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,
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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 ............................... 29
Claude Markovits

Front Lines and Status Lines: Sepoy and ‘Menial’ in the Great
War 1916–1920 .............................................................................. 55
Radhika Singha

Military Service, Nationalism and Race: The Experience of

Malawians in the Second World War ....................................... 107
Timothy J. Lovering

The Corrosiveness of Comparison: Reverberations of

Indian Wartime Experiences in German Prison Camps
(1915–1919) .................................................................................... 131
Ravi Ahuja

The Suppressed Discourse: Arab Victims of National

Socialism ......................................................................................... 167
Gerhard Höpp (with a prologue and an epilogue by
Peter Wien)

Egypt’s Overlooked Contribution to World War II .................... 217

Emad Ahmed Helal
vi 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 .................................. 251
Heike Liebau

Correcting their Perspective: Out-of-area Deployment and the

Swahili Military Press in World War II .................................... 277
Katrin Bromber

The First World War According to the Memories of

‘Commoners’ in the Bilād al-Shām ............................................ 299
Abdallah Hanna

Ambiguities of the Modern: The Great War in the Memoirs

and Poetry of the Iraqis ............................................................... 313
Dina Rizk Khoury

Ardour and Anxiety: Politics and Literature in the Indian

Homefront ...................................................................................... 341
Santanu Das

Radio and Society in Tunisia during World War II ................... 369

Morgan Corriou

PART THREE

SOCIAL AND POLITICAL TRANSFORMATIONS

Peripheral Experiences: Everyday Life in Kurd Dagh

(Northern Syria) during the Allied Occupation in the
Second World War ....................................................................... 401
Katharina Lange

Military Collaboration, Conscription and Citizenship Rights in

the Four Communes of Senegal and in French West Africa
(1912–1946) .................................................................................... 429
Francesca Bruschi
 contents vii

“Our Victory Was Our Defeat”: Race, Gender and Liberalism

in the Union Defence Force, 1939–1945 ................................... 457
Suryakanthie Chetty

The Impact of the East Africa Campaign, 1914–1918 on

South Africa and Beyond ............................................................. 483
Anne Samson

From the Great War to the Syrian Armed Resistance

Movement (1919–1921): The Military and the Mujahidin
in Action ......................................................................................... 499
Nadine Méouchy

Still Behind Enemy Lines? Algerian and Tunisian Veterans

after the World Wars .................................................................... 519
Thomas DeGeorges

The Creativity of Destruction: Wartime Imaginings of

Development and Social Policy, c. 1942–1946 ......................... 547
Benjamin Zachariah

Bibliography ........................................................................................ 579

Indices
General Index ................................................................................. 603
Index of Names ............................................................................. 609
Index of Places ............................................................................... 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 Ber-
lin 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 assis-
tants 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 espe-
cially 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 geographi-
cal 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 consti-
tuted 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 hege-
monically 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 Ger-
man 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.
2 introduction

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 cul-
tural 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 narra-
tives 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 (Cam-
bridge, 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.
 introduction 3

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 lega-
cies’ 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, predomi-
nantly 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 politi-
cal culture frequently mimicked military forms.13 Recovering quotid-
ian war experiences in war theatres, recruitment regions and areas
affected by war in other ways will thus contribute to a better under-
standing 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 Contempo-
rary 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 Twentieth-
century India (Cambridge, 2001).
4 introduction

If more and more scholars are coming to realise the importance of

world war history for the understanding of the social, political, eco-
nomic 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 partici-
pation 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 post-
colonial nation states, for its part, often tended to emphasize tradi-
tions 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: Pro-
curement 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.
 introduction 5

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 pro-
gressively 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.
20
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 Colo-
nial 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) (Basing-
stoke, 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,
6 introduction

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 citi-
zenship 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 excep-
tion.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 representa-
tions 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. Over-
coming the temporal discreteness and spatial segmentation of conven-
tional 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 uncover-
ing, 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).
 introduction 7

memory and record”27—but one of the resorting to ‘classical’ histori-

cal, 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 previ-
ously ‘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 intel-
ligence 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 mak-
ing 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 record-
ings34 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 sol-
diers 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 Twen-
tieth 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, “Record-
ings of South Asian Languages and Music in the Lautarchiv of the Humboldt Uni-
versity 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).
8 introduction

these regions in various forms ranging from propaganda35 to rumour36

allows us to overcome a campaign-centred notion of wartime informa-
tion 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 post-
war planning and projects: it had to carefully prepare for the demobi-
lization 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 per-
ceived outside Europe? How did they affect social relations and politi-
cal 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 des-
ignations (‘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 aca-
demic 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, Politi-
cal 27, 2 (2002), 165–191; Pamela J. Stewart and Andrew Strathern, Witchcraft, Sor-
cery, 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.
 introduction 9

tions. Recurrent themes and unexpected links within the geographi-

cal scope and time span covered in this volume suggest new research
questions and conceptual ideas about how the world wars were per-
ceived, lived through and fought. Moreover, the impressive oral his-
tories 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 juxta-
position 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 Percep-
tions the contributions focus on the experiences of soldiers, combat-
ants and followers on the frontline and in the rear of the front. In
Representations and Responses the emphasis is on immediate or orga-
nized responses as fleshed out in public debates, propaganda activities
and in individual and collective memories. Finally, Social and Politi-
cal 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 pin-
nacles 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 person-
nel to look at soldiers in the trenches, follower-rank groups on the
10 introduction

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 deal-
ing with South Asian soldiers in France during the First World War.
Drawing on earlier scholarship based on the letters sent to their fami-
lies 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 expe-
riences of ordinary Indian soldiers in France, focusing on their geo-
graphical 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, pub-
lic and private, who were treated as a permanent part of the army.
She discusses the status of the follower ranks within the army hierar-
chy, which was coloured by notions of caste and ethnicity. The essay
 introduction 11

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 non-
participation) 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 record-
ings 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 cor-
rosive effects on political stability at home.
12 introduction

The situation of Arabs in Europe during the Second World War is

at the centre of Gerhard Höpp’s chapter.39 Starting from the assump-
tion 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 hith-
erto unexploited sources from the Egyptian National Archives, Emad
Helal calls for a substantial re-evaluation of the Egyptian ‘contribu-
tion 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 pub-
lished 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 conclud-
ing remarks, which contextualize this article within current research debates.
 introduction 13

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 memo-
ries, 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 contribu-
tions 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, con-
tributions 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 inter-
preted 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 chan-
nels 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. Folgen-
reiche Falschmeldungen im 20. Jahrhundert (Berlin, 2006).
14 introduction

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 Afri-
can 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 news-
papers published in Swahili for East African contingents, Bromber
shows that the main aim of the military was to discipline the combat-
ants 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 non-
elite 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 con-
ducted 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 illus-
trates 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 national-
ists 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 protago-
nists’ social and cultural roots in the Ottoman Empire for their “per-
 introduction 15

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 chap-
ter, the contribution written by Santanu Das focuses on elites. Tak-
ing 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 mid-
dle 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 recruit-
ment 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 broad-
casting to the Tunisian public became a highly politicized issue dur-
ing 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 influ-
ence 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
16 introduction

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 con-
tributions 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 popu-
lation 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’ dur-
ing 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 nar-
ratives 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 villag-
ers 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 con-
scription and recruitment of West African soldiers led to fundamental
social and political transformations in French West Africa. Veter-
ans’ war experiences transformed their attitudes toward the colonial
 introduction 17

administration. French propaganda invoked “emancipation”, “equal-

ity” and promised French citizenship to attract recruits. This invoca-
tion 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 historiogra-
phy 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 mate-
rial. 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 dis-
tance from the events narrated. Arguing that immediately after the war
South Africa could have opted for a political vision other than apart-
heid, 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 Cam-
paign 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 ‘col-
lective amnesia’: internal political divisions in South Africa after the
First World War and the failure of the campaign, from a South Afri-
can 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
18 introduction

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, weap-
ons, 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’ let-
ters and other material stored in French and Tunisian archives to lit-
erary 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 politi-
cal 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 represen-
tations 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 cinemato-
graphic 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 transi-
tions 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
 introduction 19

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 dif-
ferences 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, colo-
nial 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, comprehen-
sive 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 prob-
lems. 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 con-
fined 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.
20 introduction

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 colo-
nialism, which is that a small number of empires controlled, domi-
nated 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 mate-
rial 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 historio-
graphical 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 connec-
tions between colonies or across ‘peripheral regions’ need to be seri-
ously 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 differ-
ent British colonies (and prospective nation states) in Africa (Lover-
ing) 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.
 introduction 21

implications of such encounters. Helal’s contribution demonstrates

the multiple ways the Allied Forces relied on Egypt during the Sec-
ond 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 move-
ments worldwide and led to fundamental changes in popular mentali-
ties. Whereas these questions have been extensively studied for the
metropolis, a substantial number of recent publications are also con-
cerned with whether the world wars had any impact on the growth
of major political currents like nationalism, Pan-Islamism or com-
munism 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 non-
metropolitan 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, Mark-
ovits 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-imperi-
alism 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, “Sol-
diers, Ex-Servicemen, and Politics in the Gold Coast, 1939–50,” Journal of Modern
African Studies, 21, 3 (1983), 527.
22 introduction

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 prevail-
ing ‘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 dis-
courses 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 catego-
rizations, 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 vet-
erans, especially with regard to gender relations and labour issues. Fur-
ther 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 arrange-
ments. 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. Fur-
thermore, 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-
 introduction 23

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 compara-
tive perspective. Institutional dynamics, the essays demonstrate, were
no automatism, however. The window of opportunity for an asser-
tion 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 con-
texts 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 evo-
lutionary 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 con-
ventional 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 sys-
tem (Méouchy). Similarly as Chistopher Bayly and Tim Harper have

44
William A. Green, “Periodizing World History,” History and Theory, 34, 2 (1995),
99.
24 introduction

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. Bev-
erly Silver has given comprehensive proof of the hypothesis that strike
movements reached high pitches not only in the metropolitan coun-
tries, but also in colonies and mandated territories after both world
wars.46 At least in South Asia, these were also times of substantial peas-
ant 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 suf-
fered 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 for-
gotten 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 documenta-
tion, 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 forgot-
ten (Chetty, Samson). Struggles against forced recruitment in ‘tribal’
regions of India for Labour Corps for France sit uneasily with the sup-
port 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).
 introduction 25

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 recon-
sider 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 his-
torians, 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 archi-
val 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 Pun-
jab Studies 2 (1995), 43–63..
30 claude markovits

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 mate-
rial 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 pos-
sible 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 cour-
age 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 states-
men.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 conver-
gence of factors which were both of a strategic and a political charac-
ter. The strategic imperative was the existence of a large gap in British
manpower on the Western Front, once the original British Expedi-
tionary 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 des-
tined 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 Secre-
tary 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, Cor-
respondence regarding the European War, volume I, no. 127, Cambridge University
Library.
32 claude markovits

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 divi-
sions, 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 pat-
tern of the British Army, and they had neither grenades, nor mor-
tars 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 Chapelle-
Givenchy 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 prov-
enance. 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 inca-
pable 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 humiliat-
ing defeat for the British and Indian forces. Later, reinforced by other
troops from India, they would play a decisive role in the British con-
quest 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.
34 claude markovits

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 sig-
nificant group of Indians having travelled to the West. There is no pre-
cise 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 evi-
dence 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 Brit-
ish 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, there-
fore 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 charac-
teristics. 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 Pun-
jabi in the Gurmukhi script, Pashto, Hindi and Nepali, to name only
the most common languages). The original purpose of this special out-
fit 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
36 claude markovits

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 any-
where, 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 collec-
tions 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 Intelli-
gence 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 writ-
ten 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.
17
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.
38 claude markovits

makes for a relatively stereotyped corpus, in which however the indi-

viduality 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 impoli-
tic 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 Lieu-
tenant Evelyn Berkeley Howell (1877–1971), later Sir Evelyn Berkeley

19
Omissi, Indian Voices, p. 9.
20
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.
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 inter-
esting 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 politi-
cal 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 undoubt-
edly 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 war-
time diaries have miraculously surfaced in some barn in the Punjab,
we would be informed only through the writings of their British offi-
cers, which, on the whole, and with a few exceptions,23 are not very

