The Accusation

A substantial part of Başkale’s economy was in Jewish hands, arousing jealousy among some Muslim residents. We had been few when we arrived. As the community grew and its businesses expanded, economic differences became more visible. The warmth of the small town gradually gave way to tension. Nothing was said to our faces, but we could feel envy eating away beneath the surface.

In Suren, a village about an hour from Başkale, a group that included government employees met to coordinate a complaint against the Jews. Fearing that the local kaymakam would suppress it, they decided to bypass him and send copies directly to the president, prime minister, parliament, and minister of defence in Ankara.

The complaint alleged that groups within the Jewish community were undermining Turkish rule, passing information to the Russians who controlled Iranian Azerbaijan, and endangering the state. It was steeped in prejudice, yet none of its authors dared sign it. At last one man volunteered to take the four envelopes to the post office. When the postmaster required a return address, he had to provide his own.

The postmaster was my friend. He came to warn me that complaints against us had been sent to the highest institutions. He would not reveal the sender’s name; even the warning placed him at risk. I kept the news to myself and asked to see the kaymakam. I knew that if I presented the attempt to bypass him as an affront to his authority, he would have an interest in defending us too.

The kaymakam at the time was Recad Öcal¹, from a wealthy family known for courage and represented in parliament. I told him of the letters and said that the direct appeal to Ankara proclaimed a lack of confidence in him. His face coloured with anger. “Even if they wished to complain about me,” he said, “they should have come to me first. Do not be afraid; I will show them the consequences.”

Later he summoned me and recited the accusations as if in earnest: contact with the Russian army and disclosure of secrets. I replied ironically that if we had accomplished all this under their noses without anyone noticing, they ought to admire our intelligence. Why had the complainants not approached him—did they think he too collaborated with us? The kaymakam grew angrier and resolved to investigate. Only after that meeting did I tell Shmuel Kutler², one of the community’s leading men.

The man who mailed the letters was questioned in secret. He claimed to know nothing of their contents and to have been asked only to post them, and refused to name the authors. Taken to the police station, he was beaten unconscious and released with a warning to report every day until he spoke.

That night five of the town’s notables came to our home. They included the sender, Ihsan son of Hafiz, and the mufti, Sheikh [[person:ziyaddin-arvasi|Ziyaddin Arvasi]]. The mufti belonged to the respected Arvasi family, traditionally regarded as descendants of Harun al-Rashid.³ His [[person:shimon-demirel|elder brother]], Sheikh [[person:abdulhakim-arvasi|Abdülhakim Arvasi]]⁴, was a noted religious scholar who served in Istanbul. The mufti was tall, with a long beard and an imposing robe.

Ihsan fell at my feet. He recalled how my mother had cared for, washed, and fed him as a child, and insisted he had not known that Sinyor Efendi belonged to the community targeted by the letters. The mufti spoke of centuries of shared life and of the help Jews gave their neighbours. A new, jealous generation, he said, had initiated the complaint. He asked me to forgive Ihsan and use my influence with the kaymakam to halt the inquiry.

I knew the authors had plotted against us, yet I thought of the future: we would continue living among the same people. I promised to do all I could to end the matter quietly. Before leaving, the mufti told Ihsan to apologise to me personally. Ihsan took my hand and said that his old debt to us was too great for a mere apology. We agreed to visit the kaymakam together the next day.

At the office entrance Ihsan’s brother, Mehmed Emini, seized him and demanded the names of the other three authors. We went inside. The kaymakam was surprised to see me. I explained that I had come unbidden to ask him to forgive Ihsan. He turned on the man: “You, the son of a hoja⁵, call these Jews infidels and try to destroy them; now he comes to save you. Who is the infidel here?”

I explained that after their mother died I had brought the brothers to my mother, who raised them. The kaymakam agreed to forgive him, though he said we had nurtured a “snake” in our home. He then showed me the correspondence from Ankara: the matter had returned to him for investigation in any event. He knew the authors’ identities, but decided there was no need to continue. He would answer Ankara the next day and close the affair.

I thanked him and told the whole story to [[person:shmuel-chacho|Shmuel Chacho Güner]].⁶ He was pleased that we had not insisted on pursuing the complainants. Our small community had no powerful patron; restoring calm was wiser.

Afterwards my brother and I considered leaving. He sold the house⁷ to a Kurd named Hakim for a horse, a donkey, and a thousand lira. When the townspeople learned that we were preparing to go, they begged us to remain. We were loved and respected there, they said, and they would struggle without us.

My brother changed his mind. We offered Hakim compensation, but he refused. “I thought you were moving to a better house,” he said. “Had I known you were leaving the town, I would never have bought it.” He tried to return the horse and donkey as well, but my brother insisted that he keep at least those. We apologised and moved back into our old home.