Letters from Ottoman Students and Alternative Histories of Education

Chris Gratien, Georgetown University

Public Scribes, Fausto Zonaro (1910)

During the late-Ottoman period, education emerged as a sphere within which the Ottoman state could assert a new identity and ideology in order to compete with the influence of missionary schools, meanwhile providing education and skills with the goal of creating qualified and loyal subjects--indeed citizens--of the Ottoman Empire within the context of the Pan-Islamism of Abdülhamid II's reign and the liberalism of the constitutional era that followed.

State education policies have been discussed from different angles in the work of authors such as Selim Deringil and Benjamin Fortna, and we can incorporate the Ottoman attempts at expanding education into a broader Foucauldian framework within which efforts to rule through conditioning and teaching the subject of power to discipline itself emerged as a global trend in statecraft. 

These general narratives hold up for the most part; only they tell us relatively little about how Ottoman students viewed their education, what they sought to gain from it, and how they understood the expectation that came with it. Fortunately, there are plenty of sources for the study of the social history of education in the Ottoman Empire, and in this article, I will examine a series of letters by students and their guardians that I found in a few randomly selected boxes of papers from the Ottoman Ministry of Education (Maarif Nezareti).

Most of the letters I have come across deal with students asking to enroll without charge or receive acceptance in a particular school; in other words, the letters show that students and their families were interested in educational pursuits. However, the rhetoric employed in the letters also reveals a bit about how Ottomans viewed education, how they saw the role of the state in society, and what they thought they needed to say to get what they wanted.

As an important note, these letters are not necessarily written by or in the handwriting of the individuals they mean to represent. They may well have been written up by an arzuhalci, a critical figure found in every Ottoman town. The arzuhalci was a public scribe that assisted a largely illiterate population in its written communication with the state ministries. They recorded the petitions and complaints (arzuhalname, şikayetname) of Ottoman subjects for a small fee and in the process undoubtedly added some bureaucratic flair to spice up the dialectic. Thus, the individual's voice is often mitigated through the arzuhalci in the way that the court scribes served as a filter in the records of the Ottoman law courts. However, these letters still bear the stamp of the speaker and some could have been written personally by individuals who may well have been literate.

Education, Integration, and the Immigrant Experience

Tatar Women of Russian Caucasus
Detroit Publishing Company, 1890s

An issue that we have addressed again and again in the blog and podcast is that of Muslim immigrants or refugees from Crimea, the Caucasus and Eastern Europe during the nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. These immigrants were forced out by expanding Russian influence in the regions either through direct attempts at deportation and expulsion, perceived threat of violence, or fear for the future prospects of life as a Muslim in these regions. The Ottoman Empire took in hundreds of thousands of such individuals, known as muhacirin, in the period following the Crimean War.

While the state did provide initial money and land, sometimes built housing, and offered services to these communities, becoming settled in a new land required much more support than would be necessary for the typical Ottoman subject. Immigrants were often too poor to afford schooling and young men and women of these families--many of which had lost one or both parents to disease or war--often shouldered the family's economic burden as child workers.

This appears to be the case for the author of the following letter from summer of 1898. Şerafeddin introduces himself as the son of a poor Muslim muhacir from Crimea, saying that "although I wish to continue on the path of knowledge and wisdom that has been opened before me and that I have seen during my primary education in the elementary schools," his father Mustafa's poverty prevents him from furthering his education. He says that this poverty should not be reason for him to bear the "injustice of ignorance (zulmet-i cehâlet)," and in light of his financial hardship, Şerafeddin requests free admission to a night school, likely because this teenager is forced to work during the day to help provide for the family. The tone in the letter, which stresses the importance of enlightenment irrespective of social class and financial means, appeals to the state's self-image as a purveyor of knowledge and virtue while also pointing to its obligation to refugees that became caught in the middle of a power struggle with the Russian Empire. 

BOA, MF-VRK 17/9

Conversion, Paternalism, and the Obligations of Muslim Rulers

Our first letter did not involve much of an appeal to the Ottoman state as an Islamic power per se, but many of the dealings with refugees did include this notion of Ottoman responsibility for Muslim subjects and building a larger sense of Pan-Islamism during the Hamidian era. Less well-understood are cases of those who chose to convert to Islam within the Ottoman Empire, especially during the second half of the nineteenth century when it seemed that the lines between communities were becoming hardened amidst nationalist stirrings and sectarian tensions.

The following letter from 1898 certainly presents an interesting case that brings together several separate issues for social historians. A woman identifying herself as Mühtediye Zehra, Zehra the convert, writes explaining that she and her three daughters had come to the Ottoman Empire (Darülhilafet ül-Aliye) and rented a home in a neighborhood of Mersin. Zehra, whose original religion was Greek Orthodox (Rum), had converted "thank God" to the Islamic faith and filed all of the necessary paperwork to become a full-fledged Muslim subject in the Ottoman Empire. Being strangers with no one to turn to (bikes ve garibül-diyar), they were barely eking out a living, and thus, Zehra petitions for the state to take care of some poor converts and allow her youngest daughter Ayşe (age 10) to enroll in a night trade school for girls so that she may receive an "Islamic" education.