21
Quoted in Omissi, Indian Voices, p. 22.
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).
40 claude markovits

perceptive, informed as they are by a mixture of paternalism and pre-

tentious 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 intrigu-
ing 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 cov-
ers a wide variety of topics, but I am going to focus on one particu-
lar 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 cul-
tural 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 use-

ful 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 pres-
ent 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 mak-
ing 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 Nine-
teenth Century Bengal (Delhi, 1988), pp. 103–218.
42 claude markovits

Christianity. While in an earlier period most travellers had been Per-

sian-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 Par-
liament 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 Won-
ders 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.
31
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).
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 correspon-
dence, 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 discov-
ery 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 gener-
ally 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 eth-
nography, 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 Span-
iards 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).
44 claude markovits

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 Egyp-
tians. The wits are set wool-gathering by rosy cheeks and dainty ring-
lets. 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 let-
ters, 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 ‘occi-
dentalism 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 let-
ter 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.
36
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.
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 agri-
culture (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 pat-
tern 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 affec-
tion first between the two parties, who are never less than eighteen
years of age. After marriage there is never any discord between hus-
band 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 Pesha-
war. Ibid.
40
Omissi, Indian Voices, p. 276.
41
Ibid. no. 334, p. 197.
42
Ibid. no. 448, pp. 257–258.
46 claude markovits

Cavalry soldiers, including many Sikhs, who stayed behind at the end
of 1915 and did not have much fighting to do, were of course particu-
larly 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 gen-
der 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 dis-
course, 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 femi-
nist 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 agri-
culturists 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 situ-
ated 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 can-
not 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.
48 claude markovits

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 ben-
efited 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 popula-
tion. 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 Mus-
lim 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 consider-
able 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 His-
tory 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 Pun-
jabi 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 wan-
der 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 phe-
nomenon. 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 pre-
pared 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 post-
office 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.
50 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 Mar-
seilles 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 neigh-
borhood 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 indu-
bitable 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,” Mili-
tary Affairs 45 (1981), 72.
55
A note by the Chief Censor offered some kind of rationale for this relative leni-
ency. 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 alto-
gether 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 Ameri-
can 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 con-
sidered 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.
52 claude markovits

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 origi-
nality of the corpus of soldiers’ letters is that they gained an insight
into the lives of ordinary French people that no literate Indian trav-
eler 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 repre-
sentative 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 contin-
ued 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 experi-
ences and the forging of relationships of different nature with French
women, I think the best answer probably lies in the notion of ‘brico-
lage’ as put forward by Michel de Certeau, to account for the capac-
ity 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).
59
As noted in Craig Gibson, “Relations between the British Army and the Civilian
Population on the Western Front, 1914–18”, PhD thesis (Leeds, 1998).
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 national-
ist 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 par-
ticipation 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 Lal-
beghi 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 fol-
lower 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 founda-
tion, 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 other-
wise 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 Anglo-
Indian 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.
56 radhika singha

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 prob-
ably 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.
6
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 pri-
vate 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, regi-
ments 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.
 front lines and status lines 57

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 distinc-
tions 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 recruit-
ing 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 rela-
tionship 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, Gen-
eral 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.
58 radhika singha

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 sym-
bolic 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 employ-
ment 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 com-
bat, 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 acknowl-
edgement. 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 cam-
paigns in the Middle East, 1914–1922, PhD thesis, Cambridge University, U.K., 2005,
chapter 4.
 front lines and status lines 59

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 prevail-
ing wage in a ‘free’ labour market. Though a regular feature of fron-
tier-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 ‘tempo-
rary 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 carpen-
ters 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 invest-
ment 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.
60 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 follow-
ers, 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’ ser-
vices. 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 con-
ferred 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 combat-
ant 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 essen-
tial 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.
 front lines and status lines 61

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), mess-
bearers (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 con-
siderable reliance upon regimental ‘house-keeping’ to mobilize man-
power, 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-bear-
ers) 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.
62 radhika singha

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 depen-
dency of domestic service.24 In colonial civil offices, ‘menial establish-
ment’ 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 ‘mili-
tarization’ 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 peace-
time 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.
25
Some were hired for only part of the year, for instance, the punkah (fan) pull-
ers 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.
 front lines and status lines 63

into mere ‘coolie labour’”.27 In the new dispensation each stretcher-

bearer was issued a kukri, and nomenclature reminiscent of a labour-
gang 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 vari-
ous 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 fol-
lowers, 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 non-
combatants 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.
64 radhika singha

public followers.33 The other complication was that the Army Depart-
ment preferred to meet war-time short-falls of departmental follow-
ers 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 fam-
ily 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 employ-
ment 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 fre-
quency between garrisons around the Indian Ocean.36 Simultaneously

33
AD, June 1913, No. 1302–1308 and appendix.
34
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, Appen-
dix 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).
 front lines and status lines 65

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 migra-
tion to Canada, Australia and South Africa. In their sense of them-
selves 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 Regi-
ment (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 Brit-
ish 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
66 radhika singha

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 narrow-
ing of the status gap between the sepoy and departmental followers
such as those in the Army Bearer Corps and mule transport compa-
nies. 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 sys-
tem 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 formali-
ties 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.
 front lines and status lines 67

find military accounts complaining that the ‘true’ kahars, character-

ized 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 corol-
lary, 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 gar-
risons 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 [. . .]”. Parliamen-
tary 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, Samp-
son 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 human-
ity”. 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 Bom-
bay 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.
68 radhika singha

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 combat-
ant.48 The Indian Army used ethnic criteria in recruitment to rein-
force 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 combat-
ants 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 co-
opted 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 seri-
ously 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.
 front lines and status lines 69

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 sta-
tus, 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.
53
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.
70 radhika singha

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 par-
allel 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, Nepal-
ese, cis-Frontier Pathans”.60
The expansion of military employment both combatant and non-
combatant 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 prac-
tice 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 driv-
ers 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 lat-
ter “a generic term for [. . .] certain forest tribes”. The Pioneer, October 1, 1916, p. 13.
 front lines and status lines 71

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, particu-
larly 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 sep-
oys 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 Garh-
wali 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 dis-
tance 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

62
Creagh, Indian Studies, pp. 140–141.
63
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 Gov-
ernment had formally prohibited the recruitment of Garhwalis to the ‘coolie corps’.
Garhwali, September 29, 1917.
72 radhika singha

The attached followers and the construction of ‘menial’ status

While combatant and non-combatant labour could flow in inter-

connected 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 simul-
taneously as a ‘trade’ that is, as a traditional specialization, and as
‘polluting’.68
The other dimension of ‘menial’ status, this essay argues, was the re-
production, in an institutional context, of regimes of highly discretion-
ary 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 con-
tracts 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-
 front lines and status lines 73

‘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 superi-
ors, 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 ser-
vant.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 embar-
rassingly 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 ‘vil-
lage 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 Command-
ing 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 mil-
itary 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.
74 radhika singha

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 sum-
mariness, and by the use of corporal punishment. In fact, contempo-
rary 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 per-
sonal 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 sum-
mary 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 Brit-
ish soldier.76
British officers claimed that summary court martial and corporal
punishment, though rarely used in the Indian Army, were indispens-
able, because they created an aura of power around the Commanding
Officer which preserved authority down the whole chain of com-
mand.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), Sec-
tion. 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.
 front lines and status lines 75

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 ser-
vice, in camp, in the march, or at any frontier post, summarily sentence
“the native follower if he was a menial servant” to seven days impris-
onment 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 can-
ing 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 cor-
poral 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 sum-
marily 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.
76 radhika singha

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 court-
martial 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, Command-
ing 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 Mesopota-
mia, 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.
 front lines and status lines 77

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 cen-
tralized territorially-based recruitment for public followers. The Adju-
tant-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, hop-
ing 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 equip-
ment 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.
88
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.
78 radhika singha

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 appro-
priate 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 conser-
vancy work but conditions of field service in Mesopotamia had neces-
sitated 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.
 front lines and status lines 79

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 gener-
ating 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 ship-
ping 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

97
F&P, War, B, Secret, March 1918, Nos. 384–386.
98
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.
80 radhika singha

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 sep-
oys ate better, instead of stinting themselves to send money home.102
However the follower ranks, sent with difficulty and expense over-
seas 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 dis-
cover,” 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 sanc-
tioned 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 them-
selves 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 Gen-
eral’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.
 front lines and status lines 81

less than the Indian soldier, A patient once admitted to a Government

institution must be given the best and quickest chance of recovery pos-
sible, whatever his colour or social status.107
The Director, Medical Services responded repressively that the correla-
tion of conditions between British and Indian hospitals was “desirable
where practicable”.108
The Tommy’s call upon the British public’s sympathy and atten-
tion 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, sweep-
ers and washermen are criticized for not being as “efficient or trust-
worthy” 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 under-
line 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 semi-
civilised 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
82 radhika singha

also began to take credit for having drilled a workable kind of brav-
ery, 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 Turk-
ish 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 ‘backward-
ness’ 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 treat-
ment 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 stretcher-
bearers 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, Wil-
liam Heinemann, 1917), p. 19. Candler pointed out, that at Shaiba and Sahil in Meso-
potamia, 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 Lan-
cers 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.
 front lines and status lines 83

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 dan-
gerous and onerous nature of their duties.119 He drew up a chart to
explain the disparity between sepoy and mule driver:

Sepoy Mule driver

Increase of pay Rs.2/- per month Rs.1/-
Compensation for dearness Rs.3/- to Rs.3-8-0 Rs.1-10-0 to Rs.2/-
of food per month
Kit money Rs.60/- Rs.10/-
Annual allowance Rs.17/- 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 Com-
manding Officer of the Kohat Brigade demanded more cooks, pointing out that regi-
ments 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.
84 radhika singha

He described the mule drivers’ sensitivity to the inferiority inscribed

in the quality of their kit, the lack of concern for their rest and clean-
liness, 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 sig-
nifier of institutional status, the medium through which the Indian
Army conferred status on sepoys, constructed a paternalist relation-
ship 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 driv-
ers’ 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) Divi-
sion 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.
 front lines and status lines 85

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 troop-
ers, 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 ‘fol-
lowers’ 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 bay-
onet 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 Grim-
shaw 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 mov-
ing 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.
125
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.
86 radhika singha

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 high-
lighting 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 conver-
sion 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 sev-
enth 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 extend-
ing, 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 stand-
ing. 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, hon-
our, 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.
 front lines and status lines 87

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 compensa-
tion 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 Pesha-
war 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 non-
combatants they had the option of leaving with a gratuity after a shorter term of ser-
vice, 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
88 radhika singha

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 pen-
sion 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 allow-
ance, 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 perma-

nent 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 fol-
lowers, 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 disap-
pointment 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.
 front lines and status lines 89

eroded follower wages, and that the increase would have to be perma-
nent, not just for the duration of the war.145
From 1911 onwards, infantry and cavalry regiments had been com-
plaining 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 Bri-
gade 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 Gov-
ernment 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 sweep-
ers, 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 substi-
tuted 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.
90 radhika singha

Theatre Dead from all causes

Indian officers Indian other ranks Followers
France 176 5,316 2,218
East Africa 67 2,405 500
Mesopotamia 365 17,567 11,624
Dunsterforce – 158 23
Persia 25 1,779 670
Egypt 74 3,713 555
Gallipoli 33 1,591 127
Aden 7 500 79
Muscat 1 39 2
Frontier operations 17 2,245 1,621
Grand totals 764 35,303 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 divi-

sions 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 fol-
lowers 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 the-
atres 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 differ-
ent 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.
 front lines and status lines 91

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 dis-
parities 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 the-
atres 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 fol-
lower 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 Trans-
port 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.
156
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 allow-
ance 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 allow-
ances 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.
92 radhika singha

