclaimed a new faith and started actions against the local authorities as well as against the British, whom he regarded as exploiters. Birsa Munda was arrested several times and died on June 9, 1900.13 Under the leadership of Jatra Oraon, a young man of the Gumla subdivision in Bisunpur district, a new movement started in 1913.14 Jatra Oraon propagated new religious and social norms and rules of behaviour. Drawing upon the earlier movement among the Mundas, Jatra Oraon declared himself the new Birsa and a representative of the Supreme Being, the Dharmes. He propagated the renunciation of violence, demanded abstinence from eating meats and drinking wines and that people live cleanly and not believe in ghosts and spirits. “It is true, that the movement had not spread much, then, but still, it had begun to manifest itself,” observed Oscar Severin.15 It was only after the outbreak of the First World War, when the movement underwent a revival and acquired a large number of followers. At the end of 1914 Jatra Oraon was arrested together with six of his disciples and the movement again slowed down for a while.16 Jatra Oraon’s name is connected with the first phase of the so-called Tana Bhagat movement. Living in accordance with newly defined rules of purification, Jatra Oraon proclaimed himself a “Bhagat”, a priest.17 The word “Tana” was derived from “tana” (to pull), a word that

12 Ghosh, History and Culture, pp. 89–90. These revolts were often connected with messianic leaders. See: Stephen Fuchs, Godmen on the warpath. A Study of Messianic Movements in India (New Delhi, 1992), pp. 26–54. 13 For the history of this movement, see: Suresh Singh, The Dust-Storm and The Hanging Mist. A Study of Birsa Munda and his Movement in Chotanagpur (1874– 1901) (Calcutta, 1966); K. K. Datta, Freedom Movement in Bihar, vol. 1–3, (Patna, 1957–1958), vol. 1, chapter 3, pp. 96–105; Ghosh, History and Culture, pp. 90–93. 14 Severin, Bhagat Movement p. 16. 15 Ibid. 16 Die Biene auf dem Missionsfeld (1914) vol. 81, no. 11, pp. 150–151. W. Dehmlow’s article “Ein falscher Prophet in Bahar=Barwe” is based on the report given to him by a local catechist. See also: Fuchs, Godmen on the warpath. 17 Die Biene auf dem Missionsfeld (1914) vol. 81, no. 11, pp. 150–151.

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occurs very often in the songs and mantras created by the leaders of the movement.18 After the death of Jatra Oraon, the uprisings flared up again in the summer of 1915 in Chota Nagpur and increased when the living conditions of the population deteriorated due to crop failure and rising prices. Many labourers lost their jobs also in other economic fields, like the mica mining industry and the coalmines. The “Report on the Administration of the Police in the Province of Bihar and Orissa for the Year 1915” mentions an increasing number of burglaries, cattle thefts and ordinary thefts, especially in the regions around Manbhum and Hazaribagh.19 At night meetings, which often were celebrated in the boundary area of two or three villages, the leaders of the Tana Bhagat movement instructed the followers to reject pigs and fowls (as domestic animals, as meat and for sacrificial offerings) and to give up intoxicating drinks. Those who attended the meetings were encouraged to organise new meetings in other regions and with this method the movement spread fast.20 The leaders of the movement openly propagated the annihilation of zamindars, foreigners and believers of other faiths, or at least their expulsion from Chota Nagpur. The government increased the presence of policemen in this region also because, in parallel to this movement, witch hunts accompanied by cases of murder had occurred more frequently.21 This, according to Shashank Sinha, could be the expression of social, economic, and political difficulties.22 In connection 18 Sarat Chandra Roy, “A New Religious Movement among the Oraons,” Man in India, vol. I, (1921) no. 4, p. 268. 19 BL, Asia, Pacific & Africa Collections, Proceedings Bihar & Orissa P 10078, Government of Bihar and Orissa, Political Department. Police Branch, No. 3446-P; Resolution. Dated August 31, 1916, p. 167. 20 “The Oraon Movement. Causes of Unrest,” The Statesman, April 14, 1916, pp. 10–11. See also: Jesuit Archives Ranchi, Manresa House, Personal Collection, Pierre Ponette Collection, Letter written by Walrave, a Parish priest of Mandar to Van den Driessche, September 14, 1916. (I am thankful to Josef Bara for this information). 21 BL, Asia, Pacific & Africa Collections, Proceedings Bihar & Orissa, P 10078, July–Sept 1916, pp. 100–135, Report on the Administration of the Police in the Province of Bihar and Orissa for the Year 1915, Ranchi, June 28, 1916, p. 112. According to this report, the Ranchi district had “no less than 12 cases of murder of persons suspected of practicing sorcery, some of which appear to have been fostered by the unrest among the Uraons. [. . .] One of the Ranchi cases occurred while a meeting of the Uraons was in progress at which Mantras were being recited and considerable religious excitements prevailed.” 22 Shashank Sinha, considering witch hunts during the time of the 1857 mutiny, argues that there had been a surge in witch hunting during the time of the rebellion.

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with the winter harvest, the movement began to subside, but by this time it had reached the tea gardens of Bhutan in the Duars and had become a relevant case for the police there. Since the mid 19th century this region between the river Brahmaputra and the lowest hills of Bhutan had become a strategic area in the British colonial project.23 Between 60,000 and 90,000 Oraons worked permanently or temporarily as “coolies” or as agricultural workers in this region.24 The British were afraid that the Oraons would destroy the tea gardens or even murder British planters. At this stage, the police again stepped in and arrested many of the Oraon rebels. The Oraons continued to hold secret meetings where they proclaimed the aims of the Tana-Bhagat movement, including the recitation of mantras in favour of the German Kaiser. In April 1916, two major cases of unrest were brought to judgement at Jalpaiguri court.25 The Oraons refused to take orders from their British managers, saying that the Germans would soon come and rule India.26 German baba is coming, Is slowly, slowly coming, Drive away the devils, Manaldanal, Cast them adrift in the sea. Suraj baba [the sun] is coming; The devils of the oven will be driven away And cast adrift in the sea. Tarijan baba [the star] is coming; Is slowly, slowly coming Is coming to our very courtyard, The obigri devils will be driven away And cast adrift in the sea,27

Searching for the reasons, he asks whether this phenomenon symbolises an attack on the enemy or whether they were a local response to other forms of resistance against the British. See: Shashank Sinha, “Witch-hunts, Adivasis, and the Uprising in Chhotanagpur,” Economic and Political Weekly, May 12, 2007, 1672–1676. 23 See: Lindsay Brown, Bradley Mayhew, Stan Armington, Richard Whitecross: Bhutan, (Lonely Planet Publication, 2007), pp. 34–36. 24 Helferblatt der Gossnerschen Mission, vol. 3, 3rd Quarter, 1916, p. 84; “Indische Aufstandsbewegung. Unruhen unter den Uraos in Chota Nagpur und Bhutan”, N. O. (Nachrichtenfür den Orient) vol. 2, no. 35, June 29, 1916, pp. 216ff. (quoted from: Zentrum Moderner Orient, Krüger-Files; Box No. 52, 382–1). 25 “Oraon Unrest. Story told in Court,” The Statesman, April 28, 1916, p. 17. 26 “The Oraons and German Mission,” The Statesman, April 28, 1916, p. 3. 27 Amrita Bazar Patrika, May 4, 1916, p. 3.

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Here, the German Kaiser symbolises the Surya God, the sun, the Dharmes, the Supreme Being who stands for life, splendour, glory and power.28 The Germans were coming to make war, and the Government people would be thrown into the sea. Manaldanal meant the English, and the devils of the oven or hearth meant those Oraons who did not join the new movement.29 As the movement spread to the tea gardens of northern Bengal and Bhutan, the songs of praise of the Germans and the German Kaiser continued. Oraons held secret meetings where leaders announced that the Germans were going to destroy the British Raj and found an Oraon Raj. Like the movement under Jatra Oraon in Chota Nagpur, the followers in the tea gardens now proclaimed that they would give up eating meat and drinking liquor.30 The Tana Bhagat movement was like a secret organisation. The songs were not written down, but learned by heart and disseminated orally. Since the Oraon believed that these songs were given to them by the Supreme Being, the names of the authors are usually not recorded.31 Though the movement lost its momentum due to police repression during the second half of 1916, it did not stop completely. The image of the Germans again played a certain role during a rebellion of Oraons that occurred in 1918 in Sirgunja and connected itself with the Tana Bhagat movement. The leaders convinced the participants that they were in constant contact with the Germans, who would help the Oraons in their fight for their own rights in landownership. Under the influence of Bengali nationalism, the strong Swadeshi Movement and Mahatma Gandhi’s visit to Bihar, the Tana Bhagats came into contact with the Non-Cooperation Movement of the 1920s and became involved with Indian nationalist mobilisation.32 This protest movement has been studied mainly by anthropologists, who examined it in the context of Oraon culture and religion, myths and symbols. Sarat Chandra Roy published the first detailed description in

28 Boniface Tirkey, S. J., Oraon Symbols. Theologising in Oraon Context (Delhi, 1990), p. 88. 29 Amrita Bazar Patrika, May 4, 1916, p. 3. 30 Amrita Bazar Patrika, May 11, 1916, p. 3. 31 Manmasih Ekka, “Liberation Theme in Tana Bhagat Prayers,” in Doing Theology With the Poetic Traditions of India. Focus on Dalit and Tribal Poems, ed. Joseph Patmury (Bangalore, 1996), pp. 182–192. 32 Ghosh, History and Culture, p. 93; K. K. Datta, History of the Freedom Movement in Bihar, vol. 1, chapters 6, 8; Dasgupta, “Reordering a World”.

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1921. After having spent many years as an anthropologist in the area, he argued that the main aim of the movement was “to raise the now degraded social position of their community to the higher level occupied by the Hindu and Christian converts”.33 Although he saw that the extremely bad economic conditions caused a mixture of religious, social and economic motivations for the movement, he states that the Oraon were “not really disaffected against the British Government”.34 They certainly must have heard about the early victories of the Germans in the war, but in Roy’s opinion this does not alter the fact that ”these ignorant religious enthusiasts took ‘German Baba’ or the ‘German God’ as one more unknown mighty power”.35 This seems to simplify the situation and to underestimate the ‘presence’ of war in society. Extremely useful for research on Oraon is John Hoffmann and Arthur Van Emelen’s Encyclopedia Mundarica. John Hoffmann spent more than two decades of his life studying the Mundas in Bihar. After his repatriation to Germany in 1915, he began to work on the 16 volumes of the Encyclopedia Mundarica. Even though these volumes include comprehensive information about the Oraon tribe as well, Hoffmann did not give a detailed analysis of the Tana Bhagat movement, but mentioned the “Tana Uraó” (Tana Bhagat) as one of six different groups belonging to the Oraons. According to Hoffmann, Tana Bhagats were Oraons “observing the Tana religion”.36 Later studies of the Oraon protests focussed on the messianic character of the movement37 or the role of the songs and myths.38 Sangeeta Dasgupta’s essay “Reordering a World” is the first deep and comprehensive analysis of internal and external factors contributing 33 Roy, A New Religious Movement, pp. 267–324, here p. 268. The great Indian anthropologist Sarat Chandra Roy (who had also been an English teacher at the German Missionary School in Ranchi), wrote about the Tana Bhagat revolts, among other studies. His first book “The Oraons of Chotanagpur, 1915” deals with the origin of the Oraons, their early history, the geography of the region, the Oroan villages and social organisation as well as with economic questions. In another book, “Oraon Religion and Custom, 1928”, Roy concentrates on beliefs and magic systems. For the research of Sarat Chandra Roy, see also: Sangeeta Dasgupta, “The Journey of an Anthropologist in Chotanagpur,” The Indian Economic and Social History Review 41, 2 (2004), 165–198. 34 Roy, A New Religious Movement, pp. 267–324, here p. 272. 35 Roy, A New Religious Movement, pp. 267–324, here p. 271. 36 Hoffmann and Van Emelen, Encyclopedia Mundarica, vol. 15, p. 4840. 37 Fuchs, Godmen on the warpath, pp. 26–54. 38 Ekka, Liberation Theme, pp. 182–192.

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to the movement.39 On the basis of German mission sources as well as of colonial sources, she describes this movement as a result both of internal and external factors. Arguing that Oraons should not be considered a homogenous group, she points out the tendency of the Tana Bhagat followers to dissociate themselves from other communities like the local landowners, missionaries, Muslims and the colonial state, aiming at the establishment of an Oraon kingdom. At the same time, the followers of the Tana Bhagats wanted to change the traditional Oraon community. They rejected practices of sacrifice and special services for gods.40 These studies do not ask the questions whether and how the movement changed due to the war conditions and how the Oraons came to include the German Kaiser in their worldview. To understand the character of the Tana Bhagat movement during the first years of the World War I, it seems useful to consider its leaders. Unfortunately, the sources do not give much information about them. German Missionaries mentioned that the founder, Jatra Bhagat, was an illiterate man; moreover, he is reported to have been simple-minded.41 The later leaders in the tea gardens of the Duars were the Oraon “coolies” Bania, Landha and Mongra; Landroo proclaimed the new movement in the Sarugaon Tea Estate. Landha could read and write, and he even was reported to speak English.42 The “Statesman” suspected that also some of the sardars,43 who sometimes were made special constables to maintain peace among the “coolies”, like Letho and Dukhia (both appeared as witnesses in the court trial in April 1916), took part in and even led the movement.44 The Jesuit van Hoeck stated in a letter written in August 1916: “At the same time many admit that the movement is cleverly directed, so cleverly that they are inclined to think that the movement is directed from Bengal and is not altogether disconnected with the troubles which have taken place a little

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Dasgupta, “Reordering a World”. Ibid. 41 Die Biene auf dem Missionsfeld (1914) vol. 81, no. 11, p. 150. 42 “Oraon Unrest. Story told in Court,” The Statesman, April 28, 1916, p. 17. 43 Here: “coolie” recruiter and overseer in a tea plantation. Hoffmann and Van Emelen, Encyclopedia Mundarica, vol. 13, p. 3841. 44 “Oraon Unrest. Story told in Court,” The Statesman, April 28, 1916, p. 17; “Oraon Unrest, More Evidence of Sedition,” The Statesman, May 5, 1916, p. 16. 40

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all over India.”45 The “Nachrichtenstelle für den Orient” (centre for news connected with the Orient) at the German Foreign Office in Berlin also came to the conclusion that many educated Oraons participated in the movement against the British colonial power.46 “Long live the Kaiser”. The impact of the war situation on the movement One of the leading English newspapers in Bengal, the liberal “The Statesman”, named four reasons that had led to the disturbances among the Oraons. Besides the oppression by the landlords, a shortage of rain and high prices of agricultural products, the paper explicitly mentioned “the war and the general tension of the political atmosphere”.47 To evaluate the impact of the war situation on the anti-British feelings of the Oraon, one first needs to look at the amount and kind of information about the war in general, and about Germany and the German Kaiser in particular, that spread through India at that time. Moreover, the extent to which the Oraon people, many of whom were illiterate, had access to this information and how the news was perceived and integrated into the protest movement has to be examined. It will therefore be necessary to investigate various angles in order to trace the origin and the direction of information. Several sources mention that effects of the war were felt among the local population Chota Nagpur in manifold ways and that the war was discussed on the streets and at the bazaars. The war situation immediately had an immense effect on the trade. Shipping was stopped and in Bengal exports collapsed entirely. In September 1914, the jute harvest caused big problems due to war-time constraints. On September 2, “Amrita Bazar Patrika” reported that jute was still on the field although it should have been harvested two weeks earlier. Peasants lost their subsistence and the local zamindars could not pay

45 See: Jesuit Archives Ranchi, Manresa House, Personal Collection, Pierre Ponette Collection, Letter written by Fr. L. Van Hoeck, Rector of Manresa House, Ranchi, to Fr. C. Van den Driessche, 17 August 1916. 46 “Indische Aufstandsbewegung. Unruhen unter den Uraos in Chota Nagpur und Bhutan.” N. O. (Nachrichten für den Orient) vol. 2, no. 35, June 29, 1916, pp. 216ff. (quoted from: Zentrum Moderner Orient, Krüger-Files; Box No. 52). 47 “The Oraon Movement. Causes of Unrest,” The Statesman, April 14, 1916, pp. 10–11.

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their revenue to the state, due to the loss of income.48 Because of the loss of the European and especially the Russian market, the production of jute as well as the trade with jute came to a standstill. However, the people had hoped to get a high income from the cultivation of jute and to some extent had neglected the cultivation of rice and other crops. As a result, unemployment and famine occurred in the region.49 A similar situation is reported from several tea plantations at the end of 1915 because of problems with the export of tea.50 The mobilization campaigns, which, to a certain extent, reached every part of the country, confronted people with the war. The labour corps sent to France in 1916, in particular, included numbers from remote tribal areas, among them also Mundas and Oraons from Chota Nagpur. In 1918, Bihar and Orissa were also asked for 10,000 soldiers monthly.51 In regions like the Punjab, stories from former soldiers who had returned from the front were a significant source of authentic information,52 but less information was available in Chota Nagpur. Nevertheless, mission sources mention stories of wartime experiences as being a major cause of the local population’s changing attitude towards the war.53 Thus, Oscar Severin observed: “The war itself has not been the occasion of the outbreak [of the Tana Bhagat movement, H. L.] though it has helped much towards its revival and its rapid propagation.”54 However, this still does not explain why the German Kaiser became a symbol of Oraon protest. For that we have to examine newspapers, propaganda activities and rumours. Immediately after the outbreak of the war, most of the newspapers in India opened regular “War News” columns for special reporting on internal and external issues related to the situation of war. Among

48 “The War and its Effects on our People,” Amrita Bazar Patrika, September 2, 1914, pp. 6–7. 49 PAAA, R 21075–2, f.188. Report, submitted by the former Consul General in Calcutta Graf von Thurn, on the political situation in India after the outbreak of the war containing some hints how to revolutionize the country. Von Thurn had left Calcutta on October 5, 1914. 50 “Oraon Unrest. Story told in Court,” The Statesman, April 18, 1916, p. 17. 51 Der Neue Orient vol. 3, 6, June 19, 1918, p. 176. See also Radhika Singha’s contribution in this volume. 52 Dewitt C. Ellinwood and S. D. Pradhan “Introduction,” in India and the First World War, eds. Dewitt C. Ellinwood and S. D. Pradhan (New Delhi, 1978), p. 14. 53 Die Biene auf dem Missionsfelde, vol. 88, No. 4 and 6, April and June 1921, p. 21. 54 Severin, The Bhagat Movement, p. 19.

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the main questions raised there, German military strength and the role of the German Kaiser were recurrent issues. On October 30, 1914, the “Amrita Bazar Patrika”, one of the leading newspapers in Bengal, published an account of the life and thoughts of the German philosopher Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche (1844–1900) under the title “Kaiserism and Nietzschism”. It states that “It will now be seen that from Nietzschism to Kaiserism there is but a single step. Both are products of the same soil, and what the one commenced in theory with the pen the other is seeking to consummate in practice with the sword.”55 The German Kaiser, who “is looking upon himself as the coming Superman”, is shown as a mysterious, strong, and popular leader, and, despite all German cruelty, as a fascinating personality. Sometimes newspapers served as a transport medium for unbelievable stories like the one “that the Kaiser and some of his German Officers had become Mahomedans”. The “Madras Mail” printed this report of a speech given by Maulavi Rafiduddin Ahmad in Kolhapur during a meeting of the Rajaram College and expressed some doubts because the Kaiser was known as a pious Christian and a great supporter of Christian mission activities.56 The “Amrita Bazar Patrika” reported on anti-war demonstrations in Berlin and underlined the growing popularity of the now “white-haired” German Kaiser.57 Even though newspapers were read by a comparatively small part of the population, the printed news, combined with stories of personal war experience and various incidents in India, appeared as a fertile breeding ground for all sorts of floating rumours. These rumours created both hopes and fears among the people. Veena Das argues: “Rumor occupies a region of language with the potential to make us experience events, not simply by pointing to them as to something external, but rather by producing them in the very act of telling.”58 Rumours about an imminent German threat grew rapidly after the German Cruiser Emden59 bombarded Madras harbour on

55

Amrita Bazar Patrika, October 30, 1914, p. 6. Madras Mail, January 2, 1915, p. 6. 57 “Feeling in Berlin. A Glimpse of the Kaiser,” Amrita Bazar Patrika, April 30, 1916, p. 1. 58 Veena Das, Life and Words. Violence and the Descent into the Ordinary (Berkeley et al., 2007), p. 108. 59 The “Emden” was one of the so-called light cruisers built in Germany between 1905 and 1908. It sank on November 9, 1914 near the Cocos Islands. See: Hans 56

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September 22, 1914.60 Between 9:42 and 9:52 p.m., the Emden fired approximately 130 shots at the Shell oil tanks and the coast battery of Madras; later it was briefly seen in Cuddalore, before it changed its course for Ceylon and the Maldives.61 This event caused massive fears among the population, not only in Madras, where many inhabitants left the city. The books stored in the Anna Malai University, which is situated near the harbour, were brought to a safer place.62 Due to the rumour that the cruiser Emden would soon come up the Ganges River before long, far fewer people attended the big Mela in Sonepur near Patna than usual.63 The Emden case is a good example to show how rumours, legends and myths growing out of propaganda or war events accompanied the wartime information vacuum in colonial India. Germany, on the one hand, and British colonial authorities, on the other hand, made use of these events to either explain the strength or the threat of the German military forces. The German official authorities celebrated the bombardment of Madras as an effective act of propaganda. In October 1914, a propaganda pamphlet directed to the Indian soldiers in France described the activities of the Emden as proof of German success in the war.64 In a statement made on January 4, 1915, Max Freiherr von Oppenheim (1860–1946), founder and director of the “Nachrichtenstelle für den Orient”, suggested sending more German

Georg Steltzer, Die deutsche Flotte. Ein historischer Überblick von 1640 bis 1918 (Darmstadt, 1989), pp. 322–345. 60 The Amrita Bazar Patrika starts on September 17, 1914, p. 7 with an article titled “German Cruiser in the Bay of Bengal” and continues with almost daily reports on the activities of the cruiser (September 18, 1914, p. 4; September 19, 1914, p. 4; September 22, 1914, p. 8) until the destruction of the cruiser (May 24, 1914, p. 5). 61 www.kreuzergeschwader.de/kreuzer/emden.htm, (accessed July 12, 2006). See also the report given by the German missionary Hammitzsch from Cuddalore in Evangelisch-Lutherisches Missionsblatt (ELMB) vol. 72, Issue 7, 8, p. 87. 62 Swadesamitran, October 16, 1914 (see: RNNP, Madras, 1916, p. 1683). The word Emden even has become part of the Tamil language and today describes ‘a brave and strong battler’. S. Muthiah, Madras Rediscovered. A. Historical Guide to Looking Around, Supplement with Tales of ‘Once Upon a City’ (Madras, 2006), p. 266. The Tamil movie “Emden Mahan” (The son of Emden) (2006) basically tells the modern story of the bonding between a strict, austere (“emden”) father and his timid and unsuccessful son. http://chennaionline.com/film/Moviereviews/2006/09emmahan .asp (accsessed June 12, 2008), 63 Helferblatt der Gossnerschen Mission, vol. 3, 1st Quarter 1916, p. 13. 64 PAAA, R21073–1, f. 38.

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cruisers into the Gulf of Bengal. He was sure that their presence would contribute to an increase in anti-British uprising in India.65 The Germans, looking for various ways to fan anti-British feelings in India, tried to create and spread rumours themselves.66 Taking into account the specific language, culture and the level of education of the addressed people, the members of the “Nachrichtenstelle” composed special appeals to be distributed among Indian soldiers on the front or in India itself. In October 1914, the strength of the German army was explained in a leaflet in the following words: “Hieran seht Ihr, wie mächtig die Deutschen Heere sind. [. . .]. Sie haben gewaltige Schiffe in der Luft, gross wie Walfische und Elefanten, die Tod und Vernichtung über ihre Feinde bringen können.“ (By this you can see how powerful the German armies are. [. . .] They have gigantic ships in the air, as big as whales and elephants, which can bring death and destruction over their enemies.)67 In December 1914, the “Madras Mail” wrote that rumours about these “air monsters” were discussed at the bazaars all over India.68 The responsible authorities in the German Foreign Office were convinced that the moment the Indian population would learn the “truth” about the war, anti-British revolts would start.69 They looked for various ways to get into India and to spread propaganda among the Indian population. On behalf of the Foreign Office, trustworthy

65 PAAA, R21076–2, f. 122, statement, written by Max von Oppenheim, January 4, 1915. 66 Since the beginning of the 20th century, new methods of self-presentation in foreign policy became dominant in the German understanding of propaganda. See: Wolfgang Schneider and Christoph Dipper, “Propaganda,” in Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe. Historisches Lexikon zur politisch-sozialen Sprache in Deutschland, eds. Otto Brunner, Werner Conze and Reinhart Kosellek, vol. 5 (Stuttgart, 1984), p. 70. 67 PAAA, R 21073–1, f. 39, Appeal: „Ihr tapferen Krieger von Indien!“ Proposal made by (Mrs.) Professor Selenka from Munich, October 16, 1914, after the proposal made by the Indian revolutionary Har Dayal had been rejected, because his language seemed to be too difficult for the soldiers. For a more detailed analysis of German propaganda related to India during the First World War see: Heike Liebau, “The German Foreign Office, Indian Emigrants and Propaganda Efforts Among the ‘Sepoys’,” in “When the war began, we heard of several kings.“ South Asian prisoners in World War I Germany, eds. Ravi Ahuja, Heike Liebau, Franziska Roy (forthcoming). 68 Madras Mail, December 5, 1914, p. 8. 69 Paul Walter, a former missionary, later the owner of a construction company in Berlin’s Friedenau district, wrote to the Foreign Office on August 7, 1914. He offered his service in translating and interpreting newspapers and pointed out that India was in the mood for a revolt. According to him, the conditions were now the same as in 1857. PAAA, R21070—1, ff. 2–3.

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people with good knowledge of India and Indian languages were to be sent there, disguised as businessmen, to spread news about the war. One idea that was broadly discussed in August 1914 was to let these businessmen sell typewriters with typefaces in different alphabets in India. At the same time, these typewriters would be used to type appeals to the local population to oppose the colonial power. In India, the chosen businessmen would have to seek the support of German missionaries, for whom they would have to take special letters of recommendation.70 The German Lutheran Gossner Mission had been present in Chota Nagpur since the 1840s. Newspapers published reports about the German missionaries, supporting the idea that their presence had led to the Tuna Bhagat movement.71 However, one of the causes of the movement seems to have been animosities between Christian and non-Christian Oraons. The Christians had received a better education, a higher standard of literacy and, therefore, better chances for employment.72 This was one of the main reasons why the movement took on—at least partly—an anti-Christian character. The movement had started without Christians. Even when special investigations took place in Lohardaga, where the unrest had caused panic among the local landlords in 1915, no obvious Christian involvement was discovered.73 But only during the first period were Christians excluded from participating in the meetings, whereas later they could attend them.74 Some of the promoters of the movement were former Christians who had given 70

PAAA, R 21070—1, ff.14–17. “The German Missionary,” Madras Mail, July 5, 1915, p. 6. 72 Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift 43 (1916), 286. For the ambivalent relationship between Mission and Society see: Joseph Bara, “Seeds of mistrust: tribal and colonial perspectives on education in Chhotanagpur, 1834-c. 1850,” History of Education 34, 6 (2005), 617–637. Joseph Bara, “Colonialism, Christianity and the Tribes of Chhotanagpur in East India, 1845–1890,” South Asia: Journal of South Asian Studies 30, 2 (2007), 195–222. The relationship between mission and society was a very ambivalent one. Oraons looked for a way out of oppression. Against this background, they opted for Christianity. Many of them were open to the Christian missions and the new faith, but some of them broke again with the German Mission after 1858 and became part of the Sardari movement (1858–1890). See: Bara, “Colonialism, Christianity and the tribes,” p. 210. 73 “The Oraon Movement. Causes of Unrest ,” The Statesman, April 14, 1916, pp. 10–11. 74 “The Oraons and the Kaiser,” The Statesman, March 31, 1916, p. 6. The article is a published letter from the Bishop’s Lodge, Ranchi, dated March 25, 1916. Oscar Sevrin, rejecting the influence of the German Lutheran missionaries on the Tana Bhagat movement, argued that “not a single one of their converts has become a 71

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up the faith.75 So, even if the Gossner missionaries did not actively propagate news against the British, they must have obviously had a great influence on local developments and administrative affairs. This is clearly shown, for instance by the fact that the head of the Gossner Evangelical Lutheran Mission in Ranchi, J. Stosch, had been a member of the Ranchi District Board till June 1915.76 The expansion of the Oraon unrest created an atmosphere of tension and distrust against the German missionaries in Chota Nagpur. The internment of the missionaries in August 1915 was a reaction to the spread of the movement and at the same time contributed to its growth.77 After the internment of the missionaries, there seems to have been unrest among the Christians, as well. The Germans who had been working among the tribes had to leave the region within a few days. After that, the Oraon Christians also started with secret meetings looking for the German Kaiser to come to India for help.78 Oscar Severin comments: I could go further and say that even supposing that the Lutheran Missionaries had been interned on the very first day of the war, the movement would have broken out and spread rapidly as it has actually done. The native leaders are keen enough, and they sufficiently know what is going on, and of the struggle in which England is engaged to have found it quite natural to introduce the arch-enemy of the British in their political songs and readings.79

Interpretations and judgements. The Tana Bhagat movement in the interest of various political agents After this attempt to show the complexity of the effects of the war on society by underlining factors that might have influenced the perception of the war situation among the Oraons in Chota Nagpur and that can, at least to some extent, explain the creation of the “Kaiser

Bhagat”. Oscar Sevrin, The Bhagat Movement in Chota Nagpur (Kurseong, 1917), p. 17. 75 “The Oraon Movement. Causes of Unrest,” The Statesman, April 14, 1916, pp. 10–11. 76 Madras Mail, July 5, 1915, p. 6. 77 “The Oraon Movement. Causes of Unrest,” The Statesman, April 14, 1916, pp. 10–11. 78 Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift, 43 (1916), p. 287. 79 Severin, The Bhagat Movement, p. 12.

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Baba” concept as part of the social struggle of the tribe, I will now compare various interpretations of the movement, both within India and abroad, by considering the propaganda authorities and their means, the mass media. Most of the big English newspapers in India, like the South Indian “Madras Mail”, shared the view that, with their propaganda, the German missionaries caused the revolts against the British and in favour of the Germans. Even representatives of English and American Christian Missions joined in the agitation against German missionaries after the unrest in Chota Nagpur. They argued that it was not only necessary to intern the German missionaries as soon as possible. It should also be declared that no German missionary would be allowed to start work again in India after the war. Furthermore, no German company should be allowed to sell its products in India or to make contracts with India. Existing contracts should be honoured, but new ones should not be concluded. German culture should not be regarded as part of European culture.80 The “Behar Herald” and other newspapers published the Government of Bihar and Orissa communiqué of March 23, 1916 concerning the unrest among the Oraons.81 Regarding the aims of the movement, the official government communiqué reads: “[. . .] the object being partly to expel from Oraon country the evil spirits who were believed to be responsible for bad crops and high prices and partly to raise the social position of the Oraons to the higher level occupied by Christian and Hindu converts of the race.”82 Concerning the reasons of the movement, the official government communiqué argued: “The excitement produced amongst the Oraon by the adoption of these measures was doubtless aggravated by the general atmosphere of unrest caused by the War and by the removal from their midst of the members of the German Evangelical Lutheran Mission who had formerly worked amongst them.”83 The “Amrita Bazar Patrika” dealt with the movement in a series of articles not only containing a lot of information and details but also

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Madras Mail, July 15, 1915; July 17, 1915, July 28, 1915. The Behar Herald, April 1, 1916, p. 5; See also: “Oraon Unrest in Chota Nagpur; A Statement of the Facts,” and “A Government Communique, Ranchi March 23,” Amrita Bazar Patrika, March 26, 1916, p. 1. 82 The Behar Herald, March 1, 1916, p. 5. 83 Ibid. 81

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taking a sceptical view towards the official Government policy. According to the newspaper, it was by no means necessary to attach such great political importance to this movement. There had been no judicial evidence of a planned, conscious and organised rebellion against the colonial power. On the contrary, the “Amrita Bazar Patrika” argued, the Oraons, being “simple and innocent, weak and unsophisticated” people did not even know the real meaning of their songs. Therefore, the Government exaggerated the strength of the Tana Bhagats, establishing a Special Commission with R. Garlick as its president and putting several individuals into jail for a period between three and five years.84 Taking a different stand, “The Statesman” pointed out that the Oraons had quite a clear idea of who the Germans were. On the one hand, some of the leaders of the Tana Bhagat movement were welleducated and well-informed about the war situation. On the other hand, the Oraons clearly connected the war with several economic events, like the halting of the tea export in December 1915 and the rising prices for food grain. Therefore, it seemed to be justified to speak of a political movement with an anti-British thrust.85 With the use of the German Kaiser figure as a leading symbol in the Oraon unrest from 1914 till 1916, an opportunity arose for antiGerman agitation among the British community in India as well as beyond. British farmers and other entrepreneurs, planning their own chances in India for the time after the war, knew they would be better off without a German presence.86 Even though no direct points of interference by the German missionaries in the Oraon movement could be proved, this anti-German agitation fit well into the common situation of war propaganda. Various parties instrumentalized the events in order to accuse Germans in India and especially German missionaries and to argue for interning and repatriating them with-

84

Amrita Bazar Patrika, May 4, 1916, p. 3, and May 11, 1916, p. 3. “Oraon Unrest. Story told in Court,” The Statesman, March 18, 1916, p. 17. 86 The British Export Gazette complained that, out of the Indian export volume for 1913/14 of £ 163 million, resources worth £ 38 million were exported to England, worth £ 17 million to the British colonies and the vast amount of mineral resources worth £ 108 million went to other countries, £ 24 million to Germany alone. In the case of such important articles as raw cotton, Germany received six times more than England. The paper stated further that there was a real danger that Germany could gain control over the whole East India export trade. See: Der Neue Orient vol. 4, No. 7 and 8, January 25, 1919, p. 299. 85

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out exception. Among these forces was the so-called European Association in Bihar and Orissa, an organisation of British planters and merchants in India. Many of its members had been successful at indigo planting but had lost their positions because of the rise of German products in the region.87 It is therefore no wonder that, at the annual meeting on March 14, 1915, the president of the association, G. C. Godfrey, suggested that all trade in India should be in the hand of British and Indian people and that all property of German missionaries should be confiscated.88 The Council of the European Association addressed several letters to the Government of India (Home Department) regarding the unrest both in Chota Nagpur and at the tea plantations in the Duars. In their eyes, it was very clear: [. . .] that there are strong grounds for believing that the present unrest amongst the Uraon coolies in the Dooars has been started by the Christian Uraon coolies who have lately gone up from Chota Nagpur carrying with them seditious tendencies inculcated by the German Missionaries before they were interned [. . .].89

In the eyes of the German authorities in Berlin, news about the unrest among the Oraons in East India fed the hope that uprisings in many parts of the country would in the end weaken the position of the British Empire. They felt that, aside from the North-West Frontier, there now appeared another area on which the colonial security apparatus had to concentrate. Germany was extremely interested in supporting any anti-British movement in India and therefore looked for ways and means to act in that direction. In addition to the various practical efforts described above, information about the unrest was collected meticulously from all available sources. It was the task mainly of the “Nachrichtenstelle für den Orient” to analyze this news and to use it for propaganda material to be distributed among Indian soldiers at the front or—if possible—in India itself.90 This institution was established a few weeks after the outbreak of the war as an

87 Misionsinspektor Foertsch, “Vor welche Fragen stellt der Weltkrieg die Goßnersche Mission,” Helferblatt der Goßnerschen Mission vol. 4, 1st Quarter 1917, pp. 2–21, here p. 15. 88 Madras Mail, March 15, 1916, p. 5. 89 “German Missionaries in India. Protest against Future Re-establishment,” The Statesman, April 7, 1917, p. 17. 90 Helmuth von Glasenapp, Meine Lebensreise. Menschen, Länder und Dinge, die ich sah (Wiesbaden, 1964), pp. 70–75.

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attachment to the German Foreign Office. It was placed under the control and supervision of Max, Freiherr von Oppenheim. The bureau periodically issued the “Korrespondenzblatt” (correspondence paper), which was renamed “Der Neue Orient” (the new Orient) in January 1917. This journal sought to provide information on the “political, economic and intellectual life of the entire East”.91 It regularly published a detailed analysis of the current situation in India. The Oraon unrest during the first years of the war became a major issue in the “Korrespondenzblatt” No. 35, 1916. Referring to the official report of the provincial government of Bihar and Orissa as well as to the statement of the Anglican Bishop of Chota Nagpur, Rev. Foss Westscott (1863–1949), as the main sources of information, it stated that the educated leaders of the protest movement as well as many educated Oraons were no longer convinced of the strength of the British Empire. Germany seemed to be a suitable supporter to implement their national expectations. Although the Oraons would never be able to destroy the British colonial regime in India, their movement could be a beginning of a broader revolt in India. “So kann auch dieser Urao-Aufstand auf weitere Kreise überspringen und wie ein kleiner Funke das große indische Pulverfass zur Explosion bringen.” (Thus, this Urao revolt may spread to other groups and, like a small spark, explode the great Indian powderkeg.)92 The Germans continued to watch the situation in Bihar and Orissa. “Der Neue Orient”, Number 8, 1917, published a report on violent actions in Mayurbhanj against the recruitment policy of the British Government and the author noticed with great satisfaction that the British had to send in large numbers of troops.93 The fact that the centres of the Tana Bhagat movement were in and around Ranchi, the main settlement of the German Lutheran Gossner

91 The original German title was: Der Neue Orient. Halbmonatszeitschrift für das politische, wirtschaftliche und geistige Leben im gesamten Osten. 92 „Indische Aufstandsbewegung. Unruhen unter den Uraos in Chota Nagpur und Bhutan,“ Der Neur Orient vol. 2, No. 35, June 29, 1916, pp. 216ff. (quoted from Zentrum Moderner Orient, Krüger-Files; Box No. 52). 93 Jyotuday, “Zur Lage in Indien,” Der Neue Orient, vol. 1, No. 8, pp. 363–364. See also Der Neue Orient, vol. 5, No. 1, and 2, April 25, 1919, pp. 5–7; vol. 5, No. 3, and 4, May 25, 1919, pp. 142–143. Here also the participation of India in the war is mentioned as one of the main reasons for the revolts in many parts of the country, especially in the Punjab.

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Mission since the 1840s,94 made it quite clear to the authorities in India that a kind of German propaganda had been spread. The first six German missionaries in Ranchi were interned on July 30, 1915. On July 17, they received the order that all of them were to be interned. They were repatriated by the end of 1915.95 German mission sources underlined the non-Christian character of the movement. The German missionaries disseminated that the leaders of the protest were not Christians, moreover that it had began as an anti-Christian revolt and Christians had not been allowed to participate. The aims of the German missionaries in Chota Nagpur in the situation of 1914/15 were at least twofold. Firstly, they tried to maintain law and order within their own Christian congregations to prove their loyalty to the British colonial Government that had allowed them to do mission work in India. This, they thought, would be the best guarantee for them to continue their religious activities after the war. Secondly, however, with the outbreak of the war, loyalty to the German Kaiser was obviously no longer compatible with loyalty to the British King. We must assume that, for the majority of the German missionaries, loyalty to the German Kaiser was a matter of course. Moreover, after the German sovereign donated 3½ million Marks for the Evangelical Mission purpose, he was regarded as a major protector of mission activities.96 Retired missionaries often put their special knowledge of Indian languages and Indian culture, religion and society at the service of important strategic institutions like the Colonial Institute in Hamburg97 or the “Nachrichtenstelle für den Orient” in Berlin.98 Without putting themselves at considerable risk of internment, the missionaries tried to present themselves as men of absolute integrity with the highest moral standards. But sometimes they faced

94

For the history of the Gossner Mission in India, see: Hans Lokier, Die GossnerKirche in Indien. Durch Wachstumskrisen zur Mündigkeit (Berlin, 1969). 95 J. Stosch, “Abschiedspredigt,” Die Biene auf dem Missionsfelde, vol. 84, No. 8, August 1917, p. 115. 96 Die Biene auf dem Missionsfelde, 81. vol., No. 8, Aug 1914, p. 129. 97 In his article: “To colonize means to proselytize,” the former Gossner Missionary, Otto Herzberg stated that colonial and mission workers were collaborating on a serious and responsible job. Die Biene auf dem Missionsfelde, vol. 81, No. 6, June 1914, p. 82. 98 Former Gossner Missionaries like Ferdinand Graetsch, who knew Hindi very well, were working for the German Foreign Office in the “Nachrichtenstelle für den Orient”. Glasenapp, Meine Lebensreis, p. 71.

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difficulties with the local police. At the end of October 1914, the police found letters from a former missionary from Germany addressed to the local population with agitation against the British Government. At the same time, the missionary Koeppen was arrested because he had attended a meeting of German engineers in the iron factory in Sakhi in October 1914.99 So, even if there was no direct interference in the Tana Bhagat movement at that time, because most of the missionaries feared to be interned or to be punished in one or another way by the Indian police, their presence in the region for several decades must have caused a certain awareness of Germans and Germany among the local population. Conclusion During the First World War, the German Kaiser obviously became a well-understood and broadly used symbol for the creation of an Oraon kingdom outside the British colonial Empire. United by the idea of overcoming British rule and creating an Oraon state, the followers of the Tana Bhagat movement projected certain political expectations onto the German Kaiser. The protesting Oraons followed the traditional tribal custom of expressing their experience of life through symbols that they used in their songs and dances.100 The German Kaiser became the Baba, the God, equal to other Oraon Gods or the foreign power that could end British presence in India.101 In a period of war, with a decline of welfare, with danger and with rumours, this symbol thus became a means of orientation. It became part of the Oraons’ perception of life, rather than an unconscious inclusion of an unknown figure into the contemporary songs. The fact that the

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Helferblatt der Gossnerschen Mission, vol. 3, 1st Quarter 1916, pp. 1–13, p. 7. Already in August 1914 the Board of Directors of the Mission asked for a ‘home leave’ for Koeppen, who had come to Chotanagpur in 1899 and after 15 years of missionary work “dringend einer geistigen Auffrischung bedarf. Er selbst scheint die Empfindung dafür leider nicht zu haben.” (urgently needs a spiritual refreshment. He, however, does not seem to share this opinion.) They had conflicts with him. See: Archiv Gossner Mission G 1 -256 A. A. Sign. 4/15/7. V. J. N° 749 (4) Vorstand G. E. L. August 1914. 100 “Oraon songs are realistic and transcribe incidents of village life with different levels of imagery.” Tirkey, Oraon Symbols, p. 55. 101 Dasgupta, “Reordering a World,” p. 37.

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colonial authorities paid great attention to the Tana Bhagat movement showed the political significance it had for the country. Due to the high degree of attention the colonial authorities paid to this unrest because of its reference to the German Kaiser, the Oraon leaders became more conscious of their own power and of the other movements in the country. The great demand for daily news on the war situation among the population and the hindrances like illiteracy, lack of information and the colonial press policy prepared the ground for legends and rumours that created a “continuity between events that might otherwise seem unconnected”.102 Various information flows—through individuals, print media, rumours and competing propaganda—affected the revolt itself and the interpretation of the events.

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Das, Life and Words, p. 108.

CORRECTING THEIR PERSPECTIVE: OUT-OF-AREA DEPLOYMENT AND THE SWAHILI MILITARY PRESS IN WORLD WAR II1 Katrin Bromber In the cause of World War II, East African military units became an integral part of the British Empire Forces. Although temporal deployment of askaris, as the soldiers were called, to distant places like the Gold Coast (today’s Ghana) or Mauritius was by no means new, requirements of the World War enhanced the mobility of African military personnel to an heretofore unknown extent. In contrast to World War I, when East African soldiers were employed exclusively in East Africa, in World War II a large part of the forces fought outside the continent. Between 1942 and 1946, nearly 25 per cent of the troops, which amounted to 325,000 men, experienced out-of-area deployment,2 which means service outside the East African Command (EAC).3 They were transferred to North Africa, the Middle East, Madagascar, Reunion, Mauritius, and South Asia, i.e. Ceylon (Sri Lanka), Northeast India and Burma. The military success of African soldiers in Ethiopia (June 1940–November 1941) led to askaris serving as combat units for the first time. However, the majority saw deployment as pioneers, medical personnel, signallers and drivers or served in garrison units. In order to keep up morale amongst the troops and to legitimate the massive transfer of African military personnel to the aforementioned theatres of operation, the British colonial and military authorities built up a huge propaganda machinery. Directed at soldiers and civilians alike, Africans now became targeted audiences of the mass 1 This essay results from a research project conducted at the Centre for Modern Oriental Studies (Berlin) and funded by the German Research Council. 2 Timothy Parsons, The African rank-and-file. Social implications of colonial military service in the King’s African Rifles, 1902–1964 (Oxford, 1999), p. 35. 3 The East Africa Command was formed in September 1941. It comprised Nyasaland (today’s Malawi), Uganda, Tanganyika Territory, Kenya, Northern Rhodesia (today’s Zambia), Zanzibar, Italian Somaliland, British Somaliland and for a short time Ethiopia as well as Eritrea. The General Officer Commanding was head of all land forces in this area.

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media in Britain’s East African possessions. Plans for systematic propaganda work had been drawn up in the newly established Ministry of Information (MOI) and in the Colonial Office (CO) shortly before the war. Information Offices in the colonial territories, which commenced work in September 1939, became operational centres for the supply of propaganda material and information to the East African Command, i.e. the Deputy Director of Military Intelligence and, from 1944 onwards, the Command’s Directorate of Education and Welfare (DEW) and the Ministry of Information (MOI). In order to free the Kenya Information Office from the additional burden to coordinating the propaganda activities of all East and Central African Information Offices, a Principal Information Officer in Nairobi was to combine civil and military propaganda work throughout the command area. After a short period of office (1941–43), this post was abolished and the direct flow of information between the Information Officers and the military was restored.4 The path breaking achievements in media technology during World War II made it possible for propaganda activities to ‘follow’ the mobile soldiering audiences over large distances beyond the territorial boundaries of the EAC. Hence, information about the war and, what is more, ideas and images anticipating a post-war East Africa reached thousands of soldiers as well as their home societies. A mediascape of heretofore unknown geographical scope emerged.5 It not only included large parts of the Indian Ocean and its littorals, but

4 Structural aspects of British propaganda activities for and in East Africa during World War II have been extensively dealt with. See Kate Morris, British techniques of public relations and propaganda for mobilizing East and Central Africa during World War II (Lewiston, Queenstown et al., 2000) and Rosaleen Smyth, “Britain’s African Colonies and the British Propaganda during the Second World War,” Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History 14, 1 (1985), 65–82. Detailed descriptions were provided for Kenya by Fay Gadsen, “Wartime propaganda in Kenya: the Kenya Information Office, 1939–45,” The International Journal of African Historical Studies 19, 3 (1986), 401–420. For Nyasaland (Malawi) see Rosaleen Smyth, “Propaganda and Politics: The History of Mutende during the Second World War,” Zambia Journal of History 1 (1981), 43–60. 5 Although Arjun Appadurai developed the term mediascape to describe current phenomena, it has due relevance for the developments in the Western Indian Ocean and East Africa in World War II, for it refers to both “the distribution of the electronic capabilities to produce and disseminate information [. . .] to a growing number of private and public interest [. . .] and to the images [. . .] created by these media.” Arjun Appadurai, “Disjuncture and Difference in the Global Cultural Economy,” Public Culture 2 (1990), p. 9.

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also extended far into South Asia, North Africa and the Middle East. If we also consider the places where, for example, newsreels that had been shot in East Africa were developed and copied, South Africa also has to be included.6 Depending on the local facilities, soldiers and civilians were provided with vernacular newspapers, radio programmes, cinema and multimedia propaganda shows, posters, photographs, lectures and speeches. Given the fact that the overwhelming majority of the soldiers were illiterate at the beginning of their military service, a clear statement about the reception of written propaganda material is problematic. After the reorganization of the East African troops into the EAC in 1941, each Battalion had to report about the literacy rates amongst the African troops. These statistical data provided the basis for a literacy campaign along military structures which started in 1942. It can be said that these efforts pushed Swahili as Command Language to a heretofore unknown extent. African non-commissioned officers of the East African Army Education Corps (EAAEC) played a crucial role in this process. What is more, they also were the people who had to explain and discuss different kinds of information which had been transmitted by radio or newspaper. African EAAEC personnel was directly involved into the production of propaganda material in Swahili or Nyanja.7 Apart from newsletters, the East African contingents were regularly provided with the EAC’s weekly Askari (Soldier), and its Nyanja version Asikari. On eight up to twelve pages it informed about the various theatres of war and about the soldier’s home territories. It published short articles about modernization projects in both, Britain and East Africa. Film news and radio programmes also formed a regular part of the newspaper as well as letters to the editor. Habari Zetu (Our News), Heshima (Honour) and Pamoja (Together) followed a similar model but addressed the soldiers explicitly with regard to their area of deployment—Horn of Africa, South Asia and Madagascar. Habari za Vita (War News), Askari Ugenini (Soldiers Abroad) and Askari Wetu (Our Soldiers) targeted East African civilians and

6 Welch (MOI) to Harvey (Treasury) (December 17, 1943), Centralised Control of Publicity and Propaganda in East Africa (1943–46) PRO (today The National Archives of the United Kingdom) INF 1/554. 7 For more details see Katrin Bromber, Imperiale Propaganda. Die ostafrikanische Militärpresse im Zweiten Weltkrieg (Berlin, 2009), pp. 106–113.

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military personal alike. In contrast to the military newspapers they had fewer pages and contained much more visual material, mostly photography. Apart from military publications the soldiers more or less regularly received civilian newspapers like Mambo Leo (Modern Things) and Baraza (Forum).These civilian publications regularly published soldier’s letters to the editor and poems composed by them.8 As is apparent from the army newspapers and civilian publications, as well as the archival sources that document the British propaganda activities in East Africa, close relations between the military front and the home front were given a high priority throughout the war. This tendency increased towards the upcoming discharge of thousands of East African soldiers and their re-integration into their post-war societies. However, the content changed considerably when the colonial authorities forcefully argued against the idea of the returning soldier as agent of modernity. The military authorities created this image in order to advertise educational programmes and to propagate good citizenship as a role model. When civil authorities had made it clear that the returning soldier was their ‘problem’, the army issued detailed guidelines to streamline all propaganda activities towards the askari. Along these lines, which will be discussed in the part Propaganda guidelines, the military applied discursive strategies aimed at balancing or even downplaying the out-of-area deployment. Arguably, in the last phase of the war, British propaganda attempts were directed at countering the askaris’ perception that they had fought for King George and that they ought to be rewarded for that. Especially the reports of S. H. Fazan, the Liaison Officer between the military and the civilian governments who regularly visited the troops in the Middle East and South Asia, alarmed headquarters in Nairobi. Most disturbing for both the military and the civilian authorities was the fact that the soldiers expected a grant of land or similar very concrete rewards for their kazi ya vita (work of the war).9 Hence, discursive strategies had to be employed to disconnect the war effort from the British King who had initially served as an icon for the soldiers.10

8 Details about the composition and the content of the Swahili military press can be found in Bromber, Imperiale Propaganda, chapter 4 and 5. 9 Report on Visit to East African troops in the Middle East, July 19 to August 30, 1944, Kenya National Archives (KNA) AH 22/41, 5. 10 For the importance of the royal theme in East and Central Africa prior to and during World War II, see Terence Ranger, “Making Northern Rhodesia Imperial:

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Although the military had to consent to the requirements of the civilian authorities as early as 1944, they also had to keep up morale amongst the soldiers until the defeat of the Axis powers, especially Imperial Japanese Forces. As will be shown in Duty and honour to finish the task, the army newspapers resorted to ideas of military honour as well as to images of accelerated speed. The balance act between morale-keeping and correcting the perspective on the role East Africans played in the war demanded a shift in the persuasive language. The Comparison of gains and hardships with other troops of the Allied Forces was put to the persuasive forefront. By communicating Outof-area deployment as a chance, education in its various forms became the prime argument with which to legitimise the transfer of thousands of askaris to battlefields outside Africa. Difficult issues like promotion in the army were kept to a low profile, while at the same time a military carrier still had to be depicted as an option. To avoid spoiling its potential long-term effects in the final phase and of the war beyond, propaganda had to mould discursive strategies and topoi that had proved to be effective amongst the soldiers. By discussing propaganda as a bilateral process in which British military personnel and colonial officials had to respond to or at least take into account the soldiers’ experiences of the war, this chapter not only provides insights into the reading material for the askaris, but also shows how they perceived their role during the war and in the East African post-war societies. Propaganda guidelines The gradual shift from a short-sighted win-the-war propaganda, which characterized Britain’s persuasive language at the beginning of the war, to an understanding of propaganda as a long-term process began in 1941. With Noël Sabine, Public Relations Officer of the Colonial Office, and E. R. Edmett, Liaison Officer between the MOI and the CO, two Africa-experienced personalities were at the forefront of advocating a propaganda policy that went beyond the imminent

Variations on a Royal Theme,” African Affairs 79, 316 (1980), 349–373 and Morris, British Techniques, p. 87.

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needs of the war.11 Edmett went so far as to define propaganda as a reciprocal interactive process and as a part of education that should enable the colonial subjects to cooperate with the metropolis.12 However, the proposals and the decrees put forward by the MOI’s Overseas Planning Committee in the subsequent year clearly indicate that Sabine’s and Edmett’s visions had little impact. A policy change became visible only in 1943. While still emphasising the role of propaganda in securing the maximum contribution of the East African people to the war effort and in strengthening their loyalty to the British, a new propaganda plan went beyond these short-term aims. “On a longer view propaganda should support and explain the declared policies of H. M. G. designed to further the wellbeing of the peoples in East Africa, and their capacity to take a fuller share in the progress of their countries.”13 It is difficult to estimate how effectively these ministerial guidelines were implemented in the East African Information Offices and in the military bodies devoted to propaganda work. With respect to army newspapers and broadsheets, the War Office (WO) had its own policy.14 Apart from security issues and the general order not to question any decision of military superiors under any circumstances, the guidelines gave editors relative freedom in shaping their army publications. This might also explain the differences between the Swahili military newspapers. While, for example, Heshima, the weekly for the East African troops within the South East Asia Command (SEAC), tried to take its readership seriously by carefully addressing issues that lay close to the soldiers’ heart, the East African Command (EAC) weekly Askari was written in a simply informative and often arrogant style. In some responses to letters to the editor, for example, soldiers were often called stupid simply for having asked a certain question or for being regular letter writers. The latter, in particular, was linked to

11 Noël Sabine had served as District Officer in East Africa before he became Public Relations Officer of the Colonial Office in 1940. E. R. Edmett had worked in the colonial administration of in the Gold Coast. In 1941 he assumed his post as the Liaison Officer between the MOI and the CO. 12 PRO CO 875/11/1. Future of Public Relations: Broadcasting organisations; aims and policies of colonial propaganda (1941), August 6, 1941. 13 PRO INF 1/564. Overseas Planning Committees: plan for propaganda to British East Africa (1943–1944). 14 IWM 92/38 K. Instructions to Editors of Army Newspapers and Formation Broadsheets, not dated.

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the allegation that they might not take their service in the army seriously. In August 1945, the Directorate of Education and Welfare (DEW) issued propaganda guidelines that were to be observed in lectures to the East African soldiers awaiting transfer to East Africa in the military camps in South Asia and the Middle East.15 Arguably, this document was the result of the controversial discussions between military and civilian authorities. Since the DEW was responsible for propaganda to the troops, it is likely that the guidelines were also applied to the military press. The part of the document that deals directly with the correction of the soldiers’ perspective on their war effort stresses the following points. The askaris should, first of all, be made aware of the fact that their actions were part of a defence scheme. Consequently, a potential military success of the Axis powers in or near East Africa was portrayed as severely affecting their home societies. Secondly, the great sacrifices of the British peoples and the immense damage to British property should be highlighted. A third group of arguments should stress that while the deployment of the troops to Abyssinia, Somaliland, North Africa, the Middle East and the Isles in the Western Indian Ocean was directly or indirectly concerned with defence, all operations in Burma were primarily for the punishment of the enemy. Furthermore, the careful raising and training of the African forces prior to the transfer as well as the army’s efforts for health and nutrition should be mentioned. The fifth guideline, which dealt especially with the out-of-area deployment, advised that propaganda should emphasize: [. . .] the achievements of the East African Forces, but keeping them in perspective in relation [sic!] to the achievements of other forces with whom they cooperated; the value of co-operation; the better knowledge gained of the other peoples; the increased knowledge and respect between tribe and tribe; the added appreciation which officers and men have of each others qualities; the hardships shared.16

The soldiers were to be made aware that not only they had saved their homes, but also that they had a stored knowledge and experience that they could invest in the development of their home societies. Last but not least, the fact that they had won credit and gained

15 16

Lectures to Troops August 23, 1945, KNA, AH/20/79. Ibid., p. 2.

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confidence in themselves and in each other was to be communicated as great assets. Apart from military achievements, the war effort of the ‘home front’ in support of the East African forces was to be stressed. This referred not only to the increased food production and individual care, but also to developments in processing and production, health care etc. While the lectures to East African contingents in transit camps between May and September 1945 focused mainly on administrative aspects of the demobilisation process as well as on modern techniques in agriculture, house construction or health care, the propaganda to the troops in South Asia and the Middle East aimed at keeping fighting morale as high as possible. The next part of this chapter shows how this trend was implemented in the army newspapers. Whereas the EAC weekly Askari mainly informed about technical aspects of discharge and educational as well as job chances for veterans, divisional newspapers like Heshima focused on military operations against the Japanese Imperial Army and the final victory. Duty and honour to finish the task The victory of the Allied Forces in Europe seems to have raised expectations among the askaris who had been transferred to the South Asian theatre of war that they would be replaced immediately by British troops. In order to counter this impression and to keep up the fighting morale of the East African contingents, a shift in propaganda became necessary. The ‘defence topos’, which had still been used shortly after the transfer to Ceylon in 1943, was gradually replaced by a combination of arguments that emphasized the importance of the final victory in South East Asia and the Pacific Ocean. The ‘final victory topos’ became the most forceful implementation of a discursive strategy to legitimise the deployment of thousands of East African soldiers in this geographical area. Heshima, the Swahili weekly for the 11th (EA) Division (SEAC), initially pursued the issue in an indirect way by reporting about the massive transfer of Dutch, Canadian and especially British soldiers to South East Asia. The permanence of this process was indicated by reduplication (Makundi kwa makundi ya majeshi yanafika—Contingents after contingents of the armies arrive). This discursive strategy was not only supposed to counter the impression that Britain and its

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Allies was leaving military operations outside Europe to the Empire troops, but also to strengthen Britain’s image as the victorious player on the world scene. However, any expectations that the victory in Europe would automatically mean the replacement of the East African units in South East Asia were countered by arguing for the concentration of all forces and the focus on ‘finishing the job’. In the rubric ‘war news’ the editor stressed: “Since the German armies have been completely smashed, there is no doubt that our combined forces will be directed at the Japanese until they will be defeated. Our division will take part in this job to wipe out the Japanese and to finish its major task.”17 This quote shows an interesting trend that became apparent in the 1945 issues of Heshima, namely the use of explicit appellative elements in the war news. The neutral language of news texts was altered by the use of subjunctive verb forms or metaphors of cleaning activities, like “kumfagia Mjapan” (to wipe out the Japanese). Especially the latter expression links up to the comparisons of the enemy with insects who have to be exterminated, which was often realised by phrases with the verb -twanga (to clean or to husk grain in a mortar) or with the phrase “kuwachoma kama takataka” (to burn them like garbage). The use of pejorative terms to describe the enemy as garbage or insects, i.e. mosquitoes (mbu), also replaced a discourse about the Japanese forces as a strong, clever and exceptional enemy, which characterized Heshima’s reports and the war news in 1943 and 1944. Extermination of the enemy by all means became an important feature of the war in South East Asia. In the Swahili army publications, it found its expression also in the topos of great numbers with regard to casualties. In 1945, military as well as civilian newspapers for an East African readership figured the casualties on the Japanese side always considerably higher than deaths amongst the Allied Forces. The newspaper language that was used to describe the military operations by the British Imperial Forces against the Imperial Japanese Army echoes the representations of the battlefields in the Pacific with heroic Americans fighting in a savage war against fanatic Japanese.

17 “Kwa kuwa sasa Wajerumani yamekomeshwa kabisa basi bila shaka nguvu zetu zote twaweza kuzielekeza Wajapan mpaka washindwe nao. Katika kazi hii ya kumfagia Mjapan divisioni yetu itakuwamo na kutimiza kazi yake kuu.” (Heshima, May 23, 1945, p. 5).

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However, the Swahili newspapers abstained from using overt racist terminology to depict the enemy.18 The taboo against using any form of racist language in the propaganda directed at the East African soldiers seemed to have been extended to descriptions of the enemy. Instead, the editors used an increase in tempo to reach the final aim as the main argument to keep up fighting morale. The acceleration of speed, according to military publications, was only possible through complete extinction of obstacles—the Japanese enemy. Arguably, language indicating speed and total extinction replaced racist depictions of the enemy as a discursive strategy to legitimise the out-of-area deployment after the defeat of the Axis powers in Europe. The fact that the askaris were tired of military service was not concealed but explicitly dealt with in the newspapers. The publications attempted to counter this feeling with two major strategies. The first one was to remind the soldiers that “in times of war personal matters are of secondary importance.”19 The second strategy was to emphasise what the home societies expected from the soldiers abroad. In an open letter to the soldiers, Chief Paul N. Agoi (Kenya) argued that every person is tired every day. “Now is the time of victory. I fully understand that some of you say that they are tired. But you know that man is tired every day. And then he can lose his rank or fortune in the end. Therefore don’t be tired, follow orders until we will have thrown out those enemies.”20 The Chief spoke of impending positive results, but also of the risk to be stripped of one’s rank and honour at the last moment. Hence, uneasiness about the continuation of the fighting was not only countered by indicating the successful end of the war, but also by disciplinary language in the form of explicit warning. It was his position as a Chief that gave Paul N. Agoi the authority to voice the expectation of the home society. The East African soldier should be success-

18 Tarak Barkawi confirms the absence of racialised constructions of enemies and allies also for the British Indian troops. Tarak Barkawi, Peoples, “Homelands, and Wars? Ethnicity, the Military, and the Battle among British Imperial Forces in the War against Japan,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 46 (2004), 134–163. 19 “Haja za vita huwekwa mbele ya haja za nyumbai.” (Heshima, May 23, 1945, p. 5). 20 “Sasa ndio wakati wa kushinda. Najua kabisa sasa wengine kwa ninyi mnasema ya kuwa mmechoka, lakini mnajua kila siku mtu anachoka, tena anapoteza daraja au bahati mwishowe. Kwa hiyo msichoke, tieni bidii hata tuwafukuze hao maadui.” (Heshima, July 20, 1945, p. 15).

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ful and obedient while he is still in the army and he should continue like this after discharge. As I have shown elsewhere, the distinct East African concept of heshima (respectful behaviour), was appropriated by the army propaganda and conceptualized as military honour.21 Obviously African Chiefs like Paul N. Agoi attempted to use this transformed version to secure their unquestioned authority towards the returning soldiers. In May 1945 the editors combined the argument that the victory in Burma was not equivalent to a victory over the Japanese Imperial Army with hints at future areas of deployment: “There is no doubt that the African soldiers will be deployed outside Burma in all those areas which are still held by the enemy. This does not only refer to Indo-China, but also to Malaya, Thailand, Sumatra and other islands.”22 This contribution about areas where the askaris might serve in the near future was completed by quoting General Demoline— Commander-in-Chief of the 11th (EA) Division (SEAC), who had said: “Sisi Waafrika tutakuwapo hata mwishoni.”—We Africans will be present until the end! By including himself, he changed the notion of military hierarchy into corporate feelings. Comradeship paired with the duty to finish the task and spiced with the notion of honour to be among those who fought until the end became the characteristic elements of the discourse about the continuation of the war in South Asia. Comparison of gains and hardships As Ravi Ahuja has pointed out, war experiences were often made sense of by comparison.23 Being aware of its discursive potential, the DEW demanded to streamline this particular figure of thought.24 Whereas the Swahili army newspapers had, at an early stage, to highlight the war effort of the East African civilians in order to counter 21 Katrin Bromber,“Do not destroy our honour: Wartime Propaganda directed at East African soldiers in Ceylon (1943–44)”, in The limits of British control in South Asia. Spaces of disorder in the Indian Ocean region, eds. Ashwini Tambe and Harald Fischer-Tiné (London, 2009), pp. 91–97. 22 “‘Hapana shaka askari Waafrika watatumika ng’ambo ya Burma katika sehemu zile nyingi ambazo zingali zinashikiliwa na adui waal si Indo-China peke yake, bali ni Malay, Thailand, Sumatra na visiwa vinginevyo.” (Heshima, May 23, 1945, p. 11). 23 See Ravi Ahuja in this volume. 24 Lectures to Troops August 23, 1945, KNA, AH/20/79.

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the soldier’s impression that it was only they who were actively participating in the war, the editors had to resort to new arguments in spring 1945. Obviously, the propaganda to the troops had created the impression of an over-proportionate East African contribution to the war effort. A well-balanced strategy of comparing East Africa’s war effort with that of the other Allies and their peoples, and especially that of Great Britain, seemed to be a way out of this dilemma. In 1945 Askari, the mouthpiece of the EAC, began to extensively report about the damage done to the British Isles while at the same time hinting at the fact that East Africa was spared any destructive military operation. Four weeks later the Command began weekly publishing of a one-page article that made the aim of correcting the soldier’s perspective on the British war effort explicit. Following a statement about the excellent work of the askari, the article stresses: “Many people think that only Africans fought and others did not even try. Furthermore, many Africans complain because they have been asked to sell their cattle to feed the soldiers. It is right to be honoured for your good work—but as one of the British territories (Dola ya Kiingereza) it is also right to know what Great Britain, the core of the British Commonwealth, did and does in this war.”25 Apart from emphasizing the compulsory military service for men, the participation of women in active service and the destruction on the British Isles, it was especially the topos of great numbers that served as the linguistic device to measure and, consequently, compare war effort. In June 1945, Heshima, the weekly of the East African troops in South Asia, shifted its focus from Britain to China. Reports described the troops under Marshall Chiang Kai-shek as well as the lives and hardships of the Chinese civilian population in China and in the Diaspora in South and South East Asia. The topos of duration is a recurrent theme in contributions about China. They emphasise that China was already occupied by the Japanese in 1937 and had not yet been liberated. The topos is further realised by describing the process

25 “Watu wengi wanafikiri ya kwamba ni Wa-Afrika tu wanaopigana na wengine hawajaribu kupigana. Vile vile Wa-Afrika wengine wananing’unika kwa sababu wanaulizwa kuuza ng’ombe zao kwa ajili ya chakula cha askari. Ni haki ya kusifiwa kwa ajili ya kazi yako nzuri—lakini kama mmojawapo wa Dola ya Ki-Ingereza, ni haki kujua vile Uingereza , kiini cha Dola ya Uingereza, walivyofanya na wanavyofanya katika vita hivi.” (Askari, July 12, 1945, p. 20)

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of change within the Chinese troops from a force that was badly equipped with weapons and food into a modern army. Regarding the contribution of Chinese civilian population to the war effort, underground operations in the Diaspora are especially mentioned. In an article about the Chinese resistance in Rangoon, secrecy is linked to the hero topos. Interestingly, the report quoted an open statement by a man shortly before his execution as the highest standard of bravery: “One of them was a real hero, since he said to his executer before being shot: I am a Chinese. I do not fear a Japanese dog.”26 The description of hardships that the Japanese occupation brought to the civilian population in China was mainly realised by contrasting damage with high culture and civilization. In this comparison Japan was depicted as a borrowing culture, a topos that had already been introduced in an article about the History of Japan that was published in Askari in autumn 1943. However, while the longterm connections in the Far East were depicted as between equals, the historical relations between Britain and Japan were described as between a nurturing mother and an ungrateful child.27 With regard to the hardships the Chinese had faced in the South Asian Diaspora, mainly the financial loss was mentioned. Especially the situation of the Chinese in Rangoon was described in an ambivalent way. They were mentioned as having provided the thousands of forced labourers (makuli) who built the strategically important road from Burma to Thailand. In order to weaken the impression of deliberate collaboration with the enemy, the text ends by stressing that the Chinese did all this half-heartedly and by refusing any further engagement.28 With regard to the Chinese army, the comparison to the East African troops shifted from the focus on hardships to the comparison of gains. This referred not only to clothing, nutrition and the common language of command, but also to leisure and team sports, comradeship and, above all, education: “In the army the soldiers are taught to read and write and even to contribute according to personal abilities to develop the country after the victory over the Japanese. In

26

“Mmojawapo alikuwa shujaa sana maana alimwambia mwuaji kabla ya kupigwa ‘Mimi ni Mchina, simwogopi mbwa Mjapani.” (Heshima, July 18, 1945, p. 5). 27 Askari, October 20, 1943, p. 12. 28 Heshima, July 18, 1945, p. 5.

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the Chinese army education is as important as weapon training.”29 The topos of the army as school became, especially in the last phase of the war, one of the most prominent topoi in depicting military service in general and out-of-area deployment in particular as a chance for social upward mobility in the post-war era. As the next part of the chapter will show, this was the most important discursive strategy to disconnect East African’s service in the British Imperial Forces from the King and additional rewards. Out-of-area deployment as a chance The army newspapers’ positive discourse about the advantages of military service and out-of-area deployment mainly revolved around the topos of chance. Askaris were reminded of the things they had already received and that they might potentially receive at the end of hostilities. Thematically, the topos found its expression in three major fields: education and knowledge, social and military status and financial gains. Education within the army was stressed throughout the war in text and visual material. Apart from specialised knowledge for military purposes, the army’s educational focus was put on literacy, simple arithmetic, geography and what could be called ‘general knowledge’. The hierarchical structure provided the perfect infrastructure to transmit knowledge to thousands of soldiers. A survey of the linguistic composition of the battalions had been the basis on which the East Africa Command launched a huge literacy campaign in 1941. In its first phase, British education officers gave courses to African noncommissioned officers. The best forty African candidates of the battalion were then selected for an Intensive Course and later sent back as education instructors to their units. In all units that were not directly involved in combat situations, one hour per day was to be reserved for literacy classes.30 From 1942 onwards, African education instructors of the Army Education Centre (formerly Jeanes School) 29 “Katika Jeshi askari hufundishwa kusoma na kuandika na hata kutenda pia hivi kama wataweza kufanya kila mtu hisa yake ya kuendesha nchi ya Wajapani watakaposhindwa. Katika Jeshi la Kichina elimu ni muhimu kabisa kama vile ufundi wa silaha.” (Heshima, July 7, 1945, p. 9). 30 16th Battalion King’s African Rifles, Part I Orders, 19.4.1942, 16th KAR/ 11 (A) Div Central Area 1942, PRO WO 169/ 7051, 1.

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near Nairobi began their teaching in the battalions. However, not all soldiers had been without formal education when they entered the services. Hence, when demobilisation was on the threshold, military officials became aware of the fact that these young men had not only interrupted their education as such, but might face great difficulties in being re-absorbed in the educational process again. In order to counter potential feelings of disappointment over a disrupted civilian career, the newspapers reported on the construction of vocational training centres for ex-askaris or encouraged the return to schools which soldiers had attended before their army service. Interestingly, this kind of argumentation was linked to ‘character’, as the following example demonstrates: The technical schools in Kampala and Elgon accepted that those students who entered military service prior to finishing their training might return in order to complete. Hence, those who really want, those will learn!31 Allegedly, such statements should also weaken the impression that mismanagement by military and civilian authorities in reabsorbing the soldiers into their home societies was the only reason for the scarcity of educational facilities and job chances. Apart from advertising the positive effects of formal education within and outside the army, knowledge was a constant theme on both the textual and visual level. Photographs showed soldiers reading books or newspapers, buying books or having conversations with local religious authorities. Furthermore, the deployment itself was propagated as a kind of education. Pictures presented askaris serving in the Middle East on their visit to Jerusalem. Reports about North Africa described how soldiers on leave were overwhelmed by the pyramids. In the South Asian case, it was not only the notion of learning by seeing other cultures, but especially detailed information about local schooling or advanced agricultural methods and the recurrent hint to apply them after demobilisation. A letter to the editor went so far as to propose that the British government had to be thanked for having sent East African soldiers abroad, since this was a way to be

31

“Shule ya Kampala Technical School na Elgon Technical yanakubali wanafunzi ambao waliingia katika kazi ya vita kabla hawajamaliza mafundisho kurudi na kujifunza ili wapate kumaliza. Basi wanafunzi wanaotaka watajifunza.” (Heshima, June 13, 1945, p. 14).

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educated about the modern world (dunia ya leo) by staying in places where the elders had never been.32 The recurrent comparison of the soldiers’ increased knowledge with the experiences of the elders not only potentially strengthened the position of the askaris in their home societies, it also led to questions about the social status of local authorities or heads of families. And indeed, soldiers on leave became a problem due to lack of respect and lack of discipline. As a response, the army newspapers sought to verbally strengthen the position of local East African authorities and severely criticised incidents of disrespectful behaviour. In order to keep up morale, the Swahili military publications also gave attention to the few cases of upward social mobility, for example the case of ex-soldier A. L. Koria, who was elected chairman of the Kenya East African Study Union.33 Furthermore, social status was also linked to the issue of respect. Heshima (respect, honour) refers to the key concept of respectable behaviour as it has been cultivated in the East African (coastal) cultural context. During the war years, this concept was increasingly linked with ‘Western’ ideas of military honour.34 The importance of keeping or even increasing the good reputation of the individual soldier until the end of the war was communicated as an asset for the society he originated from.35 With the successful end of the war approaching, promotion within the army had become a hot issue among the askaris. As early as 1942, the sheer lack of British officers for commanding the East African units in Madagascar forced headquarters in Nairobi to introduce the rank of a Warrant Officer Platoon Commander. In the course of war, African non-commissioned Officers (ANCO) often fulfilled functions of higher ranks. However, with a few exceptions in Ugandan contingents, they had never been promoted to an officer’s rank. Especially after the successful expulsion of the Japanese from large parts of 32 “Basi, jamaa zangtu na rafiki tafadhalini, nami naishukuru serikali yetu ya Kiingereza ambayo ilituelemisha dunia ya leo an kutupitisha katika miji ambayo wababu na baba zetu hawajapita [. . .].” (Heshima, May 30, 1945, p. 6). 33 Heshima, July 16, 1945, p. 14. 34 For further details about the notion of Heshima in the East African Forces during World War II, see Bromber, “Do not destroy our honour”. 35 Shortly before a group of East African chiefs visited the East African contingents under South East Asian Command, the latter’s commanding officer stressed his belief that “they will meet soldiers who will bring a lot of honour to their home societies after the war.” (“Natumaini watakutana na askari watakaoleta heshima nyingi kwa nchi zao wakirudi baada ya vita.” Heshima, May 30, 1945, p. 2).

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Burma, in which East African soldiers played an important part, the demand for creating an African officers’ corps became forceful amongst the troops. In an attempt to structure the debate in favour of the British military authorities, the Swahili army press offered a very ‘clever’ discursive strategy: The soldiering readership should discuss the problem among themselves. Hence, all contributions appeared in the rubric “Barua za askari” (Letters by Soldiers) and were not commented in any way by the editor or British officers. The two main arguments against promotion of ANCO were the lack of formal education and incidents of inappropriate treatment of ordinary ranks by their African military superiors. While the initial part of the debate revolved around the issue that not a single ANCO fulfilled the formal requirements of an officer, the discussion developed into a racialised discourse. Arguably, this discourse inverted the former martial race policy of the British in East Africa, which assigned martial qualities only to pastoral highlanders like the Nandi or the Kamba.36 A letter to the editor made this clear: “ANCOs and a warrant officer who harasses his fellow-African has absolutely no education. He herds cattle all day long. [. . .] Really, those who could command and defend his African comrade are those who remain privates, those who have a college education.”37 The discussion reached out into post-war civilian aspects in that it touched the fundamental question about the African’s ability to work in leading positions. In order not to weaken in any way the local authorities vis-à-vis the returning soldiers, the newspaper defined busara (wisdom), which they assigned to experienced chiefs, as equivalent to elimu (formal education). The newspaper discussion about promotion not only demonstrates how the military propaganda attempted to carefully influence or even counter the increasing self-awareness among the East African troops.

36

Until World War II, when the need for African military personnel increased dramatically, Britain followed its martial race policy. The case of the Kalenjin and Kamba is discussed by Timothy H. Parsons in The African Rank-and-File. Social Implications of Colonial Military Service in the King’s African Rifles, 1902–1964 (Oxford, 1999), p. 54, and in “‘Wakamba Warriors Are Soldiers of the Queen’: The Evolution of the Kamba as a Martial Race, 1890–1970,” Ethnohistory 46, 4 (1999), 671–701. The army publications in Swahili supported this policy by over-proportionally reporting about these groups in their home news sections. 37 “Ma-N. C. O. na W. O. ambao humwonea Mwafrika mwenzake yeye hana elimu hata kidogo. Kutwa kucha alikuwa akichunga ng’ombe. [. . .] Hakika, wale ambao wangemwongoza na kumtetea Mwafrika mwenzio ndio wakaao tu Praiveti, ambao hasa ni wale waliotoka College.” (Heshima, June 6, 1945, p. 11).

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It also indicates a fundamental change in the picture of ‘the’ African soldier offered to them by the British. Whereas attributes like urban descent and education had been incompatible with a good askari before World War II, they became important markers for a potential military carrier. The debate was cut off at a point when the voices and arguments against promotion were presented as the majority’s opinion. “Waafrika bado!”—The Africans are not yet ready!—became the slogan of the time. The final comment, however, was a call to stop the quarrel. “[. . .] because we came to fight the Japanese. We did not leave our homes in order to insult each other.”38 However, if promotion was not an option for the military authorities, what else could be offered? From the propaganda point of view, decoration seemed to have been an alternative. The role of the press was not only to explain the requirements for getting a certain medal, but also to stress its importance. The discursive strategies for achieving the latter were, firstly, to announce the highly decorated Africans together with the British ones, which aimed at producing a sense of equality. Secondly, mentioning the military achievements, mostly in combat situations, set the decorated aside from the ‘others’ and, thus, was supposed to create a feeling of superiority. Last but not least, a statement that the King himself designed the ribbon of the Burma Star might have attempted to generate a sense of care by the ‘fathering’ icon.39 However, the propaganda and the decorations obviously did not always result in the effects that were preconceived by the military authorities on the basis of ‘Western’ concepts of symbolic rewards. This became especially clear in a letter to the editor that criticised soldiers for wearing military decorations from Indian and American armies.40 In the same issue a soldier asks if a certain amount of money or land was attached to the decorations.41 Furthermore, the fact that only those soldiers were entitled to get a medal who were in the front line for a period of six months created uneasiness among the contingents that had remained in Ceylon to garrison the island. As a consequence, presenting each soldier who had defended the British Isles

38 “[. . .] maana twalikuja kupigana na Mjapani, hatukutoka kwetu kuja kuumizana wenyewe kwa wenyewe.” (Heshima, June 13, 1945, p. 11.) 39 Heshima, May 21, 1945, p. 5. 40 Heshima, July 18, 1945, p. 7. 41 Heshima, July 18, 1945, p. 10.

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or other parts of the Empire with the Defence Medal was seen as a way out of the problem. However, decoration was not what the African soldiers had expected from their out-of-area deployment. Rather, the soldiering readership made positive comments about financial gains or other forms of allowances. In letters to the editor, they inquired about the additional payment of 3.5 shillings for every month they served outside the East Africa Command and the 40 shillings to buy civilian clothes.42 From the propaganda point of view, money or other forms of material gains were not put to the forefront when discussing the benefits of military service during the war. Military authorities handled the issue rather technically. However, recurrent information about how to handle the pay book or a savings bank account or how to transfer money home to their families made the soldiers highly sensitive to financial matters. The Post Office Savings Bank (POSB), which had already been introduced in the 19th century in the British East African possessions, boomed during the war, since the majority of soldiers or their families had to open an account for money transfer. The ‘Gari Lekundu’ (Red Car)—a POSB mobile service—was introduced to facilitate banking in rural areas.43 Since financial gains from their military service was close to the troops’ hearts, the military attempted to regulate the financial behaviour of the soldiers in line with the post-war interests of the colonial administrations. Since the returning soldier could expect neither additional material gains nor promotion within the army, propaganda attempts had to highlight ideal rewards in form of decoration, knowledge and opportunity. Since the majority of the soldiers served in the army as a way of earning a living or obtaining the means to start a family, disappointment and grievance were the natural consequences. Conclusion Although the civil authorities urged the military to direct propaganda towards East African soldiers at the end of World War II to demobilize heroes into ‘natives’, this aim was not implemented as such in

42

Heshima, July 11, 1945, p. 6. A. Mauri, The Currency Board and the Rise of Banking in East Africa. University of Milan Economics, Business and Statistics Working Paper (2007) http://ssrn .com/abstract=975030, (accessed November 23, 2007). 43

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Swahili army newspapers.44 Propaganda attempts were made, on the one hand, to ‘correct’ the East and Central African soldiers’ perspective on their part in war and victory. On the other hand, arguments had been put forward that were supposed to keep up morale and discipline among the troops who were tired but who still had to fight in South Asia. Most probably, the topos of the ‘final victory’ as well as the comparison of gains and losses with other societies or countries that had suffered was not so successful in convincing the soldiers to go on fighting, especially after the victory in Europe. It was more the topos of ‘out-of-area deployment as an opportunity’ that tackled issues that were in the very personal interest of each individual soldier. Whereas financial matters, especially in the form of rewards, were kept rather low and technical, the morale and the educational aspects were brought to the forefront of efforts at persuasion. Education and good reputation were communicated as important capital that soldiers had gained during their service and could invest for their personal benefit as well as for the well-being of their home societies. Whereas the propaganda in the Swahili army newspapers reveals that they were neither the place to devaluate the achievements of the East African troops nor the medium for a radical discursive turn, further studies of East and Central African civilian press might show whether they fulfilled the job of downplaying the soldiers’ war effort. They might show that returning soldiers were not idealised as agents of the Imperial post-war project, as it was communicated by the army propaganda, but as a problem. The Kenyan historian Oje Shiroya pointed out the conflicting opinions of the military authorities and the Kenyan Colonial Government with regard to the returning soldiers. While the former believed and propagated that the askaris would expect and deserve a better standard of life in a Kenya of ‘a wide scope and more facilities’, the latter planned to return them to their former, mostly rural life. A ‘smooth’ propaganda was to deal with the fact that ‘War is doing what other people fear: It is putting ideas into the African’s head.’45 Such ideas often did not translate into major uprisings against of active or demobilised soldiers but, as 44

Oje Shiroya, African Politics in Colonial Kenya: Contribution of World War II Veterans 1945–1960, (Educational Research and Publications) 4 (Nairobi, 1992). 45 George C. Turner, “Principal of Makerere College”, cited in Shiroya, African politics in colonial Kenya, p. 5.

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Timothy Lovering and Ravi Ahuja also showed, into a politization of the soldiers which translated into diverse responses to the colonial state.46 High expectations led to few opportunities, especially in the field of further training and education, with the result of disappointment and bitterness among the soldiers. The discursive strategies of the governmental press and independent East and Central African newspapers to devalue their military achievements, experience and knowledge in order to re-socialise them as ‘natives’ are still to be studied.

46

See Ravi Ahuja and Timothy Lovering in this volume.

THE FIRST WORLD WAR ACCORDING TO THE MEMORIES OF ‘COMMONERS’ IN THE BILĀD AL-SHĀM Abdallah Hanna Introduction In Syrian collective memory, among those generations who have consciously lived through it, the First World War is remembered as Safar Barlik or al-tajammuʿ. Al-tajammuʿ, “the collection” in Arabic, refers to the collection or “rounding up” of recruits before their departure. The Ottoman term Safar Barlik referred to mobilisation in Turkish; the Persian seferber means “being ready for war”. In its Arabic usage, safar barlik is understood as “the journey over land”.1 Since the end of the 19th century (the Yemen war) and the Balkan Wars of 1912 / 1913, this term became a popular synonym for the march of the recruits from the Bilād al-Shām (historical greater Syria, i.e. post-war Syria, Lebanon, Palestine, and Jordan) who had been drafted into the Ottoman army, to the Ottoman theatres of war. Among the generation who had lived through the war, the term Safar Barlik was used constantly. It became a referent to measure time. One said: “That happened before Safar Barlik”, or “at the time of Safar Barlik . . .”, or after it. In the minds of Syrians today, the term Safar Barlik has been kept alive by numerous artistic representations, novels, TV-films and dramatic productions.2

1 See also the discussion in Najwa al-Qattan, “Safarbarlik: Ottoman Syria and the Great War,” in From the Syrian Land to the States of Syria and Lebanon, eds. Thomas Philipp and Christoph Schumann (Beiruter Texte und Studien) 96 (Beirut and Würzburg, 2004), pp. 163–173, here pp. 164–165. 2 Examples include the 1966 film Safar Barlik by Hinrī Barakāt, with the enormously popular singer Fairūz in the leading role; the play Safar Barlik by Mamdūḥ ʿAdwān which had its debut performance in Damascus in 1994; and four TV dramas that were broadcast in the 1990s: Al-Farārī [The Deserter], directed by Ghassān Jābirī; Ath-Thurāya [The Pleiades], directed by Ḥ aitham Ḥ aqqī; Layālī aṣ-Ṣāliḥ īya [Ṣāliḥīya Nights], directed by Bassām al-Mallā; and Ikhwat at-Turāth [Siblings of Heritage], written by Ḥ assan al-Yūssuf and directed by Najdat al-Anwar.