BOA, MF-VRK 17/18

There are as many interesting details in this letter as are left out. Zehra says that she was still a Christian when she came to Mersin (possibly from Greece though it is not indicated). Many foreign merchants flocked to ports such as Mersin during this period, but what is interesting about Zehra's case is that there is no mention of a former husband or why she chose to convert to Islam. Did they come on their own or along with a male head of household? Here it is as if a single-mother convert is appealing to the Ottoman state to be a provider, and in not mentioning the story of the girls' father (we do not know if he died, divorced, left them or she left him), Zehra emphasizes her position as a certified Muslim when pleading Ayşe's case, smoothly navigating the Ottoman state's paternalistic discourse.

Family Business and State Education

Poverty was certainly an obstacle for immigrant children in their educational pursuits, and both of these letters show the importance of the head of household's social status in the lives of the child. Thus, the death of a father could dramatically impact a family of any station.

In the following letter, two young students named Zeki and Tawfiq (Tevfik) identify themselves as members of a Damascus ulema household. The ulema were religiously educated notables who performed important social and clerical functions in provincial towns, and the ulema status was highly heritable. They indicate that while they had begun their educations on track as good children of a sheikh, their father's untimely death had made it financially challenging for them to continue in the "profession inherited from [their] anscestors (âbâ ve ecdâd)." They identify themselves as orphans saying that despite their best efforts, they have been unable to furnish the normal costs of education, and once again, likely because they were forced to provide for the family during the day, ask to be enrolled for free in a night school.

BOA, MF-VRK 17/12

We find a similar appeal to the importance of Islamic education and the responsibility of the Ottoman state as a just and compassionate Islamic polity in dispensing knowledge and virtue through helping students enroll in the empire's schools. However, here a desire to inherit the family profession and not let the ancestral tradition of Islamic education end with the misfortune of this generation is part of the justification in receiving preferential treatment through free enrollment. The state appears as a safety net allowing for students to continue their normal path of education without having their fate depend on the longevity of a family patriarch.

Students of the Aşiret Mektebi
Abdullah Fréres, 1890s

The Ottoman Civilizing Mission

The participation of old ulema families such as the one above in the post-Tanzimat order was part and parcel to reasserting Ottoman central authority in the provinces; this seemed to be even more so the case in regions where tribal families dominated local politics.

Ottoman statesmen devised many plans to incorporate these groups into the centralized order ranging from ambitious and sometimes violent attempts at resettlement and pacification to compromise, granting titles, and offering gifts. One of the most interesting experiments to arise during this period was the Tribal School (Aşiret Mektebi), which operated during the Hamidian era from 1892 to 1907. This school brought the sons of tribal notables of different ethnicities from throughout the empire to study in the capital at a school founded in Beşiktaş.

It was an ambitious idea not without its faults (see Sam's post on tensions between students), and as Eugene Rogan explains, the school faced problems of funding, attrition, and failure to provide a constructive environment for all students to study. Nevertheless, it did seem to produce a number of educated individuals who participated actively in the military and political order of the Ottoman Empire and post-Ottoman states.

The case of Ali in 1898, a student from Benghazi, seems to reflect more the shortcomings of the project than its achievements. According to his letter, Ali had done the necessary paperwork in Benghazi (then still an Ottoman territory) to enroll at the school. With papers in hand, he had come to Istanbul only to find himself in limbo in the Ottoman capital; after multiple requests and  months of waiting, he still had not been accepted to the school or been dignified with a response. He describes himself as an "Arab" who has come from "the deserts of Africa" to the Ottoman lands that "radiate with beams of knowledge" in order to receive an education, and he implores that his case be addressed.

BOA, MF-VRK 17/26

The civilizational rhetoric seems sycophantic, but the letter continues on to imply injustice on the part of the education ministry in not addressing his case, which he feels he so clearly deserves. It is natural for him to adopt the state's discourse in stating his case given the Tribal School's stated mission; however, we can also view his desire for education in the glowing metropolis of Istanbul as arising from a genuine sense of civilizational inequality between his home country in modern-day Libya and the rapidly-modernizing imperial center. Having internalized some negative ideas about the dark deserts of North Africa, Ali sought inclusion in the imperial order in a desire to be on the right side of an emerging imperial binary. Such a letter is interesting in light of a broader trend among the late-Ottoman elite and statesmen to view the tribes and "traditional" societies of the Ottoman Empire as "backward" or "savage" in comparison with Ottoman-Islamic civilization (medeniyet), a topic touched upon in an article by Selim Deringil.

Special Needs Students

Students and Teachers at Ottoman School for the Deaf in Istanbul,  Abdullah frères (1888-1893)

The cases above dealt with many instances of specific need on the part of students; however, the Ottoman education system also branched out to targeting groups that required a particular approach like tribal populations just discussed or deaf students that required special instruction. The Ottoman School for the Deaf opened during the Hamidian period in Istanbul provided one such opportunity. 