Back in India however the Supply and Transport scale was not prov-
ing attractive enough to attract fresh follower recruits.164 In September
1916 the Commanding Officer of the newly inaugurated Meerut Fol-
lower’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 refer-
ence. 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.
 front lines and status lines 93

to re-assure the Secretary of State that this pay rise would not affect
the recruitment of fighting men, as followers were drawn from ‘non-
fighting classes’.171
Followers now preferred to join the Central Depots for overseas ser-
vice, 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 ser-
vice.172 However follower wages for regiments stationed in India could
not really be sealed off from wages for overseas service. Army Instruc-
tion 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.
172
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 over-
seas 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 Commis-
sioner 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.
94 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. Depart-
mental 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

177
Rs.11/- a month, with Rs.5/- war batta and Rs.4/- war allowance = Rs.20/-.
178
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 re-
frame his work as ‘skilled labour’?
180
Army Regulations (AR), No. 1062, No. 1073, in AD, War, 1914–15, No. 2250,
pp. 74, 77.
 front lines and status lines 95

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 posi-
tion 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 cat-
egories, such as boatmen, watchmen, guides etc, “classes not ordinar-
ily 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 follow-
ers” 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.
96 radhika singha

to strengthen the effective firing line”.185 He proposed that Govern-

ment extend the benefit of the lowest class of pension to private fol-
lowers, 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 pris-
oner. 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 offi-
cially 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.
186
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.
 front lines and status lines 97

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, pre-
ferred 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 How-
ever 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 deroga-
tory 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.
194
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.
98 radhika singha

This hierarchical attitude probably affected the standing of the Brit-

ish 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 flu-
idly 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 domestic-
ity 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 play-
ing 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 vil-
lage 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 sprawl-
ing 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 Anu-
pama 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.
 front lines and status lines 99

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 accou-
trements 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
100 radhika singha

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 Brit-
ish 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 com-
batants 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 under-
lining the ambiguity of the orderly’s status.“The British officer’s orderly was emphati-
cally 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.
 front lines and status lines 101

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 dis-
cuss 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 non-
combatant labour from India with stringent economy, to substitute
it with local labour, and finally to take more ‘fatigue duties’ from sol-
diers.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 ordi-
narily 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 Organi-
zation, implied that by enlisting the follower and changing his desig-
nation, for instance, by replacing the word ‘syce’ by the term ‘horse
orderly’, follower-work could be made more honorable, thereby per-
suading 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.
102 radhika singha

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 establish-
ments; 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 claim-
ing 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, stat-
ing 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 com-
bat 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, Regi-
mental, A May 1919, No. 1869–1873 and Appendix.
223
Ibid.
224
Ibid.
225
ER, II, pp. 87–88.
 front lines and status lines 103

‘follower’ should disappear”.226 The “departmental followers” it pro-

nounced 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 actu-
ally implemented. The improved status of departmental followers was
confirmed and extended in the 1920s, because the Indian Army real-
ized 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 stretcher-
bearers 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 Non-
Combatant Branch”.230 In the ‘General Section’, the epithet ‘menial’

226
Ibid. p. 87, para 6.
227
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.
104 radhika singha

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 allow-
ance 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 insti-
tutional 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 fol-
lowers ‘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.
232
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 sub-
scribe 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).
 front lines and status lines 105

and protected as such by the Geneva Convention. They were also sub-
ject 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 recruit-
ment could potentially cover the entire social spectrum, reaching into
low caste and tribal communities, and the follower enrolled at a Cen-
tral Depot could be sent to any unit.235 The discussions of the Makin
Committee and the Esher committee on improving the quality of fol-
lower services, offer some parallels with the language of those depos-
ing 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

234
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 sim-
ply 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.
106 radhika singha

sepoys and followers, began to be narrowed down. Followers, circulat-

ing with greater velocity between stations, and theatres of war, com-
paring 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 ‘pub-
lic 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-combat-
ant ‘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

236
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 par-
ticularly 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 senti-
ment. 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 Nyasa-
land (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 lower-
ing 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 increas-
ing 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 Brit-
ish 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 stimula-
tion 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 Nation-
alism, with Particular Reference to British Central Africa,” Phylon: The Atlanta Uni-
versity Review of Race and Culture 22, 3 (1961), 219–220.
108 timothy j. lovering

Criticisms of this account of African experience of the war have

focussed upon two key areas; the impact of soldiers upon wider colo-
nial 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 sol-
diers had a minimal impact upon the nationalist movement, ending
an article with a section entitled “The political unimportance of ex-
servicemen”; however, he acknowledged the essentially political char-
acter 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 pro-
vided a more sustained case for Rathbone’s position, concluding that
ex-servicemen had no significant political role. Moreover, he specifi-
cally 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 politi-
cal 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 Sec-
ond 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.
 military service, nationalism and race 109

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, Tim-
othy 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 politi-
cal 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 nation-
alist politics, but rather with the political character of soldiers’ atti-
tudes 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 ter-
ritorial 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.
110 timothy j. lovering

issues by disaggregating soldiers’ wartime experience from their post-

war political impact.

Malawians in the Second World War

Despite their location in the Southern African economic sphere, Mala-

wians9 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 Mauri-
tius. 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 identifica-
tion between the forces of the two territories.
The Second World War transformed the East African forces, includ-
ing those elements which were manned by Malawian personnel. Well
over 30,000 Malawians served in British controlled armed forces dur-
ing 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 person-
nel 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 Nyasa-
land (Malawi) 1895–1939,” Journal of African History 44, 3 (2003), 413–432 and Tim-
othy 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.
 military service, nationalism and race 111

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 ques-
tion of the political impact of the war for a number of reasons. Mala-
wian-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, produc-
ing 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 service-
men. 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 probabil-
ity [. . .] 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].
112 timothy j. lovering

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 remit-
tances” (a proportion of pay which soldiers either chose or were com-
pelled 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 fam-
ilies 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 sol-
diers’ 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 per-
sonnel.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 Com-
mand, 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.
 military service, nationalism and race 113

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 pre-
sented 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 incre-
ment 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 obvi-
ous 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 require-
ment 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].
114 timothy j. lovering

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 offi-
cer’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 avail-
ability 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 un-
acceptable. 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 spe-
cifically 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 pro-
motion is only the rank of Regimental Sergeant-Major.20
The concept that Malawian soldiers had earned the right to commis-
sioned 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.
19
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].
 military service, nationalism and race 115

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 per-
secuting 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 dur-
ing this war they will complain a lot more than they are today and none
will believe praising words from British leaders, and the whole Nyasa-
land 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 spe-
cifically 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 Chikum-
bu’s journey to Nairobi to visit his soldiers”, n.d. [1944].
116 timothy j. lovering

of other East and West Africans. The racist use of the term ‘mon-
key’ 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 ser-
vicemen as ‘collaborators’ have repeated the vision of African recruit-
ment 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 univer-
sal appeal of the prospect of adventure drew others, such as Wilfred
Chipanda, who recalled ‘I was very inquisitive for going to war’.25 Sev-
eral 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.
 military service, nationalism and race 117

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 frater-
nise 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 Cey-
lonese 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 Afri-
cans 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 dis-
crimination 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 Malawi-
ans 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 num-
ber 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.
118 timothy j. lovering

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, empha-
sising 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 heart-
edly. 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 fin-
ished. 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, argu-
ing 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.
32
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.
 military service, nationalism and race 119

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 Nyasa-
land 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 report-
ing. 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 person-

nel, 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 Chikum-
bu’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 homog-
enous, 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.
120 timothy j. lovering

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 Nyasa-
land of the Ranks of R.C.M. and S.C.M.40 [sic] including Sergeants, Cor-
porals 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. How-
ever, few such Malawian soldiers can have been unaware of the exis-
tence of homogenous Malawian units. Therefore, it is likely that these
complaints represent resentment of the presence of significant num-
bers of East African (especially Kenyan) white officers in the Nyasa-
land 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 Shep-
person’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 Chikum-
bu’s journey to Nairobi to visit his soldiers”, n.d. [1944].
43
Shepperson, “External Factors in the Development of African Nationalism”,
p. 220.
 military service, nationalism and race 121

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 con-
tinuously 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 incul-
cated with a belief in the martial superiority of particular tribes; in
the case of Nyasaland, principally the Yao, Ngoni, and Tonga. Dur-
ing 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 sol-
diers 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 con-
tact 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. Bur-
den, 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; Jenni-
fer 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.
122 timothy j. lovering

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 wal-
lahs’. [. . .] 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 un-
favourable preconceptions on the part of Malawian servicemen and
racial stereotypes on the part of some Indian civilians therefore mili-
tated 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.
 military service, nationalism and race 123

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. How-
ever, 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 noth-
ing 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 encour-
aged 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.
124 timothy j. lovering

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’ author-
ity. The stress caused by the circumstances of prolonged overseas ser-
vice, 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 authori-
ties to allay soldiers’ fears of their wives’ infidelity through newsletters
and radio, Malawians stationed in Nairobi in 1944 used radio broad-
casts 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 emphasis-
ing their value as intermediaries to both the authorities and African
servicemen.
Other soldiers made more concerted attacks on traditional authori-
ties. 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 coun-
tries 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].
 military service, nationalism and race 125

it is to develop if he is to cope with the modern world. This develop-

ment 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 ser-
vice. 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 knowl-
edge 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 obvi-
ous 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.
126 timothy j. lovering

The attitude of Nyasaland natives towards members of the Indian Com-

munity 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, war-
time 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 knowl-
edge at a relatively simple level. McCracken has noted that when in
1953 an Agricultural Officer attempted to encourage Malawian subsis-
tence farmers to construct bunds or ridges by claiming that the Gar-
den 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 spe-
cific 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 antic-
ipating “[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, Nyasa-
land, 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.
 military service, nationalism and race 127

had served in South-East Asia made specific reference to his expe-

rience 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 noth-
ing 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 eco-
nomic 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 com-
paring 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 say-
ing 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.
128 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 ques-
tioning 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 con-
cerns of Malawian soldiers were, indeed, social and economic. A par-
ticular 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 offi-
cers 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].
 military service, nationalism and race 129

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 demog-
raphy and attitudes of the white personnel Malawians came into con-
tact 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 empiri-
cal 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 middle-
class 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 bour-
geois 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 invalu-
able input. Third, and most fundamentally, this essay is based on archival research
jointly undertaken by Heike Liebau, Franziska Roy and myself. It uses material recov-
ered 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,
132 ravi ahuja

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 transcend-
ing 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 spe-
cifically, 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 experi-
ences8 of the war pass through more filters before they become avail-
able 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”, Jour-
nal 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 dur-
ing 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 Har-
rison 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.
 the corrosiveness of comparison 133

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 autobiogra-
phies 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 cri-
teria and, in some cases, to their literary ambitions.13 The utterances
of the subordinated are thus more rigidly framed by the powerful giv-
ing them often the appearance of indistinct, hushed murmurs. This is
a matter of continuing methodological reflection. The censored let-
ters 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 upset-
ting 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 alter-
native traces of plebeian wartime experiences. Even the best study of

9
See the contribution by Santanu Das in this volume.
10
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 revo-
lutionary, 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.
134 ravi ahuja

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 com-
pelling 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 mean-
ings of izzat are rarely spelled out, an identity of the concepts of izzat
and namak-halali (loyalty to superiors) is alleged and a rather impov-
erished as well as static idea of ‘honour’ is thus assumed to have con-
trolled 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 implau-
sibility 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 trans-
formation of the one into the other he may have, however, constructed a somewhat
too linear trajectory.
 the corrosiveness of comparison 135

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 Pun-
jabi 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 con-
ceptions 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 con-
scious 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 de-
contextualised, reductionist interpretation of izzat.20 Contempo-
rary 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 (Provi-
dence, 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.
136 ravi ahuja

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 nei-
ther 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-of-
force 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 namak-
halali 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 Lon-
don (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.
 the corrosiveness of comparison 137

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 ser-
vice in the British-Indian Army conferred izzat was, moreover, getting
more complex at a time when, as Radhika Singha shows, the distinc-
tion 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 con-
tinued 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.
25
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
138 ravi ahuja

If the first stereotype revolves around a uni-dimensional inter-

pretation 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 expen-
diture 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 recruit-
ment districts, which effectively resulted in a thorough militarization
of local administration.28 There can also be little doubt that these poli-
cies 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 fol-
lowing 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 punish-
ment 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.
 the corrosiveness of comparison 139