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As a synonym for the First World War, this term incorporates the memory of suppression by the Ottomans, of hunger, destitution, distress, violence, anxiety, fear, and helpless anger. Professional historians have only recently begun systematically discussing the importance of the First World War for the Bilād al-Shām.3 But the perspective of the “common people” is missing in these discussions, partly because it is rarely reflected in the available sources— archival material and published memoirs. This chapter aims at closing this gap by presenting oral narratives and memories of the First World War as those who lived through the war told them in Syria. The article is based on 303 interviews with peasants of more than 70 years of age, from 245 villages in the various parts of Syria. I conducted these interviews between July 1984 and the end of September 1985 in the course of my research on the history of Syrian peasants and the historical problems of agriculture in Syria which I undertook commissioned and supported by the Syrian Peasants‘ Union. Thus, the sources for this chapter are mainly oral narratives (oral history), but also letters and unpublished memoirs kept by families, and older publications. Conscription in Bilād al-Shām in Historical Perspective The considerable effects of recruitment and taxation policies on the population in Bilād al-Shām is not a phenomenon of the 20th century, but must be viewed in the historical context of Ottoman reform efforts during the 19th century. In order to understand the experiences of the First World War, a brief review of these historical contexts is necessary. After Sultan Salim’s first attempts to reform the Ottoman state and, notably, the Ottoman army, had failed in 1807, new efforts at political reform were made in 1826. The artillery troops in favour of the reorganisation dissolved all Janissary corps and massacred great num-

3 For instance in the collected volume The First World War as Remembered in the Countries of the Eastern Mediterranean, eds. Olaf Farschid, Manfred Kropp and Stephan Dähne (Beirut, 2006); also al-Qattan, “Safarbarlik”.

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bers of Janissaries. This massacre became known as the “beneficial event” (al-wāqiʿa al-khairīya).4 Since the beginning of the Tanzimat,5 the society in the Bilād al-Shām was strongly affected by the political transformations. For the purpose of this chapter, two factors are especially relevant: firstly, army recruitment, and secondly, taxation. Reforms in these two fields placed heavy burdens on the population. Throughout Syria, people echoed the popular saying “Tomcat, I envy you! You sleep and you purr, need not join the army, and don’t pay tax.”6 Recruitment for modern army corps began on November 3, 1839, against resistance from the population. The strongest opposition formed in Aleppo. On October 5, 1850, the Wali of Aleppo proclaimed a decree by Sultan Abdulmajid that prescribed the recruitment of young men between 20 and 25 years. The government authorities were to draft one-tenth of all young men to the army.7 The population’s resistance to this policy is described in the diary of Naʿūm Bakhkhāsh, a citizen of Aleppo. He recorded: On the evening of October 6, 1850, the mob attacked the seat of the gendarmerie. The gendarmes and the Wali [governor] of Aleppo fled to the citadel of Aleppo. The city was controlled by the mob.8

The inhabitants of the city regarded conscription as bidʿa, a religiously reprehensible innovation. The Aleppian rioters shouted the slogan ‘We won’t join the soldiers, we won’t pay the Fardī Taxes’.9 One day later, the rebels changed their intentions, attacking the Christian quarters and pillaging as much as they could. After the suppression of the rebellion (qauma), the Ottoman authorities punished the participants by immediately conscripting them into military service.10 Similarly, after the events in Damascus of 1860, when a crowd

Sāṭiʿ al-Ḥ uṣrī, Al-bilād al-ʿarabīya wa ad-daula al-ʿuthmānīya [The Arab lands and the Ottoman state] (Beirut, 1965), p. 28. 5 Tanzimat, literally “re-organisation”, refers to the time of Ottoman reforms aimed at the modernization of political and administrative structures between 1839 and 1876. 6 “Niyālak yā quṭt,̣ bitnām wa-bitkhuṭt,̣ ʿaskar mā bitrūḥ , mīrī mā bitḥ uṭt”̣ . 7 Wathāʾiq tārīkhīya ʿan Ḥ alab [Historical Documents on Aleppo] (2), collected by Father Firdīnānd Tūtil al-Yasūʿī (Beirut, 1885), p. 72. 8 Wathāʾiq tārīkhīya ʿan Ḥ alab (2) (Beirut, 1885), p. 75. 9 Kāmil al-Ghazzī, Nahr adh-Dhahab fī Tārīkh Ḥ alab [Nahr adh-Dhahab (The Golden River) in the History of Aleppo], vol. 3. Aleppo n. d. (ca. 1920, al-Mat ̣baʿa al-Mārūnīya), p. 373. 10 Kāmil al-Ghazzī, Nahr adh-Dhahab, p. 381. 4

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attacked, pillaged and laid fire to the Christian quarter of this city, one way of punishing the rioters was the forced recruitment of a large number of Muslim men into the Ottoman army.11 Why were especially the Christians targeted? Economically and socially, they were the most advanced segment of society, had links with Western bourgeois culture and were held responsible for all unpopular transformations in society. According to Ottoman law, until 1856 Christians did not have to pay the poll tax normally levied on non-Muslims (jizya), and they were not allowed to become civil servants or join the army. After 1856, they were supposed to do military service, but in practice the state was not keen on seeing them in the army, nor were most Christians keen on doing military service. The solution to this was badal naqdī, the replacement (of military service) by money, which was effective until after the Young Turk revolution in 1909. The most reactionary group of Ottoman state employees and the street mob also attacked Christians because, as artisans and traders, they were richer than many others, but were too weak to put up much resistance. In both cases in Aleppo and Damascus, the authorities evidently did not justify conscription as a national duty or with reference to a religious war (jihād). Rather, it was regarded—and used—as a punishment. This view shaped perceptions of, and attitudes toward, the Ottoman army. Consequently, many young men tried to evade army service by fleeing from conscription. During the Ottoman-Russian war in 1877/1878, for example, young men from the Qalamoun mountain region north of Damascus fled into the Syrian steppe from forced conscription into army service by the Wali of Damascus. The social and political elites in the Qalamoun mountains assisted this practice; Abū Zayūn, a poet from the town of Deir ʿAt ̣īya, gives a detailed account of this.12 However, as I will demonstrate in the following pages, this attitude changed in the years preceding and during the First World War. Now the elites cooperated with the Ottoman

11 Muḥammad Kurd ʿAlī, Dimashq madīnat aṣ-ṣiḥ r wa ash-shiʿr [Damascus, City of Magic and Poetry] (Cairo, n.d.), p. 42. 12 See the chapter “As-sauq ilā al-ʿaskarīya ʿām 1300 hijrīya fī shiʿr Abī Zayūn” [The draft into the military in the year 1300 H. in the poems of Abū Zayūn], in ʿAbdallah Ḥ annā, Deir ʿAṭīya—at-tārīkh wa-l-ʿumrān [Deir ʿAṭīya—History and Society] (Damascus, 2002), pp. 375–386.

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administrators, who were not only of Turkish, but also Arabic, Kurdish and Circassian origin. The First World War: Conscription and its Memories Immediately after the deposition of Sultan Abdulhamid in 1909, an earthquake rocked Syria. Many believed that this earthquake was an omen indicating not just the end of Abdulhamid’s reign, but also the end of conscription. However, after the Young Turk Revolution conscription efforts in fact increased. For the first time, Christian men were now to be drafted into the army as well as Muslims. The wars in Yemen and the Balkans in 1912 and 1913 forced the Ottoman government to recruit more and more troops. In popular memory, these two local wars are merged with the First World War. There are many handwritten diaries and poems stored in private households rather than state archives; many narratives of this time live on in people’s memories. I will give some examples in the following pages. In his book Ṭ arāʾif al-ams, gharāʾib al-yawm, which was published in 1936 and gives an account of life in the Qalamoun mountains between the end of the 19th century and the 1920s, Mūsā Khanashat has recorded a detailed description of conscription practices before and during the First World War: Before 1918, there were only incomplete civil registers in the Qalamoun—although they were still betterkept than in many other Syrian regions. The officials responsible for the recruitment of troops depended on cooperation with the local town representatives and notables. Every year, Ottoman state and municipality officials jointly awaited the so-called mūsim (an originally agricultural term meaning ‘harvest’). During this season, considerable amounts of money as well as land passed into their hands, while their social significance among the population increased. In this first round of recruitment, the sons of wealthy and prestigious families were discounted from the draft. The remaining young men were drafted by lottery, which decided their fate: would they leave for the army or stay at home? Mothers waited at the doors of recruitment offices for news of their sons’ fate, reacting either with tears or with ululating (zalghaṭa) as was customary at wedding celebrations.13 13 Yūsuf Mūsā Khanashat, Ṭ arāʾif al-ams, gharāʾib al-yawm, aw Ṣuwar min ḥ ayāt an-Nabak wa-Jabal Qalamūn awāsiṭ al-qarn at-tāsiʿ ʿashar [Yesterday’s Curiosities,

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With the beginning of the First World War, this lottery system ceased to exist. Now, all young men were obliged to serve in the army. However, resistance against recruitment persisted. The slogan ‘We will not capitulate!’ [to the army] circulated among the young men, who hid in the villages, in prepared hiding places in the houses, in the fields, in caves, with Bedouin families or in other out-of-theway places as soon as the recruiting commissions approached. In all of Syria, emigration, notably to South America, had been a major way of escaping military service since about 1890. According to narratives of aged villagers, from the Qalamoun village of Deir ʿAṭīya alone, by 1914 about 300 young men had emigrated (at that time, Deir ʿAtị̄ ya had an overall population of about 4000 inhabitants). In the following years, this escape route was blocked as civilian shipping came to a standstill. There were two major waves of emigration (1890–1914; 1920–1939) from Syria to the Americas. In both waves, the number of Christian emigrants was considerably greater than their relative proportion in the Syrian population, leading to the first major reduction of the Christian population in the Bilād al-Shām. The Arab immigrants brought their culture and customs with them, worked mostly in agriculture and trade, founded associations and Arabic newspapers and maintained links with their homeland over generations. In their regions of origin, this meant that many old people were economically not sufficiently provided for; that many girls did not manage to find a spouse; and that many women remained behind with little children and with no male head of the family. The effects of these social problems were felt even in the succeeding generation. Saʿīd Jawmar, a young man from Deir ʿAt ̣īya who served as an Ottoman soldier during the First World War, was stationed in Palestine and on the Suez Canal. Here, he witnessed the bombing of his army unit by British war-ships. Later he was transferred to the Dardanelles. After he came home from the war in 1918, he described in a poem his experiences from the moment of recruitment until his return. His grandson still keeps this poem. Jawmar writes:14

Today’s Oddities; or Pictures of the Life of al-Nabak and the Qalamoun Mountain in the Mid-Nineteenth Century], ed. ʿAbdallah Ḥ annā (Damaskus, 1990). See especially the chapter on “at-Tajnīd” [Recruitment], pp. 105–109. 14 “As-Safar Barlik”, in the manuscript of Al-Ḥ āj Saʿīd Jawmar. In ʿAbdallah Ḥ annā, Deir ʿAṭīya—at-tārīkh wa-l-ʿumrān (Damascus, 2002), pp. 390–393.

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The state is putting a terrible strain on the population. The state takes half of the wheat, oats, maize, raisins and all other crops. Those who do not pay are visited by the tax collectors—uninvited guests who are a heavy burden because they won’t leave until all taxes have been paid; at times, they practically rob the houses. The men have fled, all work and the management of property is on the shoulders of the women. The men do not go to mosque to pray any more. Everything has become expensive, and the state is more and more weakened because of the British blockade of the seaports.15

Jawmar was impressed with British military technology, especially with the warships, airplanes and divers. He wrote in lyrical form: They have produced something that is like a bird. It is an aeroplane which has wings like a bird. It makes its rounds in the sky and can discern anything that is happening on the earth. At its sign, frigates from the sea shoot at the Ottoman soldiers, and hit them! And the divers make enemy ships explode.16

Jawmar drew comparisons between the well-developed military machinery of the British and the primitive weapons of the Ottoman army.17 Fleeing the War: Desertions As the term safar barlik, understood as journey by land, expresses, the forced removal from one’s place of origin and the difficulties of returning home under wartime conditions was one of the most central problems for the recruits. Thousands of young people who had been pressed into the army fled during the journey to the theaters of war. This was reflected in the interviews I conducted throughout Syria in 1984: Aḥmad as-Saʿīd, born in 1875 in Jabā in the Hauran, told me: “I was drafted into the army and came to the collecting point in Darʿa. From there I travelled by train towards Palestine. When the train stopped at Samakh, I and many others were able to flee. On the way back home, I was plundered naked by Bedouins. One man then

Page 17 of Jawmar’s manuscript, published in ʿAbdallah Ḥ annā, Deir ʿAṭīya— at-tārīkh wa-l-ʿumrān (Damascus, 2002), p. 391. 16 Ibid., p. 393. 17 Ibid. 15

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gave me some old clothes and I made it to my village, where I went into hiding.”18 Fāḍil Ṭ aha from Deir ez-Zor reported that his Uncle ʿAbdallāh had had four sons, of whom three were conscripted into the army. All three of them fled, living illegally as deserters until the end of the war.19 The farmer Aḥmad Ḥ amādī from the environs of Latakia was brought as far as Biʾr as-Sabaʿ (Beersheba) in the Negev before he was able to flee. On his way home he slept for several nights in Daqāq Mosque in Mīdān, a southern quarter of Damascus. After that he remained in Dummar, northwest of Damascus, for two weeks, because at that time cholera was rampant in Syria. From there, he went on to Homs where he had to sell his boots to get something to eat. Barefoot, he walked on together with many other deserters until he reached Ḥ uṣain al-Baḥr, a town on the Mediterranean coast, north of Tartous. There, hunger drove them to eat much unripe maize off the fields. Alone now, he went on to Jable where he rested in the Sultan Ibrahim mosque. He was wretched with near-starvation because people had no food to give—due to their own poverty, as well as fear of the Turks, and because of the sheer number of deserters like him in the streets. At the lowest point of despondency, he crept through the streets weeping. Finally an old woman took pity and gave him a loaf of bread. He managed to reach Latakia where he met Drūbī, a camel guide who had often visited his home village, Jawzat al-Mayy, and who was friends with his father. Drūbī shared good news with him: his brother had managed to flee from the army as well, and was now staying in the village. Coincidentally, his father had come to town that very day with some other farmers to sell wood and charcoal. He had not been able to buy any goods to take back to the village, because nothing was being sold. Ḥ amādī returned to the village with his father, but then had to hide in the fields with his brother and other deserters. After a while, one of their relatives managed to bribe the gendarmes who ceased searching for them. He was able to return to the village where he remained until the end of the Ottoman Empire, and the great earthquake of 1918. Ḥ amādī then adds a detailed description of that earthquake, which occurred in the autumn

18 19

Interview of December 17, 1984, in Umm Bātị na. Interview of April 15, 1985, in Deir az-Zor.

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of 1918. In the memory of Ḥ amādī, as well as all the North Syrian peasants I spoke to, this earthquake was linked to the end of the Ottoman Empire:20 as mentioned above, most people had associated the 1909 earthquake with the deposition of Sultan Abdulhamid and the end of recruitment; the 1918 earthquake marked the end of Ottoman rule altogether. Social, Economic and Political Effects of the War As a consequence of the First World War, a large part of the population of today’s Syria sank into poverty. Because of the heavy dues that had to be paid in natural produce during the war, and because of the lack of young male workers in agriculture due to the largescale recruitments, foodstuffs were lacking and prices rose. The situation was exacerbated by a great drought in 1916, as well as by a plague of locusts. The following narrative illustrates the heavy toll that the war took on peasant families. It tells the fate of the family of Aḥmad Misṭū of the village of Zait Nujūq near Ras al-Basit in the northernmost stretch of the Syrian Mediterranean coast. Aḥmad, born in 1908, recounted to me how his father was forced to go to war, leaving behind his mother with four small children—Aḥmad himself and three sisters. She was obliged to bring up her children and secure their livelihood by herself. Mother and children had to till the fields with a pair of cattle and a pair of donkeys. Aḥmad’s father did not return from the war. When Aḥmad grew older, he farmed the land, which he rented from the Agha, a Turkmen.21 The peasant Aḥmad Sallūm from the village Maḥfūra near Homs, born in 1890, told me that his mother and one of his sisters starved to death in the famine year 1916. He remembered how in October and November of that year, he and his brother, Nāṣir, looked in anthills for grains that the ants had stored there for the winter. They washed them out with water, dried, roasted and ate the grains. Later they entered into service with a farmer, for whom they worked only for food.22

20 21 22

Interview of September 22, 1984, in Ruwaisat al-Ḥ arash. Interview of September 21, 1984, in al-Basīt ̣. Interview of August 1, 1984, in Deir Shumayyil.

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Hunger was rampant in the Northeast of Syria as well. There, people were happy to work in exchange for food, employed by the Germans for the continuing construction of the Baghdad railway—those sections of the Aleppo-Mossul line that had not been completed before the outbreak of the war. One of the railway workers was the later member of parliament, Saʿīd Isḥaq, who was then employed by the German company in exchange for food. In his memoirs, Isḥaq recounts how the grain stores of the region were completely bought up in the name of the railway company, which only worsened the famine among the population.23 The memories of Jirjī al-Baṭal, who lived as a teacher, shop owner, and sexton of the Catholic church in Deir ʿAt ̣īya, were written down in 1936 and still exist as a handwritten manuscript. Because he was able to read and write, Jirjī had to accompany the gendarme Ḥ āj Ḥ asan from Hama, who was charged with collecting taxes and conscripting the recruits. Jirjī describes how, in the course of the war, the initial land tax, the tithe (ḍarībat al-ʿushr), developed into an enormous load. At the outbreak of the war, the initial tax of 10% was immediately raised to 12.5%. Added to this were another 12.5% for the nourishment of the army, and another 12.5%, for which peasants were supposedly reimbursed by the Ottoman state—but only at a fraction of the real value, and with worthless paper money at that. The closer the breakdown of the Ottoman Empire, the more the tax collectors and conscription officers tried to line their own pockets. In exchange for bribes, and in collaboration with gendarmes and town mayors, false documents were issued that attested that wanted deserters were not to be found in a given village.24 In his book The Great Syrian Revolution of 1925, published in Beirut in 1969, Munīr al-Rayyis confirms Jirjī al-Baṭal’s observations. He describes the methods with which the peasants’ earnings were plundered for the profit of the great officials and tradesmen. He also shows that taxes were collected mostly from the peasants, and only very rarely from the great landowners.25 23 Saʿīd Isḥaq, Suwar min an-niḍāl al-waṭanī fī Sūrīya [Pictures of the National Struggle in Syria] (Damascus, n.d.), p. 15. 24 Mudhakkirāt Jirjī al-Baṭal [The Memoirs of Jirjī al-Baṭal], manuscript in the possession of his son, the lawyer Ibrāhīm al-Baṭal, p. 105. 25 Munīr al-Rayyis, At-tārīkh adh-dhahabī li-th-thawrāt as-sūrīya fī-l-mashriq alʿarabī—ath-thawra al-ʿarabīya al-kubra [The golden history of the Syrian revolts in the Arab East—the Great Arab Revolt] (Beirut 1969), p. 210.

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Conclusion One of the major effects of the First World War on our region was the reinforcement of the large- and middle-scale landowners and an expansion of their properties. I have described this in detail in another place.26 Another consequence was the impoverishment of a great part of the rural population. Many people joined the emergent urban proletariat, many others drifted rootlessly on rural streets. Criminal gangs spread and, altogether, life became more insecure. The preparations for war (especially recruitment) had already triggered a wave of migration with considerable consequences for the society, as outlined above. Women had to shoulder much greater burdens than before, since many of them were now charged with the entire responsibility for the survival of the family. Whether and to which degree this had further-reaching consequences for the longterm position of women in the societies of our region, must be investigated in another place. In the two final years of the war, the Syrian population’s hatred for the Ottoman Empire—referred to always as “Turks”, rather than “Ottomans”—grew stronger and stronger. Ḥ amādī, the farmer quoted above, expressed this in two sentences: “The mounted gendarmes of the Turks were tyrants. Turkey hated the sons of the Arabs.”27 All contemporary documents show clearly that the population did not regard the First World War as “their” war. There was no enthusiasm for this war, and the Sultan’s call for “Jihād” in Autumn 1914 trailed off without much echo. On the contrary, people fled recruitment and deserted from the army. They sensed the imminent end of the Ottoman Empire. The generation that suffered from the war turned into a generation of pronounced enemies of the Empire. The downfall of the Ottoman Empire and the end of the Islamic Caliphate freed the Arab population from the idea of an Islamic state and smoothed the way for Arab nationalism which at that time was

26 See ʿAbdallāh Ḥ anna, Al-fallāḥ ūn wa-mullāk al-arḍ fī Sūriya fi-l-qarn al-ʿishrīn [Farmers and Landowners in Syria in the twentieth century] (Beirut, 2003); and ʿAbdallāh Ḥ anna, Al-fallāḥ ūn yaraʾūna tārīkhahum [The farmers view their history] (Aleppo, 2009). 27 Interview of September 22, 1984, in Ruwaisat al-Ḥ arash.

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propagated with the slogan “religion is for God, but the homeland is for everyone!”28 Among Arab intellectuals, the ideas of the Arabic Enlightenment— rationalism, democracy, secularism and equality between all members of society—were spreading. Besides this, the recollections I heard show how news of global events spread to Syria in the context of the war: In 1989, for instance, the textile worker Rabīʿ Muḥabbak from Aleppo told me of his parents’ fate. At the end of the war in 1918, his father was stationed in a Turkish (Ottoman) barracks near Aleppo. Since he had fallen ill, Rabīʿ’s mother Faṭt ̣ūm was allowed to visit her husband there and bring him food. At these meetings, Rabīʿ’s father shared the soldiers’ talk of the day with his wife: “In Russia the Bolsheviks have made a revolution. They want to distribute housing free of charge to the poor [. . .].”29 Evidently the news of the October Revolution in Russia had spread to Aleppo at the beginning of 1918 as a consequence of the war, although the content of the information had been transformed: for urban workers like the Muḥabbaks, gratuitous living space was more important than property in land. Fat ̣ṭūm Sīrīs, Rabīʿ Muḥabbak’s mother, was born in 1890. When her husband was close to dying, she brought him home on a donkey so that he could die at home. Later, she continued her husband’s textile craft from which she gained a living for herself and her four children. As a consequence of her experience of the war, Faṭtụ̄ m regarded peace as the highest good in the world; she subsequently participated in leftist movements. In 1934, she hid an illegal Communist printing press in her Aleppo home. Her son Rabīʿ distributed Communist leaflets, among them one with a picture of Ernst Thälmann, who in Syria was known as a leader of the German Communist party who was interned in a concentration camp in Nazi Germany and whose liberation was demanded by the leftist movement in Syria.30

28

“Ad-dīn li-llāh wa-l-waṭan li-l-jamīʿ!”. Interview of September 21, 1984, in Aleppo. 30 Similarly, the labour union leader Sulaimān Hilāl describes in his memoirs that he, too, distributed pictures of Thälmann with the demand for his liberation in Damascus, 1934; see ʿAbdallāh Ḥ anna, ed., Dhikrayāt an-naqābī Jibrān Hilāl, 1908– 1990 [The memories of the unionist Jibrān Hilāl, 1908–1990] (Damascus, 2005). 29

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Following the Second World War, ideas of the Enlightenment, as well as of nationalist and leftist movements, flowered. Conversely, as a consequence of the breakdown of the socialist camp, the United States’ continuing military and verbal threats against the states of our region, the one-sided support for Israel in the Palestinian-Israeli conflict and the intervention in Iraq have promoted the revival of panIslamic ideas and have activated extremely dogmatic directions of Islam, as well as the attempt to institute Islamically-dominated forms of societies or states. In the Qalamoun mountains, the story of one peasant lives on as an anecdote. At the conscription office he had in vain asked to be spared from army service because his wife and his five children had nobody to turn to who would spare them a piece of bread. The gendarmes had answered him: “Just join the army, and Allah will help them!” The poor man replied: “Before my donkey died, Allah and myself and the donkey just barely managed to feed them. How will Allah now manage on his own . . . ?!”

AMBIGUITIES OF THE MODERN: THE GREAT WAR IN THE MEMOIRS AND POETRY OF THE IRAQIS Dina Rizk Khoury Ṭ ālib Mushtāq was seventeen years old when Baghdad fell to Britain on March 11, 1917. He had taken refuge in Baʾquba two days earlier when a family friend and a high-ranking Ottoman official informed him that the Ottoman army was about to withdraw from the city. He heard the news of the fall of Baghdad from refugees who fled with the retreating Ottoman army. Eventually, he found his way to Istanbul and spent the rest of the war in Anatolia. He remained a loyal Ottoman until the end of the war but soon adapted to the realities of the new Iraq.1 However, for Mushtāq and other Iraqi/Ottomans the fall of the city was cataclysmic at many levels. On March 10, a strong sandstorm had made visibility very difficult for both armies and necessitated the withdrawal of the Ottomans in a haze of dust. The Ottoman army boarded the train at the Kazimiya train station as explosions rocked the city where the army had detonated the ammunitions depots and the telegraph offices. The retreating army also blew up the only bridge connecting the eastern and western part of the city and took with them most official papers from the various administrative offices. Looting and burning of commercial spaces followed the fall of Baghdad. Only Kazimiya, the Shiʾite suburb of the city, was spared the destruction because its leaders had quickly stepped in to take matters of security into their own hands.2 In the midst of this chaos, the principal of a secondary school in the city wept as he brought down the Ottoman flag

1 Ṭ ālib Mushtāq, Awrāq Ayāmī [Documents of my Days] (Beirut, 1968), pp. 17–18. For a succinct description of the fall of Baghdad see Reeva Spector Simon, “The View from Baghdad” in The Creation of Iraq, 1914–1921, eds. Reeva Spector Simon and Eleanor H. Tejirian (New York, 2004), pp. 36–49. 2 ʿAlī al-Wardī, Lamaḥ āt ijtimāʿīya min tārīkh al-ʿIrāq al-ḥ adīth [Social studies in the history of modern Iraq], vol. 4 (Baghdad, 1974), pp. 325–334.

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and distributed the school books to students in an attempt to prevent them from being lost to thieves.3 The fall of Baghdad was as a turning point in the imagination of Iraq’s inhabitants. It marked the demise of all hopes of survival of the Ottoman order; at the same time, it brought the physical destructiveness of the war to the doorsteps of a city that had already suffered the effects of flooding, a cholera epidemic and an influx of refugees fleeing from British-occupied areas of Iraq. A report issued by British officials on the reaction of Iraqi prisoners of war interned in Sumerpur, India, to the news of the fall of Baghdad found that the majority of the prisoners were in despair and blamed Germany for its half-hearted military support. The report further notes that while Christian, Jewish and some Shiʾite prisoners rejoiced at Ottoman defeat, the mood of dejection prevailed, particularly among civilians. It was at this point in time, according to the report, that prisoners began envisioning an alternative political order as well as a new geography of Ottoman Iraq, one that invested some hopes in an Arab state.4 Khayrī al-Hindāwī, an Iraqi poet and opponent of the Committee of Union and Progress (CUP), was hiding out the war in a safe-house in Baghdad when the city fell. In 1917 he published an article in al-Muqtaṭaf, an Egyptian magazine, about his experiences. He was standing on the roof of the house where he had been hiding when he saw the city go up in flames. The scene evoked the memory of the ‘martyrs’ of the Ottoman state. As an opponent of the regime, al-Hindāwī was not sorry to see the Ottomans go. Yet he shared with Ṭ ālib Mushtāq a sense of deep ambivalence and disjuncture regarding the death of the old order and the birth of a new ‘modern’ order.5 As Mushtāq recounted the fall of the city, he wondered whether Iraqis had been the subjects of an alien Ottoman imperial rule. No, he concluded, “we were one nation (umma) living under one flag and connected by religion [. . .] It is true that our country was backward: diseases were killing us, ignorance blinding us, and poverty eradicating us, but the Turks in Anatolia were

3 Fakhrī az-Zabīdī, Baghdād, 1900 ḥattā 1934: al-jamīʿ min al-mufīd wa-ṭ-ṭarīf [Baghdad, from 1900 to 1934: all that is useful and curious] (Baghdad, 1990), pp. 78–82. 4 Public Record Office (now National Archives of the United Kingdom), furthermore PRO. Here: PRO/FO/383/344/128807. 5 al-Wardī, Lamaḥ āt ijtimāʿīya, vol. 4, p. 329.

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no better off than we were.”6 For Mushtāq, the claims of later nationalists that the Ottomans had intentionally deprived Arabs and Iraqis of the accoutrements of modern life would have sounded spurious and would not have provided justification for fighting against them. In fact, al-Hindāwī’s opposition to the Ottomans was not at all linked to a stolen modernity; on the contrary, he himself condemned the modernity brought by the war in a poem that bemoaned the destructive aspects of science: It is enough that the sciences have brought to us Miseries to which they (British and Ottomans?) expended great energy If only the sciences did not exist And they did not (British and Ottomans?) If only the intelligent could become imbeciles Would that stagnation had remained What misery To a people who do not appreciate stagnation The age of immobility is a an honorable age When man lived a life of comfort . . .7

The ‘modern’ was at the center of the way a generation of Iraqis remembered and imagined the war. While tropes of ‘old and new’ and ‘modern and stagnant’ had already inflected the discourse of literate elites and urban residents of Ottoman Iraq at the turn of the century, and particularly after the Young Turk Revolution of 1908, the war threw into stark relief the contradictions inherent in the way modernity was understood both by the literate elites who had articulated it and the ordinary subjects who had experienced it. For the educated generation of provincials, mostly products of a provincial and imperial educational system firmly wedded to the idea of progress, the modern meant belief in the almost magical power of technology, in belonging to a certain geographic space in which their education and expertise made them the vanguard of a movement they perceived to be an ‘awakening’, and after the 1908 Young Turk Revolution, a commitment to a form of representative political order with an expanding public sphere in which they hoped, albeit with diminishing

6

Mushtāq, Awrāq Ayāmī, p. 19. Khayrī al-Hindāwī, Ḥ ayātuhū wa-dīwān shiʿrihī [His life and an anthology of his poetry] (Baghdad, 1974), pp. 62–63. 7

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conviction, to become equal partners.8 At the same time, the modern, as it manifested itself in the Great War, displayed the destructive powers of technology and created a new geography in which they had to redefine their role and sense of self under totally new circumstances. Did the disjuncture created by the war, by its human and political costs, lead to new imaginings of the modern among those sectors of Iraqi society who were engaged in defining it, or did it leave a nostalgia for an imagined past more traditional or marked by a different kind of modernity? Was there a consciousness among those who wrote about the war of belonging to a generation whose sensibility was molded by the war experience? I would like to explore these questions by utilizing the memoirs and poetry written by those who had lived through the Great War. In doing so I hope to offer room, not only for comparison with the ways in which the war was remembered and imagined in other areas of the Middle East,9 but also with the European experience and remembrance of World War I. The impact of the Great War on European society and imagination has been the subject of a great number of studies in the past forty years. Particularly relevant to this essay are the debates on the war as the midwife of a new kind of European modernity in which the Romanticism of the late nineteenth century was supplanted by a modern sensibility in literature and the arts. Combined with the rise of mass politics and the expansion of the public sphere, the Europe that emerged from the war was, by many accounts, quite different than pre8 Reeva Simon estimates that there were, by 1912, 1200 Iraqi army officers educated in the provincial and imperial system. Many of these army officers later penned the memoirs that I will be using in this article. See Reeva Simon, Iraq Between the Two World Wars: the Creation and Implementation of a Nationalist Ideology (New York, 1986), p. 9. For a brief and informative report on the education in late Ottoman Iraq pages 1–26 in the same book. For intellectual developments in this period see Albert Hourani, Arab Thought in the Liberal Age (London, 1962). For a brief description of the intellectual scene in Iraq see Dina Rizk Khoury, “Looking for the Modern: A Biography of an Iraqi Modernist,” in Auto/Biography in the Middle East from the Early Modern to the Modern Periods, ed. Mary Ann Fay (London, 2001) and by the same author, “Fragmented Loyalties: Jamil Sidqi al-Zahawi on Constitutionalism, Wahhabism and Language,” in Proceedings of the International Congress on Learning and Education in the Ottoman Empire (Istanbul, 2001). 9 Elizabeth Thompson, Colonial Citizens: Republican Rights, Paternal Privilege, and Gender in French Syria and Lebanon (New York, 1999), pp. 15–57. Thompson argues that the ravages of War created a “crisis in paternity” which shaped the political culture of colonial Syria and Lebanon. See also Najwa al-Qattan, “Safarbarlik: Ottoman Syria and the Great War,” in From the Syrian Land to the States of Syria and Lebanon, eds. Thomas Philipp and Christoph Schumann (Beirut, 2004), pp. 163–173.

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war Europe.10 Although the transformation was experienced differently across Europe, it was spearheaded by a self-conscious generation that saw its experience of the War as a turning point in history. Jay Winter has done much to complicate this narrative by insisting that the break in European sensibilities was not as drastic, and that various forms of romanticism and spiritualism survived the war.11 Samuel Hynes has argued that the view of the war as a time of great disjuncture in British society and culture was a “myth” that evolved in the post-war period and had a great impact on the way that succeeding British generations imagined the war.12 It is with questions such as those pertaining to war, continuity and change and to the cultural production of myths that I now wish to turn to Iraq in the Great War. Living the War and Writing About it: Was there a War Generation? Iraqis dated their own and their children’s births according to a chronology of war. For many, the British occupation was a period of “fall” (suqūt) and children born during this period were known as the children of suqūt.13 For others who had lived through the war and were exhausted by the demands of the Ottoman army and the ravages of war, its human and economic losses, the British occupation of Baghdad and the rest of Ottoman Iraq came as a relief.14 The war marked the first time that Ottoman subjects experienced mobilization 10

Paul Fussell, The Great War and Modern Memory (Oxford, 1976) provides perhaps the most cogent argument for the emergence of the ‘modern’ sensibility in Europe. See also the collection of articles in Douglas Mackaman and Michael Mays, eds. World War I and the Cultures of the Modern (Jackson, 2000). 11 Jay Winter, Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning (Cambridge, 1995) and Jay Winter and Emmanuel Sivan, eds. War and Remembrance in the Twentieth Century (Cambridge, 1999), pp. 40–60. 12 Samuel Hynes, A War Imagined: The First World War and English Culture (New York, 1991) and his “Personal Narratives and Commemoration”, in Winter and Sivan, War and Remembrance, pp. 205–220. 13 ʿAbbās al-Baghdādī, Baghdād fi-l-ʿishrīnāt [Baghdad in the Twenties] (Beirut, 1999), p. 21 tells us that he was born in the year preceding seferberlik, whereas al-Wardī, Lamaḥ āt ijtimāʿīya, vol. 4, 344, tells us that the period of occupation (1914– 1921) was viewed as one in which there was an erosion of moral values and a intermixing between hitherto separate groups. 14 Although the British occupation experienced almost continuous rebellions in various sections of Iraq that culminated in the 1920 revolt, the British were able to maintain a modicum of order in the major cities of Iraq. For the best description of the British occupation and its policies see Peter Sluglett, Britain in Iraq, 1914–1932 (London, 1976).

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on every front of the Empire and the number of soldiers and civilians interned, exiled, or killed was unprecedented. As in Europe, this was the first modern war that mobilized citizen/soldiers on a massive scale. There were, for example, at least 2,734 Iraqi/Ottoman prisoners of war interned in Sumerpur prison camp in 1917 and another 3,591 POWs in Thayetmoyo in Burma.15 The numbers increased exponentially after the fall of Baghdad and the desertion and surrender of a large number of soldiers in the last months of the campaign. While the Iraqi provinces of the Empire did not experience the kind of catastrophic loss of life to famine and disease suffered by the Syrian provinces (the famine of Mosul and Khaniqin at the end of the War, excepted), they were the scene of uninterrupted violence between the Ottomans and the British for the duration of the war. By one estimate, the Ottoman army suffered nearly 38,000 casualties in the Iraqi campaign, amounting to nearly eight percent of the total casualties suffered by the Ottomans during the war.16 Behind the numbers, however, lies the story of severe social dislocation created by the war. Ottoman requisitioning of supplies, the use of promissory notes to pay merchants and farmers for goods, and the massive effort undertaken by both the British (based in Basra beginning in 1914) and the Ottomans to finance, feed, and move their troops, wreaked havoc in the economy and geography of Iraq. Where Basra and Baghdad had been part of one Ottoman landscape, their inhabitants now found themselves under two different governments. Communications between families and friends became difficult and exiles from Basra and other parts of British-occupied Iraq poured into Baghdad. As the British forces advanced north, those who were able and willing to flee packed a few belongings and accompanied

15

PRO/FO/383/339/148006. The Thayetmoyo numbers do not differentiate between Iraqi and Turk, but a 1916 report by the American Consul at Rangoon lists 1,969 Iraqis out of a total of 5,917. The prisoners were moved around often. Some Ottoman/ Iraqi officers were moved to Egypt. PRO/FO/383/339/88546. 16 Edward Erickson, Ordered to Die: A History of the Ottoman Army in the First World War (Westport, 2001), pp. 237–239. Erickson bases his figures on information gleaned from the Turkish archives and other sources. The number is striking if one keeps in mind that these only included soldiers enlisted in the army and not tribal irregulars who were also used in the campaign in Iraq. It is also striking if compared to the total number of those dead and missing for the whole War (305/085). If the numbers are correct then fully eight percent of Ottoman casualties were on the Iraqi front.

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the retreating Ottoman army.17 Others accused of loyalty to the Ottomans and of spying for them, were exiled to India.18 Many were civilians who had worked for the Ottomans. Others were merchants and religious scholars. Even after their exile to India, some continued to identify themselves as Turks and ask that they return to Iraq.19 Others reached a relatively easy accommodation with the new occupiers. Yet they remained anxious about the possibility of the return of the Ottomans. Journalists and poets who had been quite willing to work for the official Ottoman newspaper before 1917 now invested their talents in writing for the British sponsored newspaper. The majority, however, continued to write under pseudonyms because they were skeptical about the permanence of the new order.20 Clearly the war was a pivotal moment in the lives of those who experienced it. Did those who lived to write about it view it as the cauldron of a new kind of sensibility that indelibly stamped them as a generation with a unique and defining experience? Early in the 1920s, Khayrī al-Hindāwī wrote a long poem entitled Zaynab and Khālid or The Girl and Boy from Baghdad, 1908–1920. He recorded the tragic love story of a young man and women whose lives became intimately interwoven with what he regarded as the formative period in the lives of Iraqis. Khālid and Zaynab fell in love before the 1908 Young Turk revolution, a period that al-Hindāwī calls al-ʿahd al-qadīm (the old era). After suffering a period of separation and longing, the lovers became engaged. Soon after, Khālid was exiled by the Committee of Union and Progress to Sivas for his agitation against them. The war broke out while he was in Sivas and fitna (sedition) tore apart the body

17 Sulaymān Faydī, Mudhakkirāt Sulaymān Faydī—min ruwwād an-nahḍa al-ʿarabīya fi-l-ʿIrāq [The memoirs of Sulaymān Faydī—one of the pioneers of the Arabic Nahḍa (renaissance) in Iraq], ed. Bāsil Sulaymān Faydī (London, 1998), vol. 1, pp. 209–210. Faydī lost contact with his family in Mosul for the duration of the war. He tells the story of a friend from Basra who was a close ally of the anti-Ottoman Ṭ ālib an-Naqīb. The friend left British occupied Basra for Ottoman Baghdad to search for work in 1915. He was imprisoned by the Ottomans who shot and killed him in 1917 as they were withdrawing from Baghdad. 18 British documents on prisoners of war reflect the anxiety of the British colonial office over a number of civilians taken prisoner because of their suspected spying activities. Among these civilians were tribal leaders, merchants, bureaucrats and religious scholars. See PRO/FO/383/88/82395. 19 PRO/FO/383/338/171721. This is a list of civilians interned in India who were interested in being repatriated to their countries. The majority were from Iraq. While many identified themselves as Arab, others insisted on the category of Turk. 20 al-Wardī, Lamaḥ āt ijtimāʿīya, vol. 4, pp. 347–349.

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of the sons of Ghengiz (the Turks). Penniless and emotionally broken Khālid returned to Iraq after the war to find that his mother had died. A Jewish friend lent him some money to marry and al-Hindāwī comments that in this new era Jews and Muslims cooperated to build the nation. Khālid, however, soon found out that the British in Iraq brought another kind of oppression. He was imprisoned again and sent into exile where he was surrounded by an “army of black Indians headed by a white child”.21 After his release, he returned to Iraq to learn that his wife had died and that his only son had drowned in the Tigris. Al-Hindāwī then addresses the Tigris which he sees as the eternal keeper of his child and of Iraq, unchanging in its ability to regenerate the nation.22 Looking back only two years after the war, al-Hindāwī situated the beginning of the troubles for his lovers, and hence for his country, in Khālid’s embrace of nationalism during the Revolution of 1908. His melodramatic story ends with Khālid’s return from exile and subsequent imprisonment as a result of his participation in the 1920 revolt against the British. He viewed the Great War as a time of misery for Iraqis but one in which the ‘Turks’, who had denied his right to struggle in the cause of the ‘nation’, were destroyed. The war, while itself important, was one of many events that shaped the consciousness of al-Hindāwī and his generation. Al-Hindāwī painted a tragic but unambiguous picture of a victimized Iraqi generation perpetually fighting against oppressors. His biography and that of others in his generation, however, is far more complicated and fraught with competing loyalties. He himself had been a staunch supporter of the Committee of Union and Progress, but had by 1913 become alienated by its policies towards the Arabs and had joined the opposition party. When the war started, however, he wrote for the Ottoman newspaper Ṣadā al-Islām. Although he claimed that he had been imprisoned by the CUP, one of his biographers contends that he fabricated his imprisonment to gain credibility among those who had fought the Ottomans. He had no trouble finding employment in occupied Iraq, and although he was exiled and imprisoned by the British for his nationalist activi-

21

This is presumably an allusion to al-Hindāwī’s own exile and imprisonment in Henjam in 1920. 22 Rafāʿīl Buṭtị̄ , al-Adab al-ʿaṣrī fi-l-ʿIrāq al-ʿarabī [Contemporary Literature in Arabic Iraq], vol. 2 (Baghdad, 1923), pp. 174–186.

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ties in 1920, he soon returned to work for the government in occupied Iraq.23 Despite al-Hindāwī’s vacillations, his biography is not different in its broad outlines from that of many other educated Iraqis whose memoirs reflected a shared belief that the events of 1908, 1914–1918, and 1920 shaped their lives and distinguished them from previous and succeeding generations. If there is one theme that connects this poetry and the memoirs, it is that of witnessing and/or participating in the creation of a nation. Yet the majority of the memoirs find the roots of the nation in an Ottoman modernity. Their authors were mostly Sunni bureaucrats and military officers, graduates of the Ottoman school system, who, when the Young Turks came to power, saw themselves as a vanguard modernizing elite capable of initiating local reform and sharing power with Istanbul. The creation of a limited public sphere marked by the spread of political parties and the establishment of voluntary associations, the expansion of publications, and the beginning of the physical transformation of public culture, while limited in their impact to a small portion of the urban population, were harbingers of a modern era. The period also marked the Shiʾi community’s encounter with modernity. The Iranian Constitutional Revolution of 1906, the establishment of the first Shiʾi school with a modern curriculum, and the development of a Shiʾi press, brought a sense of fundamental change to the period. With the outbreak of the war, the majority of Shiʾi religious scholars were recruited by the Ottomans to drum up support among the Shiʾi tribes of Iraq. While their efforts were moderately successful at the beginning of the war, by 1916 the holy cities of Najaf and Karbala were in a rebellion fueled by the discontent caused by the influx of deserters and the draconian measures undertaken by the Ottomans to combat desertion and to requisition goods. Like their Sunni counterparts, however, those educated sectors of the Shiʾi community had started to imagine a political order distinctly different from the traditional one. According to Luizard and Nakash, Shiʾi religious leaders were already envisioning a modern Islamic state modeled in part on the constitutional example of Persia.24

23

Al-Hindāwī, Ḥ ayātuhū, pp. 35–36. Pierre-Jean Luizard, “Le Mandat Britannique en Irak: Une Recontre Entre Plusieur Projet Politiques,” in The British and French Mandates In Comparative Perspective, 24

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If the political revolutions that brought constitutional language and political representation marked the beginnings of the political awareness of this generation, for them the Great War was a period of dislocation and readjustment. Like their European counterparts, those who wrote about their war experience did not write ‘war memoirs’, that is to say, the war itself was not the only and central experience they sought to record. Rather, their memoirs often dwelt with some nostalgia on a pre-war past interrupted and ended by the war. However, unlike their European counterparts who later imagined themselves as a ‘lost generation’, their memoirs did not express an existential state of loss but rather an ambiguous sense of loss and rebirth tempered by a suspended judgment on what was lost and what was gained.25 Poet and intellectual Jamīl Ṣidqī az-Zahāwī expressed this generation’s sensibility in a poem he penned in 1916 after the execution in Syria of 13 Arab nationalists by the Ottoman military commander Jamāl Pasha: These events happened while the war Remained the slaughterer of people, for it is hungry In Damascus or Beirut or most villages Like a flooded slope What passed has passed, may it never return, listen now To the language of history how it says Studies will be written in blood And catastrophes will be read in chapters And this generation will go in the midst of its misery While a happy generation will come in peace [. . .]26

The accounts of the men who wrote about and attempted to make sense of the war and the manner in which they integrated it into the narrative of their lives differed from one individual to another. Memoirs written by men who had lived through the war began appearing

eds. Peter Sluglett and Nadine Méouchy (Leiden, 2004), pp. 361–384; Yitzhak Nakash, The Shiʾis of Iraq (Princeton, 1994), pp. 49–72. 25 For a discussion of how to interpret memoirs of the Great War in Britain, see Samuel Hynes, “Personal Narratives and Commemoration,” in War and Remembrance, eds. Jay Winter and Emmanuel Sivan, pp. 205–220. For a discussion of the literature on the war generation see Winter, Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning, pp. 15–77. 26 Buṭt ̣ī, al-Adab al-ʿaṣrī, vol. 1, p. 27. Az-Zahāwī had been an Ottoman deputy, a staunch supporter of the CUP, and contributor to the Ottoman newspaper Ṣadā al-Islām during the war. He was deeply moved by the execution of the nationalists in Syria and had met a number of them in Istanbul.

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in the late 1930s but proliferated in the 1960s and 70s when many of their protagonists had acquired distance from the events and had come to see their stories as intertwined with that of the nation. They expressed little antipathy towards war in general, although almost all blamed the Ottomans and particularly Enver Pasha, for their involvement in what they saw as a disastrous adventure. Almost all began with their experience in the educational system in Baghdad, Mosul and Istanbul and their first positions in the military and administrative apparatus of the Empire. Those who became politically active recorded their involvement with various organizations in Istanbul, Baghdad and Basra. The fracture in their collective experience came with the War and their recollection of the post-war experience very much reflects the perspective of several decades past. A brief overview of memoirs written by Sunni urbanites, products of the Ottoman educational system, but drawn from different classes in Ottoman Iraq, gives us a taste of the different ways the war was remembered and the manner in which these remembrances were integrated into a generation’s sensibility. One group of memoirs was written by former Ottoman/Iraqi officers who began the war fighting for the Ottomans but soon joined the forces of Sharif Husayn of Mecca’s Great Arab Revolt, as it is known in Arab historiography. Some like Ibrāhīm ar-Rāwī, ʿAlī Jawdat and Jaʿfar al-ʿAskarī (who fought with the Ottomans at Gallipoli) journeyed to the Arabian Peninsula soon after the declaration of the Revolt in 1916.27 Others, like Nājī Shawkat, joined in the wake of the repeated defeats of the Ottoman army in Iraq and his internment in a prison camp, while still others, like Taḥsīn al-ʿAskarī, worked both sides of the divide acting as double agent, fighting on the side of the Ottomans and scouting supporters for the Arab Revolt in Iraq.28 Most of these army officers were drawn from the upper echelons of Ottoman

27 Jaʾfar al-Askari, A Soldier’s Story: From Ottoman Rule to Independent Iraq; The Memoirs of Jaʾfar Pasha al-Askari (1885–1936), trans. Mustafa Tariq al-Askari, eds. William Facey and Najdat Fathi Safwat (London, 2004); ʿAlī Jawdat, Dhikrayāt [Memoirs] (Beirut, 1967), Ibrāhīm ar-Rāwī, Min ath-thawra al-ʿarabīya al-kubrā ilā-l-ʿIrāq al-ḥ adīth [From the Great Arab Revolt to Modern Iraq] (Beirut, 1969). 28 Nājī Shawkat, Sīra wa-dhikrayāt thamānīn ʿāman [Biography and memoirs of eighty years], 3rd ed. (Beirut, 1977), Taḥsīn al-ʿAskarī, Mudhakkirātī ʿan ath-thawra al-ʿarabīya al-kubrā wa-th-thawra al-ʿirāqīya [My memories of the Great Arab Revolt and the Iraqi Revolt], 2nd ed. (Dubai, 2004).

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provincial society (ar-Rāwī being the exception) but they hailed from different backgrounds. The al-ʿAskarī brothers were of Kurdish descent, Nājī Shawkat hailed from a provincial aristocratic bureaucratic family who were descendents on one side of the family from the Georgian praetorian guard of the last Mamluk pashas of Baghdad. Many, like al-ʿAskarī, were active in the clandestine organization of al-ʿAhd during the Ottoman period. When the Iraqi state was established under Fayṣal I, they became its ruling elite and were dubbed by Batatu the “ex-Sharifian officers”, because they drew on a common experience and had access to government positions through their association with Fayṣal during the Revolt.29 Their experience of the Great War was central to their political position and their sense of their place in the formation of Iraq as a nation. But the war is remembered differently by the individuals of this group. Ar-Rāwī’s experience started with the Great Arab Revolt and his concern throughout memoirs was to bolster the myth of the great awakening of the Arab nation and the role that Ottoman/Iraqis played in that awakening. While Taḥsīn al-ʿAskarī, who spent most of the war with the Ottomans, insisted that it was organizations such as al-ʿAhd with its Ottoman antecedents that formed the backbone of his war experience. He recounted his travails in trying, particularly after the defeat of the Ottomans at Shuʾayba in 1915 and the fall of Baghdad in 1917, to drum up support from the tribes of Iraq, both Sunni and Shiʾi, for a form of an independent Iraq in which tribal infantry (particularly of the powerful Muntafiq) would form a national army. He pointed to his attempts to hide and save supporters of al-ʿAhd fleeing the Ottomans. Perhaps the most interesting of these memoirs is that of Nājī Shawkat who offers us a glimpse into the horrors of trench warfare where he was injured and saved by a fellow officer felled by a bullet intended for Shawkat. He was an army officer of a particularly privileged background—his uncle was Grand Vizier—; he joined the Sharifian Revolt late and became, like Ibrāhīm ar-Rāwī, disillusioned with the monarchy. In 1941 he supported the pro-Axis coup of Rashīd ʿAlī al-Gaylānī. For these officers, the War was remembered as the incubus of the modern Iraqi state and the role they had played in its founding. While their education and their involvement in public life

29 Hanna Batatu, The Old Social Classes and the Revolutionary Movements in Iraq (Princeton, 1987), pp. 319–361.

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in the twilight of Empire were important, their participation in the Revolt and in Fayṣal’s government in Syria became central to their sense of themselves as a vanguard generation who initiated a program of reform under the auspices of a modern nation state. Ṭ ālib Mushtāq remained a loyal Ottoman subject until the end of the war. He had not heard of the Arab Revolt when he returned from Anatolia to British-controlled Iraq in 1918. He was the son of a middling Sunni Ottoman bureaucrat whose family had hailed from Yozgat and whose mother was Arab. He was born and raised in the Shiʾi suburb of Kazimiya, and for much of his early life celebrated Shiʾi feasts and attended Shiʾi mosques. Steeped in the Shiʾi environment and too young to remember the Revolution of 1908, his memoirs record the sense of outrage that he and his neighbors felt at the loss of Tripoli in to the Italians in 1912 and the defeat of the Ottomans in the Balkan wars in 1913. He was merely fourteen years old when the war broke out and remembered his participation in the Husayniyas and marches organized by clerics in support of jihād. He fled Baghdad in 1917 and found his way to Istanbul hoping to attend secondary school in the city.30 He arrived too late to do so and ended up in Izmit. To make a living, he worked as a tax assessor in the villages of Yeniköy and Dönmeçiler, fell in love with a local girl, and remained in the area for two years with no contact with his family. When the war ended, he found his way to occupied Istanbul where he was moved by the speeches of Halide Edip and Mustafa Kemal calling for the end of occupation. Inquiring about ways to return to Baghdad, he was told to visit the Arab Bureau which oversaw the repatriation of Iraqis and Syrians and was run by the British in cooperation with bureaucrats of the Arab Revolt.31 Until that time, Mushtāq had not been aware of the Revolt. He boarded on a train and eventually arrived in Aleppo where he saw an Arab flag fluttering over the army headquarters. He was overwhelmed by unfamiliar feelings and a sense of dislocation and wrote, “we were Ottomans until that moment and we became Arabs with a place among nations, a state, and a flag.”32 Mushtāq was sorry to see the end of the Ottoman Empire and was nostalgic for the life that the war interrupted. Unlike those who partook in the Revolt

30 31 32

Mushtāq, Awrāq Ayāmī, pp. 9–20. Mushtāq, Awrāq Ayāmī, pp. 30–53. Mushtāq, Awrāq Ayāmī, p. 57.

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and came to rule Iraq, he did not belong to the class of bureaucrats and army officers who were politicized by the Young Turk takeover of power and who became increasingly disenchanted with its failure to answer to their political demands. However, he had no problems adjusting to the new political realities. His remarkable comment on the ease with which he changed from being an Ottoman to an Arab is testament to the facility with which sectors of his generation were able to make the transition between the two orders. He held several positions in the Iraqi Ministry of Education and with his cohort Sāṭiʿ al-Ḥ uṣrī, helped map the educational curriculum that was staunchly pan-Arab. Nevertheless, the war was a time of disjuncture for him and he was quite happy to re-establish his contacts with Turkish friends when he was appointed to the Iraqi Embassy in Turkey in the 1930s, eventually becoming Ambassador in 1965. The memoirs of Sulaymān Faydī allow us a glimpse of another kind of experience of the war. A Mosuli by origin, Faydī spent most of his life in Basra and was a pioneer in a movement to build civil society institutions in the city in the wake of the Revolution of 1908. He founded one of the first private schools to teach Arab history and culture, established an independent newspaper, and in 1919 published the first didactic novel calling for a national renaissance. He was a protégée and supporter of Ṭ ālib an-Naqīb, a political leader of the city who became a member of the Ottoman parliament and initiated negotiations with the British to create an independent Basra under British protection before the outbreak of the war. An-Naqīb was a contender for the leadership of Iraq until Fayṣal was brought to power in 1921 and Faydī’s memoirs record his side of the story of the creation of modern Iraq. At the outbreak of the war, Faydī and Ṭ ālib an-Naqīb fled to Kuwait, then a British protectorate, to avoid arrest by the Ottomans who were wary of al-Naqīb’s ambitions. Neither were the British too keen on an-Naqīb or supportive of his vision for southern Iraq. Together with Faydī he fled to Najd but eventually surrendered to the British who exiled him to Bombay.33 Faydī returned to Basra where he remained but for a short trip to India. In 1916, in the midst of the Ottoman siege of British-occupied Kut, T. E. Lawrence approached Faydī to see if he could persuade the Ottoman military leader Khalil Pasha

33

Faydī, Mudhakkirāt, pp. 190–194.

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to withdraw from Kut in exchange for a million pounds. According to Faydī, Lawrence also asked him to drum up support among Iraqi army officers for an Arab revolt against the British.34 Faydī refused Lawrence on both counts. As a result he was forbidden from leaving the city and spent the rest of the War making a living in trade and occupying a number of government positions in British controlled Basra. Faydī was a politically engaged civilian who came to a quick accommodation with the British order and eventually helped draft the provisional constitution of Iraq. The War presented a culmination of his struggles to establish an independent Iraq in which a modern constitutional state ensured a national awakening. Unlike Mushtāq’s memoirs, he exhibited no nostalgia for the ‘old order’ and blamed the Ottomans for their failure to create a modern and equitable system of political and cultural representation. The Ottomans, while bringing in elements of reform and modernity, had failed in their enterprise. The war marked their well deserved death even as it brought another kind of tutelage. The memoirs discussed thus far were written by Sunni men who were conscious of their belonging to a generation that witnessed the demise of one order and the birth of another. How they imagined the war was very much part of how they situated themselves in the world they lost and the one they helped shape. Their experiences, however, cannot be taken to reflect the totality of the Iraqi experience. Gender, class, urban/rural and ethnic and sectarian divides must have marked their experiences differently.35 The paucity of personal narratives across those different groups makes it difficult to make generalizations about a ‘war generation’ and its sensibility. What they shared with others across the different divides within Ottoman/Iraqi society was a sense of the war as a harbinger of an accelerated modernity that had its roots in the late Ottoman period but took different more ambiguous meaning during the war and in the post-war period, particularly in the 1920s.

34

Faydī, Mudhakkirāt, pp. 216–220. I have addressed some of these differences in “Between Empires and Nation: Remembrance of the Great War and Iraqi National Identity”, forthcoming. 35

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dina rizk khoury The Great War and the ‘New’ Modern

The idea of the ‘modern’ was associated by Ottoman/Iraqis, particularly after the Young Turk Revolution of 1908, with a certain set of markers. Among them were administrative reforms, representative politics, science and technology, education and a mental geography that connected the educated elite with Istanbul, Damascus, Beirut and Cairo where most of the new intelligentsia was based.36 Their memory of the modern located its origins in the administrative and educational reforms initiated by Midhat Pasha and culminated in the brief constitutional period which ended in 1913. While, as I shall argue, the Great War led to a reformulation of this idea of the ‘modern’, it did not totally create a break with the Ottoman past. Most of the intelligentsia of the period continued to speak the language of constitutionalism and remained wedded to the idea of modern education as the cornerstone of society. However, while they had helped fashion the cultural and political landscape of late Ottoman Iraq within the context of an Islamic Ottomanism colored by Arab patriotism, they now turned their attention to formulating a historical memory of an Iraqi nation state.37 Eric Davis posits that the disjuncture created by World War I disrupted “previously accepted patterns of authority, political and social institutions, and cultural practices. Iraqis were forced to develop new institutional structures and forms of culture to replace those that had vanished.”38 Davis argues that the war and its aftermath precipitated a conflict between those elements of Iraqi intelligentsia, many of whom were drawn from the war generation, who wanted to create a pan-Arab Iraqi identity based on the memory of an Arab past and those who were more focused on developing a historical memory

36 az-Zahāwī and Maʿrūf ar-Ruṣāfī were representatives of this Iraqi intelligentsia, but most of the Iraqi bureaucrats and army officers shared same understanding of the modern. See Dina Rizk Khoury, “Looking for the Modern” and ʿAlī al-Wardī, Lamaḥ āt ijtimāʿīya, vol. 3, pp. 102–265. See also Eric Davis, Memories of State: Politics, History, and Collective Identity in Modern Iraq (Berkeley, 2005), pp. 29–54. Davis locates the formation of a modern intelligentsia in this period and pits it against the ‘traditional intellectuals’ drawn from the religious community and the notables. 37 For Shiʾis Ottomanism did not carry much weight. However, some of their religious scholars and their nascent intelligentsia advocated a form of constitutionalism and evoked a memory of an Arab/Islamic past as a cementing feature of their identity. By 1920 their leadership had a program for an Islamic state. See Nakash and Luizard cited above. 38 Davis, Memories of State, p. 52.

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that was uniquely Iraqi. I have argued elsewhere that remembrance and commemoration of the Great War represented a contest over the meaning of nahḍa (awakening) associated by the ruling elite with the advent of the pan-Arab monarchy and the origins of Iraqi nationhood.39 However, the contest was not confined to those who favored an Iraqi nationalist or Arab nationalist agenda, but bespoke the persistence of the memory of belonging to an Ottoman and/or Islamic space long after the establishment of the Iraqi nation state. The longevity and resilience of this Islamic imaginary extended to the Shiʾi community. As Luizard has shown, the mobilization of Shiʾis to fight for the Ottomans under the guise of defense of Islam, and the autonomy of the holy cities of Najaf and Karbala during much of the war, integrated Shiʾis into the politics of what will become modern Iraq but did so at the expense of their Islamic identity.40 The political dimensions of Iraqis’ remembrance of the war are the easiest to study. The impact of the war on their cultural imagination is more difficult to gauge. Most of the poetry and literature that addresses the war experience directly was penned during the conflict and in the 1920s, much earlier than the memoirs that covered the period. Part of the material is in the form of poetry and popular songs, preferred venues for popular expression by the intelligentsia and by the common people alike. Much of the poetry does not directly address the war experience but the impact of the war on the culture and society of post-war Iraq. Memoirs and individual narratives of the war experience lack the immediacy of the poems and popular songs of the postwar period. However, they do share certain themes with the earlier literature. Two of these are relevant to the question of the modern: the impact of the technology of war and the military order it brought with it, and the development of literary themes associated with the advent the War and the new world it created. Modern machinery and technology that was introduced into Ottoman Iraq in the second half of the nineteenth century and the opening of the Suez Canal, the introduction of steam navigation by the British, their installation of the first telegraph lines, and various other technologies, impressed Ottoman/Iraqi poets enough to write about

39 Dina Rizk Khoury, “Between Empires and Nation: Remembrance of the Great War and Iraqi National Identity,” forthcoming. 40 Luizard, “Le Mandat Britannique,” pp. 49–72.

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them with great wonder.41 A number of Baghdadi intellectuals became acquainted with modern scientific concepts through publications coming out of Istanbul and Cairo. Those who wrote about new technology and science embraced a belief in ‘progress’ and the need to disregard the ‘old’. Yet when the war came they seem to have been unprepared for and awed by its technology of destruction. Muḥammad Ḥ usayn Kāshif al-Ghitạ̄ ʾ, a Shiʾi intellectual, wrote in a poem entitled the “Fires of the Great War,” Oh ye charging spheres in the orbit of the earth You have become fire on impact Oh ye sky, extract courage from them But avoid them with caution if you can For Zeppelins are flying in the air And squadrons fumed through the sea And the artillery of the Maxims burn a territory And the machine guns pour forth rain For there the ghosts fell like ashes And the gentle souls rose like steam The earth was painted in blood to show Shame, and the sky’s countenance was red [. . .]42

The power of the Zeppelin to inflict damage on civilian population, in effect marking the conquest of air space for military purposes, impressed those who lived through the War. While Kāshif al-Ghiṭāʾ might express an apocalyptic vision, others were aware of the great equalizing power of this technology. In the midst of the long Ottoman siege of Kut, and on hearing of the German Zeppelin attack on London, Shaykh Muḥammad ʿAlī al-Yaʿqūbī, wrote triumphantly and in the vernacular: By God, every Haji returned overwhelmed From the said Muslim armies They jumped on the whale that is England And continued to pursue it till Kut After they had passed through Salman (alluding to battle of Salman Pak) Oh England! What you had wanted From those who are pure had been denied today Iraq is not what you envision For the Zeppelin has hovered over London Attacking it with bombs and fire [. . .]43

41 42 43

al-Wardī, Lamaḥ āt ijtimāʿīya, vol. 3, pp. 231–247. Buṭt ̣ī, al-Adab al-ʿaṣrī, vol. 2, p. 92. al-Wardī, Lamaḥ āt ijtimāʿīya, vol. 4, pp. 21–22.

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This fascination with the power of the technology of war was also evident in the way that Iraqis viewed the airplane which became an integral part of their post-war lives when Britain used it to subdue tribal rebellions. Beginning in October 1915, British reconnaissance planes hovered over the skies of Baghdad and were a source of fascination as well as fear. The British began bombing Baghdad in 1917, and although the damage wrought by such bombing was relatively limited, it gave the populace a taste of the power of the new technology. It manifested to the Iraqi populace what Toby Dodge has called the “ ‘despotic’ power of airplanes” to control populations and subjugate them to the power of the state.44 Jamīl Ṣidqī az-Zahāwī expressed the fascination of people at the power of this new machine when he wrote: They said that a plane appeared Raining Rockets that will explode I look up to the sky and do not see Except a small black point that appears and disappears [. . .]45

Poets of the late Ottoman period had extolled the virtues of new technologies attributing to them almost magical powers to transform their surroundings. Those who invented and mastered this machinery were imbued with the characteristic of the modern. They needed to be accepted and emulated. The technology used in the Great War did not destroy the Iraqis’ fascination with its power. Rather it introduced Ottoman/Iraqis to the negative aspects of science they had always associated with modernity, and perhaps more importantly, spread its destructive capabilities on a mass scale. The result was, however, not a rejection of positivism and belief in progress, as we see happening in Europe. Most of those who decried the destructiveness of the new technology of war believed that it should be harnessed in the service of the nation. Poets wrote endlessly in the 1920s of the need to master modern science in the fight against imperialism.46 Writing of Baghdad in the 1920s, ʿAbbās al-Baghdādī remembers that one of the most

44 Toby Dodge, Inventing Iraq: The Failure of Nation Building and History Denied (New York, 2003), pp. 131–156. 45 al-Wardī, Lamaḥ āt ijtimāʿīya, vol. 4, p. 93. 46 Rafāʿīl Butṭ ị̄ cites several poems written in the 1920s that extolled the virtues of knowledge that should be imbibed from Europe. See Butṭ ị̄ , al-Adab al-ʿaṣrī. Sātị ʿ al-Ḥ uṣrī, the architect of Iraqi education during the monarchy designed a curriculum to instill a scientific attitude among Iraqi students. See Sāṭiʿ al-Ḥ uṣrī, Mudhakkirātī fi-l-ʿIrāq (Beirut, 1967).

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common topics of conversation in the literary salons and the cafes of the time were the secrets of Europe’s superiority in the sciences.47 If anything, scientific knowledge was reified and seen as the answer to all problems. Fueled by the spread of a national press and clubs, and funded by private and state institutions, the quest for the ‘new modern’, defined as the mastery of the western sciences, was viewed as the answer to all. Part of this resilience in the belief in the power of technology and science was the result of the meaning that army officers and soldiers ascribed to their experience of the war. Maḥmūd ash-Shaykhlī was an officer in the Ottoman army in charge of training civilians in Amara. He was taken prisoner at the battle of Kut al-Zayn early in the war. His description of the way his Ottoman superiors conducted the war is telling. He and his fellow soldiers were ordered to dig trenches. When they asked their leader for implements to do so, they were told to use their hands. As the battle progressed the soldiers found themselves without enough provisions and sufficient weapons. Their leadership was incapable of coordinated strategy, did not have a map of the terrain and abandoned the soldiers to their fate.48 Ash-Shaykhlī echoed the complaint of a number of army officers from Iraq who had fought in the war. Writing retrospectively, some sought to justify their decision to desert from the Ottoman army and to join the Arab Revolt. Ash-Shaykhlī and others, however, regarded themselves as Ottomans and their complaint was that their rulers could have won the war had they been better prepared and had they made better use of the technology available to them. In the first history of the Great War, written in the 1930s for the benefit of the officers’ Military Training College, Muḥammad al-ʿUmarī, who fought on the Ottoman side until the end of the war, offered his students a detailed description of the war in order to alert them to the strategic failure of the Ottomans. Among such failures was the inefficient use of the technology of war. His verdict was that these modern technologies had to be mastered in order to be used effectively. According to him it was the particular ways that the Ottomans had assimilated the modern that was problematic; the

47

al-Baghdādī, Baghdād, pp. 121–129 and pp. 305–315. Muḥammad Raʾūf ash-Shaykhlī, Marāḥ il al-ḥ ayāt fi-l-fatra al-muẓlima wa-mā baʿdihā [Phases of Life in the Dark Period and after it], vol. 2 (Basra, 1972), pp. 230–240. 48

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modern itself, if harnessed in the service of the nation, could lead to strength.49 The Great War marked the emergence of new literary themes in the poetry and narratives of Iraqis. A great deal of the poetry written during this period extolled the virtues of patriotism and Islam. Those who wrote in support of the Ottoman war effort approached their subject from the pan-Islamic perspective. Shiʾi poets wrote in defense of a Sunni empire they had hitherto much cause to mistrust. However, their poetry called for the protection of Islam from the infidel and they used Shiʾi and tribal traditional imagery to win support for the Ottomans. What differentiated their poetry from earlier writings was neither form nor content, but rather its deployment in defense of the Ottomans. Later commentators would use examples of this poetry as an indication of the integration of Iraq’s Shiʾis into an Iraqi national narrative.50 At the time of its writing, however, the impulse was strictly Islamic. Those who wrote patriotic poetry spoke of the new hopes of the nation, the pride in its Arab and Islamic history, the need for independence from British tutelage, and the hopes for creating modern citizens through the dissemination of knowledge.51 Much of this poetry is traditional in form, if not in content, and the majority of the poets wrote formulaic verse. There was, however, a great quickening in the production of this poetry and it was disseminated through an expanding print culture and through public venues where poetry and popular songs became staples for discussions and debates. While traditional forms of poetry were used in new ways, the content of the poetry of war also changed. Much of the political poetry written by the literary modernizers of the late Ottoman period centered on constitutionalism, freedom, and pride in Arab history. With the outbreak of the war, the themes of oppression (Ottoman and British), prison and exile were common among poets drawn from 49 Muḥammad al-ʿUmarī, Tārīkh Ḥ arb al-ʿIrāq [The History of the Iraq War], vol. 1–2 (Baghdad, 1974). 50 Raʾūf al-Wāʾiẓ, Al-ittijāhāt al-waṭanīya fi-sh-shiʿr al-ʿirāqī al-ḥ adīth, 1914–1941 [Nationalist trends in modern Iraqi poetry] (Baghdad, 1974), pp. 28–30. al-Wāʾiẓ cites ash-Shabībī as a nationalist who called tribes to fight in the battle of Shuʾayba. However, the poem calls for the defense of Islam. 51 Peter Sluglett, “From the Politics of Notables to the Politics of Parliamentary Government: Iraq 1918–1932”. Paper presented at the Sixth Mediterranean Social and Political Research Meeting, European University Institute, Florence, March 2004. Sluglett lists the number of associations and publications and argues for the emergence of a civil society.

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all sects, ethnicities and educational backgrounds. Those imprisoned and exiled by the Ottomans because they were suspected of supporting the Arab Revolt or for simply absconding from military service found themselves in prisons in Baghdad or exiled to Anatolia. For those interned in prison camps or exiled to India and Egypt, the war experience disrupted their sense of belonging to a place and created a whole set of problems that they had not encountered before. As Dolores Hayden has pointed out, “war disrupts and reconfigures attachments to cultural landscapes on an unprecedented scale.”52 For the first time imprisonment became a condition that a large number of Ottoman/Iraqis experienced. Not all who wrote on prison life spoke from personal experience. Yet, the state of imprisonment was such a common feature of the period that it came to represent the human condition and a venue for expressing defiance. The poetry and memoirs written to record this experience bespoke a sense of being forced into a new world that Iraqis had no control over and could not fully understand. Some wrote formulaic poetry that viewed prison as a form of martyrdom to an Arab cause, while others were more concerned with the human and cultural disruptions created by imprisonment. Muḥammad Ḥ asan Abū al-Maḥāsin was a Shiʾi scholar who played an important role in the 1920 revolt against the British. He often wrote poetry in support of Arab nationalism and anti-colonialism. He had no experience with prison life but penned a poem about prison sometime in the early twenties. In it he extolled the virtues of the Arabs and pointed out their record of defeating both the Persians and the Byzantines. The protagonist in the poem had participated in the 1920 revolt and was betrayed by people he had trusted and imprisoned by the British. Although he regards his prison experience positively insofar as it had introduced him to brothers in arms, he nevertheless sees prison as a metaphor for an Iraq in which one continuously lost “the house he had built and died by the flood that engulfed him.”53 Kāẓim ad-Dujaylī was a member of the secular Shiʾi intelligentsia in the late Ottoman period. He did not attend the Ottoman school system but was self-taught, having imbibed his education from an eclectic set of teachers among them the salafī Shukrī al-Alūsī, the Shiʾi 52

Dolores Hayden, “Landscapes of Loss and Remembrance: The Case of Little Tokyo in Los Angeles,” in War and Remembrance, eds. Jay Winter and Emmanuel Sivan, pp. 142–160. 53 Buṭt ̣ī, al-Adab al-ʿaṣrī, vol. 2, pp. 136–137.

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pro-Ottoman cleric Ḥ asan aṣ-Ṣadr, the Christian modernist Father Anastās al-Karmalī, and the Kurdish Sunni poet Jamīl Ṣidqī az-Zahāwī. He worked in a number of Baghdadi newspapers before becoming (the) editor of the cultural and scientific journal Lughat al-ʿArab (The Language of the Arabs) established by Anastās al-Karmalī. In 1914, he published an anti-Turkish article in an Egyptian newspaper for which he was sentenced to six years in prison. The sentence was suspended with the outbreak of the war.54 Nevertheless, he wrote a series of six poems under the general title “The Six Prison Poems”. One particular poem entitled, “The Baghdad Police”, was set during the Great War and was meant to demonstrate the oppressive measures undertaken by the Ottoman police. The poem begins in the most innocuous of social Baghdadi settings. A group of men are sitting in a literary salon when they are disturbed by the police who apprehend them on charges of drunkenness. When they insist that they had done nothing wrong the police informs them that they wanted the daughter of their host. After protesting the daughter’s honor, they are thrown in prison where they are beaten and forced into hard labor, paving roads for the Ottoman army. In prison, they meet a woman whose Ottoman guardian was a prisoner of war in India. She had worked for an Ottoman officer stationed in Baghdad to support herself but the latter had not paid her any money and had sent her to prison when she became sick and unable to work. Another woman and her nursing child were imprisoned because the husband had deserted the army.55 Although the poem’s language is melodramatic, it is notable for its ability to express with much economy the impact of the war on the ordinary citizens of the city. The protagonists are all ‘commoners’, not connected to power or drawn from the educated elite. They were united by the circumstances created by the War and their imprisonment, both figurative and actual, within the confines of a local political order they could not combat. Lacking in heroic imagery and nationalist rhetoric, ad-Dujaylī’s poem is remarkable for the intimate portrait it paints of the victims of the war and the kind of havoc it wreaked on their lives. Maḥmūd ash-Shaykhlī’s four-year experience as a prisoner of war introduced him to the modern prison system and initiated him into

54 55

Ibid., pp. 187–188. But ̣ṭī, al-Adab al-ʿaṣrī, vol. 2, pp. 198–201.

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the cultural landscape of India and Burma. Born into a family of merchants in Baghdad, he was educated in the provincial Ottoman system and attended the officer training school in Istanbul. Taken prisoner of war in November of 1914, he was repatriated in April of 1919. In that interval, he was moved to Sumerpur then Thayetmoyo and from there to Sidi Bishr in Egypt. In confinement he found a community of prisoners who recreated as much as it was possible the rhythms of everyday life at home. Re-enactments of karagöz plays for entertainment, celebrations of the Sultan’s birth, the musical suites (chalgis) performed by Baghdadi prisoners to entertain the troops, all served to create a semblance of normalcy in exile.56 Perhaps to maintain his sanity, ash-Shaykhlī recorded with great details the rations, clothes, and salary he received during his imprisonment. He was impressed by the order of the prison system where prisoners were divided according to rank and ethnicity. While he was not particularly sympathetic to British attempts to drive a wedge between the Turkish and Arab prisoners, he grudgingly acknowledged that there were conflicts between the two ethnic groups. He encountered the bungalow, a uniquely British architectural creation, and he was fascinated by it. His internment was as much an education in the workings of modern colonial representations of power as it was a period of exile from his home. Particularly galling for him was the use of Indian soldiers and officers to control the prisoners. While he was careful to record the various indignities of prison life, he was interested in the cultural landscape that he traversed in India and Burma and recorded his impressions much like a traveler embarked on an adventure.57 The ‘post-war’ emerged as a discreet period in the imagination of Iraqis soon after the signing of the armistice.58 The process had begun with the conquest of Baghdad when the inhabitants of the city began to see for themselves the physical manifestations of the new order. Street lights and water pumps were introduced to the city. A theater was erected to show films of battles on the European front, three bridges connecting the eastern and western parts of the city were built,

56

ash-Shaykhlī, Marāḥ il al-ḥ ayāt, vol. 2, p. 378 and pp. 394–395. Ibid., pp. 350–395. 58 Hynes, A War Imagined, pp. 235–253. Hynes argues that literary production did not deal with the war directly in its immediate aftermath although there appears to have been a shift in mood. However, after the armistice writers and the public began an assessment of the post-war world. 57

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sanitation measures undertaken and a public park to commemorate the General Maude, the conqueror of Baghdad, became the scene of remembrance for the European dead.59 In addition, Baghdadis had, as had the Basrenes before them, come face to face with the presence of a British administration and a military occupation run at its lower levels by Indian soldiers and administrators. All this was fodder for a sense of a new post-war order known as the age of suqūt (fall also can mean degradation). If the political dimension of post-war literary production centered on patriotism and anti-colonialism, the social dimension was infused with a sense of a moral order forever transformed by the manifestations of modern life and the overturning of the old social barriers. A telling ditty written by the Shiʾite poet Shaykh Taqī ad-Dīn al-Khāliṣī conveys the sense of dislocation that the new order brought: Miss Bell came to us Riding an automobile Her face talking to the moon Her hair conversing with the night Come to us to spend A night in the hotel [. . .]60

Gertrude Bell, a European woman with tremendous political power, is twinned in this ditty with the advent of the accouterments of the new order, the automobile and the modern hotel. As one of the architects of post-war Iraq, she came to represent the sense of a world turned upside down where hierarchies of gender and religion were overturned. Her house became the meeting place of tribal shaykhs and notables in Baghdad in the early 1920s and a great deal of the gossip in coffeehouses centered on these meetings.61 Al-Khāliṣī’s ditty satirized Miss Bell in order to control her impact on the consciousness of Iraqis. It put Miss Bell in her place. Those writing about the war and its social and moral repercussions, and the perception of ascending minorities and the nouveau riche were the most obvious signs of the troubling twenties. The writers often mentioned Jews and Christians as beneficiaries of the new order. Despite Khayrī al-Hindāwī’s idealized vision, discussed earlier in this

59 60 61

al-Zabīdī, Baghdad, p. 72 and p. 135. al-Wardī, Lamaḥ āt ijtimāʿīya, vol. 4, p. 358. Ibid., vol. 4, pp. 356–358.

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essay, of an Iraq in which a Jewish friend helps Khālid in establishing a household, he was the first to say that the fall of Baghdad benefited the Jews. Ṭ ālib Mushtāq and even sociologist ʿAlī al-Wardī reached similar conclusions. Meir Baṣrī, one of the pillars of the Jewish community in Baghdad until he fled to London in the early 1970s, recalls that the fall of Baghdad was a time of great misery, but like other Iraqis, such as az-Zahāwī, he saw great potential in the new order.62 In fact, the record shows that minorities, whether Christian or Jewish, were as likely to be divided on the issue of the new order as other Iraqis.63 Meir Baṣrī remembers a Nahūm Yaʿūb, a Jew from the city of Kirkuk who worked as secretary general for the Baghdad Chamber of Commerce under the Ottomans. When the British took over Baghdad, they appointed him first as notary public and then as head of customs. He, however, could not adjust to the new order and continued to feel nostalgic for Ottoman times, seeking out subordinates and friends who could converse with him in Turkish. When King Fayṣal I introduced a new headdress, the sidāra, Nahūm had a difficult time giving up the Fez, the symbol of Ottoman officialdom.64 The post-war period saw an unprecedented spread of forms of popular entertainment and the beginning of a consumer culture. Not much has been written on this aspect of post-war Iraq in English, but studies in Arabic have been devoted to the rise of popular entertainment and new developments in a Baghdadi kind of popular song called maqām.65 The spread of the gramophone and its use in popular cafes allowed Iraqis access to popular songs recorded by Arab and Iraqi artists. The 1920s saw a proliferation of cabarets which drew their performers from Egypt and Syria, but gradually hosted Iraqi female performers. Cinema houses, often owned by minorities, brought the motion pic-

62 Meir Baṣrī, Riḥ lat al-ʿumr: min ḍifāf ad-Dijla ilā Wādī ath-Thayms [Journey of a Life: from the banks of the Tigris to the Thames valley] (Jerusalem, 1991), pp. 9–15. 63 Sami Zubaida, “The Jews and the Iraqi Nation,” Paper presented in the Sixth Mediterranean Social and Political Research Meeting, European University Institute, Florence, March 2004. 64 Meir Baṣrī, Aʿlām al-Yahūd fi-l-ʿIrāq al-ḥ adīth [Eminent Jewish personalities in modern Iraq] (Jerusalem, 1983), pp. 64–65. 65 One of the most famous of the maqām singers and innovators was Mullah ʿAbbūd al-Karkhī, see ʿAzīz Jāsim al-Ḥ ajjiyāt, Al-amthāl wa-l-ḥ ikayāt al-ʿāmmiya al-Baghdādīya fī shiʿr al-Mullā ʿAbbūd al-Karkhī [Colloquial Baghdad proverbs and stories in the poetry of Mullah ʿAbbūd al-Karkhī] (Beirut, 2004).

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ture to the populace.66 ʿAbbās al-Baghdādī recalls that among the most popular films were All Quiet on the Western Front and Tarzan.67 By the middle of the 1920s the government and the press began calling for the establishment of clubs and other civic associations to curb the populations’ interest in popular entertainment.68 The transformation in the cultural landscape of post-war Iraq created a sense of the period as one of moral decadence.69 In the vernacular poetry published in the 1920s and early 1930s in newspapers, particularly the newspaper Baghdad, the mood expressed was cynical and often angry at this change. In a poem entitled Each One Fans His Own Kebab, Shaykh Nājī Mutḷ ib of Hilla wrote of the new era as one dominated by selfish people who sold their nationalism and sense of integrity to commercial interests. The world, according to Mut ̣lib, was peopled by sycophants who were busy fanning their own kebab. Whenever one tries to engage them in conversation or ask their assistance they are quick to curse you by saying “fucking.” He writes: Oh Sorrow! Our kind is being degraded From the West we take our clothes— We have followed the light of the West And we remain in its shadow No one takes care of our barley Beer has become its rabāba (musical instrument)70

The world that Muṭlib describes in his poem is one in which all forms of western culture have pervaded and corrupted Iraqi society. Barley is now used for beer which is prohibited by Islam and Iraqi carpetbaggers now use the foul language of British soldiers to dismiss their fellow citizens. In another vernacular poem written by Ṣāliḥ aḍ-Ḍ aḥwī from the Shiʾite suburb of Kazimiya, the culprit is the Iraqi who has no sense of patriotism. In a poem entitled All the Noise is from Those without Patriotism, he decries rich Iraqis who had made small fortunes by importing foreign goods. These merchants were the nouveau riche 66 Kamāl Latị̄ f Sālim, Mughanniyāt Baghdād [Female Singers of Baghdad] (Baghdad, 1985), pp. 15–33. 67 al-Baghdādī, Baghdād, pp. 103–112. 68 al-Zabīdī, Baghdād, p. 239. 69 Elizabeth Thompson in her Colonial Citizens, cited earlier, has traced a similar development in Syria and Lebanon, pp. 113–224. 70 Anastās al-Karmalī, Majmūʿat fi-l-aghānī al-ʿāmmiya al-ʿIrāqīya, [Collection of Iraqi popular songs], ed. Amīr ar-Rashīd as-Samarrāʾī, vol. 2 (Baghdad, 1999), pp. 328–331.

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who bragged about their fortune but were equally loud in proclaiming their poverty when pressed for charity. Iraqis, like those nouveau riche merchants, were turning a blind eye to the erosion of national textile industries. Instead, they were busy entertaining themselves in hotels and getting drunk in nightclubs.71 Conclusion Many Iraqi men who wrote about the Great War and the new political and cultural landscape it created thought of themselves as witnesses to the birth of a nation and a new moral and social order. They were, by their own reckoning, a generation shaped by the late Ottoman constitutional experience and the introduction of the accoutrements of a modern public sphere. Hence, despite the severe political and social disruptions caused by the war, those who wrote about it imagined it as part of personal narrative which had its beginnings in the Ottoman period. Whether opposed to or supportive of the Ottoman regime, their writings betrayed a sense of nostalgia for a time when modernity’s more disruptive aspects were held in check. Despite this nostalgia, however, they wrote of the war as ushering in a new beginning which carried promise of political liberation. But with the promise of new beginnings came a sense that the moral and social universe that had governed the lives of Iraqis in the late Ottoman period had been severely and irreparably damaged by the institutions of the modern national/colonial state. Hence the literature and personal narratives of the post-war period often betray ambivalence regarding the modernity visited upon them by the Great War.

71

Ibid., pp. 361–363.

ARDOUR AND ANXIETY: POLITICS AND LITERATURE IN THE INDIAN HOMEFRONT Santanu Das At the time of writing The Indian Corps in France (1918), Merewether and Smith felt that the “present struggle” had been waged on so immense a scale that many units had failed to receive “contemporary justice”, but “perhaps none more conspicuously than those of the Indian Army Corps”.1 Over the century, attempts have been made to rectify this, not only in words but in stone. In 1921, the Duke of Connaught laid the foundation stone for the India Gate (initially known as All India War Memorial), built by Lutyens and dedicated to the “dead of the Indian armies who fell and are honoured in France and Flanders, Mesopotamia and Persia, East Africa, Gallipoli and Elsewhere in the Near and the Far East.” In March, 1929, the Memorial to the Missing of the Mesopotamia Expeditionary Force was unveiled at the Basra war cemetery in Iraq, dedicated to the memory of 40,500 dead of the Commonwealth war forces which included a substantial number of Indian soldiers.2 More haunting is the impeccably maintained war memorial to the Indian soldiers at Neuve Chapelle (where the Indian Corps suffered heavy casualties in May 1915) with its beautiful chhatri, its circular wall carved with Indian symbols and with the two lions holding eternal vigil around the pillar with inscriptions to the soldiers in Hindi, Urdu and Gurmukhi. Yet, in spite of these various processes of commemoration, there is a general cultural amnesia about the participation and contribution of more than one million Indian men, including soldiers and labourers, in the Great War. Estimates about the exact number of Indians recruited and sent abroad—mainly to Europe, Mesopotamia and East Africa—tend to

1 Lt Col Merewether and Sir Frederick Smith, The Indian Corps in France (London, 1918), pp. xvi–xvii. 2 This massive monument was transferred under presidential decree in 1997 to a place 32 kilometers on the road to Nasiriyah, which was part of the battleground of the Gulf War. See Philip Longworth, The Unending Vigil: A History of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission (London, 1988).