This document discusses an arzuhal (couldn't find original letter) by a young man named Şerefeddin from Midilli (Lesbos Island in modern-day Greece) seeking free admission as a "mute and deaf (dilsiz ve sağır)" student. The main conflict centered not so much on whether he could be accepted but rather his age. He was twenty years old at the time, just over the age limit for the school.

While initially his request was rejected, he was granted admission upon review on the condition that he could be certified as deaf, meet the requirements of the school, and find a place to spend the night in Istanbul (explained in other documents), a fair offer given that the deaf school had not yet been opened when he was of age.

BOA, MF-MKT 320/20

BOA, MF-VRK 17/48

Educator as Guardian

Without any data, universal experience of education alone could probably tell us that Ottoman students had a love/hate relationship with their teachers; however, the sincerity and dedication of Ottoman educators to the cause and the commitment to their students is definitely an important part of the story if we want to know how Ottoman schools were related to the communities and state that they simultaneously served.

There are plenty of writings and memoirs by educators trained in the late-Ottoman Empire about their ideological goals and obsession with education, but the relationship with their students is less clear. The following two documents give examples of possibly how teachers played a role in student lives. This is a letter from a teacher named Fatma written to the education ministry on behalf of one of her young students named Fahriye at a girl's trade school (location unclear). Fatma requests that Fahriye be allowed to enroll in both the day and night schools due to the "needy condition (zaruret) of her grandmother."

Here there is some ambiguity, because it is not entirely clear if her grandmother is needy in the usual sense, as in she is poor, or if, for example, she needs care due to sickness or old age. It should be the latter case, because registering for both day and night school seems to indicate a need for a flexible schedule. Since there is no mention that Fahriye's father Şukri is deceased or that she should be admitted for free because of financial need, there should be some other explanation for the relationship between Fahriye's education and her grandmother. Either way, it seems that Fatma has gone out of her way to help Fahriye and her family as a concerned and compassionate educator.

Educator as Mentor

High School in Trabzon,  Sebah & Joaillier c. 1888-1893

Teachers may have served as intermediaries between state bureaucracy and the local community in the way that religious leaders long had done so, but could students argue on behalf of their teachers in order to shape their own future and influence state policy? 

When I first found the following documents containing what looks to be the signatures of dozens of Ottoman students, I suspected it to be a petition asking for the dismissal of a teacher or administrator; however, it turned out to be the opposite. In fact, its contents are quite moving for any educator who has questioned student interest in the material and appreciation for effort exerted in the classroom.

The letter consists of a glowing endorsement of a schoolmaster named Hafız Mesud Efendi by his students at a Trabzon secondary school, claiming that nobody could do a better job than him and there was simply no one around with his level of qualification and expertise. Hafız Mesud had tapped into his student's learning potential. The situation under a former schoolmaster Faik Bey had been abysmal; their minds had gotten off track and it seemed they would learn nothing. They say that they have written on his behalf not because he was a fellow Trabzonite (hemşehir), but because Hafız Mesud had turned all of the bad performance of the prior administrations around. Invoking the language of nationalism, they say that he is exactly the teacher needed in the "Constitutional Era." The letter, which was written in fall of 1908, did indeed come on the heels of the Young Turk Revolution and the restoration of the constitution on July 24th of that year.

The purpose of writing the letter is not entirely clear but it may be that Hafız Mesud Efendi was either being transferred or dismissed with the reshuffling of the bureaucracy that occurred in the government ministries due to the political changes. It is mysterious how such a letter could have been prompted in the first place. Did Hafız Mesud, a parent, or another school offiicial ask the students to write it? Had Ottoman students gained such a sense of awareness, commitment to education, and civic duty that they would take the initiative to write such a letter? Should we be at all surprised if the latter was the case?

BOA, MF-VRK 27/57

BOA, MF-VRK 27/57

Conclusions

This article has been an attempt to show the possibility of writing a history of Ottoman education from the student side. The ease with which these arzuhals and various types of letters and petitions can be obtained suggests they are numerous and exquisitely rich in detail. This may be a step towards understanding education not just as a tool of the state to implement and disseminate a certain ideology while training future soldiers and civil servants but rather as an arena within which Ottoman citizens demanded services and tested the commitment of their state to providing the knowledge and virtue espoused by its own discourse. The harder question to answer is to what extent these demands were met. The folders for these letters for the most part contained no responses; it is not clear how or to what extent an education ministry saddled by budgetary and administrative issues could have responded. However, if we can examine how the Ottoman state did respond to such cases and as might be suspected did oblige some requests, we may be able to properly place the Ottoman education system in comparison with other imperial cases such as British education in India or French education in Algeria during the same period to get to the bottom of the Ottoman colonialism debate that has been easy to evoke but somewhat harder to analyse in practice with a social history approach.

tribes

teachers