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 preju-
dices 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 understand-
ing. “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 politi-
cal 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 ridi-
cule 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 con-
demnations 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 ver-
sion 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.
140 ravi ahuja

was mentioned as a production site of rumours, but reports insisted

also on the village as the primary node of unsanctioned and recalci-
trant 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-ul-
Akhbar 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 zamin-
dar (land owner) who had asked him for war news of the righteous-
ness 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 adminis-
tration 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 subconti-
nent. 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.
 the corrosiveness of comparison 141

that twenty blacksmiths and carpenters were to be coerced into ser-

vice 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 recruit-
ment 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 imag-
inable, 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 circu-
lation 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 theo-
ries 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.
38
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 Rassis-
mus, 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.
142 ravi ahuja

There was thus a feeling that the way peasant-soldiers made sense of
their experiences in the Great War impacted upon the political atmo-
sphere in the Punjab countryside and that this impact was at variance
with both the war efforts of the colonial government and the ‘impe-
rial 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 Offi-
cial 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 Sha-
hid 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 Pun-
jabis (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 sta-
tistics 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.
 the corrosiveness of comparison 143

the experience of war, and the reward of state-sponsored tenancies were

thought to pose to rural peace. Demobilized soldiers in uniform, flaunt-
ing their war ribbons, figured prominently in many anti-police and anti-
landlord 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 ‘Pun-
jab 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 sen-
tence which we have pronounced on the remaining accused.49

45
Amin, “Some Considerations”, pp. 13–14; see also: Shahid Amin, Event, Meta-
phor, 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 Newspa-
per 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: Superin-
tendent, 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.
144 ravi ahuja

The fear that insurgency might spread to the rural recruitment dis-
tricts of Punjab is palpable in the official accounts. “Cutting of wire
on the railway had now become so persistent that Lahore was practi-
cally 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 mili-
tary pensioners continued to participate in tenant agitations and in
the Sikh Akali movement over the next decades prompting the colo-
nial 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 num-
bers 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 Indi-
ans 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.
51
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.
 the corrosiveness of comparison 145

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 experi-
ences 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 investigat-
ing 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 poli-
tics of military service in any major way. This may reflect the uneasy
and ambivalent stance taken by most nationalist politicians and intel-
lectuals 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.
146 ravi ahuja

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 dis-
tinguish 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 com-
parable 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”: handwrit-
ten 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.
 the corrosiveness of comparison 147

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 differ-
ent. 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 Zossen-
Wünsdorf near Berlin,65 which was explicitly categorised as a “pro-
paganda 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 estab-
lished 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 indis-
chen 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.
148 ravi ahuja

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 mili-
tary authorities, but political and propagandistic efforts were predomi-
nantly coordinated by an interdepartmental unit of German Foreign
Office and General Staff, the Nachrichtenstelle für den Orient (Infor-
mation 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 pris-
oners 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 pris-
oners 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 colo-
nial 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.
 the corrosiveness of comparison 149

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 “liv-
ing 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 Nach-
richtenstelle drew on the skills of the most talented German orien-
talists and indologists (including, for instance, Eugen Mittwoch and
Helmuth von Glasenapp) and produced regular camp journals in vari-
ous ‘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 pre-
ferred 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 strat-
egy in the Indian case.75 The masthead of the Hindi edition thus con-
tained 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 Nach-
richtenstelle 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 inter-
vention (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 nation-
alist 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.
150 ravi ahuja

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 lat-
ter 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 contri-
butions from the prisoners themselves.77 Correspondingly, neither the
German authorities nor the Indian nationalists78 were particularly con-
fident 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 discus-
sions 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.
 the corrosiveness of comparison 151

ground wheat flower (Atta), butter and spices.85 The German authori-
ties 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 Tubercu-
losis and other respiratory diseases were rampant and the mortality
rate among Indian prisoners of war was particularly high:89 the mili-
tary 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 Ger-
many 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 extraordi-
nary 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: Zehrens-
dorf, 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.
152 ravi ahuja

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 Hoff-
mann, 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’?”.
 the corrosiveness of comparison 153

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 mul-
tiple 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 sen-
tences 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 ‘fanta-
sies’ 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.
154 ravi ahuja

circus of peoples” was the title of a successful book publication;104

painters and photographers received the permission to portrait pris-
oners 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 dia-
lects (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 mil-
itary staff, from secret services and diplomats, from Indian revolution-
ary 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 record-
ings and their transcripts in Punjabi, Urdu, Hindi, Nepali and Ben-
gali 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 ethnografis-
cher Beobachtung”, in Original/Ton. Zur Mediengeschichte des O-Tons, eds. Nikolaus
Wegmann, Harun Maye and Cornelius Reiber (Konstanz, 2007), pp. 317–341.
 the corrosiveness of comparison 155

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 sig-
nificance 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 lik-
ened 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 suppos-
edly ‘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. Kitch-
ener, 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
156 ravi ahuja

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 nar-
rated 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 [Eng-
lishman] 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. Brit-
ish 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 sug-
gests 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.
 the corrosiveness of comparison 157

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 catego-
ries 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.
158 ravi ahuja

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 medi-
cine 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 con-
fined 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 (includ-
ing ‘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 objec-
tives and the institutional structures envisaged for their pursuit see a report on a meet-
ing 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.
 the corrosiveness of comparison 159

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 photo-
graphs 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 com-
rades 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.
160 ravi ahuja

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 fam-
ily”, “in European dress sitting in the open air at a small table cov-
ered 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 entertain-
ing themselves with club swinging.132 One of the Ghadr-affiliated pro-
pagandists, 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 inter-
preted 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 cor-
respondence in NAUK, FO 383/166.
132
BL, OIOC, Proscribed Publications (PP) Hin/F/29. These flyers are also men-
tioned 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 state-
ments 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.
 the corrosiveness of comparison 161

who did not sign a pledge which Barkat Ullah gave us were put to mak-
ing 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 com-
ment: “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 indiffer-
ence 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 sol-
diers 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.
137
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 num-
ber of the interrogated soldiers was 12, consisting of 7 Gurkhas, 3 Rajputs, 1 Sikh and
1 Pashtun.
139
Ellinwood, Between two worlds, p. 399.
162 ravi ahuja

political power.140 However, there is also an interesting report that

Afridi soldiers who had agreed to fight against Britain and were trans-
ferred 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 nec-
essarily apolitical and sometimes expressed in patriotic terms. “We
love Hindustan,” says the voice of Baryam Singh, a 28–year old lit-
erate 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 tempta-
tion 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 sol-
dier and to distract him from his work and duty. Yet it seems sig-
nificant 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 Constan-
tinople, 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-
 the corrosiveness of comparison 163

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 Brit-
ish 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 remem-
bers 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 nation-
alist and panislamic discourses were selectively appropriated and inte-
grated 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 cog-
nitive 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 prison-
ers 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.
164 ravi ahuja

by sentries.150 Afghan soldiers who had volunteered to fight in Tur-

key, 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 (gar-
ment), i.e. a cover sheet or rumal for their Adi Granth (the holy scrip-
ture 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 permit-
ted 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.
 the corrosiveness of comparison 165

progress. The officer opined that the Indians were not fighting whole-
heartedly to which the havildar replied that it was also the case that the
Indian soldiers received merely 11 Rupees pay, while the English sol-
dier received 40. The Indian soldier was fighting according to his pay.
The British military authorities had, wrote Sher Ali, sentenced Havil-
dar 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 confron-
tation 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 escala-
tion? 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.
156
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.
166 ravi ahuja

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 (govern-
ment) 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 fur-
ther 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 pub-
lished—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 fol-
lowing 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 consider-
ing 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.
168 gerhard höpp

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 Social-
ist regime between 1933 and 1945. Aside from collaborators like the
notorious Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, Amīn al-Ḥ usaynī,4 their encoun-
ters 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 Expe-
rience 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 nationalsoz-
ialistischen 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 Social-
ists, Rainer Zimmer-Winkel, ed., Eine umstrittene Figur. Hadj Amin al-Husseini,
Mufti von Jerusalem (Trier, 1999). [Arabic proper names, terms, and titles of second-
ary 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 spell-
ing in these sources is adopted; eds.].
 the suppressed discourse 169

memory of the nations, including of their own nations. Their suffer-

ings 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, histor-
ical, 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 con-
flict, by a specific one: a politics of history and memory whose pro-
tagonists try to “monopolize their status as victims”6 and thereby
mutually tend to minimize, ignore, or even deny the suffering of mem-
bers 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 Vergan-
genem. 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.
170 gerhard höpp

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 persecu-
tors and tormenters. If we sift and evaluate this material, we encoun-
ter 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 colo-
nial 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 coun-
try” for “members of colonies, mandates, and protectorates of colo-
nial 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).
9
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 Sachsen-
Anhalt in Merseburg; the Stadtarchiv and the Regionalmuseum in Neubrandenburg;
the Brandenburgisches Landeshauptarchiv in Potsdam; the Gedenk- und Dokumen-
tationsstätte 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.
 the suppressed discourse 171

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 suffer-
ing 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 inves-
tigated before. The cases sketched here are individual, but can defi-
nitely 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 arm-
chairs” 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 pro-
ceedings “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 per-
petrator had opined that he was not permitted to dance with a “Ger-
man” 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.
172 gerhard höpp

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 news-
paper “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 competi-
tor 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.
13
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 inter-
vention 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 (Düs-
seldorf, Vienna, 1967), p. 112.
 the suppressed discourse 173

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) head-
quarters ordered the “inconspicuous sterilization of the Rhineland
bastards.”16 This referred to children and youths who had been con-
ceived by “colored” soldiers and German women during the Allied
occupation of the Rhineland in the 1920s. According to a list pre-
sented 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 half-
breeds,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 “descen-
dant 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 “aso-
cial” 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 evalu-
ator” for the sterilization commissions.
20
BArchB, R 1501, Nr. 1271, Bl. 31.
174 gerhard höpp

reporting and registration21 and the internment22 of citizens of so-

called 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, includ-
ing 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 Egyp-
tians 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 Egyp-
tians “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, protector-
ates, 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 ear-
marked 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.
 the suppressed discourse 175

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 Egyp-
tian 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 cyni-
cal 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.
28
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 terri-
tory of France or in the Reich.” Ibid., Nr. 2342. Apparently this was done out of con-
sideration 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 Ger-
man 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 inter-
est 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.
176 gerhard höpp

lung disease.”31 Lutfi M., who was subsequently transferred to intern-

ment 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 mem-
bers 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 “climati-
cally more favorable” Italy was apparently considered. An employee
of the radio-political department of the Foreign Ministry, Kurt Men-
zel, had visited the prisoners in the beginning of August. He advised

31
Ibid., R 29863.
32
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 Passen-
gers (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, Mira-
cle 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.
 the suppressed discourse 177

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 rec-
ommended 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 rec-
ommended 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 ser-
vice 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 country-
men who had been selected from a much larger group of “exchange-
willing” 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 Svilen-
grad 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.
38
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.
178 gerhard höpp

“exchange-willing” comrades. In July, they had sought to be exchanged

through the intercession of the Grand Mufti and of the German dip-
lomat Werner Otto von Hentig, but the archives provide no informa-
tion 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 unpub-
lished (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 uncer-
tainty about the affiliation of members of foreign peoples” by ruling
“that the uniform as external sign of affiliation to the army in ques-
tion is decisive.”41 In addition, the German statistics often lumped the
Arab, usually North African, prisoners of war together with Senega-
lese, 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.
41
Quoted in Helmuth Forwick, “Zur Behandlung alliierter Kriegsgefangener im
Zweiten Weltkrieg,” Militärgeschichtliche Mitteilungen 2 (1967), 127.
 the suppressed discourse 179

Laharie, 200 Verneuil, 221 Saint-Médard (Camp de Souge), 222 Bay-

onne-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 Nurem-
berg, 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 “col-
oreds” from evacuated camps in France, Poland, and Austria.45

42
PArchAAB, R 40769 and R 40770.
43
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, Fremdar-
beiter 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 Strafgefangenen-
lager 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”. Gefangenen-
lager 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
180 gerhard höpp