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vary. According to a contemporary governmental publication, the total number of Indian ranks recruited during the war, up to 31st December 1919, was 877,068 combatants and 563,369 non-combatants, making a total of 1,440,437.3 Between August 1914 and December 1919, India had sent overseas for purposes of war 622,224 soldiers and 474,789 non-combatants.4 The summary of Indian casualties, as furnished by the British imperial government of the time, runs as follows (some of the figures, including the numbers for prisoners, can be challenged):5 Summary of Indian casualties Died from all causes Wounded Missing Prisoners Presumed prisoners Grand Total

53,486 64,350 2,937 302 523 121,598

Fighting for the empire during the first deep stirrings of nationalist uprisings, the Indian soldiers have been doubly marginalized: by their own national history which has focussed on the Independence movement and the modern memory of war which has remained largely Eurocentric.6 First World War studies have been one of the most productive fields of enquiry in recent years, with research spanning across several disciplines: military and cultural history, literary criticism, geography, gender and sexuality studies, works on memory and trauma,

3

India’s Contribution to the Great War (Calcutta, 1923), p. 79. Statistics of the Military Effort of the British Empire during the Great War, 1914–1920 (London, 1920), p. 777. According to David Omissi, “By the time of the Armistice, India had provided over 1.27 million men, including 827,000 combatants, contributing roughly one man in ten to the war effort of the British Empire.” David Omissi, ed., Indian Voices of the Great War: Soldiers’ letters, 1914–1918 (Basingstoke, 1999), p. 4. 5 Statistics of the Military, p. 776. 6 However, this is changing, and of course there are notable exceptions such as Sumit Sarkar’s Modern India 1885–1947 (New Delhi, 1983) or Hew Strachan’s The First World War, vol. 1: To Arms (Oxford, 2001). Recently, there has been a renewed interest in these First World War soldiers by scholars as various as Dewitt Ellinwood, David Omissi, Rozina Visram, Gordon Corrigan and Sugato Bose. 4

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psychoanalysis and more recently, anthropology.7 If the most influential book on the cultural history of the First World War in the English-speaking world came surprisingly from a literary critic—Paul Fussell’s seminal work The Great War and Modern Memory (Oxford, 1975), most subsequent works from military history to literary criticism have developed in oedipal reaction to Fussell’s grand narrative. Military historians such as John Keegan and Keith Jeffery have found it increasingly important to incorporate cultural history while cultural historians such as Jay Winter and Joanna Bourke have often turned to literature for fresh insights into both the psychology of warfare and processes of mourning. In what is now widely known as the ‘second wave’ of First World War studies, ushered in largely by Jay Winter’s Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning: the Great War in European Cultural History (Cambridge, 1995), there has been two important trends: a comparative, interdisciplinary perspective (evident in the magisterial Capital Cities at War: Paris, London, Berlin, 1914–1919) and second, the recovery of marginalised voices, particularly of women, civilians, and of the colonial conscripts. The multiracial and international nature of the First World War is fast becoming the focus of intense enquiry and debate, particularly in the build-up to the centennial commemoration of the war in 2014. While there has been distinguished work on the role of individual countries or particular groups,8 there has not been much corresponding work on India and the First World War. Research on the Indian experience of the First World War, with the intimacy and immediacy that Fussell brings to the English soldiers, is partly crippled by

7 A good summary of the contemporary debates and trends in First World War studies can be found in Stefan Goebel, “Beyond Discourse? Bodies and Memories of Two Wars,” Journal of Contemporary History 42, 2 (2007), 377–385, which is a review article of several recent books on First World War; also, see the introduction to Santanu Das, Touch and Intimacy in First World War Literature (Cambridge, Eng., 2006), pp. 1–32. 8 These include, among other important works, Keith Jeffery, Ireland and the Great War (2000); Hew Strachan The First World War in Africa (Oxford, 2004); Chris Pugsley’s Te Hokowhitu a Tu: the Maori Pioneer Battalion in the First World War (Auckland, 1995); Richard Smith, Jamaican Volunteer’s in the First World War: Race, Masculinity and the Development of National Consciousness (Manchester, 2005) and Joe Lunn, Memoirs of a Maelstrom: A Senegalese Oral History of the First World War (Portsmouth, N.H., 1999). Some of these perspectives and experiences are brought together in: Santanu Das, ed., Race, Empire and the First World War Experience (Cambridge, Eng., 2011).

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the absence of the thousands of letters, memoirs, diaries and official records which survive from the European soldiers in the conflict. Under such circumstances, an interdisciplinary approach making innovative use of available material becomes all the more important and fruitful: such research has to be solidly grounded in archival research and sensitive to historical, regional and cultural specificity, as well as to the genre of the document under consideration, while being alert to global perspectives. Two of the most substantial contributions have been India and World War I, a pioneering critical volume edited by S. Pradhan and Ellinwood and David Omissi’s very useful Indian Voices of the Great War (1999), a compilation of soldiers’ censored letters, largely from France but some from Mesopotamia as well.9 In recent years, there has been a swell of interest in not just the Indian experience of the war, but generally in the topic of colonialism, race and the war. Comparison of the ordeal of various troops from the colonies and dominions, as well as of Chinese labourers and African American soldiers and points of contact between them bring fresh areas of First World experience into focus.10 Consider the following letters, the first written by a New Zealand bomber from Turkey just before the Battle of Lone Pine, and the second by an Australian abroad the troopship ‘Ionian’: In a few hours’ time our great attack takes place. Up until a few days there were only New Zealand and Australian troops here, but this last

9 Some of the valuable early writings India on the First World War, from an imperial perspective, can be found in James Willcocks, With the Indians in France (London, 1920) and Merewether and Smith, The Indian Corps in France (London, 1919). Important secondary works include: D. C. Ellinwood and S. D. Pradhan, eds., India and World War I (Delhi, 1978) and David Omissi, The Sepoy and the Raj (Basingstoke, 1994); also see S. D. Pradhan, ed., Indian Army in East Africa, 1914–1918 (Delhi, 1991); Omissi, Indian Voices; Jeffery Greenhut, “The Imperial Reserve: the Indian Corps on the Western Front, 1914–1915,” Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History 12 (1983); Susan VanKoski, “Letters Home, 1915–1916: Punjabi Soldiers Reflect on War and Life in Europe,” International Journal of Punjab Studies 2 (1995); Gordon Corrigan, Sepoys in the Trenches (Staplehurst, 1999); T. Tai-Yong, “An Imperial Home Front,” Journal of Military History LXIV (2000), 371–410; Rozina Visram, Asians in Britain (London, 2002); Radika Singha, “Finding Labour from India for the War in Iraq,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 49, 2 (2007) 412–445. 10 See Das, ed., Race, Empire and the First World War.

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few nights thousands of English, Welsh, Irish and Indian troops have landed.11 The famous Gurkha Regiment now embarked on the ‘Ionian’. These troops are very distinctive, they are short and nuggety of build, Nepalese men and most wonderful fighters and as fearless as the lion. Each man carries a knife known as a kugri [sic], a curved knife broadening towards the point which they throw at the enemy. I have watched them practise and came to the conclusion that I would rather be on their side than against them.12

There are many letters in these archives describing Australian and New Zealander responses to the Indian soldiers along whom they fought in Gallipoli. What were the levels of contact between troops from different colonies and dominions, and how where they perceived and treated by each other, and by European troops and civilians? Above all, if imperial war propaganda and recruitment were their major forces that drove the international war machine—in fact, it makes us think of the war in terms of globalisation, multiracial labour markets and improved means of communication—how was the war understood, mediated and represented in the colonies? While writing the African history of the war, Melville Page interviewed some elderly Malawi women who remembered how men were captured at night, tied up in chains of palm leaf rope and drafted on a steamer to work as labourers or soldiers. Interviewed on April 4, 1973 Abitisindo, a Malawi woman who worked as a courier, told Melville, “I went there [to the war] to eat, that is all.”13 The present article comes out of a longer project on India, empire and the First World War which seeks to recuperate the experience of the Indian soldiers and non-combatants of the First World War, as well as to analyse the knotted tropes of empire, war and Indian nationalism through a dialogue between different kinds of evidence: censored letters, governmental archival records, photographs as well literary narratives of the First World War. Here, I adopt a delimited focus. I seek to trace and analyse the structures of feeling shaping

11 Auckland War Memorial Museum, Auckland, “Papers of Arthur Currey”, 764/44. 12 Australian War Memorial, Auckland, “Papers of George MacKay 3rd Engineer HMTS”, 2 DRL/0874. 13 The interview is excerpted in Margaret Higonnet, ed., Lines of Fire: Women Writers of World War I (New York, 1999), p. 323.

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political and literary responses that the war elicited in India through three lines of enquiry: from the native princes; from the political and literary bourgeoisie and finally, by concentrating on an exceptional event in Bengal—the offer of recruitment of soldiers from educated, middle-class civilians, and the cultural excitement and racial anxieties surrounding it, as manifested in a freshly unearthed Bengali recruitment play, The Bengal Platoon. Writing nation, fighting war On September 8, 1914, in a message to “The Princes and Peoples of My Indian Empire,” the “King-Emperor” observed that “nothing has moved me more than the passionate devotion to My Throne expressed both by My Indian subjects, and by the Feudatory Princes and the Ruling Chiefs of India, and their prodigal offers of their lives and their resources in the cause of the Realm.”14 Indeed he had ample reason to be moved. Apart from certain isolated revolutionary activities, particularly from the Ghadr party based in North America,15 the support for the war was overwhelming. The feudatory princes almost started competing with each other with extravagant offers of men, money, animals and war equipment. The Nizam of Hyderabad led with his magnanimous offer of Rs 60 lakhs for the maintenance of two cavalry units connected with Hyderabad. In a confidential note, the Nizam’s minister Nawab Salar Bahadur warned the Resident that in case the price of crops fell or buyers were not forthcoming, “it would be most imprudent” to deplete cash balances by so huge an amount and that “it is desirable that payment should be as gradual as possible.”16 The following contribution of the Nizam, detailed in India’s Services in the War, gives us an idea of the extravagance:17

14

India and the War (London, 1915), pp. 40–41. See F. C. Isemonger and J. Slattery, Account of Ghadr Conspiracy (1913–1915) (Lahore, 1919). 16 Delhi, National Archives of India (henceforth NAI), Foreign and Political, 1915, Internal B, April 1915 Nos. 319/346. 17 M. B. I. Bhargava, India’s Services in the War (Allahabad, 1919), p. 52. 15

ardour and anxiety Rs Towards the payment of war charges of the 15,300,000 20th Deccan Horse and the First Imperial Service Cavalry Prince of Wales Relief Fund 100,000 Imperial Indian Relief Fund 100,000 To the Admiralty in aid of anti-submarine 1,500,000 campaign Our Day Collection for the Red Cross 100,000 Special Donation towards the prosecution of 1,500,000 the war To Their Majesties for the relief of sufferers 375,000 from the war on the occasion of their Silver Wedding Other subscriptions 134,000 Share of expenditure of hospitalship ‘Loyalty’ 200,000 maintained by the Princes of India

347 £ 1,020,000 6,666 6,666 100,000 6,666 100,000 25,000 9,000 13,300

Vast sums of money flowed from the 700 odd native princes according to their wealth and prestige, from a contribution of Rs 50 lakhs from the Maharajah of Mysore to Rs 5 lakhs from the Maharajah Gaekwar of Baroda for the purchase of aeroplanes for the use of the Royal Flying Corps.18 There were also interest-free loans such as the offer of Rs 50 lakhs from Gwalior, in addition to offers of troops, labourers, hospital ships, ambulances, motorcars, flotillas, horses, materials, food, clothes. Some of the contributions were specific: the Begum of Bhopal sent 500 copies of the Koran and 1,487 copies of religious tracts for the Muslim soldiers. The Maharajah of Patiala similarly sent Romals (covers spread on the Granth) and Chanani to the Sikh prisoners in Germany.19 He also offered a flotilla of motorcars for use in Mesopotamia.20 The munificence of the princes was duplicated by smaller landowners and chieftains: the Thakur of Bagli thus contributed Rs 4000 for the comforts of the Indian troops in East Africa, Mesopotamia and Egypt:

18 NAI, Foreign and Political, Internal B, April 1915 Nos. 319; West Bengal State Archives, Calcutta, Political (Confidential), 1915 Proceedings 505. 19 Punjab Government Civil Secretariat, Political Part B, February 1917, 6427/74, 139–143. 20 Punjab Government Civil Secretariat, Political Part B, October 1917, 6336, 138–139.

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“Socks, shirts, mufflers, waistcoats, cardigan jackets [. . .] tobacco, cigarettes, chocolates.”21 Various factors are fused and confused behind this show of enthusiasm and munificence. With limited power of sovereignty, heavily dependent on the British Raj for their survival and threatened by the rising tide of nationalism and constitutional reforms, the Indian princes seized upon the European war as an opportunity. This was their chance to strengthen their bonds with the empire, demonstrate their loyalty and thus justify their very existence. For some of the princes, a European war was, like the Riviera tennis championship where the Maharaja Holkar of Indore had taken part, a singular adventure and many of them immediately volunteered to go. Indeed, it became a point of honour regarding the selection of princes for the front. When Charles Roberts announced on 9 September the names of the princes selected—including the chiefs of Jodhpur, Bikanir, Patiala, Sir Partab Singh, Regent of Jodhpur and his sixteen-year-old nephew, the Heir apparent of Bhopal and a brother of a Maharajah of Coochbehar, among others—it caused a sensation in the House of Commons. Much prestige rested too on particular regimental units. This is particularly evident in a letter discussing the fear of the Maharaja of Patiala that the identity of a double company of his regiment sent to reinforce the 14th Sikhs in Dardanelles may be lost and “whatever they may achieve will go to the credit of the 14th Sikhs.” The War Office bowed to the request, assuring that “the double company should be maintained as a separate unit” and that “from time to time a report should be made regarding their doings.”22 Similarly striking were the responses of the queens from the princely states. Consider the following speeches, the first by a Hindu princess, Taradevi, in Calcutta on 25 December, 1914 and the second from the Begum of Bhopal in the Delhi delivered at the Delhi War Conference in April, 1918: Gentlemen, though I am a lady of such an advanced age yet I am Kshatriya and when my Kshatriya blood rises up in my veins and when I think I am the widow to the eldest son of one who was a most tried friend of the British Government I jump on my feet at the aspiration of going to the field of war to fight Britain’s battle. It is not I alone, I

21 22

NAI, Foreign and Political, Internal B April 1915 Nos. 972–977. NAI, Foreign and Political, Deposit Internal, 1915.

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should say, but there are thousands and thousands of Indian ladies who are more anxious than myself, but there is no such emergency, neither will there be one for the ladies to go to the front when they are brave men who would suffice for fighting the enemies. Is it not a matter for regret then that Turkey should [. . .] join hands with the enemies of our British Government? All gentlemen like you have read, I suppose, in the papers, how the British Government is now, as ever, having Mohamedan interests at heart [. . .] India will leave nothing undone to justify the confidence, the love, the sympathy with which the King-Emperor has always honoured us. The need of the Empire is undoubtedly India’s opportunity [. . .] Now that the war has entered upon a more intense phase we assure you that it will never be said that in this supreme crisis India when weighed in the balance was found wanting.23

These speeches, made by two powerful women rulers of the time, defy the coupling of women with international pacifism, or indeed, with anti-colonialism. Instead of a feminist politics of resistance or indeed a ‘maternal’ protective attitude towards the subjects, we have in each case an imperious, authoritarian female figure, sending off her men to war, somewhat like the figure of Britannia in Wilfred Owen’s war poem “The Kind Ghosts”. There she is neither “disturbed” nor “grieved” by the death of soldiers who sends her “boys” to war and whose “blood lies in her crimson rooms.”24 Within the colonial context, the above comments are both fascinating and deeply disturbing, especially in the way local caste and religious politics are being manipulated. ‘Kshatriya’ is the martial caste. In the first extract, we have the image of the Hindu warrior-queen invoking the caste and gender politics of a patriarchal, hierarchical society for recruitment in the world’s first modern war. The second quotation points to a specific religious issue: with the entry into the war of Turkey whose sultan bore the title of Khalifa (Arabic for ‘steward’) or religious leader, the English became extremely anxious about the possibility of a global jihad. In the above quotation from the Begum of Bhopal, we see a regional leader being used to pacify her Muslim subjects and ensure their continuing support for the war against their religious brethren.25 As early as 14 November, 1914, in Constantinople, the Sheikh-ul-Islam had declared a holy

23

Quoted in Bhargava, India’s Sevices in the War, p. 205 and p. 278. Wilfred Owen, “The Kind Ghosts,” in Complete Poems, ed. Jon Stallworthy (London, 1990), p. 158. 25 For a detailed exploration, see Y. D. Prasad, The Indian Mussalmans and World War I (New Delhi, 1985). 24

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religious war against the Western nations including Britain, France and Russia. As Hew Strachan observes, “This was a call to revolution which had, it seemed, the potential to set all Asia and much of Africa ablaze.”26 The extent of Britain’s anxiety can be gauged from the fact that of the 270 million Muslims in the world in 1914, almost 100 million were British subjects; 20 million were under French rule, while Russia’s Asian Empire claimed another 20 million.27 These Muslims, fighting against the Ottoman Empire, were promised “the fire of hell”. Indeed, from the very beginning of the war, Shiʾa Muslim sepoys had expressed reservations about fighting near the holy sites in Mesopotamia, resulting in the communiqué from the British Governement that “the holy places of [. . .] Jeddah will be immune from attack or molestation by the British naval and military forces” and that “there is no misunderstanding on the part of His Majesty’s most loyal Moslem subjects as to the attitude of His Majesty’s Government in this war.”28 After the British failure in Mesopotamia and the fall of Kut on April 29, 1916, the worst fears of a jihad seemed to have been realised. “For me”, von der Goltz had written, “the hallmark of the twentieth century must be the revolution of the coloured races against the colonial imperialism of Europe.”29 Echoing the Begum’s exhortations, we have similar appeals from the Nizam of Hyderbad, the Nawab of Palanpur as well as the Aga Khan, asking their subjects that “at this critical juncture it is the bounden duty of the Mohammedans of India to adhere firmly to their old and tried loyalty to the British Government.”30 The ‘educated classes’: loyalty and aspiration If the First World War is regarded as a watershed in modernist history, giving traumatic birth, as it were, to the “modernist ironic consciousness”31 of the West, how did it affect the imagination of the professional and middle-classes in India? How was the war under26

Hew Strachan, The First World War (London, 2003), pp. 99–100. Strachan, The First World War, p. 99. 28 West Bengal State Archives, Calcutta, Home (Political) Confidential, 1914, File 3W/2. 29 Strachan, The First World War, p. 125. 30 “Indian Mussalmans and the War,” in All About the War: The India Review War Book, ed. G. A. Natesan (Madras, 1919?), p. 269 (hereafter abbreviated as AATW). 31 See Paul Fussell’s thesis on this shift in consciousness in The Great War and Modern Memory (Oxford, 1975). 27

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stood, represented and imagined in the socio-political and literary discourses of the time in India? Before we move on to examine writings on India and the war, it is important to recognise the sharp split— more than in Europe or in the self-governing dominions—between a predominantly middle-class, urban discourse surrounding the war and a vanished oral culture of a largely semi-literate peasant-warrior class from whom the sepoys were recruited. The silence of these soldiers, apart from the censored versions of their letters now housed in the British Library, produces a big challenge to the historian and the literary scholar of the First World War. At the same time however, the war writings of the time, though largely produced and consumed by the literary-political bourgeoisie, provide fascinating insights into the interlocking tropes and tensions around issues of imperial duty, nationalist aspirations and war service. In an article titled “The war and the educated classes”, Sir P. S. Sivaswami, a member of the Executive Council, Madras, wrote: No doubt could have been entertained as to the loyalty of the ruling chiefs, or of the army in India. But what would be the attitude of the educated classes who were such frequent and severe critics of the administration and who did not hesitate to express freely their grievances and aspirations? [. . .] The expressions of loyalty and devotion to the British Raj that have been heard throughout the land have proceeded, not from the inarticulate masses, but from the literate classes and the thinking portion of the public.32

Indeed, what was more surprising than the offers of the princes was the support from the middle-class and the political bourgeoisie whom Sivaswami refers to as ‘the educated classes’. Apart from a few isolated revolutionary sentiments and incidents,33 the majority of the political opinion—particularly that of the Moderates such as Dadabhai Naorji, Surendranath Banerjee and Pherozeshah Mehta who dominated the Congress in 1914—were unanimous in their support for the war. In fact, discourses surrounding the war were characterised by an extravagant rhetoric of ‘loyalty’ to the empire: people wrote about “loyalty which had swept the country”, “the duty of Mahomedans of India to adhere firmly to their old and tried loyalty to the British Government”,

32

AATW, v–vi. See A. C. Bose, “Indian Revolutionaries during the First World War: A Study of their Aims and Weaknesses,” in India and World War I, eds. Ellinwood and Pradhan, pp. 109–126. 33

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“reverberation and diffusion of sentiments of loyalty” or that “key to the whole situation is Loyalty.”34 If the war is universally seen a ‘catastrophe’ for Europe, it was seen as an opportunity for India, as in William Weddenburn’s article, “India’s Opportunity”.35 Sivaswami continues, [The Indian’s] loyalty is not the merely instinctive loyalty of the Briton at home or the Colonial, but the outcome of gratitude for benefits conferred and of the conviction that the progress of India is indissolubly bound up with the integrity and solidarity of the British Empire.36

The benefits are enumerated as the spread of education, the unification of an otherwise divided nation, and protection against “internal disorder and external aggression”. Sivaswami’s views are echoed by other writers in the volume, such as Prabashanker D. Pattani in “Attached India” or Narayan Chandavarkar in “The War & Some Lessons for India”. The subject of both essays are the responses to war from the ‘educated middle-classes’, concluding with the observation that “those who freely criticised the administration in time of peace” have now “raised their voices equally loudly in preaching the imperative need for co-operation with Government.”37 On 12th August, 1914, Dadabhai Naoroji, one of the founding figures of Indian National Congress, describing himself “more of a critic than a simple praiser of the British Rule in India” noted: “the vast mass of humanity of India will have but one desire in his heart viz., to support [. . .] the British people in their glorious struggle for justice, liberty honour.”38 Other parties and communities such as the All India Muslim League, Madras Provincial Congress, Hindus of Punjab or the Parsee community of Bombay concurred. Fund-raising was organised and meetings held in cities such as Calcutta, Bombay, Lahore and Allahabad. Addressing a big gathering in Madras, Dr Subramania Iyer claimed that to be allowed to serve as volunteers is an “honour superior to that of a seat in the Executive Council and even in the Council of the Secretary of State.”39 More important was the waiving of Section 22 of the Government of India Act which forbade the application of 34 35 36 37 38 39

AATW, pp. xii, 269, vi, xviii. AATW, p. 123, reprinted from the New Statesman, London. AATW, p. vi. AATW, p. i. AATW, preface. Quoted in India and the War (Lahore, n.d.), pp. 34–35.

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Indian revenues towards meeting the expenses of any military operations carried beyond the external frontiers, except for preventing any actual invasion. The consent of both Houses of Parliament was needed to suspend these restrictions. On 8 September 1914, Sir Gagadhar Chitnavis, seconded by the Raja of Mahmudabad, moved a resolution in the Imperial Legislative Council to the effect that the people of India, in addition to the military assistance being offered, would share the financial burden imposed by the war on England.40 Most of these discussions find their fullest contemporary record in All About the War:The Indian Review War Book, edited by the Madrasbased publisher G. A. Natesan. Of course, there are other contemporary accounts, from official publications such as India’s Services in the War (Allahabad: 1919), Patiala and the Great War (London: 1923), India’s Contributions to the Great War (Calcutta, 1923) to literary responses such as poems by Rabindranath Tagore and Sarojini Naidu. But The Indian Review War Book remains the most compendious and wideranging record. Though the volume is concerned generally about the war, the focus is on India’s responses: it is an extraordinary collection, including extracts, quotations and letters from Asquith, Lord Crewe, Hardinge, the views of nationalist leaders such as Dadabhai Naorji, Mahatma Gandhi and Annie Besant, war poems as well as a series of compelling articles from prominent Indian politicians and officials. Though there are extracts from the speeches of Native Princes as well as from Extremist leaders such as Bal Gangadhar Tilak, the general tone of the articles is that of the political Moderates: wholehearted support is pledged to the empire at this hour of crisis but with an underlying expectation of reward in the form of colonial self-government within the imperial structure. Thus, if we return to Sivaswami’s article, after the assertions of loyalty, he concludes: Agitation in peaceful times for political privileges is certainly not inconsistent with deep-seated loyalty. That the educated classes should desire to have a larger share in the direction of the administration or larger opportunities for the exercise of responsibility is not unnatural.41

Nationalist aspirations and activities are temporarily laid in abeyance because of the war but not forgotten. In fact, it was during the war years that the domestic politics became more ‘national’ than before, 40 41

Legislative Council’s Proceedings, India (1914–15), vol. 53, 16. AATW.

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with Annie Besant and Bal Gangadhar Tilak forming the Home Rule Leagues in 1916, and ultimately paving the way for Gandhi’s leadership in 1919.42 The war to Besant was a rare opportunity for India to establish its right of self-rule through its services to the empire at this time of crisis. In her article ‘India’s Loyalty and England’s Duty’ she notes: When the war is over and we cannot doubt that the King-Emperor will, as reward for her [India’s] glorious defence of the Empire, pin upon her breast the jewelled medal of Self-Government within the Empire. It will be, in a sense, a real Victoria Cross, for the great Empress would see in it the fulfilment of her promise in 1858, and the legend inscribed on it would be ‘for valour’.43

Mahatma Gandhi however demurred. In his autobiography, he notes: “I thought that England’s need should not be turned into our opportunity, and that it was more becoming and far-sighted not to press our demands while the war lasted.”44 In a letter to Lord Chelmsford on 10 July, 1917, protesting against the internment of Besant and speaking about her “great sactifice and love for India”, he however noted: “I myself do not like much in Mrs. Besant’s methods [. . .] I have not liked the idea of political propaganda being carried on during the war. In my opinion our restraint will be our best propaganda.”45 Beyond such strategic political calculation however lay a deeper impulse: the extravagant rhetoric of loyalty and gratitude for being allowed to fight in the war also testify to the ‘psychological damage’ caused by colonialism. According to Ashis Nandy, the success of colonial ideology is based on the gradual and insidious corrosion of self-esteem and confidence of the colonised: the sense of racial and cultural inferiority is gradually internalised by the indigenous people.46 For many Indians, imperial war service became curiously a

42 See H. F. Owen, “Towards Nation-wide Agitation and Organisation: The Home Rule Leagues, 1915–18,” in Soundings in Modern South Asian History, ed. D. A. Low (London, 1968), p. 159. 43 AATW, p. 267. 44 M. K. Gandhi, An Autobiography or, The Story of My Experiments with Truth, trans. Mahadev Desai (Harmondsworth, 1982), p. 317. 45 Kanj Dwarkadas, India’s Fight for Freedom (1966), pp. 46–47, quoted in Raj Kumar, Annie Besant’s Rise to Power in Indian Politics 1914–1917 (Delhi, 1981), p. 115. 46 See Ashis Nandy, The Intimate Enemy: Loss and Recovery of the Self under Colonialism (Delhi, 1983).

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way of salvaging national and regional prestige, revealed poignantly in a series of war poems published in All About the War: “India to England” by the Indian judge, Nawab Nizamat Jung, “The Indian Expeditionary Force” by K. S. Ramaswami Sastri, “Ode to the Indian Army” by M. Krishmachary and finally “England’s Cause is Ours” by A. Madhaviah: Sister! Brothers! Now’s the hour That we prove our worth,— Let who can, go fight and slay, [. . .] Prove by all that’s in our power, England’s cause is ours.47

Found ‘wanting’, according to colonial ideology, before the ‘superior’ civilisation of the West, and still smarting under the blemish of ‘disloyalty’ surrounding the Sepoy Mutiny (1857), the First World War becomes an opportunity to set aright the racial slur: fighting alongside the Europeans in this world war becomes an opportunity to ‘prove’ the ‘worth’ of Indian manhood. At the same time, it is also India’s point of entry into ‘History’: if, according to colonial historiography, Europe was the place where history was ‘made’ and histories of the colonies were subsidiary to this grand narrative, the Great War was surely a guarantee of India’s direct participation in its march. Some of these ambivalences are brilliantly captured in the war time writings of Sarojini Naidu. Naidu was an internationally celebrated figure in early twentieth century: she was christened ‘the Nightingale of India’ for her poetry in English and was one of the foremost nationalist and feminist leaders, becoming the president of the Indian National Congress in 1925.48 It was the First World War that occasioned her encounter with Gandhi who was at that time raising an ambulance corps in London. Actively involved in the war efforts through the Lyceum club in London, she then went back to India and at the Madras Provincial conference in 1918, she made the following appeal:

47

AATW, 261. The standard biographies are Tara Ali Baig, Sarojini Naidu (Delhi, 1974), and Hasi Banerjee, Sarojini Naidu: The Traditional Feminist (Calcutta, 1998). Some early works on her are K. K. Bhattacharya, “Sarojini Naidu, the Greatest Woman of Our Time,” Modern Review (April 1949) and R. Bhatnagar, Sarojini Naidu: The Poet of a Nation (Allahabad, n.d). 48

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The smarting phrase “nation of shopkeepers” leaps out of the page and reveals why this nationalist whose aim was to “hold together the divided edges of Mother India’s cloak of patriotism” would support India’s war service. Consider “The Gift of India”, written for the Report of the Hyderabad Ladies’ War Relief Association, December 1915, and later collected in The Broken Wing: Songs of Love, Death and Destiny 1915–1916: Is there aught you need that my hands withhold, Rich gifts of raiment or grain or gold? Lo! I have flung to the East and West, Priceless treasures torn of my breast, And yielded the sons of my stricken womb To the drum beats of duty, the sabres of doom. Gathered like pearls in their alien graves, Silent they sleep by the Persian waves. Scattered like shells on Egyptian sands They lie with pale brows and brave, broken hands. They are strewn like blossoms mown down by chance On the blood-brown meadows of Flanders and France. Can ye measure the grief of the tears I weep Or compass the woe of the watch I keep? Or the pride that thrills thro’ my heart’s despair And the hope that comforts the anguish of prayer? And the far sad glorious vision I see Of the torn red banners of Victory? When the terror and tumult of hate shall cease And life be refashioned on anvils of peace, And your love shall offer memorial thanks To the comrades who fought in your dauntless ranks, And you honour the deeds of the deathless ones, Remember the blood of thy martyred sons!50

49

Quoted in Bhargava, India’s Services (see above, n. 17), pp. 208–209. Sarojini Naidu, “The Gift of India,” in The Broken Wing: Songs of Love, Death and Destiny 1915–1916 (London, 1917), pp. 5–6. 50

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What would have been a lush, somewhat sentimental, war lyric from an English poet in a distinct late Victorian-early Georgian vein becomes rich and strange when produced by a nationalist Indian woman. The tropes of gender, nation and colonialism are fiercely knotted in the above poem. What is extraordinary is the way the nationalist/feminist trope of the abject Indian ‘mother’—from “Ode to India” to “Awake” (“Waken, O mother! thy children implore thee,/Who kneel in thy presence to serve and adore thee!”)51—is here exploited to legitimise and glorify India’s ‘gift’ to the empire: a standard trope of anti-colonial resistance flows and fuses with imperial support for the war with breathtaking fluency. The poem remains a powerful example of how literature illuminates the faultlines of history, exposing its contradictions and ambivalences: anglicization and indigenousness, residual colonial loyalty and an incipient nationalist consciousness, patriarchal glory and female mourning are all fused and confused in the above poem. More than a tribute to India or the war, Naidu’s poem is an ode to the complex and intimate processes of colonialism: the most articulate Indian woman-nationalist is steeped by virtue of her class and education in the English patriotic and poetic tradition. In the early nineteenth century, British colonisation in Bengal produced a class of anglicised, indigenous elite immersed in the English culture and literary traditions: a classic example is the Indian poet Michael Madhusudhan Dutt who declared: “Yes—I love the language—the glorious language of the Anglo-Saxon in all its radiant beauty.”52 Though this adoration would significantly change in the latter half of the century with the nationalist movement, one could see the continuation of this anglicised colonial sensibility in Naidu. While the abstract imagery of “drumbeats of duty, sabres of doom” or the “torn red banners of Victory” is reminiscent of the Jessie Pope school of poetry that Owen so famously ridiculed, the aestheticisation of the dead soldiers in the second stanza with its sensuous vocabulary—“pale brows”, “broken hands”, “blossoms mown down by chance” with their murmur of labials and sibilance—links the poem with the verse of Wilfred Owen, looking back to Tennyson, Swinburne and Yeats.

51 “Awake!”, dedicated to Mohammed Ali Jinnah, was recited at the Indian National Congress, 1915, and collected in The Broken Wing, p. 43. 52 Michael Madhusuha Dutt, The Anglo-Saxon and the Hindu (1854), quoted in Rosinka Chaudhuri, “The Dutt Family Album and Toru Dutt,” in A History of Indian Literature in English, ed. Arvind Krishna Mehrotra (New York, 2003), p. 53.

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In fact, the knotted relation between the tropes of gender, nation and war in the poem is richly resonant with Wilfred Owen’s “The Kind Ghosts”. Owen imagines Brittania as a femme fatale who lures her men to death: She dreams of golden gardens and sweet glooms, Not marvelling why her roses never fall, Nor what red mouths were torn to make their blooms.53

Naidu’s poem—strikingly similar to Owen’s in its use of words such as “doom”, “torn”, “red” “bloom” as well as in the use of sibilance and labials—shows a common inherited Georgian vocabulary but at the same time, it is also Owen’s poem turned upside down. First, Naidu’s poem is no anti-war protest poetry; moreover, woman is no longer a seducer addressed to in the third person by a male poet but rather a bereaved woman imagined in the first person. The nation is no longer Britannia but ‘Mother India’ with whom the female poet and implicitly the Indian reader identifies: the affective power of the war-bereaved woman in this poem is here rooted in the native trope of Mother India ‘fettered’ by the colonial yoke. Thus, while pro-war and seemingly derivative, it is at the same time gently subversive: it testifies to the complexity of the colonial encounter, of how literary influences are negotiated, and Naidu manages to inscribe both a burgeoning national consciousness and her feminine identity. Indeed, the poem is significant for the imagination of the nation and the writing of Indian history as Naidu brilliantly uses the war to align native contribution with global history. Her poem is not an aria for the death of the high European bourgeois consciousness but rather for the just recognition of the Indian soldiers: they fight not only in ‘Flanders and France’ but also in Egypt and Persia, revealing a different and more international geographical imagination of the war than in the First World War verse of Owen, Sassoon or Brittain. The Bengal Platoon: the theatre of anxiety If the political responses or the poetry of Naidu provide insights into some of the national discourses surrounding the war, in this concluding section, I would focus on a particular region to demonstrate how 53

Jon Stallworthy, The Poems of Wilfred Owen (Oxford, 1990), p. 158.

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any ‘Indian’ war response has to be nuanced to and understood in context of local, regional specificities, inflected by its cultural heritage or anxiety, class or caste politics, and socio-economic conditions. While there has been important work on Punjab and the recruiting policies adopted there,54 here I would consider the case of Bengal through a dialogue between a fascinating correspondence between the government of Bengal and a Bengali gentleman-doctor S. K. Mullick, the war speeches of the local zamindar Kumar Manindra Chandra Sinha, and finally a Bengali play titled Bengali Polton produced to encourage recruitment among Bengalis and dramatising the actual campaign through a mix of fact and fiction. What is quite extraordinary about these particular set of documents is the way they reveal not only the close connections between politics and literature and the workings of the Bengali bhadralok or bourgeoisie, but also how regional anxieties and aspirations outweigh national debates surrounding war participation and recruitment. In July 1916, Dr S. K. Mullick of Calcutta wrote to the Chief Secretary of the Government of Bengal with a unique offer. He wanted to raise and equip a regiment of citizen soldiers of 1000 men, comprising 100 men recruited from each of the provinces of Bengal, Bombay, Madras, U.P., C.P., N.W.F., Burma, Bihar, Assam and the Feudatory States.55 The organising committee would bear the expenses of recruitments, uniform and pay, and, if the services were accepted, the Government was supposed to find their rations. Each recruit would be paid a separation allowance of Rs18 per month, and a premium on life policy in case of death of Rs1000, amounting to Rs 2 per month. Each uniform, consisting of 2 khaki suits, 2 pairs of ammunition boots, turban or cap, underclothes, socks, an overcoat and a knapsack, was estimated to work out at Rs 20 per person. The total cost was estimated at Rs 4,00,000 and, as an experimental measure, the services of the regiment were to be fixed for one year. The whole regiment would be placed “unreservedly at His Excellency’s disposal for service at home or abroad.” Forestalling possible criticism about the unit as a “dangerous innovation” and any allegations of disloyalty, Dr Mullick noted that the battalion could be divided and attached to standing 54

See Tan Tai-Yong, The Garrison State: Military, Government and Society in Colonial Punjab, 1849–1947 (London, 2005). 55 State Archives, Calcutta, Political File 1W-53 (1–5), B April 1916 Proceedings 697 to 701.

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units of British and Indian army. Mentioning the support of other prominent leaders such as S. P. Sinha for the scheme and awaiting “His Excellency’s ashirbad”, he goes on to conclude that “a scheme such as this if accepted would bind India and England in still closer bonds in the realisation of a common interest” and that “United Kingdom with India and Colonies may well defy the world.”56 As in the writings of Sivaswami and Naidu, imperial ardour and nationalist sentiment are combined in Mullick’s offer. What is striking about the correspondence is that nationalism is filtered through a regional prism: throughout the letters, India is often conflated with or reduced to one state i.e. Bengal. In his letter to Mr Gourlay on 8 February, 1916, he notes: “We might confine the scheme altogether to Bengal if sufficient funds are forthcoming. It would be one more contribution of Bengal to the Empire at the hour of need no matter however small the unit.”57 Bengal’s first contribution in terms of men was the Bengal Ambulance Corps, a scheme which was masterminded by Dr. Sarbadhikari and earned praise for their services in Mesopotamia. Mullick’s offer of a regiment of citizen-soldiers was calculated to a different aim. If the Indian soldiers of the war were predominantly recruited from North India, mainly Punjab, in accordance with the theory of martial races, Mullick’s intention was to involve the nonmartial races, particularly the Bengalis who were regarded unfit to be soldiers. In his proposal, Mullick notes that “there are provinces included which are not at present open for recruitment” and that “we shall have a strict physical test.”58 A case in point was Satish Chandra Mukherji who was among the first batch of Bengalis to join the army. Initially rejected for his inadequate chest measurement, he took to swimming, developed his chest and was accepted in the army. He served and died in Baghdad from illness in March, 1918, and was given a military funeral.59 In a war speech delivered at a public meeting at the Young Men’s Union in Calcutta, on 22 May, 1917, Kumar M. C. Sinha described the progress of Mullick’s campaign and credited him as “the first who

56 57 58 59

Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Bhargava, India’s Services (see above, n. 17), p. 220.

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saw [the] Bengalee soldier coming.”60 Among others who supported Mullick in his efforts were prominent members of the Bengali society class: the Maharajadhiraja of Burdwan, Sir Rash Behari Ghose, Babu Surendranath Banerjee, Babu Motilal Ghose, Prince Victor Narain of Cooch Behar and Maharajah Bahadur Tagore. The motivating force was to highlight the contribution of Bengal. On 7 August, 1916, Lord Carmichael announced at a meeting of the Bengal Council that a Double Company of Bengalees for the Regular Army has been sanctioned. S. K. Mullick and Motilal Ghose flung themselves into the recruitment campaign and though the number required for the Double Company was 228, within a fortnight, nearly 400 names were registered.61 These recruits, unlike the semi-literate sepoys from Punjab, were well-educated Bengali youths belonging to the bhadrolok class. In an overcrowded meeting in the Star Theatre in September 1916, people came to see off the first batch of Bengali soldiers amidst much excitement, as expressed in a letter jointly signed by several Bengali dignitaries, including C. R. Das: “This is the first time in the history of British rule in India that the Government has decided to admit Bengalis into the army.”62 The same year, this recruitment campaign was made into a play— Bengali Platoon (Bangali Polton)—to aid the recruitment process. It was written in September, 1916 by Satish Chandra Chattopadhyay, an established novelist from Calcutta, and was premiered to full houses at Presidency theatre. Written in close consultation with Mullick and first read out in a private gathering at his house, Bengali Platoon is a compelling piece of work, mixing fact and fiction, colonial propaganda and bhadralok aspirations. Presaged by the photographs of the two leaders of the recruitment campaign—S. K. Mullick and Manindrachandra Sinha—and dedicated to the latter, the ‘factional’ nature of the play is signalled by its dramatis personae which includes Dr Mullick, Kumar Sinha and political figures such as Surendranath Banerjea along with fictional characters such as the village youths and their feisty mothers.

60 “The War Through Indian Eyes” (1917) in Writings and Speeches by Kumar Manindra Chandra Sinha (Calcutta: n.d.), p. 24. 61 Ibid., p. 25. 62 “Motilal Ghose”, http://www.archive.org/stream/motilalgosh035420mbp/motilalgosh035420mbp_djvu.txt. (accessed August 10, 2008).

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Divided into two acts, the play is centred round the excitement and initial misgivings (from the village women) about the recruitment campaign in a small village in West Bengal. The plot focuses on the careers of two country youths—the educated middle-class Nirmal and the buffoonish Kebla (meaning ‘silly’)—and the gradual evolution from their desultory, seemingly insignificant village life to their “glorious” enlistment as soldiers of the First World War. Propagandist and elitist, the play is nonetheless fascinating on a number of levels. Combining broad farcical humour with vividly realised scenes of country life, it remains one of the best examples of war propaganda as rollicking comedy; it opens up a whole new world in First World War theatre, not only in its colonial dimension, but in its engagement with village women, providing imaginative insights into how the war was perhaps mediated and interpreted in the furthest corners of the distant homefront. Above all, it shows how war recruitment happened in large parts of India, driven by the brute reality of economic need on one hand, and the pernicious colonial ideology of the ‘martial races’ on the other. The play opens with Nirmal—educated, unemployed and disillusioned—having just returned to his village. Nirmal’s disillusionment is shared by the other youths of the village: Khagen: The way our lives are going, it seems we’ve no option left. [. . .] The monster of poverty seems to be engulfing the whole of our country. Malaria and famine are now our constant companions. On top of that, the daily grind of poverty. I cannot see a single family that hasn’t felt its sharp pinch. Bimal: Not only that. We become penniless trying to fund our education and then we cannot find any work. Can there be anything worse that can happen to us? [. . .] Khagen: Don’t even mention work. If there is a single petty post vacant— everyone clamours for it like a horde of locusts [. . .]. Suren: That is why I’m saying, our condition is so miserable—without a job, our right hand doesn’t seem to work—instead of thinking of anything else, we should join the Bengal Platoon. Without it, there seems to be a lot of hardship ahead of us. Khagen: Far better to die in battle than to live a life of shame like a dog or a cat.63

63 Satishchandra Chattopadhay, Bengali Platoon [Bangali Polton in Bengali] (Calcutta, 1916), pp. 7–8. All translated passages from this play are mine.

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If Manindra Chandra Sinha, in his recruitment campaign, had claimed that those enlisted in the Bengal Platoon “were stationed in life vastly superior to that of the ordinary sepoy” and that they “belonged to the highest families in Bengal, being the relations of Rajahs, Barristers, Doctors,” Chattopadhay’s play toes a very different line. The politics of recruitment is firmly rooted in the socio-economic discourses of the time, in a culture of unemployment and inflation. It is deeply ironic that the mass unemployment which a decade ago had propelled many Bengali youths into revolutionary nationalist activities is here being used to encourage recruitment in the empire’s cause. In this play, the country youths enlist not because of any sense of imperial duty or even nationalist prestige, but in order to escape a life of unemployment and shame: as Kebla prepares to flee to Calcutta to enlist, he thinks of the salary of Rs 11 and of another Rs 50 he will get at the time of leaving. Destitution is one of the main themes of the play, discussed endlessly not only by the youths but by the village women who complain about inflation and link it to the war: Kebla’s mother: Not only have the price of clothes gone up—but matchsticks, soap, thread, combs, even needles have become expensive. Listen, can anyone tell me the connection between the war and the price of needles? First wife: My dear Kebla’s mother, don’t you understand? May be the sahibs are pricking needles into the bodies of their enemies, that’s why the price of needles has gone up.64

Patronising and rather uninspired in its representation of rural gossip, the play nonetheless provides insights into the effects of a global war on a small, rural economy. The central conflict is not so much about successful enlistment of the village youths as about the successful conversion of their mothers who are initially resolutely opposed to the idea of their sons’ enlistment: Keblas’s mother (crying): What horrors have befallen me! I see that the crocodile has invaded my house first. Is it to undo me that the burntfaces [contemporary Bengali racist slang for the English] came to the village?

64

Chattopadhay, Bengali Platoon, p. 14.

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santanu das Kebla: Look, don’t call these eminent people such awful names. Kebla’s mother: What shant I? I will, a hundred times. First the burntfaces invade our country, and now they are trying to raid my ladder!65

The tropes of war, race and colonialism are fused and confused in the above lines, but any real critique of empire or war is diffused through the humour. Veering between parody and realism, it is at least an attempt to enter the feelings and responses of village women whose husbands and sons left in thousands for the war.66 What is extraordinary about Bengal Platoon is the absence of any global or even national awareness of the conflict, or much concern about the thousands of soldiers from North India fighting and dying in France and Flanders: the whole recruitment campaign is firmly rooted in the politics of regional identity and anxiety, an obsessive investment in the ‘prestige’ of Bengal. ‘Bengali mother’, ‘Bengali son’ or the ‘Bengali race’ are the repeated phrases in the play through which the pleas for recruitment are articulated. Consider the following extract where Dr Mullick tries to encourage the villages, perhaps based on an actual recruitment speech: Mullick: The Bengali race should be particularly grateful to the English government for the warm generosity it has shown in imparting military training to the Benaglis. At this hour of peril of our King, we should no longer just sit back. It is one’s duty to help whatever little one could. One more word—it is my belief that it is a red letter day in the national life of Bengal—because Bengali soldiers are leaving for the battlefield today. Arise Bengal! Go forward, Bengalis! Clear bravely the path of name and fame! Remember the slur of yesteryears! People have often looked down on us as a cowardly, weak and effeminate race! Let the Bengali soldiers demonstrate to the world the inner strength of the Bengalis.67

This is a classic statement of the anxieties and aspirations driving the formation of the Bengali Regiment. It resonates deeply with Mullick’s letter to the government and directly results out of the anxieties induced by the ‘theory of martial races’.

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Chattopadhay, Bangali Plaaton, p. 36. For a more detailed exploration of the responses of Indian women to the conflict, see Santanu Das, “India, Women and the First World War,” in Women’s Movements in Wartime: International Perspectives, 1914–1919, ed. Alison Fell and Ingrid Sharp (Basingstoke, 2007). 67 Chattopadhay, Bangali Plaaton, p. 23. 66

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The importance and influence of the ‘martial race’ theory in British India can hardly be exaggerated. Mined out of a combination of Social Darwinism and indigenous social and caste distinctions, it guided the British policy of military recruitment in India, and formed one of the ideological bases of colonial rule. According to this theory, some races—particularly from North India and other hilly regions— were inherently courageous and warlike, though not very intelligent, whereas the races from South and Eastern India, particularly the Bengalis, though clever, have become effete and degenerate.68 Thus, in the immensely popular book The Armies of India published just before the war, Major George MacMunn and Major A. C. Lovett wrote: The people of Bengal, even those with the most cultivated brain, the trading classes, the artisan classes, and the outcaste tribes, are men to whom the threat of violence is the last word [. . .] It is extraordinary that the well-born race of the upper classes in Bengal should be hopeless poltroons.69

David Omissi notes that “within colonial parlance, the martial races served as an example of masculine as well as military excellence.”70 In sharp contrast, as Mrinalini Sinha has argued, the Bengalis were contrasted as weak and effeminate.71 If the Sikhs and Gurkhas were the warrior-gentlemen of the Raj, the Bengalis were a race given over “to clerking, money and chicane.”72 Chattopadhay here shows the internalisation of this ideology by the Bengalis themselves, as when Kebla’s mother uses it against the prospective enlistment of her son—“Do you mean to say that the Bengali boys will fight? Well, if they go to battle, who will become the clerks for the English,”73 a point of view strongly rebutted by Panchkori. Before the war, recruiting was strictly restricted to the martial races, but as the war progressed and the demand for fresh recruits became more acute, the military started to widen its recruiting base. Panchkori in his recruitment speech observes: “But now our government have 68 G. MacMunn, The Martial Races of India (London, 1933); Omissi, The Sepoy and the Raj; Heather Streets, Martial Races: The military, race and masculinity in British Imperial Culture, 1857–1914 (Manchester, 2004). 69 George MacMunn and A. C. Lovett, The Armies of India. 70 Omissi, The Sepoy and the Raj, p. 26. 71 Mrinalini Sinha, Colonial Masculinity: The ‘manly Englishman’ and the ‘Effeminate Bengali’ in the late Nineteenth century (Manchester, 1995). 72 Bhargava, India´s services, p. 219. 73 Chattopadhay, Bangali Plaaton, p. 16.

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now opened new avenues of employment. That is, they are welcoming Bengali youths for military training.”74 The Bengalis were considered not only to be non-martial; they were viewed as educated, politicised, dissident and dangerous, particularly during the anti-partition movement in Bengal when it became the hotbed of revolutionary extremism. Thus, in the years leading up to the war, the Bengali political bourgeois found itself tainted were with the double stigma of effeminacy and disloyalty and the war was the ideal opportunity to counter both allegations, as set out rather bluntly in a piece of war doggerel verse by ‘A Bengalee’: Who calls me now a coward base, And brands my race a coward race? I’ll brook no more such scoffing word: My King himself has washed the shame That fouled so long my stainless name, And deem’d me worthy of my sword! Who dare mistrust my loyal faith, Or my heroic scorn of death, Or my untainted chivalry? These slumbering passions of my breast Have wakened at my King’s behest, To prove what metal is in me.75

Chattopadhyay’s Bengal Platoon can be said to be a dramatic enactment of exactly these sentiments, most strongly set out in the recruitment speech of Panchkori: “It appears to the whole world as if the Bengali race has been born to be clerks [. . .] Our honoured government, sensing this limitation, has opened new grand avenues for of employment. They are now welcoming Bengali youths to train as soldiers. This is indeed a singular opportunity for us.”76 The progress of the play depends on the gradual education of the village people, and particularly that of the resistant mothers, to appreciate the momentousness of this occasion for the prestige of Bengal and put it on the martial map of India. In the final act of the play, as Nirmal, Kebla and other village youths, all in military uniform, march towards a ship which is to take them away, and the curtain comes down, strains of joyous singing break through: “Sing the glories of the English! Sing the praise of the 74 75 76

Ibid., p. 27. Quoted in Bhargava, India’s Services, p. 218. Chattopadhay, Bangali Plaaton, p. 27.

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emperor! [. . .] Sing the glories of the Bengalis.” Unabashed imperialism and regional pride are fused and confused in a way that is both emotionally and historically fascinating, but politically unpalatable for future nationalists or nationalist historiography. The First World War thus catches the Indian psyche at a fragile spot between a continuing and somewhat strategic loyalty to the empire and strong nationalist aspirations. However, things would change dramatically in the four years of the war, with leaders such as Annie Besant and Bal Gangadhar Tilak drawing new regions into the Home Rule League movements from 1915 to 1918, and uniting them under an allIndia leadership. During the war years, the movement became more ‘national’ than ever before, with Besant using India’s war service more confidently and aggressively to demand self-government, resulting in her arrest in Madras.77 This resulted in a nationwide uproar and agitation, and all leaders from different parties closed ranks to join in the condemnation. The immediate result was the Secretary of State Edwin Montagu’s declaration in 1917, promising the gradual development of free institutions in India with a view to ultimate self-government. But such hopes would be dashed by the Montagu-Chelmsford Reforms of 1918 which both Besant and Tilak would reject as unworthy of England, and the Rowlatt Act in 1919 against which Gandhi launched his mass movement of protest. The Jallianwala Bagh massacre in 1919, occurring in Punjab which had contributed the highest number of troops, would crush the last vestiges of hope formed in the wake of India’s war time contribution and irredeemably change the relation between India and Britain.

77

H. F. Owen, “Towards Nation-wide Agitation and Organisation,” pp. 159–195.

RADIO AND SOCIETY IN TUNISIA DURING WORLD WAR II Morgan Corriou The introduction of radio broadcasting in North Africa did not merely represent a technological advance in the field of communications. The possibility of addressing a largely illiterate public for the first time directly and on a wide scale appealed to the French colonial administration. Radio could penetrate households, reach as far as the outskirts of the territory, and even open frontiers. However, for these very reasons radio media also escaped control by the authorities. Many works have already dealt with the story of Arabic programmes broadcast by Fascist and Nazi radio stations1 and the “war of the airwaves” during World War II is now well known.2 Thus, this study does not focus on propaganda broadcasting in Tunisia, but rather on the part played by radio listening and its evolution in a complex Tunisian society at the time of World War II. Beginning in 1881, Tunisia was under the “protection” of France, i.e., under a system of control that allowed for relative local autonomy compared to the policy of direct rule in neighbouring Algeria. In reality, the Bey, sovereign of the Kingdom of Tunis, saw most of his power shift to the French General Resident. During the first decades of the Protectorate, French influence was strongly challenged by Italian ambitions, that country having long coveted Tunisian territory. Up until the 1930s, Italian residents outnumbered their French counterparts. The “Tunisian” society of the interwar period, where Tunisian Jews and Muslims, French, Italians and Maltese, and, to a lesser extent, Greeks and Russians, coexisted while rarely intermixing, has often been dubbed a “mosaic.” Refusing to exist as the silent majority,

1 See for example: Charles-Robert Ageron, “Contribution à l’étude de la propagande allemande au Maghreb pendant la Deuxième guerre mondiale,” Revue d’histoire maghrébine, 7–8 (1977), 16–32. Daniel Grange, “La propagande arabe de Radio-Bari (1937–9),” Relations internationales 5 (1976), 3–23. Ibid. “Structure et technique d’une propagande: les émissions arabes de Radio-Bari,” Relations internationales 2 (1974), 165–185. 2 Hélène Eck, ed., La guerre des ondes: histoire des radios de langue française pendant la Deuxième guerre mondiale (Paris, Lausanne et al., 1985), p. 382.

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Tunisians soon voiced demands. The national movement crystallized in 1920 with the creation of the Destour Party. Tensions between the “traditionalists” and the “modernists” resulted in the division of the movement in 1934 and in the creation of the Neo-Destour, which radicalized nationalist activities.3 By the end of the 1930s, radio and propaganda walked hand in hand. I argue that, despite severe restraints set up by French authorities, radio listening played its part in the socio-political changes of the time, whether directly (audiences easily subverted the media for their own purposes, including resistance), or indirectly (radio opened onto a wider world and brought new ways of life into cafés, barbershops, souks, and households). In this paper, I question the “national challenge” represented by the local radio, Radio-Tunis, during the war. I examine the influence of foreign broadcasting on the different populations of the country and the vain attempts of the colonial administration to control the audiences’ preferences. Finally, I look into audience growth during World War II and the characteristics of radio listening in Tunisia.4 The Voice of Tunisia? Reflecting on the history of leisure in Africa, Charles Ambler proposes that radio is an original medium: “Radio was distinct among mass media in that in some sense its content might be defined as local.”5 Unlike the silver screen, which for the most part offered French, American and occasionally Egyptian films in Tunisia, airwaves were opened to local radio stations. Certainly, as Charles Ambler himself recognizes, radio served as a window on the world, spreading international news and foreign music. Nevertheless, with the creation of a radio station, Tunisia possessed a voice that could be heard throughout the country or even abroad. But for whom did this voice speak?

3 See Jean-François Martin, Histoire de la Tunisie contemporaine: de Ferry à Bourguiba: 1881–1956 (new ed. Paris, Budapest et al., 2003), p. 275. 4 I want to express my sincerest gratitude to Dr. Nadia Mamelouk for her acute comments on the article and her great help with the translation. 5 Charles Ambler, “Mass media and leisure in Africa,” in “Leisure in African History,” The International Journal of African Historical Studies 1 (2002), 131.

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The voice of France in Tunisia In 1939, Tunisia had a few private regional radio stations, which had been the first to broadcast on Tunisian soil,6 and a young state-owned station, Radio-Tunis. From the very first days of the war, regional voices died out,7 and Radio-Tunis remained the only station to work in the Protectorate. Founded less than one year before, on 14 October 1938, Radio-Tunis appeared to be less the voice of Tunisia than the voice of France in Tunisia. Radio-Tunis was a late creation, though the administration had been planning a major station covering all of Tunisia since 1936. However, the actual establishment of such an institution gave rise to violent debate, in part because financial means were lacking. The nationalist demonstration of 9 April 1938, which ended in bloody confrontations, and the severe repression that ensued against the Neo-Destour and its militants, prompted the creation of the station, which was first called Tunis-PTT. The rise of nationalism and tensions with Italy favoured the state project over private interests. Viewed as a military asset, the new station could not be left in private hands. The convention, signed on 5 September 1938, between the French Republic and the Regency of Tunis placed the management of the station under the Broadcasting Department of the Ministry of Post, Telegraph and Telephone Services [Service de la Radiodiffusion du ministère des Postes, Télégraphes et Téléphones] (art. 3), like its metropolitan counterparts; while the text mentions the French central administration and the Protectorate administration, local Tunisian authorities are absent. In 1953, the French legal advisor of the beylical government [le Conseiller juridique et de législation du Gouvernement tunisien] had to admit the non-validity of such agreements that violated the rights of the Protectorate:

6 The first radio station in Tunisia was apparently created in 1924 for military purposes. Private initiatives then took over, and radio stations started to broadcast in Bizerte, Sfax, Sousse, and later in Tunis. See Habib Belaïd, “Les débuts de la radiodiffusion en Tunisie (1935–1946),” Revue tunisienne de communication 31 (1997), 47–49. 7 The Decree of April 6, 1939 ordered the suppression of private radio stations, while privately owned stations deemed of national interest came under state control. Radio-Bizerte was requisitioned and the Italian Armistice Commission carried off its equipment. Radio-Sfax and Radio-Sousse, run by the Costa family, ceased broadcasting after the Armistice. Radio-Carthage also stopped broadcasts in May 1940 and the French army seized its equipment. Archives Nationales de Tunisie (hereafter ANT), SG 5 264–5: letter from the Director of the Tunisian Office of Post, Telegraphs and Telephones to General Resident Jean Mons, Tunis, 11 June 1947.

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morgan corriou If the General Resident can engage Tunisia, under certain circumstances, with a foreign country, it would be difficult for him to do so vis-à-vis France, given that he also represents the Republic, and as such he has often signed agreements in the name of France.8

The 1938 convention neither bore the seal of the Bey nor was published by the Tunisian Journal Officiel. There was thus no doubt as to what Tunis-PTT would become: the voice of France—or, more precisely, the voice of imperial France. If the station was never designated as such in the convention, the administration and the press immediately adopted the term “imperial station.” This specific status distinguished Radio-Tunis in the North African radio scene. Radio-Algiers was dependent on the General Government, the French central administration in Algeria during the colonial era. In Morocco, the first public radio station, created in 1928, fell to the “Office Chérifien des PTT ”, the Department of Post, Telegraph and Telephone Services. Radio-Tunis, a comparative latecomer, was therefore used to experiment French efforts in the field of propaganda. Directly menaced by Italian claims, Tunisia no doubt appeared as the best location from which to spread French propaganda to North Africa, Italy and the Middle East. Consequently, the local scope of the station was immediately sidetracked. Designated Moroccan, Algerian, Turkish, Persian and Tripolitanian “slots” were put in place. These consisted of news, pro-French talks and concerts. The lack of local news caused discontent among some of the listeners as early as June 1939.9 The law of 13 October 1940 placed all the North African stations under the direct authority of the National Broadcasting Department. This did not modify the status of Radio-Tunis. Nonetheless, the project was disadvantageous to the Regency, since its aim was to create an intermediate level, with Radio-Tunis being henceforth accountable to Algiers instead of being in direct contact with the National Broadcasting Department. The General Resident was concerned about encroachment on his prerogatives: in October 1940, Admiral Esteva voiced his

8 “Si le Résident général peut engager la Tunisie, dans certaines circonstances, visà-vis dʾun pays étranger, il apparaît difficile qu’il le fasse vis-à-vis de la France étant donné qu’il est en même temps le dépositaire des pouvoirs de la République, et qu’il lui est arrivé souvent de signer au nom de la France des conventions de cette nature”, ANT, SG 5–263–1: report by the Chief Press Officer, Tunis, 19 February 1953. 9 Minister of Foreign Affairs, Quai d’Orsay (hereafter MAE), 1930–1940, Political and commercial correspondence, Tunisie série P, n. 658: note of June 14, 1939.

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commitment to the Convention of 15 September 1938.10 The question of the incorporation of the North African stations dragged on, and on 30 March 1942 a new agreement was finally signed to organize broadcasting in the Protectorate. A North African Directorate under the National Broadcasting Department’s control was put in place; however, it did not have time to achieve anything. In order to carry out the station’s aims, the new station changed its original name, Tunis-PTT, to Radio-Tunis on 15 June 1939 and then to Radio-Tunis-National under the Vichy regime. The addition of “national” is paradoxical. The adjective cannot point to a Tunisian nation whose rights are refused by France; neither can it refer to the French nation because of the protectorate’s status. The wish to link all North African radio services to the national network undoubtedly dictated this choice, which rhymes with “Révolution nationale”. The Liberation period did not alter the station’s imperial vocation; on the contrary, it reinforced this aspect, to the detriment of its local character. Indeed, the station’s status was unusual because for several months Radio-Tunis broadcasted directly to Nazi-occupied France. Letters from listeners bore witness to the popularity garnered by Radio-Tunis in Metropolitan France: During the German occupation, since there was so much jamming to broadcasts from London, we tuned in to your station, which we could hear very clearly;11 It was always with great pleasure that I listened to your programmes after your Liberation, at a time when we were still occupied and you were already a free voice. It may be for this reason that I still listen to you every evening.12

Through Radio-Tunis some French listeners discovered the Song of the Partisans.13 Others asked the Tunisian station for details of the situation in France. And although the Provisional Government of the French Republic left Algeria at the end of August, people continued to hold in high regard news originating from North Africa, where 10 MAE, Guerre 1939–1945, Vichy, Tunisie série P, n. 17: f. 17, telegram n. 628 from Admiral Esteva, October 18, 1940. 11 Centre des Archives Diplomatiques de Nantes (hereafter CADN), Protectorat Tunisie, 1er versement, n. 2183: f. 572, letter from G. Oudy, Rouen, November 17, 1944. 12 Ibid. f. 573, letter from Luc Rémy, Namur, November 27, 1944. 13 Ibid. f. 574, letter from Mme Fayol, Monferran-Plavès—Gers, November 3, 1944.

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liberation had been achieved almost two years previously and where Free France had taken root. Thus, in November 1944, an inhabitant of Namur wished “to know if it’s true that Saint-Exupéry was killed above Toulon,”14 indicating that the acquisition of information in France remained difficult. Thus, we witness a reversal of status: the Empire now addresses Metropolitan France, rather than France dictating to the Empire. During the darkest hours of the Occupation, listeners from France discovered concerts by the Rachidia15 or Tunisian singers such as Fadhila Khatmi and Chafia Rochdi.16 Nevertheless, French listeners sought to tune in to Radio-France in Tunis (according to the name given to the station at the Liberation) rather than listen to a Tunisian radio station. Indeed, at the end of the conflict a soldier, Second Lieutenant Bourniquel, served as the General Secretary of Broadcasting, a fact that says much about the mission that fell to the radio in Tunisia. Despite the government’s desire to control broadcasted information and the reticence of the General Resident, who kept a close eye on all new programs, the Liberation opened Radio-Tunis to left-wing parties and trade unions. However, for French authorities the imperial character of the station justified heavy censorship, which, after the dark days of Vichy, sadly smacked of repression. The General Secretary of the colonial government stated: If criticism of the government, especially in regard to food supplies, is authorized by current legislation, and is sometimes fitting, it is only justified by its local interest and should be addressed only to the population of the Regency who read the local dailies and weeklies. As for the radio that mainly concerns Metropolitan or foreign listeners, it is not desirable to let the attention of these distant listeners focus on petty criticisms, justified or not, regarding strictly local problems.17 14

Ibid. f. 573, letter from Luc Rémy, November 27, 1944. The birth of this musical institute is linked to the first Congress of Arab Music held in Cairo between March 28 and April 3, 1932. A movement then grew in direct opposition to the Egyptian popular songs held responsible for the decline of traditional Arab music. This lead to the foundation of La Rachidia in 1934, at the instigation of Mustapha Sfar, Cheikh el-Médina—a crucial figure in the Tunisian cultural revival. La Rachidia aimed to revive classical Tunisian music and to emphasize a specifically Tunisian authenticity. For further information, see Hamadi Abassi, Tunis chante et danse (Paris, 2000). 16 “We [. . .] enjoy listening to the concert of Arab music around 6 o’clock in the evening”, stated a listener from Rouen. CADN, Protectorat Tunisie, 1er versement, n. 2183: f. 572, letter from G. Oudy, Rouen, November 17, 1944. 17 “Si la critique du Gouvernement, notamment en matière de ravitaillement est autorisée par la législation actuelle en matière de presse, et est d’ailleurs parfois oppor15

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The administration refused to consider the radio station as a local station, and made it into a propaganda tool mainly aimed at France and abroad. For example, until September 1944, Radio-Tunis broadcasted the “Voice of the United Nations,” while local news was neglected. In December 1944, the General Resident noticed “that the Arabic news on Radio-Tunis lacked information of a local or regional character that would be of interest to Tunisians of the Regency or beyond.”18 Nevertheless, the proposal presented in April 1945 by the National Broadcasting Department again emphasized the imperial vocation of Radio-Tunis, whose immediate aim was to relay French propaganda towards the East, the Balkans and Italy, and, in the longer term, to spread French propaganda throughout North Africa as well as the Levant. A head of broadcasting noted: “From these proposals first came the idea that for a fairly lengthy period Radio-Tunis should make up for the stations of Metropolitan France inadequately fit for short wave.”19 The draft thus gave preference to programmes conceived in France but broadcast from Tunisia. Radio and national identity Radio-Tunis nevertheless seems to have retained a certain amount of autonomy, an autonomy reinforced by the war and by the distance from Metropolitan France. The broadcasting of French programmes, as described in the proposals concerning Radio-Tunis, proved to be difficult in practice. The General Resident kept tight control of the station. Consequently, despite the excessive ambitions of imperial propaganda, Radio-Tunis remained a “provincial” station that fed local political and cultural life. Arabic broadcasts were, of course, at the heart of the debate about programming. Despite the heavy surveillance to which they were subject, the new public radio offered loopholes—which were quickly

tune, elle ne se justifie que par l’intérêt local qu’elle présente et ne s’adresse qu’à la population de la Régence lectrice des quotidiens et hebdomadaires locaux. En ce qui concerne la radio, celle-ci touche surtout le public métropolitain, ou étranger, et il n’est pas souhaitable de laisser accaparer l’attention des auditeurs lointains par de petites critiques justifiées ou injustifiées, de problèmes strictement locaux”, Ibid. f. 539, report by the General Secretary of the Tunisian government. 18 Ibid. f. 553, report by Director of Cabinet to the chef de la Section d’ Etudes, Tunis, December 28, 1944. 19 Ibid. f. 631, report by the chief engineer of French radio broadcasting to the chief of Cabinet, April 26, 1945.

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blocked. For example, Abdelaziz Laroui,20 responsible for the French Legion’s Arabic broadcast under Vichy, angered the monitors of the “Emissions Arabes”. Laroui skilfully used the texts given to him by the propaganda department to spread his own messages. While keeping certain phrases that he translated literally, he corrupted the meaning of the text, exploiting the subtleties of the local dialect. The French authorities appeared completely helpless in the face of such manoeuvres.21 In April 1945 the administration worried about an announcer who dared to praise social advances in Egypt and to mention the Lebanese national holiday in a broadcast about the “Muslim world.”22 Reference on Radio-Tunis to independent or nominally independent Arab countries such as Egypt sent an image of modernity and annoyed French authorities who interpreted this, rightly or wrongly, as an appeal for independence. The use of the Arabic language, barely if at all mastered by French administrators, reinforced their concern about Tunisian announcers. In January 1945, General Resident Mast recognized the game played by the announcer of the “Voice of the Unions:” The trade union announcer, exploiting the subtleties of certain terms whose meaning differs whether they are expressed in the classical or in the local language, successfully managed to elude the censors’ vigilance. The audience soon took notice of these talks and of their extreme violence. Such misbehaviour could not be tolerated in a public radio station. Furthermore, the underdeveloped native classes to whom these programmes were addressed naturally saw them as originating from a state station, almost an official confession by the authorities of their own incompetence.23

20 Born in 1898 (Monastir), the most famous Tunisian announcer began his career as a secretary for caïdats and kahialiks, Tunisian administrative units under the Protectorate (1917–1926). At the end of the 1920s, he embarked on journalism, all the while moving in the bohemian society of Tunisian song. Radio-Tunis hired him as an editor of Arabic news from its inception in 1938, and he then took charge of propaganda programmes, where his brilliant tirades in Tunisian Arabic brought him success. CADN, Protectorat Tunisie, 1er versement, n. 2266, doss. n. 2: fiche sur Abdelaziz Laroui. See also Mohamed Turki, Abdelaziz Laroui: témoin de son temps (Tunis, Paris, 1988), p. 353. 21 CADN, Protectorat Tunisie, 1er versement, n. 2256: f. 319, note by the contrôle des émissions arabes de Tunis-National, 1941. 22 Ibid. n. 2183: f. 635, note by the directeur du Cabinet of the General Resident to the directeur de l’Information, Tunis, April 27, 1945. 23 “Le speaker syndicaliste, jouant sur les nuances de sens que présentent parfois les mêmes termes, en langue classique et en langue vulgaire, était parvenu à déjouer la vigilance de censure. Les causeries en arabe furent bientôt remarquées par le public,

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Muzzled, Radio-Tunis nonetheless allowed flashes of protest to filter through. Reading reports of the Protectorate administration, one feels a real impotence with regard to subterfuge used by Tunisianannouncers. However, the impact of these rare “slips” on the Tunisian population is difficult to evaluate, and a paranoid colonial administration was prone to exaggerate them. In fact, the controversies about radio programmes reveal attempts at the formulation of a Tunisian national identity. Radio-Tunis served, indirectly, as a leaven of national consciousness. Conscious of the impossibility of political debate on a radio controlled by the General Residency, Tunisian intellectual elites voiced their claims and grievances in cultural programmes. In 1945, for instance, the newspaper Ez-Zohra criticized Radio-Tunis for not giving enough airtime to Tunisian writers and intellectuals and for prioritizing music and political talks (in other words, propaganda). To allow intellectuals to speak on air was regarded as the only way to give life to a Tunisian identity, since speaking freely about politics would result in censorship. Music programmes were judged by Ez-Zohra as a superficial outlet offered to Muslim listeners to divert their attention away from more important matters. Many, however, saw another battle site for a national identity in musical programming, as for instance the feminist and nationalist magazine Leïla, which contained attacks on the music programmes of Radio-Tunis.24 In 1941, the radio review written by an anonymous columnist called “The Listener” regularly took the form of a diatribe on the influence of what he termed “égypto” (a negative word for Egyptian) in Arabic programmes. He complains: Tunis-National has a rich collection of Egyptian records. We are not sure the station possesses such a significant number of Tunisian records.

pour l’extrême violence de leur ton. De tels écarts de langage ne pouvaient être tolérés dans les émissions d’une station d’État. De plus, la classe indigène peu évoluée, à laquelle s’adressaient ces exposés était naturellement portée à y voir, comme ils émanaient d’un poste gouvernemental, autant de déclarations officielles constituant l’aveu, par les autorités, de leur propre incapacité”, MAE, Tunisie 1944–1949, n. 103: f. 4, letter from General Resident Mast to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Tunis, January 5, 1945. 24 On Leïla, see Nadia Mamelouk, Anxiety in the Border Zone: transgressing boundaries, in Leïla: revue illustrée de la femme (Tunis, 1936–1940) and in Leïla: hebdomadaire tunisien indépendant (Tunis, 1940–1941), PhD thesis (University of Virginia, 2008).

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morgan corriou Listening to records from Egyptian singers or to music originating from Cairo, one would think that one had moved to the Nile Valley.25

“The Listener” denounced at length the prefabricated Egypto-Tunisian music, which he qualified as “tarte à la crème.”26 He challenges readers (and the Tunis-National programming committee): “Cannot Tunis-National have its own style, different from the Cairo station?”27 He particularly mocked the singer Ali Riahi (1912–1970), whom he called, after the Egyptian manner, “Riahi effendi”.28 Nadia Mamelouk, in her dissertation devoted to Leïla, shows how writers formulated a Tunisian national identity through cunning literary and cultural criticism.29 “The Listener” was not actually prejudiced against Egyptian music; he did not condemn the genre itself but the gross imitation made of it by Tunisian artists, whom he urged to return to their roots.30 Behind this criticism one discerns the call for a national music. “The Listener” thus supported the work of La Soulamia and La Rachidia, and regularly warned them against a tendency to rampant orientalising. In 1941, Leïla called for the creation of a Tunisian orchestra, still lacking on Tunis-National, while a French orchestra had existed since 1938.31 These attacks seemed to meet with a response in intellectual circles. Soon the magazine reported that lyricists had written (on its initiative) songs to the glory of Tunisia. Leïla critics hoped that the new songs would break with the usual sentimental lamentations and instead praise the natural resources of Tunisia: wheat, citrus fruits, esparto grass, ore . . .32 The magazine rejected immoral songs while it exalted a return to the earth. Vichyist connotations are obvious, yet the outlines of the project equally matched the concerns of nationalists

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“Le Poste de Tunis-National possède une riche collections de disques égyptiens. Nous ignorons si les disques tunisiens y tiennent une place aussi importante. A force d’entendre des chanteurs égyptiens sur disques et de la musique enregistrée de provenance cairote, on se croirait transporté dans la Vallée du Nil,” New series, 2 (December 7, 1940), p. 4. 26 New series, 4 (December 21, 1940), p. 4. A “tarte à la crème” is a pie of whipped cream, e.g., having no substance. 27 New series, 5 (January 1, 1941), p. 4. 28 “La Radio,” New series, 10 (February 8, 1941), p. 3. 29 Chapter 5. “Writing a national culture: whirlwinds in the border zone,” in Mamelouk Anxiety in the Border Zone, pp. 254–322. 30 “Autour des émissions musicales,” 10 (February 8, 1941), p. 2. 31 “L’Orchestre Tunisien de Tunis-National,” 8 (January 24, 1941), p. 5. 32 Rafik, N., “L’activité de nos poètes,” 13 (March 1, 1941), p. 3.

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whose goal was to celebrate their country’s character. Tunis-National broadcasted a hymn to the glory of the fellah33 by Hadi Labidi. On 9 February 1941, Abderrazak Karabâka, another famous poet and songwriter, presented his song in honour of the palm tree, which Hassîba Rochdi performed.34 Thus, Tunisian intellectuals invested cultural issues connected to the state-owned radio station to contribute to the development of a national consciousness by using the same vocabulary as the Petainist government. The development of public radio inflamed another crucial debate, that of language. Exploiting the gap between colloquial Arabic, the everyday spoken language, not meant to be an intellectual language, and literary Arabic, mastered by a very small part of the population, the colonizers promoted the use of French, never missing an opportunity to underline the inadequacies of the classical language for modern life. Defence of Arabic was thus one of the nationalists’ top priorities.35 Nadia Mamelouk describes how the promotion of Arabic took the shape of a fight to refine the language used in public, especially on the air. Tunisian scholars expressed anger over the mistakes made by announcers on Radio-Tunis and complained about hearing literary Arabic murdered on the air: Apart from two or three lecturers who speak rarely, the others spout off about subjects that put one to sleep. They have not yet finished adequately digesting their syntax and their morphology. They make grammatical mistakes that a primary school pupil would not make!36

The critic, by connecting his comments on serious grammatical errors to poor content, indirectly accuses the French administration, responsible for the programming of Radio-Tunis.

33

“Fellah” is an Arabic word meaning small farmer. On Hadi Labidi (1911–1985) and Abderrazak Karabâka (1901–1945), see Jean Fontaine, Histoire de la littérature tunisienne, vol. 2: Du XIIIe siècle à l’indépendance (Tunis, 1999), p. 243. 35 On language wars in Protectorate Tunisia, see Nadia Mamelouk, The Death of Arabic: Language Wars in Tunis during the Colonial Period (forthcoming). 36 “A part deux ou trois conférenciers qui parlent rarement, les autres débitent des sujets qui font dormir debout. Ils n’ont pas encore fini de digérer convenablement leur syntaxe et leur morphologie. Ils commettent des fautes de grammaire que ne commettrait pas un élève de l’école primaire”, “La qualité des émissions de Tunis PTT”, July 6, 1939. The announcer is anonymous. Cited by Mamelouk, Anxiety in the Border Zone, p. 266. 34

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If the few messages of resistance that managed to get through censorship on air did not play a significant role in the development of Tunisian nationalism, the state-owned station, on the other hand, initiated numerous debates on the question of national identity, especially in the press. Radio thus became a regular topic in newspapers and magazines. If discussion was limited, even nonexistent on RadioTunis, Tunisian society used the radio as a pretext for debating. Attempting to supervise radio listening Throughout World War II, Radio-Tunis was the only station to broadcast on Tunisian soil, however, other stations exerted an influence on listeners. For several years the General Residency had worried about the popularity of foreign broadcasting in Arabic, particularly Radio Bari and Radio Berlin. This “war of the airwaves,” which developed in the second half of the 1930s before the outbreak of the war, was something completely new for the authorities. Unlike newspapers, books and films that could be turned away at the border, radio broadcasts escaped control and made their way to the audience with complete impunity. France’s entry into war facilitated the creation of restrictions on foreign radio listening and the supervision of audiences. Means of Control The reception of radio broadcasting was regulated by decrees from the French general in charge of troops in Tunisia. The first Decree, dated 5 September 1939, forbade reception of German broadcasts (in any language) in both public and private venues. On 27 May 1940, a new Decree forbade “the reception of radio broadcasts other than those originating from French or Allied stations”—but only in public places. On 17 December 1940, “the reception of radio broadcasts in public places and premises open to the public” was limited to the stations that came under the National Broadcasting Department in France and North Africa. The authorities wavered between censoring public spaces and/or private listening. Radio listening was, a priori, relevant to the private sphere, and in this respect, to control it appeared more as a statement of intent than an enforceable law. Public listening, however, played a crucial role in Tunisia, especially in the “Moorish cafés”

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(“cafés maures”)37 that caused French authorities’ anxiety. A 1939 report on ‘native’ listening habits illustrates the stakes at hand: One can observe [. . .] that many of the radio sets owned by natives have a huge audience, especially in Moorish cafés and in certain shops, where, quite often, one can see several dozen listeners gathered together. It should be added that the native is talkative and spreads everything he has learned or heard. As an appreciated trait, his receptiveness to news, whether false or true, should be stressed.38

This quote brings to light a number of colonial clichés in regard to the “native” audience, described as credulous and prone to flare up. “Moorish cafés”, as well as souk stalls and barbershops, served as space for recreation, leisure and conviviality for Tunisians, practices that the sophisticated new media perpetuated and enriched. The authorities feared these gatherings and their potential for unrest. For example, a police intervention in a jeweller’s shop in old Sousse revealed the presence of eight listeners.39 This last example suggests the fine line between private and public listening. Listeners did not hesitate to use this ambiguity. There were numerous complaints about loud radios heard from courtyards or the streets. Radio volume was seen from a political point of view in the 1930s and the 1940s, and French authorities perceived any deviation as a provocation. In July 1939, the journalist Edgard Naccache went as far as to suggest that Mussolini in person had given orders to Italians of Tunisia about how to adjust radio volume and to threaten to ask “Tunisian and French listeners to turn up the volume and to flood

37 The colonialist term “cafés maures” refers to the traditional cafés, an important venue for Arab men where nargiles were smoked, Turkish coffee drunk, singers, records or radio listened to, etc. 38 “Il y a lieu d’observer [. . .] que beaucoup d’appareils détenus par des indigènes jouissent d’une très vaste audience, notamment dans les cafés maures et chez certains commerçants détaillants, où il n’est pas rare de voir se grouper plusieurs dizaines d’auditeurs. A la constatation ci-dessus s’ajoute l’idée que l’indigène est prolixe et diffuse intensément ce qu’il a appris ou entendu. Sa réceptivité aux informations, d’ailleurs vraies ou fausses, est à souligner, comme élément d’appréciation”, MAE, Tunisie 1930–1940, n. 657: ff. 282–283, letter from General Noguès, Commander-inChief of Operations in North Africa, to Vice-President of the Council, in Charge of North African affairs, October 19, 1939. 39 ANT, SG 2–88–6: f. 11, letter from the Head of Security Services to the Secretary General of the Tunisian government, Tunis, August 6, 1940.

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the streets with an irresistible Marseillaise, a glorious Chant du Départ or a hilarious interlude by Fadila Khetmi”.40 The role of the Mediterranean climate was important here for many of the reported incidents took place during the summer season, when people left their windows wide open, and lived in the shade of the inner courtyard. In July 1940, the police reported a brawl in a medina (old city) house where Italian and French families lived. On hearing the Marseillaise and the Hymne beylical (the hymn of the Bey of Tunis) blaring out of a flat, Italians working in the courtyard began to hiss, provoking anger among the French inhabitants.41 In July 1941, an Italian sheet-metal worker from Ben Gardane, enjoying the summer heat in his courtyard while listening to an Italian station, was astonished to hear the police knock at his door. It was also during the summer that Admiral Esteva, General Resident during the Vichy regime, anxiously reminded the director of Security Services of the 17 December 1940 Decree, which he believed was not being strictly applied: Many Tunisians and many of our compatriots have gotten into the habit of listening to British broadcasts at home. I even heard that during the hot season they don’t hesitate to open their windows so that their neighbours and even occasional passers-by may “enjoy” these broadcasts.42

Throughout the Vichy period, anyone who tuned in to a foreign station, most often Radio London, “loud enough to be heard in the street” (according to police jargon), was liable to get a ticket. The authorities did not hesitate to exploit the ambiguity of the phrase “public place” to control individual listening. The archives record not only infringements of the law, they also mention many abortive inquiries, following denunciations: the police would patrol a block, ears alert, but often found themselves unable to pinpoint the “culprit(s)”. Such incidents demonstrate the futility of monitoring radio listening, since all that the listener had to do was to lower the volume as soon as police arrived in the area. More than an ambiguous law subject to political vagaries, the 40

Tunis Soir, July 25, 1939. CADN, Protectorat Tunisie, 1er versement, n. 1899: f. 141, letter from the Head of Security Services to the General Resident, Tunis, July 23, 1940. 42 “Beaucoup de nos compatriotes ou de Tunisiens ont pris l’habitude d’écouter, chez eux, les émissions de la radiodiffusion britannique. J’ai appris qu’à l’occasion de la saison chaude, ils n’hésitent pas à ouvrir leurs fenêtres pour ‘faire profiter’ leur voisinage et même la rue de ces émissions”, CADN, Protectorat Tunisie, Renseignements Généraux, n. 150, doss. “Ecoute des émissions radiophoniques étrangères”: f. 45, letter from the General Resident to the Head of Security Service, Tunis, June 26, 1941. 41

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decree allowed the police to define public listening: anyone listening to foreign stations broke the law when a policeman heard the individual’s radio (whether the policeman listened from the street or with ears glued to the door of the suspect). The Decrees of 27 May and 17 December 1940 were not the only ones to regulate radio listening in Tunisia during the war. While these two decrees were based on individual infringements of the law, other measures aimed at whole categories of the population, for alleged “preventive” reasons. Throughout the conflict, seizure of radio sets served as a tool of repression against “internal enemies.” Italians were the first to bear the brunt of these regulations. Following Italy’s declaration of war against England and France on 10 June 1940, French authorities confiscated all radios belonging to Italian nationals. The episode occupies several pages of Adrien Salmieri’s autobiographical La Chronique des Morts, and attests to the trauma such measures represented for the Italian population. The young protagonist and his father went to the other side of Tunis in the early morning to hand over the confiscated items to a police station. Radio receivers were seized as well as weapons,43 a fact that clearly reveals the harmfulness, real or imagined, with which radio was credited in time of war. Offenders were put behind bars, as reveals the story of a 40-year old Italian woman found to be in possession of a radio set at the end of June 1940.44 Under the Vichy government, those who resisted and presumed “Gaullists” were also victims of such radio seizure, as experienced by Philippe Soupault.45 Freed from Petainist jails, but always under suspicion, Soupault saw his radio taken by the police46 (an ironic sanction for the director of Radio-Tunis from its inception to 1940). During the German occupation (November 1942–May 1943), Jews

43

“On déposa dans le fond de la hotte le revolver empaqueté dans plusieurs couches de journal et ficelé . . . emballage déformant qui dissimulait le véritable contenu . . ., méfiance . . . ; et par-dessus, le poste, enveloppé d’une couverture . . .”, Adrien Salmieri, “Chronique des morts,” in Tunisie: rêve de partages, ed. Guy Dugas (Paris, 2005), p. 764. 44 CADN, Protectorat Tunisie, 1er versement, n. 1899: f. 119, letter from the Head of Security Services to the General Resident, Tunis, June 25, 1940. 45 The Surrealist poet Philippe Soupault spent part of the war in Tunis, which he left on 16 November 1942, when German troops arrived. In his Temps des Assassins: histoire du détenu n. 1234 (New York, 1945) he related his imprisonment in a Tunisian jail (from March to September 1942) for acts of resistance. 46 Soupault, Le Temps des Assassins, p. 329.

