Turkey: a Past and a Future — Text and Context

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In Category - World Events
Toynbee, Arnold, 1889-1975 Project Gutenberg 2003 Not confirmed
Eastern question; World War, 1914-1918 -- Turkey; Turkey -- History Readers of public-domain and historical texts
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Words 24,717
Reading time 108 min
Text sections 3

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Toynbee's 1917 analysis examines Turkey's diverse geography and peoples, the strategic versus economic motives behind the Bagdad Railway, and the interplay of German and Ottoman imperial ambitions in shaping the region's past and future.
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There were less than twenty million people in Turkey before the War, and during it the Government has caused a million or so to perish by massacre, starvation, or disease. Yet, in spite of this daemoniac effort after uniformity, they are still the strangest congeries of racial and social types that has ever been placed at a single Government's mercy. The Ottoman Empire is named after the Osmanli, but you might search long before you found one among its inhabitants. These Osmanlis are a governing class, indigenous only in Constantinople and a few neighbouring towns, but planted here and there, as officers and officials, over the Ottoman territories. They come of a clan of Turkish nomads, recruited since the thirteenth century by converts, forced or voluntary, from most of Christendom, and crossed with the blood of slave-women from all the world. They are hardly a race. Tradition fortified by inertia makes them what they are, and also their Turkish language, which serves them for business of state and for a literature, though not without an infusion of Persian and Arabic idioms said to amount to 95 per cent. of the vocabulary[1].

This artificial language is hardly a link between Osmanli officialdom and the Turkish peasantry of Anatolia, which speaks Turkish dialects derived from tribes that drifted in, some as late as the Osmanlis, some two centuries before. Nor has this Turkish-speaking peasantry much in common with the Turkish nomads who still wander over the central Anatolian steppe and have kept their blood pure; for the peasantry has reverted physically to the native stock, which held Anatolia from time immemorial and absorbs all newcomers that mingle with it on its soil. Thus there are three distinct "Turkish" elements in Turkey, divided by blood and vocation and social type; and even if we reckon all who speak some form of Turkish as one group, they only amount to 30 or 40 per cent. of the whole population of the Empire.

The rest are alien to the Turks and to one another. Those who speak Arabic are as strong numerically as the Turks, or stronger, but they too are divided, and their unity is a problem of the future. There are pure-bred Arab nomads of the desert; there are Arabs who have settled in towns or on the land, some within the last generation, like the Muntefik in Mesopotamia, some a millennium or two ago, like the Meccan Koreish, but who still retain their tribal consciousness of race; there are Arabs in name who have nothing Arabic about them but their language--most of the peasantry of Syria are such, and the inhabitants of ancient centres of population like Damascus or Bagdad; in Syria many of these "Arabs" are Christians, and some Christians, though they speak Arabic, have retained their separate sense of nationality--notably the Roman Catholic Maronites of the Lebanon--and would hardly be considered as Arabs either by themselves or by their neighbours. The same is true of the Druses, another remnant of an earlier stock, which has preserved its identity under the guise of Islam so heretically conceived as to rank as an independent religion. As for the Yemenis--they will resent the imputation, for no Arabs count up their genealogies so zealously as they, but there is more East African than Semitic blood in their veins. They are men of the moist, fertile tropics, brown of skin, and working half naked in their fields, like the peoples of Southern India and Bengal. And on the opposite fringes of the Arabic-speaking area there are fragments of population whose language is Semitic but pre-Arabic[2]--the Jacobite Christians of the Tor-Abdin, and the Nestorians of the Upper Zab, who once, under the Caliphs, were the industrious Christian peasantry of Mesopotamia, but now are shepherds and hillmen among the Kurds. The Kurds themselves are more scattered than any other stock in Turkey, and divided tribe against tribe, but taken together they rank third in numerical strength, after the Arabs and Turks. There are mountain Kurds and Kurds of the plain, husbandmen and herdsmen, Kurds who have kept to their original homes along the eastern frontier, and Kurds who, under Ottoman auspices, have spread themselves over the Armenian plateau, the North Mesopotamian steppes, the Taurus valleys, and the hinterland of the Black Sea.

Arnold Toynbee opens Turkey: a Past and a Future with a striking refusal to define Turkey by a single formula, instead cataloguing its varied landscapes—from the monsoons of the High Yemen to the pine-covered terraces of Kurdistan and the Anatolian steppe. This geographical diversity, he argues, resists easy generalization, and the cities he describes—Constantinople, Smyrna, Aleppo, Van—each bear the layered imprint of centuries. The work, written in 1917, is shaped by the First World War and the Ottoman Empire's entanglement with Germany, a theme Toynbee pursues through a detailed critique of the Bagdad Railway's construction.

Landscape as Argument

Toynbee’s opening pages do not offer a conventional historical narrative. Instead, he builds a case through geography, listing Turkey’s regions in a breathless catalogue that emphasizes contrast: the desert of the Hedjaz, the rivers of Mesopotamia, the Armenian highlands “bleak as the Pamirs.” The cities, too, are presented as distinct characters—Adrianople a fortress, Constantinople a meeting place of races that “never mix,” Konia a bastion of native Anatolia. This method implies that Turkey’s diversity is not merely scenic but political: the empire’s unity is an artificial imposition over lands that resist it. Toynbee’s prose mirrors this tension, shifting from panoramic sweep to sharp detail, as when he notes that the Bagdad Railway’s route was chosen for strategic rather than economic reasons, passing through “the most barren parts of Central Anatolia.”

The Railway as Imperial Instrument

The Bagdad Railway serves as Toynbee’s central case study. He draws on German sources—Dr. Rohrbach and Wiedenfeld—to argue that the line was designed for military domination, not economic development. Rohrbach admits that the Anatolian section does not pay its way, while the French line from Smyrna to Afiun Kara Hissar is more profitable. Toynbee highlights the original plan to run the railway through Armenia, vetoed by Russia, and the subsequent deflection through the Taurus and Amanus mountains, requiring costly tunnels. He quotes Rohrbach’s concession that “the necessity consists in Turkey’s military interests,” allowing troops to move from Bagdad to Anatolia without a break. For Toynbee, this reveals the railway as a tool of Turco-German control over Arab lands, with economic logic sacrificed to strategic ends.

Contrasting Visions of Development

Toynbee contrasts the German-backed railway with alternative routes proposed by the British, such as Colonel Chesney’s 1830s survey and an 1867 House of Commons committee. These followed the ancient trade route from the Syrian coast to the Persian Gulf, which Rohrbach himself calls “the oldest, greatest, and still most promising trade-route of Western Asia.” Toynbee uses this contrast to underscore a broader tension: between development that serves local populations and infrastructure that enforces imperial control. He notes that the British projects were abandoned, while the German line proceeded—a choice he attributes to political rather than economic priorities. The unfinished state of the railway, like the unfinished history of Aleppo, becomes a symbol of the region’s uncertain future under competing great-power ambitions.

Toynbee’s essay is less a prediction than a diagnosis, rooted in the specific circumstances of 1917. Readers should attend to his use of German sources—Rohrbach and Wiedenfeld—which he deploys as evidence against the very project they defend. The work’s value lies in its close reading of a single infrastructure project as a lens for imperial strategy, and in its insistence that Turkey’s future cannot be understood without reckoning with its diverse past and the external forces that shaped it.

In Turkey: a Past and a Future, I often linger on how Toynbee traces imperial dreams along railway lines, quiet threads of ambition across vast lands. That same patient watching over a fragile map of intentions—where place and story lean on each other—returns to me in The flying spy — Story, Setting & Ideas, a gentler companion in the same dusty shelf-light.

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