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 con-
sider 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 Afri-
can 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 addi-
tional 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 crimi-
nalist-historical study] (Zielona Góra, 1982).
46
See Margaret Ginns, “French North African Prisoners of War in Jersey,” Chan-
nel Islands Occupation Review (1985), 50–70.
47
“Despite all efforts, we were unable to acquire precise information on the num-
ber 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.
 the suppressed discourse 181

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 pris-
oners 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 pris-
oners of war in the camps. Neither the inadequately preserved archi-
val 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 pre-
sumably also in the stalags. This segregated housing was in accor-
dance 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.
51
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, Zwang-
sarbeit, 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, Fran-
zosen 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.
182 gerhard höpp

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 con-
centration 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 Minis-
try in October 1941, it would “mean no burden to the labor market”
and at the same time “contribute to a limited extent to an improve-
ment 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 reluc-
tant to move against their own countrymen.”67

60
Reich legal bulletin, Vol. 1934, Part II, p. 235.
61
Reich legal bulletin, Vol. 1934, Part II, p. 235.
62
PArchAAB, R 67003.
63
Reich legal bulletin, Vol. 1934, Part II, p. 249.
64
PArchAAB, R 67003.
65
BArchB, Film 15810, Bl. E026316.
66
PArchAAB, R 60660.
67
BArchB, Film 3660, Bl. 650601.
 the suppressed discourse 183

Usable for propaganda was also the permission granted to the Mus-
lim 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 holi-
days 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 Groß-
beeren 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 Mus-
lim prisoners of war. See, among others, Yves Durand, La vie quotidienne des prison-
niers 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 Betreu-
ung 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!”, Amts-
blatt 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.
184 gerhard höpp

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 provi-
sion” 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 “sym-
bol 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 con-
fessions.
Forms of expression of the religious life of Arab prisoners of war
were among the themes of German war propaganda. This is evi-
denced 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 popu-
lation 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.
 the suppressed discourse 185

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 al-
Ḥ 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, with-
out exception, name tuberculosis as the cause of death.
186 gerhard höpp

war supported the German war effort, especially by building fortifica-

tions, another ca. 1,400 worked in the arms industry,90 and more than
5,000 were employed in agriculture and forestry, especially in South-
ern 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 possibil-
ity 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 ques-
tioning prisoners, its officers sometimes pointed out deficits to Ger-
man 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 Pris-
oners of War and their Captors in World War II, eds. Bob Moore and Kent Fedoro-
vich (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.
 the suppressed discourse 187

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, nonethe-
less 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 popula-
tion 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 well-
known 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 account-
able 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 Moham-
edan, 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 Kriegs-
gefangenen 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.
188 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 proclama-
tions 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 iden-
tifying 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 Feb-
ruary 1943, and of “forced labor” after the “Service de travail obliga-
toire” (STO) proclaimed by the Vichy regime.99

96
BArch/MArchF, RH 49, Nr. 67.
97
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., Zwangsar-
beit in Deutschland 1939–1945. Archiv- und Sammlungsgut, Topographie und Erschlie-
ßungsstrategien (Bielefeld et al., 2001).
99
See Yves Durand, “Vichy und der ‘Reichseinsatz’”, Europa und der “Reichsein-
satz”. Ausländische Zivilarbeiter, Kriegsgefangene und KZ-Häftlinge in Deutschland
1938–1945, ed. Ulrich Herbert (Essen, 1991), pp. 184–199.
 the suppressed discourse 189

Immediately after the ceasefire, the intentionally accelerated immi-

gration 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 recruit-
ment of North African labor immigrants began again. While the vol-
ume 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 entre-
preneurs failed to fulfill or only partially fulfilled their contractual
obligations, numerous workers, especially Kabyles, “deserted” to Ger-
many, 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 proclama-
tion of the “Relève” in June 1942, several thousand applicants regis-
tered 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 perspec-
tives 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 zurück-
zuschrecken”. Die Fremdarbeiter im Kreis Merseburg während des II. Weltkrieges. Eine
Dokumentation (Halle, 1997), p. 32.
190 gerhard höpp

were sent to work in the Organisation Todt (OT), primarily in occu-

pied 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 unsurvey-
ability of the sites of their employment, as well as by the loss of rele-
vant, especially person-related documents. There are still hardly any
data banks that would ease their identification and quantification; spe-
cial 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.
104
Marion Külow et al., Archivalische Quellennachweise zum Einsatz von auslän-
dischen 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 Welt-
krieges. Archivalisches Quelleninventar (Schriften des Thüringischen Staatsarchivs
Meiningen) 2 (Meiningen, 1995); Frank Schmidt, Zwangsarbeit in der Provinz Bran-
denburg 1939–1945. Spezialinventar der Quellen im Brandenburgischen Lande-
shauptarchiv (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.
 the suppressed discourse 191

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 sup-
posed 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) Cher-
bourg 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 for-
tifications, in expanding and maintaining airfields, and in construct-
ing 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 “entic-
ing 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.
107
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 Ger-
man 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 Drit-
ten Reich (Münster, 1995), p. 69.
192 gerhard höpp

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 [Span-
ish Republicans] and Moroccans” only 23 percent.115 Comparable dif-
ferences 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 com-
mand 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 work-
ers. 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.
115
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 Organi-
sation Todt, p. 155.
119
BArchB, R 50I/209, Bl. 33.
 the suppressed discourse 193

and Thuringia. This research focus was chosen because special inven-
tories and data banks were available, and also because the Reich main-
tained 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 aforemen-
tioned 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 com-
pensation. 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 Berlin-
Brandenburg 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 Berlin-
Brandenburg 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.
121
As in the case of the Algerian Said Ferkane, who was employed by Daimler-
Benz motor works in Genshagen. BrLHArchP, Pr.Br.Rep.20 B Arbeitsamt Lucken-
walde, 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”.
194 gerhard höpp

than one year. The wage level varied considerably by region and com-
pany, 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 dis-
satisfaction 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

123
BrLHArchP, Pr.Br.Rep.6 B Cottbus, Nr. P 1184.
124
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 Berlin-
Frohnau and Berlin-Heiligensee cemeteries, five died due to “enemy activity” in
1944. See Senatsverwaltung für Stadtentwicklung und Umweltschutz, Abt. Gräber-
wesen, 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.
 the suppressed discourse 195

“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 exam-
ples 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 Moroc-
can 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 with-
out 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.
133
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 Publiz-
istik in Deutschland, 1896–1945. Eine Bibliographie (Berlin, 2000), p. 59.
136
PArchAAB, R 27327.
196 gerhard höpp

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 over-
whelming 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 increas-
ing 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 Constanti-
nois 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.
 the suppressed discourse 197

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 pur-
view 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.
198 gerhard höpp

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 sen-
tence against his countryman Salem Ammamouche on April 1945,
sentencing him to death for the acquisition and distribution of coun-
terfeit 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 “Reich-
seinsatz”, 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 “Ver-
ordnung 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 Ver-
letzung der Arbeitspflicht im ‘Dritten Reich,’ Archiv für Sozialgeschichte 21 (1981), pp.
269ff.; Wolfgang Wippermann, “Sanktionierung der Zwangsarbeit: ‘Arbeitsvertrags-
bruch’ 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. Arbeitserzie-
hungslager im Dritten Reich (Stuttgart, Munich, 2000).
 the suppressed discourse 199

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 Algeri-
ans 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 Alge-
rian 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 “disobe-
dience,” “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.
153
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” Arbeitserziehung-
slagers “Ober Lanzendorf”, Gefangenen-Buch B, 1.1.1944–13.7.1944. See also Heinz
Arnberger, “Das Arbeitserziehungslager Oberlanzendorf”, Widerstand und Verfol-
gung in Niederösterreich 1934–1945. Vol. 2 (Vienna, 1987), pp. 573–586.
155
SStArchL, Polizeipräsidium Leipzig, Gefangenentagebücher des Polizeigefäng-
nisses, 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); Thüringi-
sches Staatsarchiv Meiningen (ThStArchM), Zuchthaus Untermaßfeld, Gefangenenkartei.
200 gerhard höpp

1944;159 he and Ahmed Gh. were sent to Brandenburg and Unter-

maßfeld prisons to serve their sentences.160
In the civilian realm, Arabs were also subject to police and juridi-
cal persecution. This is made clear by the various following cases. In
September 1942, the price control office sent an administrative pen-
alty notification to the Palestinian owner of the Carlton Bar on Ber-
lin’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 restau-
rant 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 proceed-
ings 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 “spar-
kling 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.
160
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
 the suppressed discourse 201

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 consid-
erations” 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 hap-
pened, 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 extenu-
ating 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 sen-
tenced 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.
202 gerhard höpp

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 obli-
gated 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 perse-
cution. Gestapo commander Heinrich Müller issued an urgent dis-
patch 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 com-
mando actions. But the largest anti-Nazi contingent joined the French
Résistance. The student Othman ben Aleya belonged to the “Batail-
lons 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.
166
Ibid., Nr. 6939.
167
Ibid., Nr. 7384. The matter had an aftermath: on June 9, 1943, when the Aus-
trian 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.
 the suppressed discourse 203

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 attor-
ney who had made a name for himself by defending Algerian nation-
alists175 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 coun-
tryman Mohamed Thami-Lakhdar had distributed leaflets against the
Nazi occupiers in Paris; he was arrested on January 31, 1943 and exe-
cuted in the same year.179
In Algeria, the resistance was directed primarily against the Vichy
regime, which collaborated with the National Socialists. The commu-
nists Mohamed Kateb, alias Kateb Yacine, and Ahmed Smaili, who had
fought in Spain, did this with their party’s illegally appearing publica-
tion “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 loca-
tions à long terme et perpétuelles dans le monde romain” and one year later pub-
lished 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.
204 gerhard höpp

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 “Guide-
lines for the Prosecution of Crimes Against the Reich or the Occupy-
ing 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 mea-
sures 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 con-
centration 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 disci-
plinaire 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 westeuropäi-
schen Ländern 1942–1944,” Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte 29 (1981), 344ff.
186
Quoted in Volker Schneider, Waffen-SS SS-Sonderlager “Hinzert”. Das Konzen-
trationslager im “Gau Moselland” 1939–1945 (Nonnweiler-Ötzenhausen, 1998), p. 144.
 the suppressed discourse 205

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, Son-
nenburg, 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 sen-
tenced 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 encoun-
tered 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.
188
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 Juden-
verfolgung (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.
206 gerhard höpp

Arab prisoners in National Socialist concentration camps

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 Exter-
mination 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), Pales-
tine (4), and Syria (1).194
The documents still extant in archives provide only sparse indica-
tions 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 pri-
marily 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), Groß-
Rosen, 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. Lieb-
scher), 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 nation-
alsozialistischen Konzentrationslagern,” asien, afrika, lateinamerika 30 (2002), 373–
386.
194
The origins of the remaining prisoners could not be determined.
 the suppressed discourse 207

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-lès-
Lille via Hagen to Esterwegen. In May, he was evacuated to Groß-
Strehlitz 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 succes-
sor 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 concen-
tration camp.