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had to part with their radio sets and deposit them at the synagogue.47 This humiliating act for certain segments of the population was based on security arguments: the radio permitted secret communication with the enemy. Authorities suspected first Italians, then Jews, of listening and transmitting information to Fascists and Allies respectively. Not only a police measure, this was also meant to cause vexation. The possession of a radio set was a social attribute that indicated affluence, and demonstrated the ability of a community to assume responsibility for itself at a political level, as in the case of Italians threatening French domination. In fact, Italians were to endure more confiscations at the time of Liberation.48 Evolutions in the policy of control Having considered the challenges and ambiguities of the legal framework used to control radio listening, we turn to its concrete enforcement, as regimes changed in Tunisia between 1939 and 1945. Listening to foreign stations engendered mistrust among colonial authorities. Following the Fall of France in 1940, while most French radio stations were silenced, it was radio listening itself that required prohibiting. On 29 June 1940, General Noguès, Commander-in-Chief of operations in North Africa, recommended a temporary ban on the use of radio sets. Being unrealistic, this measure suggests the confusion experienced by the army. The General Resident in Tunis confessed ineffectiveness in enforcing such a directive.49 Nonetheless, listening to foreign stations remained subject to censorship. While listening to British radio had been officially authorized, even encouraged at the beginning of the war, it, in turn, became illegal with the Decree of 17 December 1940. Government control of radio listening was thus contingent upon the vicissitudes of French foreign policy during the war. However, there was one main focus throughout the period—the campaign against German and Italian stations. The local targeted audiences of these for-

47 Eugène Boretz, Tunis sous la croix gammée. 8 novembre 1942 – 7 mai 1943 (Algiers, 1944), p. 32. 48 In a letter dated November 19, 1947, on the re-establishment of common law in favour of the Italians, the General Resident confided to the Minister of Foreign Affairs that he had undertaken to “play down the effect of the requisition of shotguns or radio devices.” CADN, n. 2143, 1er versement, n. 2143, doss. n. 2: f. 813. 49 ANT, SG 2 88–6: f. 5, Telegram from the French General Resident in Tunis to the French General Resident in Rabat, Tunis, July 3, 1940.

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eign stations, Italians and Muslim Tunisians, attracted the attention of the Security services for different reasons. Fascist and Nazi radio developed clever propaganda aimed at the Muslim populations under British and French “protection.” Andrew Stuart Bergerson demonstrates how radio “appealed to subordinate groups (like young people and women) as a means to expand the scope of their life world and their participation in the public sphere.”50 The argument applies to colonized populations as well. The Intelligence Service regularly reported how “native circles” favourably received these broadcasts. Control was all the more delicate for it was feared it would give foreign stations publicity. After the Decrees of 5 September 1939 and 27 May 1940, police kept alert while patrolling streets. In March 1940, an inspector brutally intervened in a “Moorish café” in Gabès, and stopped all listening by unplugging the apparatus. The announcer, who could be heard in the street, had just attacked the Allies. The café owner professed having no idea of the name of the station on the excuse that the radio had been switched on by his young son. Nor could the café’s clients offer more information, “pretending that they were not paying attention to the programme.”51 Thus, turning on the radio could be risky, especially as offenders were severely punished. In April 1940 a café in Kairouan found to have been broadcasting a programme by Radio-Bari was compelled to close down for a month. Listening to foreign stations came to be considered a clandestine act, all the more suspicious because it was within the reach of everyone (less compromising, for example, than the illicit purchase of banned newspapers). Police reports, which were prolific during the war, reveal indeed a propensity for linking listening to the Axis radio with “nationalist activities.” In May 1940 the police superintendent in Gabès was alarmed to observe Tunisians conversing in whispers in the town’s “Moorish cafés,” where they discussed the latest news heard on foreign airwaves.52 In August 1940, the Head of Security services denounced “a

50 Andrew Stuart Bergerson, “Listening to the radio in Hildesheim, 1923–1953,” German Studies Review 1 (2001), 87. See also Kate Lacey, Feminine Frequencies: gender, German radio, and the public sphere (Ann Arbor, 1996). 51 CADN, Protectorat Tunisie, 1er versement, n. 1899: f 56, letter from the Head of Security Services to the representative of the General Residency, Tunis, April 9, 1940. 52 CADN, Protectorat Tunisie, Renseignements généraux, n. 149: f 15, letter from inspector André Farfals to the Head of Security Services, Gabès, May 16, 1940.

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certain resumption of nationalist activity” (“activité destourienne”) in the town of Gafsa. The “most active militants” “often listened to foreign radio broadcasts and discuss them in the evening, walking along in small groups.”53 While police surveillance restricted the activity of the nationalist movement, the latter began to refocus on the spread of information. For the French authorities, listening to the radio was no longer seen as a passive act but as a partisan stance, a political gesture. Indeed, the Radio-Berlin affair showed that the line could easily be crossed from listening to foreign stations to publicizing nationalist activities. In August 1939, a letter in the form of a communiqué was intercepted, allegedly intended to be broadcast by Radio-Berlin. The letter, signed by the “Committee of the Tunisian Constitutional Liberal Party (Comité de lutte du parti libéral constitutionnel tunisien),” described a series of acts of sabotage perpetrated in the Tunis area. This matter was of the gravest concern for the police who discovered a concerted action aimed at media coverage. The inquiry, which continued until January 1940, highlighted the importance of Radio-Berlin among Tunisian audiences, particularly in nationalist circles. The idea of a communiqué appeared to have been inspired by the good press that Radio-Berlin had given recent events in Syria and Palestine. The way in which the nationalists had planned to use the German radio worried the authorities almost as much as actual acts of sabotage.54 The control of Italian listeners who tuned in to Fascist programs raised other questions and difficulties for the Protectorate authorities. From the beginning, the Italian consulate firmly upheld the interests of the Italian community, which was in fierce competition with the French colonizer and consequently subject to special treatment. This fluctuated between severity, which daily tensions between the two communities fed (as shown by the confiscation of radio sets), and a more lenient consideration in view of the diplomatic stakes. The enforcement of the 27 May 1940 Decree—which authorized the reception of the sole Allied stations in public places—raised a delicate problem in the months following the Fall, for confusion reigned throughout the summer. On 19 August 1940, the Head of Security Services issued a decree repealing the May 27 Decree. On September 14, the same man 53

ANT, SG 2 88–10: f. 24, letter from the Head of Security Services to Secretary General of the Tunisian government, Tunis, August 14, 1940. 54 See ANT, MN 41–3, lawsuit, notes and reports on letters from Néo-Destour to Radio Berlin and on their bearing on acts of sabotage in the Regency (1939–1940).

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reissued the May 27 Decree.55 On 17 December 1940, a new Decree banned all foreign radios so that the Italian radio would not be singled out. At the same time, Colonel Gross, Head of the Armistice Department in North Africa, asked the General Resident to show more flexibility in the enforcement of the law after several Italian nationals were charged by Tunisian military tribunals “for listening to a foreign station heard on the street.”56 No doubt Gross referred to Anselmo Pasquale, an Italian condemned to hard labour in September 1941 for having too openly listened to Radio-Rome. The severe punishment had shocked the Italian Armistice Commission.57 The Residency then tried to cool the enthusiasm of its police officers: Political contingencies lead me to ask you to show a great deal of circumspection in this matter. The Decree of 17 December 1940 issued by the General in Charge of the Troops of Tunisia and regulating foreign radio listening is most certainly not null and void. But enforcement, a delicate issue, should be dealt with a large measure of understanding. It seems that, without showing any weakness, the authorities could operate by way of warning and, concerning Italian nationals listening to Italian radio, only draw up a statement in cases of recurrent offence or ill-will on the part of the offenders.58

Authorities exploited the ambiguities of the decree to formulate an enforcement of the law in favour of the Italians. During the summer of 1942, the police thus observed that Italian broadcasts were distinctly heard in public places around the rue de Marseille (Tunis), but they

55 CADN, Protectorat Tunisie, Renseignements généraux, n. 85, doss. “Réception des émissions radiophoniques”: f. 23, circulaire n. 117. 56 MAE, Guerre 1939–1945, Vichy, série P-Tunisie, n. 17: f. 35, October 20, 1941. 57 Martine Tomassetti, Séquestration et liquidation des biens italiens en Tunisie (1940–1954), derniers enjeux de la présence française, vol. 1, PhD thesis (Aix-Marseille 1, 2002), pp. 32–33. 58 “Les contingences politiques m’amènent à vous demander de faire preuve de beaucoup de circonspection dans ce domaine. L’ordonnance du 17 décembre 1940, de M.le général commandant supérieur des Troupes de Tunisie, portant réglementation des auditions radiophoniques étrangères, n’est certes pas caduque. Mais son application, assez délicate, ne doit pas exclure un large esprit de compréhension. Il semble bien que, sans faire preuve de faiblesse, les agents de l’Autorité pourraient procéder par voie d’avertissement et ne dresser procès-verbal qu’en cas de récidive ou de mauvaise volonté avérée, de la part des contrevenants à l’ordonnance du 17 décembre, lorsqu’il s’agit de ressortissants italiens écoutant la radiodiffusion italienne”, CADN, Protectorat Tunisie, Renseignements généraux, doss. “Réception des émissions radiophoniques”: f. 2, letter from the General Resident to the Head of Security Services, Tunis, October 27, 1941.

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took no action.59 At the same moment, similar happenings involving the French or the Maltese who listened to the BBC were considered with much less indulgence. Beyond the regulations themselves, the social structure of colonial Tunisia induced discriminatory practices in the control of radio listening. Foreign broadcasting in Arabic remained the biggest concern for the French authorities. The BBC, which emerged from war hallowed with the prestige of having broadcast for the Resistance, was back in the firing line of the General Residency as early as 1945. Beginning in the summer, there was anxiety about the success of its Arabic programmes in “Moorish cafés”. The Residency asked for measures “to bring this practice to an end, because of the current tendencies of British propaganda . . .”60 Orienting radio listening It is not surprising, then, that the General Residency decided to create a guided “radio station.” Following the example of the cinematographic bandwagon,61 one of the most successful French propaganda campaigns in the 1940s, the Intelligence Service put in place, at the Liberation, a radio-car headed by Abdelaziz Laroui, which travelled across the country. The car entered villages with great pomp and rounded up the inhabitants in the marketplace. Using a loudspeaker, Laroui gave free rein to his witty eloquence for singing the praises of the Allies and making fun of the Germans’ crushing defeat, cleverly mixing his speech with “amusing stories, bons mots, popular songs and recordings of Arab music,” following the express recommendations of the Centre of Muslim Information.62

59 CADN, Protectorat Tunisie, Renseignements généraux, doss. “Ecoute des émissions radiophoniques étrangères”, n. 150: f. 4, letter from police superintendant to the commissaire central, Tunis, July 29, 1942. 60 CADN, Protectorat Tunisie, 1er versement, n. 2183: f 643, letter from the French Consul General to the Head of Security Services, Tunis, 12 June 1945. 61 See Habib Belaïd, “La propagande française par le film en Tunisie: la ‘caravane cinématographique’ (1942–1947),” in Congrès d’histoire contemporaine (2), Cultures et conscience nationale dans le monde arabe contemporain (Zaghouan, 1999), pp. 15–22. 62 CADN, Protectorat Tunisie, Résidence, 1er versement, n. 2183, doss. n. 2: f. 628– 629, programme of the radio-car propaganda tours during the first fortnight of April 1945.

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In fact, this radio-car had nothing to do with radio, except for using the voice of the most famous Tunisian announcer, Abdelaziz Laroui. Rather, French authorities fulfilled their fantasy of a radio station limited to one single, controlled frequency of their choice through the use of the “loudspeaker car.” Indeed, in October 1939 General Resident Eirik Labonne had thought of confiscating all individual radio sets and organizing “public listening session(s) of censored information.”63 His idea was put into effect during the occupation of Tunis by German and Italian troops. Every evening loudspeakers along the avenue Jules Ferry broadcast Axis news bulletins.64 Abdelaziz Laroui’s instructions clearly explained the objectives of this project: “Mr Laroui will draw up a report of his tour, indicating the interest taken by the public and its reactions. The driver will mingle with the public to better understand their reactions, which he should note down.”65 Indeed, the radiocar staff had a double mission: spread Allied propaganda and gather information on Tunisian public opinion. Behind these policies of control and propaganda appeared the anxiety of colonial authorities on radio, a media difficult to control. In fact, they feared less Radio-Bari or Radio-Berlin than the foreign broadcasts in Arabic that threatened French domination. Radio audience in Tunisia Although police and Protectorate administration archives allow us to trace the outlines of radio listening in Tunisia, apart from ever-present French administration anxieties this remains difficult to grasp. According to indications from newspapers and memoirs, World War II in

63 MAE, 1930–1940, Political and commercial correspondence P, n. 659: f. 234, letter from the General Resident of the French Republic in Tunis to General Noguès, Tunis, October 5, 1939. 64 “L’Administration s’est émue de ces bruits incontrôlables et invariablement hostiles à l’Axe. Après les avoir stigmatisées à maintes reprises, elle installa, Avenue JulesFerry, des hauts parleurs chargés de répandre la bonne parole. La foule se réunissait, écoutait silencieusement. Que n’eût-on écouté à ces moments-là? Puis on se dispersait. ‘Radio-Tunis’ annonçait le speaker. ‘Radio-Ficus’, narguait l’écho populaire. (L’Avenue Jules Ferry est plantée de ficus).” Boretz, Tunis sous la croix gammée, p. 54. 65 CADN, Protectorat Tunisie, Résidence, 1er versement, n. 2183, doss. n. 2: f. 629, programme of radio-car propaganda tours during the first fortnight of April 1945.

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Tunisia, as in France, marked a stage in the development of radio listening. Listeners The number of radio sets significantly increased toward the end of the 1930s. Between 1936 and 1939, the number of sets almost doubled. A year before the establishment of the public station, there were around 18,000 sets in Tunisia.66 In September 1939, almost a year after the inauguration of Tunis-PTT, the number approached 26,000. Unfortunately, precise statistics lack for the war period. However, an examination of the Annuaire tunisien du commerce, de l’industrie, de l’agriculture et des administrations, shows that the number of retail outlets selling radio sets remained constant in Tunis. In spite of difficult economic conditions, most of these businesses survived the war. Of course, not all of them specialized in the sale of radios—these shopkeepers also supplied electrical material, gramophones, and even ran garages—however, it appears that the war did not bring about many bankruptcies in the sector. Coastal towns garnered the most listeners, with Tunis in first place. The proportional distribution between European owners, Tunisian Jews and Tunisian Muslims little varied over time, as Habib Belaïd explains.67 In October 1939, General Noguès sent a report on radio ownership among “natives” to the Vice-President of the Council in Charge of North African affairs. The request for this report was directly linked to the outbreak of war. Needless to say, these figures must be examined with reserve, since not all sets were declared. They do nonetheless give an idea of the distribution of radio sets at the end of 1939:68

66 Centre Historique des Archives Nationales, Paris (hereafter CHAN), F60 710, Doss. radio: letter from the General Resident to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Tunis, July 31, 1937. 67 “In 1936, of the 13,000 officially recorded sets, 11,000 were held by ‘Europeans’, 1,300 declared by ‘Tunisians Jews’ and only 700 by ‘Muslim Tunisians’. In 1939, the proportion was the same, but the number of sets doubled between 1936 and 1939.” Habib Belaïd, “Les débuts de la radiodiffusion en Tunisie (1935–1946),” Revue tunisienne de communication 31 (1997), 56. 68 MAE, 1930–1940, Political and commercial correspondence P, n. 657: f. 282, letter from General Noguès, to Vice-President of the Council in Charge of North African Affairs, October 19, 1939.

radio and society in tunisia during world war ii Europeans

Natives

Morocco

34,000

Algeria Tunisia

97,000 13,400

6,000 Muslims 2,300 Jews 5,000 6,200

Foreigners

391

Totals 42,300

6,400 Italians

102,000 26,000

The table, reproduced above, emphasizes that Tunisians owned few radio sets compared to other groups. Yet they were better off than their Moroccan and Algerian counterparts: 6,200 Tunisians (‘natives’) possessed a radio set compared to 5,000 in Algeria. In the same report the following percentages should be noted: 23 percent of Tunisians compared to 20 percent of Moroccans, and 6 percent of Algerians owned a set. These figures are telling, but lack precision, since the number of Jewish owners is specified only for Morocco. The attribution of French nationality to Algerian Jews could, in part, explain the proportional difference with the Protectorates. Yet the peculiarity of Protectorate status remains obvious—protectorates have more ‘native’ listeners. The singularity of Tunisia is noteworthy when one remembers that a major radio station was established there relatively late. Radio broadcasting reached mainly “the clientele of Moorish cafés, the civil servants and middle classes of Tunis and the inland.”69 Only a privileged minority of the Jewish and Muslim communities owned individual sets. But the listening public went far beyond the small proportion of Tunisians who actually owned a radio set. We have already discussed the “Moorish cafés” and shops that sometimes drew large numbers of listeners in urban areas. In rural areas like Sayada, a little village of the Sahel, a weaver would place his radio set on the windowsill for the assembled listeners out on the street.70 Even in the privacy of the house, radio listening went beyond the family circle. It was not uncommon for owners of radio sets to share their listening time with friends and neighbours. The clandestine nature of such activity during the war did not seem to diminish the practice—on the contrary. Georges Cohen wrote: “On the first floor our neighbours were the Zammits, Maltese. Since the Maltese had British nationality, they did

69 MAE, Tunisie 1944–1949, n. 102 C: f. 1, letter from General Resident Mast to General Catroux, Minister of North Africa in Algiers, Tunis, September 25, 1944. 70 Interview with Tahar Cheriaa, Ezzahra (Tunisia), July 30, 2008.

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not have their radio sets confiscated. [. . .] Every evening grown-ups would go down to listen to the BBC71.” André Nahum also remembers that during the German occupation his family, having been deprived of its radio, used to listen to the BBC at their Gaullist neighbours’ home.72 Radio listening was a collective practice, a moment of sociability and, also, as these last examples show, a means of maintaining neighbourly solidarity. And sometimes, there was no need for a direct access to the radio. Maherzia Bournaz describes her landing neighbours, “French from Corsica [who] every evening came [. . .] to discuss recent news they had heard on the radio and read in the papers.”73 The young Tunisian couple, which had only recently moved to Sousse, did not yet have the means to acquire a set of their own, however the radio indirectly played a part in their lives. While social and cultural status affected the spread of radio broadcasting, technical conditions, especially electricity supply, impacted it as well. Years before the transistor revolution, the many regions without electricity were isolated from the radio media. In 1946, Southern Tunisia, as well as certain central regions (such as the Maktar district), still lacked electricity. Asked about the potential of radio propaganda, many “contrôleurs civils” (heads of the “contrôles civils”, an administrative unit in colonial Tunisia) shrugged it off. Djerba, for instance, did not possess an electricity network.74 “Electric current is available only in Gabès, and only at certain times,” wrote an administrator of the contrôle civil of Gabès.75 In Tozeur the situation was similar: “In Djérid, which is still deprived of electricity, radio propaganda is not a priority.”76 In these regions radios worked only on batteries, which often broke down.

71 Georges Cohen, De l’Ariana à Galata: Itinéraire d’un juif de Tunisie (Vincennes, 1993), p. 43. 72 André Nahum, Feuilles d’exil, de Carthage à Sarcelles (Jargeau, 2004), p. 142. 73 Maherzia Amira-Bournaz, Maherzia se souvient. Tunis 1930 (Tunis, 1999), p. 142. 74 CADN, Protectorat Tunisie, 2ème versement, n. 1109: letter from the chef de poste de contrôle civil of Djerba to the Directeur général des contrôles, Djerba, January 23, 1946. 75 Ibid. letter from the chef de poste de contrôle civil of Gabès to the Head of the Gabès region, Gabès, January 16, 1946. 76 Ibid. letter from the chef de poste de contrôle civil of Tozeur to the Directeur général des contrôles, Tozeur, January 15, 1946.

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The audiences’ preferences The popularity of the different stations is difficult to evaluate, especially as listeners tended to listen to diverse stations in order to gain the most reliable information from the radio battle. Philippe Soupault noted that even the most ardent Petainists listened to the BBC,77 which appeared to be very popular, especially among Tunisian Jews and the French. “All Tunis presses the switch on their radio sets at the same time to listen to the BBC,” wrote Eugène Boretz.78 The role of myth cannot be overlooked here, since listening to the BBC is now a standard cliché for anyone wanting to conjure up images of World War II. Nevertheless, witnesses attest to the importance of the station during the war. To assess the audience of stations of lesser historical fame than Radio London is more difficult. The Security services’ archives open up some avenues; however, these must be examined with as much caution as wartime memoirs and diaries. One often comes across remarks such as: [On the occasion of the talk of Mustapha Sfar, sheikh el-medina, at the station Paris-Mondial] The sensible public opinion of the Tunisian population has noted with marked satisfaction France’s new show of interest in Muslims. In certain nationalist circles, though, such talks have been interpreted as a form of French propaganda, necessitated by current circumstances.79

Such analyses do not reveal factual information. The Head of Security Services does not assess the nationalist audience, nor the non-political public. In fact, the report appears to justify propaganda rather than giving a true picture of Tunisian popular opinion. These accounts reflect anxiety of the French colonial administration, which often swung between simple paranoia and blind optimism.

77

Soupault, Le Temps des Assassins, p. 329. Boretz, Tunis sous la croix gammée, p. 54. 79 “[A l’occasion d’une intervention de Mustapha Sfar, cheikh el-medina, à ParisMondial] L’opinion saine de la population tunisienne a noté avec un satisfaction marquée cette nouvelle manifestation de l’intérêt porté par la France aux musulmans. Dans certains cercles nationalistes, on a par contre interprété cette causerie comme une forme de la propagande française nécessitée par les circonstances actuelles”, CADN, n. 2509: f. 59, letter from the Head of Security Services to the Head of General Administration, Tunis, April 18, 1940. 78

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Evidence for the popularity of Italian and German Arabic stations among the Tunisian population is indisputable. However, social and cultural criteria must be taken into account: foreign programmes in Arabic recruited listeners in the “bourgeoisie (artisans of the souks)” and the “Muslim intellectual classes (pupils and former pupils of the Grand Mosque)”—as opposed to “intellectuals of French culture.” On the other hand, both women and workers, who very often did not have the educational level to understand literary Arabic,80 remained faithful to Radio-Tunis,81 which provided part of its programmes in Tunisian Arabic. Already in this period we find Tunisian reticence towards French propaganda. In an interview made in July 2008, Tahar Cheriaa (famous cinema enthusiast and founder of the Journées Cinématographiques de Carthage) spontaneously named the BBC and the Arabic programmes from Radio-Bari and Radio-Berlin as his former favourite stations, but omitted Radio-Tunis82. In February 1940, French propaganda publicized a Radio-Tunis’ report on Tunisian soldiers at the front. The usually suspected “Moorish cafés” were suddenly regarded as possible allies for the French information campaign. The importance of the surveillance plan put in place in the cafés, however, reveals unease. Although reactions to the program in inland towns seemed rather enthusiastic, in Tunis, the police briefly noted (with relief?) that there had been no “tendentious comments.” In fact, the program appears to have aired to relative indifference: “many regular clients of the Moorish cafés having gone to the Municipal Theatre where there was a performance by El Ittihad el Mesrahi Society.”83 This example highlights the gap that existed between the inland towns and Tunis, where people were more politicized. The existence of alternative attractions allowed the inhabitants of Tunis to make their choice (here Arab theatre rather than imperial radio) and to indirectly express their feelings towards French occupation.

80 Here we find echoes of education wars and the division of standard literary Arabic and local Tunisian dialect, which the French encouraged, believing that should Tunisians have only a minimum education in Arabic, they would not be able to listen to foreign influences. See Mamelouk, The Death of Arabic. 81 CADN, Protectorat Tunisie, 2ème versement, n. 2710: letter from the sheikh elMedina to the Contrôleur civil of Tunis, Tunis, February 9, 1948. 82 Interview with Tahar Cheriaa, July 30, 2008, Ezzahra (Tunisia). 83 ANT, SG 2 88–7: f. 45, letter from the Head of Security Services to the Secretary General of the Tunisian Government, Tunis, March 4, 1940.

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An important stage in radio practices World War II, in Tunisia as in Europe, marked an important stage in the integration of radio into lifestyles. Purchase of a radio set, or at least the symbolic importance this takes on in individual memory, almost always corresponds to a historic moment. The acceleration of political and military events fed a dependence on news. Faced with a dearth of information, listeners tuned in to seek fragments of information, which they discussed and exchanged. Radio sets appear in most accounts of Protectorate Tunisia connected with the war. In his Chronique des Morts, Adrien Salmieri writes that the Allied declaration of war against Germany—as, later, Italy’s declaration against France—was known through the radio. For several days the author’s relatives went back and forth between Tunis and their holiday home in Carthage, on the lookout for new light on the international situation. They purposely left the town at midday to listen to radio broadcasts. Radio appeared to offer direct communication with Europe, where the conflict took shape. Henceforth there was a tendency to place more confidence in the radio, which transmitted news almost instantaneously, than in the written press. On 3 September 1939, [. . .] all the families met at the Maginis [close friends of the author’s family], even the parents who had driven out to fetch me; it was no holiday, however, in spite of the children who ran about until they were chased towards the beach, without supervision or smacks [. . .] The radio never stopped transmitting communiqués, they listened to everyone of them, and exchanged their views in voices we didn’t recognize [. . .] They were waiting for the event as they would for a birth or a slow death.84

For the parents of young Adrien Salmieri, as for the family friends, the whole day seemed to revolve around the radio set. Once again we observe this need to gather together, a need that the gravity of the situation seemed to demand, but also the very quality of the media. Tahar Cheriaa’s recollections on radio crystallized around a political event as

84 “Toutes les familles se réunirent chez les Magini [amis proches de la famille de l’auteur], même mes parents qui étaient ‘montés’ en voiture pour me ramener; ce n’était pas une fête, cependant, en dépit des enfants qui couraient à tous les étages jusqu’à ce qu’on les chasse vers la plage, sans surveillance et sans gifles [. . .] la radio n’arrêtait pas d’émettre des communiqués et eux l’écoutaient, échangeaient des remarques d’une vois que nous ne leur connaissions pas [. . .] Ils attendaient l’événement comme une naissance ou une agonie”, Salmieri, Chronique des morts, p. 744.

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well, Habib Bourguiba’s famous 6 April 1943 discourse on Radio-Bari, in which he cautiously refused to take the Axis side. The six-month German occupation represented a specific radio moment. Two wartime diaries attest to the anxiety of Tunis inhabitants, who, since the American landing, had been without reliable information on the developing situation in North Africa. Trapped in forced inactivity and sometimes isolated, they appeared to be completely dependent on the radio, around which a great part of their lives revolved. Arthur Pellegrin’s diary is often limited to a summary of events gleaned from papers or the radio. Comments on radio listening increase with time: “Radio-Tunis has been silent since yesterday” (November 15, 1942).85 “No way to get Radio-Algiers, there is too much jamming; and London is hardly audible either. This means that we are without precise news of the Tunisian front” (November 21, 1942).86 Similarly, in his journal, André Gide referred more frequently to the radio, which, it appeared, he couldn’t part with.87 Consequently, such programmes constituted a new system of reference understood by all those who had access to radio. The most famous announcers became part of everyday life for the wireless enthusiasts. Even deprived of their radio sets, prisoners thus knew how to imitate the voices that were familiar to them, as described in Le Temps des Assassins: One of our friends had specialized in imitating—and pretty well—the voice of Jacques Duchêne, shouting: “Today, the 405th day of the battle of the French people for their liberation.” And almost every evening, after all cells had been closed down, at the time when Jacques Duchêne was speaking from London, C. trumpeted his call.88

85 Arthur Pellegrin, “Journal de guerre (Nov. 42 – June 43),” Cahiers de la Méditerranée (1986), 18. 86 Ibid. p. 21. 87 André Gide, Journal: 1939–1949, souvenirs (Paris, 1993), p. 1280. André Gide took refuge in Tunis in May 1942 to escape the deleterious atmosphere that then prevailed in Vichy France. This was the writer’s fifth stay in Tunisia. He spent the whole period of the German occupation in the Regency before going on to Algiers at the end of May 1943. 88 “Un de nos camarades s’était fait une spécialité, celle d’imiter et fort bien la voix de Jacques Duchêne criant: ‘Aujourd’hui—quatre-cent-cinquième jour de la lutte—du peuple français—pour sa libération’. Et presque chaque soir, bien après la fermeture des cellules, à l’heure où Jacques Duchêne parlait de Londres, C. lançait son cri.”, Soupault, Le Temps des Assassins, p. 222.

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World War II marked a stage in radio practices in Tunisia as in European countries. If radio listening remained contained socially and geographically, it had a greater impact on society than would be suggested by the number of owners of radio sets. The war revealed the existence of an audience that went beyond European listeners. A young ‘native’ audience, often from the middle class and cultivated ‘petite bourgeoisie’ took over the new media, not on stations that remained closed to them, but in the press, where Arabic broadcasts became an issue of national identity, and in the ‘Moorish cafés’ and souk shops where Tunisians discussed local and international politics in low voices. Panic seized French authorities in the face of a medium so difficult to control. The door that listening to foreign radio (German, Italian, or English) opened to an exercise of political assertion justified the fears of the colonial administration. The situation justified urgent measures of control, which the General Residency had not been bold enough to enforce in time of peace, and which were not followed up after the war, more from recognition of their complete ineffectiveness than by any real conversion to radio freedom. At this time, French authorities appear to have grasped their inability to control radio listening and put an emphasis less on repressive measures than on improvement of Radio-Tunis’ programmes.

PART THREE

SOCIAL AND POLITICAL TRANSFORMATIONS

PERIPHERAL EXPERIENCES: EVERYDAY LIFE IN KURD DAGH (NORTHERN SYRIA) DURING THE ALLIED OCCUPATION IN THE SECOND WORLD WAR Katharina Lange Introduction: marginal perspectives and war experience One spring day in 1942, the village of Sheikh Memo, located 60 km northwest of Aleppo, was approached by a column of British tanks and armoured vehicles.1 “They aimed their machine guns at the hill above the village,” Haj Menan, an 80-year-old villager remembered. “Ra ra ra ra ra [. . .], the machine guns went. The tanks drove up, all the way through the village, until they reached the graveyard.” “We were scared,” his sister Dêkê Hikmet added. “Nobody dared to leave the house, for fear of being wounded or killed.” The action was part of a British army exercise. For many villagers in Sheikh Memo, this manoeuvre was the first time they saw British soldiers at close range. After the action, the older and more daring village boys collected the wooden bullets fired—today, as old men, they like to remember the heaps of wooden bullets they amassed. During the Second World War the territories of Syria and Lebanon formed a battleground only for five weeks in early summer 1941. Military action on Syrian territory, involving Syrian, North and West African, and French soldiers under Vichy French command, and the Allied 1 The dating here is extremely tentative. Villagers remembered that the manoeuvre took place in spring, but they could not say with certainty in exactly which month and year it occurred. Interviews quoted in this article were conducted during field research in Syria between 2004 and 2007, as part of a research project conducted at the Zentrum Moderner Orient, Berlin, financed by the German Research Association (DFG). Names of living individuals and villages have been changed. Kurd Dagh was, and is, primarily a Kurdish-speaking district, with other languages also spoken (Turkish, Arabic, and in certain contexts French and even English). In order to avoid parallel use of multiple systems of transliteration for Kurdish and Arabic respectively, I have decided to spell administrative terms, names of places and individuals in a simplified English style throughout the text. Only authors’ names and titles of secondary literature are transliterated more strictly.

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contingents—among them Free French, British, Jordanian and Indian troops—who had entered Syria on 8 June that year, had ceased with the 14 July 1941 armistice. Although independence had been promised by the Allies before the invasion, their troops remained stationed in Syria for the duration of the war and beyond—the last foreign troops left the country on 15 April 1946. Although in many parts of Syria the population was not exposed to actual fighting between the opposing forces, people’s lives were nevertheless affected by the war situation. Taking the example of one rural region in Northern Syria, the qadha’ (administrative district) of Kurd Dagh, this chapter will discuss how the Allied occupation was experienced by the local population. Focusing on the significance of the Allied presence and policies for daily life in the region, I will trace how the war situation affected labour opportunities and social relations. A second aspect under investigation is the question of how regulatory practices, which were transformed during the war, impacted on agricultural production, distribution and consumption. A third aspect addressed is the relevance of war memories as a mode of commenting on the present. The regional context The historiography of Syria under the French Mandate (1920–46), which has classically set the frame for the history of Syria during the Second World War, has until now focused predominantly on the Syrian cities of Damascus and Aleppo.2 With some notable exceptions, such as the Jabal Druze or the Syrian Jazira, rural regions have attracted less attention. This is partly due to the sources, which are more abundant for the cities; another reason may be the perceived marginality of areas

2 There are, of course, exceptions such as Méouchy’s ongoing work on the ʿisabatmovement in Northern Syria at the beginning of the mandate (Nadine Méouchy, “Le mouvement des ʿisabat en Syrie du Nord à travers le témoignage du chaykh Youssef Saadoun (1919–1921),” in The British and French Mandates in Comparative Perspectives [Les mandats français et anglais dans une perspective comparative], Social, Economic and Political Studies of the Middle East and North Africa, eds. Nadine Méouchy and Peter Sluglett (Leiden and Boston, 2004), pp. 649–671; see also her contribution in this volume); see also Vahé Tachjian, La France en Cilicie et en Haute-Mésopotamie. Aux confins de la Turquie, de la Syrie et de l’Irak (1919–1933) (Paris, 2004), for the first half of the mandate.

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403

that did not play an important role in the political struggles and social developments of the mandate years. The area on which this chapter focuses, the region of Kurd Dagh (or Jabal Akrad; both meaning ‘Kurdish Mountain’ in Ottoman Turkish and Arabic, respectively), corresponds roughly to today’s administrative region (mantiqa) of Afrin, which covers about 2,050 km2, comprising the town of Afrin itself and 366 villages. The region, located in the foothills of the mountain range of the same name adjacent to the Syrian-Turkish border at an altitude of 700 to 1,201 m, is marginal from more than one point of view.3 Because of its frontier situation, it was marginal in a very material, geographic sense, on the fringes of both the Syrian state and the governorate of Aleppo of which it formed a part. Its mainly Kurdish population differed linguistically and in other respects from their Arab neighbours; at the beginning of the mandate, Kurdish and Turkish, not Arabic, were the languages spoken and understood by the population.4 Yet the area is also, geographically and historically, separated from other Kurdish areas of Syria.5 During the French Mandate over Syria, Kurd Dagh was part of the governorate of Aleppo. In Ottoman times, the villages in this area had been grouped into a number of different districts (nawahi, Sg.: nahiya) that belonged to the qadha’ of Kilis, now in Turkey. After the First World War, when today’s Syria and Lebanon were placed under French Mandate, the qadha’ of Kurd Dagh, comprising four new nawahi, was established in April 1922.6 The new Syrian-Turkish

3 The Kurd Dagh mountain range, which gave the qadha’ its name, extends to the north of today’s border; see Tachjian, La France en Cilicie, p. 36 and map (La Cilicie et les Territoires de l’Est à l’époque de l’occupation française (au lendemain de la Première Guerre mondiale)). 4 One of the conditions for settling under the French Mandate in 1922 was the agreement on Turkish (not Arabic) as the official administrative language of the qadha’: Jamīl Kinna al-Baḥrī, Nubdha ʿan al-maẓālim al-afransīya bi-l-Jazīra wa-lFurāt wa-l-madanīya al-afransīya bi-sijn al-munfarid al-ʿaskarī bi-Qaṭma wa-Khan Istanbul [An Account of the French Iniquities in the Jazira and on the Euphrates, and the French ‘Civilization’ in the Military Solitary Prison in Qatma and Khan Istanbul] Part One. (n.p., n.d. [Aleppo, 1967]), p. 5. 5 Kurd Dagh is marginal to many Kurdish nationalist projections of ‘Kurdistan’, where the district is often left out of representations of Kurdish history or territory. Even academic publications on Syria’s Kurds, which have recently begun to appear, largely disregard this region (for examples see Nelida Fuccaro, “The Kurds in Northern Iraq and Syria,” in The British and French, eds. Méouchy and Sluglett, pp. 579–595, and Jordi Tejel, Syria’s Kurds: History, Politics and Society (London et al., 2009). 6 Al-Baḥrī, Nubdha ʿan al-maẓālim al-afransīya, p. 5; see also Stephen H. Longrigg, Syria and Lebanon under French Mandate (Oxford, 1958), pp. 370–371 (with a typographic error, turning 1941 into 1914, on p. 371).

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border thus cut across older administrative boundaries, in many cases dividing families and separating inhabitants of the border areas from their traditional pastures, fields and properties, which were now located in foreign territory.7 For many years after the establishment of this boundary, traffic across the border, which could not be controlled efficiently in the mostly mountainous and inaccessible terrain, continued in both directions. The academic literature on Syria has until now disregarded this region almost completely.8 This chapter is therefore intended as a first and very preliminary step towards closing this gap by shedding some light on how the period of the Allied occupation was experienced in this marginal region. Because of the lack of written sources reflecting the experiences, perceptions and views of the population of this area during this period, the chapter attempts to glean the perspective of ‘local’ experiences by evaluating French and British archival documents, as well as written and oral narratives told today by the area’s inhabitants. Thus, memories and representations formulated in retrospect will be taken into account, following the lines suggested by Buschmann, Reimann and Carl, who argue that ‘war experience’ is constituted not by the immediate event alone, but also by structured representations and interpretations that may occur ‘after the fact’ and by which perceptions and impressions are consolidated into ‘experience’.9 Northern Syria under Allied occupation In local memory, the Allied occupation of the Levant marks the de facto end of the French Mandate: “When the English came, the French were finished,” Ezzat Evdikê, an 80-year-old olive farmer from Sheikh Memo, recalls.

7

Tachjian, La France en Cilicie et en Haute-Mésopotamie, p. 333. Recent publications by local historian Muḥammad ʿAbdū ʿAlī are valuable contributions based on oral narratives and published sources, but do not use archival material. See M. ʿA. ʿAlī, Jabal al-Kurd [The Kurdish Mountain], Afrin, n.d. (2003). 9 Nikolaus Buschmann and Aribert Reimann, “Die Konstruktion historischer Erfahrung. Neue Wege zu einer Erfahrungsgeschichte des Krieges,” in Die Erfahrung des Krieges: erfahrungsgeschichtliche Perspektiven von der Französischen Revolution bis zum Zweiten Weltkrieg, eds. Nikolaus Buschmann and Horst Carl, (Krieg in der Geschichte) 9 (Paderborn et al., 2001), pp. 261–271. 8

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In principle, the de Gaulle–Lyttelton agreement of 25 July 1941 had ceded authority over all military matters in the Levant to the British Middle East command, while territorial command in Syria and Lebanon—comprising civil administration and public services, as well as public security—was to be executed by the French. Despite the promise of Syrian independence given by de Gaulle before the invasion, the Free French basically continued the mandate administration of the Levant by taking it over from the Vichy administration, in part with the same personnel. However, due to their relative military weakness and dependence on their British allies, as well as the lack of financial and administrative backing from the metropole, the Free French position in the Levant—vis-à-vis the local population as well as the British—was weak. The British ‘Spears Mission’ in Beirut, which coordinated military, economic and political matters in the Levant during the war, its ‘political officers’ stationed throughout Syria, as well as the large numbers of troops under British command based in Syria and Lebanon, formed such an efficient network that Roshwald has spoken of “a British shadow administration” which made “Free French predominance in the Levant [. . .] look more like a legal fiction than a political reality”.10 The years of the Allied occupation were marked by continuous struggles for dominance between the British and the Free French. In the French archival sources, they appear as a time of mistrust and rivalries over jealously guarded competences between the British and French officers. Local elites made use of this multi-layered structure of the military administration by appealing variously to British military, French Mandate, and Syrian administrative authorities and institutions in matters of welfare, political and criminal justice. Border control and stationing of troops Among other themes, conflicts of competence between the Allies in Northern Syria revolved around control of the frontier. French officers insisted that all matters of public administration and security, including border control, were their prerogative as long as no military action took place in the area. Contrastingly, the British considered that, in 10 Aviel Roshwald, “The Spears Mission in the Levant: 1941–1944,” The Historical Journal 29, 4 (1986), 897–919; here p. 901.

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wartime, efficient control of the Syrian-Turkish border was a matter not just of public order but of military security. From their point of view, the frontier and its hinterland in Northern Syria had to be considered a potential zone of military operations, and fell therefore into the British military-administrative domain.11 In 1941, the SyrianTurkish frontier had been a gateway of escape into neutral Turkey for pro-Axis combatants who had fought the Allies in Iraq and Syria.12 Until at least mid-1944, the Allied command feared that the frontier might also serve as a gateway in the other direction: pro-Axis sympathies in the Levant might be prompted into action against the Allies by pro-Axis agents or material smuggled into Syria from Turkey, not to mention infiltration of ‘enemy spies’ gathering intelligence on the Allied troop contingents stationed in the Middle East.13 British officers and non-commissioned officers of the Field Security Service were stationed at North-West Syrian frontier posts in Jarablus, Harim, Idlib, Bab el Hawa and Maidan Ekbes; detachments of various Allied units were based at camps along the border and in the hinterland. Between 1941 and 1945, British, Australian, New Zealander and Indian troops, as well as the Arab and Circassian soldiers of the Transjordan Frontier Force (TJFF) commanded by British officers, were garrisoned in the region. At the Kurd Dagh town of Maidan Ekbes the Baghdad railway entered Syrian territory. Controlling passengers and personnel on the Taurus express coming from Turkey was part of the duties of British officers and other Allied units. In this little border town (in 1945, it had only 287 inhabitants)14 border control missions of different provenances and nationalities were active: beside the British Field Security

11 See for instance the discussions between generals Holmes (British) and Dassonville (French) in Aleppo in June 1944. Centre des Archives Diplomatiques, Nantes, France (CADN), Syrie-Liban, 1er vers, c.p., 770. 12 German authorities, for instance, had initially planned Fawzi al-Qawuqji’s flight via this route with the Turkish government; in the end, the wounded al-Qawuqji was flown out of Syria by way of Athens. See Gerhard Höpp, “Ruhmloses Zwischenspiel. Fawzi al-Qawuqji in Deutschland, 1941–1947,” in Al-Rafidayn. Jahrbuch zu Geschichte und Kultur des modernen Iraq, vol. 3, ed. Peter Heine (Würzburg, 1995), pp. 19–45; here 25–26; 42n64. 13 So General Holmes to French officers in Lattakia and Aleppo in May and June 1944; (CADN, S-L, 1er vers, c.p., 770). 14 Service Géographique des Forces Françaises du Levant (August 1945): Syrie. Répertoire alphabétique des noms des lieux habités, 3rd ed. (Beirut: Forces Françaises du Levant), p. 124.

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Service, there was a post of the French Sûreté aux Armées as well as a gendarmerie post subordinated to the Syrian government. All of them were supposed to work in close cooperation, but their everyday interactions were frequently characterized by professional jealousies, mistrust and mis- (or lack of ) communication. In many cases, French–British rivalries appear to have turned into personal animosity between the officers involved.15 The troops on the border regularly arrested deserters from the Turkish army escaping into Syria, or vice versa, with Syrian deserters trying to cross the border northwards; as well as criminals fleeing from justice, or local smugglers coming from (or going into) Turkey. Among the wares smuggled into Syria were basic foodstuffs such as flour, sugar and livestock, as well as luxury wares like coffee, caramel, watches and clothes. Almost weekly, robberies, raids and forays across the border in both directions were reported; surprisingly, personnel of the Turkish border posts were regularly reported to be among the robbers.16 Considering the amount of illegal border crossings documented (and taking into account that there may have been an even larger number of crossings that were not detected), and considering that this number, instead of decreasing, remained constant and even increased slightly in 1944, it appears that border control was not functioning as efficiently as had been intended by the Allies, despite the number of different troops in the area. One way of countering illegal entries of non-Syrian nationals was the increasingly rigid control of identity cards and other personal papers in the border region, which was carried out by the different troops under British command. Shopkeepers in Afrin, villagers visiting the market, or farmers transporting produce, all had to be ready to produce papers proving their identity and nationality on demand; failing to do so resulted in arrest. In 1944 especially, such controls, for which patrols of the Indian Alwar Infantry Bataillon stationed in Kurd Dagh demonstrated special diligence, reached a peak. Even the

15 As evident for instance in several complaints by the French intelligence officer Valentin about his British counterpart, Sergeant Baker, in September 1944 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers, c.p., 770). 16 In one memorable case, seven soldiers from the Turkish border post at Omar Tepe crossed the border to Maidan Ekbes and stole a herd of 1,500 goats. To return them, the owner had to pay 1,000 Turkish Lira. “After some bargaining”, the reporting French officer concluded his report, “the goats were returned for 500 Lira”. Bulletin d’Information, Afrine, January 17, 1942 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers, rens. et presse, 2023).

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Qaimaqam (district commissioner) and the president of the municipality were not exempt. At a ‘razzia’ that took place in Afrin on 14 April 1944, controls were conducted in such a thorough manner that boys gathered in a demonstration in the market to protest against this ‘imposition’.17 Unlike the French Mandate officers, the British-commanded army units and officers stationed in the area were not involved in the civil administration of Kurd Dagh and therefore had less occasions to make direct contact with the population. In narratives about villagers’ experiences of the Allied occupation, the different troops under British command remain distant, if rather benevolent strangers with whom communication was hardly possible due to the language barrier and whose difference from the villagers seemed inscribed in their very bodily practices. This is reflected in Ezzat Evdikê’s account of the first time he saw ‘English’ soldiers. Even after 60 years, his astonishment at their attire is still noticeable: “I saw some English soldiers down in the valley. They were wearing shorts, and nothing else. And they had put oil all over their bodies. Their skin was red and glistened.” On the other hand, Ezzat Evdikê recalls that he himself, dressed with his Sherwal (baggy trousers) and red-checked headcloth, was a picturesque figure to the British: “Once when I was going to market, I was stopped by a British soldier. He took out a box, and I had no idea what he wanted. Then somebody explained to me that the soldier was taking my picture.” Social or ‘cultural’ conflicts between the Allied troops and the local population are not spoken of as part of the Allied presence, and are only rarely reported in the archival sources. Occurrences around Christmas 1941, when on several consecutive days Australian soldiers stationed at Afrin and Azaz got drunk and rioted in the towns, assaulting passersby and a night-watchman, stealing from greengrocers, and knocking on private houses at night, seem to have been exceptional examples of annoying the public.18 Other Allied troop misdemeanours 17 Bulletin Hebdomadaire d’Information, Afrine, N 15, April 15, 1944 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers, rens. et presse, 2087). 18 Bulletin Hebdomadaire d’Information, Alep, N 21, December 27, 1941 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers., rens. et presse, 1997). A few weeks later, Australian troops were involved in another incident: in the frontier village of Al-Hammam, Australian soldiers arrested the village guard, beat him and confiscated his gun; the reasons are given in the sources. The following day, the gun was restored to its owner—not by the Australians but by British troops (Bulletin Hebdomadaire d’Information, Afrine, January 10, 1942 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers, rens. et presse, 2023).

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against the local population seem to have been rare. An exception was the case of a soldier of the TJFF stationed in the frontier village of Haj Iskandar who left his unit to elope with a village girl in February 1943. Shortly after, a non-commissioned officer of the same unit discovered the pair in the town of Afrin; the girl was returned to her parents, the soldier was turned over to military jurisdiction.19 French sources reflect a categorical differentiation, and resulting anxiety, between the different ‘foreign’ contingents and those troops that could be considered more or less ‘local’, notably the troops of the TJFF, recruited mainly in Palestine and Jordan. When TJFF cavalry detachments (remembered locally as ‘Emir Abdallah’s soldiers’)20 were stationed in the frontier areas in Kurd Dagh in spring 1942, French intelligence officers reported that locals commented that the continuous stationing of foreign troops was yet another indication of the Free French weakness and lack of resources. Somewhat bitterly, the reporting officer remarked: “The presence of British troops could not have caused the same comments as that of the Transjordanian forces whom the Syrians consider their equals, if not their inferiors. On top of that, these troops [people say] are on the whole better remunerated than our own local units.”21 Seeing the war Besides border and customs policing, other practices of regulation and control that responded to ‘military needs’ interfered with daily life, but were apparently not regarded as an equally heavy imposition.

19 Bulletin Hebdomadaire d’Information, Afrine, N 9, February 27, 1943 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers, rens. et presse, 2046). I am obliged to Katrin Bromber for the observation that this procedure reflects standard British army practice: the matter was referred to military justice, rather than local civil jurisdiction, in order to avoid scandal, and because milder punishment could be expected. 20 ‘Emir Abdallah’ refers to the then ruler of Transjordan, Abdallah b. Husayn. Although the TJFF were formally under British command, this popular label indicates a local perception of them as a ‘Transjordanian’ unit. 21 Bulletin Hebdomadaire d’Information, Alep, N 18, May 5, 1942 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers., rens. et presse, 2013). Several TJFF cavalry squadrons charged with border control were stationed in larger villages or towns close to the border in Kurd Dagh (e.g. in Deirsouane, Jenderis, Rajo, Sheikh al-Hadid, Hammam, Maidanki) but also in towns of other districts (Harim, Bashmishli, Azmarin, Qanaye, etc.); see TJFF Cavalry Regiment War Diaries kept by Lt. Col. Montgomery for June–September 1942. The National Archives, Public Records Office, Foreign Office, London, United Kingdom (TNA, PRO) WO 169/4353.

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Black-out, which was made obligatory in Afrin on 23 May 1944 and reinforced by Allied patrols, marked a change in some of the larger villages and towns, while everyday life in the rural areas was less affected.22 Allied propaganda was disseminated, but appears not to have had a great impact. In contrast to Aleppo, where French propaganda lectures were held (18 of them in the first five months of 1942 alone, making an average of more than three per month), brochures were distributed in Kurd Dagh, initially by French, then by British officers. Besides this, the French Service Cinématographique regularly showed films in several of the larger villages.23 Although these shows drew large crowds, the films, apparently at least partly produced by the British army, seem to have been geared towards another ‘Oriental’ audience and did not quite meet the taste of the public: “The population is hardly interested in the cartoons singing and talking in English, nor in the desert Bedouin. They waited to see news of the war [. . .],” one officer noted after a round of cinematic sessions just after the Allied landing in Normandy in June 1944.24 ‘News of the war’ were also produced in Kurd Dagh itself, in the shape of rumours. Repeatedly, the population interpreted troop movements and especially the reinforcements of Allied troops along the Turkish border as a sign that Turkey’s entry into the war (either on the side of the Allies or against them) was imminent, and that Kurd Dagh was on the verge of becoming an active front.25 Politically, Kurd Dagh remained quiet during the war, compared with other parts of Northern Syria. “Everyone is much more occupied with their own affairs than with the national or international [political] situation,” noted Captain Chardar, French officer in Afrin in February 1944; indeed this seems to sum up the situation throughout the war years.

22

Bulletins d’Information, Afrine, N 22, June 3, 1944 and N 23, June 10, 1944 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers., rens. et presse, 2087). 23 In May 1942, for example, films were shown in Sheikh al-Hadid, Al Hammam, Maabatli, Maidan Ekbes and Afrin; Bulletin d’Information, Afrine, N 21, May 26, 1942 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers., rens. et presse, 2013); in June 1944, Rajo, Maidan Ekbes, Afrin and Al Hammam; Bulletin d’Information, Afrine, N 23, June 10, 1944 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers., rens. et presse, 2087). 24 The films in question began on 6 June, the first day of the Allied landing, and ended on 9 June 1944; Bulletin d’Information, Afrine, N 23, June 10, 1944 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers., rens. et presse, 2087). 25 According to various Bulletins d’Information, Afrine, June 1944 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers., rens. et presse, 2087).

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The political situation in the region during the Allied occupation, as in the years before and after, was closely linked to the economic and social structures of the area. Kurd Dagh was a poor region; its population, which lived in villages and hamlets, subsisted on agriculture and the raising of small livestock. In the valleys and plains, barley, wheat, lentils and tobacco, recently introduced, were grown; on the hilly slopes mainly olives, pomegranates, apples and grapes. In the mountainous northwestern areas of Kurd Dagh where agriculture was virtually impossible, the raising of small livestock, notably sheep and goats, was especially important; until the 1930s, char burning had been another source of income which was then strictly regulated and eventually prohibited by the authorities. A distinct socio-political stratification, based on economic resource control, characterized social relations in the area. Most of the population owned little or no landed property, while a stratum of large landowners, called Aghas, dominated the area economically, socially and politically. Small property holders, landless peasants and labourers were linked to the Aghas through ties of economic dependency as well as political patronage. In the 1930s, a religiously motivated, anti-colonial and anti-landowner movement had developed in Kurd Dagh. Its leader, Sheikh Ibram (Ibrahim) Khalil, was originally from Turkey and had studied with Naqshbandi sheikhs in Homs and Damascus.26 Around 1930, he settled in Kurd Dagh, initially under the protection of the powerful Sheikh Isma’il Zades, one of the most influential landowning families of the region. Soon, however, Sheikh Ibram and his disciples turned against his patrons. Organized in the form of a religious brotherhood, the adepts of Sheikh Ibram’s circle, called ‘Muridin’,27 agitated for religious and spiritual rigour, the dispossession of the Aghas and the redistribution of their properties among the poor, as well as driving the French out of Syria. Throughout the 1930s, the movement gained large numbers of supporters especially among the poorer and landless peasants. Violent clashes increased between Muridin and Aghas, as well as French forces. Between 1937 and 1939, the revolt was finally suppressed with great military force by the French, who were acting 26

The Naqshbandi order is one of the most popular Islamic mystic (Sufi) brotherhoods of this region. 27 This was the name given to the revolutionaries; ‘murid’ originally referred to the followers of a religious authority, often a Sufi sheikh.

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in concert with the most powerful Agha of the area, Rashid Sheikh Isma’il Zade, locally remembered as Kor Rashid (‘Rashid the Blind’).28 After the revolt failed, many of the revolutionaries fled across the border into Turkey, often taking their families with them. At the time of the Allied occupation, memories of the revolt were still fresh and a renewed flare-up was considered possible. Throughout the war years, groups of Muridin kept crossing the Syrian-Turkish border, in some cases smuggling or stealing, robbing and killing, in others attempting to return to their home villages. During the 1930s, the Muridin movement had developed personal and political affiliations to the National Bloc, the predominant nationalist party during the Mandate.29 When the national Syrian delegation to the negotiations at Paris in 1936 returned to Syria, their arrival at Afrin on the Orient Express train was greeted by hundreds of Muridin, led by Ali Ghalib, one of the movement’s leaders.30 With the strengthening of the Syrian nationalist movement vis-à-vis the French after 1941, and especially after the parliamentary elections of 1943 which the nationalists won, more and more Muridin returned to Syria, taking advantage of the Syrian nationalists’ positive attitude to the movement as an ‘anticolonial’ uprising.31 In 1944, the number of returning Muridin rose, thanks to Turkish legislation that considered the refugees as Turkish citizens because they had lived on Turkish territory for five years. This 28 On the Muridin movement, see Roger Lescot, “Le kurd dagh et le mouvement mouroud,” Studia Kurdica 1, 5 (1988), 101–116. According to local narratives, the enmity between Kor Rashid and his family, the Sheikh Isma’il Zades, and the Muridin emerged in the electoral campaign of 1936, which was won Syria-wide by the National Bloc. The parliamentary seat for Kurd Dagh was contested between the office holder, Husayn Aouni, and Kor Rashid. In this campaign, the Muridin supported Husayn Aouni (who came from a powerful landowning family, as well) against Kor Rashid. The latter lost—at least partly, local historians believe, because of the Muridin’s backing; see Çavşîn, Rodî (n.d.): Ḥ arakat al-Murīdīn fī Jabal Kurd Dagh, http://www. kurdax.net/Maqala (accessed June 4, 2006). 29 See Philip S. Khoury, Syria and the French Mandate: The Politics of Arab Nationalism 1920–1945 (Princeton Studies of the Near East) (Princeton, 1987), pp. 245ff., also Keith Watenpaugh, Being Modern in the Middle East: Revolution, Nationalism, Colonialism, and the Arab Middle Class (Princeton and Oxford, 2006), pp. 225ff. on nationalist politics and the role of the National Bloc in Aleppo. 30 According to ʿAbdū, Muḥammad: Al-Ḥayāt al-siyāsīya fī Jabal al-Akrād fi’l-qarn al-ʿishrīn [Political life in Jabal al-Akrād (the Kurdish Mountain) in the Twentieth Century] 2004, http://www.efrin.net/efrin03/arabi/efrin/index/dr.muhamad-abdo-ali/ dr.muhamad-abdo-ali-2.htm (accessed November 25, 2008). Other publications by the same author under Muḥammad ʿAbdū ʿAlī. 31 Various Bulletins d’information, Afrine, in 1944 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers., rens. et presse, 2087).

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meant that Muridin residing in Turkey were called on for military service which was obligatory for Turkish citizens. To escape from this, most Muridin intensified their attempts to return to Syria. After the suppression of the Muridin revolt, the large landowners’ economic, social and political domination of the area remained essentially unchallenged. Members of the landowning families represented the political movements of the time. During the 1930s and 1940s, the parliamentary deputies of the region were elected from this group, which also provided the president of the municipality. Notables of the qadha’ were more or less loosely associated with Kurdish nationalist movements and ideas. Husayn Aouni, who had been elected to parliament in December 1931 and 1936, was affiliated with the Kurdish nationalist movement Khoybûn, as were the most powerful Agha of the area, Kor Rashid, and his brother, Haj Henan.32 Fayiq Agha, as well as his successor as president of the municipality, Khalil Agha, were subscribers to the Kurdish journal Hawar, which was published in Damascus with French approval by the Kurdish nationalist intellectual Jeladet Bedirkhan. However, the influence of Kurdish nationalism at the time of the Mandate remained limited to members of the elite; it did not gain much popular support.33 During the years of the Allied occupation, the Sheikh Ismaʾil Zade were one of the most influential families in Kurd Dagh. Kor Rashid, the legendary ‘strong man’ who dominated the area in the first half of the 20th century, belonged to this family, as did Fayiq Agha, landowner from the Bulbul region. Fayiq Agha dominated Kurd Dagh politics during the Allied occupation by taking up important civil service posts in the region. He served as president of the municipality until 1943, when he switched chairs to represent Kurd Dagh in parliament. His succession as president of the municipality was bitterly contested between Khalil Agha Seydo Memo and Muhammad Arif al-Ghobari,

32 Tachjian, La France en Cilicie, p. 354 n. 13, p. 382 n. 81; see pp. 349ff., Tejel, Syria’s Kurds, pp. 17–19 and Nelida Fuccaro, “Die Kurden Syriens: Anfänge der nationalen Mobilisierung unter französischer Herrschaft,” in Ethnizität, Nationalismus, Religion und Politik in Kurdistan, ed. Carsten Borck, Eva Savelsberg and Siamend Hajo, Kurdologie 1, (Münster, 1997), pp. 301–326, esp. pp. 306–309, on Khoybûn’s role in Syria. 33 In the summer of 1939, a ‘Club of Kurdish Youth’, oriented towards Kurdish nationalist ideas, had been founded in Afrin by members of the educated elite; but when the French intervened, the club was closed down after only a few weeks; ʿAbdū, Al-Ḥ ayāt al-siyāsīya fī Jabal al-Akrād.

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both from similar, landowning backgrounds, but representing different political orientations. Since the mid-1920s, notables from Kurd Dagh had developed relations with the National Bloc. Muhammad Arif al-Ghobari had close personal relations with proponents of the National Bloc in Aleppo such as Saʿdallah al-Jabiri, Abd-ar-Rahman al-Kayyali, and Hasan Ibrahim Pasha.34 Khalil Agha did not display such affiliations, and it was he who followed Fayiq Agha as president of the municipality. Regulating wartime resources: OCP and MESC Economic regulations, which had a direct impact on the lives of the local population, were a central part of Allied policy in the Levant. Their basis was the need to secure the provision of the Allied forces in the Middle East with military and other supplies, while not neglecting the needs of the civilian population. Before the war, Middle Eastern economies in large part relied on imports of basic foodstuffs as well as manufactured goods, which during peacetime had taken up almost all available shipping space.35 With the war-induced shortage of shipping, intensified in 1940 with the surrender of France to Germany and Italy’s entering the war, the danger of a severe lack of supplies, hunger and misery in the Middle East increased. In Lebanon and Syria, memories of the catastrophic famine of the First World War resurfaced—among the local populations as well as the officials of the military authorities who were anxious to avoid a repetition of this disaster not only for humanitarian reasons but also out of fear of political instability.36 The British authorities responded by introducing a range of regulatory measures. Locally produced agricultural as well as manufactured

34

Ibid. In 1939, Middle Eastern civilian imports were estimated at 5 to 6 million tons annually; in 1942–43, these had dropped to 1.25 million tons; mainly imports of ‘sugar, rice, tea, coffee, and cotton piece-goods’ were significantly reduced: Longrigg, Syria and Lebanon under French Mandate, p. 336; see also Robert Vitalis and Steven Heydemann, “War, Keynesianism and Colonialism: Explaining State-Market Relations in the Postwar Middle East,” in War, Institutions and Social Change in the Middle East, ed. Steven Heydemann (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 2000), pp. 100–145, here p. 116. 36 See Elizabeth Thompson, “The Climax and Crisis of the Colonial Welfare State in Syria and Lebanon during World War II,” in War, Institutions and Social Change in the Middle East, pp. 59–99; here pp. 59, 74; see also Vitalis and Heydemann, “War, Keynesianism, and Colonialism,” pp. 116–117. 35

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goods were to substitute for the absence of large-scale imports; therefore, local and regional production, the circulation and allocation of agricultural products were regulated by the Middle East Supply Centre (MESC) which had been established in Cairo in 1941. The MESC developed from an institution subordinated to General Head Quarters in the Middle East37 to an increasingly powerful institution that, although its functions remained in the realm of coordination, policy planning and advice, controlled agricultural production and distribution, devised rationing plans, and even initiated demographic counts to assess the needs of local communities.38 On the ground, the regulatory policies of the Allies were implemented by the agents of the Office des Céreals Panifiables (OCP), locally known and remembered as MIRA. This was initially established by General Catroux, commander of the Free French Forces and Delegate-General in the Levant, as the ‘Wheat Office’ (Office du blé), a French-controlled institution intended to control food distribution and supply; local protest and British pressure soon saw it transformed into a joint Syrian-Lebanese-British-French agency.39 According to French intelligence reports, the activities of the OCP were one of the main concerns of Kurd Dagh villagers throughout the war.40 Every farmer who was growing wheat had to register with the OCP regional office. Upon registration, farmers were given a paper slip printed in Arabic. Without this document, threshing, as well as grinding grain at one of the local mills, was illegal.41 After the harvest, farmers were prompted to declare the amounts of grain they had produced; these ‘voluntary declarations’ were reinforced by checks.42 At harvest time, OCP patrols came to each village in order to estimate

37 Originally a British institution under the aegis of the Ministry of Shipping in London, the MESC became a joint British-American institution in 1942; see Longrigg, Syria and Lebanon under French Mandate, p. 335; Vitalis and Heydemann, “War, Keynesianism, and Colonialism,” p. 117. 38 Vitalis and Heydemann, “War, Keynesianism, and Colonialism,” pp. 116–123. 39 See Longrigg, Syria and Lebanon under French Mandate, pp. 337–338; Vitalis and Heydemann, “War, Keynesianism, and Colonialism,” pp. 121ff., p. 142 n. 60. 40 See for instance Bulletins Hebdomadaires d’Information, Afrine, September and October 1942 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers, rens. et presse, 2023). 41 According to narratives of Sheikh Memo’s villagers, see also Vitalis and Heydemann, “War, Keynesianism, and Colonialism,” p. 122. 42 Bulletin Hebdomadaire d’Information, Afrine, 3 October 1942 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers, rens. et presse, 2023); Bulletin Hebdomadaire d’Information, Afrine, N 3, January 16, 1943 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers, rens. et presse, 2046).

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the amount of grain stored on the village threshing floors. The farmers were then obliged to sell the appropriate amount of threshed grain to the authorities at fixed prices. Complaints about the OCP abounded.43 Cultivators complained that the pace of bureaucratic procedures was not adequate to the demands of the agricultural year: after the harvest, the grain was not taken off their hands in time; seed grain was not provided in time for sowing the new crop so that in 1943 large tracts of land remained uncultivated.44 Meeting the quantities of grain specified by the local OCP office was not always easy. If for any reason a farmer’s harvest turned out to be less than the estimated amount, it was ‘his problem’, as villagers in Sheikh Memo remembered. “If you could not produce the amount specified on your paper, then you had to make up for the difference from your own pocket,” Haj Menan told me. Villagers’ accounts of their war experiences point to yet another dimension of narrated memories. Proponents of different regulatory regimes are implicitly and explicitly compared. As will be discussed more fully in the concluding paragraph, this opens new possibilities of critique. In today’s narratives about MIRA told by Sheikh Memo’s villagers, the local (i.e. Syrian) administration officials are described as corrupt. They are contrasted with ‘the English’, who throughout are described in a positive tone. Haj Menan remembered a British officer who had come to the village at harvest time with an OCP patrol: “His men said: there are 50 tons stored here.” The Englishman made a face. He did not like what they had said. Then he said: “50 tons? I don’t think so! I think there are only 21 tons here.” He then wrote down “21 tons”. In reality, it was 50. He wanted to help us.” His cousin, Ezzat Evdikê, equally emphasized the positive aspects of Allied grain control: “Yes, we had to sell all our grain to them—but at least the prices were fair.”

43 Throughout Syria, large landowners and grain traders objected to the OCP’s activities, fearing for their profit margins. For small-scale cultivators, however, selling directly to the OCP at fair prices was no less profitable than selling to intermediary traders. 44 Bulletin Hebdomadaire d’Information, Afrine, N 3, January 16, 1943 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers, rens. et presse, 2046).

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Provision, consumption, poverty and welfare Throughout the war, the high level of military spending and relative scarcity of goods led to considerable inflation in the Levant states. The difficult economic situation was aggravated by catastrophic harvests in 1941 and 1942. The OCP was supposed to control the grain market and to assure the provision of grain to the civilian population and Allied troops in the Levant alike. To this end, distribution was regulated through a food ration-card system according to which the ‘indigent’ could buy bread and flour at cheaper prices than the ‘middle class’.45 In Kurd Dagh, as in other parts of Syria, the population voiced regular complaints against the employees of the OCP, their negligent and corrupt practices. Foodstuffs and livestock were increasingly smuggled into the region from Turkey. The gravest problem was insufficient provision with grain, flour and bread, which was also regulated centrally through the branches of the OCP. The bread distributed was of such poor quality that in February 1943 the authorities warned that eating it might cause ‘diverse illnesses’, due to the substitutes used in baking. Consequently, the governor ordered that grain, rather than bread, should be given out.46 On 2 October 1942, the scarcity of wheat led to a protest demonstration that almost resulted in closing the market. Similar to the hunger marches that had been going on in other Syrian cities since the beginning of 1941, women and children in the town of Afrin marched to the Serail to complain to the Qaimaqam.47 The exasperation of the hungry population was heightened by a decision of the Syrian governor of Aleppo, who in the same week had decreed that the grain stored in Afrin’s depot should be transferred to Aleppo to supplement the grain provision of the metropole. In the eyes of the population,

45

Not surprisingly, this led to new debates over who would be included in the ‘indigent’ group, as in May 1942 in Aleppo. At this time, 105 000 persons (rather than households or ‘families’) were listed as indigent, 160,000 persons as ‘middle class’; Bulletin Hebdomadaire d’Information, Alep, N° 19 for the period May 3–9, 1942 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers, rens. et presse, 2013). 46 Bulletin Hebdomadaire d’Information, Afrine, N 9, February 27, 1943 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers, rens. et presse, 2046). 47 See Thompson, “Climax and Crisis of the Colonial Welfare State,” p. 74. As the example of Afrin shows, these forms of protest were not limited to the ’major cities’ of Syria; as early as April 27, 1942, a hunger march occurred in Afrin’s neighbouring town, Azaz: Bulletin Hebdomadaire d’Information, N° 18 for Aleppo province, May 5, 1942 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers, rens. et presse, 2013).

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this decision only confirmed the marginal status of the region. The demonstrators commented on it with critical references to the larger political context: “In places like Damascus, the Alawite and Druze territories where French delegations are present, nothing like this has ever happened.”48 Although the catastrophic hunger of the First World War was not repeated in the Second, the OCP’s activities could not always safeguard supplying the population. The villages higher up in the mountains around Rajo, Bulbul and Maidan Ekbes, where agriculture was not feasible and the prohibition of char burning had deprived people of one of the few sources of income, were especially vulnerable. During the war years, the population in these areas continued to suffer from hunger. In the winter of 1942/3, the situation was especially grim. Food was so scarce that many mountain villagers died. The president of the municipality, Fayiq Agha, scion of one of the large landowning families in the mountain, took the distribution of grain from the OCP depot in Afrin into his own hands. But the quantities provided were insufficient. The French officer in Afrin blamed the lack of aid on the inefficient local authorities, notably the Governor of Aleppo,49 while the British troops stationed in the area held the French responsible: Major Patrick Ness, a British officer commanding a squadron of the TJFF who was stationed at Rajo, describes a scene which he witnessed while patrolling the area in February 1943: I was surprised to see Kurdish villagers standing in the freezing stream [. . .] Blue with cold, they were managing to scoop some fish out [. . .] They had come to the end of their grain store and were half starving. The Free French-organised O.C.P. had not got around to doing anything about the pitiable Kurds, whose bare crops had failed the year before [. . .] At one village we found more than twenty corpses of people who had died from starvation, laid outside the village and waiting for burial.50

48 Bulletin Hebdomadaire d’Information Afrine; October 3, 1942; CADN, S-L, 1er vers, rens. et presse, 2023. This exclamation is surprising considering that there was, in fact, a French delegation present in Aleppo. Rather than as a factual statement, we may perhaps understand it as an expression of critique of the local Syrian authorities, and possibly as an additional indication of the deep chasm perceived by the region’s inhabitants between the metropolis, Aleppo, and Kurd Dagh. 49 Bulletin Hebdomadaire d’Information, Afrine, N 11, March 13, 1943 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers, rens. et presse, 2046). 50 Patrick Ness, Short Stories Written from the Transjordan Frontier Force in the Second World War (York, 1991), p. 9. Although Ness declares his short publication to

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Labour opportunities and social relations Throughout Syria, the disastrous harvests of 1941 and 1942, combined with the effects of the war, had brought considerable economic hardship. Urban dwellers called on the authorities for help in a number of hunger marches, while country folk and especially landless peasants were forced to look for additional income opportunities outside of agriculture. Working for the British offered an opportunity of employment beyond the reach of, and dependency on, the Aghas. Until today, British offers of employment are one of the most often cited effects of the Allied occupation: The English did good. When somebody needed work, they could go to the English. They gave people work, clearing and repairing the roads, digging wells, or helping to build their barracks. They paid people well for this. Not like the French before them: the French forced people to do unpaid labour! Once they obliged my father and me to work on a road for them. They did not give us anything in return.51

Jaf, an old man who at the time of our conversation in 2006 was about 100 years of age and who has since passed away, had similar recollections: “The English were good; they gave people work. They had lots of money.” Since he did not own any land himself, Jaf profited from the opportunities provided by the British presence. He was employed at a British airfield near Kurd Dagh. “Every day, from sunrise to afternoon I worked for the English at [the airfield at] Minnigh. I cleared the field and such things. They gave me a kilogram of flour every day.” The disposition over the manpower of the mandated Levant states was yet another arena in which rivalries between Free French and British were played out. Both sides negotiated over the recruitment of Syrians as civilian labourers, auxiliaries or military personnel. Like military recruitment, British employment of Syrian labourers was observed with great scepticism by the Free French, who were anxious to ‘safeguard their rights’ in the Levant.52 French officials further cited

be ‘short stories’, they read as a factual, rather than fictive, account of his experiences with the TJFF. 51 According to the recollections of Haj Menan from Sheikh Memo. 52 See for instance a letter from General Paul Beynet, Free French Délégué Général in the Levant to René Massigli, French Ambassador for Foreign Affairs in Algiers, discussing the proposed recruitment of 10,000 ‘indigenous labourers’ by the British: letter dated April 26, 944 (CADN S-L, 1er vers., Cabinet Politique, 770).

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concerns that there would not be enough manpower left to ensure the smooth provision of agriculture in the Levant, implicitly reminding their British counterparts of the fundamental significance of Syrian grain for the Allied war effort.53 Yet despite this opposition, the British forces employed thousands of Syrians as ‘indigenous labourers’ to relieve ‘white’ troops by clearing airfields, constructing or repairing roads and fortifications, transporting goods by automobiles and horses, and so on. Despite the positive terms in which recollections of British employment are narrated today by those Kurd Dagh villagers quoted above, there are indications that the wages paid by the British were not actually high. For example, when Farajallah al-Hilou, a prominent communist of Lebanese origin, called for a raise of daily wages in Aleppo in summer 1942, he cited notably the case of the day labourers working for the British army as an example of extremely low salaries;54 and Jaf, the worker quoted above, himself had to supplement his meagre income from the British by cutting wood for handles used for tools such as spades, axes and such like. Every day after his work at the airfield was finished, Jaf went up to the mountain, cut wood, spent the night there, and in the mornings came back down to Afrin to begin work at the airfield, where he passed the wood on to his brother who then sold it in Aleppo. Contrary to many other poor inhabitants of the region, Jaf never enlisted with the British army. In retrospect, he explains this by the machinations of his patron and his own naiveté: he stayed at home because, he says, the landlord for whom he was working kept dangling the promise of marriage in front of his nose. One day he said: we have found you a bride. [. . .] Then he would say: no, that one got married now. But there is another one in Gundî Mistê. Then she would be gone, too. [. . .] In this way, he kept me in the village and I continued working for him.

Today, Jaf regrets that he did not follow the example of other young men without resources who joined the British army. Serving with the

53 Letter of May 9, 1942 [not signed by name, sent from Catroux’s office in Beirut], to Richard Gardiner Casey, Acting Minister of State in Cairo (CADN S-L, 1er vers., Cabinet Politique, 770). 54 Bulletin d’information, Alep, N 27, July 4, 1942 (CADN S-L, 1er vers., rens. et presse, 2013).

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British would have provided him with a good salary and made him—if only temporarily—independent of his patron. “I just had no wits then,” he said in retrospect. Joining up Enlistment in the British armed forces presented an additional chance to secure an income. Throughout the French Mandate, Syrians had been employed in the Gendarmerie and the Troupes Spéciales, the local paramilitary auxiliary forces employed in support of the French troops in the Levant.55 From early 1942 on, the British pursued plans to systematically recruit personnel for military or paramilitary units in Persia, Lebanon, Syria and Iraq. According to internal British communication, the new, locally recruited units should “provide a network to deal with [axis] parachutists, provide guides for regular units and assist them by guerilla activities and furnish nuclei for intelligence and propaganda”.56 Of the 130,000 recruits ‘targeted’ for the whole Middle East, 10,000 persons were to be recruited from the Levant.57 Among the potential recruits, ethnic minorities—namely Armenians, Assyrians and Kurds—were specifically considered by military officials.58 While Assyrians were to be enlisted in Iraq and, possibly, Persia, the recruitment of Armenians and also of Kurds was envisaged to

55 See Nacklie Elias Bou-Nacklie, Les Troupes Spéciales: “Religious and Ethnic Recruitment, 1916–1946,” International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 25 (1993), 645–660 and Nacklie Elias Bou-Nacklie, “The 1941 Invasion of Syria and Lebanon: The Role of the Local Paramilitary,” Middle Eastern Studies 30, 3 (1994), 512–529 for details about the Troupes Spéciales; on the gendarmerie see Hélène Faisant de Champchesnel: “Les gendarmeries pendant l’insurrection de mai 1945 en Syrie, ” Revue de la gendarmerie nationale (hors série) n 3 (2002) (quoted according to online version at http://www.servicehistorique.sga.defense.gouv.fr/04histoire/articles/gendarmerie/ histoire/champ/pa1.htm: 1–2 [accessed November 25, 2008]). 56 Secret letter from T. J. Cash (War Office) to T. Padmore (Treasury), June 12, 1942 (TNA, PRO WO 32 / 10167–29 A). 57 Letter on meeting Spears–Catroux of 23 December 1942 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers., c.p., 770). 58 These suggestions were controversially discussed within the British administration; objections to recruitment of Kurds and Armenians (which would potentially provoke conflicts with the Free French) were voiced by the Foreign Office, while military officials opined that ‘Armenians as a race are not suitable for the roles suggested [. . .]’ (see Secret Memorandum of March 5, 1942, from Lt.-Col. Butterfield to Spears Mission, 9th and 10th Army Commands; as well as Secret Memo from W. R. Beddington to the Commander in Chief of the British 9th Army, February 28, 1942, both CADN, S-L, 1er vers., c.p., 770).

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take place in Syria, necessitating an agreement with the Free French authorities in the Levant.59 In representations to General Catroux, the British explained that a part of these recruits should be organized into ancillary units such as transport, guard or pioneer companies, while another part were to be employed in “dilution within British static artillery, lines of communication, troops and base units in relief of white [i.e. British] personnel”, emphasizing that ‘native’ recruits would be mostly limited to non-combatant units.60 However, Free French resistance to British recruitment in the Levant was considerable. Beside the obvious issues of rivalry over sovereignty and control (French internal reports abound with indignant remarks about British recruiting ‘Syrian subjects’ despite their nationality bringing them under French sovereignty), French officers voiced concerns that the “unreasonably” high salaries paid by the British army would make it difficult to recruit Syrians for those troops under French command. Another concern was that the stationing or deployment of “indigenous units under British auspices” in Syria would cause “disorder” among the Troupes Spéciales.61 As well as resistance to systematic recruitment by the Free French authorities, there were also internal British differences over questions of finance: whose budget should pay for the soldiers’ salaries and equipment? British recruitment in the Levant, which was suspiciously observed and often hindered by the French, gained momentum after an agreement was reached in April 1943, specifying that recruitment would be effected by British-French commissions (at which a French officer would preside); that French interests, as well as civil and public activities in Lebanon and Syria, would not suffer from recruitment, and that the salaries would not exceed those paid by the French.62 Yet even before this date, enlisting with the British armed forces had proved an attractive enough offer to poor, landless peasants from Northern Syria. French sources indicate that Kurd Dagh especially

59 Secret Memorandum of March 5, 1942, from Lt.-Col. Butterfield to Spears Mission, 9th and 10th Army Commands (CADN, S-L, 1er vers., c.p., 770). 60 Letter from Monckton (Cairo) to Catroux (Beirut), April 24, 1942; Letter on meeting Spears–Catroux of December 23, 1942 (CADN, 1er vers., c.p., 770). 61 General Collet (Beirut) to Colonel Wilson (HQ TJFF, Zarka), May 27, 1942; Telegram from Francom Beyrouth to Francelib London, n.d. [probably May 1943] (CADN, S-L, 1er vers., c.p., 770). 62 Note de service, signed by French Delegate-General Jean Helleu; Beirut, April 13, 1943 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers., c.p., 770).

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became a reservoir for recruitment to the British armed forces. A list of 18 recruits from Kurd Dagh and the neighbouring town of Nubbul, who were arrested and questioned by the French authorities in late 1941, gives an idea of their social and economic backgrounds: except for one respondent who declared his profession as ‘landowner’ (propriétaire), the recruits were peasants, shepherds, itinerant salesmen or day labourers.63 French sources record British enlistment of Syrian Kurds as early as August 1941,64 yet other recruits from Kurd Dagh had joined the British forces even before the Allied invasion of Syria—possibly having deserted from Syrian contingents in spring 1941.65 Shortly after the beginning of the Allied occupation, locals who were already serving in British units circulated in Kurd Dagh, having come home ‘on leave’ in order to promote service in the British forces and attract volunteers.66 By February 1942, at least 1,000 Syrians were reported to be serving with the British forces in Palestine; British recruitment of Syrian volunteers was estimated at 15 to 30 young men each day.67 According to French investigations, these early Syrian recruits to the British army traveled south (via Afrin–Aleppo–Damascus), in small groups or individually, to cross the Syrian-Palestinian border clandestinely.68

63 List of 18 Syrians recruited by the British military authorities in Palestine, n.d. [January 1942]; (CADN, S-L, 1er vers., c.p., 770). 64 Letter from Fauqenot, Free French Délégué-Adjoint for the Governorate of Aleppo, to Lt. Colonel Summerhayes, British Political Officer in Aleppo, of 14 February 1942 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers., c.p., 770). 65 Bulletin d’Information from the Services Spéciaux at Afrin of November 1, 1942; cf. also Report by Captain François, Poste des Services Spéciaux Azaz, of February 14, 1942 (both CADN, S-L, 1er vers., c.p., 770). 66 The French observed this with suspicion; Delegation d’Alep, Bulletin Hebdomadaire d’Information N° 40 for the period from October 26 to November 1, 1942; CADN, S-L, 1er vers., rens. et presse, 1997. There is no indication why, or how, these soldiers had joined the British forces in Palestine; possibly, they had been part of the French Troupes Spéciales and were among the deserters who had crossed into Palestine before the Allied invasion of Syria; cf. Bou-Nacklie, ’The 1941 Invasion of Syria and Lebanon’, p. 514. 67 This was stated by a number of recruits from Kurd Dagh, who returned on leave to their home villages and were questioned by the French security services; see Liste de deux ressortissants syriens enrolés par les autorités militaires britanniques de Palestine, n.d. [Feb. 1942] and reports by Captain François, Poste des Services Spéciaux Azaz, of February 14 and 17, 1942 (all CADN, S-L, 1er vers., c.p., 770). 68 Ibid.

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Later, it appears that recruits from the area were collected in camps in Aleppo, Beirut and Damascus, whence they were transported to training camps in Egypt. This is reflected in the recollections of Khalil Muhammad, another Sheikh Memo villager. In 1943, Khalil was approximately 17 years old. Orphaned when he was a child, he had no land of his own to cultivate and earned his living as a wage labourer. Khalil tells the story of his recruitment as a matter of chance: one day, hoping to find employment for a day or longer, he went into the market town, Afrin, where he saw a large crowd gathered in front of a coffeehouse. When he asked one of the bystanders what the matter was, he was told that a recruitment drive for the British army had just begun. Khalil, who heard that the English paid good salaries, decided to volunteer. He was recruited on the spot and transferred to a holding camp south of Aleppo. From there he was sent on with other Syrian volunteers, first by train to Damascus, then Palestine, then Egypt. In Suez, his unit embarked on a sea journey to Italy. They landed in Bari, where Khalil remained stationed almost until the end of the war.69 Like most Syrian recruits, Khalil was charged mainly with guard duties and was not actively involved in any fighting. During a raid in winter 1943/4, however, he was taken prisoner by a German unit. Khalil remained a prisoner for, he says, three months and 17 days. At the end of this time, he was freed as part of a prisoner exchange with the British.70 As the war progressed, some of the local recruits to the British forces decided not to continue their service. In 1944 and 1945, French intelligence officers reported several incidents of Syrian deserters from the British army hiding in Kurd Dagh or trying to cross the border into Turkey; in one incident of May 1944, discharged soldiers of the British army used their uniforms and papers (which they had retained) to

69 Interview in Sheikh Memo, 4 February 2006. Other villagers who remember Khalil’s service with the British narrate his recruitment as a bit less spontaneous. 70 The description of Khalil’s wartime experiences is based on his own accounts; dates must, again, be considered as tentative approximations. I have not been able to match the details which Khalil recollects with archival documents pertaining to his individual fate. For a more detailed analysis of his narrative in the context of European recruitment of Mashriq soldiers during the Second World War, see Katharina Lange, “Proud fighters, Blind Men: World War Experiences of Combatants from the Arab East,” in Translocality: An Approach to Globalising Phenomena, ed. Ulrike Freitag and Achim von Oppen (Leiden, 2010), pp. 83–109.

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deceive the villagers, rob and steal. When they were discovered, they fled back to Palestine to join up once again and thus escape pursuit.71 In Kurd Dagh, service with the British army is described in mostly positive terms. Sixty years after his experience, Khalil is full of praise for the British: Their customs and habits are very good. [. . .] Regarding military service, there is certainly no one better [. . .] in the whole world. Regarding the food: whatever you could wish for was provided. With clothes, it was the same, and the salary as well. [. . .] There was a storage building [full of clothes] from floor to ceiling [. . .]—from stockings [. . .] to head coverings: whatever you liked, you could take. Any clothes you wanted [. . .]. And their morals are equally high. God forbid, they are not like people here: never a dirty word or a beating [. . .]. Their morals are humane. You and the one with the 2 or 3 stars [lieutenant and captain], the colonel, the major general and the gerenol [sic] and the bergedi [sic]—you all eat together. They eat with you, don’t they? [. . .] The gerenol [sic] has 12,000 men under his command, but he has to eat together with you!

