The Wealth Tax

Life in Başkale gradually returned to its course. People who had abandoned the town and surrounding villages during the war began to come back. In some villages that had once held a hundred families, only four remained. Before the First World War, as I remembered it, Başkale had 260 Jewish, 200 Armenian, and 400 Kurdish families. No Armenians now remained; there were 42 Jewish households, 180 Kurdish ones, and 30 Turkish households—mainly government officials—as well as 12 officers’ homes. The Fifth Regiment was permanently stationed in the town.

There were nearly thirty shops. Only four belonged to Kurds; all the rest were Jewish-owned. Consequently, commerce almost ceased on the Sabbath: villagers from the surrounding countryside stayed away, and the town was empty and quiet. The nearby Iranian frontier allowed goods to pass through, while other merchandise reached us from Van. Some traders profited and became wealthy; others remained poor. My brother had so much tailoring work that I began helping him, and our own circumstances improved.

Many local Jews and Kurds could neither read nor write. They were good people at heart, though officials and officers reluctantly posted to the town regarded their manners as rough. The newcomers were strangers and did not know how to obtain what they needed. I welcomed, guided, and helped them, and friendships followed. I used those relationships for the townspeople: anyone needing something from the state or local authorities came to me.

At first I handled matters for Jews; later villagers and Muslims also approached me. If a dispute arose with a Jew, they sometimes entrusted the matter to me so as to preserve our relationship and avoid official intervention. In municipal elections, I was told, I received more votes than any other candidate—more even than the town’s Muslim population. Yet in Turkey at that time a non-Muslim could not hold a municipal post. I did not seek office, but knew that membership of the council could help the community.

During İsmet İnönü’s presidency¹ and Şükrü Saracoğlu’s term as prime minister², a special capital levy—the Wealth Tax—was imposed.³ According to the testimony, every taxpayer was assessed at least five hundred lira, roughly ten times an average monthly wage.⁴

Committees were established in every town to determine each resident’s payment according to economic means. In Başkale the committee included the kaymakam⁵, the municipal treasurer, and three others, myself among them. We worked through a list of names. For a Muslim they knew, the members might say that he was a butcher or neighbour and propose a moderate figure; when Jewish names such as Rafael or Shmuel appeared, they immediately called out twenty thousand. Most names received an assessment of at least three thousand lira.

I remained silent. The kaymakam saw the malice and asked why I said nothing. I replied that I heard no justice in the committee’s words, only personal scores. He handed me the list: “Take it home. Mark the proper amounts in red; remove anyone who should not pay, increase what is too low, and reduce what is excessive. I know you will preserve justice. Bring it back tomorrow.”

I worked through the night, name by name. I removed people whom I knew could not pay; where someone could afford a thousand, I wrote five hundred. The only Jew whom I assessed heavily was Shmuel Chacho⁶—two thousand lira. I put nothing beside my own name. In the morning the kaymakam reviewed the list, saw that I had favoured no side, and crossed out my name in red.

Soon Shmuel burst into my shop in anger. “Have you no God? We trusted you, and you are bringing ruin on our home!” I told him that if two thousand lira seemed too much, I would pay half myself.

Lists were prepared elsewhere too. We heard that the authorities burdened people with non-Muslim names especially heavily; the Armenian name Hagik⁷, for example, was cited for cases in which another zero was added to an assessment. Those who could not pay lost their possessions, and debtors’ houses and property were sold. Non-Muslims still unable to cover the debt were sent in winter to compulsory labour on roads and street cleaning, with a meagre daily wage deducted from the tax.

When Shmuel understood the danger he had escaped, he returned to my shop and apologised. “You must have been sent by God,” he said. “Without you, we too would have been sent to Aşkale.”⁸ He asked to kiss my hand.