195
GStArchB, XIII. Hauptabteilung, Groß-Strehlitz, Paket 371/1 A and 372 A.
196
Benjamin Stora, Dictionnaire biographique, pp. 45–46. In the early 1970s, Ban-
oun was interviewed in the course of an ‘oral history’ survey conducted by the Alge-
rian 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 impris-
onment 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.
208 gerhard höpp

2. Participation in the Spanish Civil War on the side of the Repub-

licans. 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 con-
centration 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 Com-
piègne to the notorious “Small Camp”201 of Buchenwald concentra-
tion 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 “crimi-
nals 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 espa-
ñoles 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.
 the suppressed discourse 209

am Main arrested the Egyptian Abdrahman B., also as an ASR pris-

oner, 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 “ver-
wahrt” (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 for-
eigner’ 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.
210 gerhard höpp

5. Being Jewish. The reason given for the arrest of many Arab con-
centration 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 life-
threatening 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 reli-
gions, the “mos.” (-aic) and the “moh.” (-ammedan). Here it seems
likely that—apart from a possible fateful “reading mistake” or “writ-
ing mistake”—Jewish prisoners were mistaken for Muslims or Chris-
tians or perhaps even posed as such, which may have preserved them
from an even worse fate.205
Buchenwald, Flossenbürg, Lublin-Majdanek, and Ravensbrück con-
centration 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 libera-
tion 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 1939-
born 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 reveal-
ing themselves as such. It wouldn’t have been of use; rather, it was likely to be
damaging.”
 the suppressed discourse 211

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 condi-
tions and treatment of Arab concentration camp prisoners. In his tes-
timony 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 man-
handled 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.
207
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 ‘Jugend-
schutzlager’ Uckermark,” in Opfer und Täterinnen. Frauenbiographien des National-
sozialismus, 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.
212 gerhard höpp

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 par-
ticular 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 fac-
ing 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 concentra-
tion camp. According to Pierre Durand, the President of the Interna-
tional 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 bri-
gade 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 rea-
sons 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.
214
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.
 the suppressed discourse 213

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” defi-
nitely proved to be an exacerbating factor, and the “anti-social” Lucie
M., put in the category of “Moroccan half-breed,” was sent to Ravens-
brück 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 vio-
lence 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 posi-
tion 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
214 gerhard höpp

religion and tradition. The argument is that this rendered them natu-
ral allies of the Nazis, and—either actively or potentially—willing col-
laborators in the Holocaust.
A major protagonist in this conflict of memory has been Amin al-
Husayni, 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 (1936-
1939) forced him into exile, which he chose to take up, after stop-
overs 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 propa-
ganda. His language, which had started to become radically anti-Jew-
ish while he was still in Palestine, now became indistinguishable from
Nazi Jew hatred. In addition, al-Husayni tried to use his close rela-
tionship with Himmler and other Nazi grandees to prevent the evac-
uation 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 pro-
vided 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 resis-
tance 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 el-
Husseini, 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).
 the suppressed discourse 215

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 argu-
ment 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 expe-
riences 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 proj-
ect 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 inten-
tion 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 capi-
tal 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).
216 gerhard höpp

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 mur-
dered 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 coun-
ter-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 Gen-
eral 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 collabora-
tion with the Americans on both the Eastern and Western front man-
aged 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
218 emad ahmed helal

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 with-
stand 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 accord-
ing 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 Ambas-
sador to the Prime Minister of Egypt, August, 4 and 25, 1939”. Dār al-Wathāʾiq
al-Qawmīyya, Arshīf Majlis al-Wuzarāʾ.
 egypt’s overlooked contribution to world war ii 219

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 Septem-
ber 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 Soma-
lia to grave danger. Britain expected Egypt to declare war on Italy;
Ali Maher affirmed “the policy of protecting Egypt from the misfor-
tunes 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 sev-
ering 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 lean-
ings 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.
220 emad ahmed helal

instigation it was rumored, where the people called for the fall of
Britain and repeated slogans such as “Proceed Rommel, move for-
ward 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 Feb-
ruary 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 occa-

sion, 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 ath-
thānīya [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.
 egypt’s overlooked contribution to world war ii 221

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 Minis-
tries 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 Brit-
ish government that he presented on December 20, 1945. The memo-
randum called for negotiations and a review of the Treaty of 1936. By
ignoring the memorandum, Britain placed al-Noqrashi in a humiliat-
ing 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 negoti-
ate 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 Minis-
tries had not sent in their reviews or that they were incomplete.

8
See Muḥammad Ṣābir ʿArab, Ḥ ādith 4 fibrāyir, pp. 389–403.
9
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 under-
take 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.’
222 emad ahmed helal

The material mostly documented the services offered by these respec-

tive 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 Cen-
ter.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 West-
ern archives have fallen captive to the Western narrative which com-
pletely 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-l-
ḥ 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 wa-
atharihā 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
 egypt’s overlooked contribution to world war ii 223

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 sub-
sidiary 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 Cabi-
net 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 atten-
tion 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 over-
looked 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 exam-
ple, received sixty-seven letters of thanks from the Allied authorities
for the aid it extended to them. These are documents that are obvi-
ously 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.
224 emad ahmed helal

Military Assistance

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, suf-
fering much loss in men and ammunition. During Rommel’s cam-
paign 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 pre-
venting 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 pro-
tecting 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 pre-
sented 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 doc-
ument #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’.
 egypt’s overlooked contribution to world war ii 225

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. Prepara-
tions were made to remove the headquarters of the Eighth Army
toward the Nile.19 The reports of the Ministry of National Defense con-
firm these plans, pointing out that during the withdrawal of the British
Forces ahead of Rommel’s advance, they had indeed thought of retreat-
ing 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 tar-
get 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, assign-
ments, 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.
226 emad ahmed helal

and coasts, controlling the ships and steamboats that entered these
ports in addition to performing regular naval inspections. The Egyp-
tian 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 addi-
tion, 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 pro-
tect 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 air-
ports 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 mil-
itary 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
DWQ # 0075–051084–0048.
23
DWQ # 0075–051084–0048.
24
DWQ # 0075–051084–0048.
25
Ar-Rāfiʿī, Fī aʿqāb, p. 133.
 egypt’s overlooked contribution to world war ii 227

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 ambiva-
lent—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 sub-
sidies given to Egypt Air Company, October 1, 1944’.
30
DWQ # 0075–051084–0048.
31
Bakr, al-Wujūd al-Brīṭānī, p. 232.
228 emad ahmed helal

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 Ital-
ians 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 condi-
tion that the Germans guarantee the independence of Egypt. His

32
Mudhakkirāt Montgomery, p. 119.
33
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.
 egypt’s overlooked contribution to world war ii 229

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 sol-
diers 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 Alexan-
dria who undertook 1783 operations to save or protect steamships
and oil carriers, in other words, about one operation per day through-
out 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.

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

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 Inves-
tigation 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 recov-
ered items reached a total of 110,276 EP.41
In an attempt to protect the Allied Forces from sexually transmit-
ted 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 ele-
ments among the pimps and prostitutes. These surveillance cam-
paigns 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 inten-
tion of blowing up the military port in Alexandria. The two employ-
ees 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 eco-

41
DWQ # 0075–051084–0002.
42
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.
 egypt’s overlooked contribution to world war ii 231

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 pro-
visions. Before the war, the agricultural policy adopted by the British
occupiers focused on cotton production necessary for British indus-
try. The circumstances of war, however, led Britain to pressure Egypt
into cutting back on its cotton production and increasing the produc-
tion of grain and vegetables. The influx of hundreds of thousands of
soldiers and an equal number of refugees into Egypt increased Brit-
ain’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 direc-
tions 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 mar-
ket. 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 Agricul-
ture and its immense expertise in seeds, fertilizers and pesticides, it
provided the British authorities with its needs of seedlings and vege-
tables. It also sent a delegation to Palestine to examine citrus ship-
ments 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
DWQ # 0075–051084–0041.
46
DWQ # 0075–051084–0008.
232 emad ahmed helal

essential veterinarian staff who would examine the meats in the abat-
toirs 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 produc-
tion, 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 Egyp-
tian 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.
48
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.
 egypt’s overlooked contribution to world war ii 233

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 Pounds
British Authority imports for 1939–1940 1104472
British Authority imports for 1940–1941 2162304
British Authority imports for 1941–1942 5765778
British Authority imports for 1943–1944 12001287
American Authority imports for 1942–1943 11356
British Authority imports for 1943–1944 18043955
American Authority imports for 1943–1944 30371
British Authority imports from May 1st 1944 to 22651286
end of Sept. 1945
American Authority imports from May 1st 1944 to 1981
end of Sept. 1945
Total sum of exemption from imports53 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 illus-
trated 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 Direc-
tor 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’.
234 emad ahmed helal

Item Pounds
Exemption from export tariffs on rice 8972812
Exemption from export tariffs on sugar 1215487
Sum of export exemption54 10188299

In addition to the above, the Customs Agency would refund the Brit-
ish 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 gov-
ernorates. These amounted to 21414 EP in addition to exemptions
from entertainment taxes worth 41196 EP on the entertainment com-
pounds 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.
55
DWQ # 0075–051084–0161, ‘A statement on the services that the Egyptian Cus-
tom 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 Minis-
ter, 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’.
 egypt’s overlooked contribution to world war ii 235

years of the war, their numbers reached 878,349. The Agency eventu-
ally 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 facto-
ries belonging to the British Army in Egypt. This concerned 8,258
skilled workers in electrical and various specialization such as wood-
work 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 unem-
ployment crisis when around one million workers were released after
the war was over.60

57
DWQ # 0075–051084–0002.
58
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
236 emad ahmed helal

Services in Transportation
The Administration of Traffic in Cairo and Alexandria facilitated the
movements of the British and Allied Forces that included large con-
voys. 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 trans-
porting 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 mea-
sured 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 mea-
sured 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 Man-
ager 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 Minis-
ter, 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’.
 egypt’s overlooked contribution to world war ii 237

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 Cus-
toms 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 Mili-
tary 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 restric-
tions 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’.
238 emad ahmed helal

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 pre-
cincts. 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 Brit-
ish 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, topo-
graphical and water resources were virtually unknown. The Agency
for Land Survey undertook geological and topographical studies of

68
DWQ # 0075–051084–0163.
69
DWQ # 0069–007383, document with no number, ‘From the Minister of Rations
to the Prime Minister, April 27, 1944’.
70
DWQ # 0075–051084–0163.
 egypt’s overlooked contribution to world war ii 239

terrain and climate conditions and sent out skilled groups to conduct
surveys of the areas between El Alamein to the East, the Libyan bor-
ders 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 terri-
tory. 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 loca-
tions 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 al-
Natrun. 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 informa-
tion, 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 finan-
cial 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 govern-
ment in exile in Egypt, as well as 17,425,916 Syrian banknotes of var-
ious 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.
240 emad ahmed helal

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 num-
bered 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 spe-
cific 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 docu-
ment paper utilized by pilots that could be chemically destroyed in
case of danger. They also prepared special paper for solar photogra-
phy 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 inva-
sion 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 Author-
ities 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 Minis-
ter 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’.
 egypt’s overlooked contribution to world war ii 241

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 Brit-
ish 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 hospi-
tals 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 sanita-
tion stations with fumigation capacities and the necessary person-
nel 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.
75
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.
242 emad ahmed helal

– 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 fight-
ing 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 anes-
thetics 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 coop-
erated with the British medical research teams against typhoid, plac-
ing 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.
 egypt’s overlooked contribution to world war ii 243

– 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 Gov-
ernment 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 acci-
dents. These measures reflect how the interests of the Egyptian work-
ers 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 mili-
tary 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 con-
struct 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 Min-
istry 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’.
244 emad ahmed helal

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 scru-

tiny 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 mag-
azines 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 tele-
graphic 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 pre-
venting 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, Hun-
gary, 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 Min-
istry 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’.
 egypt’s overlooked contribution to world war ii 245

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 commis-
sions and consulates from sending and receiving Morse telegraphs. A
similar ban was imposed on diplomatic bags: all their communica-
tions 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 installa-
tions 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 Commis-
sion’ 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 busi-
ness during their presence in the country.