Shortly before the end of the war, Khalil was asked if he would extend his service with the British army to go to a far-away place which, according to Khalil’s memories, was called “the country of monkeys”. He declined this offer and decided to leave the army and go home. “I refused to go on. Because: a stranger in a strange place is like a blind man.” Back in Sheikh Memo, Khalil received a pension from the British army for two years. When it ceased to reach him, Khalil’s life went on much as it would have had he never joined the army—until today he lives in his native village, farming his own small plot as well as working for other farmers. Khalil’s army career is regarded with amusement by better-off villagers, who would, they say, never have considered joining the army. “That was only for the poor,” Ezzat Evdikê concluded, “not the ones with land.” Similarly, in the village of Kafr Mara, the failed career of another recruit has become almost proverbial. The peasant Hesen Evdo, one of the village poor, joined the British army in Palestine in November 1941. He went so far to even pay 10 Syrian pounds to “Ali”, a recruiter

71 Bulletin d’information, Afrine, N 21, May 27, 1944 (CADN, S-L, 1er vers., rens. et presse, 2087).

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who smuggled him across the Syrian-Palestinian border.72 Hesen Evdo, known locally as ‘Sheickh Hesen’, is long deceased; yet his memory is preserved not only in the archives, but lives on among his fellow villagers: They remember that after his recruitment in Palestine, Hesen was stationed in Malta and Crete, where he was promoted to a low rank (presumably corporal). Yet “soon”, I was told, he was demoted, dishonorably discharged from the army and sent back home because he kept drinking alcohol on duty. His experience has become a figure of speech in the village: until today, schemes that begin with great pretensions, and in the end fail miserably, are referred to as “something like Sheikh Hesen’s rank”. Conclusion Although Kurd Dagh was not part of the frontline in the Second World War, restrictions and regulations dictated by military logic were felt by the population: tightened border controls, which complicated exchange with the neighboring regions in Turkey considerably, and regulation of agricultural production and distribution, as well as food shortages, are just some examples. On the other hand, at the micro- or individual level, the Allied occupation opened up new opportunities and spatial mobility for the population of the qadha’. This becomes evident in the words of the landless villagers, Jaf and Khalil, who speak of the British presence as a chance for income generation and escape—albeit temporal—from their dependence on the local landowning elite. But how lasting were these transformations? Since the historiography of this region with its very specific social and political structure is only just beginning, at this point only tentative conclusions can be drawn; yet it seems that the social changes that came about with the Allied presence in the area— such as they were—did not outlast the war years. In 1944, the British army began the withdrawal of the units stationed in Kurd Dagh. One after the other, the Indian, Transjordanian and British contingents decamped. The British base in Afrin was finally closed on 31 January

72

The recruits took the route Afrin-Aleppo-Damaskus-Safet. See list of two Syrians currently serving in the British Army in Palestine, attached to letter by M. Fauquenot, Delégué Adjoint pour Mohafaza Alep, to Lt.-Col. Summerhayes, British Political Officer in Aleppo, February 19, 1942 (CADN, Syrie-Liban, 1er vers, c.p., 770).

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1945. Ezzat Evdikê remembers how he and other villagers walked down the streets of the deserted camp. “It was very orderly, like a city—there were streets and everything. And especially bathrooms. They had had a lot of bathrooms.” Formally, the Allied occupation of Kurd Dagh ended with the French Mandate, in April 1946. Local tradition circumscribes the end of French rule with the following scene: In April 1946, when the French retreat from Syria was announced, Arif Agha [al-Ghobari] gathered some of his men and supporters from the surrounding villages. [. . .] They proceeded to the Serail in Afrin [where] the news was confirmed that the French had left on that day. Arif Agha asked one of the men to lower the French flag and hoist the national flag instead—but this met with the protest of [. . .] Fayiq Agha, who wanted to do that with his own hand.73

This image seems to characterize the political scene in Kurd Dagh during the 1930s and 1940s. Fayiq Agha, who throughout the war years had profited from his good relations with the French, once again asserted his dominance—this time in putting a symbolic end to foreign rule with his own hand. With the end of the war and the withdrawal of the Allied forces, social and political relations in the region remained much the same as those of the pre-war era. The idea that the Allied occupation at least relativized the ‘traditional’ authoritative alliance between landowners and French Mandate officials may be one explanation for Sheikh Memo villagers’ positive memory of the time when ‘the English’ were in Kurd Dagh. Another dimension is the critique of regulatory regimes in present-day Syria. Many of the instruments and practices of (economic) regulation introduced by the Allies were taken over by the Syrian state; many are—in modified form—functioning at the present.74 By articulating the memory of similar mechanisms under foreign rule, a space for critique of present practices is opened up. This is suggested in Khalil’s glowing characterization of the British army: “everybody had to eat the same food [. . .] their morals were humane [. . .] not like people here [and now].” Similarly, when Ezzat Evdikê says: “we had

ʿAbdū, Al-Ḥayāt al-siyāsīya fī Jabal al-Akrād. See Vitalis and Heydemann, “War, Keynesianism, and Colonialism,” especially pp. 132–133, for the argument that the regulatory mechanisms and instruments introduced by the Allies during the Second World War decisively shaped the development of Middle Eastern post-war economies. 73 74

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to sell our grain to them, but at least the prices were fair”, he makes implicit reference to the present government’s policy of monopolizing external trade in grain as well as olive oil, which has become the main source of income for villagers: by not allowing cultivators to market their own oil outside of the country, the high profit margins in the olive oil market are denied the producers. In this respect, Kurd Dagh villagers’ experiences of the Allied occupation contrast one regulatory regime, and possibly, a specific form of ‘statehood’, with the other: the Allies’ with the present government’s, to the disadvantage of the latter. The experience of the war years is thus translated into a medium for expressing dissatisfaction with the present.

MILITARY COLLABORATION, CONSCRIPTION AND CITIZENSHIP RIGHTS IN THE FOUR COMMUNES OF SENEGAL AND IN FRENCH WEST AFRICA (1912–1946) Francesca Bruschi Introduction French presence on the western coast of Africa and commercial and military collaboration with the indigenous populations of Senegal date back to the seventeenth century. The native populations of the portcity of Saint Louis, colonial capital of Senegal founded in 1659, historically supported and benefited from French commercial activities in West Africa. During the transitional period leading to the implant of colonialism, the mainly Muslim Saint Louis elites played a major role in strengthening French power in the African hinterland. With the imposition of French territorial control on coastal areas, in return for their services a series of privileges were recognised to the community of African interpreters, brokers (traitants) and military collaborators, including modern education, the right to be judged by Islamic courts, the institutionalization of military collaboration through the creation of an African regiment, and reserved jobs in the colonial administration. Trying to export metropolitan cultural and political institutions into Black Africa, France accorded important privileges to urban Senegal, recognizing a particular political and legal status for the African natives (originaires) of the Four Communes of Senegal: Saint Louis, Gorée, Rufisque and Dakar.1 The liberty enjoyed by the group of the originaires allowed constant interrelations and cultural exchanges with the metropolis and with the Communes’ shifting hinterlands. With a

1 Michael Crowder, Senegal: A Study in French Assimilation Policy (London, 1967); H. Olu Idowu, “Assimilation in 19th Century Senegal,” Bulletin de l’I.F.A.N. 30,4 (1968), 142–147; John D. Hargreaves, “Assimilation in Eighteenth-century Senegal,” Journal of African History 6, 2 (1965), 177–184; Doudou Thiam, La portée de la citoyenneté française dans les territoires d’outre-mer (Paris, 1953), pp. 106–107; Mahmood Mamdani, Citizen and Subject: Contemporary Africa and the Legacy of Late Colonialism (Princeton, 1996).

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multi-level framework of trading partnerships, patron-client relationships, political allegiances, affiliations to social or religious associations, age groups, etc., the inhabitants of the Communes witnessed extensive migrations and diasporic movements, and a growing flow of material and symbolic goods in and out of Africa. At the crossroad between European, African and Muslim institutions and values, the originaires could reconcile different political and constitutional models, contributing to new patterns of social organization within western Africa. Natural intermediaries between the colonial power and the societies of West Africa, the inhabitants of the Communes of Senegal assimilated the French language, values and ideas, becoming well acquainted with the Republican model that France proposed to the whole world. Creating social arrangements that shaped local and regional spaces, they contributed to the development of original “paths of accommodation”2 with the colonial authority. For the freedom they enjoyed, the originaires played a critical role in the spread of a tolerant Islam, demonstrating the compatibility of intelligent Muslim practice, economic success and European overrule. Even if geographically limited, the experience of the Communes had profound impacts on regions administratively and politically united under French colonial rule. The Communes were ports, administrative and political centres, and nodes of economic and cultural exchange. As places where “social power is exercised by controlling labour, social reproduction, and meaning” they can be described as “borderless foci of social action”.3 Nodes imply contestation and negotiation in the production of social spaces, and the peoples and institutions that characterise the history of the Communes of Senegal showed a degree of autonomy defying the totalising projects of the colonial authority. Crucial nodes in French West Africa, the Communes were profoundly marked by the experience of the two world wars and by the way the experience of war re-shaped inter-African and Franco-African relationships. In exchange of their participation to the First World War

2 David Robinson, Sociétés coloniales et pouvoir colonial français au Sénégal et en Mauritanie 1880–1920. Parcours d’accomodation (Paris, 2004), pp. 25–26. 3 Allen M. Howard, “Nodes, Networks, Landscapes, and Regions: Reading the Social History of Tropical Africa 1700s–1920,” in The Spatial Factor in African History. The Relationship of the Social, Material, and Perceptual, eds. Allen M. Howard and Richard M. Shain (Leiden, Boston, 2005), pp. 21–131, pp. 36–37.

military collaboration, conscription & citizenship rights 431 the originaires obtained full French citizenship, enrolment becoming in the aftermath of war, the only opportunity of social and political emancipation in the rest of FWA. The myth of assimilation Laboratory of France’s assimilation experiments in tropical Africa since the French Revolution, the Communes of Senegal constitute an important exception to authoritarianism and cultural oppression realized in Africa under colonial rule. Assimilation sprang from the principle of equality among all human beings, and its logical consequence was a universal concession of civil and political rights. In his study about Senegal, Michael Crowder considers the Universal Declaration of Human and Citizen’s Right and the abolition Decree passed in 17944 as the first pillars of the policy of assimilation of African populations to Republican ideas and institutions. Assimilation meant “a fundamental acceptance of the potential human equality, but a total dismissal of African culture as of any value”.5 According to colonial ideology, the French government would extend freedom and equality to all inhabitants of the colonies, offering the protection of the Law to peoples experiencing rigidly hierarchical social structures. Since the Revolution, imposing juridical acculturation to the coastal areas of Senegal, France defied the very basis of “traditional” Africa: inequality, consensus, and overlapping of political, religious, and jurisdictional spheres. From the plurality of juridical traditions observed in hinterland regions, the French government was promising to all Africans, the rule of Law and the sovereignty of the State.6 In 1830 the Civil Code was extended to French colonies including Senegal, which at that time composed the islands of Saint Louis and Gorée and a few other posts along the river Senegal. In 1833 an act of the French Parliament established full equality for all the peoples under French authority, a law promulgated in Senegal in 1848,

4 Roger Alquier, Saint Louis du Sénégal pendant la Révolution et l’Empire, “Bulletin du Comité d’Etudes Historiques et Scientifiques de l’A.O.F.”, n° 2, 1922, 277–320, pp. 295–298; Johnson, Naissance du Sénégal contemporain, p. 59; François Zuccarelli, La vie politique sénégalaise (1798–1940), C.H.E.A.M. (Paris, 1987), pp. 15–17. 5 Crowder, Senegal, p. 2. 6 Gerti Hesseling, Histoire Politique et Constitutionnelle du Sénégal (Paris, 1985), pp. 18–37.

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when the colony also obtained the right to elect a representative to the National Assembly. Banning slavery from French territory for good in 1848, the Second French Republic institutionalised the right to political representation for colonies, creating local governments modelled on the metropolitan example. The abolition Decree passed in 18487 had deep consequences in the relationships between the Communes and the hinterland, asserting the principle of the freeing virtue of French land and declaring emancipation possible by the fact of entering a French territory.8 As a consequence of abolition, from the French possessions on the Atlantic coast the principle of equality of all men progressively started to invest the African hinterland. In the years to follow, while abolition was becoming the most common ideology to justifying at the eyes of European taxpayers and public opinion, the expenses of growing involvement in Africa,9 the principle of the freeing land would actually apply only in the areas that had been under French rule at the time of approval of the abolition Decree. Furthermore, in the absence of social and economic policies consistent with Republican theories, “the expansion of legitimate trade did not lead to changes in the social structure which the abolitionists had expected in term of undermining the basis of domestic slavery”.10 During the period that saw the passage from the so-called “informal empire” to the formal exercise of sovereignty over West African territories, the government of the Third Republic allowed administrative assimilation of Saint Louis and Gorée (1872), Rufisque (1880) and Dakar (1887). Affirming the will to assimilate Africans to metropolitan institutions, the Third Republic established elective councils and reintroduced Parliamentary representation for the Colony of Senegal. During the conquest of FWA and whenever their support was needed, the colonial administration cited the originaires as examples of the accomplishment of the civilizing mission in Africa, claiming that assimilation was not only possible but also mutually advantageous. Demonstrating firm loyalty to the Republic throughout the colonial 7 Archives Nationales, Section Outre-Mer (A.N.S.O.M.), Sén VII-44 (a), Ministerial instructions about the application of the abolition Decree in Senegal, May 10, 1848. 8 V. Schoelcher, Esclavage et colonisation (Paris, 1948), p. 152; Gaston Martin, Histoire de l’Esclavage dans les colonies françaises (Paris, 1948), pp. 141–152. 9 John Flint, ed., The Cambridge History of Africa, vol. 5 (1790–1870), (London, 1976), p. 200. 10 Ibid. p. 212.

military collaboration, conscription & citizenship rights 433 period, most originaires made use of the same argument, further advancing their call for emancipation. The justification of the concession of rights as a reward for loyal collaboration became central to colonial ideology and was interiorized by the Senegalese elites: praising the benefits of French civilization the originaires helped to create and reproduce the myth of assimilation. The conquest of French West Africa was accomplished in 1904 with the formal establishment of colonial rule. The expansion of EuroAfrican trading relations incurred between the 18th and the 19th had permanently changed the endogenous development path of Africa and the stabilisation of European rule led to an irresistible decline of African internal commercial routes and to a progressively growing role of the coastal areas as economic, administrative and political centres. During the stabilisation of the colonial rule, the administration left some room for autonomy to the originaires that by their faith and occupation became ideal intermediaries between the colonial regime and the Muslim populations of the region. Protesting against military campaigns out of concern for the disruption of trade, the originaires showed capable to adjust to each new situation and “helped form the ideas which the indigenous aristocracies and colonial authorities formed about each other”.11 Through family or religious networks in the interior and through electoral clans in the Communes, the originaires played a major role in denouncing abuses not just inside the Communes where French Law applied, but also in the protectorates. Here, communities and boundaries were often reshaped without any deliberate social reform and the illegitimacy of some chiefs and despotic attitude of the administration were denounced through the press. Their role was more and more prominent at the turning of the century, period that also saw the increasing monopolies of the French firms and a gradual passage of the originaires from commerce to colonial bureaucracy or other occupations. Matrimonial alliances, religious affiliations and other networks allowed the originaires to challenge the will of the administration to separate indigenous and “French African” communities, also allowing alternative constructions and perceptions of the space.

11 David Robinson, “An emerging pattern of cooperation between colonial authorities and Muslim societies in Senegal and Mauritania,” in Jean Louis Triaud, ed., Le temps des marabouts (Paris, 1997), pp. 155–180, p. 169.

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The beginning of the twentieth century witnessed a deterioation in relationships between the colonial administration and the African natives of the Communes (originaires). Most of them could not speak or write French, while also refusing to abandon local customs for civil law matters. Among colonial administrators this situation diffused the belief that the native populations of West Africa hardly could be assimilated. With the doctrine of assimilation formally rejected, religious affiliation became a reason to withdraw privileges accorded in earlier times, starting with the special legal status enjoyed by originaires. A growing number of African representatives sat in the colony’s elective assemblies, monopolized up to the end of the nineteenth century by French and Creole electoral clans. As the African electorate in the Communes grew more politically assertive, arguing that originaires had never been citizens, the administration reacted by trying to take away their voting rights. Between the end of the 19th and the beginning of the 20th century, through various incoherent administrative reforms, the colonial government was trying to find an answer to the logical consequence of a full and broad application of the assimilation policy to all French territories. Showing instrumental use of universalistic principles according to contingent priorities of France, operating a strong division between the Communes and their hinterlands, the French authorities started reshaping territoriality and the construction of its meaning, accurately avoiding the extension of Republican institutions and ideas among African rural populations.12 Even in the Communes were electoral rights had long been recognised, full political assimilation was not formally guaranteed and the originaires were considered as French nationals, not citizens. Colonial jurists and experts of public law tried to justify the nature of the political rights enjoyed by the originaires as the product of a special historical relationship with France. The civilizing mission was inspired by universalistic principles, but the degree of social development of African native populations, no matter if assimilated or willing to do so, justified gradualism at a path unilaterally decided by the French government. On the eve of the Great War, in the Communes of Senegal where metropolitan administrative, political and jurisdictional institutions

12 In 1955 and 1857, two Decrees guaranteed the maintenance of slaves to chiefs showing acquiescence (Governor Faidherbe on indigenous policy, A.N.S., 13G195, s.d.).

military collaboration, conscription & citizenship rights 435 were most fully applied, the nature of the political and civil rights recognised to Africans remained uncertain. The colonial administration refused to consider the originaires as full citizens, and colonial jurists started to question their electoral and civil rights. The establishment of Republican institutions in Senegal was now justified by the relatively important number of metropolitan French residents in Saint Louis, Gorée, Rufisque and Dakar, and colonial reports begin to depict the concession of civil and political rights to the native populations of the Communes, solely as a reward for administrative and military collaboration. From Military Collaboration to Conscription The existence of a French African army was institutionalized in the capital of Senegal in 1857. But West African populations generally considered military service as a slave occupation, and well-to-do families preferred other jobs for their children, often refusing their enrolment in the colonial regiments. With the end of the military administration a relatively standardized government was imposed on territories that were extremely different in their indigenous political and social institutions. Administrative positions were offered to African soldiers upon dismissal, often employed as local police agents.13 The idea of gradual assimilation and emancipation as a reward for total devotion to France was best expressed by the example of the tirailleurs Sénégalais.14 According to colonial ideology, the “school of the Army” would bring direct benefits to the indigenous populations of Africa, allowing upward social mobility and a gradual integration into the French system. At the beginning of the twentieth century General Charles Mangin, considered the creator of the modern myth of the tirailleur, was the most famous partisan of the creation of a large

13 Henry Brunschwig, Noirs et blancs dans l’Afrique noire française, ou comment le colonisé devient colonisateur, 1870–1914 (Paris, 1983), ch. 8. 14 If the first French African soldiers were Senegalese, in particular Wolof from Saint Louis, at the time of the French conquest of FWA most tirailleurs came from Dahomey, Côte d’Ivoire and French Sudan: Marc Michel, “L’armée en Afrique occidentale française,” in L’Afrique Occidentale au temps des français. Colonisateurs et Colonisés (1860–1960), eds. Catherine Coquery-Vidrovitch and Odile Goerg (Paris, 1992), p. 63.

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French African army.15 Being deeply convinced that FWA produced men ideally suited for military service and that France had the right to ask for military assistance from her colonies, General Mangin tried to create wide public support for his theories and started lobbying the French government to have them implemented. As Franco-German hostility deepened in Europe, and given France’s demographic inferiority, Mangin succeeded in convincing the metropolitan public opinion that “Africans were ready to defend their common Homeland”.16 Mangin offered cultural and racial explanations for his assumptions: Africans were used to heavy work and their nervous system was less developed, making them less sensitive to pain.17 The virtues of African soldiers were applauded by colonial propaganda, depicting them as men that “do not reason, do not retreat, do not forgive”.18 Even though personally acquainted with FWA, Mangin severely overestimated African military potential, stating that the Federation could easily offer 10,000 volunteer soldiers each year.19 Despite promises of transforming them into professional soldiers, African volunteers did not show up in sufficient strength and voluntary enrolment was far below expectation. On February 7, 1912, conscription was therefore introduced in FWA: supported by Mangin’s metropolitan lobby, the measure was initiated by William Ponty, Governor General of FWA.20 Compulsory conscription was to be maintained in FWA until independence: it first supported war operations in Morocco and, in the years to come, the repression of social uprisings throughout FWA. Conscription allowed social mobility and emancipation for slave populations, transforming indigenous regiments of an army of conquest into an army of occupation.21 On the basis of the 1912 conscription law, France would

15 Marc Michel, Colonisation et Défense nationale: le général Mangin et la Force noire, Guerres Mondiales, 145 (1987), p. 27. 16 Marc Michel, L’Appel à l’Afrique. Contributions et réactions à l’effort de guerre en A.O.F., 1914–1919 (Paris, 1982), p. 343. 17 Mangin was imbued by racist theories when depicting ethnic groups like the Bambara as “natural born soldiers”: Charles Mangin, “Caractères physiques et moraux du soldat nègre,” La Revue anthropologique 10 (1911), 1–16. 18 Count Eugène Melchior De Vogüé, Le Figaro, October 11, 1909. 19 Charles Mangin, La force Noire (Paris, 1910), p. 276. 20 Michel, L’Appel à l’Afrique, p. 30. 21 Echenberg, Colonial Conscripts, p. 24. Even if rebellions continued up to the 1920s, the 1904 Decree put an end to military administration in most of FWA. See: Michel, L’armée en Afrique, p. 68.

military collaboration, conscription & citizenship rights 437 progressively institute male conscription in peace as well as war-time, offering a unique example of the militarization of African colonies.22 Enrollment and citizenship After the enactment of conscription, the originaires of the Four Communes, considering themselves as French citizens, claimed they would not serve in the ranks of colonial regiments as tirailleurs, but only in the French Army under the same conditions as metropolitan French. Local newspapers expressed grievances against the unequal treatment of French and African public employees,23 and, in August 1912, the approval of a legal reform defining as citizens exclusively those who had gone through a naturalization process became politically explosive in the Communes.24 In this volatile context a new personality would emerge in Senegalese politics, the Gorée-born Blaise Diagne.25 Openly denouncing the colonial administration’s interference in local politics, Blaise Diagne gained the trust of the Saint Louis elites and of the traditional Lébou chiefs of the Green Cape peninsula. His election on 10 May 1914 as Senegal’s Deputy in the Lower House of the French Parliament represents a benchmark both in the history of political representation in contemporary Senegal and of French rule in Black Africa.26 Successfully challenging the Creole elites and the powerful French commercial

22 Myron Echenberg, Colonial Conscripts: The Tirailleurs sénégalais in French West Africa, 1857–1960 (Portsmouth, 1992), p. 29. 23 In 1911 the civil service was reorganized in FWA, but strong inequalities in salaries and access to its higher ranks remained. Governor General Ponty, “Gulielmus Ponty Africanus”, was depicted as an autocrat from the first appearance of the local newspaper La Démocratie du Sénégal. See: La Démocratie du Sénégal, November 5, 1913. 24 On May 25, 1912 a Decree defined the conditions of naturalization in FWA, the major obstacle in accessing French citizenship was in the case of the originaires the formal rejection of their personal Koranic status. See: Accession des originaires à la nationalité française, 1907–1920, Archives Nationales du Sénégal [A.N.S.], 23G34; Statut juridique des originaires des quatre Communes, 1913–1920, A.N.S., 23G35. 25 Fully assimilated African, Diagne was married to a French woman and had been serving in the Customs administration in various colonies for over 20 years. Serving in Gabon, Diagne met Cheikh Amadou Bamba, founder of the Senegalese sufi brotherhood Muridiyya exiled by the colonial administration. The influential Muslim charismatic leader was to sustain and finance the political activity of Blaise Diagne. 26 For the official records and for comments on the 1914 legislative elections in Senegal in the local and metropolitan press: A.N.S., 20G21; A.N.S.O.M., Sén VII-81.

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lobbies, Blaise Diagne was the first black African to sit in the French Parliament, devoting the first two years of his mandate to the recognition of full French citizenship for the originaires. The Senegal Deputy was a talented politician and carefully prepared the ground necessary for the formal recognition of citizenship, deploying every means to obtain integration of originaires into the French Army. Both in Paris and in the capital of Senegal Saint Louis, colonial officers made a stand against the principle of conceding full citizenship to originaires, the majority of whom were Muslims, who refused to renounce local customs in matters of private law.27 Proving capable of exploiting the contingencies of war and the sympathetic climate Mangin had created around the issue of a large black army at the service of France, Diagne obtained voluntary enrolment of originaires inside metropolitan regiments. A large patriotic movement developed in the Communes and Diagne himself and his lieutenant in Senegal, Galandou Diouf, symbolically enrolled.28 The Deputy considered voluntary enrolment inadequate and, counting on influential protection from the highest ranks of the French government,29 during the first months of the war he repeatedly but unsuccessfully tried to have the Chamber discuss a draft law concerning the originaires’ military obligations.30 In the winter of 1914–1915 Diagne exerted pressure on the government and obtained better conditions for African soldiers serving in France.31 He also played a major role in replying to German protests against the use of African soldiers in war operations, affirming

27 Among other documents, of particular interest is the long report about electoral issues in Senegal written to the Ministry by Governor General Angoulvant. See: Governor General to Ministry of Colonies, A.N.S.O.M., Aff. Pol. 599/1, September 3, 1916. 28 The voluntary enrolment of Diagne was symbolic but he gave great importance to the gesture, while Diouf actually served and was to be decorated for military merit. 29 Initiated 1902, in 1910 Diagne was one of the founders of the Radical Socialist Party together with the Freemasons Viviani, Prime Minister in the first year of the war, and Viollette, Governor General of Algeria: Pierre Chevallier, Histoire de la franc-maçonnerie française, vol. 3: La maçonnerie: Église de la République (1877–1944) (Paris, 1974), p. 16. Gaston Doumergue and his follower at the head of the Ministry of Colonies, Henri Simon, also were Freemasons, a factor that could explain their compliance with Blaise Diagne more than their ignorance in colonial matters, as argued by George-Wesley Johnson. See: Johnson, Naissance du Sénégal contemporain, p. 210. 30 Chamber of Deputies, Debates (1915), pp. 948–949; Johnson, Naissance du Sénégal contemporain, p. 231. 31 Diagne arranged for African soldiers to be moved to the southern regions of France during the cold season.

military collaboration, conscription & citizenship rights 439 the dignity of the tirailleurs and accusing “the Teutonic savages” of the “barbarian use of violence”.32 At the beginning of 1915 the Deputy returned to Senegal for the first time after his election and was enthusiastically welcomed by the originaires, to whom he firmly repeated his advice not to engage in the colonial corps.33 The Saint Louis youth, watchfully following war events and openly discussing them in monthly meetings, started to express the worry that the colonial administration would take away the originaires’ electoral rights if they continued to refuse incorporation.34 In October 1915 the Chamber passed a military law granting them equal military status with French metropolitan citizens. After having obtained certificates demonstrating their birth in one of the Communes the originaires started to enrol. Enrolment in the French army was starting to become an instrument of political emancipation, and in order to obtain French citizenship rural natives began rushing to Dakar asking for additional proofs of birth in one of the Communes.35 Emulating Diagne’s strategy in Senegal, young Dahomeans tried to enrol in metropolitan regiments but were strongly rejected.36 After the approval of the military law West Africans served in distinct regiments. The differences in rights and benefits associated with incorporation in metropolitan rather than colonial regiments were immediately and widely understood in FWA,37 and fears were uttered by some administrators that comparisons with the privileges enjoyed by originaires would provoke unrest throughout the West African Federation.38 The administration of Senegal showed a certain degree of concern about the consequences of the 1915 law and about the arrogance exhibited by originaires, both towards French officers and the non-originaire populations.

32

“La Démocratie du Sénégal”, August 26, 1916, A.N.S.O.M, Sén VII-81. “La Démocratie du Sénégal”, September 9, 1914, A.N.S.O.M, Sén VII-81. 34 Governor General to the Ministry about the political and administrative situation of Senegal, II trimester 1915, A.N.S.O.M., Aff. Pol., 597/1. 35 Lacking written civil records, additional birth verifications were easy to obtain, thanks to oral declarations. 36 Echenberg, Colonial Conscripts, p. 45. 37 The advantages of serving in the metropolitan army were in the first place economic, because French soldiers were entitled to social pensions and to family benefits. For a detailed analysis of the differences in treatment between citizens and subjects see: Johnson, Naissance du Sénégal contemporain, p. 236. 38 Governor General to Ministry, political and administrative situation of Senegal, III trimester 1916, A.N.S.O.M., Aff. Pol., 597/1. 33

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The risk to order and stability increased when Diagne visited Senegal at the end of 1915, publicly stating that not just the native population of the Communes but also their children were to be considered French citizens.39 The “legal monstrosity” represented by this conception of citizenship was denounced by the colonial administration, incapable nevertheless of preventing the approval of the second citizenship law, passed on 29 September 1916.40 Considered the masterpiece of his policy, the “Lois Diagne” of 1915–1916 had deep repercussions on the political, social and cultural situation of Senegal and FWA at large, as they achieved formal equality between French metropolitans and Senegalese of the Four Communes. If the immediate major consequence of the Citizenship Laws was to formally sanction the distinction between African citizens and subjects, in Senegal they also implied the doubling of the African electoral body.41 The first world war in FWA Having imposed taxation and forced labour in order to achieve ‘pacification’, during the war the colonial administration inflicted an even heavier charge on African communities with conscription and food requisitions. In an abrupt awakening after two years of very optimistic reports, at the end of 1916 the effects of economic, social and political crisis became evident in FWA.42 Rebellions spread throughout the interior of the Federation, particularly in the regions of Western Volta, North Dahomey and Côte d’Ivoire.43 In border areas migration to British colonies became endemic, and an average exodus of 100,000 people per year endangered the West African contribution to the war

39 In a public meeting held in Saint Louis at the end of 1915, he declared that independently of the place of birth descendant of the native populations of the Communes were to be considered French citizens. 40 “The natives of the Four Communes and their descendants are and remain French citizens submitted to the military obligations laid down by the Law of October 19, 1915”. 41 Reaching 16,000 inscriptions in the electoral registers, in 1919 the electoral body of Senegal was almost double that of 1914. Needless to say, the new citizens were the strongest supporters of Blaise Diagne. 42 Governor General to Ministry on the political situation in FWA, A.N.S., 2G17–4 (5), 1917. 43 Michel, L’Appel à l’Afrique, pp. 54–57 (Bélédogou), pp. 100–116 (Western Volta), pp. 118–120 (North Dahomey).

military collaboration, conscription & citizenship rights 441 effort.44 For their relevance and significance, the political imagery of the post-colonial state would carefully reconstruct the history of wartime migrations and revolts.45 The civil administration accused the military of having depopulated entire regions, being in turn blamed for boycotting conscription. Both the military and economic soul of colonization lamented poor health of African populations, compromising the general ‘Sacred Union’ created around the French government. As written documentation underlines, the real cause of general unrest observed in FWA through 1916 and 1917 was the imposition of forced conscription, which progressively became an unbearable burden above all in the scarcely populated regions of the interior. Inaugurated in 1912–1913, the call to the army remained relatively moderate before the outbreak of war, to rise in 1914–1915 and reach considerable dimensions in 1916. Each colony’s quota was defined in the capital Dakar, following directives coming from Paris, but decisions at the local level were left to chiefs, often performing conscription arbitrarily, enrolling slaves and exempting their families and protégés from military service. By the beginning of 1917, FWA had sent 100,000 of her sons to fight in Europe, many of whom came back sick, wounded or mutilated, or never returned. Veterans’ stories portrayed frightful experiences lived through in Europe by African soldiers and, once back, former servicemen often showed insolent attitudes towards the administration. At repatriation, incidents were recorded in the military camps of Saint Louis, Dakar and Kindia (French Guinea).46 Even if the dangers of African participation in the war were widely recognized both in France and FWA, at the end of 1917 the recklessness of metropolitan politicians led to the decision to engage in

44 Estimates of migrations to British territories are very rough because of the vast number of seasonal workers. In 1923 the French colonial administration estimated that every year 35,000 people left Senegal, Sudan and Guinea to relocate in Gambia, where they were not vexed by taxation or conscription. See: Trimestrial political reports concerning FWA, II trimester, 1923, A.N.S., 2G23–10, p. 5. 45 Tilo Grätz, “La rébellion de Kaba (1916–1917) dans l’imaginaire politique au Bénin,” Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines 40–4, 160 (2000), 519–543. Colonial enthnography and historiography made similar attempts with different goals, see e.g. Ruth Ginio, “French Colonial Reading of Ethnographic Research. The Case of the ‘Desertion’ of the Abron King and its Aftermath,” Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines 42–2, 166 (2002), 337–357; Myron Echenberg, “Les migrations militaires en Afrique Occidentale Française, 1900–1905,” Canadian Journal of African Studies 14, 3 (1980), 429–450. 46 Michel, L’Appel à l’Afrique, p. 124.

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a new round of conscription.47 Prime Minister Clemenceau decided to assign this delicate mission to Blaise Diagne, who, appointed the French Government’s High Commissioner for Recruitment, between January and August 1918 traversed FWA, followed by a prestigious delegation.48 Honoured by originaire and non-originaire populations alike, the High Commissioner raised many expectations among the people he met. Embodying the highest possible attainments available not just to an African, but to a Frenchman too, always highlighting the liberality of the French Republican regime, Diagne and his mission were, and were perceived as, accomplished examples of assimilation. The recruiting mission’s objective was to convince 40,000 West Africans to enrol, and it was preceded by an adequate technical and “moral” briefing. The political officers of Senegal, Haut-Sénégal-Niger, Guinea and the Ivory Coast prepared models of speeches to be delivered in public meetings with local chiefs and potential soldiers. Diagne promised important benefits to new conscripts: social pensions, family benefits, exemptions from the indigénat, reserved jobs in the administration and French citizenship as a reward for special military merit.49 France urgently needed the collaboration of African chiefs and the colonial administration had to play a tutorial role, preserving local customs and leaving the chiefs greater autonomy in the execution of their delegate administrative functions: tax collection and conscription. Propaganda addressed the chiefs more than the African masses, and the mission exhibited a significant change in colonial attitudes and methods towards African chiefs, whose traditional source of legitimacy had now to be preserved. Showing a genuine will to renounce any assimilationist assumption and attitude, the 1918 conscription represents the first real episode of the colonial administration’s retreat in favour of West African chiefs. African notables rehabilitated military service and decided to allow their sons to volunteer, conscription

47 The decision was strongly opposed by Governor General Van Vollenhoven, who resigned in January 1918 and enrolled in the army as a volunteer, meeting his death on the battlefield six months later. 48 The mission was composed of two officers of the colonial administration, 14 military officers and 350 non-commissioned officers and tirailleurs. See: Michel, L’Appel à l’Afrique, pp. 230–235. 49 Six Decrees containing the measures were signed on 14 January 1918 and promulgated in February. See: Official Journal of FWA, no. 687, February 2, 1918, pp. 49–58.

military collaboration, conscription & citizenship rights 443 also reaching acephalous societies where traditionally there had been fewer slaves.50 Thanks to the assistance of chiefs, to exceptional coordination between various administrative services, and above all to Diagne’s personal prestige and appeal, the recruiting mission in FWA was an enormous success. By mid-1918 some 63,000 Africans had enrolled voluntarily. Many of the 1918 conscripts reached France shortly before the armistice was signed on 11 November and were sent to the East Mediterranean and the occupied territories of the Rhineland. Misconduct incidents were reported and the Germans launched fierce propaganda against the use of African troops of occupation, calling them “Die Schwarze Schande” (“The black shame”).51 According to the terms of enrolment, the tirailleurs were to serve for the duration of the conflict plus six months. No new enrolment was required to FWA after the end of the conflict, and in trying to settle the problem of the shortage of men, the military command did not hesitate to falsify documents in order to keep Africans illegally under the arms. In September 1919 the situation became explosive in the Fréjus and Saint Raphael military camps: invoking Diagne, the tirailleurs claimed to be paid and sent back home. The originaires added to these grievances the fact that they wanted to reach Senegal before the November 1919 political elections.52 The general post-war political instability and widespread social and economic unrest in France and FWA aggravated the risks of contagion to Africans of dangerous radical theories; in the immediate aftermath of war young African soldiers were undoubtedly more exposed to these than their predecessors. In the context of a troubled Europe, veterans were easily swayed by pacifist, socialist, Pan-Africanist and garveyst ideas,53 with profound effects on the progressive radicalization of their position.54 African veterans and soldiers

50

Echenberg, Colonial Conscripts, p. 46. The Lorraine-born General Mangin was with Blaise Diagne, one of the most influential promoters of the idea of using African occupation troops in order to inflict a bitter humiliation to Germany. 52 Johnson, Naissance du Sénégal contemporain, p. 198. 53 Marcus Garvey was a Jamaican-born black nationalist who created a ‘Back to Africa’ movement in the United States. Publisher, journalist, entrepreneur, Black nationalist, Pan-Africanist, and orator, he was founder of the Universal Negro Improvement Association and African Communities League. 54 The Senegalese Lamine Senghor, whose responsibility for the 1919 incidents was stressed, was in the 1920s to become an active member of the French Communist Party. The Dahomean Louis Hunkarin was the personal assistant of Blaise Diagne 51

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progressively started to form a distinct social group, the impact of war in diffusing Republican values being the greater as participation in the world conflict had been the more intensive. 200.000 African soldiers were called in to take part to the Great War.55 African involvement in the war was to permanently change Franco-African relations in many ways, having profound impacts on colonized peoples and making metropolitan public opinion aware of the existence of an African Empire.56 The extent of the First World War impact goes well beyond direct involvement in the actual war, affecting the veterans’ families and communities. As perceived from Senegal and FWA, both spatially and temporarily the First World War impacted far beyond traditional historiography’s definitions. Direct African involvement in the war gave to many individuals the unique opportunity of discovering the distance between colonial ideology and its realities. Enrolled by force or by moral suasion, veterans returned to FWA after accomplishing their military duty with a far clearer image of the ambiguities of French domination in Africa. Back home, the tirailleurs and their families expressed the determination to receive compensation for their participation to the conflict: if generally loyal to the colonial state from whom they expected protection, they had to play an important part in challenging African native authorities and in causing their slow but inexorable decline.57 Post-war stabilisation attempts Throughout the whole duration of the conflict and in the following years, the colonial administration tried to define the many ways in which modern ideais of emancipation represented a threat to French power, blaming Diagne and assimilated Africans as agents of instability. The Senegal Deputy had progressively reached the status of

who before being disgraced and imprisoned on his return to FWA after the war on political grounds: Thomas Hodgkin, Nationalism in Colonial Africa (London, 1958); J. A. Langley, Pan-Africanism and Nationalism in West Africa, 1900–1945 (Oxford, 1973), pp. 290–303. 55 Ibid., p. 70. 56 C. M. Andrew and A. Kanya Forstner, “France, Africa, and the First World War,” Journal of African History 19, 1 (1978), 11–23. 57 Michel, L’Appel à l’Afrique, p. 475.

military collaboration, conscription & citizenship rights 445 informal representative of FWA,58 and, after the success of the 1918 recruiting mission, his attitude towards the colonial administration was causing great concern among French officers. Support for Diagne had become synonymous with republicanism, and Diagne was blamed for destabilizing the Federation with promises that the Republic had no interest in keeping, as in the case of the extension of the communal regime to the main urban centres. More pragmatic observers concluded that the causes of widespread economic and social unrest were to be found in the incoherence of colonial policies and in the long-lasting mismanagement of African territories.59 In Dakar, after adopting a segregationist territorial policy towards non citizen residents through the construction of the native village of Medina in 1914, the administration resorted to institutional segregation, denying any further expansion of citizenship rights. Instead, in Senegal and FWA ‘mixed Communes’ were created under the responsibility of the administration and with very limited representation.60 The administration opted for opposing any kind of liberal reform and, notwithstanding his personal prestige and increased authority, Blaise Diagne was incapable of assuring any progress in liberal reforms for Senegal and FWA. The Deputy’s proposal to expand citizenship rights in Senegal through a modification of the boundaries of the Communes or through the creation of new ones was repeatedly rejected in the early 1920s. In the aftermath of war it was clear that French universalism could apply in FWA only where and when consistent with metropolitan interests. The conservative alliance between the colonial government and African chiefs seemed the only viable solution for preventing a general emancipation of West African subjects following the originaires’ model. The dualistic approach of the administration, considering urban areas as the realm of modernity and of French law, in

58 This idea is also demonstrated by the fact that in 1918 the newspaper La Démocratie du Sénégal, whose political director was the Deputy in person, changed its name to L’Ouest Africain Français. 59 Maurice Delafosse, chief of the Office of Civil Affairs of FWA between the second half of 1916 and the end of 1917, was convinced that France never had a native policy. See: Political situation of FWA at the end of 1917, A.N.S., 2G17–4 (1). 60 ‘Mixed Communes’, created in Senegal in 1891 and subsequently in other urban centres of FWA, were only superficially reformed by the 1920 Decrees: Saliou M’Baye, Histoire des institutions coloniales françaises en Afrique de l’Ouest (1816–1960) (Dakar, 1991), pp. 182–186.

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contrast with the traditional and customary rural context, led to the creation of an administrative regime that left no place for unofficial forms of representation. The separation between citizens and subjects deepened and particularly urban newcomers, confused by the differences in treatment between them and the originaires, African Muslim as they were, could not understand the situation. In the new context of association with local authorities the administration was trying not just to freeze existing political and civil liberties, but also to seriously undermine the originaires’ historically recognized privileges. Having failed to prevent the approval of the Diagne laws, in the early 1920s the administration reacted to general demands for the expansion of civil and political rights by putting severe restrictions on the mobility of people throughout FWA. Compulsory identity cards were introduced for all the subjects of the interior, while in the Communes police checks on foreigners and suspect people were strengthened.61 The main consequence of the 4 December 1920 Decrees, formally aimed at decentralisation, was a reduction of the administrative and political privileges enjoyed by the Four Communes. The General Council was transformed into a Colonial Council representative of the whole colony of Senegal, with the integration of an equal proportion of appointed chiefs as representatives of rural areas. The Senegalese citizens uselessly tried to oppose a gradual but inexorable erosion of their prerogatives by petitioning the Minister for Colonies.62 If war had put the issue of the African army on the political agenda, the post-war situation confirmed the necessity of finding a solution to the problem of African veterans. 200,000 men had joined metropolitan or colonial regiments and the 170.000 survivors were conscious of their right to receive compensation in return for service. The war experience had changed their perception of themselves and of their role in society, the ‘school of the army’ having in many cases allowed them to cross traditional social divisions. Furthermore, the extended period of service imposed on 1918 recruits in Africa, Europe and on the Eastern Mediterranean after the end of the war engendered a radicalization of those West African soldiers obliged to stay under arms against

61 Suspect people and associations were controlled by the police and their names and activities accurately filed. See: Suspect people (1925–1940), A.N.S., 21G28; Suspect associations (1924–1937) A.N.S., 21G41. 62 “L’A.O.F.”, Open letter to the Minister of Colonies Albert Sarraut, October 7, 1921, A.N.S.O.M., Aff. Pol. Sénégal, 542/8.

military collaboration, conscription & citizenship rights 447 their will. Seeking stability and the support of former servicemen, the French government took special measures addressed to veterans in terms of material advantages and civil guarantees. Social pensions for widows were also recognized. In 1919 a decree was passed introducing universal male conscription in FWA. While the conditions applying to Africans serving in French regiments were defined by a law approved in March 1919, benefits guaranteed to non-citizens were delineated by a series of decrees approved between 1919 and 1923. Tirailleurs’ widows and orphans received social pensions whose amount was insufficient to make any impact on the mostly polygamous households of FWA. The promised reserved jobs were offered under the condition that native soldiers possessed special technical skills, the minimum requirement being knowledge of the French language. Only in exceptional cases former servicemen had access to administrative positions, and remuneration was well inferior to that offered to metropolitan French. As for civil privileges, native soldiers and their families were exempted from the indigénat and from the associated fiscal obligations, this exemption constituting the major factor in the process of emancipation from customary chiefs. The legal status of former servicemen became very uncertain, and veterans were not always willing to integrate into village life on the same conditions as before the war. The material and symbolic rewards allowed to former soldiers and servicemen were far below expectations, and demobilization provoked unrest in many native communities.63 The contradictions between the expectations raised by propaganda and the ambiguities of post-war colonial policies are evident both towards urban and rural African subjects. The colonial administration depended on the chiefs to prevent widespread diffusion of egalitarian ideals in FWA, the main threats at the local level being represented not only by the Senegalese originaires, but by frustrated urban elites and former servicemen. The legitimacy of the colonial order was to be assured, integrating the chiefs more closely into a system of domination where military service was a means both of social control and of emancipation from traditional bonds. The contradiction between the new pact of association with chiefs and the emancipation promises made by Diagne and by the colonial

63

Michel, L’Appel à l’Afrique, pp. 409–410.

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administration are evident. The ambiguity of the propaganda lay in the fact that the chiefs’ collaboration in conscription had the counter effect of the army’s becoming an instrument of social and economic promotion for African subjects, progressively emancipating soldiers from the chiefs’ authority. Enrolment raised big expectations among rural and urban youth, who, once the war finished, started to claim gradual extension of the civil and political liberties enjoyed by originaires. Their hopes would be severely frustrated, with direct consequences on the stability of the rural world and particularly on the relationships between veterans and African chiefs. If urban Senegal continued to enjoy a relative freedom of association, in the rest of the Federation any attempt at creating political and even solidarity associations among veterans was blocked. The pacifist ideals promoted by Barbusse’s Association Nationale des Anciens Combattants were perceived as dangerous to the colonial system, like the communist or Pan-African subversive theories. The metropolitan journal Clarté, defending the rights and prerogatives of veterans was allowed to circulate in FWA, but, as happened in the Ivory Coast,64 former soldiers were prohibited from forming associations in defence of their special interests. Appointed General Commissioner for colonial conscripts at the end of 1918, Blaise Diagne was one of the great protagonists of French public discourse about the war. Under his initiative war monuments were built in Dakar and Saint Louis to honour the dead and missing of the Great War. The Deputy presided at various war memorial committees, lamenting the scarcity of available funds and the fact that the monuments were to be built at the expense of African taxpayers.65 Diagne bitterly criticized Minister for Colonies Albert Sarraut for having missed the inauguration of the “monument to the unknown soldier” held in Dakar in spring 1922.66 During public meetings and ceremonies Diagne stressed the heroism of African soldiers who had risked or lost their lives for France. As it was clear that massive naturalization of Africans was impossible, he insisted on depicting the army 64 The refusal of the Ivory Coast administration to regularly pay the due indemnity to veterans caused unrest. Other episodes are reported, in which former tirailleurs claimed administrative positions as a reward for their military merits. See: Michel, L’Appel à l’Afrique, pp. 409–410. 65 “L’A.O.F.”, December 4, 1921, 10 October 1922, A.N.S.O.M, Aff. Pol. Sénégal, 542/8. 66 Letter of the Deputy to the Ministry, 1922, A.N.S., 17G281 (126).

military collaboration, conscription & citizenship rights 449 as the main instrument of emancipation. Citizenship could eventually come only through naturalisation as a reward for exceptional merits gained serving France in the administration or in the army. Notwithstanding the accusations launched at him by colonial propaganda, in the turbulent period following the war Blaise Diagne made his important contribution to the stabilization of colonial power in FWA. With increasingly relevant positions, Diagne progressively became an instrument of the French government and propaganda, as he demonstrated at the Pan-African Congress held in Paris at the beginning of 1919,67 and at the International Labour Office Conference on Forced Labour in 1930.68 Diagne was accommodating to both the political and to the economic French power.69 Sustained by the colonial administration, he succeeded in maintaining control of the representative councils of Senegal until 1932, and this through an instrumental modification of the municipal limits of the fast growing centre of Dakar.70 Educated urban Africans from the other territories composing the Federation were to suffer at the highest level from the contradictions of inter-war colonial repression. Most of all in Dahomey, where public education was more developed, new professional categories were appearing for whom any political emancipation was restricted. Asking for easier access to naturalization,71 the urban elites of Dahomey, and in lesser measure of the rest of FWA, called for the application of French codes, denouncing through the local press the administration’s abuses and severe shortcomings in local services, starting with

67 At the Pan-African Conference held in Paris from 19 to 21 February 1919 Diagne praised the benefits of French domination in opposition with the Zionist Back to Africa movement founded by Marcus Garvey. 68 Blaise Diagne exposed with his brilliant but less and less convincing rhetoric the reasons why forced labour should be maintained in French Africa, pushing his assimilationist positions to the limits in order to mask the realities of colonial exploitation: the imposition of public utility works was a form of education of the African masses. 69 Historiography calls the act determining his collaboration with the colonial system “the Bordeaux pact”. 70 In April 1929 the Commune of Gorée was suppressed and annexed to Dakar by Decree, the communal boundaries also being significantly modified. See: Decree of April 9, 1929, ANSOM, Aff. Pol. Sénégal, 510/13. 71 Alice Conklin, A Mission to Civilize: the The Republican Idea of Empire in France and West Africa, 1895–1930 (Stanford, 1997), p. 151.

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education.72 With their emancipation hopes continuously frustrated by the colonial administration, urban elites developed as distinct social or professional groups.73 Seeking legitimacy for a moribund regime, the imperatives of domination prevailed at the risk of denying the fundamental principle of the secularity the state, and the colonial administration came to idea of conceding a particular legal status for West African Christians.74 The economic crisis of the 1930s exacerbated the situation and in 1935, in a desperate attempt to save the status quo, administrative control was strengthened by attributing greater police powers to African chiefs and French officers.75 In a potentially disruptive context, the support of colonial authorities by African political and religious authorities,76 the overwhelming influence of Blaise Diagne and the constitutional forms chosen by citizens and subjects to protests against colonial despotism, were the key factors of stability. Notable exceptions to political and intellectual stagnation Porto-Novo (1923) and Lomé (1933) were elites-led revolts occurred in Dahomey.77 From the Popular Front to Free France The victory of the Popular Front at the 1936 elections revived the hopes of French West Africans for a new wave of emancipation.78 A section of the French Socialist Party was created in Senegal and West African political elites thought that a decisive turning point in colonial policy had finally come. Trade Unions were legalized79 and the first concrete

72 Jean-Hervé Jézéquel, “Les enseignants comme Elite politique en A.O.F. (1930– 1945). Des meneurs des galopins dans l’arène politique,” Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines 45, 178, 2 (2005), 519–543. 73 Immanuel Wallerstein, “Elites in French-speaking West Africa: The Social Basis of Ideas,” Journal of Modern Africa Studies 3, 1 (1965), 1–33. 74 Legal status of the native Christian populations of FWA, 1932, A.N.S., 17G132 (17). 75 Jean Suret-Canale, L’Afrique Noire, II partie: L’ère coloniale (Paris, 1964), p. 563. 76 The hierarchies of the Senegalese Muslim orders helped the war effort, giving proof of their loyalty to France and allowing the adoption of a new Islamic policy in the aftermath of the war. 77 Suret-Canale, L’Afrique Noire, pp. 553–555. 78 Nicole Bernard Duquenet, Le Sénégal et le Front Populaire (Paris, 1985). 79 The first inter-territorial Trade Union was created in 1937 in Bamako, representing teachers’ interests. See: Hervé-Jézéquel, Les enseignants, p. 225.

military collaboration, conscription & citizenship rights 451 measures against forced labour were passed.80 But the goodwill of the socialist government met the strong opposition of colonial lobbies and once again metropolitan interests were to prevail over the extension of civil liberties in FWA. While propaganda revisited in France and overseas the myth of the “civilizing mission”, the inconsistency of official declarations about the real objectives of assimilation revealed the ambiguities of French colonial policy. Even if forced labour was nominally abolished, the oversimplification of social divisions persisted and the creation of a working class was de facto hindered.81 As happened before the first world conflict, at the end of the 1930s the development of German militarism intensified France’s need of African soldiers. French colonial propaganda replayed the myths of German ferocity and African heroism, and the imperatives of national defence became priorities for colonial policy. In 1939, in order to prove serious intent to emancipate all African conscripts in the future and to convince Africans to enrol, former servicemen were called to take part in the elections of the colonial council of Senegal.82 The Senegal Deputy, Galandou Diouf, veteran of the First World War, since his election in 1934 had been asking the metropolitan government for an act of formal recognition of the former combatants’ intermediate status between citizens and subjects. The outbreak of the Second World War abruptly put an end to the brief Popular Front reformist era and the installation of the Vichy government led to the suppression of all elective institutions existing in Senegal and FWA. The national motto Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité was changed to Travail, Famille, Patrie and new propaganda was addressed to African masses, to soldiers and educated elites.83 Civil society

80 On June 24, 1937 France ratified the International Labour Office Convention against forced labour. See: Promulgation of the ILO convention in FWA, August 12, 1937; Concrete measures against forced labour in FWA, 27 July 1938, A.N.S.O.M., Aff. Pol., A.O.F., 2808/1. 81 Frederick Cooper, Décolonisation et travail en Afrique. L’Afrique britannique et française 1935–1960 (Paris, 2004), pp. 47–49. 82 The representatives inside the colonial council of Senegal were chosen by two different electoral colleges: the first for citizens, the second for African chiefs in rural areas. In 1945 the double electoral college was extended to the other territories of FWA. See: Decree of 8 April 1939 and other documents related to the colonial Council of Senegal, A.N.S.O.M., Aff. Pol., 594/11, Sénégal. 83 Ruth Ginio, “Marshall Pétain spoke to schoolchildren: Vichy propaganda in French West Africa, 1940–1943,” International Journal of African Historical Studies 33, 2 (2000), 291–319.

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associations were suppressed and racist Laws were extended to FWA. The Governor General of FWA, Boisson, was rewarded for his loyalty to the new regime by the concession of autocratic powers never before enjoyed by a colonial officer.84 Support for the joint Gaullist and British attempts to occupy Dakar at the end of September 1940 provoked violent retaliations on Africans suspected of Gaullist sympathies.85 African citizens’ and subjects’ reactions to the suppression of civil liberties and political rights and to the imposition of a racist system on FWA can be imagined. The Vichy regime was the golden age of the ‘tough colonists’, expressing total rejection of any universalistic ideal. The democratic principles that during the Third Republic were spoken loud, having concretely received only partial execution in FWA, were replaced by those of the National Revolution in which Africans were to be relegated to their traditional realm and considered as mere producers. Discrimination against Africans applied in any field starting with the economy, and forced labour granted immense profits to white enterprises, brokers and settlers, while missionary activity was sustained and financed with public funds. Particularly in the Communes and in the main urban areas of FWA the new colonial situation was perceived as unbearable. Africans compared the dictatorships imposed on Europe with their own situation and were anxious about the possible developments of colonial domination.86 The ideological components of the new form of colonization, the authoritarian and racist methods applied, the weakness towards the historical enemy and the incapability showed by the new representatives of France, were all factors contributing to the acceleration of the democratic awakening of Senegal and FWA.87 The originaires were the first to react to General De Gaulle’s patriotic appeal, joining France Libre battalions gathered in Bathurst (Gambia). In March 1943 the Republican order was re-established in FWA and a Republican Union was created in Saint Louis calling for the removal of the compromised major. Patriotic associations of different sorts flourished Senegal and FWA, where General De Gaulle made an official visit at the end of 1943, receiving the greatest honours and

84

Catherine Akpo-Vaché, L’AOF et la Seconde Guerre Mondiale (Paris, 1996), p. 49. Christian Roche, Le Sénégal à la conquête de son indépendance, 1939–1960 (Paris, 2001), pp. 25–28. 86 J. Richard-Molard, A.O.F. (Paris, 1952), p. 167. 87 Suret-Canale, L’Afrique Noire, p. 568. 85

military collaboration, conscription & citizenship rights 453 seeming to be very receptive to African grievances.88 In his inaugural discourse at the Brazzaville conference held between 30 January and 8 February 1944, De Gaulle stated that no progress was possible without local participation in the management of local affairs. Nevertheless, in total disregard of any democratic or representative principle, no African delegate was invited to the conference, organized to discuss the future of French Africa. Vague promises related to the abolition of the indigénat system and to increased African parliamentary representation were made, but “any idea of autonomy, any possibility of evolution outside the imperial French bloc, even the possibility of constituting in the long run, self-governments in the colonies, (had) has to be abandoned”.89 1945: a new colonial order? With 75,000 recruits before June 1940 and a total of 200,000 units serving in France during the Second World War, West African soldiers’ participation in the second conflict was comparable to the first in absolute, but superior in relative terms.90 More than 25,000 African soldiers sacrificed their lives in the Second World War; though physically and morally sick, veterans were aware that the war opened a new chapter in the Franco-African relationship. At the end of the Second World War claims about the right to selfdetermination for Africans were added to requests aimed at banning discrimination. The historical evolution of citizenship rights, and the new awareness reached by the political elites of FWA, led to the rapid development of nationalist movements engaged in the first attempts to defy the colonial order itself. The idea of self-government would lead to the progressive africanization of the institutions put in place by colonialism and to the attainment of ‘Africa for Africans’, theories still tenaciously opposed by French governments. The capacity showed by West African political and intellectual elites to react rapidly to a renewed local and international context is surprising considering the social conditions of FWA in the inter-war period. This outcome can

88

Roche, Le Sénégal, pp. 41–42. In the original text self-governments is written in English and as a plural. See: Roche, Le Sénégal, p. 45. 90 Michel, L’armée en Afrique occidentale française, pp. 75–77. 89

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only be explained as the effect of a longue durée process started in the Communes of Senegal in the nineteenth century, diffused in FWA since 1912 through conscription, and accelerated as a consequence of the war after the originaires of the Communes obtained equal status with French metropolitan citizens. In post-Second World War Senegal and FWA, contrarily to the wishes expressed by the concluding act of Brazzaville, the idea of selfgovernment was well established and diffused. West African human and material contribution to the resistance against totalitarism would find only partial recognition, but the end of the conflict made possible at least the first significant erosion of the most iniquitous aspects of colonial domination. Through a series of decrees indigenous justice was reformed, trade unions were legalized, minimum standard of working conditions were defined—also embracing the progressive suppression of any forms of forced labour—, the role of public education was reinforced, and the most evident signs of racial discrimination and administrative abuses were limited. On 11 April 1945 freedom of association was decreed in FWA, paving the way to the creation of political associations and, later on, to the constitution of political parties in FWA.91 Immediately after the end of the war, veterans’ associations rapidly flourished, transforming servicemen into a special interest group.92 Former servicemen and soldiers expressed all the contradictions of colonial assimilation, provoking a widespread pattern of migration throughout FWA.93 The diffusion of Republican rights and the creation of democratic institutions became more urgent after the experiences of the Vichy regime, which allowed many Africans to understand the full significance and the practical consequences of living under a democratic system. If the First World War acted as a catalyst in affirming in the four Communes the coexistence of universal (European) rights, together with local legal traditions, the evolution of the historical rights accorded to originaires was to have long-lasting effects on the metropolitan legal order. Starting from the unique experience of the Four Communes, the 1946 French Constitution recognized multi-cultural citizenship for

91 Ruth Morgenthau, Le multipartitisme en Afrique de l’Ouest francophone jusqu’aux indépendaces. La période nationaliste (Paris, 1998), p. 31. 92 Echenberg, Colonial Conscripts, pp. 139–141. 93 Myron Echenberg, “Les migrations militaires en Afrique Occidentale Française, 1900–1905,” Canadian Journal of African Studies 14, 3 (1980), 429–450.

military collaboration, conscription & citizenship rights 455 all the residents of colonies.94 The important constitutional outcomes of the concession of citizenship to African Muslims had become evident in the inter-war period, when, faced with the impossibility of imposing the abandonment of their Koranic status on the African citizens from the Communes, the French administration was obliged to confirm in Senegal the existence of two different legal systems for the same population category.95 After 1945 the movement towards self-determination and recognition of universal human rights was becoming irresistible. Equal rights started to apply to metropolitan French women, for the first time called to participate in electoral processes. After recognizing formal equality between metropolitan and Senegalese citoyens in 1916, in 1945 the colonial administration, claiming that women from the four Communes of Senegal were not interested in politics and that their political participation would contradict local customs, tried to refuse political emancipation to female citizens of the four Communes.96 After vehement protests, Senegalese women received political assimilation, the resistance to emancipation showing once again the blindness of colonial administration and the contradictory principles that inspired its action in Africa. Conclusion On the eve of the First World War France started to look at FWA as a potentially inexhaustible reservoir of men and introduced partial conscription in FWA. In order to convince Africans to enrol, the colonial government announced that emancipation was available to everybody on condition of commitment to the Republic. Military conscription

94

“Tous les nationaux français et les ressortissants de l’Union française ont la qualité de citoyen de l’Union française qui leur assure la jouissance des droits et des libertés garanties par le préambule de la présente Constitution” (art. 81); “Les citoyens qui n’ont pas le statut civil français conservent leur statut personnel en tant qu’ils n’y ont pas renoncé. Ce statut ne peut en aucun cas constituer un motif pour refuser ou limiter les droits et libertés attachés à la qualité de citoyen français” (art. 82) Les Constitutions de la France depuis 1789, présentation par Jacques Godechot (Paris, 1995), p. 405. 95 Thiam, La portée de la citoyenneté française dans les territoires d’outre-mer, pp. 86–89. 96 Decree of April 21, 1944, A.N.S., 17G381; Jean Bernard Lacroix, Saliou M’Baye, “Le vote des femmes aux Sénégal,” Ethiopiques (1975), 27.

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and enrolment are major factors in explaining the evolution of African peasantry into small bourgeoisie and towards the construction of a national society.97 The First World War’s propaganda promised to duplicate the experience of Senegal on a regional scale, eventually leading to the creation—besides citizens and subjects—of a third social and political group composed by veterans and servicemen. The effects of conscription were very significant throughout the French West African Federation. Notwithstanding, the two world wars had more profound impacts on the evolution of native societies in demographic, social, economic, cultural and political terms. The war offered to Blaise Diagne the opportunity of passing Citizenship Laws in favour of the originaires. The approval of the two “Citizenship Laws” represents a crucial moment in the redefinition of originaires’ rights recognized formally and de facto, at the same time deepening the divide between the urban Senegalese and all the other native populations of FWA. The direct and indirect experience of the world wars was eventually to have deep and long-lasting consequences on the political and social organization of FWA. The world wars and their aftermath saw several social and political reform projects, creating many expectations and with permanent social and political consequences for African territories. For the particular conditions leading to the approval of the citizenship laws in Senegal, the world wars had more far reaching consequences in spreading Republican values and rights among West African subjects than had direct participation in war operations. The rewards obtained or promised in exchange for participation in the world wars reaffirmed on a regional scale the unique experience of the Communes. The post-Second World War situation then created the basis for generalizing this peculiar model of integration between African and European legal and cultural models across all French territories, eventually giving the case of the Four Communes a universal value. Republican France promised equility and freedom to all, but colonial rule was simply incompatible with French universalism.

97

Michel, L’armée en Afrique occidentale Française, p. 73.

“OUR VICTORY WAS OUR DEFEAT”:1 RACE, GENDER AND LIBERALISM IN THE UNION DEFENCE FORCE, 1939–1945 Suryakanthie Chetty Introduction Alfred Jimmy Davis is in his mid-eighties. He lives in a small flat in Wentworth, an area in south Durban, historically designated ‘coloured’ in terms of apartheid legislation, which he has shared with his son, daughter-in-law and two grandsons since the death of his wife. Mr Davis is a humorous, pleasant man who, speaking from his favourite chair in the lounge, is surrounded by the framed images that matter most to him. Most evident are photographs of his family—in particular a portrait of his wife—his career in the church, significant of his deep religious conviction, and a studio portrait of him as a young soldier. These photographs form an integral part of the way in which Mr Davis remembers and tells his story. As he describes his enlistment and his training, he takes out a small photo album from the crowded display cabinet on his right and leafs through, stopping at images of himself in uniform, using them to remember and to illustrate his experiences. Yet he is aware too of the photographs as a fixed window on the past, divorced from time, a symbol of his youth and his mortality. When asked about a photograph taken of him in military uniform he laughs and says, “When I look at it I think, I think it’s not me, I’ve gone old, hey, I was about 22 there, full of energy [. . .].”2 His photographs are a poignant reminder of the passage of time. As Mr Davis speaks of his war-time service his mild-mannered reminiscences are prompted by his daughter-in-law Shirley who has heard

1 Quote taken from Herbert Reed, “To a Conscript of 1940,” in The Oxford Book of War Poetry, ed. Jon Stallworthy (Oxford, 1993), p. 183. 2 Interview with Alfred Jimmy Davis conducted by Marijke du Toit and Suryakanthie Chetty at his home in Wentworth, Durban, March 3, 2005. I interviewed Mr Davis for the purposes of my PhD research as I wanted to understand the perspective of a black South African who had served in the Second World War and the sense made of that experience.

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these stories so many times before that she now remembers for him. His words are punctuated by laughter and exchanges with Shirley, adding a vibrant depth to the spoken word. Yet there exists too some confusion, hesitation and forgetfulness brought about by his advanced years which both the photographs and Shirley work to overcome. Evident in his recollections, albeit tempered by his personality, is a strong sense of injustice as he points in the direction of Montclair where he believed housing would be reserved for him and his colleagues at the end of the war but which instead became a ‘white’ area given to men who never served. His return home was punctuated by a sense of disillusionment due to unemployment and the refusal of the army to give him skills training, leading him to sell his medals and badges to white souvenir seekers soon after. Yet Mr Davis embodies that moving contradiction—the years after 1945 only served to dishearten him but he is nonetheless proud of his contribution in defending his country and playing a small role in a significant historical moment. Shirley Davis’ ability to remember for him suggests that he had told and retold his war stories so that his family knew them as well as he did—his war service was a key event in his life to which he returned time and time again. His pride in the part he played is evident in his insistence in taking part in public commemorations along with other black veterans whose names do not appear on the memorials where they pay their respects. His disillusionment was rendered concrete by the rise of the apartheid state and Shirley Davis produces an old scrapbook containing dozens of newspaper articles painstakingly put together by Mr Davis with the earliest articles more than fifty years old. These yellowed articles are the means by which Mr Davis connects himself to the larger historical narrative, for his war service has given him some small connection to the events of the war and the post-war era. Prime Minister Jan Smuts features prominently here and Mr Davis believes that Smuts’ death in 1950 marked the point at which South Africa took a turn away from the freedom and democracy envisaged during the war to a country that failed to live up to its war-time promises and entrenched racial inequality. Mr Davis’ citing of 1950 and the death of Smuts as marking the watershed highlights the way in which individual memory works, not necessarily in sync with the official history, but no less real, powerful and meaningful. For Mr Davis, Smuts embodied the potential for a new South Africa of social and racial equality and, as he remembers it, Smuts’ death marked the death knell of his hopes

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and the setting in of his disillusionment. The rise of the apartheid state and the death of Smuts two years later became one and the same in Mr Davis’ memory. Alfred Jimmy Davis lived an ordinary life—he married, raised a family, is devoutly religious and experienced first-hand the inequalities of the apartheid state. For me, he represents the everyman—patriotic enlistment and service in the war, the desire to be a combatant, the disenchantment with the rise of the apartheid state, his pride in his actions and his respect for those who had made the ultimate sacrifice. His story highlights the tragedy of South Africa after 1945. Pre-war South Africa had been defined by discriminatory legislation and segregation. The formation of the country as a union in 1910 entrenched political inequality. Although there was limited black enfranchisement in the Cape restricted to those who met property qualifications, the same was not true for the other three provinces.3 Discriminatory taxation policies and legislation such as the 1913 Land Act restricting African land ownership emphasised economic inequality and were designed to force black labour to the mines, and burgeoning industries of white South Africa. The Natives Urban Areas Act of 1923 enforced the social segregation of this black labour force in the cities.4 The country was divided along racial lines and in use was the historical designation of race—white, native (African), coloured (those of ‘mixed’ racial origin) and Indian. The latter referred to South Africans of indentured origin drawn largely from the Indian subcontinent.5 Yet South Africa in the 1940s was entering an era filled with the potential for shifts and dramatic recasting of race, regional, gender and class patterns and expectations. This potential found its mirror in global change with the struggles culminating in the end of colonial rule and the movements for equality which would play out increasingly over the twentieth century—civil rights, feminism. Yet, even as this happened, South Africa went a different route—marked by the failure of liberalism, the entrenchment of conservatism, a return to a pre-war status quo in terms of gender roles and an intensified

3 Nigel Worden, The Making of Modern South Africa: Conquest, Segregation and Apartheid, (Oxford, 1994), p. 69. 4 Worden, The Making, p. 73. 5 I use the term ‘black’ to apply collectively to African, coloured and Indian participants.

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subjugation of black South Africans which would last another fifty years. In 1945 white South Africans had a choice to create a new South Africa and ultimately they chose not to do so. This paper is an attempt to understand why these choices were made. It focuses on specific features of the Second World War in South Africa, in particular the way in which men and women were recruited for war service and the way in which this changed as the war progressed. Important too is the way in which these participants viewed their own roles in the war and their expectations stemming from this. The argument made here is that the rise of the apartheid state in 1948 was not, in fact, a complete aberration. Limitations were placed on the potential of the war to bring about social change from the outset. This was evident in the way in which war service was portrayed by the state and military propaganda as well as the limits of war-time and post-war organisations. However the state’s ability to control the empowerment brought about by military service was not always complete as evident by the period of ‘war weariness’ in 1942 where there existed the potential for bringing about changes in gendered and racial roles for both white women and black men. In this sense, however briefly, the Second World War marked the point at which a different vision of South Africa was possible. Mobilization The declaration of war on Germany on September 3, 1939 had a mixed reception in the South African parliament. Prime Minister J.B.M. Hertzog desired neutrality, believing that joining the war on the side of the Allies would divide South Africans as it would suggest that some South Africans had a stronger loyalty to Britain than their own country. This would in turn “destroy South African unity”.6 Jan Smuts, on the other hand, made a claim for South African entering the war in support of Britain, arguing that Hitler could not be appeased and that, when he turned his attention to regaining South West Africa in the foreseeable future, he would present a real threat to South Africa. South Africa could only counter this threat if she had Allied support.7

6 W. K. Hancock, Smuts 2: The Fields of Force, 1919–1950 (Cambridge, Eng., 1968), p. 321. 7 Hancock. Smuts 2, p. 322.

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It was the Smuts’ coalition that held sway in parliament with a narrow victory, marking South Africa’s entry into the war.8 The main portion of the fighting force was drawn from almost 200 000 white men who volunteered for active duty. They were the combatants of the war. Furthermore, 120 000 South Africans from the other racial groups volunteered.9 Coloured men were first recruited as part of the re-established Cape Corps (CC), which had been in operation during the First World War. These men were initially trained as drivers for transport sections of the Union Defence Force. Ex-soldiers who had served with the Cape Corps during the First World War were employed to train this new generation of men.10 A similar process was then initiated for the recruitment of Indian and Malay men under the auspices of the Indian and Malay Corps (IMC).11 Four battalions were created allowing African soldiers to take on security duty within South Africa, freeing white men to take up combat roles overseas. The Native Military Corps (NMC) was created to extend the scope of the activities of these African servicemen and they were trained in a similar manner to their coloured and Indian counterparts for roles ranging from drivers to stretcher-bearers and cooks. All black men in the war were confined to these auxiliary roles and forbade the use of arms. The eagerness of these African men to serve was evident in the initial number of thirty thousand volunteers by the end of the first years—a figure that practically tripled by the end of the war.12 A directorate within the Union Defence Force, the NonEuropean Army Services (NEAS), was formed to bear the responsibility for overseeing aspects of the various black corps.13 The outbreak of war necessitated white women taking up positions in the auxiliary services. The exodus of white men to the frontlines meant that women were expected to fill positions in industry and in the military. They played support roles as clerical workers, transport drivers, cooks, nurses and mechanics. There were five auxiliary services

8 Hancock, Smuts 2, p. 319. As Prime Minister Smuts was also the Commander-inChief of the Union Defence Force thus the government and military were inextricably linked. 9 P. Joyce, ed., South Africa’s Yesterdays (Cape Town, 1981), p. 302. 10 Ian Gleeson, The Unknown Force—Black, Indian and Coloured Soldiers Through Two World Wars (Rivonia, 1994), pp. 104–105. 11 Gleeson, The Unknown Force, p. 106. 12 Gleeson, The Unknown Force, p. 111. 13 Gleeson, The Unknown Force, p. 112.

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for these women under the Women’s Army Defence Corps.14 These were the Women’s Auxiliary Army Services (WAAS), the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force (WAAF), the South African Military Nursing Service (SAMNS), the South African Women’s Auxiliary Police Force (SWAMPS) and the South African Women’s Auxiliary Naval Service (SWANS). Some 65 000 women not enlisted in these services volunteered for the South African Women’s Auxiliary Services (SAWAS) which set up leisure and social activities and aided in conscription campaigns.15 On the home front the war hastened the process of black urbanisation as influx control laws were relaxed for the duration of the war in order to meet labour demands that had been exacerbated by the exodus of white men to the front lines.16 Moreover the opportunities brought by the war-time economy—and Smuts—suggested the possibilities of the war as bringing about greater equality for black men. In a speech in 1942 Smuts ignited the hopes of many with the words, “(i)solation has gone and segregation has fallen on evil days.”17 This sparked the hope on the part of the disempowered such as Alfred Jimmy Davis for a new, more egalitarian post-war South Africa. Motivation and Expectations As the South African military participating in the war was composed entirely of volunteers the support of white men of the war effort was clear. Perhaps the most common factor here was the rally to the cry of ‘For King and Country’ and, for English-speaking South Africans still with strong loyalties to Britain, there was little debate about participation.18 This was in contrast to many Afrikaners who had fought against 14 Jennifer Crwys-Williams, A Country At War, 1939–1945: The Mood of a Nation (Rivonia, 1992), p. 223 and Margot Bryant, As We Were: South Africa 1939–1941 (Johannesburg, 1974), p. 65. 15 Bryant, As We Were, p. 59. 16 Worden, The Making, pp. 61–64. 17 Phyllis Lewsen, “Liberals in Politics and Administration, 1936–48,” in Democratic Liberalism in South Africa: Its History and Prospect, ed. J. Butler, R. Elphick and D. Welsh (Connecticut, 1987), p. 105. 18 Independent Newspapers Archive, Terry McElligott and Keith Ross, Remembering the Declaration of World War 2, September 2, 1989. Although as a union South Africa remained largely autonomous in terms of domestic policy, she, along with other British Dominions, was still bound to British decisions particularly those related to war. This caused considerable dissent within the country between those such as

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the British in the South African War and were ambivalent about their support for the war and the British. They had been, in many instances, either participants in the South African War or descendants of those who had fought Britain as well as being subject to the ravages of the war carried out by the British against the civilian population in the form of concentration camps. Yet they too also enlisted in large numbers.19 Nazism was a key motivation for many volunteers—its perception as presenting the greatest threat to freedom and human liberty, necessitated a stand made by the democratic nations, allowing men to participate in the “good fight against evil”.20 But the foundations for war service had been laid even earlier with the system of primary and secondary schooling based upon the English public school model. Here military service was propagated as a norm and a rite of passage. In a similar manner to that which occurred in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in Europe, the United States and even South Africa, the schooling system for boys was often composed of a triple nexus of sport, gentlemanly behaviour and military service.21 The inculcation of particular kinds of values in the youth by this schooling system created generations of young men willing and often feeling compelled to serve in the military out of a sense of duty, patriotism and belief in the importance of military service as being integral to masculinity.22 There existed also the notion of following in the footsteps of one’s own family tradition, which often allowed little leeway for the thought of dissent:

Smuts and Louis Botha who advocated co-operation and J.B.M Hertzog who prioritised South Africa’s interests over that of Britain. This eventually culminated in the country’s withdrawal from the British Commonwealth in 1961 and the declaration of a republic. Cf. T. H. Davenport, South Africa: A Modern History, (Johannesburg, 1978), pp. 174–175. 19 Jan Smuts was a notable example of one who had played a significant role fighting the British during the South African War against what was perceived to be British imperialism. In addition General Dan Pienaar, another hero of the Second World War who inspired troops, both English and Afrikaner alike, spent part of his childhood along with his mother and siblings in a concentration camp during the South African War. 20 Guy Butler, Bursting World—An Autobiography, 1936–45 (Claremont, 1983), pp. 111–112. 21 Major Allan Ryan, Thru Times and Places (Johannesburg, 1977), pp. 35–36. 22 Ryan, Thru Times and Places, p. 39.

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suryakanthie chetty [. . .] it’s very difficult to explain but I came from a family of soldiers, my father was a soldier who fought the Matabele and came to Natal [. . .] my father trained the Mounted Infantry for the Boer War [. . .] there was never any question [. . .] that one would fight for one’s king and one’s country [. . .] that was how we were brought up, never occurred to us there were people who tried to get out of it [. . .].23

On a personal level, the outbreak of the Second World War provided adventure and escape from a prosaic existence. According to an English-speaking veteran, “We were so thrilled that we jumped up and shook hands and said that at last we were going to get a bit of adventure.”24 This desire to take part in the adventure of war was related to the notion of the glamour of military service, of being in uniform, which allowed for the projection of a masculine persona along with being perceived by women as being attractive. This was evident in the autobiography of Allan Ryan, “Feminine attention from the young and not so young was focused on the heroic and manly appearance of the chaps in uniform.”25 Here, personal motivation based on glamour and heroism, converged with that of duty and patriotism to provide a strong incentive for young men to enlist. In the official discourses circulating through South African society, the rights and obligations of citizenship were increasingly associated with war service and patriotic duty. Black men were, however, excluded from citizenship. They were mobilized instead as subjects. In the military combat was inextricably linked to this racially exclusive citizenship. To appeal then to black men who were excluded from both combat and citizenship, the military highlighted duty and loyal service. This representation of black war service was evident in propaganda and communicative media such as newspapers. These newspapers—largely white owned but, in some instances, under black editorship—were expected to propagate this image of black men as loyal, patriotic subjects. The link between combat and citizenship was a key motivation for black men participating in the war where their attempt to demonstrate their loyalty stemmed from a desire to participate as equal citizens. Yet their role was complicated by their position

23 Interview with Godfrey Herbert conducted by S. Sparks and S. Chetty, June 24, 2004. 24 Independent Newspapers Archive, Terry McElligott, “Clive was probably the first to volunteer for active service”, September 9, 1989. 25 Ryan, Thru Times and Places, pp. 27–28.

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as ‘subjects’—without the rights and obligations of citizenship and confined to servile status in the military. This mirrored their standing in South African political society. The war provided the perfect venue for South African black men to prove themselves in a conflict which had both national and international repercussions. Yet, in a similar manner to the First World War, September 1939 found black men in South Africa highly ambivalent towards the war. This is evident in the autobiography of Naboth Mokgatle, a radical South African involved in union activities, who stood in opposition to the liberalism espoused by Smuts’ supporters: I decided to stay away from them [the Communists] and support the war, though I hated the South African army because Africans were not allowed to join as real soldiers, not allowed to be trained or to carry arms. I was sure that if Hitler won, fascism in South Africa would have won. To me Smuts was nothing but another Hitler in a different form. He hated Hitlerism in Europe but liked it when he practised it in South Africa himself.26

For Mokgatle the equation of Smuts with Hitler suggested virulent racism and dispossession on the home front, drawing attention to the irony of fighting a war for the ideals of liberty overseas. It was what he perceived as this hypocrisy that alienated him from the war effort. Mokgatle encapsulated the feelings of many black South Africans over supporting a war against fascism and actively volunteering for that conflict. Even when these men volunteered, they were faced with the prospect of engaging in highly limited roles due to prevailing attitudes and fears about arming black men. A meeting held by the Natives’ Representative Council called for the removal of restrictions placed on black men serving in light of “the growing menace of unprovoked aggression by some of the great Powers”.27 These restrictions had been legislated in the Defence Act of 1912 “which had ruled that only citizens of European descent could be listed as combatants and carry weapons.”28 The government’s response in the form of the Secretary 26 Naboth Mokgatle, The Autobiography of an Unknown South African, (Berkeley, 1971), p. 213. 27 Killie Campbell Africana Library (KCAL), A. W. G. Champion, “Black Soldiers and War”, Asalibele, p. 12, KC29615. Asalibele is a booklet penned by Champion and is the response of the Native Representative Council on the question of the participation of African men in the war. 28 Independent Newspapers Archive, Shelagh McLoughlin, “The Forgotten Force— The Way We Were”, The Natal Witness, November 19, 1997.

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for Native Affairs, D. L. Smit, was that such a change to the form of black men serving was not required at that moment in time.29 However there remained a strong desire to play an equal part in the war. In the same meeting, R. Godlo of the Cape who had made the original motion, called for equal participation in the Union Defence Force. His request was based on a point that had made an appearance as early as the South African War, and that was to be re-iterated time and again, the importance of combat and defence of the home which was seen as integral to masculinity: If there is danger, we as full-blooded men do not wish to sit around like women and children with our arms folded while others defend our country. Our loyalty is beyond question. Since war has broken out every African organisation that has held a meeting has expressed its unswerving devotion to the King and to his Government in the Union. As the co-inhabitants with the Europeans of this country, we feel that we can offer an important contribution to its defence, and that we should not be prevented from making that contribution.30

Godlo’s words contrasted the role of men in war with that of women and children, conventionally the non-combatants. There was a clear overlapping between white and black understandings of the place of women in war which was perceived to be a masculine occupation. To be relegated to the status of women and children was thus an attack on the very definition of masculinity in war. Moreover, Godlo equated equal service with a demonstration of loyalty to the state and crown, with black men having an equal stake to their white counterparts in the welfare of the country, where they were “going to suffer as much as the white man” should fascism triumph.31 Equal participation in the war, particularly in the form of combat, was linked to the notion of equal rights and citizenship which was unequivocally articulated by the African National Congress: “A place as a citizen in the defence forces of the country, not merely as a labour contingent, but in every capacity in defending the territorial integrity

29 Champion, “Black Soldiers and War,” p. 13. The Native Affairs Department was responsible for overseeing the chiefs and their followers as well as the implementation of the Native Administration Act of 1927, a segregationist act keeping Africans on the reserves and a pillar of indirect rule. Cf. Worden, The Making of Modern South Africa, p. 74. 30 Champion, “Black Soldiers and War,” p. 13. 31 Champion, “Black Soldiers and War,” p. 15.

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of his country. This policy had been followed by France and America, as well as England in the East African territories.”32 This contextualizes the importance of being allowed into combat on the part of black soldiers and the equally vehement denial by the state of equal participation being accorded to black men of the NEAS. Despite the state’s adamant refusal to arm black men, more than 120 000 men volunteered for the limited, auxiliary roles available to them, out of a sense of loyalty, duty, fear of the triumph of fascism, a desire to protect their families and, on a more pragmatic level, economic remuneration. The political connotations of their participation and their desire to prove themselves worthy citizens provided the only distinction with their white counterparts. For white women, the decision to enlist in the various branches of the auxiliary services was based on a convergence of the personal with the wider motivation circulating through society, particularly through the media of propaganda—that of duty and patriotism. For WAAF June Borchert, “patriotism” was her first response to the question, followed by a tongue-in-cheek “for King and Country”, suggesting that she saw this emphasis on patriotism in an almost farcical light.33 Her actual reason was less assertive, “Oh, I just joined up because I thought—you [her twin sister May] were there, Kay [their older sister] was there [. . .] it just sounded like a good idea.”34 For her, it was a case of following in the footsteps of her sisters, which happened to coincide with the patriotic feeling within the country. Although this implies that, in this instance, personal motivations took precedence in these women’s decisions to enter the war, the boundary between the personal and the societal was blurred to some extent. This is evident in one of the reasons put forward for joining which was based on being unable to deal with the likelihood of watching men leave for “up north” and possibly never returning. This was accompanied by the idea that men were making the greater sacrifice, the corollary of which was that women had to play some part as well: You know why I joined, because I used to get so depressed and so worried when the troop ships came in and the men were going up north. And then they’d go off and then the next thing you hear that their ship 32

Champion, “Claims of African National Congress Outlined,” pp. 17–18. June Borchert in an interview with May Kirkman and June Borchert conducted by S. Chetty and S. Sparks, May 29, 2004. 34 June Borchert in an interview with May Kirkman and June Borchert. 33

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suryakanthie chetty had been torpedoed or that they [. . .] were in Dunkirk or they were in Tobruk and all these places, and it just got on top of me [. . .].35

Yet, there existed still individual motivation, and the strongest of these was “to take part in this great adventure”.36 Betty Addison felt the war to be a key historical moment, a narrative from which women were unwilling to be excluded, and military service gave them this opportunity to participate in this historical event, the defining event of an entire generation: [. . .] my generation were all in the war and I didn’t want to be out of things, I mean—not because I was being brave or anything, I certainly didn’t ever think I’d be sent up north or anything but, I mean, most of our generation were—all over the world almost all were involved and you were missing something if you didn’t go into it [. . .].37

This personal desire to play a more significant role in the war corresponded with changes in propaganda—evident from 1942—where emphasis was placed on the glamorous nature of military service for women, catering for individual needs of excitement and adventure, making them little different from their male counterparts.38 ‘War Weariness’ and New Possibilities? 1942 proved to be a watershed year for South Africa. A key event in South Africa’s participation in the war was the conflict at Tobruk in North Africa which inspired both a feeling of tribulation and of defeat amongst both the Axis and the Allied powers respectively. After holding off combined German and Italian forces under the command of Major-General Erwin Rommel for most of 1941 and achieving an Allied victory, 1942 marked the defeat of the Allied forces at Tobruk. The inability of troops to evacuate the area due to the Germans capturing transport vehicles led to a huge number of Allied soldiers being taken prisoner-of-war when Major-General Klopper eventually sur35

May Kirkman in an interview with May Kirkman and June Borchert. Mary Benson, A Far Cry (London, 1989), p. 22. 37 Interview with Betty Addison conducted by S. Chetty and S. Sparks, May 29, 2004. 38 By 1942 civilian and military collaboration in the creation and dissemination of propaganda had been replaced by the military dominated “Defence Recruiting and Publicity Committee” under Colonel Werdmuller. Another important figure in propaganda was E.G. Malherbe, the Director of Military Intelligence. Cf. Sentrale Argies Bewaarplek/Central Archives Depot, BNS 1/1/266 C17/73, p. 1. 36

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rendered to Axis forces. Of the approximately thirty thousand men taken prisoner, South African soldiers formed approximately onethird.39 The impact on the country was enormous—for those opposed to the war this setback was the perfect opportunity to decry the South African government who had taken the country into war. Contradictorily, this defeat also spurred supporters of the Allied effort to even greater determination, and the call came to ‘Avenge Tobruk’.40 June 1942 heralded the first mention in the official women’s military publication, The Women’s Auxiliary, of what was described as ‘war weariness’. The year marked a turning point in support for the war. The confluence of a lessening of the initial enthusiasm with a war with no endpoint in sight, as well as the less than ideal conditions on the home front brought about by the high state of alert of a country wracked by dissidents, rationing and many women’s new and pressurised roles as sole bread-winners, led to a drastic decrease in the support for the war. This manifested itself in a recruiting shortfall.41 On the war front the effects of Tobruk was a major setback initiating a new propaganda campaign and negatively affecting many women who had had male relations either killed or taken prisoner, bringing with it uncertainty and pessimism. From 1943 a new tack was initiated to increase the recruiting shortfall. Initiated by Colonel G. C. G. Werdmuller, the Director of Recruiting, the emphasis was on a glamorisation of women’s war work when sacrifice and duty were insufficient incentives. In an article penned by a female recruiting officer and aptly titled “The Recruit is Precious”, women who decided to enter military service were portrayed as being at the centre of attention particularly at parties. They would be subject to the constant, kind, paternal, caring and rapt attention of men aiding the somewhat helpless female by carrying her bag and helping find her luggage—an attention that was contrasted with the lack thereof that she experienced at home.42 Military training was portrayed as being akin to a “finishing school” where the recruit would learn “the poise and self confidence”, 39 Nigel Cawthorne, Turning the Tide: Decisive Battles of the Second World War (London, 2002), pp. 51–56. 40 Hancock, Smuts 2, p. 375. 41 Cf. S. Chetty, Gender Under Fire: Interrogating War in South Africa, 1939–1945, MA thesis (University of Natal, 2001). 42 Documentation Centre—Department of Defence Archives, E. V. Wroughton, “The Recruit is Precious”, The Women’s Auxiliary, February 1943, Issue 30, p. 13.