Conclusion

Let us finally revert to our initial question: what would have hap-
pened 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 sabo-
tage 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
246 emad ahmed helal

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 compli-
mentary and grateful for the assistance of Egypt. On the 15th of Feb-
ruary 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 coop-
eration of Egypt to help the Allies meet their objective.82 After Gen-
eral Wavell succeeded in blocking Graziani’s attacks and pushing him
back into Benghazi, he wrote to the Egyptian Prime Minister on Jan-
uary 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 cam-
paign [and for t]he assistance of different kinds furnished by the Impe-
rial 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, acknowledg-
ing 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’.
 egypt’s overlooked contribution to world war ii 247

One should here conclude these declarations by quoting from a let-

ter 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, med-
ical 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, peo-
ple 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 oper-
ated 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 Arme-
geddon: 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 news-
paper 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 Common-
wealth. The paper conjectured that this could be a result of increasing censorship. An
unmentioned “Indian organ” listed newspapers that were not allowed to be distrib-
uted to the public reading rooms. Der Neue Orient IV, No. 3 and 4, November 25,
1918, p. 133.
252 heike liebau

perception of the contemporary political events. While only a small

section of the urban population read and discussed the daily newspa-
pers, 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 par-
ticular 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 peo-
ple, 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 dur-
ing 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. Folgen-
reiche 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 zwi-
schen 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
 kaiser kī jay (long live the kaiser) 253

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 tar-
gets, 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 socio-
political uprisings among the Oraon communities in Chota Nagpur
in East India. Starting in 1912/13 as a rebellion against local authori-
ties 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 so-
called Tana Bhagat movement grew quickly and gained an evidently
political dimension when the erection of an independent Oraon king-
dom 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.).
254 heike liebau

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 move-
ment, 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 informa-
tion 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 reli-
gious 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 con-
temporary social, religious and political forces. Thus, several local rul-
ers 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.
 kaiser kī jay (long live the kaiser) 255

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. There-
fore, this section examines various channels of information, propa-
ganda 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 Ben-
gal 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 eco-
nomic situation of a great part of the local population deteriorated.
Like other tribes, the Oraons rose in revolt and opposed these mea-
sures 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.
256 heike liebau

(1869/70) and among the Sardars (1881).12 One of the main revolts
against the established administration and land rights was the move-
ment 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 disci-
ples and the movement again slowed down for a while.16 Jatra Ora-
on’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. Dehm-
low’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.
 kaiser kī jay (long live the kaiser) 257

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 con-
ditions 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 encour-
aged 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 pres-
ence 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 Prov-
ince 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.
258 heike liebau

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 cen-
tury 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 tempo-
rarily as “coolies” or as agricultural workers in this region.24 The Brit-
ish 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.
 kaiser kī jay (long live the kaiser) 259

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 Gov-
ernment 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 dissemi-
nated 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 Ora-
ons 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 exam-
ined it in the context of Oraon culture and religion, myths and sym-
bols. 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 Pat-
mury (Bangalore, 1996), pp. 182–192.
32
Ghosh, History and Culture, p. 93; K. K. Datta, History of the Freedom Move-
ment in Bihar, vol. 1, chapters 6, 8; Dasgupta, “Reordering a World”.
260 heike liebau

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 occu-
pied 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 Ger-
mans in the war, but in Roy’s opinion this does not alter the fact that
”these ignorant religious enthusiasts took ‘German Baba’ or the ‘Ger-
man 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 vol-
umes 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 Hoff-
mann, Tana Bhagats were Oraons “observing the Tana religion”.36
Later studies of the Oraon protests focussed on the messianic char-
acter of the movement37 or the role of the songs and myths.38 San-
geeta 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 Reli-
gion 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.
 kaiser kī jay (long live the kaiser) 261

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 con-
sidered a homogenous group, she points out the tendency of the
Tana Bhagat followers to dissociate themselves from other communi-
ties 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 tradi-
tional Oraon community. They rejected practices of sacrifice and spe-
cial services for gods.40
These studies do not ask the questions whether and how the move-
ment 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 Mis-
sionaries 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 consta-
bles 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 alto-
gether disconnected with the troubles which have taken place a little

39
Dasgupta, “Reordering a World”.
40
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.
262 heike liebau

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 par-
ticipated 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 short-
age of rain and high prices of agricultural products, the paper explic-
itly 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.
 kaiser kī jay (long live the kaiser) 263

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 produc-
tion of jute as well as the trade with jute came to a standstill. How-
ever, 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 con-
tribution 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.
264 heike liebau

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 unbeliev-
able 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 sup-
porter 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 per-
sonal 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.
56
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
 kaiser kī jay (long live the kaiser) 265

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.
266 heike liebau

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” com-
posed 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 Grund-
begriffe. 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.
 kaiser kī jay (long live the kaiser) 267

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 alpha-
bets 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 employ-
ment.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 land-
lords in 1915, no obvious Christian involvement was discovered.73 But
only during the first period were Christians excluded from participat-
ing 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.
71
“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 back-
ground, they opted for Christianity. Many of them were open to the Christian mis-
sions 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, “Colo-
nialism, 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
268 heike liebau

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 ten-
sion 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 Mis-
sionaries had been interned on the very first day of the war, the move-
ment 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 percep-
tion 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.
 kaiser kī jay (long live the kaiser) 269

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 Ger-
man missionaries caused the revolts against the British and in favour
of the Germans. Even representatives of English and American Chris-
tian 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 Govern-
ment of Bihar and Orissa communiqué of March 23, 1916 concern-
ing 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 for-
merly 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

80
Madras Mail, July 15, 1915; July 17, 1915, July 28, 1915.
81
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.
270 heike liebau

taking a sceptical view towards the official Government policy. Accord-

ing to the newspaper, it was by no means necessary to attach such
great political importance to this movement. There had been no judi-
cial 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 unsophis-
ticated” 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 well-
educated 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 anti-
German 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 bet-
ter 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.
85
“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.
 kaiser kī jay (long live the kaiser) 271

out exception. Among these forces was the so-called European Asso-
ciation 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 associa-
tion, 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 Chris-
tian Uraon coolies who have lately gone up from Chota Nagpur carry-
ing 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 appa-
ratus had to concentrate. Germany was extremely interested in sup-
porting 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 Goßner-
sche 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.
272 heike liebau

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 pub-
lished 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 offi-
cial 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 Ger-
mans 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 Govern-
ment 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 men-
tioned as one of the main reasons for the revolts in many parts of the country, espe-
cially in the Punjab.
 kaiser kī jay (long live the kaiser) 273

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 Ger-
man 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 situ-
ation 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, reli-
gion 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 integ-
rity with the highest moral standards. But sometimes they faced

94
For the history of the Gossner Mission in India, see: Hans Lokier, Die Gossner-
Kirche 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.
274 heike liebau

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 mis-
sionaries 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 Ger-
man 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

99
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.
 kaiser kī jay (long live the kaiser) 275

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 move-
ments in the country. The great demand for daily news on
the war situation among the population and the hindrances like illit-
eracy, 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 informa-
tion flows—through individuals, print media, rumours and compet-
ing propaganda—affected the revolt itself and the interpretation of
the events.

102
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 deploy-
ment 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 out-
side 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 Com-
mand (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 Afri-
can 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 aforemen-
tioned theatres of operation, the British colonial and military authori-
ties 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 mili-
tary 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 Nyasa-
land (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.
278 katrin bromber

media in Britain’s East African possessions. Plans for systematic pro-

paganda 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 com-
menced 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 territo-
rial 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 medi-
ascape 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 Jour-
nal 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 elec-
tronic 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.
 correcting their perspective 279

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 pro-
grammes, cinema and multimedia propaganda shows, posters, photo-
graphs, lectures and speeches.
Given the fact that the overwhelming majority of the soldiers
were illiterate at the beginning of their military service, a clear state-
ment about the reception of written propaganda material is problem-
atic. 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 Swa-
hili or Nyanja.7
Apart from newsletters, the East African contingents were regularly
provided with the EAC’s weekly Askari (Soldier), and its Nyanja ver-
sion Asikari. On eight up to twelve pages it informed about the vari-
ous 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 reg-
ular 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 Madagas-
car. 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.
280 katrin bromber

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 pub-
lished 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 soci-
eties. 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 Propa-
ganda guidelines, the military applied discursive strategies aimed at
balancing or even downplaying the out-of-area deployment. Argu-
ably, 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. Espe-
cially the reports of S. H. Fazan, the Liaison Officer between the mili-
tary 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 con-
crete rewards for their kazi ya vita (work of the war).9 Hence, discur-
sive 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:
 correcting their perspective 281

Although the military had to consent to the requirements of the civil-

ian 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 hon-
our as well as to images of accelerated speed. The balance act between
morale-keeping and correcting the perspective on the role East Afri-
cans 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 Out-
of-area deployment as a chance, education in its various forms became
the prime argument with which to legitimise the transfer of thou-
sands of askaris to battlefields outside Africa. Difficult issues like pro-
motion 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 spoil-
ing 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.
282 katrin bromber

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 How-
ever, the proposals and the decrees put forward by the MOI’s Over-
seas 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 pro-
paganda in securing the maximum contribution of the East African
people to the war effort and in strengthening their loyalty to the Brit-
ish, 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 ques-
tion any decision of military superiors under any circumstances, the
guidelines gave editors relative freedom in shaping their army publi-
cations. 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 Pub-
lic 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.
 correcting their perspective 283

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 mili-
tary camps in South Asia and the Middle East.15 Arguably, this docu-
ment was the result of the controversial discussions between military
and civilian authorities. Since the DEW was responsible for propa-
ganda 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 soci-
eties. 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 con-
cerned with defence, all operations in Burma were primarily for the
punishment of the enemy. Furthermore, the careful raising and train-
ing of the African forces prior to the transfer as well as the army’s
efforts for health and nutrition should be mentioned. The fifth guide-
line, 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 experi-
ence that they could invest in the development of their home societ-
ies. Last but not least, the fact that they had won credit and gained

15
Lectures to Troops August 23, 1945, KNA, AH/20/79.
16
Ibid., p. 2.
284 katrin bromber

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 produc-
tion, 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 tech-
niques in agriculture, house construction or health care, the propa-
ganda 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 newspa-
pers. Whereas the EAC weekly Askari mainly informed about techni-
cal 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 propa-
ganda 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 impor-
tance 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—Contin-
gents after contingents of the armies arrive). This discursive strategy
was not only supposed to counter the impression that Britain and its
 correcting their perspective 285

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 Afri-
can units in South East Asia were countered by arguing for the con-
centration 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 divi-
sion 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 ele-
ments in the war news. The neutral language of news texts was altered
by the use of subjunctive verb forms or metaphors of cleaning activi-
ties, 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 gar-
bage 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 fea-
ture 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 kumfa-
gia Mjapan divisioni yetu itakuwamo na kutimiza kazi yake kuu.” (Heshima, May 23,
1945, p. 5).
286 katrin bromber

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 sol-
diers 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, lan-
guage 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 con-
cealed 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 coun-
tered by indicating the successful end of the war, but also by disci-
plinary language in the form of explicit warning. It was his position
as a Chief that gave Paul N. Agoi the authority to voice the expecta-
tion 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).
 correcting their perspective 287

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 characteris-
tic 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 high-
light 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.
288 katrin bromber

the soldier’s impression that it was only they who were actively par-
ticipating 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 mili-
tary operation. Four weeks later the Command began weekly publish-
ing 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 Kiin-
gereza) 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 participa-
tion 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 wanavyo-
fanya katika vita hivi.” (Askari, July 12, 1945, p. 20)
 correcting their perspective 289

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 Japa-
nese dog.”26 The description of hardships that the Japanese occupa-
tion brought to the civilian population in China was mainly realised
by contrasting damage with high culture and civilization. In this com-
parison 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 long-
term 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 ambiva-
lent 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 delib-
erate 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 com-
mon language of command, but also to leisure and team sports, com-
radeship 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.
290 katrin bromber

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 finan-
cial 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 trans-
mit 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 non-
commissioned officers. The best forty African candidates of the bat-
talion 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 wataka-
poshindwa. 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.
 correcting their perspective 291

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 fin-
ishing 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 civil-
ian 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 read-
ing 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 pyr-
amids. 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 kujif-
unza ili wapate kumaliza. Basi wanafunzi wanaotaka watajifunza.” (Heshima, June 13,
1945, p. 14).
292 katrin bromber

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 dis-
respectful 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 com-
municated 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 contin-
gents, 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 Kiin-
gereza 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 dur-
ing World War II, see Bromber, “Do not destroy our honour”.
35
Shortly before a group of East African chiefs visited the East African contin-
gents 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).
 correcting their perspective 293

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 Brit-
ish military authorities, the Swahili army press offered a very ‘clever’
discursive strategy: The soldiering readership should discuss the prob-
lem 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 highland-
ers 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 dis-
cussion reached out into post-war civilian aspects in that it touched
the fundamental question about the African’s ability to work in lead-
ing positions. In order not to weaken in any way the local authorities
vis-à-vis the returning soldiers, the newspaper defined busara (wis-
dom), 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-proportion-
ally 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).
294 katrin bromber

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 authori-
ties, 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 crit-
icised 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.
 correcting their perspective 295