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making them capable and assured young women. After weeks of lectures, learning military etiquette and the advice of older women, the shy, awkward girl was transformed into a mature, capable and responsible woman. This was a far cry from her previous persona—a transformation that would prepare for “living a sane, happy and respected life” in post-war South Africa.43 Military training was the key to a healthy, happy and fulfilled life, and one from which women would be infinitely more rewarded than if they had not answered the call. For black men too in 1942 calls for racial equality by the end of the war was a dominant issue, played out through the campaigning for the arming of black men in the military. Arming black men symbolized the duties, and particularly rights, of citizenship. In the newspaper Ilanga Lase Natal the arming of black men was portrayed as a necessity, due to the nature of warfare and the conditions under which they worked close to the frontlines, facing the same threat of enemy fire as white combatants, but without the same means of defence. Moreover, reports of the self-sacrifice and heroism of black non-combatants like Lucas Majozi who risked his own life to save others,44 were used as a demonstration of bravery and loyalty of black soldiers, adding impetus to the appeals for black soldiers to be armed: Accounts reaching the Union mention the exemplary way in which our unarmed Black men rescue White soldiers under concentrated enemy fire. Their courage and efficiency are spoken of in the highest terms by Europeans themselves [. . .] White South Africa may ask its conscience, seriously and honestly, if it is right, moral and in accord with the principles for which he is being asked to fight, to make a man sacrifice and risk his life with no means of defending against attack? How far should a fellow human being sacrifice his life if he will not be trusted to defend it? [. . .] South Africa is as much our fatherland as it is the White Man’s and Africans have as much right to defend it as White people [. . .].45

43 Documentation Centre—Department of Defence Archives, “A Rookie’s Life Leads to Poise and Self-Confidence”, The Women’s Auxiliary, March 1943, Issue 31, pp. 32–33. 44 Lucas Majozi worked as a stretcher-bearer in the Non-European Army Services, becoming the only black man to win the Distinguished Conduct Medal after carrying wounded men to safety under fire despite being wounded himself at the battle of El Alamein. 45 KCAL, “Casualty Lists”, Ilanga Lase Natal, February 14, 1942, p. 11, KCN 136, J496.3442 ILA.

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The call for equal treatment in the military came to colour the way in which the defeat at Tobruk was received. Whereas the South African state allocated funds to an ‘Avenge Tobruk’ propaganda campaign and highlighted the plight of the many South Africans taken prisoner, the newspaper aimed at an Indian readership in Natal, Indian Views, used Tobruk to argue once again for the extension of equality to the black men who had enlisted, citing this very discrimination as being a key reason for the defeat in North Africa: “Just imagine what a different story it would have been in Libya if the South African army had been double its present strength. And what’s more it could have been more than double had the non Europeans been allowed to play their rightful role in the war [. . .].”46 Early military setbacks suffered by the Allies such the defeat at Tobruk allowed for this moment when the vision of a new South Africa seemed a very real possibility. Dissent within the country, low support for the war effort and a drop in recruiting meant that the government had to consider the needs and aspirations of those serving in the war. However once the tide of war turned in favour of the Allies and victory seemed attainable, the possibilities for change became increasingly limited. By 1944, when the repeated calls of black men for equal treatment on the home front and in the military had failed to have any permanent effect, a pessimistic tone dominated.47 The achievement of the allied victory in Europe was a bittersweet moment for the Ilanga. Africans, who best understood the nature of racist oppression because they had direct experience of it in South Africa, had mobilized for the war on the basis of this understanding. They, however, were to benefit the least from victory as little was changed for them: The African came out to fight fascist tendencies, not only abroad, but at home. He wanted to prove that he was the enemy, not of the white man, but of systems and policies; that he was for right and justice not evil and wrong; that he was a friend to and was prepared to co-operate with white South Africa; that he was a contributor to, and protector of civilization and Christianity, and not a menace. He wanted to prove that

46 Durban Municipal Library—Don Africana Collection, “Non Europeans and War”, Indian Views, Friday, July 17, 1942, vol. XXIX No. 3, Book No. 3373, Class No 079.68. 47 KCAL, “Fight Against Evil . . .”, Ilanga Lase Natal, June 17 1944, p. 11, KCN 138, J496.3442 ILA.

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suryakanthie chetty the world was not divided by race and colour, but by interest and ideology [. . .]. But [. . .] all this is ended.48

For women too there was quite clearly a return to conservatism. With the end of war in sight, there was a subsequent desire to restore the status quo and the ‘normality’ after the temporary aberration of war. In January 1945 Smuts, addressing the SAWAS in Pretoria, marked a return to the spiritual role for women envisaged in a post-war South Africa, moving away from the appeals to greater job opportunities and glamour which were a hallmark of the attempts by propaganda to counter ‘war weariness’. According to Smuts, men were “politically and business minded”, suiting them for the public sphere, whereas the “noble” qualities for women suggested a different calling—“the spiritual uplift of South Africa”.49 This drew on earlier imaginings of the idealised role of women in the private sphere as mothers and nurturers and was one of the features of this return to conservatism envisaged for the women who had contributed to the war effort. The article “When Husbands Return” appearing in The Women’s Auxiliary raised the burning issue of women’s reaction and adjustment to their husbands returning from war. Women’s apprehension was defined as a loss of independence as well as the “physiological and psychological demands of marriage”, particularly that pertaining to men who themselves were permanently changed by their experience of war.50 Additionally it was necessary for those couples who had not done so before the war, to “start a family”, drawing upon the natural reproductive role of women to compensate for the country’s post-war needs. To do this, women had to forego their own needs for a greater good.51 The role of the post-war woman was to create a haven in the home, making it a centre of calm as a buffer to the turmoil and strain of the outside world. The main benefit accrued to women would be to relinquish the apprehension that had come with their war-time independence—concerns about running a household without support as well as the financial constraints and anxieties stemming from being

48 KCAL, “The Demands of Peace”, Ilanga Lase Natal, May 19, 1945, p. 15, KCN 139, J496.3442 ILA. 49 Documentation Centre—Department of Defence Archives, Jan Smuts, “The Greatest is Yet to Come”, The Women’s Auxiliary, January 1945, Issue 53, p. 5. 50 Documentation Centre—Department of Defence Archives, S. Kachelhoffer, “When Husbands Return”, The Women’s Auxiliary, February 1945, Issue 53, p. 29. 51 Kachelhoffer, “When Husbands Return,” p. 29.

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single parents.52 Women too, had to be supportive of their husbands, allowing them to recuperate from the trauma of war by providing a stable and nurturing environment which, after all, was what they were deemed to be best at.53 Furthermore, asking all this of women was seen to be part of their nature, something for which they were biologically and socially suited, making them naturally acquiescent, “At heart most women are ‘yes women’ and this is the one occasion when wives can fulfil the role of comforter. Their own worries must wait till he is at peace.”54 War-time Organisations Individual experiences and expectations of war were to an extent shaped by particular war-time and post-war organizations. During the course of the war, the Army Education Services (AES) was initiated to inculcate the largely Afrikaner working class rank and file with liberal values and, in so doing, offset the growing influence of right wing Afrikaner nationalism which was a source of grave concern on the home front.55 Yet, being a military initiative and hence conservative, the AES by its very nature was designed to maintain the status quo, rather than being a vehicle for creating revolutionary social change. Its key role was to reinforce and maintain support for the war effort which Afrikaner nationalism sought to subvert.56 Furthermore, despite its ostensible commitment to equality and democracy, the AES was beset by the contradictory attitudes in white South African society towards race, which the war had brought to the fore. Its idealistic image of a South African society where “the inclusion of whites and the exclusion of blacks was not an immutable feature of South African life”, sat uneasily with its circumspection in relation to Communist Party members’ attempts to advocate a radical overthrowing of the existing racial order. Members of the Communist Party of South Africa had joined the AES, working as Information Officers, and one such member, Wolf Kodesh, was subject to military discipline 52

Kachelhoffer, “When Husbands Return,” p. 35. Kachelhoffer, “When Husbands Return,” p. 70. 54 Kachelhoffer, “When Husbands Return,” p. 35. 55 N.D. Roos, A History of the Springbok Legion, 1941–1943 (MA diss., University of Natal, 1989) pp. 71–72. 56 Roos, A History of the Springbok Legion, pp. 74–75. 53

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for his lectures advocating the equality of black troops in the Union Defence Force, calling for them to be allowed to bear arms.57 Yet, despite its limitations, the AES represented a moment where social change was a very real possibility. According to Professor R. F. Alfred Hoernle, the Head of the Department of Philosophy at the University of the Witwatersrand and the man considered by the Director of Military Intelligence, E. G. Malherbe, to be “the father of the Army Education Services”,58 the role of white South Africans was to assume a paternalistic ‘trusteeship’ or guardian role of black South Africans and implement positive material social changes as a reward for the work and loyalty demonstrated by black South Africans during the war: [. . .] if we are to build a South Africa which is ‘better’ not only for ourselves, but also for the Africans who are, after all, the bulk of the population, we have to think, first and foremost, in terms of better housing, better medical services, better social services, better education, and, last but not least, in terms of raising their standard of life by higher wages. [. . .] We owe it to the Africans who are sharing the sacrifices, labours and dangers of the war with us, no less than we owe it to the ideals of our own civilization, not to fail them when we build the better South Africa of our aspirations.59

Hoernle’s words also contained assumptions of inequality and difference as, by using phrases such “Africans who are sharing [. . .] with us” and “the ideals of our own civilization”, he draws a distinction between black and white society. The idea of trusteeship was thus imbued with notions of racial inferiority and patronization, albeit mediated by a philosophy of bringing about social change for the better. The failure of the AES was due to its inherent conservatism and its personification of the contradictions regarding race which was a feature of South African liberalism. While envisioning a more democratic post-war South Africa, and attempting to convey this vision to white troops, the AES and the Union Defence Force itself were a tes-

57 Neil Roos, “The Second World War, the Army Education Scheme and the ‘Discipline’ of the White Poor,” South Africa, (paper presented at Workshop on South Africa in the 1940s, Southern African Research Centre, Kingston, Canada, September 2003) pp. 9–11. 58 KCAL. E. G. Malherbe Collection, I.C. Digest, August 1943, p. 21, KCM 56974(1010), File 442/2. 59 KCAL. Prof. R. F. Alfred Hoernle, “Post-war Reconstruction and the African Peoples”, I.C. Digest, August 1943, p. 21, KCM 56974(1010), File 442/2.

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timony to segregation and discrimination as they remained segregated entities.60 The Springbok Legion, initiated by ex-servicemen—but later dominated by the Communist Party—arose, not out of an ideological imperative, but due to more material concerns, namely the fear of white troops that their sacrifices would go unrewarded.61 The Soldier’s Parliament, a British organization composed of Army servicemen, influenced its creation.62 It had, “[. . .]started as a type of soldiers’ trade union concerned with conditions of army service, the welfare of their dependants, and the provisions for ex-servicemen after the war [. . .].”63 Originally envisioned as a classless entity, yet still holding firm on racial exclusion, the Springbok Legion later signed up black servicemen serving both overseas as well as within the Union.64 The organisation was symbolic of the changes wrought by war in the minds of those who served, the idealism and vision for a post-war South Africa permeated with the spirit of the fight for democracy and liberty: We had our own dreams for our country. The Cape native franchise must be restored and extended to the other provinces. There must be a massive expansion in native education [. . .] The industrial colour bar must be abolished [. . .] While accepting differences of language, culture and race, the need to provide separate facilities to accommodate them, we were opposed to compulsory segregation.65

The Legion played an important role in negotiating salary and pension increases for soldiers and aiding with demobilization. The Legion also aided returning soldiers in their attempts to assimilate into society and, more importantly find work, as well as address the shortage of housing for these largely working class men.66 While initially attracting a large membership of ex-soldiers who felt that the Legion was effective in addressing their material concerns, its Communist Party influences, particularly its vision “of [a] non-racial working class unity and social democracy,” began to distance it from its white working class

60

Roos, The Second World War, p. 13. Roos, A History of the Springbok Legion, p. 19. 62 Rusty Bernstein, Memory Against Forgetting—Memoirs from a Life in South African Politics, 1938–1964 (London, 1999), p. 65. 63 Bernstein, Memory Against Forgetting, p. 65. 64 Bernstein, Memory Against Forgetting, p. 66. 65 Butler, Bursting World, p. 131. 66 Roos, A History of the Springbok Legion, p. 32, p. 33, p. 38 and pp. 59–60. 61

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members.67 These members increasingly began to advocate a racial division of labour and the preservation of white positions against the incursion of black workers.68 This was in direct contradiction of the ideals of the Springbok Legion where equality in the workplace was a strong feature.69 This failure of the Springbok Legion in maintaining the support of white troops stemmed from its own radical stance and its idealistic vision for social change. This was at odds with the needs of white exservicemen largely concerned with material issues. According to Rusty Bernstein, member of the Springbok Legion and the Communist Party, “The Legion’s black membership had declined as men had been discharged from the army and returned to civilian life. Its remaining membership was almost totally white and their concerns were also overwhelmingly white.”70 The Legion was ultimately unable to regain the support that its radical stance had lost, and it eventually dissolved in the mid-1950s.71 Another ex-servicemen’s organisation that had an impact on South African society in the immediate post-war era was the Torch Commando which sought to realise some of the democratic aims for which the Second World War was fought.72 It was formed by white exservicemen in reaction to the proposed disenfranchisement of coloured voters in the Cape. The mobilisation of ex-servicemen on the issue of coloured disenfranchisement was, however, not due to racial sympathy, but to what they perceived as an attack on the constitution of South Africa. In a speech at a rally outside City Hall in Johannesburg on May 4, 1951, the war hero ‘Sailor’ Malan made reference to the ideals for which the Second World War was fought: The strength of this gathering is evidence that the men and women who fought in the war for freedom still cherish what they fought for. We are 67

During the war the Communist Party of South Africa was an organisation composed largely of white members but did have a black membership as well. In the 1920s it had moved away from supporting the white working class who were effectively represented by the far more conservative Labour Party to playing a role in the organisation of black workers. Cf. Worden, The Making of Modern South Africa, p. 53. 68 Roos, A History of the Springbok Legion, p. 64. 69 Pietermaritzburg Archives Repository, (PAR), Natal Provincial Administration (NPA), 3/PMB, “Memorandum Proposed to be Submitted on Behalf of the Springbok Legion to the Natal Post-War Works and Reconstruction Committee”. 70 Bernstein, Memory Against Forgetting, p. 107. 71 Roos, A History of the Springbok Legion, p. 165. 72 Chetty, Gender Under Fire.

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determined not to be denied the fruits of that victory. It is good to see this support in protest against the rape of the Constitution and the attack on our rights and liberties as free men. In Abyssinia, at Alamein and a score of bloody campaigns we won the right to a voice in our country’s affairs [. . .].73

However, the Torch Commando did not actually take a stand against the increasingly repressive racial legislation being passed by the Apartheid state. Standing on the brink of a new way forward for South Africa, the Torch Commando became very much a product of its time when it refused to allow coloured ex-servicemen into its ranks and did not take a stand on African rights. Thus, despite a membership that peaked at a quarter of a million in 1952, the Torch Commando failed to create any significant change and the movement eventually passed into oblivion.74 Its members were motivated by the ideal of democracy rather than any particular commitment to non-racism. However, since one cannot have a genuine democracy in the presence of discrimination and the organisation was unable to make an effective decision on the latter, it lost the potential for thwarting the path that the Apartheid state was taking. As a memorial to the ideals of the Second World War it had failed. Broken Promises For the white soldiers returning to South Africa, disillusionment was the order of the day, with the perception that the government had failed to live up to its promises that it had made during the war. This disenchantment suggested a failure on the part of the Army Education Services which had, as one of its primary motives, the containment of the expectations of white soldiers.75 Although, in comparison to the benefits given to African, Indian and coloured soldiers after the war, the government’s provision for white soldiers which included access to housing and education was far greater, this was insufficient to prevent discontent. Many white soldiers felt betrayed by a government for which they felt that they had sacrificed so much. Some saw the

73

Olive Walker, Sailor Malan: A Biography (London, 1953), pp. 162–164. Dougie Oakes, ed., Reader’s Digest Illustrated History of South Africa—The Real Story (Cape Town, 1995), p. 395. 75 Roos, The Second World War, p. 11. 74

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National Party as a viable alternative in 1948 after the betrayed promises of Smuts’ government.76 This sense of betrayal was made more acute by those who had not volunteered for the war but had chosen instead to financially benefit from the economic boom created by wartime production. Coming face to face with men who had derived greater material gain than that obtained by patriotic service to the country caused no small amount of resentment and many ex-servicemen found adjustment to civilian life made difficult by the economic losses they had suffered as a result of military service.77 They returned to a post-war society where the ideals of war service no longer had pride of place and, in addition, a society where Afrikaner nationalism was achieving a new dominance. These men now faced discrimination in an environment hostile to South Africa’s participation in the war. In a growing climate of right wing nationalism their war service was now a disadvantage. The post-war era brought a keen sense of injustice on the part of white men—the group historically at the apex of South African society. Yet the situation was far more acute in the case of black men faced with a legacy of discrimination which became enshrined in law under apartheid. Victory and the triumph of democracy in Europe did not necessarily mean the same in South Africa and black servicemen were aware of that, tempering the jubilation of victory with a sense of ambivalence: “We heard about the victory on the radio. Oh, there was great joy, jubilation and relief. We had a nice get-together that night with a glass of beer; very heartwarming [. . .]. We all knew it was only the fighting that had finished and we had a long way to go still.”78 During the war Smuts had promised the black men who served in the military that the roles they had played would not be forgotten, “[. . .] we shall do everything in our power to ensure that the men who served South Africa, as you have done, shall have such a reward as it is in the power of your country to give you.”79 This somewhat qualified promise was not kept and returning soldiers were embittered by their 76 May Kirkman in an interview with May Kirkman and June Borchert conducted by S. Sparks and S. Chetty, May 29, 2004. 77 Ryan, Thru Times and Places, p. 311. 78 Independent Newspapers Archive, Fraser Jansen, “A Day of Ecstatic Relief and the Beginning of a New World”, The Daily News, May 11, 1985. 79 Independent Newspapers Archive, Graeme Hosken, “Ex-servicemen Go Unrewarded”, The Daily News, February 17, 2000.

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reception. This is evident by Norman Middleton who had a difficult experience in the war after being taken prisoner and held in a camp for ten months, “It was not at all worth it,’ he says of his war-time experience. ‘I came back furious.’ On his return he was given a bicycle, a ‘few shillings’ and some medals [. . .].”80 The theme of broken promises was a strong one: When we were in the army we were told when they were building those houses there [in Montclair], they building it for us when we come back. They were given to us [. . .] and when we went back Smuts dies because the army—Smuts was the one who was controlling it—General Smuts [. . .] when he died all those things that we were promised died— Afrikaner took over so all the promises—we went for it, they said your boss died so you got nothing, we not interested. They gave it all to the whites. Those are not ex-servicemen, those are now staying in Montclair, all individual people, supposed to be ex-servicemen. Finished, we didn’t get nothing.81

According to Davis, Smuts was the catalyst, the means by which wartime promises aimed at black servicemen as a reward for their loyalty would be kept. His death and, prior to that, the rise of the apartheid state spelled the end to black aspirations, where their war-time service served instead as a badge of dishonour: I wanted to save our country from the, from the enemy from coming in. I thought if I’m there I’ll also do my part to save our country but that did not make any difference to the government. We were still dogs. Many of times I went to the government and produced my papers, my army papers, which I’ve got but say, that was Afrikaner man—no, no, no, it was the English people but now it’s the Afrikaner now, we don’t worry about them, they don’t consider us. We as the army people, government has got no interest in us.82

There is a sense of bitterness, humiliation and, above all, sadness now at the lack of recognition given to them for their service more than sixty years ago. The opportunity of the Second World War had been tempered and all but forgotten by the grim reality of the apartheid state. For Davis, his experience of the war was bittersweet. Along with the pride at taking part and demonstrating his loyalty, there was an

80

Independent Newspapers Archive, Shelagh McLoughlin, “The Forgotten Force”, The Natal Witness, November 19, 1997. 81 Interview with Alfred Davis. 82 Interview with Alfred Davis.

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acknowledgement that his efforts were not reciprocated by the state. He felt a strong sense of disillusionment, leading him to sell his medals and badges at the end of the war due to him having “lost interest”. This disillusion was aided, in part, by having little financial or employment opportunities by the end of 1945, making the selling of these important mementoes of his service a financial necessity. In a twist of irony he sold them to white souvenir collectors.83 D. F. Malan’s National Party was voted into power by the white electorate in 1948, initiating the onset of apartheid and the death knell for the liberal aspirations of the Second World War. The war presented an opportunity for genuine social and political change that was ultimately ended by the rise of the apartheid state. However the limitations presented by the war for changing South African society appeared to be evident from the outset. It was evident in the way in which the men and women were recruited for military service and the way in which they saw their roles in the war. For white men and women the desire to join the war effort came from their perception of citizenship and, in the case of white men, notions of masculinity and individual glory. White women were mobilised as wives and mothers. It was black men who believed that the war presented an opportunity to prove their capability and their loyalty to the state with the ultimate reward of political and social equality. 1942 marked the point at which their aspirations had the potential to become a reality. White women were mobilised on an individual basis rather than the obligations based on their gender. The relaxation of influx control, the need to create a sense of nationhood after the defeat at Tobruk and Smuts own wartime promises suggested that post-war period spelled greater equality for black South Africans. This was the point at which the demands for equal participation in the war in order to prove their citizenship became ever more vociferous on their part. Yet, once the tide of war had turned in favour of the Allies, these openings closed. Men returned home in 1945 to unfulfilled promises. Women were expected to return to a pre-1939 notion of domesticity as if the war had been a temporary aberration. These limitations were as evident in war-time and post-war organisations such as the AES and Torch Commando which held fast to existing ideas of segregation and inequality while espousing liberalism. Radical organisations such as the Springbok Legion alienated

83

Interview with Alfred Davis.

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their members by their very zeal. Their dwindling numbers meant that they were unable to put up an effective resistance to the rise of the apartheid state and the organisation faded into obscurity. Smuts’ defeat in the election of 1948 marked the culmination of a growing conservatism in South African society that was to define its history for the next fifty years.

THE IMPACT OF THE EAST AFRICA CAMPAIGN, 1914–1918 ON SOUTH AFRICA AND BEYOND Anne Samson Ask a British citizen over the age of thirty if they have heard of the East Africa campaign of 1914–1918 and inevitably they will say ‘no’. However, ask them if they have heard of The African Queen,1 Shout at the Devil2 or An Ice-Cream War 3 and ninety percent of the time, they will know at least one. These novels, since made into film, have helped create Britain’s memory of the African side-show. Ask a South African the same questions and you might find that they have heard of The African Queen but will not know that South Africans fought in East Africa. If they do show any recognition of South African troops being in East Africa, after a few direct questions about Abyssinia and Ethiopia, it will invariably be that they are talking about World War Two. The East Africa campaign of World War One apparently has no place in South Africa’s national memory. This gap is particularly poignant when one considers the memorial to the South Africans who died at Delville Wood and that Australia and New Zealand have a memorial day for a battle they were annihilated in. This paper will explore reasons for this gap existing rather than on the physical manifestations of the memories. My interest in national memory was triggered when trying to reconcile the information, or rather lack thereof, which I had gathered for my thesis. Believing myself to have been a ‘typical’ young student, my road to enlightenment raises many interesting questions regarding the formation of national memory from the historian’s perspective. I first came across South African troops having fought in East Africa when I was doing my Masters Dissertation in the UK on Jan Smuts’ joining of the British War Cabinet:4 it was a line in the Smuts biography written

1

C. S. Forester, The African Queen (London, 1956). Wilbur Smith, Shout at the devil (London, 1978). 3 William Boyd, An ice-cream war (London, 1983). 4 Anne Samson, Jan Christian Smuts & the British War Cabinet, 1917–1919, MA thesis, (Westminster University, 1998). 2

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by his son mentioning that the General had led the campaign in East Africa.5 What is so interesting about my late discovery is that I had studied the 1914 rebellion at school and knew that South Africans had died at Delville Wood during World War One. My BA degree, half of which concentrated on South African history was done in South Africa—in two institutions and yet, I had never heard about the East Africa campaign. It was only in going back to the prescribed university texts whilst doing my thesis that I discovered there was a whole chapter in at least one book devoted to the First World War with a section on East Africa.6 How had I not seen this before? As I said, I was a ‘typical’ student so only read the chapters I was told to. Without going into the psychology behind this, what does or did it say about the teaching of history and more importantly, the study of history? This is a particularly poignant question for me when I look back at the texts and environment I grew up in and how I now practice as an historian. Trying to reconcile this with the approach the eminent historians in South Africa took is an underlying drive for investigating memory. During the Apartheid era, South African historians seem to have had a double persona. This was writing narratives to safeguard their livelihood in the country and another giving rise to publications which were never on the open shelves during the Apartheid era and which could only be read with special permission under the watchful eye of a trusted librarian.7 Thus, the starting point for this investigation into national memory is the unravelling of what I call the ‘national myth’ and why, in its creation, potentially significant events were ignored. The study of national memory has been around for some time with historians such as Jay Winter and Antoine Proust leading the way with regards the First World War. Much of this literature though concerns memorials and various forms of popular culture such as songs, poetry and art.8 However, as noted earlier, this paper is not directly concerned

5

J. C. Smuts, Jan Christian Smuts, (London, 1952). B. J. Liebenberg and S.B. Spies, eds., South Africa in the 20th Century (Pretoria, 1993). 7 Anne Samson, Britain, South Africa and the East Africa Campaign, 1914–1918: The Union comes of Age (London, 2005) pp. 2–4. 8 Jay Winter, Sites of memory, sites of mourning: The Great War in European Cultural History (Cambridge, 1995); Jay Winter, Remembering War: The Great War between memory and history in the twentieth Century (New Haven, 2006); Dan Todman The Great War: myth & memory (London, 2005); Paul Fussell, The Great War and modern memory (London, 1977). 6

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with these physical manifestations of memory in the same way, nor with the psychological or sociological processes of remembering which is the other dominant area of national memory studies.9 Rather, it is an early attempt to explore from an historical perspective how memory is formed.10 Using the East Africa campaign of 1914–1918, it is hoped that some of the questions raised above will be answered and in the process, that an historical understanding of the formation of national memory will be gained. To aide the discussion, it is necessary to begin with a synopsis of the campaign.11 The war in East Africa had begun before hostilities in Europe when the British Admiralty bombed the German East African (Tanzanian) wireless station at Dar-es-Salaam on 8 August 1914 in accordance with the War Book instructions. This reduced any likelihood of keeping the area neutral. Britain did not really want to commit troops to East Africa, but neither was it prepared to see Germany or any other country obtain a dominant role in the area. Military men such as Lord Kitchener could see no point in fighting for land that Britain had given away twenty years earlier while the Colonial Office was interested in expanding for the sake of expanding. The colonials in British East Africa (Kenya) were not very interested in going to war either as it would mean that their farms suffered, although when called up they did respond positively and outvoted Governor Belfield who preferred to keep the territory out of the war. The situation in German East Africa was similar, although it was the German General von Lettow-Vorbeck who over-rode the German Governor Schnee to take the colony into war. Von Lettow-Vorbeck’s idea was to attract as many Allied troops away from Europe as possible

9

John R. Gillis, ed., Commemorations: the politics of national identity (Princeton, 1994); Alan Sheridan, Michel Foucault: The Will To Truth (London, 1980); Paul Ricoeur, Paul Ricoeur http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/ricoeur/#3.4 (accessed, January 24, 2008), Maurice Halbwachs, On collective memory, trans. Lewis A. Coser (Chicago, 1992). 10 See subsequent paper presented by the author: The remembrance of the East Africa Campaign, 1914–1918, in South Africa: Historians’ use of, and impact on, memory (presented at Agen, November 2008); Since writing this paper in 2007, the author has revised her interpretation of terms such as national memory and developed many of the themes identified in this paper. 11 Select references have been given, for more detail see Anne Samson, Britain, South Africa and the East Africa Campaign.

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to assist the German war effort. During the early days of the war, the Germans raided into British East Africa and soon had the upper hand, although they were not able to progress any further. Britain was forced to reassess its position in East Africa and eventually asked India to send across two expeditionary forces, one to the British colony to help protect the border and another to attack the German colony. The target of the Indian attack was Tanga where the expeditionary force was severely repelled. This resulted in a reduction in hostilities until Britain sanctioned South African troops under General Jan Smuts, the Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of Defence, taking on the campaign from 1916. The South Africans launched their first attack in February that year and despite pushing the Germans south, no decisive battles were fought. Following Smuts’ return to South Africa in 1917, British General Arthur R. Hoskins was appointed General Officer Commanding the theatre. However, Smuts’ propaganda about his success in East Africa meant that Hoskins’ term of duty lasted only three months before he was recalled for not having taken the campaign forward. General Jaap Van Deventer, his replacement, was to see the campaign through to its end but caused an upset when he allowed von LettowVorbeck and his officers to retain their swords when they surrendered themselves under the conditions of the armistice, thirteen days after that in Europe. Others involved in the theatre included contingents from the Gold Coast, Nigeria and the West Indies. This was the result of Smuts’ assessment that the climate and conditions in East Africa were not suitable for white soldiers.12 South Africa had refused to arm its nonwhite citizens for fear of encouraging uprisings and troops had to be found elsewhere. South Africans who were not white did see action in East Africa but only in capacities regarded as more ‘suited’ to them— Blacks were carriers and animal herders whilst South African Indians formed an ambulance corps.13 In addition, replacements were also forthcoming from India. South Africa had sent 43,477 (predominantly white) men to East Africa of which 12,000 white men were invalided

12

The terms white and non-white are used to identify one of the main divisions in South Africa at the time and in no way imply value judgements. 13 Albert Grundlingh, Fighting their own war: South African Blacks & the First World War (Johannesburg, 1987).

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home during 1916.14 However, the number of men lost from the South African Native Labour Corps, two Cape Corps and the two Indian Ambulance Corps is more difficult to ascertain, although one source estimates that 75% of all South Africans were invalided home during the campaign.15 Apart from the war in the north of the German colony, pockets of fighting occurred in the south. As the Germans were pushed south, they infiltrated Portuguese East Africa which led Portugal, in 1916, to abandon its neutral stance to ensure it was protected and had a legitimate claim to the Kionga Triangle. To this extent, Portugal sent five thousand troops to supplement the colony’s garrison. Nyasaland (Malawi) was supported by two hundred South African volunteers following a minor rebellion in the colony to protect the Lake Nyasa border with German East Africa where some incursions had been made. Similarly, Southern and Northern Rhodesia (Zimbabwe and Zambia respectively) mobilised for self-defence and during 1916 started to work in liaison with the South Africans in the north to put pressure on the Germans. The Congo also became embroiled in the campaign following German attacks along its border and a request for help from Southern Rhodesia, a situation enhanced by the realisation that gains could be made. The British as the dominant Allied power, were left to manage the campaign and the tensions caused by the different demands and needs of each participating territory. To understand why the campaign has been remembered to the extent it has, it is important to look at why each country sent troops to that theatre. A country will not go to war, except when attacked, unless there is a chance that it will enrich itself. This was particularly true of the East Africa campaign which was removed from the main theatre of war and the outcome of which would have little, if any, impact on the overall result of the war. Reasons for the campaign’s place in South Africa’s national memory South Africa’s involvement in the war was an opportunity to unite its white English and Afrikaans communities, expand its borders and 14 15

James A. Brown, They fought for King and Kaiser (Johannesburg, 1991). www.delvillewood.com (accessed September 22, 2008).

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extend its influence. As a country, South Africa had only come into being in 1910 and when war broke out in 1914, its infrastructure, including the army, was undeveloped. The resultant political context is important for understanding why the campaign has not been remembered. Union in 1910 saw four British colonies, quite distinct in their composition come together, two of which had pro-British ties and two which had fought against being controlled by Britain. The divides between the white population, although generally satisfied at the time of Union especially when the Boer General Louis Botha was appointed Prime Minister started to re-appear as the Union developed and by the time war broke out, provided a dilemma for the Union government. This was particularly as the enemy, Germany, had purportedly supported the Boers during the 1899–1902 war. Prime Minister Louis Botha and his deputy Smuts were clear where their priorities lay—with the British government which had been magnanimous in giving the two Boer colonies a relative amount of freedom after the war of 1899–1902. However, a large part of the population, mainly Boers were still antagonistic towards the British and in 1914 shortly before the outbreak of war, JBM Hertzog broke away from the ruling Boer dominated South Africa Party to form the National Party which stood for a republic independent from Britain. In addition, the English speaking South Africans were divided in their support too. Some supported the South Africa Party, whilst others preferred the Unionist or Labour Parties. The outbreak of war resulted in a realigning of party alliances with the English-speaking parties backing the government-led South Africa Party and a clear break forming between the two Boer parties. All attempts to restore the rift between the Boer and English appeared impossible with the anti-British Boers turning more strongly towards Germany. Specifically, South Africa’s, or rather Smuts and Botha’s, ambitions for taking on the East Africa campaign became apparent to a select few during the 1919 peace discussions in Versailles. But, as with many of his other interventions, Smuts worked behind the scenes rather than put his cards on the table. South Africa openly claimed German South West Africa (Namibia) as an integral part of the Union and fought for it. Although not exactly what it wanted, the C-grade mandate enabled the government to fulfil its promise of farms to those who had fought in the campaign. However, he could not justify asking for German East Africa in the same way. He therefore met Leo Amery, Secretary to the War Cabinet, over dinner to put forward what he wanted for South Africa. This was the Portuguese port of Lorenzo Marques in

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Delagoa Bay—territory Portugal feared South Africa had desired since the days of the Boer Republics. The result was a complex unofficial three-way territorial swap devised by Britain in an attempt to placate the main players involved in the campaign. Providing Portugal agreed to Belgium getting the coastal territory that it desired on the west coast, Belgium would surrender Ruanda and Urundi to Britain. Portugal, in turn, would receive the Kionga Triangle in the Rovuma Delta on condition that South Africa obtained the territory it wanted. Despite Portugal’s desire for the Triangle it believed Germany had stolen in 1894, the Portuguese government refused the swap believing that the Portuguese people would not approve the loss of any territory particularly as the outcome of the three-way exchange would have been a net loss of territory for Portugal. The outcome of Portugal’s decision was the division of Africa as it is today and the subsequent relegation of the campaign to relative obscurity. Analysis The fact that South Africa did not get the proposed piece of Portuguese East Africa is the main reason that the campaign has not remained in national memory. As there was no political or tangible reward or outcome for South Africa’s effort in East Africa, it was easy to ignore what had happened there. This was made easier by the fact that the National Party and its supportive newspapers did not challenge the government and made as little mention of the campaign as possible. The only time De Volkstem had raised the topic of East Africa during the war was if there was going to be a negative impact on government funds for farmers or pay. There was therefore no political motive to raise the profile of the campaign amongst the dominant white South African population. The government and its opposition were also reluctant to raise the profile of the war in Europe for political reasons and despite South Africa being on the winning side, the funds for the building of the memorial at Delville Wood were raised through private subscriptions organised by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick. A large part of the literature on national memory appears to focus on ‘new’ countries which are trying to create an identity for themselves, for example Israel and the ex-Soviet satellite states. In some ways, their process relates to South Africa, another ‘new country’, but a fundamental difference is that white South Africa did not have a gap in its history in the same way that the others did. In other words,

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there is no ‘pre-past’ to draw on, while in the new South Africa, black or non-white South African memory formation is closer to the ‘typical’ studies described above. This is evidenced in the drive to capture people’s experiences of the Apartheid years through initiatives such as the District Six Museum where the memories of those who had been displaced are recorded and the re-writing of the country’s history books, in particular text books. Unlike other countries which have banned old text books whilst trying to create a national memory, South Africa has not done so,16 an action which should enable a more rounded memory to eventually form as differing views are challenged and accounted for. Existing studies on national memory focus on what is remembered and how; not on why events are not remembered, although the latter may be implied or assumed in the writings on memory formation. John Gillis notes that “new memories require concerted forgetting”, a process described by Benedict Anderson as collective amnesia, while Yaul Zeubauer refers to collective amnesia as covering up memories which are deemed irrelevant and disruptive to the flow of the narrative and ideological message. She continues by referring to Bernard Lewis who pointed to the phenomenon of recovering a forgotten past. However, in the subsequent discussions, neither author goes on to discuss what is forgotten and particularly why some aspects of an event are remembered whilst others are totally ignored at the time as well as in the future.17 It is this latter aspect with which this paper is concerned. In South Africa, in the months after the war, little was done to recognise and acknowledge the effort of South Africa’s soldiers. There was no welcoming back of the troops as there had been in Britain and in India and newspaper articles tended to be submerged between other more mundane news, unless it was the opposition press taking the government to task for not fulfilling a promise. The only indication that South Africans had fought in East Africa were the taxidermy adverts suggesting that the men had more of a holiday than fighting a war.

16 Talk by Shula Marks, April 19, 2007 at the Hampstead and North West London Historical Association. 17 Yael Zeubauer, Recovered roots: collective memory and the making of Israeli national tradition (Chicago, 1995); Leonard Thompson, The political mythology of Apartheid (New Haven, 1995); Gillis, Commemorations.

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Contrast this scenario with the campaigns in Delville Wood, Palestine and South West Africa and we have part of the reason for East Africa remaining in the dark. Delville Wood has a place in English South African historiography similar, albeit not on the same scale, to Gallipoli for the Australians. During the Battle of the Somme in 1916, around 5,700 South Africans made a gallant stand against the Germans which is remembered in the form of a memorial there. The memorial was the idea of Sir Percy Fitzpatrick, a politician and author, who obtained permission from Smuts to fundraise for it. The memorial was eventually unveiled by Prime Minister Hertzog in 1927, the irony being that he, Hertzog, had been against the South Africans fighting Germany. This memorial, which is today owned by the South African government, has recently been restored by the ANC government and now contains a display detailing black South African involvement in Europe during the First World War. Both the original monument and the restoration process have not stimulated the country to do anything to remember the almost 32,000 fallen in East Africa or 266 in South West Africa, although the obtaining of the latter as a mandate was regarded as memorial enough. The South West Africa campaign of 1914 had been debated in parliament, which led to the split and later rebellion in the country. However, the quick, decisive win by a force of 67,000 men in six months with only 266 casualties and the obtaining of the territory as a mandate ensured that the campaign remained in the national consciousness, particularly after 1948 when the United Nations started to demand the territory’s return. Although the South African government found maintaining South West Africa a greater financial handicap than originally anticipated, the Nationalist government used the conflict with the United Nations over the territory to help justify its need to stay in power and for South Africa to become self sufficient. Since South West Africa became independent in the early 1990s and changed its name to Namibia, it hardly features in South African news or discussion. This has not stopped Namibia from remembering the war, albeit through the rusty leftovers of a South African camp in the desert just outside Swakopmund and the Prisoner of War camp and Commonwealth War Graves surrounding Aus.18

18

Author’s visit to Namibia, December 2007.

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At the other extreme is the campaign in Palestine. As South Africans returned from East Africa, they volunteered to help the war effort in the Middle East as the conditions were more suited to the ‘ill-disciplined’ approach to war that the South Africans had. Despite the campaign ending successfully, South Africa made no claim for its assistance, no memorial has been erected, very little has been written on the country’s involvement in the campaign and yet, there is a memory amongst white South Africans of the country having assisted in that theatre. It is not yet clear whether this has anything to do with the large Jewish population resident in South Africa and the close ties the country had to Zionism. Gillis’ claim that “concerted effort” is required not to create a national memory and Zeubauer’s belief that the narrative must flow, appears valid in the South African context.19 By creating a memory that accorded with political needs of the time, South Africa’s involvement in East Africa had to be ignored by both the leading political parties. Simultaneously, the country’s involvement in the war in Europe and Palestine did not pose any major difficulty to explain and justify in terms of the political needs—South Africa was a subject of the King of England and therefore was expected to support Britain in its time of need. It was accepted that English speaking South Africans would rally to the call of the motherland and even if Afrikaans speakers participated in these ‘remote’ theatres their numbers were significantly small to be ignored. Thus, the myth of the Boer-English divide was kept intact which suited the National Party and meant the South Africa Party had to tread carefully so as not to upset potential supporters on both sides. In the years after the First World War, the political situation in South Africa did nothing to help bring the East Africa campaign into national memory. Smuts, as Prime Minister was battling to stay in power and eventually he lost to the Nationalists under Hertzog in 1924. In essence this change in government continued until 1994 as Hertzog led the United Party during the 1930s and Smuts, although Prime Minister for most of the 1940s only had three years outside of war, 1945–48, to bring about a reconciliation between the two white groups. The effect was a permanent split between the supporters of empire and a republic. The subject was a delicate one, and politicians

19

Gillis, Commemorations.

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on both sides avoided any issues which could accidentally trigger a reaction and push voters into the other camp although at one point Smuts did seem prepared to start a civil war to ensure South Africa’s continued support of Britain.20 During the interwar years, therefore, Smuts was unable to use East Africa as clear evidence of South Africans working together for a common goal under British control whilst Hertzog was restricted in his claims by Germany having lost the war. The easiest thing to do, therefore, was sweep the campaign under the proverbial carpet. As indicated, there is some memory of South Africa’s involvement in World War One, albeit for specific campaigns or groups of people. The introduction of the ‘two minute’ silence as a mark of respect to the dead after the war and the local memorials detailing the names of the dead may well have been regarded as sufficient memorial in the early 20th century given the political nature of the country. This may still be the case as there is no tomb of the ‘unknown soldier’ in South Africa. Each city has a cenotaph but there are no 11 November events on the scale that they are in England. Invariably, a handful of World War Two veterans (Memorable Order of Tin Hats or MOTHs) and their family, some guides and scouts and the local military or police representative are present at a memorial service and to lay the wreaths. A recent visit to a MOTH shellhole in Knysna, South Africa, revealed that the MOTHs were founded in 1927, the same year that the Delville Wood memorial was unveiled. There was much in the shellhole reminding visitors and veterans of what they had experienced and achieved during and post World War Two but nothing to do with World War One. This concurs with my memories of being around the Boksburg shellhole as a child and the information contained on the MOTH website.21 Despite there being no current national memory of the East Africa campaign in South Africa, there are pockets of remembrance. In the IZIKO culture museum in Cape Town there is a 17th century stained glass window which had been inserted into the house of the Governor in the British mandated territory of Tanganyika as German East Africa became known. When the country was to be given its 20

The National Archives, DO35/1637: War: General situation, p. 13 report of visit by Commander-in-Chief Eastern Fleet, June 1, 1943. 21 Memorable Order of Tin Hats, http://www.moth.org.za/moth13.htm (accessed December 15, 2007).

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independence, the window was sent to South Africa. A small plaque on the wall next to the window stating it is a memorial to the South Africans who fought in the campaign was all that was known about South Africa’s involvement. More significant is the Black community which has renewed an annual remembrance ceremony on 17 September. This is for the more than 600 black unarmed troops who drowned when their ship the SS Mendi sank off the Isle of Wight. Since 2004, however, the Mendi has moved into South Africa’s national memory through the publicity surrounding the garden of remembrance in Soweto created in 2002 and opened by Queen Elizabeth II and Nelson Mandela and in 2007, the return of the ship to South Africa. In addition, a CD-Rom has been circulated to all UK English schools by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission for use in secondary school history and the South African Military have introduced a new honour award named after the ship. Further work needs to be undertaken in the history of the memory of the Mendi as anecdotal evidence suggests that it was used in anti-Apartheid resistance. What about the memory of the campaign in the other countries and territories involved? The initial reluctance on the part of the British government to actively pursue war in the theatre is part of the reason for the lack of memory of the campaign. In addition, apart from the successful bombing of the German wireless stations, Britain suffered early defeats in the theatre which resulted in little news from East Africa making it into the press. This changed slightly after 1916 when the campaign picked up with the arrival of the South African forces under the command of Smuts. Successes meant the campaign started to feature more prominently and as the campaign was fought in conditions very different to those on the Western Front, it was more difficult for the public to comprehend. Further, as few men came back with bullet wounds en mass as they did from the battlefields in Europe, it added to the impression that the war in East Africa was less dangerous than the campaigns in Europe. In addition, as most of the campaign in East Africa was fought by non-British troops, Britain’s reduced ‘memory’ of the campaign is understandable. But why is it seen as a ‘romantic’ campaign? British East Africa was believed to be the aristocrats’ colony with many settlers sitting in the British House of Lords. It was colonised for reasons different to the other colonies—many settlers thought they could make their fortune from the land, whilst others frequented the area for leisure and hunting purposes—the playground of the rich! Secondly not

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many men died directly due to the war—most men suffered prolonged deaths as the result of starvation, malaria and dysentery with the odd person being carried off by a marauding lion. Even the death of the famous hunter Frederick Selous by a sniper bullet would have added to the romantic view. This perception of the campaign started during the war as relatives in England berated their loved ones for ‘choosing’ the ‘easy’ life in Africa when their comrades were dying in Europe. Even in South Africa, the myth of the conditions the men were fighting under persisted as seen by taxidermy adverts. A final reason for the romantic view of the campaign was to deflect from the fact that the Germans were never defeated in that arena. Added to this was the reputation of both sides being ‘gentlemanly’ in their fight unlike the atrocity stories which filtered through from Europe. These elements of the campaign are clearly portrayed in The Africa Queen and An Ice-cream War.22 In India, the campaign remained alive until the possibility of the territory for Indian immigration was finally rejected. Thereafter, knowledge of the campaign faded. Little is known about the memory of the campaign in the other territories. There is at least one recent book in Portuguese detailing that country’s involvement in the campaign but none for the Congo.23 In Kenya, there is a monument to the askari—Indian and Black—who fought in the campaign with a quote by Rudyard Kipling. However, there is no reference to the white or settler troops who participated, and who alone are buried in the Commonwealth War Graves. During a visit to the Commonwealth War Grave at Taveta, near Salaita Hill and Kilimanjaro, the locals had no idea why it was there or what it was for, although white people came to visit approximately every six months. For all the number of Indian soldiers who died attacking Tanga, there is only a German war cemetery in the town. More recently, on a trip to Moshi in Tanzania, a town at the foot of Mount Kilimanjaro which both von Lettow-Vorbeck and Smuts used as a military base, it became known that the East Africa campaign was taught in school history before independence. Since independence, the curriculum has been rewritten with history commencing

22

Forester, The African Queen; Boyd, An ice-cream war. Nuno Severiano Teixeira, O Poder e a Guerro 1914–1918: Objectivos Nacionais e Estratégias Políticas na Entrada de Portugal na Grande Guerre (Lisabon, 1996). 23

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with the struggle for independence. The war graves at Moshi appear to be inclusive. There is a German section which although it has no gravestones has a memorial cross and four frangipani trees. It is also in need of attention and apart from the white Allied section, there is an “African War” section, the first seen in any country so far and a section containing a memorial to the Indians, both Hindu and Muslim. All three latter sections are relatively well kept and the nearby civilian cemetery caretaker was quite informed about the war graves. The fact that there are four cemeteries in one area next to the civilian cemetery is perhaps not too surprising when one considers that both the Germans and Allied forces held Moshi as a military base with a hospital. However, why this Allied cemetery has an Indian and Black cemetery when others seen do not, is a question to be explored as there had also been a hospital at Taveta.24 Based on the discussion above, the position of the campaign in German national memory is likely to be non-existent too. In the years following the war and into the Second World War, von LettowVorbeck was seen as something of a hero by the people, and when for circumstances against his control in the 1940s he had no access to care, friends in South Africa and England reportedly sent food parcels to him. Kerwin Lee Klein, in his paper ‘On the emergence of memory in Historical discourse’ talks of a crisis in historiography as the reason for the current interest in national memory.25 This is not the case, national memory or the events that are talked about are a valuable aid to the historian, particularly when looking at the politics behind specific events. Invariably, the events which have not made it into national memory are often too complex to be reduced into a simple narrative and it is this complexity which has also deterred historians from truly investigating the issue. A clear example of which is the First World War: How many general histories of a country gloss over the war—not necessarily where the troops fought, but the impact the war had? In recent years the East Africa campaign has become more prominent in Europe with a number of books published such as Edward

24 During 2009, the author discovered a memorial in Dar es Salaam to the Indians who died during the war. The cemetery is large in African terms, approximately 1,800 graves. Locals did not know it as a war cemetery but rather as the Hindi memorial. 25 Kerwin Lee Klein, “On the Emergence of Memory in Historical Discourse,” Representations 69 (2000), 127–150.

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Paice’s Tip and Run,26 and the National Geographic documentary The Jungle Navy.27 However, as with previous publications on the campaign, these focus on the military aspect and the hardships the men had to deal with. The number of diaries and personal experiences of the war are relatively few in comparison to those of the Western Front, suggesting that the men who fought there were reluctant to publicise their experiences. This can be ascribed to the lack of general public interest in the campaign and the fact that few men died from war wounds but rather by ‘less honourable’ means such as starvation, dysentery and malaria. From the above discussion, it is relatively obvious that the reason Britain, South Africa and other countries have ignored their involvement in the East Africa campaign is the fact that the dominant ideologists of the time were not interested in elevating the campaign to a higher plane. By identifying why this was and how they were able to exercise such influence, we will further understand why the countries entered the campaign and how the current national memory was formed. In addition to understanding the individual’s role in the formation of national memory,28 investigating why previously forgotten events are now remembered is an important tool for the historian in identifying how a country’s narrative has changed in order to accommodate that which did not fit previously. Taking the case of the SS Mendi, which has recently moved into national consciousness, the interest for the historian is what caused the event to become conscious and the impact this has had both on investigating the past and in understanding future events. The question this paper set out to answer revolved around national memory, or rather national amnesia—not from the psychological perspective as literature on national memory tends to focus, but more for the significance of this forgetting for the historian. Looking at why nations or collectives have ‘forgotten’ an historical event as opposed to following the process of the forgetting or remembering, introduces a new social and political element through which an understanding of these events and the national myth can take place. Had the campaign

26

Edward Paice, Tip and Run: The untold tragedy of the Great War (London, 2007). Christine Weber and David Lint (exec producers), The Jungle Navy (National Geographic Television, 1999). 28 Pope John Paul II, Memory and Identity: Conversations at the dawn of a millennium (New York, 2005), p. 74. 27

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in East Africa resulted in the three-way territorial swap, the memory of the campaign may well have been different. As it stands, the campaign provides a useful case study to explore the historical development of memory at both an individual and wider, more national or even international level. The presence or lack thereof of memorials and other popular cultural forms provides the indicator as to which group is remembering and in what context. By studying these forms of physical remembrance, the historian can understand the political and social drives which led to an event being remembered or forgotten.

FROM THE GREAT WAR TO THE SYRIAN ARMED RESISTANCE MOVEMENT (1919–1921): THE MILITARY AND THE MUJAHIDIN IN ACTION Nadine Méouchy As Turkish historian Feroz Ahmad pointed out at the end of the 1980s, in order to study the impact of World War I on Ottoman society the time period taken into consideration should exceed the length of the war itself. Indeed, the history of the Ottoman Empire from 1908 to 1918 should be explored, since “this decade witnessed political strife, violence, and war on an unprecedented scale; throughout these ten years, and beyond to at least 1922, there was hardly a year when the Empire was at peace”.1 The experience of violence was inevitably shared by the Syrian provinces of the Empire, albeit differently. In Turkey, the Great War and the Ottoman defeat found immediate continuation in the field with the War of Independence led by Mustafa Kemal. As we know, the Kemalists were in close contact with the mujahidin (guerrilla fighters) of northern Syria, who at the time were fighting the French (see below).2 As an immediate consequence of the war, the Arab East experienced a radical political break and underwent wide-scale social and economic transformation. The Moudros Armistice on 30 October 1918 saw the completion of the Ottoman evacuation of the Syrian provinces. As a result of the Entente victory, the commander of the British expeditionary force in Syria, General Sir Edmund Allenby, organized the Syrian Palestinian areas into three military zones: a French zone on the Syro-Lebanese coast; an Arab

1 Feroz Ahmad, “War and Society under the Young Turks, 1908–1918,” in The Modern Middle East: A Reader, eds. Albert Hourani, Philip S. Khoury and Mary C. Wilson (London, 1993). This article was a reprint from Review XI, 2, (Spring 1988), 265–268. World War I was preceded by several crises: 1908, Bulgaria, annexation of Bosnia-Herzegovina by Austria, Union of Crete and Greece; 1908–1911, Yemen, Macedonia, Albania; 1911, war with Italy in Libya; 1912–1913, the Balkan Wars. 2 A note on transliteration: in this chapter Arabic terms and proper names familiar to non-specialist Western readers (jihad / mujahidin, ulama, etc.) are not transliterated. For less familiar proper names and Arabic terms, as well as references, transliteration is used.

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zone between Damascus and Alexandretta; a British zone in Palestine. Confrontation between the Syrians and the French was inevitable, although the principal confrontation of the post-war era remained that between France and Great Britain for control of the Near East. Britain and France then began to implement the Sykes-Picot Agreements of 1916.3 In October 1918, French troops landed in Beirut over a period of several weeks and continued along the Syrian coast in the direction of Cilicia.4 In cooperation with the Arab Army, the British installed the Hashemite Prince, Faysal, as head of the Arab Government in Damascus and occupied the Syrian hinterland. In 1919, the Turkish War of Independence against the Greeks and the Armenians broke out.5 On the Turkish side it was led by a union of Turkish soldiers and Kurds under the leadership of Mustafa Kemal. From 1920 onwards, the Kemalists put strong pressure on Cilicia and the southern areas of Anatolia (the Taurus Mountain). The field of their military action was close to that of the mujahidin of northern Syria and both groups had a common enemy, France. With so many actors and interests in the field, the dislocation of the Ottoman Empire opened up a period of military action and intense political turmoil, but also of insecurity, favouring rebel activities as well as those of tribes and armed bands of brigands. This article demonstrates how the transition period was influenced by the aftermath of World War I within the frame of the colonial offensive and the dual military legacy as expressed in rebel activities.

3 A series of secret agreements between Britain and France that ultimately led, in the aftermath of WWI, to the partition of the Syrian and Mesopotamian Provinces of the Ottoman Empire, and the creation of (the current) state borders under British and French mandates. 4 French troops also landed in Alexandretta, occupying Cilicia in December 1918. 5 Of the many references to these events, two detailed studies with a specific insight on Syria should be mentioned here: Jean-David Mizrahi, Genèse de l’Etat mandataire— Service des Renseignements et bandes armées en Syrie et au Liban dans les années 1920, Publications de la Sorbonne (Paris, 2003), and Vahé Tachjian, La France en Cilicie et en Haute-Mésopotamie. Aux confins de la Turquie, de la Syrie et de l’Irak (1919–1933) (Paris, 2004).

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World War I and its Aftermath: a time of rupture, continuity and renewal The rupture between Arabs and Turks: safarbarlik, starvation and repression The Great War marked a fundamental and irreversible rupture in the relations between Arabs and Turks. Several aspects of the Ottoman participation in the war, both for civilians as well as for the military, played a decisive role in this breach and in the evolution of local societies after the war. Among the factors that led to the splitting of loyalties between Arabs and Turks during World War I, three principal factors should be recalled: safarbarlik, starvation and repression. Chronologically, the first is safarbarlik,6 the general wartime conscription of Arabs (here in the Syrian provinces) into the Ottoman Army. The law declared on 12 May 1914 by Enver Pasha, Ottoman Minister of War, extended enlistment for military service to non-Muslims. Yet there were exceptions to compulsory conscription. First of all, members of Syrian, Iraqi and western Anatolian tribes were exempted.7 Secondly, the Ottoman state “accepted ‘badal’, which enabled most wealthy young men to evade conscription and invited widespread corruption” (‘badal’ was the monetary substitute for military service).8 Unsurprisingly, many Arab villagers resented their conscription by the Turks. Combined with the terrible conditions on the military front, this led to increased desertion in the Ottoman Army.9

6 According to Najwa al-Qattan, safarbarlik has at least five different meanings: it “combines the Persian term seferber (‘prepared for war’) with the Ottoman suffix—lik, and refers to mobilization”; in Arabic it signifies ‘traveling’ (safar) by ‘land’ (barr); see Najwa al-Qattan, “Safarbarlik: Ottoman Syria and the Great War,” in From the Syrian Land to the States of Syria and Lebanon, eds. Thomas Philipp and Christoph Schumann (Beiruter Texte und Studien) 96 (Beirut, 2004), pp. 163–174; here p. 164, fn 6. In popular memory, safarbarlik also took on the meaning of “wartime dislocation and homelessness for conscripts as well as their families”. In time it came to mean the war itself, ‘a war at home’ and, according to Linda Schatkowski-Schilcher, the Great War famine. As al-Qattan puts it, “the crowding of meaning in safarbarlik follows a path familiar to those who attend to the intersection of language and social violence” (al-Qattan, “Safarbarlik”, p. 169). See also the article by Hanna in this volume. 7 Odile Moreau, L’Empire Ottoman à l’âge des Réformes—Les hommes et les idées du ‘Nouvel Ordre’ militaire, 1826–1914 (Paris, 2007), pp. 49–53. 8 Al-Qattan, “Safarbarlik”, p. 164 fn. 4. 9 Erik Jan Zürcher, “Between Death and Desertion. The Experience of the Ottoman Soldier in World War I,” Turcica 28 (1996), 235–258.

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The second major factor that contributed to the decisive break in relations between Arab and Turkish citizens of the Empire during the war was the famine that struck Syrian coastal areas and the countryside and deserts of Greater Syria between 1915 and 1919. Linda Schatkowski-Schilcher estimates that 500,000 people died of starvation and related diseases, e.g., typhus.10 The Ottoman economy was paralysed to a great extent by the summer of 1914: the outbreak of war had “led to shortages and an explosion in prices” even before the Empire went to war in October 1914.11 The famine that began in 1915 was sustained by the speculation of Syrian businessmen in Beirut and Damascus, the venality or poor management of Turkish officers, and several bad harvests (caused by drought, locusts, etc.). For the most part, however, it was due to the Entente Powers’ “naval blockade of military and civilian supplies off the Syrian coast [. . .] Even when an Entente victory was certain, the blockade was sustained”.12 Moreover, a large part of the harvest in the Syrian Hawran was sold to the British, who paid in gold. The famine was so severe that several cases of anthropophagy were reported. Schatkowski-Schilcher quotes George Antonius, stating “that the countries of the Middle East probably made the greater proportional sacrifice of any of the belligerents in World War I”.13 Ranzi, the Austrian Consul in Damascus, “linked food shortages in the desert to the breakdown of political loyalty by June 1916” when several tribes joined the Arab Revolt.14 These food shortages may also explain why the Bedouins joined anti-French guerrilla movements after 1918. The final contributing factor to the rupture between Arabs and Turks, best remembered in Syrian historiography, was undoubtedly the implacable repression against Arab nationalists, epitomized by the hangings that took place in Beirut and Damascus in 1915 and 1916.15

10 Linda Schatkowski-Schilcher, “The famine of 1915–1918 in Greater Syria,” in Problems of the Middle East in Historical Perspective—Essays in Honour of Albert Hourani, ed. John P. Spagnolo (Reading, 1992), p. 229. 11 Ahmad, “War and Society under the Young Turks,” p. 133. 12 Linda Schatkowski-Schilcher, “The famine of 1915–1918 in Greater Syria,” p. 239 and p. 249. 13 Idem, p. 231. 14 Idem, p. 230. This point is also made by Tariq Tell in an article entitled “Guns, Gold and Grain—War and Food Supply in the Making of Transjordan,” in War, Institutions, and Social Change in the Middle East, ed. Steven Heydemann (Berkeley et al., 2000), p. 35. 15 A narrative of this harsh repression is given by George Antonius in The Arab Awakening. The Story of the Arab National Movement, 8th ed., (New York, 1979), pp. 185–191 and 202–203.

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In fact, the Arab political committees established before the war and claiming autonomy for Arab provinces were confronted with repression when the Young Turks returned to power in January 1913. With the outbreak of war, these committees looked for support from the European Powers. They also made contact with leaders of the large Bedouin tribes in Syria, encouraging them to revolt against the Ottomans. From 1915 onwards, and with the installation of the Military Court in Aley (Mount Lebanon), the hunt for Arab nationalists was on. Some nationalists took refuge in Egypt but most of them fled to the mountains, in particular to the Druze Mountain, where they stayed with Sultan Pasha al-Atrash, who later headed the Great Syrian Revolt (1925–1926).16 In other words, an almost universal discontent with the Ottomans developed in the Syrian provinces during World War I. It went hand in hand with intense and febrile activity, and the increased physical movement of men, which in turn implied a free flow of ideas stretching to the most remote rural peripheries, such as the Druze Mountain. The ʿIṣābāt movement (ḥarakat al-ʿiṣābāt) in the wake of the Ottoman defeat As early as 1919, a resistance movement against the French occupation spread from the mountains of western Syria. It consisted of guerrilla bands that, although independent of one another, had similar connections to cities (mainly Aleppo and Damascus). The movement expanded when the British withdrew from the Syrian hinterland at the end of 1919. The political leaders who supported the movement17 were undoubtedly keen to influence the decisions of the Peace Conference in Paris (1919). Logistic support (e.g., ammunition and military supplies) came from Damascus, the capital of the Faysali or Sharifian18 government,19 from Aleppo, and from the Kemalist centres in Southern Anatolia (Urfa, Marash, Ayntab, Kilis).

16 In twentieth-century Syria, the last rural mobilization took place in two major stages: the ʿIṣābāt movement that existed from 1919 to1921 and on which I will focus here, and the Great Syrian Revolt that broke out in 1925. See footnote 29 below. 17 Mainly political figures in the Arab Government in Damascus (including Faysal himself, of course) and in Aleppo (Rashid Tali’, Ibrahim Hananu). 18 Sharifian is a reference to Sharif Husayn of Mecca, Faysal’s father. 19 There is some ambiguity in the Sharifian Government’s support for the guerrilla bands of northern Syria. A discussion on this topic, however, would exceed the scope of this article. For more details, see Fred H. Lawson, “The Northern Syrian Revolts of

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Indeed, after the battle of Maysalun (which took place between the French and the Syrians on 24 July 1920 and ended in the defeat of the Arab Government), support came exclusively from the Turks as the French troops drove Faysal from Damascus and occupied all of the Syrian territories. The mujahidin distinguished between the Ottomans in general, who were seen negatively, and Mustafa Kemal who, having achieved considerable military success, appeared as a paragon of the guerrilla war against the Europeans and their local allies. From summer 1920 to the end of 1921, rebel armed groups spread out and were gradually eliminated by the “pacification” columns of the French Army, which operated throughout the Syrian territory.20 For a better understanding of the following, I will briefly clarify the constituents of the resistance movement, referred to in Arabic as ḥ arakat al-ʿiṣābāt. It encompassed a number of different ‘thawrāt’ (revolts) in western Syria. Each thawra included several ʿiṣābāt (singular: ʿiṣāba). ʿIṣāba referred to a small unit of rebels (mujāhidīn: jihad fighters or muḥ āribīn: warriors) comprised of between thirty and a hundred men, sometimes more. The latter belonged to the rural population (villagers or mountain dwellers) and swore allegiance to the head of the ʿiṣāba (raʾīs ʿiṣāba). As a rule, the raʾīs ʿiṣāba was a local notable, a clan leader or the chief of a sedentary tribe. We will see, however, that the historical context favoured a renewal of the ʿiṣābāt leadership. The ʿiṣābāt practiced guerrilla warfare. The booty obtained in the process was a means of gaining supplies of arms and food, and of paying salaries to the fighters. Thus, the ʿiṣābāt were common forms of armed collectivities in this region and not unique to the Arabs or a particular community or area.21 These armed groups were known as Tchete on the Turkish side and were generally composed of Kurds, Turks and Circassians. Western officials tended to use the term “Tchete”, or even “Turk”, to refer to

1919–1921 and the Sharifian Regime: Congruence or Conflict of Interests and Ideologies?” in From the Syrian land, eds. Philipp and Schumann, pp. 257–274. 20 Général du Hays, Les armées françaises au Levant (1919–1939). Tome 2: Le temps des combats, 1919–1921, Service Historique de l’Armée de Terre (Château de Vincennes, 1979). 21 For more details of this movement, see Nadine Méouchy, “Rural resistance and the Introduction of Modern Forms of Consciousness in the Syrian Countryside, 1918– 1926,” in From the Syrian land, eds. Philipp and Schumann, pp. 275–289.

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Arab guerrillas;22 similar to ʿiṣāba later, the word Tchete was a pejorative term among urban dwellers. At the time, the Arabic term ʿiṣāba was only known and understood by Arab actors in the field. Later on, in the 1960s, it acquired a pejorative meaning primarily under the influence of Arab nationalist discourse and its construction of the official history of these revolts. It was replaced by the term “thawra” (revolt), which has a wider meaning, since a “thawra” encompasses several ʿiṣābāt and usually has a larger territorial basis (i.e., ‘Revolt of the North’). This contribution is primarily based on a case study of the revolt in northern Syria (thawrat al-Shimāl), the most significant and probably the most successfully organized revolt on Syrian territory during the period 1919–1921. In northern Syria, the ʿiṣābāt movement acted in collaboration with Tchete groups and the Kemalist centres of southern Anatolia (Marash, Ayntab, Kilis). The ʿiṣāba, which was made up of armed villagers, distinguished itself from other social, mostly tribal, groups that were armed. The semi-sedentary Mawālī tribe officially supported the northern revolt in the field. However, even in shared operations, the horsemen of the ʿiṣābāt were always distinct from those known as fursān al-badw (Bedouin horsemen). This article is based on several references, the most important of which is an unpublished narrative about the revolt in northern Syria known as the Hanānū Revolt.23 I came across this source during my research at the Historical Archives in Damascus. The narrative is entitled ‘Mudhakkirāt Yūsuf al-Saʿdūn ʿan thawrat Hanānū’ [Yūsuf al-Saʿdūn’s memoirs of the Hanānū revolt]. Ibrāhīm Hanānū was president of the Dīwān in the Province of Aleppo and a representative of the city in the Syrian General Congress that met in Damascus in 1919. As a result of his political role in the revolt in the north and, after Maysalun, his personal contribution to the fighting, the revolt eventually became known as “Hanānū’s Revolt”. The author, Saʿdūn, was of Kurdish origin and a native of the Sanjaq of Alexandretta, where he was born most probably in 1892. A local rural notable from the village of Tlil, he owned land and had a maḍāfa

22 See, for example, Fred Lawson’s testimony about US officials in Lawson, “The Northern Syrian Revolts,” p. 260. 23 Dār al-wathāʾiq al-tārīkhīyya, (Center for Historical Archives), Damascus, alQism al-khāṣ, file 127.

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(i.e., a traditional guest room usually located near the entrance of the house, indicating the owner’s function and social position). He did not receive any special education, either military or otherwise. He died in 1980. We have very little biographical information about the author. In 1914, at the age of twenty-two, he volunteered for the Ottoman Army on the basis of his shooting skills and horsemanship ( fāris) and fought the British in Iraq.24 From 1919 until 1921, he fought against the French and subsequently fled to Turkey. In 1937/1938 he expressed a desire to return to the Sanjaq of Alexandretta to oppose the Turks. On arrival in Aleppo, the French put him under house arrest (iqāma jabrīyya). Yūsuf al-Saʿdūn completed his memoirs in the early 1950s, more than thirty years after the events had taken place. Although it deals with the anti-colonial resistance in the north, the narrative does not claim to be exhaustive. The narrative itself is significant since it is the only testimony we have on these events that does not slip into an ideological discourse. This does not, of course, mean that the narrative does not pursue its own purpose. However, this is a matter to be discussed elsewhere. The dual military legacy in the ʿiṣābāt movement The phenomenon of combining professional soldiers and irregular troops had existed in the Ottoman Empire since the nineteenth century despite military reform.25 It also became effective during World War I in Iraq, for example, when Turkish troops, Shi’i mujahidin and local tribes fought together in the Jihad of 1914.26 Thus the ʿiṣābāt movement carried a dual military legacy: on the one hand, the legacy of the Tanzimat (a wide internal reform movement in the Ottoman Empire, initiated in 1839 and reasserted in 1856), which introduced military modernity, i.e., an officer corps educated and trained in Istanbul in modern military culture. On the other hand,

24 I suggest that Saʿdūn fought in Iraq with the Hamidiye cavalry, although his family cannot confirm this: interview with Yūsuf al-Saʿdūn, Saʿdūn’s grandson, Salqin, Syria, 25 July 2003. On the Hamidiye, see footnote 27 below. 25 See Odile Moreau and Abderrrahman El-Moudden, eds., “ Réformes par le haut, réformes par le bas: la modernisation de l’armée aux 19e et 20e siècles,” Quaterni di Oriente Moderno, XXIII, n.s., 5 (2004). See also Moreau, L’Empire Ottoman. 26 See Pierre-Jean Luizard, La formation de l’Irak contemporain (Paris, 1991).

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there was the legacy of the Great War, which brought the mobilization of men, the diffusion of modern military culture, the experience of large-scale fighting and the circulation of great quantities of military equipment and arms. The coexistence on the battlefield of modern military units and of armed groups of a more traditional constituency (such as the Hamidiye)27 implied the coexistence in methods of battle of two references—the modern and the traditional.28 On the battlefield itself, these two registers tended to be superimposed. The two frames of reference were also found in the ʿiṣābāt. Modern military techniques and know-how allowed for a quantitative and qualitative improvement of the potential of the ʿiṣābāt in 1919–1921 (and accordingly of the Great Syrian Revolt of 1925–1926).29 The military in the ʿiṣābāt At the end of World War I, two new categories of recruits joined the more traditional ʿiṣāba members: the first were soldiers from the Sharifian Army who had been demobilized after October 1918, along with a number of deserters from the Sharifian Army in the spring of 1920, and from the Turkish and French armies (although deserters in this case were rare and usually Muslim, for the most part Algerian); the second category contained Arab officers from the Turkish and Sharifian armies who served as Faysal’s liaison agents or as military consultants to the rebel bands, or directly as ʿiṣāba commanders. Many of these officers became famous. In southern Syria, for example, Fuʾād Salīm, ex-General in the Sharifian Army, participated in the ʿiṣābāt movement and—as a result of having been killed in the

27 See Moreau/El-Moudden, “Réformes”. The Hamidiye regiments set up at the end of the 1880s and recruited from Kurdish tribes served as a shield against a possible Russian offensive (Moreau/El-Moudden, “Réformes,” pp. 118–119). For relations between the Ottoman state and irregular armed collectives prior to the Tanzimat, see Isik Tamdogan, “Le nezir ou les relations des bandits et des nomades avec l’Etat dans la çukurova du XVIIIe siècle,” in Sociétés rurales ottomanes/Ottoman Rural Societies (Cahier des Annales Islamologiques) 25 (2005), eds. Mohammed Afifi, Rachida Chih, Brigitte Marino et al. (Cairo, 2005), pp. 259–269. 28 A detailed discussion on tradition in this context is not possible in this article. Tradition (not unlike memory) can be seen as the construction of the past in the present, and refers here to coming from the ‘longue durée’. 29 For an analysis of the continuities and differences between the guerrilla movement of 1919–1921 and the Great Syrian Revolt, see N. Méouchy, “Rural Resistance”. For further information on the 1925 Revolt, see Michael Provence, The Great Syrian Revolt and the Rise of Arab Nationalism (Austin, 2005).

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revolt in 1925—later became a heroic figure of the Great Revolt; in northern Syria, Asim Bek, ex-lieutenant-colonel (muqaddam) and staff officer in the Turkish Army who had fought in the Balkans, became head of a rebel armed group; Ibrāhīm al-Shāghūrī, a lieutenant close to Ibrāhīm Hanānū, was sent by the Arab Governement in Aleppo as a liaison agent and military consultant to the leaders of the revolt in the north-western area occupied by the French;30 moving between the Turkish and Syrian sides was quite common in northern Syria up to 1921; thus, Hilmī Bey, ex-chief-of-staff in the Turkish Army, was captain in the Arab Army and then leader of the Tchete of Muslimiyyeh.31 The Turk Ali Shafiq (Özdemir Bey) was “the leader of a major guerrilla formation operating northwest of Aleppo”.32 With the shift in relations between Turkey and Syria, this also changed: the Angora Treaty (or French-Turkish agreements) signed on 21 October 1921 relinquished Cilicia—hitherto included in the Vilayet of Aleppo—to Turkey, accorded special status to the Sanjaq of Alexandretta and permitted the official use of the Turkish language in the Sanjaq. The Syrians from the north were wary of this agreement. After fixation of the borderline between Syria and Turkey (Treaty of Lausanne, 1923), they regarded the Turkish government’s abolition of the Caliphate in 1924 as a final act of treason by the ex-Turkish Muslim ally. Hence dozens of career officers contributed to post-war rebellions: Maḥmūd al-Fāʿūr, head of the settled Faḍl tribe that constituted a guerrilla unit in the Golan area, for example, was reported by French Intelligence to have some thirty Sharifian officers at his side.33 After the defeat in Maysalun in July 1920, many Sharifian Army officers joined the ʿiṣābāt, still active in the field. In addition, it should be remembered that several Bedouin chiefs were educated in Istanbul at the School of Tribes and later became

30 Mudhakkirāt Ibrāhīm al-Shāghūrī ʿan thawrat Hanānū, Dār al-Wathāʾiq al-tārīkhīyya, Damascus, al-Qism al-khās, file 128, p. 2. 31 See Lawson, “The Northern Syrian Revolts,” p. 259. 32 Idem, p. 264. 33 SHAT (Service Historique de l’Armée de Terre), Paris, 4H58, Rapport Hebdomadaire 11, 18/12/1919—Western zone, Golan. This figure may be exaggerated, even though the number of warriors in Fāʿūr’s ʿiṣāba was an estimated 1500; however, it does give an indication of the intensity of relations in some cases between guerrilla units and the military. Moreover, al-Amir Fāʿūr was a friend of al-Amir Faysal, the Prince and later King of Syria.

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officers in the Ottoman Army.34 The most renowned is undoubtedly Ramaḍān Shallāsh, head of the Bū Sarāyā tribe. A graduate of the Military School for Bedouin Chiefs, he fought with the Ottoman Army in Libya and in the Great War, and eventually joined the Arab Army. In 1919, he was the military governor of Raqqa and fought against the British in the Euphrates area. He later became one of the military leaders of the Great Revolt of 1925. These militarily trained Bedouin chiefs had been influenced by military techniques. The French Intelligence noted in 1921 that the Bedouin had modified their guerrilla tactics.35 As far as the ʿiṣābāt were concerned, here again, French Intelligence observed in early 1920 that they now had to face trained forces: “L’armement, la discipline, la manière de combattre à l’européenne, l’emploi de tranchées [. . .] montrent que les bandes qui nous ont attaqués ne sont pas de simples bandes de brigands mais constituent des troupes exercées” (The armament, the discipline, the European method of fighting, the use of trenches [. . .] show that the gangs who attacked us are not merely bands of bandits but trained troops).36 Hence, apart from leading military operations, officers were engaged in training the mujahidin. Indeed, the Iraqi jihad experience showed that the mujahidin had to be trained if modern regular armies were to be confronted. And it is certainly on the basis of this training and the war experiences of numerous ex-soldiers that Saʿdūn differentiates in his narrative between junūd al-thawra (soldiers of the revolt) and ahl al-qurā (villagers), despite the fact that they were all villagers. The valorization of military culture and experience More important perhaps than the presence of these officers in the ʿiṣābāt, was the general valorisation of military culture and experience that prevailed among the guerrilla fighters. After almost a decade of war and the impregnation of the local society with the experience of war, itself comprised of old cultural representations and modern military values, the ʿiṣābāt were evidence of these unsettled times, where legacies intermingled with a growing wave of renewal. 34 Marianne Lacaze, Les Nomades et la question des frontières en Syrie à l’époque du Mandat français, Mémoire de Maîtrise, Université de Paris-IV Sorbonne, 1987, p. 58. 35 Lacaze, Les Nomades et la question des frontières, p. 58. 36 SHAT, Paris, 4H58, Rapport hebdomadaire 14, 26/01–2/02/1920, Sandjak d’Alexandrette.

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Officers gained prestige in the countryside due to their skills and their support for the mujahidin. As a result, the ʿiṣābāt broadened their prospects, not only in terms of modern military culture but also new forms of collective organization, e.g., tax levying: in 1919, Asim Bek “established himself with his ʿiṣāba in Antioch. There he arrogated the powers of government in order to finance his military operations and to secure local support. He appointed a Qaimaqam for the qadha, nahiya officials, and tithe collectors, and introduced a regular salary for his combatants”.37 Hence, the ʿiṣābāt “followed in the tradition of a regional autonomist movement in the sense that they mobilized local notables (i.e., shaykh Ṣāliḥ al-ʿAlī in the Alawite Mountain) to defend their customary prerogatives, remained suspicious of (or rejected outright) the central government’s intervention in society, and easily substituted ʿiṣāba leaders for state administrative functionaries.”38 At the same time, however, the heads of guerrilla bands were keen to legitimize taxes militarily and anxious to strengthen relations between the urban and rural spheres through the intermediation of the nationalists, who were politically active in the main cities, at least until Maysalun. Besides, several ʿiṣābāt leaders who were not professional soldiers, such as Saʿdūn, had gained significant field experience and know-how during the Great War. The idea that men could become raʾīs ʿiṣāba on the sole basis of their military skills developed around that time. A renowned example in Syria is Aḥmad Muraywad, a Sunni prestigious ʿiṣāba leader who was appointed head of a Druze ʿiṣāba in 1925, following the death of ex-General Fuʾād Salīm.39 The Northern Revolt (thawrat al-Shimāl ) developed a military organization that divided the territory into four military zones, according to Saʿdūn. The chief of each zone was a native of that particular region: Saʿdūn was head of the Jabal Qusayr and Antioch area. The rebels were identified according to their region, for example: “thuwwār Jabal Qusayr” (rebels of Jabal Qusayr); Najīb Uwayyid was responsible for the qaḍā of Harim. Musṭafā Ḥ aj Ḥ usayn was in charge of Jabal Zawiya and ʿUmar Bīt ̣ār of Jabal Sahyun. According to Saʿdūn’s narrative, major military decisions were discussed among these leaders,

37 N. Méouchy, “Rural Resistance”, p. 280, according to Saʿdūn’s Memoirs. A qadha (qaḍāʾ) is an administrative district; a nahiya (nāḥ iya) is an administrative division of the qadha. A Qaimaqam (qāʾim maqām) is akin to a district commissioner. 38 Ibid. 39 Méouchy, “Rural Resistance,” p. 283.

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occasionally with political leaders such as Ibrāhīm Hanānū or Tchete leaders like Özdemir Bey. These decisions may have concerned a guerrilla campaign or the procuring of arms. With regard to armaments, the mujahidin disposed of several sources of supplies. During World War I, the Germans had distributed thousands of Mauser rifles to Bedouin tribes in the Arab provinces, rifles that remained in their possession after the war.40 The Bedouin either sold them or used them for their own activities. As a rule they were involved in smuggling arms. In 1918, Talat and Enver Pasha “had ordered the Teshkilat-i Mahsusa to store guns and ammunition in secret depots in a number of places in Anatolia. The Teshkilat [. . .] sent out emissaries with instructions to start guerrilla bands in the interior”.41 This may be one of the reasons why the guerrillas in northern Syria received arms supplies and encouragement from southern Anatolia. When the Turks fled Arab and British troops in October 1918, they left behind large stocks of arms, which in turn became a key asset in Aleppo. Thus, arms from war stocks or the black market ended up as supplies for the ʿiṣābāt (and the Sharifian troops up to July 1920). The ʿiṣābāt possessed almost no heavy weapons. They were equipped with guns and Bren guns. The type of arms in use at the time were Mauser rifles, Turkish five-shooter guns, shotguns, revolvers, daggers and sabres. Added to these were French bren guns (and occasionally Maxim machine guns) taken from French arms storage units or the Rwala tribe.42 The mujahid was considered a soldier ( jundī) by the rebel leaders for two main reasons. First of all, jundī refers to a noble image: the expression junūd al-thawra calls to mind junūd Allah and distinguishes soldier from ‘al-ʿaskar’, the traditional negative term used by the rural population to refer to conscription, repression and the army rabble. Secondly, the term junūd contributes to separating the image of the ʿiṣāba from that of bandits. Similar to a soldier, the mujahid received a salary paid in majidieh pounds (Turkish currency). The latter was calculated according to the status of the fighter: mushāt (foot

40

Lacaze, Les Nomades et la question des frontières, pp. 56–57. E.J. Zürcher, Turkey: a Modern History (1st ed. 1993), (London, New York, 2004), p. 135. 42 Lacaze, Les Nomades et la question des frontières, p. 57. 41

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soldiers) received less than non-commissioned officers and fursān (horsemen).43 Looking at Saʿdūn’s testimony, we notice the importance of military vocabulary in the narrative and presumably in the ʿiṣābāt. The ʿiṣābāt leaders, if not all mujahidin, were apparently familiar with basic military vocabulary. They were well able, for example, to discern the type of military formation they faced in battle: Saʿdūn specified for each encounter whether his side was fighting a ṭābūr (column, battalion), a jumla (detachment of troops) or a sarīya (brigade).44 In more general terms, Saʿdūn’s narrative demonstrates that the leaders of the revolt were not only attracted by military expertise but also by the military style and manner with which they had become familiar during the Great War. On a visit to Jabal Qusayr, for example, Ibrāhīm Hanānū went to the village of Babtrun where Saʿdūn had his headquarters. Shortly before Hanānū and the accompanying military chiefs arrived in the village, Saʿdūn had his warriors lined up on the road, ready to salute.45 The leaders undoubtedly had the intention of injecting the ʿiṣābāt and their mujahidin with the spirit, self-image and shape of an army (this was even more effective during the Great Syrian Revolt in 1925).46 The time of the Calls to Jihad (1914–1920) In two recent books, French historian Odile Moreau argues the coexistence in the Ottoman Empire of a military organization similar to Western models, with the jihad as a traditional motive for war. The author states that this cohabitation lasted until 1908.47 I argue that this observation should be extended in time. In fact, calls to jihad increased between 1914 and 1920, a response to colonial pressure when the Empire went to war on 31 October 1914. Firstly, there was the Ottoman call to jihad against the Allied Forces on 7 November 1914 (fatwa

43 A foot soldier received 20 majidieh per month, a corporal (ʿarīf ) 25 majidieh, a staff sergeant (raqīb) 30 majidieh, and a horseman 40 majidieh. Saʿdūn’s Memoirs, p. 12. 44 See, for example, Saʿdūn’s Memoirs, p. 27. 45 Saʿdūn’s Memoirs, p. 29. 46 Méouchy, “Rural Resistance”. 47 Moreau/El-Moudden, “Réformes”, pp. 2 and 135, and Moreau, L’Empire Ottoman, chap. 3.

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of the sheikhulislâm and the mufti of the Ottoman state); secondly, several Shi’i mujtahids in Iraq spread the call to jihad against the British in November 1914 through fatwas; this was followed by Sharif Husayn’s call to jihad against the Turks in 1916, and the official call to jihad against the French by Ibrāhīm Hanānū on 17 August 1920. All these calls to jihad seemed to echo each other on different scales, ranging from Empire to local level. They were issued with reference to a territory identified as Dār al-Islām. Similarities in the terms of reference indicate that between 1914 and 1920, the various Eastern (Arab, Kurdish and Turkish) actors shared similar perceptions of the world despite their contradictory local interests and political alliances. How could things have been different if the political context of the time was taken into consideration? The Empire no longer existed in 1919–1920 (if it had, the Arabs would probably have been unwilling to accept its domination) but had not yet been replaced by an effective modern state. Although the Arab State in Damascus under Faysal had an important symbolic and political function, it failed to extend its authority (or sovereignty) beyond the limits of its capital (not to mention within its capital).48 In fact, Syria had no national boundaries: in the Syrian Constitution issued by the Faysali government in Damascus on 4 July 1920, no territorial limits were defined for the Kingdom of Syria. If Article 2 of the Constitution claimed that “the kingdom of Syria consists of indivisible countries having a political unity”, Article 3 specified that “the Congress will fix the boundaries of these countries with a specific regulation enacted for that purpose”.49 Consequently, the ʿiṣābāt movement distinguished itself in the field from the Great Syrian Revolt of 1925 by the absence of a modern political culture with reference to, for example, the modern state, a national territory and national borders. This having been said, what were the vehicles for the mobilization of the ʿiṣābāt? In other words, in what name did the villagers and mountain dwellers take up arms?

48 For more details on the Faysali government in Damascus, see James L. Gelvin, Divided Loyalties: Nationalism and Mass Politics in Syria at the close of Empire (Berkeley, 1998). 49 Philippe David, Un gouvernement arabe à Damas, le Congrès syrien (Paris, 1923). Annexe: projet de Constitution traduit par le bureau politique du Haut-Commissariat, août 1920. (translation: NM).

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The centrality of Islam and the local scale Saʿdūn’s narrative describes two grounds for mobilization. Firstly, defence of the land: the mujahidin referred to it as al-bilād (rather than the official term ar-rubūʿ al-sūrīyya) or al-waṭan, albeit waṭan referred to local land and the native soil, and not to a national territory.50 Secondly, the defence of Islam: faced with conquest by an enemy infidel (al-ʿadūw al-kāfir), Saʿdūn declared the jihad to be a farḍ ʿalā-l-ʿayn, i.e., a religious duty that is incumbent on all Muslims and cannot be delegated (as distinct from farḍ kifāya).51 This individual jihad responsibility was also put forward later on by Sayyid Qutb and subsequently associated with an “offensive” jihad.52 I would like to add a third motive to those mentioned above, one that seems to underlie the narrative and most probably the consciousness of the mountain dwellers turned warriors, i.e., the defence of the rural way of life, which was both traditional and sedentary. This defence outlined the limits of cooperation between village mujahidin and Bedouin tribes. It was the fundamental rejection of any attempt to change the social order. The resistance movements against the French that mushroomed throughout western Syria had no unified political or military direction. The leadership of the Northern Revolt was strictly regionalbased, as described above. According to Saʿdūn’s narrative the process of political or military decision-making was local. When Saʿdūn wrote about the leadership of the revolt, he spoke of quwwād al-thawra (the revolt leaders), for example, and not of qiyādat al-thawra (the leadership of the Revolt); thawra referred here to a local basis, thawrat al-Shimāl (in contrast to the Great Syrian Revolt, which claimed a national basis and was referred to as the “Druze Revolt” only by the French and the British). In Saʿdūn’s narrative, “the land” and “Islam” represent the two pillars of the fighters’ identity and of rural society as a whole (in the Muslim context, of course). They are the basis for the assertion of a

50

In 1980, Iḥsān Hindī wrote an interesting article in the al-Mashreq al-Awsaṭ newspaper (15/IX/1980) that focused on modern political and identity terminology (al-qawmīyya wa-l-waṭanīyya wa-l-jinsīyya). He defined two meanings for waṭan (fatherland), the narrow or restricted meaning of local land or birthplace, and the broader meaning of national homeland, not unlike Eugen Weber in the context of the Third French Republic, when he juxtaposed ‘petite patrie’ and ‘grande patrie’. 51 Saʿdūn’s Memoirs, p. 8. 52 For more on the jihad, see Michael Bonner, Le jihad—origines, interprétations, combats, (Coll. L’Islam en débats) (Paris, 2004).

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cultural self within the traditional social order: the Ottoman order of community coexistence within the Dār al-Islām. Hence, to defend the land meant to defend the Dār al-Islām, rendering the jihad muqaddas, i.e., sacred, as Hanānū claimed in his call to jihad in 1920. After 1921, when the Turks began to seize lands considered by the Syrians to be within the confines of their boundaries, the land could no longer bear a uniquely Muslim identity; with time, an Arab and Syrian identity was imprinted on it. In 1925, during the Great Revolt, only four years after the decline of the ʿiṣābāt movement, a jihad was declared for the liberation of a territory claimed as national. Within a few months, the land as a medium and as a basis of identity shifted from ‘Dâr al-Islam’ to ‘the fatherland’. Jihad could now (1925) be declared in the interests of a national cause and at the same time refer to Islamic collective representations. The mujahid and the hero as figures The narrative puts forward moral values in terms of war in a two-sided register: the Arab and the Muslim. Saʿdūn insists on the need for virtue ( faḍīla), for ethics in military action. He believed that if taking booty determined the survival of the ʿiṣābāt and was therefore licit, it should not be carried out blindly. Looting Christian houses, for example, was seen as reprehensible. Gratuitous assassinations and hostage-taking were likewise unacceptable. This moral requirement can be found among many of the political and military leaders of the armed resistance, both in 1919–1921 and 1925, and led in the autumn of 1925 to the creation of a military court in al-Hatita, in the Damascus Ghuta. The latter was commissioned to judge rebels guilty of disregarding guerrilla ethics. A mujahid was essentially a warrior who fulfilled his duty as a Muslim by answering the call to jihad. Saʿdūn insists on the necessity, in times of war, of reminding the mujahidin of the values of honour and combat. The following values are recalled in the honour register: sharaf, karam, al-shahāma (noblemindedness). In the combat register, the main value was al-rujūla, manhood or virility, which was stimulated by the numerous names given to brave fighters: al-shujʿān (the valorous), al-shujʿān al-mujarrabīn (the experienced valorous), al-ashāwis (the valorous), chūs al-ḥ arb (war heroes), baṭal / abṭāl (hero / heroes). An intrinsic link is constructed between the mujahid and the baṭal (hero). Why? Because the hero, of course, was the warrior who fulfilled his duty both as a man and a Muslim. As a Muslim the hero had to

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be virtuous, as a man he was obliged to behave like a warrior, with expertise and courage. But the hero’s ultimate accomplishment was to have fought on the battlefield, that is, to have had the courage to fight—regardless of the expected combat outcome. In this sense we can understand that in Saʿdūn’s view becoming a martyr did not constitute the warrior’s most significant achievement or his objective (even if his burial were to become the occasion of official celebration). A martyr was a dead warrior, whereas a hero was alive and had not given his life in vain. A live hero could fight another battle. Here we are quite far away from the figure of the national hero: a cause identified a posteriori as national can be used in the national narrative by means of a hero. The national hero is linked to the national cause he serves. In the same way, we are removed from the figure of the martyr as it would develop in the 1960s and 1970s. Hence Saʿdūn’s narrative presents a hero figure that precedes the national age and, for obvious reasons, is not linked to a national cause. In addition, he puts forward the pattern of a popular hero (baṭal shaʿbī): a fighter close to the people, pious and brave. Therefore using the figures of the mujahid and the hero, Saʿdūn was able to give an overall picture within the Arab register of how the religious and military references of his time were linked; because he is a volunteer, the mujahid is the key figure in the jihad. Among the military, who always mistrusted martyrs for their lack of caution and wisdom as fighters, the hero is the favourite figure. Given the Islamic cultural context I described earlier, it can be assumed here that emphasizing the difficulties and sufferings of heroes who fought one battle after another, as Saʿdūn describes in his narrative, was a method of counterbalancing the humiliation of successive Muslim defeat against the kuffār (infidels) between 1914 and 1920. From the Great War to the ʿIṣābāt movement: a conclusion The ways in which the dislocation of the Ottoman Empire took place brought about a radical modification of the historical context in the Near Eastern area. The daily environment of the ordinary people, however, did not change until the early 1920s. Hence there is no reason, why their vision of the world should have changed. Indeed, as we have already seen, the analysis of the religious and military fields point to real continuities between the Great War and the ʿiṣābāt movement.

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At the same time, however, the dislocation modalities of the Ottoman Empire were accompanied by long-term consequences that go far beyond the frame of armed resistance in the countryside. Three major consequences can be identified: firstly, the widening of political horizons, which served as a reference for the revolts, particularly due to the role of the officers. In the revolts that occurred after the war, political leaders began to refer to the Wilson Declaration of 1918 and to the principles of the French Revolution. They gradually called attention to the leading values of the Western ideological apparatus as a response to colonial pressure. As mediators between the city and the countryside, the officers constituted the main vehicle for the introduction of political modernity to the countryside (through their role in the rural resistance in 1919–1921 and later in 1925–1926).53 Secondly, the renewal in the leadership of the revolts, the principle of which emerged in 1919–1921 and was asserted in 1925: the high prestige and status attributed to officers as well as to military skills allowed men who belonged to the ʿāmma (of humble social origins) to accede to the leadership of an ʿiṣāba, without being themselves the centre of an ʿaṣabīya or a clientele network. Thirdly, the experience gained by military leaders in the course of fighting in other regions (such as the Balkans or Iraq) enabled them to evaluate the situation in Syria. They tended to stress the importance of military training and religious support for patriotic causes. Two examples are worth noting: firstly, as already mentioned, the Iraqi experience dictated the need for modern military training of the mujahidin. Secondly, based on his experience in Iraq at a time when the Iraqi jihad was given important impulses and even directed by the Shi’i ulama, Saʿdūn criticizes the ulama harshly for their absence in the Syrian revolts. Thus, on the one hand, the ʿiṣābāt movement in the field was in keeping with the military practices of World War I and with world views prior to the national age. On the other hand, however, it was also in conformity with the destabilization of the old social order triggered by the Ottoman defeat. In this sense, the movement embodied a transitional period. It brought the values of modernity to the countryside that were to become more and more relevant for the social and political evolution of the inter-war years. 53

See Méouchy, “Rural Resistance”.

STILL BEHIND ENEMY LINES? ALGERIAN AND TUNISIAN VETERANS AFTER THE WORLD WARS Thomas DeGeorges Introduction Much of the scholarship available on North African veterans treats their role during wartime or catalogues their recollections of neglect in the post-war period. While this scholarship is important, we still lack a comprehensive view of the social policy designed to provide benefits and services to veterans in the aftermath of the World Wars. Current scholarship has focused on the veteran as a heroic figure whose postwar status tragically fails to adequately recognize his sacrifices. For the most part, however, the inner workings of French policy within the context of the post-war period in North Africa remain unexplored in such studies. Earlier archival work done by Gilbert Meynier has revealed the daily life of Algerian troops in France during World War I as well as the political role played by a prominent Algerian veteran, the Emir Khaled, after the First World War.1 Recent scholarship by Moshe Gershovich focuses upon how military service changed Moroccan veterans’ world outlook following the Second World War. In his impressive work with interviewing Moroccan veterans, Gershovich peels away their subaltern silence to reveal alternating feelings of pride, neglect and despair which motivate survival strategies in post-colonial Morocco.2 This chapter, based on research in French and Tunisian archives, as well as literary and cinematic representations, seeks to complement the work of Meynier, Gershovich and others by providing the details of social policy designed to support North African veterans after the World Wars.

1 Gilbert Meynier, L’Algérie révélée: la guerre de 1914–1918 et le premier quart du XXe siècle (Geneva, 1981) and idem, L’Emir Khaled: Premier zaım? (Paris, 1987). 2 Moshe Gershovich, “Stories on the Road from Fez to Marrakesh: Oral History on the Margins of National Identity,” Journal of North African Studies 8, 1 (2003), 43–58, here p. 45.

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The article tells the inter-related stories of the government bureaucracy set up to settle the veterans’ war claims, veterans’ associations, and individual veterans themselves during the post-war period after both world wars. No history of North African veterans is complete without a study of the interactions between these three groups, which gives rise to the politics of veterans. As we study the relationships between the bureaucracy, veterans’ associations and the individual veterans themselves, we find that they produce the historical events and collective memories which are then interpreted and re-interpreted by successive generations. For the immediate post-war periods after World War I and World War II, these interactions produced an immediate failure on the part of the bureaucracy to provide essential pensions and other benefits for most North African troops. However, at the same time, this policy failure had unintended impact upon the rural and poorly educated Algerian and Tunisian veterans. Negotiations with the government over pensions and other benefits, although often frustrating, undoubtedly gave the veterans a better understanding of the bureaucratic process which formed the backbone of colonial Algeria and Tunisia. Increasing awareness of colonial inequalities, in turn, provided the catalyst for many veterans to organize themselves and shape effective challenges to the state’s inability to give them the benefits it had promised them. In this way, we can view the veterans’ experience during this period as magnifying the impact of successful anti-colonial nationalist movements such as the National Liberation Front (FLN) and the Neo-Destour parties in Algeria and Tunisia respectively. After North African states gained their independence in the 1950s and 1960s, the relationships between bureaucracy, veterans’ associations and individuals informed the creative processes of filmmakers and novelists who used the North African veteran as a vehicle to explain colonialism to generations born after Algeria and Tunisia became independent. New relationships between the Maghreb and the European Union based on immigration and economics had replaced the colonial dynamic by the 1990s. Although the conditions had changed, North Africans still debated their role as political and economic actors in the Mediterranean region dominated by the European Union to the north. The re-telling of the colonial veteran’s story to this generation of North Africans in film, fiction and historical studies attempted to address some of these concerns.

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One historian who has written about social policy towards the veterans with an eye towards how veterans have informed successive generations is Antoine Prost. His classic three-volume overview of French policies towards veterans living in France covers much of the three-point approach I have outlined above.3 Prost’s analysis of veterans’ policies in the Third Republic reflects his concern not only with the bureaucracy, but also with veterans’ associations and with the stories of individual veterans as well. In addition, his later research reflects a developing interest in how veterans’ politics influenced the collective memory of France in the 1930s and the 1940s.4 His article on war memorials in France examines the multiple meanings of both memorial and commemoration as they rose up all over the French countryside in the post-war period. Like Prost, I begin my article with a discussion of veterans’ politics in the immediate post-war period. Life in the trenches during World War One Military conscription has a long history in North Africa that predates the colonial period. In the early 1820s, Mehmed Ali, the Ottoman governor of Egypt, introduced conscription to amass an army of roughly 130,000 men from Egypt’s population.5 Like Egypt, Tunisia’s experience with conscription dates back to the pre-colonial era. In 1860, the Bey’s government promulgated comprehensive legislation known as the ʿAhd al-Amān (Security Covenant), which included detailed procedures on how to select military recruits from the population. The 1860 decree divided Tunisia into three regions in which conscription was carried out. Teams of government officials, including military personnel, bureaucrats and physicians were responsible for guaranteeing the fitness of the recruits demanded of each region.6 For the most part,

3

Antoine Prost, Les anciens combattants et la societé française 1914–1939, vol. 1–3 (Paris, 1977). 4 Antoine Prost, “Verdun” in Pierre Nora, et al., les Lieus de Memoire vol. 2 (Paris, 1997). 5 Khaled Fahmy, All the Pasha’s Men: Mehmed Ali, his army and the making of modern Egypt (Cairo, 2002). 6 Al-Shaybānī Bin Bilghayth, Aḍwāʾ ʿalā at-tārīkh al-ʿaskarī al-ḥ adīth fī Tūnis min 1837 ilā 1917 [Investigations into the Modern Military History of Tunisia from 1837 to 1917] (Ṣfax, 2003), p. 63.

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urban citizens, religious minorities, and students pursuing degrees were exempt from military conscription. The French conquest of North Africa (beginning in 1830 for Algeria and 1881 for Tunisia) put an end to these efforts at indigenous reform. Despite French claims to “civilize” North Africa, there was an initial reluctance to integrate Muslim North Africans into French armed forces. No doubt some of this reluctance can be ascribed to the concerns of the French settlers who feared arming and providing military training to Muslims. Although French military authorities integrated Algerian Turks and kouloughlis (half-Turkish and half-Arab Algerians) into the armed forces almost from the beginning of the French conquest in 1830, the French government only instituted the draft in Algeria in 1912, on the eve of World War I.7 This conscription machinery swung into high gear during the First World War. The exciting and unsettling experience of conscription was captured by Algerian conscripts in their popular songs which they sang as they boarded ships in the Bay of Algiers bound for France.8 The French political and military establishment drew up far-reaching plans for the participation of colonial troops in that war. French planning, which involved the deployment of colonial troops on European front lines, diverged markedly from British strategy, which restricted the employment of non-white units on European battlefields. Daily life in the World War I trenches was not easy for any soldier, regardless of race. The French military command assigned the majority of North African troops to three main combat zones: the northern front comprising the area near the Franco-Belgian border: Lille, Valenciennes, Douai, Arras and Bethune; the eastern front comprising the area between Reims, Chalons, Verdun and Soisson and the area between Amiens, Abbevilles, and Saint Quentin.9 Life on the front was more difficult for colonial troops than for French troops. French war strategists, like General Charles Mangin, promoted the theory of using colonial (especially African) troops for dangerous missions given

7 Maurice Faivre, Les Combattants Musulmans de la Guerre d’Algérie: Des soldats sacrifiés (Paris, 1995), p. 12. 8 Joseph Desparmet, “La Chanson d’Alger pendant la Grande Guerre,” Revue Africaine 73 (1932), 54–83 (Alger, 1986). 9 Muḥammad al-ʿAdil ad-Dabūb, “Al-raʾī al-ʿām at-tūnisī wa al-ḥarb al-ʿālamīya al-ūlā: namādhij min khilāl as-silsila al-farʿīya ‘ash-shuʾūn al-ʿaskarīya’” [Tunisian Public Opinion and the First World War: Patterns from the Branch Records of Military Affairs] (Tunis, 1992–1993), p. 172.

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their presumed “ferocity” in battle.10 French military strategy dictated the use of North African troops as front-line ‘shock’ soldiers in order to preserve the units composed of Europeans, whose ability to vote in French elections could potentially threaten policy-makers’ fortunes. But North African soldiers, like other colonial soldiers, did not receive additional compensation for such dangerous duty. Instead, they suffered from racial discrimination in salaries and promotion. In addition to low pay, colonial soldiers had difficulties sending letters and funds back to North Africa.11 The lack of reliable information about their families’ condition in North Africa proved especially worrisome to some of the troops who feared efforts by unscrupulous family members to press legal and property claims against their interests during their military service in France.12 The Protectorate authorities attempted to mitigate such delays by sending Arab notaries and religious leaders to minister to the needs of their Algerian and Tunisian troops during the war.13 The imams, whom the French recruited from throughout North Africa, also served to legitimize the French war effort via fulsome praise of France and its war aims.14 The length and severity of tours of duty often led to feelings of profound anger and depression among North African troops. Wary of such sentiments receiving wide publicity, the French government established a censorship procedure that monitored all correspondence between North African soldiers and their families. In Tunisia, the Secretariat-General was responsible for handling this censorship process. This duty devolved upon this department most likely due to the fact that it had one of the highest

10 Joe Lunn, “ ‘Les Races Guerrières’: Racial Preconceptions in the French Military about West African Soldiers during the First World War,” Journal of Contemporary History 34, 4 (1999), 517–536, here p. 521. 11 Tunisian National Archives. Série E Carton 440/A/18 Dossier 147: Affaires Militaires: Etat d’esprit des jeunes soldats. Daily Report from the Interpreter Officer (R. Chenel) charged with Assisting and Surveying Indigenous Troops from the Depot of the 4ème and 8ème Régiments de Tirailleurs to the General in command of the 2nd Region, Marseille (June 15, 1917) (forwarded to RG on July 13, 1917). 12 Tunisian National Archives. Série E Carton 440A Dossier 18/19 (1914–1916). Affaires Militaires: Mobilisation de 1914, Sous-Dossier: Protection des intérêts des indigènes mobilisés. Prime Minister to qaīd-s. 13 Muḥammad al-ʿAdil ad-Dabūb, “Al-raʾī al-ʿām at-tūnisī” [Tunisian public opinion], p. 164. 14 Al-‘Ajili, al-Tlili, “As-siyāsa ad-dīnīya li faransa ʿalā jabhat tijāḥ at-tūnisiyīn al-mujannadīn fi ‘l-ḥarb al-ʿālamīya al-ūlā” [French Religious Policy on the Battlefield towards Tunisian Soldiers during the First World War], Ḥ awliyāt al-jāmiʿa at-tūnisīya 32 (1991), 172–223, here p. 184.

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rates of Arabic-speaking officers and was also responsible for the local Tunisian officials known as ‘caids’. This no doubt made censorship of correspondence in Arabic easier. For the historian, the censorship procedures have had the unexpected benefit of making this correspondence relatively accessible today.15 As the war drew to a close, the efforts to clamp down on seditious dissent lost some of their effect. A soldier could grumble about low wages and poor conditions in the trenches, but the ever-present threat of death impeded the soldier from focusing upon the future. With the armistice in November 1918 came time for reflection. Post-war aspirations and hopes could once again come to the fore. It should come as no surprise, therefore, that the first stirrings of veteran discontent emerged in the hospitals and the regroupment centers where recently demobilized soldiers grew frustrated with the long delays in service and assistance. Veterans’ Policies in the aftermath of World War One Whatever their nationality, all the soldiers of the Great War confronted a difficult reinsertion into civilian life following the Armistice in 1918. According to the historian Antoine Prost, demobilized French veterans found themselves at an uncertain crossroads at the end of the war as “family and career replaced the military world, masculine and hierarchical”.16 Economic turmoil following the war, such as price inflation and the lack of available jobs due to the transformation of an economy mobilized for war into an economy prepared to confront the new reality of peace, made this reinsertion more difficult for the veterans. In addition, colonial soldiers suffered a double burden: Like their French counterparts, they felt abandoned by the French administration, but they also suffered at the hands of the nationalists who considered their ties to an independent Algeria or Tunisia as suspect.17 15 From 1915 to 1919, French bureaucrats collected and organized letters between Tunisian and Algerian troops and their families which are now accessible to researchers in the French military archives (Service Historique de l’Armée de Terre [SHAT]) at Vincennes, as well as in Tunisia’s Institut Supérieur pour l’histoire du movement national. 16 Prost, Les anciens combattants, vol. 1, p. 48. 17 Habib Belaıd, “Un exemple d’association d’encadrement: Les anciens combattants de Tunisie (1950–1951),” Actes du VI Colloque International sur la Tunisie de 1950–1951 (Tunis, 1993), p. 182.

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During the First World War, the French authorities were overwhelmed with the widening array of services needed to deal effectively with their soldiers’ wartime experiences. By the end of the war, the French state, saddled as it was with an enormous debt burden, had to make tough choices regarding veterans’ benefits. The state’s social policies towards veterans’ benefits fell victim to these financial realities (especially in North Africa). It quickly dawned on the authorities that they lacked a comprehensive plan to deal with matters such as issuing pensions or providing medical care to wounded veterans and their families. In order to deal with unprecedented military pension claims, the French government formed a commission in 1915 to streamline the process and institutions designed to assist veterans.18 The outcome of this commission was the creation of the Office national des mutilés et reformés (ONMR), which confined itself to the education of wounded veterans, in 1916.19 By 1920, the ONMR and its activities on behalf of disabled veterans was incorporated into the Ministry of Pensions (headed by Andre Maginot from 1920–1924).20 After World War I, two French laws defined who could claim the status and benefits of a war veteran. The first law, passed in 1919, guaranteed military pensions to disabled veterans of the war. However, the number of former soldiers who could claim financial support from the state soon rose dramatically. This was due in part to the unprecedented political organization of French veterans in the inter-war period which allowed several veterans’ associations to successfully petition the government to expand the definition of ‘veteran’. In 1930, the French government passed a law which guaranteed a veteran’s pension to anyone “who had received a wound in battle, or who had served at least three months in a mobilized unit.”21 Thus, during the 1920s and the 1930s, a new ‘rentier’ class of veterans emerged in France and North Africa. Ultimately, this French decision to expand the definition of ‘anciens combattants’ [veterans] beyond disabled war veterans had corrosive social effects upon the veterans themselves and the governments that had to care for them.

18 Jean-François Montes, “L’Office National des Anciens Combattants et Victimes de la Guerre: Création et actions durant l’entre-deux-guerres,” Guerres mondiales et conflits contemporains 205 (2002), 71–83, here p. 73. 19 Montes, “L’Office National,” pp. 76–77. 20 Montes, “L’Office National,” p. 75. 21 Prost, Les anciens combattants, vol. 1, p. 9.

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One of the reasons the system set up to help veterans failed was that the French government did not link the pension program to a meaningful educational program that might have ameliorated the poverty and illiteracy that shaped most colonial veterans’ lives. Colonial veterans (at least the minority that actually obtained pensions) found that while their immediate financial situation might have improved under the new pension system, in the long-term, pensions proved to be a poor substitute for comprehensive educational programs that might have moved both the veterans and their descendents definitively beyond poverty. The few veteran retraining programs that the French government did sponsor reveal much about French administrators’ antiquated and outdated view of the economy on the southern shores of the Mediterranean. Despite the fact that France recruited tens of thousands of North Africans to work in French factories from 1914–1918,22 early retraining programs for veterans focused exclusively on forming a new peasant class among North African veterans, echoing earlier Physiocratic notions of economic value stemming from artisanal professions closely linked with agriculture.23 However, such programs fell far short of what was necessary to a post-war French economy that increasingly relied on modern industry and commerce. The two main goals of French educational programs for North African veterans were, according to the French Foreign Minister: “To bring back to the land the majority of infantrymen who tend more and more to leave their former professions to travel to the cities” and to inspire them to have more confidence in France.24 Essentially, these veterans received an education designed

22

Daniel Rivet, Le Maghreb à l’épreuve de la colonisation (Paris, 2002), p. 198. Prost, Les anciens combattants, vol. 1, p. 22. “Physiocrat” is a term that refers to an economic view that evolved in the 18th century around a French physician, François Quesnay. Quesnay and his supporters held that agriculture, not industry, was the cornerstone of economic growth. 24 Tunisian National Archives. Série E Carton 440/18/A, Dossier 310 “Hospitalization des blessés musulmans”. MFA to RG, August 11, 1917 #915. Contained in this memo is a copy of the summary of the Rehabilitation of Injured Muslims of Hospital Mre. V.R. 71 of Carrieres-sous-Bois (Seine-et-Oise) dated May 27, 1917. See also the “Rapport sur la Rééducation fonctionelle et la Réadaption professionnelle des Blessés et Mutilés Musulmans de l’Hôpital des Troupes Africaines de Carrieres-sous-Bois” dated January 5, 1919 which deals with the numerous informational meetings held in 1917 to discuss the issue of injured Muslim veterans. The first meeting reinforced the impression of an imperial France in the following manner: “France is one of the richest countries in the world and one of the most powerful on the land and sea. When you (wounded soldiers) return to your homes, France will not forget you, she only wants what is best for you.” 23

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to make them more efficient agricultural workers, as well as quiescent French allies. In the increasingly mechanized environment of North African agriculture after the First World War, supplementary education in agronomy for veterans who owned small plots of land could only deliver mediocre results, even in the best conditions.25 But economic conditions in both Tunisia and Algeria following the war were difficult. As the war ended, southern Tunisia was coming to grips with the effects of numerous years of drought which had severely curtailed agricultural activities in the region. Over a longer period of time, the increased mechanization of agricultural production in French North Africa and the corresponding consolidation of arable land in fewer hands meant that small farmers found it much more difficult to subsist.26 North African veterans’ associations (often linked to mother organizations in France and supported by various French governments) emerged in Algeria and Tunisia by the early 1920s.27 Shortly afterward, in January 1923, the French authorities in Tunisia held the first conference devoted to North African veterans’ issues. The conference, which took place in the capital of Tunis, hosted delegations from throughout Francophone North Africa.28 The subject of ‘reserved jobs’ for veterans emerged as one of the thorniest issues in North Africa following the First World War. The Jonnart Plan of 1919 (developed by the GovernorGeneral of Algeria at the time) guaranteed Algerian veterans preference for approximately 400 initial job offerings, ranging from public school teacher to jobs in the police and railway sector.29 But the initial results weren’t very promising. The demand for jobs which did not require any specialty and thus were the most desired (such as café owners)

25 John Ruedy, Modern Algeria: The Origins and Development of a Nation, 2nd ed. (Bloomington, 2005) p. 116 and pp. 120–121. 26 Ruedy, Modern Algeria, p. 123. 27 The establishment and functions of the Tunisian branch of the ONMR is covered in the Comité d’Organisation du Congrès (Mutilés, Veuves et Orphelins de Guerre, Ascendants et Anciens Combattants) Tenu à Tunis les 6 et 7 janvier 1923, compterendu des travaux (Tunis: Maison Française d’Editions et de publications Guénard & Franchi, 1923), pp. 77–87. 28 Delegations arrived from Morocco, all three Algerian departments (Constantine, Algiers, Oran) and Tunisia. In addition, French representatives from the Ministry of War, the Ministry of Pensions and French veterans associations were also present. 29 Byron D. Cannon, “Irreconciliability of Reconciliation: Employment of Algerian Veterans Under the Plan Jonnart, 1919–1926,” The Maghreb Review 24, 1–2 (1999), 42–50, here pp. 43–44.

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always exceeded the supply, while positions for more specialized jobs rarely became available.30 The Great Depression (1929–1939) exposed the flaws within the French programs to offer veterans jobs in the public sector and agriculture. By the early 1930s, the very factors which had contributed to the economic boom of the 1920s (easy credit, mechanization of agriculture, and increasing integration into the world market) exacerbated the Depression’s effects upon the agricultural sector in North Africa.31 The collapse of mineral and agricultural prices in 1929 forced successive currency devaluations in England and the United States which rippled through France and the colonial world, imposing further downward pressure on prices and making goods produced in France and her colonial possessions much less competitive on the world market.32 Clearly cognizant of the magnitude of the economic crisis confronting North African veterans, the Congress of the Interfédération Nord-Africaine des Victimes de la Guerre et Anciens Combattants (held in 1938) issued a statement boldly declaring that “unemployment is the result of global economic changes.”33 The Congress delegates also reported that many disabled veterans still awaited placement in reserve positions as of 1938. Added to all of this, the French state set a ‘bad example’ in enforcing its own laws (especially those establishing ‘reserved’ jobs for veterans) and sought, where possible, to camouflage the scarcity of posts available to veterans.34 According to the final report, although the North African population had grown considerably, economic growth and full employment remained elusive due to heavy reliance on foreign labor.35 Using Algeria as an example, the report concluded that an undue reliance on foreign workers, in areas such as Public Works, retarded the programs designed to hire veterans.

30

Byron D. Cannon. “Irreconciliability of Reconciliation,” p. 44. Jean Poncet, La colonisation et l’agriculture européennes en Tunisie depuis 1881: étude de géographie historique et économique (Paris, 1962), p. 309. 32 Ali Mahjoubi, Les origines du mouvement national en Tunisie (1904–1909) (Tunis, 1982), pp. 540–546. Barry Eichengreen, Golden Fetters: The Gold Standard and the Great Depression, 1919–1939 (Oxford, 1992), p. 228. 33 Interfédération Nord-Africaine des Victimes de la Guerre et Anciens Combattants, Le XVIe Congrès Interfédéral d’Alger (16 et 17 Avril 1938) (Alger, 1938), p. 51. 34 Interfédération Nord-Africaine des Victimes de la Guerre et Anciens Combattants, Le XVIe Congrès, p. 48. 35 Interfédération Nord-Africaine des Victimes de la Guerre et Anciens Combattants, Le XVIe Congrès, p. 54. 31

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Veterans attacked the French policy of extending loans to strapped farmers and distributing wheat and rice to the needy, since it did not limit the use of foreign labor or create enough jobs to improve the massive underemployment North Africa faced. Rather, veterans’ associations proposed a multi-faceted program relying on the replacement of foreigners with trained North Africans and the creation of agricultural communes to make the best use of the Arab agricultural workforce.36 While these programs echoed earlier reforms calling for a return to traditional industries and agriculture, the 1938 report broke new ground in calling specifically for the use of North Africans on public works projects designed to strengthen the national defense.37 The congress’s insistence on equal pay for both Arab and French workers is also noteworthy.38 The question of pensions and educational benefits dominated the concerns of the widows and children of deceased veterans. Gilbert Meynier, whose work focuses on Algerian soldiers during the First World War, likewise concludes that although the French had hoped to reward veterans and their families with pensions and other forms of financial aid, the results of these projects often came to very little. Meynier recounts that by 1921, out of the 25,000 Algerians killed or missing during the war, only the families of 12,000 had established pension claims with the French government.39 One reason for the long delay in granting pensions for both Algerians and Tunisians were the bureaucratic demands for official documents certifying births and marriages. Since most of the Tunisian veterans were illiterate, the ResidentGeneral argued that it would be nearly impossible for them to recreate all of the documents necessary to prove their identity under French law. Further complicating matters, rural Tunisian veterans would be

36 Interfédération Nord-Africaine des Victimes de la Guerre et Anciens Combattants, Le XVIe Congrès, p. 56. The congress’s recommendations called for the strict adherence to the rule limiting foreign participation in the workforce to 10% and recommended further lowering foreign participation to 5%. It also called for the expulsion of foreigners condemned for bankruptcy, p. 57. 37 Specifically, the report urged the government to forbid foreign workers from working in factories or public works projects designed to strengthen the national defense. 38 Interfédération Nord-Africaine des Victimes de la Guerre et Anciens Combattants, Le XVIe Congrès, p. 57. 39 Meynier, L’Algérie révélée, p. 550.

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forced to travel great distances to the civil control (contrôle civile) where French officials could certify such documents.40 In addition to economic crises, rumors of war haunted the veterans who attended the 1938 conference. The meeting took place in an atmosphere of worrisome developments in Europe, coming two years after the German re-occupation of the Rhineland and only five months before the Munich talks which led to Hitler’s annexation of the Czechoslovakian Sudetanland. The keynote speaker, Joseph Kerdavid, the president of the Association des Anciens Combattants et Victimes de la Guerre located in Algiers, urged his audience to remain steadfast in their patriotism towards France, despite “all that was disgusting which the period following the war had brought them”.41 He goes on to criticize “speculators” who operate in an “immoral” environment and whose misuse of French resources in the face of the growing German threat is unconscionable.42 Reprising earlier French tacticians’ claims, Kerdavid invokes African troops as a counterpoint to the malaise and degeneration in mainland France. They become the defenders of France in her darkest hour: “African troops have always been considered as shock troops, remember comrades that you have been among them, remain proud of that, and if your metropolitan comrades have need of your courage, I ask that you respond”.43 Kerdavid’s appeal is representative of the general sense of unease that stalked French policy-makers in the years before World War II. North Africa was under threat, not just by Nazi Germany, but also by Italian and Spanish fascism. Algeria and Tunisia, due to its proximity to Mussolini’s Italy and Libya (which had enjoyed a brief period of constitutional reforms until Mussolini’s assumption of power),44 were the linchpins of French war planning in North Africa during the years leading up to World War II. The French Premier, Edouard Daladier,

40

Archives du Ministère des Affaires Etrangères (Fonds de la Résidence, Nantes (Protectorat-Tunisie) Premier versement (1920–1949) contained in the Institut Supérieur pour l’histoire du mouvement national à l’Université de la Manouba, Tunis (henceforth referred to as Nantes, Manouba). RG to MAE, No. 133, February 14, 1922. Résidence Générale de la République Française à Tunis. Direction des Affaires Politiques et Commerciales. It is noteworthy that Tunisian veterans also complain of the same problem when composing a dossier for their benefits. 41 Interfédération Nord-Africaine des Victimes de la Guerre et Anciens Combattants, Le XVIe Congrès, p. 30. 42 Ibid. 43 Ibid. 44 Dirk Vandewalle, A History of Modern Libya (Cambridge, 2006), pp. 28–29.

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visited Tunisia in January of 1939 to examine its military readiness. The fear of Spanish intervention in Morocco and western Algeria prompted the French to bolster their defenses around Oran and Mers el-Kebir.45 The French military demanded large numbers of North African troops and the recruitment figures for Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia in 1939 reflect that that the ratio of recruits to total population was the highest in Algeria, followed closely by Tunisia.46 Veterans’ policies after World War II: difficulties remain North African veterans fared even worse following the Second World War than they had following the First World War. The total defeat of France in 1940 seriously damaged the will and capabilities of France to adequately fund veterans’ programs in the 1940s and 1950s. France’s economic debts due to losses incurred during the war and the ensuing German occupation approached 1.5 trillion francs, a figure which considerably reduced the government’s ability to meet current expenses and sparked a wave of inflation. While such an enormous debt burden would no doubt have inspired inflationary conditions under any circumstances, the post-war economic plans of General DeGaulle’s provisional government further amplified French difficulties until the 1950s, since they relied heavily on additional borrowing. Indeed, following the Second World War, a report issued by the French military emphasizes the retardation of French efforts to provide adequate demobilization programs to assist former soldiers in finding stable careers after demobilization. The report ranks France behind the United States, Great Britain and the Soviet Union in the development of demobilization programs.47 Lieutenant-Colonel Coche, the author of the report, attempts to explain the various reactions of veterans themselves to their new post-war identity. In the first place, the demobilization had acted as a ‘shock’ for veterans, disrupting their familiar wartime 45 Christine Levisse-Touzé, L’Afrique du nord dans la Guerre (1939–1945) (Paris, 1998), pp. 27–28. 46 Belkacem Recham, Les musulmans algériens dans l’armée française (1919–1945) (Paris, 1996), p. 65. The actual percentages of recruits to total population are as follows: Algeria: 1.08; Tunisia: 1.04; Morocco: 0.59. 47 Service Historique de l’Armée de la Terre à Vincennes [S.H.A.T.] Sous-Série 2H (Tunisie). Carton 2H186 Ministére de la Guerre, Direction Centrale du Service Sociale “Bilan d’une premiére année de reclassement” May 27, 1947. Prepared by LieutenantColonel Coche.

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routines and friendships. This led to great anxiety about adapting to a new, unfamiliar mode of life. This anxiety, in turn, led to a feeling of anger and helplessness in the face of what most veterans viewed as an inadequate response by the French state to their needs.48 Tunisian veterans combined their pride in their individual military accomplishments with their enduring loyalty to their fellow soldiers when crafting appeals for assistance to Protectorate authorities following the First and Second World Wars. Eschewing the image of groveling mendicants, their interactions with French officials reveal a remarkable ability to focus on the problems faced by all of the veterans. In this way, poor Tunisian veterans adopted a strategy used by other disenfranchised groups in Tunisian society: They argued for the legality of their demands based upon the premise that poverty is NOT an individual affliction but a societal ill experienced by many.49 Ensuring that all veterans received equal access to post-war benefits presented another challenge to the French administration in North Africa. Where a veteran lived was an important factor in determining whether he received social benefits or not. Among the most destitute veterans were those who had been wounded during the war and lived outside of a major urban area. The further a veteran lived from either Tunis or Algiers, the less likely that the French would attend to his demands. Even the network of social clubs established throughout North Africa by the Amitiés Africaines, known as the Dar El-Askri (Military Residence), which were established in the wake of the First World War to provide assistance to North African veterans, had enormous difficulties in keeping up with the needs of poor veterans living in rural areas.50 As one French administrator in the Oran region remarked: “Their [Algerian veterans’ associations] activity, unfortunately, has been limited to providing services to urban residents. It does not appear as though either the Associations or the Ministry of Veterans has been

48 S.H.A.T. Sous-Série 2H (Tunisie). Carton 2H186 Ministére de la Guerre, Direction Centrale du Service Sociale “Bilan d’une premiére année de reclassement” May 27, 1947. Prepared by Lieutenant-Colonel Coche. 49 Kurāy al-Qusnatīnī, Al-Iḥ tiyāj wa al-muḥ tājūn bi-Tūnis al-ʿāṣima fī fitrat al-istiʿmār al-faransī [Poverty and the Poor in Tunis during the Protectorate Era (1885–1918)] (Tunis, 2000), pp. 237–374. 50 The Dar El-Askri functioned as social centers designed to assist Muslim veterans in finding work or sustenance. They were the most visible emanations of the Amitiés Africaines, an organization established in 1935 by Marshal Franchet d’Esperey.

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able to bring the legal recompense to those who have served in our army and live in the douars [rural areas].”51 During World War II, the Dar El-Askri remained the most costeffective mechanism for dealing with such minor demands and so it is no surprise that it was utilized by both Vichy (1940–1942) and its successor, the Giraudist-Gaullist government in Algiers (1942–1945). The destruction of Dar El-Askri facilities during the war hampered these efforts, however, especially in Tunisia which saw the most direct confrontations between Allies and Axis during the Second World War. The Regional Delegates of each Amitié Africaine were chosen from the military’s unit of Affaires Musulmanes.52 The Tunisian delegate, who performed a tour of the Dar El-Askri facilities in 1943, noted that many Dar El-Askri buildings had been either looted or destroyed during the fighting between the Allies and the Nazis.53 Furthermore, chronic lack of funding and the inability to retain personnel led to a steep decline in their ability to provide adequate services to Tunisian veterans.54 Finally, corrupt officials in remote areas took advantage of lack of regular oversight to fleece poor veterans. One particularly shocking case involved a corruption scandal in southern Tunisia in which the director of the local Dar El-Askri was overcharging veterans for their membership cards, in some cases by up to 50%!55 If the French neglected poor veterans who lived outside the orbit of major urban areas, they moved quickly to resurrect the post-World War I conservative veterans’ associations (run predominantly by Europeans) to combat the growing threats to their rule in North Africa. Le Combattant de Tunisie, founded in 1945, was the official newspaper of the Association des Anciens Combattants et Victimes de la Guerre de 51 Algerian National Archives. IBA-AFM 048, Préfecture d’Oran: Cabinet du Préfet (N° 147/ NA) “Activités nationalistes dans les douars” (Oran, le 15 février 1952). 52 S.H.A.T. Sous-Série 2H (Tunisie) Carton 2H222. CSTT, Etat-Major, Service des Affaires Musulmanes, No. 92/A.M. (November 10, 1943). Memo appointing Colonel Amadée Renisio as the Délégué-Régional in 1943. 53 S.H.A.T. Sous-Série 2H (Tunisie). Carton 2H226. See the numerous reports from Captaine Amedée Renisio (Delegate of the Amitiés Africaines in Tunisia) on the dilapidated state of the Dar El-Askri facilities in 1943. 54 S.H.A.T. Sous-Série 2H (Tunisie). Carton 2H226. See the report by General Monsabert for information on the difficulty in retaining Dar El-Askri personnel. For information on the funding problems, see the 1948 correspondence between RG Jean Mons and CSTT General Duval. 55 S.H.A.T. Sous-Série 2H (Tunisie). Carton 2H394. Direction des Services de Securité, District de Tozeur N°1789, 19 Juillet 1946. Chef du District de Police à Contrôleur Civil.

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Tunisie which was the only organization authorized by the Residence to champion the rights of veterans. The journal was published for ten years and ended shortly after independence in 1957. Like its earlier counterparts in the 1920s and 1930s, the newspaper succeeded in identifying the main problems affecting Tunisian veterans, sometimes with an amazing clarity, but it failed to recognize and challenge the racial discrimination faced by Tunisian veterans. With the bedside manner of an absent-minded doctor, Le Combattant de Tunisie dutifully followed the symptoms of its patients, without treating the underlying disease (the unequal rights of Tunisians in the Protectorate). The ineffectiveness of the social policies promoted by the Europeandominated veterans’ associations and the French Residence-General towards Tunisian veterans was not lost upon the system’s Arab critics. A new confluence of political and economic factors in the 1950s culminated in an alliance between some veterans and the Tunisian nationalist movement to oppose discriminatory policies against Arab veterans. On March 23, 1954, a new veterans’ association called L’Association Amicale des Mutilés de la Guerre de Tunisie published an article in the Frenchlanguage newspaper La Presse which demanded a better association for Tunisian veterans which would be more efficient. The author of the article criticized the French-inspired association of having directed an inept campaign which had been “a silly agitation, more spectacular than effective” and whose most significant activities included the “distribution of food or monetary aid without any positive result”.56 We also find evidence of similar activities in Algeria during the 1950s. Many Algerian veterans decided to break with the official, European-dominated, veterans’ associations even before the outbreak of the Algerian revolution on November 1, 1955. The police authorities in Constantine prepared a confidential report in 1953 which detailed efforts to form veteran associations run by Muslims in Tebessa, Biskra, Batna, and Bejaıa. The Constantine police also mention that even among those Algerian veterans still loyal to the French regime, “dissatisfaction is appearing, more intensely.”57

56 “A l’Association Amicale des Mutilés de Guerre de Tunisie”, La Presse de Tunisie (March 22–23, 1954), p. 4. 57 Algerian National Archives. IBA-AFM 038, Associations AC/VG dans le Constantinois (1953), Gouvernement Général de l’Algérie, Cabinet du Secrétaire Général, 21 Septembre 1953. Affaire Confidentielle transmise sous enveloppe à M. le Directeur du Service des Anciens Militaires, Anciens Combattants, et Victimes de la Guerre.

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North African veterans also established links with the major nationalist parties in Algeria and Tunisia. In Algeria, many members of the Comité révolutionaire d’unité et action (CRUA) which planned the initial stages of the Algerian revolution, were former colonial soldiers. Two notable veterans who served on the CRUA were Ahmed Ben Bella and Mohamed Boudiaf. In Tunisia, some veterans cast their lot in with the labor movement that had been supporting Destourian nationalists since the early 1950s. Northern Tunisia was a hotbed of nationalist activity during the waning years of the Protectorate (1954–1956) and well-off Tunisian veterans played an important role in organizing veterans behind a union strongly affiliated with the Neo-Destour, the Union Générale des Travailleurs Tunisiens (U.G.T.T.) headed at the time by Ahmed Ben Salah. Daily reports (found in the French military archives) dealing with numerous army maneuvers in the north, reveal the implantation of an illegal veterans’ association (the Fédération Tunisienne des Anciens Combattants et Prisonniers de la Guerre or F.T.A.C.) from 1954–1956. During the months preceding Habib Bourguiba’s return to the country on June 3, 1955, Ben Salah and the U.G.T.T. organized some of the veterans, using relatively well-off veterans as proxies. Recent archival research provides evidence that some Tunisian veterans moved beyond political protest and resisted French colonialism by force of arms. We must discard the point of view that Tunisian veterans overwhelmingly collaborated with the Protectorate regime or at most offered passive resistance. The French archives refer repeatedly to the resistance activities of former soldiers, not only in terms of combat operations, but also participation in weapons trades and the training of young fighters. One French army report, issued in 1954, even goes so far as to state that while “the new recruits [to the fellagha uprising] are less solid and more susceptible to crack, the older bands comprised of veterans having served in the French army are quite solid and when surrounded, will fight until the death.”58 Information I found in the French military archives at Vincennes also suggests that Tunisian veterans sometimes planned attacks on French troops without a great deal of nationalist involvement. Gendarmerie reports reveal that while gathering information about a minor disturbance in Gafsa involving a Tunisian veteran, French investigators

58 S.H.A.T. Sous-Série 2H (Tunisie). Carton 2H215. Bulletin de renseignments, CSTT, EM, 2ème Bureau, N° 1093, May 31, 1954.

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stumbled upon evidence of more serious plots, involving the sabotage of electrical equipment and the murder of two French officers. A veteran of the class of 1927 who had established himself as a shopkeeper in Gafsa became the center of the inquiry since planning meetings were held at his house. Gradually, during the course of the investigation, Tunisians suspected of plotting attacks at the veteran’s house revealed that the former soldier had sold them Italian arms, most likely weapons abandoned following the Second World War.59 A sophisticated network of arms trafficking that stretched from Libya to Algeria facilitated these activities. The French military command in Tunisia described the eastern Libyan province of Cyrenaica as “bursting” with arms and munitions left over from the 1940–1942 conflicts.60 Scavenging activities following the war led to an ample supply of these weapons, which locals then exported to meet the robust demands from Tunisia and Egypt. The post-colonial veteran Wartime experiences and veterans are critical to the formation of national identity. Post-colonial governments in Tunisia and Algeria appropriated the values exemplified by the ideal soldier (self-sacrifice, heroism, and obedience) in their struggle to frame their new plans for rapid industrial development. The irony in both countries was that nationalist party members supplanted colonial veterans as the role models for young Algerians and Tunisians to emulate. Until recently, veterans of the First and Second World wars have been tainted in the eyes of the Tunisian and Algerian governments by their service to the former colonial power. Independent Tunisia has known only two chief executives: Habib Bourguiba (1956–1987) and Zine al-‘Abdine ben ‘Ali (1987-present). The state provided a set of ‘approved’ military journals for the newly minted officers to read. The military magazines Al-Jundī and Al-Jaysh extolled past battles from the pre-colonial era. The European battlefield ceded pride of place in the ‘new’ Algeria and Tunisia to more local 59 Amīra ʿAlīya aṣ-Ṣghair, Al-Muqāwama al-shaʿbīya fī Tūnis fi’l-khamsīnāt (Intifāḍat al-mudun, al-Fellagha, al-Yūsufīya) [The Popular Resistance in Tunisia during the 1950s (Urban Uprisings, al-Fellagha, the Youssefist Revolt)] (Sfax, 2004), pp. 92–93. 60 S.H.A.T. Sous-Série 2H (Tunisie). Carton 2H215. Bureau de Centralisation de Renseignements en Tunisie, Poste “R” No. 839, February 22, 1952.

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venues (the Aurés mountains (1954) and Bizerte (1961)). The profound disconnect for those veterans who had served France could not have been deeper. Commemorations now revolved around battles against their former Protector and employer. How could there be a public role for Tunisian veterans who fought with the French when the following hostile comments were printed in the Tunisian military magazine Al-Jaysh almost a year after the French bombardment of Sidi Sakiet Youssef in February of 1958? These evil French soldiers [. . .] who take their motto as the practices of domination [. . .] and who take as their common practice the shedding of innocent blood, and who take the law from the trampling of that which is sacred, and who take monstrosities as standard practices [. . .].61

Such sentiments were not shared universally across the Maghreb. The Algerian and Tunisian positions were the complete opposite of King Muhammad V’s praise of the Moroccan army’s French (and to a lesser extent, Spanish) heritage. In May of 1956, the King, speaking before an audience of French military advisors on the first anniversary of the creation of the Forces Armées Royales (F.A.R.), commended them for having “played an active part in its [the F.A.R.] preparation. I thank you for doing so. You have served Morocco and your country, France, our ally.”62 In addition, Morocco under the Alaouites moved quickly to integrate military officers who had served in the French and Spanish armies into the Forces Armées Royales. This did not happen in either Tunisia or Algeria, where the post-colonial governments represented clear ruptures with the French past, rather than the continuity of the Alaouite dynasty. While economic and political ties between Algeria, Tunisia and France after independence continued, great care was taken by the FLN and Habib Bourguiba not to be seen to promote aspects of the former colonial regime. In these countries, official silence cloaked the deeds and heroism of colonial veterans after independence. In the rare instances where colonial veterans are mentioned explicitly in government-sponsored publications, they are portrayed as resentful and shamed by their service in the colonial French army. One example of this use of North African veterans can be found in an article that appeared in Al-Jaysh

61

Al-Jaysh, No. 21, November 1958. Maâti Monjib, La monarchie marocaine et la lutte pour le pouvoir: Hassan II face à l’opposition nationale (de l’indépendance à l’état d’exception) (Paris, 1992), p. 65. 62

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in January of 1958, entitled “Between Yesterday and Today,” in which the author characterizes the colonial period in a harsh light: The soldier of today is not like the soldier of yesterday who was nauseated by this [colonial] uniform which he wore. He loathed this badge which was bestowed by the enemy power and diminished the value of his nationality.63

Tunisian history within these magazines is recast to eliminate any mention of the colonial era or its participants (except in the negative light as we have seen above). We have moved from an era of mujannadūn (conscripted soldiers) to the era of al-mujāhidūn (Islamic freedom fighters). In Tunisia’s case, the leader of the nationalist movement, Habib Bourguiba, assumed the title of al-mujāhid al-akbar (the supreme combatant). The many voices of the nationalist movement during the Protectorate era have now been condensed into the person of the zaʿīm (leader). Within the pages of Al-Jaysh and Al-Jundī, Bourguiba holds pride of place as the fulcrum of the nation without whom no action can be attempted. Gone are the attempts of the French colonial regime to emphasize the shared sacrifices of the northern and southern shores of the Mediterranean. In Bourguiba’s Tunisia and the FLN (National Liberation Front) Algeria, ancient military history holds sway in the pages of military journals with articles touting the Carthaginian and Berber heroes. We find articles entitled “Jugurtha: Resister of Roman Colonization and Unifier of the Berber Ranks”64 as well as several articles on the Punic Wars.65 Twentieth century history in these journals focuses on the postcolonial era (post-1956 for Tunisia and post-1962 for Algeria). In November of 1987, Prime Minister General Zine al-Abdine Ben Ali ousted the ailing President Bourguiba from power. In many ways, Ben Ali’s palace coup (following which Bourguiba lived out the remainder of his very long life in a palace by the sea near his home town of Monastir), marked the end of an era. Bourguiba’s monolithic presence

63 Excerpted from the article “Bayna al-ams wa al-yawm” [Between Yesterday and Today] found in the monthly column “Min al-junūd wa ilayhum” [From the Troops and To the Troops] in Al-Jaysh, January 1958, No. 12. 64 “Yugurta: Muqāwim al-istiʿmār ar-rūmānī wa-muwaḥḥid ṣufūf al-barbar”, Al-Jundī, December 15, 1978, No. 207. 65 “Al-ḥarb al-būniqīya min sanat 219 ilā 201 q.m.” Al-Jundī, February 28, 1979, No. 209 and “Al-ḥarb al-būniqīya min sanat 146 ilā 149 q.m.” April 15, 1979, No. 210.

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was demolished physically, as statues of the former president were taken down throughout the country, where they had often stood in town centers and at busy traffic arteries, and moved to more inconspicuous sites. The disappearance of Bourguiba from the national scene provided the opportunity for a reassessment of Tunisian history that focused upon groups of Tunisians (like colonial veterans) that Bourguiba had excluded from the country’s history after 1956. The colonial veteran as a symbol of closer European-Maghreb ties The growth and ethnic diversity of the European Union by the 1990s led to a more open dialogue on the role of Europeans of North African origin within European Union member states. We have discussed how early Algerian and Tunisian nationalists found the values of the ideal colonial veteran (self-sacrifice, heroism, and obedience) useful in the formation of post-colonial nationalism. European governments, and especially France, have now followed suit in an effort to juxtapose a more positive image of the French Muslim with that of the confrontational image of rioting banlieue residents. The colonial veterans have re-emerged as symbols of a successful European-African integration project. During the 1970s and the 1980s, as the bitter memories of twentieth century decolonization faded from public consciousness in France, the celebration of the memory of colonial troops shifted away from an affirmation of French imperial pretensions and towards what one historian has called a “quartet” of new post-colonial goals for the French state.66 The revalorization of colonial veterans within the French national consciousness via the restoration of colonial pensions was the first step in this process. It, in turn, cleared the way for the physical return of colonial veterans to France in the form of ‘nostalgic’ projects such as the erection of stelae and memorials to the colonial contribution, or the presence of colonial veterans themselves at ceremonies commemorating the fiftieth anniversaries of the Normandy landings in 1944 and the end of the war in Europe in 1945.

66

Serge Barcellini, “Les monuments en hommage aux combattants de la ‘Grande France’ (Armée d’Afrique et Armée coloniale),” in Les troupes coloniales dans la Grande Guerre, eds. Claude Carlier and Guy Pedroncini (I.H.C.C.-Economica) (1997), pp. 113–153, here p. 134.

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Closer economic ties with Europe also played a role in the recent revival of veterans of European wars. Gregory White has demonstrated the powerful economic ties that bind Morocco and Tunisia to the European Union.67 As plans for a political union among Maghrebi countries (the Arab Maghrebi Union or UMA) foundered in the aftermath of the Algerian civil war, Tunisia’s economic infitāḥ (opening) to Europe which had begun in the 1970s, took off.68 This development, according to White, led Tunisian leaders to “deepen ties, open markets and craft ‘partnerships’ with Europe”.69 By 1995, Tunisia had signed Partnership Accords with the European Union. The purpose of such accords, according to White, is the creation of Mediterranean free-trade zones that will, by 2008, eliminate all tariffs and protective monopolies in bilateral trade between Tunisia and the European Union.70 The impact of these economic ties with Europe cannot be understated in Tunisia’s case which has one of the highest trade balances with Europe maintained by an Arab country. The recent revival of interest in North African colonial veterans has not gone unchallenged however. While European governments evoke wartime memories of fraternity and shared experience, the story of colonial veterans evokes darker memories for an older generation of North Africans. Many Algerians and Tunisians reacted angrily to the French government’s decision in 2002 to increase the value of pension benefits for former colonial veterans.71 The law embodying these changes consisted of three main parts: the doubling of most veteran’s pensions, the right to petition the French government to increase invalid pensions due to the aggravation of an existing condition, and the right of widows to pursue the reversion of their deceased husbands’ pensions. Following the application of this legislation, Tunisian pensioners (around 8,500 individuals) saw their benefits more than double from about 4,140,000 Tunisian Dinars to 9,611,000 Tunisian Dinars (TD).72 67 Gregory White, A Comparative Political Economy of Tunisia and Morocco: On the Outside of Europe Looking In (Albany, 2001), especially pp. 162–165. 68 Ibid., pp. 162–164. 69 Ibid., p. 164. 70 Ibid., p. 165. 71 Born in 1930, in Souk-Ahras, Algeria, Hamlaoui Mekachera served in the French Army much of his life and continued his career in France following the declaration of Algerian independence in 1962. 72 “Mesures de décristallisation des pensions versées aux anciens combattants” (Publication of the French Embassy in Tunis, Service des Anciens Combattants et Victimes de la Guerre, April 23, 2004).

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One article that appeared in the weekly magazine, Réalités, bemoaned the fact that it took forty years to undo the economic harm from the freezing of veterans’ pensions in 1958. Colonial veterans thus received pensions which were not adjusted for inflation for over forty years until the French government belatedly corrected this punitive policy in 2002. The author of the article opined that: If the 8,500 to 10,000 veterans and civilian victims of war and their widows alive today will receive this sum [the adjusted pension], those who have died must endure this injustice forever [. . .] Must we say ‘better late than never’ or ‘the earlier the better’? Without a doubt, the living will choose the first proverb, while we, in the place of those who have died, shall choose the second proverb for them.73

Likewise, a recent reassessment of the colonial period and colonial veterans has met with controversy in Algeria. Like Habib Bourguiba of Tunisia, the FLN party’s legitimacy came into question during the end of the 1980s. Declining oil revenues and political unrest led to a period of anarchy and violence known as the “dark decade” (1991–2001). The election of former Foreign Minister Abdelaziz Bouteflika as president in 2001 heralded the end of the “dark decade.” Bouteflika’s election also marked the beginning of a reassessment of Algeria’s relationship with its former colonial power, France. Many of these contemporary issues coincided with and probably encouraged a shift in public opinion towards a reassessment of the role of colonial veterans and their place in contemporary Europe and North Africa. Some of the most eloquent attempts to re-introduce colonial Tunisian and Algerian veterans to European and Maghrebi populations are those crafted by novelists and film directors. Literary and cinematic representations of the colonial veteran Literature and cinema are among the most effective tools available to members of one generation to represent and capture the experiences of previous generations. In this way, films such as Steven Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan (1998) and books such as Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 have come to define the combat experience and the image 73 Tallel Bahoury, “Anciens combattants tunisiens: Après la reconnaissance juridique, la récompense financière,” Réalités 961 (May 25–June 2, 2004), 36–40, here p. 40.

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of the veteran in post-war American society. We will now look at two North African examples of these genres, the book Lion Mountain by Tunisian author, Mustapha Tlili and the film Indigènes by the FrenchAlgerian director, Rachid Bouchareb. Both of these works have left us with indelible imprints of the North African war veteran. One of the most penetrating critiques of the Bourguiba era published after his deposition was Mustapha Tlili’s novel, Lion Mountain.74 This tale portrays Bourguiba’s regime in the character of a rapacious state bureaucrat who seeks to impose his will upon a rural community somewhere in southern Tunisia. Tlili’s novel, published in 1988, takes us beyond a simple reading of the post-colonial era as a struggle between the two opposing forces of modernization and tradition. Rather, it provides a glimpse into a world in which the social relations that defined the old French regime slowly and violently cede to a new realignment that centralizes control in an Arab state. The character of the World War II veteran Saad, who derives his economic and political identity from the former colonial power, is now seen as a threat to the new regime: one that must be eliminated at all cost. The annihilation of Saad and Horia (Saad’s employer) in Tlili’s novel is a masterful literary expression of the loss of political and cultural diversity that emerged as a result of the imposition of the new concept of ‘national unity’ within the country. The rise of a unipolar political field (centered around the person of the President and his party) comes into sharp focus in this novel. Tlili’s work marks the beginning of a period of increased engagement with the history of Tunisian veterans that accelerated in the 1990s. This growing interest in the life stories and personal memories of the veterans reflects the trend that Tunisia as a country is publicly, albeit slowly, acknowledging veterans who fought in European wars. There are both short-term and long-term reasons why this has happened, both of which involve the shifting nature of geopolitical relations with France and Europe. One of the most controversial films to arrive in Algeria during the fall of 2006 was Rachid Bouchareb’s interpretation of the experience of North African soldiers during the Second World War, titled Indigènes in French. Bouchareb’s filmography has established the director as an artist who explores the complex personalities of Africans between the West and their ethnic heritage. Prior to directing Indigènes Bouchareb

74

Mustapha Tlili, Lion Mountain (New York, 1990).

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explored the fate of Senagalese soldiers of the Second World War in a film called L’ami y’a bon (2005). This film introduces the themes of colonial identity, wartime trauma, military duty and insubordination which will recur in Indigènes. Of late, Bouchareb has shown interest in projects involving his Algerian ancestry. The first of these projects, Indigènes, deals with colonial veterans in conflicts ranging from the Second World War to the French war in Indochina.75 The film stood out among other offerings in downtown Algiers and other Algerian cities for its focus on a group of men whose story had been previously downplayed or ignored in Europe as well as North Africa. The film enjoyed a relatively wide distribution as it was distributed not only in Europe and North Africa, but also the United States under the English title of “Days of Glory”. Bouchareb’s film focuses on the combat experiences of a group of four North Africans during the Italian campaign of 1943 and the Vosges campaign of 1944–1945. It was shot on location mainly in Morocco and France. The four main Maghrebi characters are supposed to be representative of a long military tradition that once formed a cornerstone of French colonial policy in Africa. Algerian critics of the film argue that it presents a limited view of the average North African soldier’s experience both during and after the Second World War. For example, the film portrays all of the principle characters as military volunteers. The character of Saıd, who hails from a small town in southern Algeria, is shown agonizing over whether or not to join the French army in 1942, shortly after the liberation of the country in Operation Torch. One irate journalist at the press conference with Rachid Bouchareb at the Hotel Sofitel in Algiers on October 8, 2006 (which I attended) took issue with the film’s emphasis on voluntary engagement in the French army complaining that these men did not “leave for a vacation!” At the press conference, Bouchareb himself revealed that while he had conducted many interviews with North African veterans, all of them had been conducted in France. This may explain why the film chooses to focus on the stories of veterans whose lives converge with rather than diverge from French ideals. Bouchareb’s interviews cement a link between North African veterans living in France with their descendants, also living in France. North Africa and its colonial context are relegated to a minor role in the film. A more

75 Ayo Coly, “Memory, History, Forgetting: a Review of Rachid Bouchareb’s Indigènes (2006),” Transition 98 (2008), 150–155.

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thorough look at the veterans’ phenomenon in the film, and a more historically accurate portrayal of North African soldiers, would have required interviews with those soldiers who returned to North Africa after the war had ended. Perhaps stung by some of the criticism he received, Bouchareb revealed towards the end of the press conference that his next project would deal with an event more meaningful to Algerians: the Sétif massacres of May 8, 1945. The film’s emphasis on the loyalty of North African soldiers to the military chain of command and to the French state provides an interesting lesson of a sort to contemporary French citizens of North African origin: one can criticize the state and yet remain firmly entrenched in French republican ideals. The film essentially tries to reach a French audience, not a North African one by ignoring the fate of most North African veterans after the end of the war. The film ends with one of the principle characters, Abdelkader, sitting on a bus silently in a French city. But as we have seen, North African veterans were not politically passive in the post-war period, as they are portrayed in the final moments of the film. Finally, the story of soldiers’ lives does not cease after a war ends. Unequal treatment of North African troops on the battlefield was more than matched by the difficulties in gaining pension and disability benefits in the post-war period. The World Wars and their aftermath must be analyzed together in order to comprehend the magnitude of the racial discrimination that afflicted former soldiers. Only in this way can we understand the rise of the decolonization movements in both Algeria and Tunisia. Conclusion This article describes how the relationships between government, nongovernmental associations and individual veterans in post-war periods give rise to a political field in which veterans and their descendants explore the possibility of newfound influence as well as frustrating setbacks. We have also explored the degree to which these relationships emerging out of specific time periods (the 1920s or the 1950s) have been interpreted by later generations of Algerians and Tunisians to form the basis of an analysis of current North African-European Union relations. For the immediate post-war periods after World War I and World War II, these interactions produced an immediate failure on the part

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of the bureaucracy to provide essential pensions and other benefits for most North African troops. However, at the same time, this policy failure had an unintended impact upon the rural and poorly educated Algerian and Tunisian veterans. Negotiations with the government over pensions and other benefits, although often frustrating, undoubtedly gave the veterans a better understanding of the bureaucratic process which formed the backbone of colonial Algeria and Tunisia. We have noted how Tunisian veterans wrote collective letters to French authorities demanding jobs and other benefits shortly after the Second World War. We have also seen how both Algerian and Tunisian veterans organized themselves into veterans’ associations which were independent of the European-dominated ones that were common immediately following both world wars. These new organizations harshly criticized the racial discrimination faced by Algerian and Tunisian veterans. We can view these developments among Algerian and Tunisian veterans as magnifying the impact of successful anti-colonial nationalist movements such as the National Liberation Front (FLN) and the Neo-Destour parties in Algeria and Tunisia respectively. After North African states gained their independence in the 1950s and 1960s, the relationships between bureaucracy, veterans’ associations and individuals informed the creative processes of filmmakers, novelists and others who used the North African veteran as a vehicle to explain colonialism to generations born after Algeria and Tunisia became independent. Initial attempts to demonize the colonial veteran following independence, as we have seen in the articles of the Tunisian journal al-Jaysh, were replaced by a more heroic view of the North African veteran in films such as the recent film of Rachid Bouchareb Indigènes. This shift is understandable given the new relationships between the Maghreb and the European Union based on immigration and economics which had replaced the colonial dynamic by the 1990s. Although the conditions had changed, North Africans still debated their role as political and economic actors in the Mediterranean region dominated by Europe to the north. The re-telling of the colonial veteran’s story to this generation of North Africans in film, fiction and historical studies attempted to address some of these concerns. What are some of the new directions that are important for the further study of social policy towards veterans? Further research must explore the role that successful military veterans had in their society. Too often military veterans are portrayed as the unfortunate victims

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of impersonal social policies that fail them without an adequate understanding of the exact governmental mistakes that led to insufficient policies and procedures. Yet, there were Algerians and Tunisians who received pensions, gained licenses to operate cafes and did receive jobs as a direct result of their veteran status. What role did these ‘successful’ veterans play in North African societies? In the case of Algeria, a study of the past may yet prove valuable for understanding the present. Unlike Tunisia, which received independence in 1956, Algeria has a large population of former veterans of the war of liberation (1954–1962) that rivals the population of colonial veterans from the Second World War. Many of the veterans’ policies put in place by the French administration have been adopted by Algeria following independence. Future studies on veterans and social policy should seek to understand the failures of the colonial past with respect to military veterans in light of current states, like Algeria, which face similar challenges to provide benefits for their own population of veterans of the wars of de-colonization.

THE CREATIVITY OF DESTRUCTION: WARTIME IMAGININGS OF DEVELOPMENT AND SOCIAL POLICY, C. 1942–1946* Benjamin Zachariah Introduction During the Second World War, relatively abstract discussions about the future of an Indian economy and an independent Indian political order began to coalesce around the problems of a wartime economy and the anticipated problems of adjusting to peacetime. It has been suggested that the origins of Indian economic planning can be found in the war economy, and furthermore that a state apparatus that was being increasingly decentralised from the 1920s was in the course of the war turned into an extremely centralised state, that then fit the needs of centrally directed developmental planning in the years after independence.1 Although this view needs some qualification, in particular in terms of questions of intentionality (many of the schemes were practical, ad hoc and a response to particular circumstances), and in terms of attempted uses of languages of legitimacy (Indian nationalists were reluctant to concede that British imperialism had been able to author anything of value for a post-independence Indian state, while British government propaganda tried to dress many of its schemes as Indian nationalist),2 much thinking on developmental issues was indeed

* This is a survey piece that contains a certain amount of self-plagiarism (for the sources of which, see footnotes), in addition to new work, much of which is still at a preliminary stage. I thank Franziska Roy and Aditya Sarkar for their comments, as also the participants in the conference ‘The World in the World Wars’ at the Zentrum Moderner Orient in Berlin, and the editors of the volume. I also thank Franziska Roy for her editorial assistance, without which this piece would have been unreadable. 1 See Dietmar Rothermund, “Die Anfänge der indischen Wirtschaftsplanung im Zweiten Weltkrieg,” in Dritte Welt: historische Prägung und politische Herausforderung: Festschrift zum 60. Geburtstag von Rudolf von Albertini, eds. Peter Hablützel, Hans-Werner Tobler and Albert Wirz, (Beiträge zur Kolonial und Überseegeschichte) 24 (Wiesbaden, 1983), pp. 81–94. 2 Sanjoy Bhattacharya and Benjamin Zachariah, “ ‘A Great Destiny’: The British Colonial State and the Advertisement of Post-War Reconstruction in India, 1942–45,” South Asia Research 19, 1 (1999), 71–100.

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catalysed by the Second World War.3 Efforts by the imperial government to manage and control the war economy sometimes provided the mechanisms and schemes that Indian inheritors of state power wished to see materialise; and even as documents like the Advisory Planning Board Report of 1946 underplayed this, major documents of social policy were written during the war with an imagined post-war context in mind. This essay will examine the wartime contexts for the emergence of these schemes, and provide a brief survey of some of the schemes themselves. Rhetorical Conventions and Political Projects At the outset, it is worth restating the terms on which Indian debates on ‘development’ were conducted. These provided the language of legitimacy within which the specifics of the end-of-the-war debates that are the subject of this paper were placed. Claims to ‘socialism’—or to some social concern for the poor and downtrodden—were obligatory, and were by the 1940s made by capitalists and avowed socialists alike (capitalists were extremely worried that socialism was in the ascendant, and decided that the best way to protect themselves was to appear to concede ‘socialism’ while maintaining the ‘essential features of capitalism’). Also invoked were ‘science’, technology and technical expertise as ways of achieving ‘modern’ social and economic goals— even by the Gandhians, who tried to redefine the ‘modern’ in such a way as to justify a decentralised, village-based and labour-intensive socio-economic order as more in keeping with ‘modern’ trends. To achieve these goals, a good deal of ‘national discipline’ was required, and the ‘masses’ were to have to make some sacrifices in the shortterm, or in the ‘transitional period’. And lastly, all solutions to social, economic or political problems had to conform to ‘indigenous’ values: borrowings from ‘foreign’ systems were to be treated with suspicion. This was a particularly useful tactical argument used against socialists and communists by Gandhians and by the right (often strategically merging with the Gandhians); but it was also used by socialists to argue that communists were ‘foreign’ elements controlled from Moscow. The appeal of the ‘indigenist’ strand of argument in a colonised 3 Benjamin Zachariah, Developing India: an Intellectual and Social History, c. 1930– 1950 (Delhi, 2005), chapter 5.

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country was rhetorically powerful, and could often put people who counted themselves in the ‘progressive’ camp on the defensive. These views could all be contained within a general view of ‘development’ as ‘progress’, and of India as a ‘modern’ country with a rich ‘tradition’.4 These were formulae that emerged from vibrant and often acrimonious debates in the course of the 1930s and in some cases drew strongly upon and incorporated earlier debates. But this language could hide rather than highlight actual political divides. The centrality of the antiimperialist struggle and the alliance sought between Indian capitalists and Indian ‘nationalism’ often led to a deferral of questions of labour rights, wages and welfare—both before and after independence. This happened simultaneously with attempts of sections of those who thought of themselves as on the left, then organised on a coalitional basis, to mobilise labour behind the national movement. The nationalist leadership and the postcolonial state it controlled thereafter claimed to represent labour and at the same time demanded discipline from the labour force for ‘national’ goals. The central myth that made this possible was that the post-independence Indian state would be a benign one, or at least a lesser evil. There were political, economic and discursive conditions for the emergence of this myth, in which the custodians of the national state instrumentalised the ‘masses’, and presented themselves as intermediaries between the exploiters (capitalists, landlords) and the exploited (workers, peasants). The operation of a language of legitimacy that simultaneously centred on the ‘masses’ and marginalised them by invoking the ‘nation’ as the greater collective good is something that has yet to receive adequate attention. But we are getting ahead of the story: we are speaking of a time of the transition from formal colonial rule to formal independence—I use the term ‘formal’ by design, because substantively, ‘independence’ or ‘transfer of power’ was a longer tale of unfinished business. By the 1940s, nationalist arguments, which had been crystallised in opposition to the conventions of imperialist argument, had begun to lose their opponent with the conventions of imperialist arguments themselves beginning to shift towards a more apparently nationalist rhetoric. During the Second World War, this acceptance, which was often instrumentally driven by the needs of wartime propaganda, caused the dressing up of

4

See Zachariah, Developing India, for an elaboration of these arguments.

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imperial developmental schemes in nationalist colours.5 Meanwhile, many supporters of the idea of imperialism were able to reconcile their acceptance of nationalist positions on development with their faith in the progressive role of the British in India.6 This shared language of legitimation does not imply, of course, that there was a substantial consensus operating in the political environment of late colonial India. Indeed, if we look closely at this question from the perspective of a slightly later period, it was in fact the conventionalised emptiness of the language of ‘development’ that made it such a successful Cold War project: no one could object to development as a goal, but it was a goal that did not need to be elaborated upon, and therefore remained, as a term, a normative positive even when it was unclear what exactly it was intended to describe—so two users of the same term could be speaking of completely different things, and therefore publicly agree. Hard bargaining would then happen behind the scenes.7 This of course is a set of observations that does not help us arrive at readings of the plans under scrutiny. Once again, this is further complicated by what Max Weber would have considered the bureaucratic rationality of the state, and what has been debated in terms of the ‘relative autonomy’ of states (from their class nature): a bureaucrat produces work according to the nature of his brief, and accordingly, in the best traditions of the Indian Civil Service, a good deal of detailed and dedicated work went into the wartime plans for the future.8 Many of these schemes were produced by Indian bureaucrats who shared at least some of the enthusiasm of the ‘nationalists’ for the project of planning. To add to this, the specifics of the war situation and the anticipation of post-war plans meant that very directly practical and instrumental questions had to be considered, as well as to be placed within the emergent or existing languages of legitimation. Thus, the 5 Zachariah, Developing India, pp. 223–224; Bhattacharya and Zachariah, “A Great Destiny”. 6 For an elaboration of this argument, see for instance Benjamin Zachariah, “Rewriting Imperial Mythologies: The Strange Case of Penderel Moon,” South Asia 24, 2 (2001), 53–72. 7 Many such episodes could be recorded: see for instance Anita Inder Singh, The Limits of British Influence: South Asia and the Anglo-American Relationship 1947–56 (London, 1993); Philip Joseph Charrier, Britain, India and the Genesis of the Colombo Plan, 1945–1951, PhD thesis (University of Cambridge, 1995). 8 For a list, see A. H. Hanson, The Process of Planning: A Study of India’s Five-Year Plans 1950–1964 (Oxford, 1966), pp. 37–40.

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problem of finding practical solutions might have to be preceded, followed or accompanied by finding public justifications for them; and the public justifications might well be more important than the practical solutions, which in many cases there was no way of knowing whether they would ever be implemented. In addition, while the state apparatus grew massively in size during the war, it did not grow fast enough or large enough to meet the increased workload placed on it by the war; and it was deliberately shrunk after the war as the state withdrew from some of its newly-acquired duties.9 Master Plans and Sub-Plans We are here speaking of a wider and more grandiose set of aspirations: ‘development’ and ‘planning’, juxtaposed against a narrower and more practical set of plans bearing the name ‘post-war reconstruction’. Given the nature of debates that had been up and running from at least the beginning of the Great Depression about the nature and meaning of national development, reconstruction, and so on, it was inevitable that the latter set would be read in terms of the former; and in fact, this was recognised by all concerned. Debates among colonial officials, preceding and surrounding post-war reconstruction often related to the presentation of these proposed policies to the Indian ‘public’, as part of the government’s efforts to manage public opinion. There were good financial reasons for this. The War Financial Settlement of April 1940 provided that India would pay her ordinary defence expenditure plus additional expenses incurred in ‘specifically Indian interests’, anything over this amount being met by the British Exchequer.10 Initially, with India a debtor of Britain’s, the costs of extraordinary defence expenditure, war supplies purchases for other than Indian theatres of war, and raising, equipping and maintaining additional troops were adjusted against this debt. But the debt was soon wiped out. Thereafter, notional ‘sterling balances’ began accumulating in London, to be repaid to India after the war. The optimistic view (held, among others, by Secretary of State for India Leo Amery) that the balances could be considered future demand for British goods after

9 See Sanjoy Bhattacharya, Propaganda and information in Eastern India, 1939–45: A Necessary Weapon of War (London, 2001). 10 Note by Kingsley Wood, Treasury, March 14, 1942, BL, IOR/L/F/7/2861, f. 247.

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the war, and that consequently, social policy measures could be planned with the possibility of being financed at some later stage, was opposed by the pessimism of John Maynard Keynes, adviser to the Treasury, who held that Britain would require its industrial capacity for itself after the war. Meanwhile, Sir Stafford Cripps, fresh from the failure of his Mission in 1942, devised a plan of social engineering allegedly to lift the Indian masses out of poverty, and attempted to sell this to his government as both an imperative of benevolent imperialism and as potentially valuable propaganda in India.11 “It is most important”, Cripps wrote, “that the Indian workers and peasants should realise that it is a British initiative which is working for them against their Indian oppressors; this will entail a proper publicity service in India.”12 Wartime Concerns and the Attempt to Control Public Opinion13 Such publicly proclaimed promises of (mostly deferred, but some immediate) economic benefits to India and Indians became a central part of the war effort in India. In the early part of the war, Indian business interests, who bore the main burden of production for the war effort, had to be kept relatively acquiescent, and were therefore a ‘priority class’.14 Businessmen complained that an Excess Profits Tax removed investable surplus from their hands; this was according to the government an anti-inflationary measure—the friction thus created was tempered by the fact that business had the opportunity to make relatively large war profits.15 However, mutual suspicion among government and Indian business continued throughout the war. Due to their crucial role in war production, workers attached to strategically significant industries were also considered a ‘priority class’, and given special treatment in order to stabilise factory production in India. The operation of “war-industries” was declared an “essential

11 See Benjamin Zachariah, “Imperial Economic Policy for India, 1942–44: Confusion and Readjustment,” in Turbulent Times: India, 1940–1944, ed. Biswamoy Pati (Bombay, 1998), pp. 185–213. 12 Note by Sir Stafford Cripps, 2/9/1942, BL, IOR/L/E/8/2527, ff. 339–341. For details of Cripps’s scheme, see Zachariah, “Imperial Economic Policy”. 13 Much of what follows in this section was originally presented in Bhattacharya and Zachariah, “A Great Destiny”. 14 ‘Priority classes’ during the Second World War were those sections of the population whose work or loyalty was considered particularly crucial for the war effort. 15 See Rothermund, “Die Anfänge”.

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public-service” from February 1941, enabling coercive measures to be employed against the workers with a view to preventing “mass migrations [. . .] as a result of panic” from industrial areas.16 Between 1942 and mid-1944, the Government worked in partnership with business to provide benefits for urban workers such as subsidised food and cloth, fuel and medicines like quinine, to encourage workers to stay at their posts and as a disincentive to strikes, which the Defence of India Rules17 had been unable to stop. Industrialists themselves, with active support from the Government, devised schemes for providing food, shelter and essential supplies as part of the wage package, rather than pay higher wages in cash, which would soon shrink in purchasing power.18 From December 1943, the aims and activities of the Labour Investigation Committee (on which more will be said below) were highlighted, with one publicity note declaring that it had been appointed by the Central Government so as to “collect data for evolving plans for the social security of Industrial Labour” in the post-war period.19 The actual delivery of essential commodities is not a success story. The Government initially viewed with favour the rise in prices of agricultural goods that accompanied the beginning of the war, because agricultural prices had not fully recovered from the Depression, and it was felt that the cultivator deserved this increase,20 which moreover would keep him contented and docile during the war. The “Grow More Food” campaign was inaugurated in 1942, in anticipation of the loss of rice imports from Burma after its fall to the Japanese.21 Food grain rationing for the non-urban or even the non-‘priority’ population of the urban centres was a rather late measure, which actually began after

16 Most Secret letter from the Defence Co-ordination Department, Government of India, to all Chief Secretaries and Chief Commissioners of provinces, March 12, 1941, H.P.F. (I) 15/1/41, National Archives of India (NAI), cited in Bhattacharya and Zachariah, “A Great Destiny,” p. 83. 17 The Defence of India Rules were a comprehensive set of wartime regulations that empowered the central government to control economic and political affairs, remove ordinary operations of civil liberties (such as they were in a colony), censor the press, prohibit strikes and demonstrations, and so on. 18 Benthall Papers, Centre for South Asian Studies, Cambridge, Box XVIII, passim. 19 Unofficial [press] note on the “Investigation of Indian Labour Problems [and] Appointment of a Fact Finding Committee”, December 31, 1943, BL, IOR/L/I/1/1145, cited in Bhattacharya and Zachariah, “A Great Destiny,” p. 84. 20 Sir Henry Knight, Food Administration in India 1939–1947 (Stanford, 1954), pp. 34–35. 21 Famine Enquiry Commission, Final Report (Madras, 1945), p. 11.

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the disasters of the Bengal Famine of 1943.22 Britain had introduced rationing as soon as the war broke out; but in January 1943, Theodore Gregory, the Permanent Economic Adviser to the Government of India, had noted that the rationing of the urban population was a “formidable undertaking”, and the administrative problems of such a course were too great. He advocated instead cheap grain shops for supply to certain sections of the population.23 Other commodities such as cloth came under rationing later. Official circles took their cue—rather late—from the industrial house of Birla, who early on in the war had set up unofficial cheap food and clothes shops in Orissa and to distribute coupons, mainly to Congress supporters; this had been duly noted by the Government.24 During the Bengal Famine, special canteens and shops were opened and successfully run by civil servants, with the assistance of the managements of the factories, in all the major industrial centres. The prominence given to the needs of the industrial workers caused a delay in the initiation of rationing measures for the poorer sections of the ‘non-productive’ civilian population. In the first two years of the war, publicity measures directed at the Indian component of the Indian army involved soldiers and their families being allocated increasingly expensive consumer goods like food, cloth and medicines. This was linked with the advertising of such activities in the recruiting areas and the military units, and with descriptions of India’s contributions to the Allied efforts. The great increase in levels of recruitment from 1942 onwards brought a variety of allegedly ‘non-martial classes’ into the army, and especially its administrative, medical and technical corps. An estimate made in June 1942 showed that 33 per cent of the infantry and cavalry came from the ‘educated middle-classes’. These new types of recruit were seen as being more ‘politically conscious’, and it was decided that ‘the old loyalty’ based on the allegedly superior martial capabilities of some Indian communities would need to be replaced with a new “sense of purpose”,25 which would instead emphasise the soldiers’ material selfinterest. Questions of ‘development’ and post-war reconstruction were 22

Famine Enquiry Commission, Final Report, pp. 37–38. Gregory Collection, BL, IOR/MSS.EUR.D.1163/6, ff. 14–15. 24 Nicholas Mansergh, ed., India: the Transfer of Power 1942–1947, 12 vols. (London, 1973–1985), vol. 3, Doc 280: Amery to Linlithgow, 16/12/1942. 25 Most Secret Weekly Intelligence Summary (India Internal) [W.I.S. (I.I.)] July 23, 1943, BL, IOR/L/WS/1/1433, cited in Bhattacharya and Zachariah, “A Great Destiny,” p. 87. 23

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therefore stressed. The eventual demobilisation of troops was given much attention between 1943 and 1945 since unit intelligence reports frequently warned General Headquarters (India) that soldiers—from the so-called ‘martial races’ or otherwise—were worried about their prospects after the conflict and were demanding information on the issue.26 Official publicity material disseminated in the recruiting areas and units consistently began to describe the enormous potential of employing demobilised soldiers in the industries that had come up during the war and in the ‘co-operatives’ that were to be allegedly set up after the war.27 Publicity about the availability of a wide variety of jobs after demobilisation remained a prominent feature of the propaganda campaign directed at the Indian military personnel and their families till the end of the war. As the strategic situation improved for the Allies from the latter half of 1944, there was an increase in official propaganda dealing with the alleged post-war ‘welfare schemes’ for workers and soon-to-bedemobilised troops and non-combatant employees. Publicity material stressed the industrial progress that India had made during the war: ‘material assessments’ of ‘industrial India’ abounded, and one leaflet, referring to the country’s economic achievements, claimed that she “was following her steady course towards a great destiny, grateful for her present, and confident of her future.”28 The Production of Plans for Reconstruction and Development The story of reconstruction planning as it emerged is linked up with the modification of wartime controls embodied in the Defence of India Rules, grain rationing, cotton cloth controls,29 the coordination of Government Departments such as Labour, Commerce, War Transport, Industries and Civil Supplies, and the War Resources and

26 Secret W.I.S. (I.I.) 6 October 1944, BL, IOR/L/WS/1/1433, cited in Bhattacharya and Zachariah, “A Great Destiny,” p. 87. 27 Telegram from Bureau of Public Information, Government of India, to Information Department, India Office, March 3, 1944, BL, IOR/L/WS/1/1335, cited in Bhattacharya and Zachariah, “A Great Destiny,” p. 87. 28 India Tomorrow, vol. 1, No. 2, June 1944, p. 1. 29 Textile control began in May 1943, under the administrative control of the Industries and Civil Supplies Department. See M. K. Vellodi, “Cotton Textile Control in India,” Asiatic Review XLIII (January 1947), p. 10. Vellodi was Textile Commissioner until October 31, 1945.

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Reconstruction Committees.30 The purpose of post-war reconstruction was supposed to be evolution from a controlled war economy to a controlled peacetime one. Controls were deemed necessary to prevent the chaos which would occur if an economy geared to wartime needs and with scarcity of many essential commodities was simply left to sort itself out. Planned reconstruction was further necessary if recovery from wartime shortages and dislocations was to be achieved in the shortest possible time. In India such considerations were explicitly linked to political considerations and slightly less explicitly to the needs of the British economy, in the guise of the Sterling Balances question. The war, and in particular the early period of the war, was a period of confusion and recalculation, and the uncertainties of the situation did not allow for clear policy decisions. Lt. Gen. Thomas Hutton, the Secretary to the Reconstruction Committee of the Viceroy’s Executive Council wrote in an official note: We have yet to realise that a country can be very largely governed, as well as educated and reformed, by propaganda alone [. . .] The success of government, as of individuals, depends more on what people think of their achievements than on what they have actually done [. . .] [we need] a strong emphasis on propaganda as a permanent feature of Government activity.31

By 1943, at least in military circles in India, it was believed that Britain could no longer hold on to India after the war, even though the tide of the war had turned in favour of the Allies. The time, it was alleged, had come for a plan for orderly departure from India, while preserving long-term interests to the extent possible.32 This also required a gentler and less confrontational attitude to Indian nationalist aspirations—by

30 See BL, IOR/L/R/5/285–302: Government of India Departmental and Miscellaneous Histories of the War. For the military perspective on the same period see BL, IOR/L/R/5/272–284: Government of India War Department Histories of the Second World War, especially L/R/5/280: Transportation and Movements, and L/R/5/284: Supply and Transport. 31 Lt Gen. T. Hutton, Secretary, Reconstruction Committee of Council, to Laithwaite, Personal Secretary to the Viceroy, April 27–28, 1943, BL, IOR/MSS.EUR.F.125/138 [Transfer of Power, vol. 3, Doc 672.]. 32 The new Viceroy Lord Wavell confided this candidly to his journal, written with a vivid sense of his duty to posterity. See Penderel Moon, ed., Wavell: The Viceroy’s Journal (London, 1973).

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which of course was meant Indian elite aspirations, as it was to that elite that power was to be transferred.33 Various schemes came into being at this time, and older schemes were dragged out of dusty filing cabinets, to be reprinted and appended to new reports. All of this, rhetorically at least, was given a context of accepting Indian developmental aspirations on their own terms: was this announcing the end of imperialism as it had hitherto been known? Or was it the use of a rhetoric that had become obligatory? I have argued it was the latter.34 There was among civil servants a train of thought which fed into long-standing ideas of a benevolent imperialism’s civilising mission—now expressed in terms of economic progress.35 Such ideas were for instance an important part of the British Labour Party’s intellectual inheritance.36 Others were more cynical in their calculations, remoulding their narratives of their instrumental activities to fit the language required of a new situation, referring to the great achievements of Britain in leading India out of backwardness to both impending independence and development: even General Hutton did this a few years down the road.37 Stressing the public relations role of post-war planning of India’s economy provided an ideal ground for compromise. This skilfully postponed the problem of how to go about dealing with the practical administrative aspects while harnessing the idea to the war propaganda effort. Then again, many persons connected with these efforts were Indians who saw themselves as nationalists working within the imperial behemoth. Others were nominally

33 An analysis of this period is to be found in Benjamin Zachariah, Nehru (London, 2004), Chapter Four: The End of the Raj. 34 See Zachariah, Developing India, chapter 5; see also Benjamin Zachariah, “Rewriting Imperial Mythologies”. 35 See, for instance, Penderel Moon, Strangers in India (London, 1944). Moon resigned from the Indian Civil Service in 1943 after a disagreement with the then Viceroy, Linlithgow, but returned to India in 1946, staying on beyond the transfer of power to serve the newly independent government of India, notably as a member of the Planning Commission. 36 This was evident in post-war approaches to African political questions that held that economic progress was to be a precondition for political independence. See Partha Sarathi Gupta, Imperialism and the British Labour Movement (London, 1975), chapter 10: “Colonial Reforms: Blueprints and Realities”. On the more instrumental reasons for this position, i.e. dollar-saving and dollar-earning, see Peter J. Cain and Anthony G. Hopkins, British Imperialism: Crisis and Deconstruction 1914–1990 (London, 1993), chapter 11. 37 T. Hutton, “The Planning of Post-War Development in India,” Asiatic Review XLIII (April 1947).

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British, but without imperialist sympathies. The Chairman of the report on public health,38 Sir Joseph Bhore, was considered sympathetic to Indian nationalism; this had been attributed by Sir James Grigg, former Finance Member of the Viceroy’s Executive Council, and a member of Churchill’s War Cabinet, to Bhore’s “mixed marriage and the particoloured results of it.”39 The interest of many of these texts lies in their vision of what constituted social policy, what the role of a state ought to be in a citizen’s welfare (the term ‘welfare state’ was not yet hegemonic) and what connection state intervention, control, or ownership of industry might have to do with socialism, however defined. That these texts have no necessary connection with future policy is to be expected both in the context of the uncertainties of their production (or, as we shall see, in the completely different contexts of their production), and in the nature of the brief to bureaucrats. Here, if you like, relatively unconstrained by the mundane and banal details of the need to provide a practical blueprint for tomorrow, a scheme-maker could temporarily take leave of his bureaucratic avatar and give full voice to his poetic soul. The Government’s short-lived Planning and Development Department produced the most-cited document of the government’s publicity campaigns around economic issues in the last years of the war: the Second Report on Reconstruction Planning. This Report appeared to concede most of the nationalist demands on economic matters, including an interventionist and protectionist policy on the part of the Government in order to encourage industrialisation.40 By this time, any proposal which had to be taken seriously had to appear to reject conventional imperialism, to dress itself in nationalist colours, and in addition to accept socialism. The rhetoric of the Second Report duly conceded all these things. The year 1944, the year of its publication, also saw the publication not only of the “Bombay Plan” of the Indian 38 Health Survey and Development Committee (1943–45) (Delhi, 1946), BL, IOR/ V/26/840/12–15. 39 Letter from J. Grigg to F. Stewart at the India Office, 23 July 1934, PJGG 2/20/6(b), Grigg papers, Churchill College Archives Centre, Cambridge. Stewart politely agreed that Bhore was a nationalist, but defended him as “a very moderate and reasonable nationalist”, while gently alluding to the possible racist connotations of Grigg’s remarks. See, letter from Stewart to Grigg, 10 August 1934, PJGG 2/20/8(a). 40 Government of India, Planning and Development Department, Second Report on Reconstruction Planning (Delhi, 1944). Also published, between 1945 and 1946, were a series of publicity pamphlets, with plenty of photographs, on the subject of post-war planning and reconstruction. See copies in BL, IOR/L/I/1/1139.

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industrialists’ lobby,41 but also the “People’s Plan” of M. N. Roy’s Indian Federation of Labour,42 a “Gandhian Plan”, authored by S. N. Agarwal with a foreword by the Mahatma himself,43 and a plan formulated by the Planning Committee of the All-India Muslim League.44 The Bombay Plan Businessmen found themselves in a reasonably happy position during the War, making high and regular profits over a significant period of time, putting existing excess capacity to good use, while able to take advantage of this spell of inadvertent protection and potential import substitution. Nevertheless there were limits to such industrialisation: profits were high, and real wages declined due to inflation, but there was no scope for further investment, producing a strange situation of ‘stagflation’. Investment goods, not manufactured in India, were not available, and given the shipping priorities45 of the period, could not be imported either. Moreover, industrial capital-raising was impeded by the British Government swallowing up all available credit for the War Effort.46 This led businessmen to look to the post-war period for further expansion of industry through capital goods imports and protected growth. They required from the state certain basic infrastructural investments like power, transport, public utilities; they were willing to leave to the state the larger, more risky or traditionally non-remunerative enterprises which nonetheless were necessary for industrial growth. Wherever private enterprise might find it profitable to invest,

41 Sir P(urshotamdas) Thakurdas, J. R. D. Tata, G. D. Birla, Sir Ardeshir Dalal, Sir Shri Ram, Kasturbhai Lalbhai, A. D. Shroff and John Matthai, A Plan of Economic Development for India, Parts I and II (Bombay, April and December 1944 respectively) [hereafter “Bombay Plan” and “Bombay Plan II”]. 42 B. N. Banerjee et al, People’s Plan for Economic Development of India (Delhi, 1944) [hereafter ‘People’s Plan’]. 43 S. N. Agarwal, The Gandhian Plan of Economic Development for India (Bombay, 1944). 44 See Ian Talbot, “Planning for Pakistan: The Planning Committee of the All-India Muslim League 1943–46,” Modern Asian Studies 28, 4 (1994), 877–886. 45 During the war, allocation of shipping capacity was done entirely on the basis of wartime and military needs. Civilian needs were not a priority. 46 Normally, ‘stagflation’ occurs when an increase in prices is accompanied by an increase in wages, reducing capitalists’ profits and therefore the propensity to invest. Industrial production therefore recedes. See Dietmar Rothermund, An Economic History of India (London, 1986), pp. 119–120.

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freedom from state intervention was sought.47 In the category of ‘basic’ and ‘key’ industries, which the Congress-sponsored National Planning Committee (NPC) had discussed from 1938, existing private ventures should be left untouched as long as they were “economically viable”.48 The Bombay Plan, authored by several prominent Indian businessmen, put forward concrete views on subjects directly concerning the operation of business and industry. The Plan began by acknowledging its debt to the NPC, “to whose labours the conception of a planned economy for India is largely due”. But without the uncomfortable presence of ‘socialists’ in their ranks its authors had much more of a free hand to present their views. Its objective, it was claimed, was to put forward, “as a basis of discussion”, a set of objectives regarding general lines of development and its demands on national resources. Politically, it made the assumption of “a national government” after the War with “full freedom in economic matters”. The future government was to be on a federal basis, but central government jurisdiction in “economic matters” should extend over the whole of India. Although the “maintenance of the economic unity of India” was considered essential to “effective planning”, “this does not preclude the possibility of a regional grouping of provinces and States as an intermediary link in a federal organisation.”49 This set of formulae covered businessmen’s tracks quite well. The reference to the NPC and a ‘national government’ asserted their nationalist credentials while at the same time the “as a basis of discussion” clause left doors open for the government, the latter already having in principle committed themselves to some form of national government.50 The reference to regional grouping even accommodated the idea of Pakistan in its then current form,51 while at the same time emphasising economic unity. The compromise approach had not been abandoned,

47

Raghabendra Chattopadhyay, The Idea of Planning in India, 1930–1951, PhD thesis (University of Canberra, 1985), p. 162; Aditya Mukherjee, “Indian Capitalist Class and Congress on National Planning and Public Sector, 1930–47,” in National and Left Movements in India, ed. Kavalam Narayana Panikkar (New Delhi, 1980). 48 See K. T. Shah, ed., Report: National Planning Committee (Bombay, 1949). These contain proceedings of meetings that were held before the war and after the Congress leadership was released from jail in 1944. 49 “Bombay Plan,” introduction. 50 The Cripps formula had been post-war Dominion status with the right of secession. 51 See Ayesha Jalal, The Sole Spokesman: Jinnah, the Muslim League and the Demand for Pakistan (Cambridge, 1985).

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it was if anything more important in fluid political circumstances; but businessmen did not need and could no longer afford to be as vague and woolly as with the NPC. They realised that the time was near when they would have to actively defend their interests against government’s ‘nationalising’ ventures and the commercial advantages or ‘safeguards’ provided for British expatriate business in India52 or the ‘India Limited’ branches of foreign companies which began to be formed in order to circumvent Indian tariff walls from 1933.53 The main objective of the Bombay Plan was obvious to the sponsors of the project: since it was reasonably clear that the government would soon be a national one, it would get round quickly to dealing with the problem of economic development. In the given anti-capitalist atmosphere worldwide, [t]he inevitability of a change in the direction of a socialist economy even in a country like India must now be recognised and leaders of industry would be well advised to take this into account and be prepared to make such adjustments as may meet all reasonable demands before the socialist movement assumes the form of a full fledged revolution. The most effective way in which extremer demands in future may be obviated is for industrialists to take thought while there is yet time as to the best means of incorporating whatever is sound and feasible in the socialist movement. One of the principal tasks of the Committee will therefore be to examine how far socialist demands can be accommodated without capitalism surrendering any of its essential features.54

This had to be done without seeming to attempt “to vindicate capitalism as an institution but impartially to analyse capitalism with a view to determining what modifications are necessary to enable it to render the best possible service to the country”.55 The Bombay Plan was published in two parts, the period between the publication of the first and the second seeing extensive discussions between the government and the authors, the former raising objections

52 Sections 111–121 of Chapter III, Part IV of the Government of India Act of 1935. The 1935 Government of India Act contained legislation to protect British business and commercial interests in India, lest a nationalist government imposed disabilities on them as “foreign”. 53 B. R. (Tom) Tomlinson, “Foreign Private Investment in India 1920–1950,” Modern Asian Studies 12, 4 (1978), 655–677. 54 P. Thakurdas papers, Nehru Memorial and Museum Library (NMML), File 291 Part II: Post-War Economic Development Committee, ff. 265–266. 55 P. Thakurdas papers, NMML, File 291 Part II: Post-War Economic Development Committee, f. 266.

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of practical import rather than on matters of principle, and appointing one of the latter, Sir Ardeshir Dalal, as Planning and Development Member. It was obvious that communication between government and business was still possible, but Dalal was to resign in December 1945 on the issue of commercial safeguards: if protection of private enterprise could be better achieved from within the government, protection of specifically Indian business could not.56 The Bombay Plan envisaged a doubling of the per capita income in 15 years, which would, allowing for population increase, amount to a trebling of the national income. The initial stages would give attention to the development of industries for power and capital goods, with the ultimate objective of “reducing our dependence on foreign countries”.57 A qualification was to be made for essential consumption goods, which could be produced by small-scale and cottage industries, which would then not only employ people but reduce the need for expensive machinery purchases. There was an attempt to define a minimum standard of living and public health, and special attention was paid to maternity and childbirth, education and literacy.58 “Basic industries” were power, mining and metallurgy, engineering, chemicals and fertilizers, armaments, transport, and cement—“the basis on which the economic superstructure envisaged in the plan would have to be erected”.59 The need for self-sufficiency in food was stressed, and co-operative farming was recommended as a solution to the problem of fragmentation of land holdings—to achieve which “some measure of compulsion appears to be desirable”.60 Regarding finance, the Plan envisaged the use of hoarded wealth in gold, which would be available for capital investment due to the faith in a national government, India’s favourable trade balance, the sterling balances (to be utilised for “importing the capital goods required at the beginning of the plan”), foreign borrowing, especially from America, and creating money “to increase the productive capacity of the nation”—planned inflation.61

56 57 58 59 60 61

See Chattopadhyay, The Idea of Planning, pp. 214–235, for details. “Bombay Plan,” pp. 1–6. “Bombay Plan,” pp. 7–20. “Bombay Plan,” p. 25. “Bombay Plan,” p. 31. “Bombay Plan,” pp. 44–50.

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Part II of the Plan62 dealt with more controversial issues, essentially concerning itself with drawing boundaries beyond which the state would not be permitted to encroach upon private enterprise’s territory. Private enterprise, “in spite of its admitted shortcomings [. . .] possesses certain features which have stood the test of time and have enduring achievements to their credit [. . .] we think it would be [. . .] a mistake to uproot an organisation which has worked with a fair measure of success in several directions”. Although the acknowledged aim of policy was a “reasonable standard of living” and the necessity “gradually to reduce the existing inequalities of wealth and property and to decentralise the ownership of the means of production”, “total abolition of inequalities, even if feasible, would not be in the interest of the country”.63 The Plan recommended a steeply graduated income tax—with adequate remission granted for asset depreciation and income reinvested on industrial and agricultural production. The precondition was a “national government”: “it is a dangerous thing to vest large powers of taxation in a foreign government bred in traditions of imperialist exploitation”.64 It also saw the need for a “comprehensive scheme of social insurance”— but recognised its infeasibility until full and stable employment had been achieved “i.e. until the risks insurable are reduced to manageable proportions” and until individual incomes had risen to be able to meet the contributions required by such a scheme.65 The role of the state was to “exercise in the interests of the community a considerable measure of intervention and control”. But despite an “enlargement of the positive as well as the preventive functions of the State”, democratic ideas required the “assent of the community”, and a “surrender” of freedom could only be demanded for “well-defined ends”. Moreover, the modification of laissez-faire and the move towards state intervention has transformed capitalism to the extent that “the distinction between capitalism and socialism has lost much of its significance from a practical standpoint”.66 The Plan then proceeded to distinguish between state ownership, management and control. The last was the most important “from the point of view of maximum social

62 P. Thakurdas et al., A Plan of Economic Development for India, Part II: Distribution: Role of the State (hereafter “Bombay Plan II”), see above, n. 41. 63 “Bombay Plan II,” pp. 1–5. 64 “Bombay Plan II,” pp. 20–22. 65 “Bombay Plan II,” p. 19. 66 “Bombay Plan II,” pp. 23–5.

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welfare”, and it was accepted that this was “bound to put important limitations on the freedom of private enterprise as it is understood at present”. Such control was necessary for enterprises under state ownership, public utilities, basic industries, monopolies or those using scarce natural resources. State ownership of enterprises important to “public welfare or security” was recognised as necessary, but all state-owned ventures need not be under state management; moreover, if private finance “is prepared to take over these industries”, they could do so, although state control should remain.67 Regarding matters such as agriculture, solutions suggested were more desultory and less well-thought-out: agriculture was less directly the problem of the authors. But a certain deference for property had to be observed if the sacrosanct nature of their own property was to be recognised. Regarding land tenure, it was argued that in effect, the occupancy tenant was the proprietor of the land as various tenancy acts had already “deprived the zamindar of a considerable part of his proprietory right”. The ryotwari system68 was recommended to be introduced in place of zamindari as a form of revenue collection, as the Floud Commission of 1938 on land revenue in Bengal had recommended (this was a safe authority to cite), but a “gradual application of this recommendation” was urged, with stress on compensation payments by the state.69 Government Responses: the Bombay Plan and the Second Report The Bombay Plan was phrased in terms that could be said to emanate from the National Planning Committee, and was cast as the latter’s successor. In this project the Planners were fortunate in having on their payroll a former Congress Socialist as director of public relations ventures surrounding the Plan. Minoo Masani, having just left the Congress Socialists, combining a rather perceptive assault on Stalinism with an abandonment of his commitment to socialism and a recommendation of a closer look at Gandhian ideas in a more constructive

67

“Bombay Plan II,” pp. 27–32. The ryotwari system of land revenue collection assessed the individual peasant (ryot) proprietor or producer rather than the landlord (the zamindar), whose job it then was to collect rents from the producers. 69 “Bombay Plan II,” pp. 15–16. 68

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light,70 had just joined Tata Sons.71 Masani was an adept publicist, succeeding even in turning the material of an economic plan into an illustrated children’s book.72 The Plan itself was largely the work of Dr John Matthai, also an employee of Tata Sons, and a former student of Sidney Webb’s at the London School of Economics, under whom he had written his doctoral dissertation on village government in British India—a work which Matthai himself seems not to have considered too important to his own intellectual development.73 After the publication of the Bombay Plan, the Government of India decided to take a ‘friendly’ attitude to the Plan and to refrain from ‘destructive criticism’.74 Sir Theodore Gregory, the Economic Adviser to the Government of India, who was often called upon to articulate the government’s position in academically respectable language,75 prepared detailed notes on the plan.76 These were intended not only to address “fallacies and technical defects in economic and financial argument”77 but also to express agreement regarding general aims and objectives. The Information Department’s unofficial note on the first part of the Plan, prepared in pursuance of the Viceroy’s request for the India Office to provide “confidential guidance” to editors,78 stated that “there can be no two opinions about the ideals aimed at in the Bombay Plan and there is no difference between Government and the authors in regard to the ultimate objectives.”79 The complete texts of Gregory’s two notes on the Bombay Plan, intended for internal official circulation, were also sent to Geoffrey Crowther, editor of the Economist, a publication with which the India Office had extremely amicable relations and which could be relied upon to protect the source of its information so as to make its 70

Minoo Masani, Socialism Reconsidered (Bombay, 1944). P. Thakurdas Papers, NMML, File No. 341, “Bombay Plan 2/1/45–20/1/50”. 72 M. R. Masani, Picture of a Plan (Bombay, 1944). 73 This was published as John Matthai, Village Government in British India (London, 1915). 74 Cipher telegram from Wavell, Viceroy, India, to L. Amery, Secretary of State for India, June 12, 1944, BL, IOR/L/I/1/1061, f. 93. 75 Gregory had been, before entering the employ of the Government of India, Cassell Professor of Political Economy at London University and was a well-known conservative economist of neo-classical inclinations. See biographical summary in BL, IOR/MSS.EUR.D.1163. 76 See, BL, IOR/L/I/1/1061, ff. 95–104 and ff. 27–29. 77 Cipher telegram from Wavell to Amery, 12 June 1944, BL, IOR/L/I/1/1061, f. 93. 78 See, BL, IOR/ L/I/1/1061, f. 93. 79 Unofficial note on the “Bombay Plan,” BL, IOR/ L/I/1/1061, f. 105. 71

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eventual story appear to be an unofficial view.80 A consequences of the government’s sympathetic attitude to the Bombay Plan was the incorporation of Sir Ardeshir Dalal, one of the document’s authors, into the Viceroy’s Executive Council as Member for the newly created Department of Planning and Development, which took over the job of co-ordinating “post-war reconstruction and development” from the Inter-departmental Reconstruction Committee of Council.81 The public presentation of the Second Report required that it be phrased in the most general terms possible without actually committing the Government to anything practical. Finance Member Jeremy Raisman advised Sir Ardeshir Dalal to tread softly in what he said on financial matters on the grounds that everything seemed uncertain during the war.82 The rhetoric of the Government’s Statement of Industrial Policy in 1945 was bewilderingly general.83 The generalities of the Statement were bewildering even to those in the Planning bureaucracy, one of whom described it as “nebulous”, “redundant”, being a repetition of the Second Report, “not strictly accurate” and serving “only to confuse the issue”.84 An European bureaucrat, CE Jones, seemed to understand the reasoning better when he wrote in response to these criticisms that the Statement was “highly generalised in form and necessarily vague”—the vagueness being “understandable” because the Planning and Development Department was seeking “to secure general agreement on the main features of their approach to the problem”.85 It has

80

A. H. Joyce’s confidential memorandum to MacGregor, Billcliffe, Crawley and Booker (of the India Office), 26 May 1944, BL, IOR/L/I/1/1061, f. 116; correspondence between Joyce and Geoffrey Crowther, February 1945, ff. 2, 23–24, 26, ibid. 81 See BL, IOR/L/I/1/1129; also Chattopadhyay, The Idea of Planning, pp. 178–242. 82 Raisman to Dalal Simla, 15th September 1944, NAI: 1(4)-P/45: “Proceedings of the Reconstruction Committee of Council”, ff. 58–61. The discussions on the preliminary drafts of the Second Report and the correspondence thereon show a concern with toning down the more categorical commitments contained in it to more noncommittal forms (ff. 68–73). 83 Government of India, Statement of Industrial Policy, 1945, copy in NAI: 8(5)P/45, “Planning of Industrial Development”, ff. 119–27. 84 NAI, 8(5)-P/45, “Planning of Industrial Development”, A. S. Lall, Deputy Secretary, Finance, to Additional Secretary, Planning, 11/10/1944, f. 2. Another said it betrayed “loose thinking” and was “vague” (V. Narahari Rao’s memo dated 18/10/1944, ff. 7, 11). 85 NAI, 8(5)-P/45, “Planning of Industrial Development”\C. E. Jones’ note, 19/10/1944, f. 12. A. S. Lall, however, in a Note dated 30/12/1944, predicted that despite the Planning and Development Department’s appearing to “set great store” by an “unequivocal declaration” of its desire “to do everything in its power to promote the rapid industrialisation of India”, this would not help the Government’s public

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been noted that the Nehru government’s Industrial Policy Resolution of April 1948 was kinder to private industry than the Government of India’s Statement of Industrial Policy of 1945.86 But there was safety in knowing that there is no question of any of this becoming policy. The contrast between proclaimed rhetoric and intention is evident in the written record. A Planning Branch memo dated 17th October 1944 on the Second Report’s commitment to meeting the costs of housing for workers suggested that the sentence “should not be so categorical and should be more non-committal.”87 There are, again, larger concerns with which the Second Report dealt, more in line with concerns for order: it envisaged an ending of hostilities in the eastern theatre by end 1945, and a consequent demobilisation and large-scale drop in employment. It envisaged the beginnings of practical planning activities by 1946, which it recommended should prioritise “[s]chemes that will employ large amounts of labour”, so as “to prevent the distress and also the possible disorders that might result from widespread unemployment.”88 But this is a secondary borrowing: the Government takes the Bombay Plan as its basis, which at least in part as a result of the Government of India’s publicity on its behalf, was the most widely circulated of the plans for India in that annus mirabilis of paper plans, 1944. It was even published as a Penguin Special in 1945.89 But the Bombay Plan itself takes what it can from the National Planning Committee, which even with its dilute and apologetic commitments to social policy short of socialism, was still too far to the left for business. It is not impossible to see in this an attempt to dilute radical content for potential social policy and for the rearranging of principles to defend versions of capitalism in the years to come—a goal that, whatever other differences there might have been, was shared between Indian businessmen and the officials of the colonial state. Some of the ironies of the Bombay Plan—and indeed of the NPC discussions—were highlighted by the People’s Plan of M.N. Roy’s Indian Federation of Labour,90 a document that showed more scepticism about

image; it would “take not even the more intelligent industrialist to argue, and argue correctly, that such a statement means, and can mean, very little” (f. 19). 86 Chattopadhyay, The Idea of Planning, pp. 299–301 and appendices. 87 NAI: 1(4)-P/45, f. 73. 88 Second Report, p. 2. 89 P. Thakurdas et al., A Plan of Economic Development for India (Harmondsworth, 1945). 90 People’s Plan, see above, n. 42.

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the universal validity of the Soviet model of heavy industry-led development than the capitalists—which in the Soviet case was determined by the need for “self-defence”. This argued for an emphasis on agricultural growth to raise living standards, and for concentration on consumer goods to satisfy “the most minimum essential requirements” of the population. But this was of course within the framework of a state-run economy where demand was not defined by purchasing power, but by “human demand” and production for use, for which the authors believed private capital would not be forthcoming.91 The problems of Indian poverty “cannot be solved on the basis of the capitalist mode of production”, it was asserted. This view being too far to the left for its authors to believe in its possible adoption as the basis of planning; it was “submitted to the public, hoping that it may contribute to public discussion.”92 The authors stressed that they did not plead for a neglect of “basic industries”, but as a matter of relative emphasis, “it is indeed a little pathetic, and may even prove to be considerably harmful to start, with half-filled bellies and half-clad bodies, thinking in terms of automobiles and aeroplanes.”93 This document has usually been considered only of intellectual interest, its existence attributed to the generous supply by the government of paper during stringent paper rationing to the organisation that authored it. (During the war, the government was allegedly rather generous to those who supported the war effort rather than opposed it.) In 1946, the Interim Government, now led by Nehru, provided another restatement of planning objectives in the Report of the Advisory Planning Board. The Report itself was particularly concerned with a disavowal of its genealogy in initiatives begun by the colonial government, and claiming a new nationalist start, with clean hands, to the project.94 Private correspondence, however, is more revealing of the actual process of transition than this simple disavowal. The civil servant and future historian of India, Penderel Moon, whose commitment to the substance rather than the form of the imperial civilising mission saw him stay on in India after independence, was first Secretary to the Planning and Development Department of the Government of India, and then to the Advisory Planning Board. Moon’s probable scepticism 91 92 93 94

People’s Plan, p. 21; pp. 5–6. People’s Plan, see M. N. Roy’s Introduction. People’s Plan, pp. 21–2. Report of the Advisory Planning Board (Delhi, 1946).

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regarding the nationalist rhetoric of the Board, and his equal scepticism of its (non)-predecessor Department is not explicitly expressed, but can be read into his less than grandiose descriptions of his duties. “One of the main difficulties is the haphazard organisation of Govt itself. Many departments, Commissions and Committees overlap and should be abolished or fused together.”95 This he wrote in April. In June he wrote: “The formation of this new [Interim] Government may make a very great difference to our ‘Planning’ work—it may indeed bring it to an end.” The reason for this was that a new government could not run the development of major industries under the Defence of India Rules, as they were hitherto being run, and with the lapsing of the Rules, new legislation would be required to centralise industry; otherwise the subject would, under existing normal laws, revert to the Provincial Governments.96 By July he noted that the Planning and Development Department had been wound up, leaving him to carry on the residual work as Secretary of the Development Board, with some assistance.97 This was far from easy without knowledge of what an Interim Government would look like—the possibility of civil war was not something he ruled out.98 By early September, with an Interim Government in place, Moon was anticipating working with Jawaharlal Nehru himself.99 This duly happened, and by October, Moon’s new job had become clear: I’m decidedly busy at the moment as the new Govt has decided to appoint an Advisory Planning Board to review all the work that has so far been done and I have been appointed Secretary of it. I don’t think anything useful will come of it, but an enormous amount of material has to be summarised and put in some sort of order.100

The summary, called a Report, duly appeared at the end of 1946.

95

Penderel Moon to his father, April 20, 1946, Moon Collection, BL, IOR/MSS. EUR.F.230/19. 96 Penderel Moon to his father, June 5, 1946, Moon Collection, BL, IOR/MSS. EUR.F.230/19. 97 Penderel Moon to his father, July 9, 1946, Moon Collection, BL, IOR/MSS. EUR.F.230/19. 98 Penderel Moon to his father, July 13, 1946, Moon Collection, BL, IOR/MSS. EUR.F.230/19. 99 Penderel Moon to his father, September 4, 1946, Moon Collection, BL, IOR/ MSS.EUR.F.230/19. 100 Penderel Moon to his father, October 10, 1946, Moon Collection, BL, IOR/MSS. EUR.F.230/19.

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benjamin zachariah The Lesser Picture

If the large statements on policy were so mired in the search for the ideal formula with which to massage public opinion or capture the popular imagination, rather than for a viable post-war policy, perhaps the spaces in which to operate more safely were left to the lesser reports, many of which were written or compiled without quite the same expectation of making it to public scrutiny. Perhaps, then, an important set of tensions between what had publicly to be proclaimed (and was known to be either unviable or undesirable to carry out) and what was relatively protected from public scrutiny and could therefore put forward some useful ideas can be viewed here. And it may be possible to open out to scrutiny some tensions in the increasingly standardised and conventionalised language of development of the time. So what was going on in the smaller reports? They perhaps ask similar questions to the large ones, but are not quite so conventionalised, although they invoke much the same rhetoric, in the manner outlined above. There is an attempt to find a place for social policy manoeuvres, and perhaps in some instances to ask more practical questions. They are nevertheless projects that ask the fundamental question, which sometimes comes through even in a document produced by the colonial government: what should a good (national) state do, as opposed to a bad (colonial) state? And again, perhaps it is in these reports that it is easiest to recognise most of these developmental projects for what they are: projects for social stability rather than radically transformative projects. The four-volume Report of the Health Survey and Development Committee, chaired by Sir Joseph Bhore, for instance, makes clear that it has modest objectives: the attainment of a “reasonably well-developed” health service for India. This, the report goes on to say in the words of its Chairman, “may take about 40 years”.101 Having just stated that the need for “a national health organisation” should be based on the first principle that “[n]o individual should fail to secure adequate medical care because of inability to pay for it”, the Report thus gives with one hand and takes away with the other.102 Nevertheless, it provides some 101

Report of the Health Survey and Development Committee, volume 4: Summary (Delhi, 1946), p. vi. 102 Report of the Health Survey and Development Committee, volume 4: Summary, p. v.

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interesting highlights along the way, with its special emphasis on preventative health care, especially in rural areas where the tiller of the soil, “although he pays the heaviest toll when famine and pestilence sweep through the land, the medical attention he gets is of the most meagre description.”103 It establishes, connectedly, a place for indigenous medicine in the future medical system, although establishing a hierarchy of ‘Western’ medicine above and ‘indigenous’ medicine below. One of the reasons for this is pragmatic: ‘indigenous’ medicine is cheaper and more readily accessible. The necessary integration of the two systems was to be accomplished by the larger, official medical system testing indigenous remedies on a scientific basis to establish their efficacy. This solution therefore bypassed a strongly developed and polemicised debate where the ‘indigenous’ had been, since the 1920s, associated with the ‘national’ which was further beginning to be identified with ayurveda and Hinduism as against unani and Islam.104 Many of these smaller reports, which deal with more specific problems, express concern regarding the availability of money for the purposes of their plans, a concern which is usually underplayed or altogether absent from the bigger statements. Some of the reports are characterised by an openness to a variety of examples and precedents: the cooperatives report looked at agricultural production and the consolidation of uneconomic holdings in cases of collective farming by peasant farmers and state farming by wage-earning workers in the USSR, corporate farming in the USA, and cooperative farming in Italy, Bulgaria and Palestine.105 There are also practical reports on specific industries and sectors of the economy: in 1945 it was agreed that the cotton textile industry had to be expanded, but that in the aftermath of the war it would not be possible to procure enough machinery to do this on the desired scale; that yarn should be provided, therefore, by mills to handloom weavers.106 The committee was dominated by millowners: Khatau (Chairman), Kasturbhai Lalbhai, Shri Ram, Neville

103

Report of the Health Survey and Development Committee, volume 4: Summary,

p. v. 104 Rachel Berger, Ayurveda, state and society in colonial North India, 1895–1947, PhD thesis (University of Cambridge, 2008). 105 Report of the Co-operative Planning Committee Appointed by the Government of India on the Recommendation of the Fourteenth Registrars’ Conference (Bombay: Government of India, 1946), IOR: V/26/340/3, pp. 26–27. 106 Report of the Post-War Planning Committee (Textiles), 1945, Part I (Bombay, 1947), pp. 1–2, BL, IOR/V/26/631/5.

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Wadia, Krishnaraj Thackersey. An Agricultural Finance Sub-Committee examined the problems of rural debt, predictably advocating a much stronger state presence in regulating and adjusting debt, setting up central institutions for finance, and making use of cooperative institutions, which ought to be given ‘coercive’ powers in some areas.107 A faith in a new state, which would belong, in some senses, to people like the authors of such reports themselves, pervades their rhetoric, and their schemes. Many welfare measures that in some respects were radically ahead of their time similarly imagined empowering the new state to act on behalf of the people to be helped, rather than empowering people to act for themselves—perhaps an inevitable outcome of their origins among imperial bureaucrats, however much these bureaucrats thought of themselves as Indian nationalists. The Labour Investigation Committee set up in 1944 by the Labour Department of the Government of India (then headed by Dr BR Ambedkar) was given the brief of conducting widespread surveys in several industries on wages, earnings, social conditions, insecurity, labourers’ housing and factory conditions.108 These surveys are mainly just surveys: they tend not to propose solutions (though other committees do that). The report on the coal mining industry, having provided much detailed information on conditions in the industry, nonetheless wrote its conclusions in the language of ‘labour problems’: its author, rereading a Labour Enquiry Commission Report of 1896, asserted that “the main labour problems of the industry have remained in more or less the same form in which they existed fifty years ago.”109 An average colliery owner if asked to state what he considers to be the main labour problems would say something as follows: There is scarcity of labour; the workers are agriculturists at heart and are, therefore, migratory; they are inefficient, undisciplined and work as little as possible; they are uneducated, have no idea of a standard of living, are improvident and given more wages would fritter them away in drink and in gambling. The employers supply free housing and fuel and the cash wages are enough for the needs of the workers’ family. There are such wide fluctuations in the selling prices of coal that unless there

107 Report of the Agricultural Finance Sub-Committee appointed by the Government of India on the recommendation of the Policy Committee on Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries, BL, IOR/V/26/313/5. On ‘coercion’, see p. 86. 108 Record in Gregory Papers, BL, IOR/MSS.EUR.D.1163/ 21. 109 S. R. Deshpande, Report on an Enquiry into Conditions of Labour in the Coal Mining Industry in India (Delhi, 1946), p. 127. BL, IOR/V/26/670/39.

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is a guaranteed selling price, it is difficult to launch on programmes of labour welfare.110

There is no indication that the author of the report disagrees with this; he concludes that “the natural working conditions are not too onerous” despite the fact that safety remains an issue; he blames the workers, and particularly the “aborigines and semi-aborigines” among the workers for their lack of “educational and cultural advancement”,111 and sees labour welfare as an issue that is part of “[t]his New Age [which] is to be the age of social security, of a fair deal to the under dog [sic]”.112 The question of labour welfare is buried in the issue of production and productivity. “In the New India which we visualise, if there is to be full employment, all our sources of production will have to be exploited to the very best advantage.”113 Then the question of average raisings of coal per capita in different countries is discussed— hardly in accordance with the brief to the Committee. Again, these reports were uneven in their tone and recommendations. For instance, a report on cooperative planning recommended the setting up of cooperatives for everything: transport, insurance, housing, health, maternity and child welfare, recreation clubs, eradication of ‘social evils’ such as dowry, consumers’ cooperatives with an emphasis on thrift, marketing cooperatives and ones for animal husbandry or small and subsidiary industries.114 It stressed, among other things, the employment and absorption of ex-servicemen into the executive and administrative posts of co-operative societies.115 The report did not rule out the possibility of resorting to “compulsion” to create cooperatives for “activities essential for economic progress”: the consolidation of holdings, crop protection or irrigation.116 It goes on: [R]esponsible nation-building departments of the Government with a new outlook will be able by means of education, propaganda, persuasion, demonstration and denial of privileges to non-members to bring about the organisation of cooperative activities along planned lines without

110 S. R. Deshpande, Report on an Enquiry into Conditions of Labour in the Coal Mining Industry in India, p. 127. 111 Deshpande, Report on an Enquiry into Conditions of Labour, p. 127 and p. 129. 112 Deshpande, Report on an Enquiry into Conditions of Labour, p. 133. 113 Deshpande, Report on an Enquiry into Conditions of Labour, p. 132. 114 Report of the Co-operative Planning Committee. 115 Report of the Co-operative Planning Committee, pp. 10–11. 116 Report of the Co-operative Planning Committee, p. 210.

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benjamin zachariah resort to compulsion [. . .]. The cooperative society is the most suitable medium for the democratisation of economic planning [. . .].117

One Note of Dissent, appended to the Report, poured some cold water on this optimism: why, after over forty years of the Government’s promotion of cooperatives of various description, had the movement failed to catch on? The Note called for a de-officialisation of cooperatives.118 The Sterling Balances The big question coming out of the war was still the fate of the sterling balances. When the National Planning Committee experienced a brief revival in 1945, the capitalists were quick to use that lobby to express their opinions. The NPC passed resolutions on the sterling balances, the dollar pool, the prevention of scrapping of war plant or ordnance factories, and restriction of foreign capital investment in India along with removal of the 1935 Act’s119 commercial safeguards. It deplored the sterling balances’ inconvertibility into hard currency, preventing their being utilised for India’s industrialisation or general economic development by purchases from countries outside the Sterling Area. This resulted in “a new and more objectionable type of Imperial Preference”; moreover, India’s dollar earnings were locked up in the Empire Dollar Pool, thereby being unavailable for India’s trade with the USA.120 That the sterling balances problem had acquired unforeseen dimensions was becoming clear as it was realised that Britain, due to the devastation of her industrial capacity during the War, would not be in a position to supply India the capital goods required, and Britain herself required the dollars she was custodian of.121 By 1944, it was already more than evident that Britain would not be able to meet her promised commitments, even given the will to do so. 117

Report of the Co-operative Planning Committee, p. 210. Report of the Co-operative Planning Committee, Note of Dissent by Dewan Bahadur HL Kaji. 119 See fn. 52. 120 Report: NPC, pp. 234–7: 7th session, November 8–10, 1945. 121 Even after formal transfer of power, the sterling balances and their release in hard currency continued to be negotiated, with the advantage due to actual possession in Britain’s hands. See BL, IOR/L/E/9/303ff.; Sterling Balances Negotiations, 1948. The problem was now further complicated by the need to divide the amount between the two Dominions of India and Pakistan. 118

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Nationalist and business scepticism about the promises being made, and anxieties regarding the fate of the sterling balances, were confirmed by reports of the Bretton Woods conference in 1944. The Indian delegation had argued that the proposed International Monetary Fund should assist in providing convertibility for a part of the sterling balances, especially in the light of, as Finance Member Jeremy Raisman put it on behalf of his delegation, India’s “programme of considerable industrial development” on which she expected to embark in the immediate post-war years, and the consequent need to finance imports of capital equipment. AD Shroff, who had been one of the authors of the Bombay Plan, pleaded for some amount of convertibility, on behalf of Indian business. He realised that a very large proportion of the sterling balances had to be liquidated through direct exports from the United Kingdom, but pointed out that the United Kingdom’s capacity to provide India with consumer- and capital-goods would be extremely limited in the immediate post-war years. If, on the other hand, a reasonable proportion of the sterling balances could be converted into other currencies after the war, it would, he argued, assist Indian industrial development, and thereby the flow of international trade.122 The British delegation insisted, however, that this was a bilateral matter; and the furthest progress that was made was through John Maynard Keynes’ promise that Britain would take up the issue of the settlement of the debt “without delay, to settle honourably what was honourably and generously given”.123 After the war, Britain was largely able to alleviate the worst effects of her weakened world position through the preservation of the Sterling Area and the Sterling Area Dollar Pool,124 and a Commonwealth

122 Report of the Indian Delegation to the United Nations Monetary and Financial Conference at Bretton Woods (July 1 to July 22, 1944) (New Delhi, 1945), pp. 13–14 and p. 41. Shroff sarcastically commented, “it appears that although we have four billion dollars worth of sterling balances, we have practically no foreign exchange reserves”. Speech by A. D. Shroff at Bretton Woods, July, 7, 1944, quoted in Report of the Indian Delegation to the United Nations Monetary and Financial Conference at Bretton Woods, p. 41. 123 Speech by Keynes, July, 10, 1944, reprinted in Report of the Indian Delegation to the United Nations Monetary and Financial Conference at Bretton Woods, p. 44. 124 For an account of Indian businessmen’s opinions on the sterling balances question, see Aditya Mukherjee, “Indo-British Finance: the Controversy over India’s Sterling Balances, 1939–1947,” Studies in History 6, 2 (1990), 229–251. For an account of the sterling balances negotiations, see B. R. (Tom) Tomlinson, “Indo-British Relations in the Post-Colonial Era: The Sterling Balances Negotiations 1947–49,” Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History 13, 3 (1985), 142–162. These are both, for a number of reasons, dissatisfactory, not least because they are mostly reportage,

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specially restructured for the purpose.125 The economies of the Sterling Area remained closely allied to Britain’s, with their sterling balances held in London and their dollar earnings tied up in the Dollar Pool. At the same time the bargaining about the sterling balances and their convertibility into hard currency also began to reflect British economic weakness: her inability to supply India with capital goods and her reluctance to release dollars from the Pool for development purposes, because she needed them herself. The Treasury’s predictions regarding capital goods exports by Britain to India came true, as industrial reequipment in India was affected by Britain’s lack of industrial capacity; even post-independence agricultural schemes could be seen to suffer due to Britain’s inability to supply simple capital goods such as tractors, and her unwillingness to release dollars from the Dollar Pool to enable India to buy them from the USA or elsewhere.126 India’s role in the sterling area, and in the British adjustment to the post-war economy, was on terms which did not fit the main purposes of Britain’s policy smoothly: the Indian economy was not a dollar earner, and Britain was inadequately equipped as a source of supply to enable her to be more of a dollar saver. Nonetheless, as a Sterling Area country with a huge dollar deficit, and the biggest holder of sterling balances, she needed to be provided with the capital goods she required lest she buy them and are wholly lacking in a wider context. See files on Sterling Balances Negotiations 1948–1950: Economic and Overseas Department Collection (copies of Commonwealth Relations Office files), BL, IOR/L/E/9/303–365, and the papers of the Sterling Area Development Working Party, BL, IOR/L/E/5/76, for primary sources on the subject. For a summary of the problems associated with sterling balances in the Commonwealth and British Empire as a whole, see Cain and Hopkins, British Imperialism, (see above, fn. 36), chapter 11, pp. 265–296: “The City, the Sterling Area and Decolonisation”. Evidence from the African colonies and the Caribbean also suggests that the colonial power’s indebtedness to a colony was far from incompatible with the continued flow of economic benefits. See also the debates followed by Partha Sarathi Gupta, Imperialism and the British Labour Movement 1914–1965 (London, 1975), chapter 10, pp. 303–348. 125 See R. J. Moore, Making the New Commonwealth (Oxford, 1987). Also see, R. J. Moore, Endgames of Empire: Studies of Britain’s India Problem (Delhi, 1988), p. 8: “the endgames of empire in South Asia culminated in the celebrated London Declaration of April 28, 1949, rather than the midnight revels of 14 August 1947.” This restructuring of the Commonwealth and its role in coordinating the economic life of the former Empire, as Amery had imagined, and as by now the Labour Party also accepted, was also reflected in such initiatives for “development” as the Colombo Plan, which sought to coordinate the development plans of the Asian former possessions of the British Empire. See Philip Charrier, India, Britain and the Genesis of the Colombo Plan, PhD thesis (University of Cambridge, Eng., 1995). 126 See Sterling Balances Negotiations: Telegram, India (High Commission) to Commonwealth Relations Office, January 20, 1948, copy in BL, IOR/L/E/9/303.

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for dollars drawn from the Dollar Pool against those balances.127 India was thus incorporated into a broad policy aimed at the preservation of Sterling Area dollar resources, with Britain’s effective custodianship of the sterling balances of the colonies, Dominions and the two new Dominions of India and Pakistan (the last two’s share together constituting overwhelmingly the largest part of the sterling balances) ensuring her good bargaining power.128 Inconclusions: We Now Know What Happened, or the ‘So What’ Question Messy narratives don’t have conclusions worth concluding with, so it might be worth providing here a set of refusals to conclude instead. We can of course glean from this set of diverse and complex material much of the agenda of post-war and post-independence ‘developmental’ thinking. We can also glean from it the beginnings of the agenda of Cold War formulae where the formulaic rhetoric in which all sides presented the aspiration to ‘development’ hides the divergent

127 It is difficult to accept that “the economic role of the Indian consumer, with his new-found taste for British capital goods, was seen as a liability” (Tomlinson, “IndoBritish Relations” (see above n. 124), p. 158) outside of government circles, who were concerned with providing for domestic needs. The tensions between national planners and the private sector, which was soon to appear in India, was a factor here in the British case. The problem was to ensure that home requirements were met and then decide on export priorities as a matter of “long-term planning”. If priority export commitments, on the “Russian model”, were imposed over a great extent of Britain’s export potential, there would not be enough room for private profit. It was considered necessary, however, as mentioned above, to give some priority of supply to the Sterling Area countries lest they seek supplies outside the Area and spend dollars or other hard currency. The solution was to let private profit motives govern exports to hard currency areas while planning exports to the Sterling Area. Private profit motives would govern exports to hard currency areas and would be in consonance with the national need to earn such currency—for which enough export capacity had to be left to private industry in order to “disperse the impact of the priority commitments” to the Sterling Area. See O.N. (48)85, Confidential, February 9, 1948, Cabinet Overseas Negotiations Committee, Bilateral Availabilities, Note by Ministry of Supply, copy in BL, IOR/L/E/5/76. 128 As far as India and Pakistan were concerned, there was a fear, during the sterling balances negotiations of 1948, that they might be externed from the Sterling Area for not playing the game of saving dollars. But the possible unpleasant consequences to Britain, due to essential items of Indo-British trade such as jute possibly being invoiced in dollars, heavier export duties on tea or diversion of such exports to dollar areas, made the British Government more receptive to Indian demands for greater releases of their balances in dollars to meet their dollar deficit. “Secret Memorandum on Sterling Balances Negotiations”, BL, IOR/L/E/9/303.

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agenda of the protagonists, who then appear to actually agree with each other. However, this is only visible in retrospect, when we have suitably organised and cleaned up the material in ways that contemporaries were unable to see. But then, the question arises as to why we are interested in the agonies of wartime speculations at all if they bear little connection with anything actually realised. Perhaps the answer is that we are interested in arguments regarding what is to be done by people who had no idea whether they would ever be in a position to do anything, and rather suspected that they would not. If, however, we are less interested in the neatness of the picture than in the messiness of its emergence, it tells us about the concerns and situations from which the various improvised schemes emerged, were then defended, and in addition reified. It provides a disaggregation of motives, and a view that can indicate the difference between a conventionalised rhetoric and an underlying set of concerns, and also an indication that the difference was not always clear to the players at the time. Perhaps, at least, it complicates the ‘origins’ or ‘beginnings’ story of Indian developmental concerns, instead providing the Second World War in India with a historiography in its own right, instead of merely a role in preparing the bigger story: that of national independence. It provides perspectives on the continuities of the state before and after a transfer of power—the by-now clichéd ‘passive revolution’—could even lose some of its claim to be revolutionary, however passive. We might, here, be in the realms of a longer story: the continuities of state concerns in the period of transition or transfer of power, the recentralisation of the state during the Second World War and the inheritance of this centralised power by the independent Indian state (despite the ‘secession’ of Pakistan), and aspects of a longer-term concern with the lack of intrinsic change in the state.129 The similarities, however, between late imperial and early national state in India, however evocative, may well be overdrawn. The structural similarities are obvious; and yet these structures are put to various different projects. Nevertheless, a longer history of the developmental imagination in India, or indeed of the transition from the colonial state to the independent Indian state, needs to be far less respectful of the apparently crucial date of 1947, far more attentive to the Second World War, and far more attentive to trends that emerge during the war and continue into the 1950s. 129 See Indivar Kamtekar, “A Different War Dance: State and Class in India 1939– 1945,” Past and Present 176 (2002), 187–221.

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GENERAL INDEX al-ʿAhd 324 Afghan war (1878–1879) 66 Anglo-Boer War (1899–1902) 464 army British Army 23, 30, 32, 35, 48, 61, 69, 97–99, 113, 145, 217, 224, 227, 229–231, 235, 236, 238, 239, 242, 401, 409, 410, 420, 422, 423–427 French Army 173, 178, 201, 371, 437–439, 504, 535, 537, 540, 543 Etoile Nord Africaine (ENA) 207 Indian Army 5, 10, 30–34, 38, 57, 59–62, 66–71, 74–76, 81, 82, 84–86, 90, 94, 97–101, 103–106, 112, 132–139, 141, 142, 146, 153, 155, 159, 164, 341, 344, 355, 360, 564, 583, 586, 587, 590, 592, 593, 595, 596 Ottoman Army 299, 300, 302, 305, 313, 317–319, 323, 332, 335, 501, 506, 509, 584 askari (African soldier) 107, 109, 118, 126, 127, 277, 280, 281, 283, 284, 286–288, 290–294, 296, 344, 495, 511 Askari (propaganda newspaper) 127, 279, 282, 284, 288, 289 battle, battlefield, battleground 1, 2, 5, 11, 20, 24, 33, 45, 49, 56, 82, 139, 140, 143, 144, 165, 176, 213, 217, 218, 224, 228, 238, 281, 285, 332, 336, 341, 344, 348, 362, 364, 365, 377, 393, 396, 401, 470, 483, 486, 494, 504, 507, 512, 516, 522, 523, 525, 536, 537, 544 bhisti (water-carrier) 58, 60, 61, 62, 78, 89, 91–94, 102 British Commonwealth 288, 463 caste 10, 22, 41, 55–59, 62, 66–68, 70–73, 78, 85, 88, 100, 103–106, 150, 349, 359, 365 martial caste 57, 59, 66, 71, 79, 82, 86, 349 censor, censorship 7, 10, 29, 30, 35–39, 44, 50, 51, 131, 133, 136, 159, 181, 344, 345, 351, 374, 377, 380, 381, 385, 389, 523, 524, 553

chief 22, 37, 68, 112, 113, 114, 116–119, 124, 125, 128, 286, 287, 292, 293, 346, 348, 433, 434, 438, 441– 443, 445, 446, 448, 450, 451, 466, 504, 508–510, 512 citizen, citizenship 6, 10, 17, 82, 105, 156, 170, 173–175, 280, 301, 318, 333, 336, 339, 356, 359, 360, 412, 413, 429, 431, 434, 435, 437–440, 442, 445–447, 449–452, 454–456, 465–467, 470, 480, 502, 521, 543, 558 assimilation 431–435, 442, 444, 449, 451, 454, 455, 475 citizen rights 4, 23, 431, 445 French Universalisms 445, 456 civilising mission 432, 434, 451, 557, 569 colonial administration 14, 15, 140, 148, 282, 295, 369, 370, 377, 393, 397, 429, 432, 434, 435, 437, 439, 440, 441, 442, 444, 445, 447, 449, 450, 455 advisory Planning Board (India) 548, 568, 569 Bretton Woods Conference (India) 575 Floud Commission (India) 564 Four Communes (Senegal, West Africa) 430, 437, 440, 446, 454, 455, 456 Indian Civil Service (India) 550, 557 Natives’ Representative Council (South Africa) 465 colonial law Defence Act of 1912 (South Africa) 456 Defence of India Rules 553, 555, 569 Land Act 1913 (South Africa) 459 colonial Office 278, 281, 319, 485 colonial troops 5, 6, 17, 48, 344, 522, 539 colonialism 15, 16, 20, 41, 63, 334, 337, 344, 349, 355, 357, 364, 430, 453, 520, 535, 545 colony 5–8, 12, 17–18, 20–22, 24, 65, 98, 123, 138, 144, 162, 170, 174, 222, 252, 270, 345, 351, 355, 360, 431–432, 434, 436–438, 440–441, 446, 448, 453, 455, 485 486–488, 494, 543, 576–577

604

general index

commemoration 2, 24, 169, 317, 322, 329, 341, 343, 458, 485, 490, 521, 537 Common Wealth War Graves 151, 341, 491, 494, 496 IZIKO Cultural Museum (Cape Town) 493 commerce 174, 338, 380, 390, 433, 526, 555 Department of Commerce (India) 555 conscription 16, 105, 300–303, 308, 311, 429, 435–437, 440–442, 447, 448, 455–457, 462, 501, 511, 521, 522 concentration camp 173, 194, 198, 199, 201, 204–213, 310, 463 coolie 11, 57, 58, 59, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 69, 70, 71, 72, 86, 258, 261, 271 demobilisation 8, 284, 291, 447, 475, 531, 555, 567 desertion, deserter 62, 76, 78, 86, 87, 88, 126, 142, 146, 152, 159, 161, 162, 163, 189, 190, 291, 201, 202, 224, 305, 306, 308, 309, 318, 321, 332, 335, 407, 410, 423, 424, 427, 501, 507, 508 discipline 14, 50, 72, 75, 76, 77, 104, 105, 144, 292, 296, 473, 493, 509, 548, 572 discrimination 12, 18, 108, 109, 115, 117, 127–129, 164, 452–454, 471, 475, 477, 478, 523, 534, 544, 545 disease 22, 45, 151, 176, 177, 185, 194, 230, 238, 240, 241, 242, 243, 246, 314, 318, 360, 417, 502, 534 dhobi (washer-man) 61, 73, 83, 98, 102, 103 drabi (mule-driver) 60, 84, 85 education 14, 34, 45, 51, 108, 111, 198, 208, 243, 244, 266, 267, 278–284, 289–291, 293, 294, 296, 297, 315, 316, 323, 324, 326, 328, 331, 334, 336, 352, 357, 362, 366, 394, 429, 449, 450, 454, 473–475, 477, 506, 525–527, 529, 562, 573 exile 148, 201, 214, 239, 318–320, 326, 333, 334, 336 famine 22, 68, 263, 307, 308, 318, 362, 414, 501–503, 554, 571, 593 Bengal Famine 554

hunger 411–413, 198, 300, 306, 308, 414, 417–419 starve, starvation 79, 86, 232, 306, 307, 418, 495, 497, 501, 502 Foreign Office 13, 36, 149, 152–154, 158, 175, 185, 195, 200, 254, 262, 266, 272, 273, 409, 421 Garhwali 34, 70, 71, 157 Geneva Convention 105, 181–183, 187 Gestapo 173, 174, 196–202, 204, 205, 207–211 Great Depression 528, 551, 553, 583 Gurkha 34, 60, 63, 68, 70, 78, 87, 88, 135, 138, 141, 148, 157, 161, 345, 365 heroism/heroic 17, 45, 56, 85, 100, 214, 286, 289, 296, 335, 366, 448, 451, 463, 464, 470, 476, 496, 508, 515, 516, 519, 536, 537, 539, 545 Heshima (propaganda newspaper) 282, 284, 288 Hindostan (propaganda/camp newspaper) 149–150, 159 home front 2, 38, 280, 284, 344, 462, 465, 469, 471, 473 honour 2, 11, 17, 58, 61, 86, 115, 133–137, 164, 269, 279, 281, 284, 286–288, 292, 342, 348, 349, 352, 356, 366, 379, 442, 448, 452, 479, 493, 497, 515, 575 heshima (Swahili) 279, 287, 292 izzat (Urdu) 11, 61, 86, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 145, 162 illness see disease independence 11, 15, 18, 19, 24 Egypt 221, 228 Iraq 333 India 342, 547, 549, 557, 568, 576, 577, 578 Malawi 128 North African states 520, 534, 537, 540, 545, 546 Syria 402, 405, 436, 499, 500 South Africa 472, 494, 495, 496, 499 India Office 31, 36, 44, 49, 55, 91, 133, 139, 555, 558, 565, 566 Indian Soldiers Fund 146, 148, 150, 151, 159 industrial, industry 17, 19, 30, 45, 60, 72, 103, 105, 186, 194, 198, 231, 235,

general index 267, 340, 459, 461, 475, 526, 529, 536, 552–569, 571–577 Department of Industries and Civil Supplies (India) 555 Indian Industrial Commission 105 Industrial Policy Resolution (India) 567 Statement on Industrial Policy (India, 1945) 556 intelligentsia/intellectuals 5, 21, 41–43, 65, 145, 310, 328–330, 377, 379, 394 ʿisāba / ʿisābāt 503, 504–517 jihad 41, 149, 163, 302, 309, 325, 349, 350, 499, 504, 506, 509, 512–517, 581 kahar (stretcher-bearer) 61, 66 Kemalist 499, 500, 503 labour, labourer 10–13, 22, 34, 58, 59, 62, 63, 66, 68–70, 72, 77, 78, 89, 92, 95, 101, 104–106, 121, 131, 137, 175, 182, 186, 190, 192, 196, 197, 200, 234, 237, 243, 257, 310, 335, 341, 344, 345, 347, 387, 402, 411, 419, 420, 423, 424, 430, 459, 462, 466, 474, 476, 535, 540, 548, 549, 553, 555, 559, 560, 562, 567, 572, 573 labour corps 24, 59, 66, 71, 76, 80, 84, 94, 97, 146, 263, 487 forced/indentured labour 29, 147, 188, 192–198, 208, 289, 440, 449, 451, 452, 454 Indian Federation of Labour 559, 567 langri (cook) 61, 68 lascar (seaman) 34, 60, 87, 103, 146 literature 6, 15, 40, 41, 112, 142, 168, 179–181, 183, 186, 316, 320, 322, 328, 329, 340, 341, 343, 357, 359, 401, 404, 484, 489, 497, 511 Luo 117–118 mandate 8, 23, 24, 170, 174, 220, 402, 403, 404, 405, 408, 412, 413, 420, 421, 427, 438, 488, 491, 493, 500 masculinity 102, 463, 466, 480 medicine 13, 60, 63, 69, 78, 80, 81, 82, 84, 86, 102, 104, 111, 132, 151, 158, 229, 230, 238, 241–243, 247, 277, 474, 525, 553, 554, 570, 571 Brockenhurst 55, 56, 89, 106

605

Indian Army Hospital Corps 81, 83, 87, 90, 103, 104 Lady Hardinge Hospital 55, 106 Kitchener Hospital 155 memorial 56, 71, 106, 206, 340, 345, 356, 448, 458, 477, 483, 484, 489, 491–494, 496, 498, 521, 539, 561 memory 1, 2, 6, 7, 14, 17, 24, 31, 99, 131, 167–170, 213, 214, 216, 299, 300, 393, 307, 314, 328, 329, 341, 342, 395, 496, 426, 427, 458, 459, 483–485, 487, 489, 490, 492, 498, 501, 507, 521, 539 migration/migrant 29, 31, 44, 65–68, 71, 106, 121, 149, 171, 175, 189, 190, 191, 205, 209, 242, 266, 304, 309, 430, 440, 441, 454, 495, 520, 545, 553, 583 military units Army Bearer Corps 60, 62, 63, 66, 67, 87, 88, 90, 94 Army Education Services (AES) 473, 477 auxiliary 5, 17, 192, 421, 422, 461, 462, 467, 469, 470, 472 Cape Corps (CC) 461, 487 East African Army Education Corps (EAAEC) 279 East African Command (EAC) 277, 278, 282 Indian and Malay Corps (IMC) 461 Indian Expeditionary Force (IEF) 30–32, 146, 355 Indian Labour Corps (ILC) 34, 76 Indian Cavalry Division, 1st and 2nd 32 Indian Infantry Division 32, 33, 146 King’s African Rifles (KAR) 5, 109, 110, 121–123, 277, 290, 293, 591, 596 Middle East Command (MEC) 405 Native Military Corps (NMC) 461 Northern Rhodesia Regiment (NRR) 110 South African Military Nursing Service (SAMNS) 462 South African Women’s Auxiliary Naval Services (SWANS) 462 South African Women’s Auxiliary Police Force (SWAMPS) 462 South African Women’s Auxiliary Services (SAWAS) 462 South East Asia Command (SEAC) 125, 282

606

general index

Springbok Legion 473, 475, 476, 480, 593 Supply and Transport Corps 60, 62, 83, 85 Torch Commando 476, 477, 480 Transjordan Frontier Force (TJFF) 406, 409, 418, 426 Union Defence Force (UDF) 17, 457, 461, 466, 474 Women’s Army Defence Corps 462 Women’s Auxiliary Air Force (WAAF) 462 Women’s Auxiliary Army Services (WAAS) 462 mujahidin 498–500, 504, 596, 509–517, 538 Nachrichtenstelle für den Orient (Berlin) 148, 149, 161, 262, 265, 266, 271, 274 National Geographic Society 358, 497 nationalism 11, 15, 21, 22 African 107–109, 111–115, 117, 119–121, 123, 125, 127, 129, 444, 473, 478 Arab 194, 215, 259, 309, 320, 334, 339, 371, 380, 412, 413, 507, 513, 539 Indian 29, 131, 145, 149, 345, 348, 360, 549, 558 Ngoni 121 occidentalism 21, 40, 41, 44, 52, 132 Oraon 13, 251, 253–263, 267–272, 274–275 Ottoman Empire 14, 23, 33, 152, 156, 157, 164, 306–309, 316, 325, 328, 350, 499, 500, 506, 512, 516, 517 Pathan 34, 43, 45, 49, 65, 69, 70, 81 patriotism 71, 139, 142, 162, 328, 333, 337, 339, 356, 463, 464, 467, 530 pension 79, 439, 442, 447, 520, 525–527, 529, 539, 540, 541, 545, 546 pioneers 70, 277, 319, 584 poetry/poems 14, 37, 39, 133, 259, 280, 302, 303, 313, 315, 316, 321, 329, 331, 333–335, 338, 339, 349, 353, 355, 357, 358, 457, 484 political parties and movements African National Congress (ANC) 466, 467 Communist Parties 310, 443, 473, 475, 476

Gandhians 548 Home Rule League (India) 354, 367 Indian National Congress 352, 355, 357 Neo-Destour (Tunisia) 370, 371, 386, 520, 535, 545 Palestinian National Movement 241 Wafd Party (Egypt) 219, 221 Young Turk Revolution (1908) 302, 303, 315, 319, 328 Prisoners of War (POW) 10, 11, 21, 96, 131, 140, 146–155, 157–165, 167, 174–188, 190, 197, 199, 204–213, 225–226, 235, 241, 314, 318–319, 332, 335, 336, 342, 347, 396, 424, 468–469, 471, 479, 491 Half-moon Camp 131, 147, 150–151, 153–154, 157–158, 164 propaganda 8, 9, 13, 14, 244, 255, 265, 275, 354, 362, 369, 370, 389, 410, 421 British 14, 36, 112, 127, 270, 278–281, 283–288, 293–296, 361, 388, 547, 549, 551, 552, 555–557 German 13, 147–150, 154, 158–163, 172, 174, 183–185, 195, 214, 266, 269, 271, 273, 385, 443 French 17, 372, 375–377, 388, 392–394, 410, 436, 442, 447–449, 451, 456 Italian 245 South African 460, 464, 467–469, 471, 472, 486 Punjabi 10, 32, 34, 35, 40, 44, 47, 49, 65, 68, 70, 135, 136, 144, 156, 163 race 10, 11, 15, 29, 42, 64, 71, 81, 107, 133, 171–173, 181, 191, 213, 269, 344, 350, 364, 365, 366, 421, 457, 459, 472–475, 522 “Bengali race” 364, 366 “martial race” 22, 30, 106, 121, 134, 135, 293, 360, 362, 364, 365, 555 “white race” 50 racism Apartheid 17, 457–460, 477–481, 484, 490, 494 colour-bar 65 radio 15, 21, 124, 175, 176, 195, 202, 228, 279, 369–397 Rajput 34, 56, 65, 70, 71, 105, 157, 161 rationing 16, 22, 415, 469, 553–555, 568 rations 59, 61, 80, 86–89, 91–94, 103, 163, 232, 233, 236–238, 359

general index religion, religious 13, 34, 41, 42, 45, 76, 150, 183, 184, 187, 189, 210, 212, 214, 245, 252–256, 259, 260, 273, 291, 301–302, 310, 314, 319, 328, 337, 348–349, 356, 411, 430–431, 433–434, 450, 457, 459, 514, 516–517, 521, 523 Imam 55, 183, 523 Mission/missionary 147, 150, 153, 154, 155, 176, 254, 256, 260–271, 273–274, 405, 452 Pan-Islam 21, 149, 163, 311, 333 repression 212, 259, 371, 374, 383, 436, 449, 501–503, 511 resistance Great Arab Revolt 308, 323–325, 317, 332, 334, 502 Great Syrian Revolt (1925–1926) 503, 507, 512–514 muridin revolt 411–413 strike 24, 86, 235, 245, 553 disturbance 198, 263, 535 Punjab disturbances 143–144 resources 16, 61, 65, 218, 231, 238, 239, 270, 346, 378, 409, 411, 414, 420, 530, 555, 560, 564, 577 War Resources and Reconstruction Committee (India) 555 rumour 8, 11, 13, 21, 122, 139, 140, 141, 153, 157, 161, 251, 252, 253, 255, 263, 264, 265, 266, 274, 275, 410 Safar Barlik / Safarbarlik 14, 299, 300, 305, 316, 317, 501 scouts 243, 323, 493 sepoy (Indian soldier) 31, 33, 35, 43–45, 56–61, 63–71, 74–75, 78–80, 82–91, 93–95, 99–102, 104, 106, 134, 138, 139, 145, 149, 153, 158–159, 165, 350, 351, 355, 361, 363 Sikh 34, 45, 46, 48, 60, 134, 135, 137, 140, 141, 143, 144, 147, 148, 154, 156, 160–164, 347, 348, 365 Spanish Civil War 203, 208, 212 sweeper 55, 56, 61–64, 70, 72, 73, 81, 82, 84–86, 89–94, 98, 101, 103, 104 tax, taxation 234, 255, 300–302, 305, 308, 325, 432, 440–442, 448, 459, 510, 552, 563 Tchete 504, 505, 508, 511 technology/science 2, 45, 81, 105, 278, 305, 315, 316, 328–332, 548

607

Thawra 504, 505, 509–511, 514 transport 60–62, 64, 66–68, 70, 82–85, 90–92, 105, 143, 156, 189, 207, 217, 225, 227, 229, 235–237, 241, 243, 253, 264, 378, 407, 420, 422, 424, 461, 468, 555, 556, 559, 562, 573 Department of War Transport (India) 555 Theatre 15, 359–361, 394 tribe 10, 13, 22, 24, 34, 57, 68, 69, 78, 82, 88, 105, 119–121, 123, 155, 226, 252–255, 260, 263, 267, 268, 269, 274, 283, 318, 319, 321, 324, 331, 333, 337, 365, 500–509, 511, 514 veteran 6, 11, 14, 16, 18, 22, 109, 116, 123, 128, 138, 207, 212, 284, 296, 441, 443, 444, 447, 448, 451, 453, 454, 456, 458, 464, 493, 519–546 veteran associations 534 veteran policies and administration 521, 524, 531, 546 Vichy Regime 181, 186, 188, 190, 191, 203, 204, 207, 244, 245, 373–378, 382, 383, 387, 396, 401, 405, 451, 452, 454, 533 Vilayat/Vilayet 10, 35, 42, 44, 145, 146, 508 War economy 19, 22, 23, 188, 190, 198, 208, 235, 462, 524, 548, 556 Bombay Plan 558–567, 575 capital goods 559, 562, 574–577 consumer goods 554, 568 Empire Dollar Pool 574 Grow More Food campaign (India) 553 Middle East Supply Centre (MESC) 415 Planning and Development Department (India) 565, 566, 568 War Financial Settlement (India, 1940) 551 War Office 36, 79, 90, 99, 101, 282, 348, 421 Waṭan 514 Wehrmacht 178–180, 184, 186, 191, 197, 201 Western Front 30, 31, 33, 34, 50, 52, 100, 135, 139, 146, 151, 155, 159, 217, 229, 251, 339, 344, 494, 497 women African 111, 345, 460–462, 464, 466–470, 472, 473, 476, 480

608

general index

Arab 210, 215, 244, 304, 305, 309, 319, 385, 394, 417 European 10, 17, 29, 43–52, 136, 173, 199, 211, 455 Indian 41, 53, 78, 79, 81, 89, 343, 345, 362–364

Yao

121

Zionism

492

INDEX OF NAMES Alexander, Major H. M. 84, 85 Amery, Leo 488, 551 Ampthill, Lord (Arthur Oliver Villiers Russell ) 76 Anand, Mulk Raj 40, 43, 56, 59, 160 Ashley, Jackson 109 Asim Bek 508, 510 Belfield, Sir Henry Conway 485 Bell, Gertrude 337 Ben Bella, Ahmed 535 Bernstein, Rusty 476 Bhore, Joseph 558, 570 Birla Brothers 554 Birsa Munda 256 al-Bītār, ʿUmar 510 Botha, Louis 463, 488 Bouchareb, Rachid 542, 543, 544, 545 Boudiaf, Mohamed 535 Bourguiba, Habib 396, 535, 536, 537, 538, 539, 541, 542 Bouteflika, Abdelaziz 541 Cama, Madame (Indian revolutionary) 35, 36 Candler, Edmund 56, 69, 80, 82 Caplan, Lionel 135 Chattopadhyay, Bankim Chandra 41 Chattopadhyay, Satish Chandra 361, 366 Chattopadhyay, Virendranath 133, 148 Chikumbu 113, 114, 117, 119, 120 Churchill, Winston 217, 246, 558 Corrigan, Gordon 100, 342 Creagh, General (Sir O’Moore) 71, 80 Crowther, Geoffrey 565 Cushing, Harvey 98, 99 Dalal, Ardeshir 562, 566 Dayal, Har 148, 149, 266 DeGaulle, Charles 405, 452, 453, 531 Demoline (General ) 287 Deventer, Jaap van (General ) 486 Diagne, Blaise 437, 438, 440, 442, 443, 445, 448, 449, 450, 456 Doegen, Wilhelm 154, 156, 164 Dunsterville, Major-General (L.C.) 65

Edip, Halide 325 Eichmann, Adolf 214 Elizabeth II (Queen) 494 al-Fāʿūr, Maḥmūd 508 Farouk, King of Egypt 219, 220 Fayṣal, Amīr / King 500, 503, 504, 507, 508, 513 Fitzpatrick, Sir (Percy) 489, 491 Gandhi, Mahatma 42, 56, 65, 131, 165, 254, 259, 353, 354, 355, 367 Gandhi, Indira 252 Gershovich, Moshe 519 Gillis, John 490, 492 Gomani 118 Gregory, Theodore 554, 565 Gregory, White 540 Grigg, James 558 Grimshaw, Captain (Roly) 85, 86 Ḥ aj Ḥ usayn, Mustafā 510 Hanānū, Ibrāhīm 503, 505, 508, 511–513, 515 Hardinge, Viceroy Lord 31, 32, 158, 353 Hazari 56 Hehir, Colonel, P. 78, 81 Hentig, Werner Otto von 178 Hertzog, J. B. M. 460, 463, 488, 491, 492, 493 Himmler, Heinrich 170, 175, 197, 209, 214 Hitler, Adolf 118, 195, 215, 460, 465, 530 Hoernle, R. F. Alfred 474 Holmes, T. R. E. (General) 406 Hoskins, General (Arthur) R. 486 Howell, Evelyn Berkeley 36, 37, 38, 39, 49, 50 al-Ḥ usaynī, Amīn (Grand Mufti of Jerusalem) 168, 177, 200, 201, 214, 215 al-Husrī, Sātiʿ 326 (Braucht man auch hier Korrektur wegen arabische Schrift) Hutton, Thomas 556, 557

610 Israel, Adrienne 108 I’tesamuddin, Mirza Sheikh

index of names Paice, Edward 497 Peers, Douglas 98 Prost, Antoine 521, 524

42

Al-Jandalī, Farḥān 201 Jatra Oraon 256, 257, 259 Jatra Bhagat 261 Jawdat, ʿAlī 323 Kawinga (Native Authority) 118, 120 Keitel, Wilhelm 204 Kemal, Mustafa (Atatürk) 325, 499, 500, 504 Keynes, John Maynard 552, 575 Kipling, Rudyard 40, 495 Kitchener, Lord 31, 485 Klopper, Major-General 468 Lalbhai, Kasturbhai 571 Lawrence, T. E. (= “Lawrence of Arabia”) 326, 327 Lawrence, Walter Roper 36, 55, 56, 89, 90 Lettow-Vorbeck, General (Paul von) 485, 486, 495, 496 Lyons, L. W. A. 104 M’mbwela (Native Authority) 116 MacMunn, Lt. General (George F.) 55, 56, 57, 69, 365 Majozi, Lucas 470 Makins, Sir (George Henry) 83 Malan, D. F. 480 Malherbe, E. G. 474, 468 Mandela, Nelson 494 Mangin, Charles 435, 436, 438, 443, 522 Marques, Lorenzo 488 Masani, Minoo 564, 565 Matthai, John 565 McCracken, John 126 Meynier, Gilbert 519, 529 Mokgatle, Naboth 465 Moon, Penderel 557, 568, 569 Mussolini, Benito 381, 530 al-Nahhas, Mustafa 219, 220, 221, 226, 246 Nehru, Jawaharlal 567, 568, 569 al-Noqrashi, Mahmud Fahmy 221 Oppenheim, Max Freiherr von 149, 151, 153, 185, 265, 272 Özdemir Bey 508, 511

Raisman, Jeremy 566, 575 Ramabai Pandita 41 al-Rāwī, Ibrāhīm 323, 324 Richards, Frank 73, 98, 99 Ribbentrop, Joachim von 174, 175 Rommel, Erwin 217–220, 224, 225, 228, 468 Roy, M. N. 559, 567 Roy, Rajah Rammohun 42 Russell, R. V. 73 Sabine, Noël 281, 282 al-Sadat, Anwar 228, 229 al-Saʿdūn, Yūsuf 595, 506 Sarojini, Naidu 15, 133, 353, 355 al-Shāghūrī, Ibrāhīm 508 Shallāsh, Ramaḍān 509 Schlech, Eugene 108 Schnee, Heinrich (Governor) 485 Selous, Frederick 495 Shepperson, George 107, 120, 121, 122 Shiroya, Oje 296 Shri Ram 571 Shroff, A. D. 575 Singh, Amar 65, 157 Smuts, Jan 458, 459, 460, 461, 462, 463, 465, 472, 478–481, 483, 486, 488, 491–495 Spiess, Otto 177 Tata Sons 565 Thackersey, Krishnaraj 572 Tilak, Bal Gangadhar 353, 354, 367 Thakur, Ram Anand 164 ʿUwayyid, Najīb

510

Vaughan, Lt. Colonel (H. B.) Henry Vivekananda, Swami 42

65

Wadia, Neville 572 Webb, Sydney 565 Werdmuller, G. C. G. 468, 469 Wilhelm II (German Kaiser) 13, 22, 140, 152, 156, 158, 251, 253, 255, 258–264, 268, 270, 273–275 Willcocks, General (Sir James) 32, 81

148, Yeats Brown, Francis C. C. Zeubauer, Yaul

490, 492

61, 357

INDEX OF PLACES A.O.F. / F.W.A. (Afrique Occidentale Française / French West Africa) 431, 436, 446, 448, 450–452, 579, 587, 590 Afrin 403, 407–410, 412, 417, 418, 420–424, 426, 427 Aleppo 301, 302, 308, 310, 325, 401–403, 406, 410, 412, 414, 417, 418, 420, 423, 424, 426, 503, 505, 506, 508, 511, 584, 596 Alexandretta 500, 505, 506, 508 Algeria 182, 190, 203, 206, 210, 222, 369, 372, 373, 391, 438, 520, 522, 524, 527, 528, 530, 531, 534–538, 540–546, 593 Anatolia 313, 314, 325, 334, 500, 503, 505, 511 Antioch 510 Auschwitz 193, 194, 206, 210 Australia 65, 483 Austria 152, 171, 174, 177, 179, 499 Baghdad 210, 214, 245, 308, 313, 314, 317–319, 323–325, 331, 334–339, 360, 406 Basra 78, 87, 97, 163, 318, 319, 323, 326, 327, 341 Beirut 4, 322, 328, 405, 420, 422, 424, 500, 502 Belgium 100, 145, 177, 489 Berlin 1, 7, 131, 147, 148, 151–153, 159, 160, 167, 170, 171, 172, 174, 176, 177, 179, 183, 185, 190, 192–198, 200, 201, 211, 214, 215, 251, 254, 262, 264, 266, 271, 273, 343, 380, 386, 389, 394, 401, 547 Berlin-Plötzensee 198, 209 Bhutan 254, 258, 259, 262, 272 Bihar 255, 256, 257, 259, 260, 263, 269, 271, 272, 359 Boksburg 493 Botswana 109 Britain 1, 2, 5, 12, 24, 34, 35, 41–43, 65, 81, 97, 99, 110, 123, 131, 140, 141, 145, 146, 150, 162, 164, 174, 218–223, 226, 227, 231, 234, 235, 237, 243, 244, 246, 247, 254, 278, 279, 281, 284, 285, 288, 289, 293, 313, 317, 322, 331, 344,

348, 350, 367, 460, 462, 463, 483–486, 488, 489, 490, 492–494, 497, 500, 531, 550–552, 554, 556, 557, 574, 577 British East Africa (Kenya) see Kenya British India see India Buchenwald 199, 206–210, 212 Bulgaria 177, 244, 499, 571 Burma 20, 68, 69, 92, 111, 123, 277, 283, 287, 289, 292, 294, 318, 336, 359, 553 Cairo 63, 210, 223, 224–226, 229, 230, 234, 236, 237, 242, 245, 246, 328, 330, 374, 378, 415, 420, 422 Chota Nagpur 251, 253–260, 262, 263, 268, 269, 271–274 Ceylon (see also Sri Lanka) 111, 112, 116, 124, 126, 265, 277, 284, 294, 581 Cilicia 500, 508 Congo 487, 495 Dachau 201, 206–209 Damascus 299, 301, 302, 306, 310, 322, 328, 402, 411, 413, 418, 423, 424, 500, 502, 503–505, 508, 513, 515, 588 Dar Es Salaam 496 Delagoa Bay 489 Delville Wood 483, 484, 487, 489, 491 District Six Museum 490 Dresden-Trachau 211 Durban 457, 471 East Africa 6, 17, 65, 79, 90, 109, 110, 112–114, 117, 119, 120, 277–280, 282, 283, 288, 293, 295, 341, 344, 347, 483–498 Egypt 12, 13, 21, 31, 34, 90, 104, 138, 152, 174, 175, 177, 206, 210, 217–247, 334, 336, 338, 347, 358, 376, 424, 503, 521, 536 Euphrates 403, 509 Festubert 33, 158 Flossenbürg 206–211 France 5, 10, 11, 20, 24, 29, 30–36, 39, 40, 42–50, 52, 55, 59, 61, 63, 70, 76, 81, 82, 84–86, 90, 94, 95, 98, 139, 144–146, 156, 159, 161, 164, 165, 175,

612

index of places

179, 180, 182, 183, 186, 188–191, 203, 205–207, 244, 251, 263, 265, 341, 344, 350, 356, 358, 364, 369, 371–375, 380, 383, 384, 390, 393, 395, 396, 406, 414, 429–431, 434–436, 438, 441–443, 448453, 455, 456, 467, 500, 519, 521–523, 525–528, 530, 531, 537, 539–541, 543 Gallipoli 90, 323, 341, 345, 491 Garhwal 69, 71 Germany 12, 20, 23, 140, 146, 147, 149, 151–153, 156, 158, 160–162, 164–167, 170–172, 174, 176–178, 181, 183, 185, 188–191, 195, 196, 202, 204, 215, 217, 219, 221, 244, 247, 260, 262, 264, 265, 270–272, 274, 310, 314, 347, 395, 414, 443, 460, 485, 488, 489, 491, 493, 530 German East Africa (today’s Tanzania, Tanganyika) 6, 17, 485, 487, 488, 493 German South West Africa (today’s Namibia) 488 Ghana see Gold Coast Gold Coast 21, 107–110, 277, 282, 486 India 3, 4, 5, 8, 13, 15, 18–24, 30–34, 36–42, 44–46, 49, 52, 53, 55–58, 61–64, 66–70, 73, 74, 76–78, 80– 83, 86, 88, 89, 91– 93, 95, 97, 98–101, 104–106, 111, 117, 122, 125, 126, 131–144, 147, 152, 156, 157, 159–162, 164, 165, 175, 222, 226, 251–259, 262–264, 266– 274, 277, 314, 319, 326, 334–336, 341–347, 349–362, 364–367, 486, 490, 495, 547–563, 565–578 Iraq 5, 21, 23, 77, 174, 175, 206, 210, 236, 239, 240, 245, 311, 313–334, 336, 341, 406, 421, 506, 513, 517 Isle of Wight 494 Italy 176, 177, 179, 181, 218–220, 231, 244, 247, 371, 372, 375, 383, 395, 414, 424; 499, 530, 571 Jabal Qusayr

510, 512

Kenya 6, 17, 110, 111, 117–119, 277, 278, 280, 286, 292, 295, 296, 485, 486, 495, 584, 594 Kilimanjaro 495 Kionga Triangle 487, 489 Knysna 493

Kurd Dagh 16, 402, 403, 406–411, 413–415, 417, 419, 420, 422–428 Kut al-Amara 33 Lahore 32, 84, 139–141, 143, 144, 352 Loos 33, 205, 207 Lublin-Majdanek 206, 210 Madras 30, 67, 98, 264, 265, 351–353, 355, 359, 367 Malawi (see Nyasaland) 11, 107, 110, 111, 123, 277, 278, 345, 487 Marseilles 32, 43, 49, 50, 85, 89, 93, 146, 152, 160 Mauritius 110, 277 Mauthausen 199, 206–210, 215 Maysalun 504, 505, 508, 510 Mesopotamia 20, 23, 33, 39, 56, 70, 76, 78, 79, 81–83, 86, 90, 94, 96, 99, 137, 138, 143, 146, 251, 341, 344, 347, 350, 360, 500 Morocco 182, 189, 190, 206, 210, 372, 391, 436, 519, 527, 531, 537, 540, 543 Moshi 495, 496 Neuve-Chapelle 33 Nigeria 486 Northern Rhodesia (Zambia) 110, 114, 277, 487 Nyasaland (see Malawi) 107, 110, 112–115, 117–129, 277, 278, 487 Orléans

32, 205

Pakistan 149, 560, 574, 577, 578 Palestine 33, 174, 175, 206, 214, 215, 225, 229, 231, 236, 299, 304, 305, 386, 409, 423–426, 491, 492, 500, 571 Peshawar 68, 69, 87, 88, 90 Portugal 487, 489 Portuguese East Africa 487, 489 Punjab 11, 21, 34, 39, 46, 67, 68, 131, 134, 138, 139, 141–144, 157, 161, 164, 263, 272, 352, 359–361, 367 Ranchi 122, 253, 257, 260, 268, 272, 273 Raqqa 509 Ravensbrück 173, 206, 210, 211, 213 Rhineland 173, 211, 443, 530 Rovuma Delta 489 Ruanda 489

index of places Salaita Hill 495 Senegal 429–456 Somaliland 110, 114, 118, 277, 283 South Africa 17, 23, 34, 65, 112, 121, 226, 279, 458–463, 465, 468, 470–478, 483, 484, 486–497 Southern Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) 110, 120, 487 Soviet Union see USSR Sri Lanka (see also Ceylon) 277 Sudan 174, 219, 240, 441 Suez 234, 236, 237, 245, 424 Suez Canal 225, 226, 237, 239, 245, 247, 304, 329 Swakopmund 491 Syria 6, 14, 16, 18, 21, 206, 236, 239, 242, 245, 299–301, 303–308, 310, 322, 325, 338, 386, 401–407, 410–414, 416, 417, 419, 421–423, 427, 499, 500, 502–505, 507, 508, 510, 511, 513, 514, 517

613

Tanga 486, 495 Tanganyika 110, 111, 118, 277, 493 Taveta 495, 496 Tobruk 468, 469, 471 Tunisia 15, 21, 189, 190, 206, 210, 369–375, 378–381, 383, 384, 387–392, 385, 396, 520–524, 527, 530, 531, 533, 535–538, 540–542, 544–546 Turkey 156, 162–164, 177, 239, 309, 326, 344, 349, 403, 406, 407, 410–413, 417, 424, 426, 499, 506, 508 Urundi 489 USA/United States of America 1, 41, 42, 237, 243, 311, 443, 463, 528, 531, 543 USSR/Soviet Union 189, 531, 571 West Indies 486 Wünsdorf 147, 148, 152, 154, 158–160 Ypres

32, 147