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 allow-
ances. In letters to the editor, they inquired about the additional pay-
ment 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 intro-
duced 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 colo-
nial 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 oppor-
tunity. 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, disap-
pointment 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 demobi-
lize heroes into ‘natives’, this aim was not implemented as such in

42
Heshima, July 11, 1945, p. 6.
43
A. Mauri, The Currency Board and the Rise of Banking in East Africa. Univer-
sity of Milan Economics, Business and Statistics Working Paper (2007) http://ssrn
.com/abstract=975030, (accessed November 23, 2007).
296 katrin bromber

Swahili army newspapers.44 Propaganda attempts were made, on the

one hand, to ‘correct’ the East and Central African soldiers’ perspec-
tive on their part in war and victory. On the other hand, arguments
had been put forward that were supposed to keep up morale and dis-
cipline 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 com-
parison 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 sol-
diers had gained during their service and could invest for their per-
sonal 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, fur-
ther 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 sol-
diers. 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.
 correcting their perspective 297

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 disappoint-
ment 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 con-

sciously 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 genera-
tion 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 Würz-
burg, 2004), pp. 163–173, here pp. 164–165.
2
Examples include the 1966 film Safar Barlik by Hinrī Barakāt, with the enor-
mously 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.
300 abdallah hanna

As a synonym for the First World War, this term incorporates the
memory of suppression by the Ottomans, of hunger, destitution, dis-
tress, violence, anxiety, fear, and helpless anger.
Professional historians have only recently begun systematically dis-
cussing the importance of the First World War for the Bilād al-Shām.3
But the perspective of the “common people” is missing in these dis-
cussions, 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 con-
ducted 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 cen-
tury, but must be viewed in the historical context of Ottoman reform
efforts during the 19th century. In order to understand the experi-
ences of the First World War, a brief review of these historical con-
texts 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 politi-
cal 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”.
 the memories of ‘commoners’ in the bilād al-shām 301

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 pro-
claimed a decree by Sultan Abdulmajid that prescribed the recruit-
ment 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 sup-
pression of the rebellion (qauma), the Ottoman authorities punished
the participants by immediately conscripting them into military ser-
vice.10 Similarly, after the events in Damascus of 1860, when a crowd

4
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.
302 abdallah hanna

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 mili-
tary 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 pun-
ishment. 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 fol-
lowing 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.
 the memories of ‘commoners’ in the bilād al-shām 303

administrators, who were not only of Turkish, but also Arabic, Kurd-
ish 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 con-
scription 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 gov-
ernment 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 incom-
plete civil registers in the Qalamoun—although they were still better-
kept 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 origi-
nally agricultural term meaning ‘harvest’). During this season, con-
siderable 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 fami-
lies 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,
304 abdallah hanna

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-the-
way 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 inhabit-
ants). 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 agri-
culture 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 suf-
ficiently 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 prob-
lems 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 Pales-
tine and on the Suez Canal. Here, he witnessed the bombing of his
army unit by British war-ships. Later he was transferred to the Dar-
danelles. 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.
 the memories of ‘commoners’ in the bilād al-shām 305

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 dis-
cern 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 machin-
ery 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 cen-
tral 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

15
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.
306 abdallah hanna

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 Sul-
tan 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 char-
coal. He had not been able to buy any goods to take back to the vil-
lage, 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
Interview of December 17, 1984, in Umm Bātị na.
19
Interview of April 15, 1985, in Deir az-Zor.
 the memories of ‘commoners’ in the bilād al-shām 307

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 Otto-
man rule altogether.

Social, Economic and Political Effects of the War

As a consequence of the First World War, a large part of the popula-

tion 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 large-
scale recruitments, foodstuffs were lacking and prices rose. The situa-
tion 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 ant-
hills 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
Interview of September 22, 1984, in Ruwaisat al-Ḥ arash.
21
Interview of September 21, 1984, in al-Basīt ̣.
22
Interview of August 1, 1984, in Deir Shumayyil.
308 abdallah hanna

Hunger was rampant in the Northeast of Syria as well. There, peo-

ple were happy to work in exchange for food, employed by the Ger-
mans 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 con-
scripting the recruits. Jirjī describes how, in the course of the war, the
initial land tax, the tithe (ḍarībat al-ʿushr), developed into an enor-
mous 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 desert-
ers were not to be found in a given village.24
In his book The Great Syrian Revolution of 1925, published in Bei-
rut in 1969, Munīr al-Rayyis confirms Jirjī al-Baṭal’s observations. He
describes the methods with which the peasants’ earnings were plun-
dered 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 al-
ʿarabī—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.
 the memories of ‘commoners’ in the bilād al-shām 309

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 prole-
tariat, many others drifted rootlessly on rural streets. Criminal gangs
spread and, altogether, life became more insecure.
The preparations for war (especially recruitment) had already trig-
gered 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 long-
term position of women in the societies of our region, must be inves-
tigated 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 enthusi-
asm for this war, and the Sultan’s call for “Jihād” in Autumn 1914
trailed off without much echo. On the contrary, people fled recruit-
ment 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.
310 abdallah hanna

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 leaf-
lets, 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 liber-
ation was demanded by the leftist movement in Syria.30

28
“Ad-dīn li-llāh wa-l-waṭan li-l-jamīʿ!”.
29
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).
 the memories of ‘commoners’ in the bilād al-shām 311

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 con-
flict and the intervention in Iraq have promoted the revival of pan-
Islamic 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 gen-
darmes 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 Otto-
man 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 sec-
ondary 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.
314 dina rizk khoury

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 destructive-
ness 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 offi-
cials 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 Prog-
ress (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 Egyp-
tian 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), further-
more PRO. Here: PRO/FO/383/344/128807.
5
al-Wardī, Lamaḥ āt ijtimāʿīya, vol. 4, p. 329.
 ambiguities of the modern 315

no better off than we were.”6 For Mushtāq, the claims of later nation-
alists 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 destruc-
tive 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 moder-
nity 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 Revolu-
tion, 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.
7
Khayrī al-Hindāwī, Ḥ ayātuhū wa-dīwān shiʿrihī [His life and an anthology of his
poetry] (Baghdad, 1974), pp. 62–63.
316 dina rizk khoury

conviction, to become equal partners.8 At the same time, the modern,

as it manifested itself in the Great War, displayed the destructive pow-
ers 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 mod-
ern 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 pre-

8
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, Wahhab-
ism and Language,” in Proceedings of the International Congress on Learning and Edu-
cation 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 cul-
ture 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.
 ambiguities of the modern 317

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 rav-
ages 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 Win-
ter and Emmanuel Sivan, eds. War and Remembrance in the Twentieth Century (Cam-
bridge, 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] (Bei-
rut, 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 inter-
mixing 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).
318 dina rizk khoury

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 prov-
inces 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 Brit-
ish 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 dis-
location 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.
 ambiguities of the modern 319

the retreating Ottoman army.17 Others accused of loyalty to the Otto-

mans and of spying for them, were exiled to India.18 Many were civil-
ians 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 Oth-
ers 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 reli-
gious 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.
320 dina rizk khoury

of the sons of Ghengiz (the Turks). Penniless and emotionally bro-

ken 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 Indi-
ans 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 subse-
quent 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 conscious-
ness 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 com-
peting loyalties. He himself had been a staunch supporter of the Com-
mittee 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 imprison-
ment 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 Ara-
bic Iraq], vol. 2 (Baghdad, 1923), pp. 174–186.
 ambiguities of the modern 321

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 sys-
tem, 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 vol-
untary 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 estab-
lishment 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 Kar-
bala 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 coun-
terparts, however, those educated sectors of the Shiʾi community had
started to imagine a political order distinctly different from the tradi-
tional 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.
24
Pierre-Jean Luizard, “Le Mandat Britannique en Irak: Une Recontre Entre Plu-
sieur Projet Politiques,” in The British and French Mandates In Comparative Perspective,
322 dina rizk khoury

If the political revolutions that brought constitutional language and

political representation marked the beginnings of the political aware-
ness of this generation, for them the Great War was a period of dislo-
cation 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 nos-
talgia 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 sensibil-
ity 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. Mem-
oirs 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 Remem-
brance, 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.
 ambiguities of the modern 323

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 admin-
istrative 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 over-
view 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 genera-
tion’s sensibility.
One group of memoirs was written by former Ottoman/Iraqi offi-
cers 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) jour-
neyed 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 Otto-
mans 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 [Mem-
oirs] (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).
324 dina rizk khoury

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 dur-
ing 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 cen-
tral to their political position and their sense of their place in the for-
mation 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 (par-
ticularly 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.
 ambiguities of the modern 325

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 mid-
dling Sunni Ottoman bureaucrat whose family had hailed from Yozgat
and whose mother was Arab. He was born and raised in the Shiʾi sub-
urb 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
Mushtāq, Awrāq Ayāmī, pp. 9–20.
31
Mushtāq, Awrāq Ayāmī, pp. 30–53.
32
Mushtāq, Awrāq Ayāmī, p. 57.
326 dina rizk khoury

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 soci-
ety 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 cul-
ture, 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 nego-
tiations 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 Otto-
mans 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 Otto-
man 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.
 ambiguities of the modern 327

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 accommoda-
tion 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 politi-
cal and cultural representation. The Ottomans, while bringing in ele-
ments 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.
35
I have addressed some of these differences in “Between Empires and Nation:
Remembrance of the Great War and Iraqi National Identity”, forthcoming.
328 dina rizk khoury

The Great War and the ‘New’ Modern

The idea of the ‘modern’ was associated by Ottoman/Iraqis, particu-

larly 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 con-
stitutional 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 intelli-
gentsia of the period continued to speak the language of constitution-
alism 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 con-
text 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: Poli-
tics, 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 reli-
gious 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.
 ambiguities of the modern 329

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 nation-
hood.39 However, the contest was not confined to those who favored
an Iraqi nationalist or Arab nationalist agenda, but bespoke the persis-
tence 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 Otto-
mans 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 com-
mon 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 experi-
ence lack the immediacy of the poems and popular songs of the post-
war 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 Otto-
man Iraq in the second half of the nineteenth century and the open-
ing 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.
330 dina rizk khoury

them with great wonder.41 A number of Baghdadi intellectuals became

acquainted with modern scientific concepts through publications com-
ing 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 Otto-
man 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
al-Wardī, Lamaḥ āt ijtimāʿīya, vol. 3, pp. 231–247.
42
Buṭt ̣ī, al-Adab al-ʿaṣrī, vol. 2, p. 92.
43
al-Wardī, Lamaḥ āt ijtimāʿīya, vol. 4, pp. 21–22.
 ambiguities of the modern 331

This fascination with the power of the technology of war was also evi-
dent in the way that Iraqis viewed the airplane which became an inte-
gral 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 Bagh-
dad 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).
332 dina rizk khoury

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 ter-
rain 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 deci-
sion 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 tech-
nology 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 ver-
dict 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.
48
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.
 ambiguities of the modern 333

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 sub-
ject 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 mod-
ern 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 con-
tent of the poetry of war also changed. Much of the political poetry
written by the literary modernizers of the late Ottoman period cen-
tered 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. How-
ever, 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. Slu-
glett lists the number of associations and publications and argues for the emergence
of a civil society.
334 dina rizk khoury

all sects, ethnicities and educational backgrounds. Those imprisoned

and exiled by the Ottomans because they were suspected of support-
ing 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 Dolo-
res Hayden has pointed out, “war disrupts and reconfigures attach-
ments 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 mem-
oirs 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 some-
time 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 inso-
far 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.
 ambiguities of the modern 335

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 impris-
oned 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 imprison-
ment, both figurative and actual, within the confines of a local political
order they could not combat. Lacking in heroic imagery and national-
ist 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
Ibid., pp. 187–188.
55
But ̣ṭī, al-Adab al-ʿaṣrī, vol. 2, pp. 198–201.
336 dina rizk khoury

the cultural landscape of India and Burma. Born into a family of mer-
chants 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 entertain-
ment, 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 san-
ity, 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 Brit-
ish attempts to drive a wedge between the Turkish and Arab prison-
ers, 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 representa-
tions 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.
57
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.
 ambiguities of the modern 337

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 produc-
tion centered on patriotism and anti-colonialism, the social dimen-
sion 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 over-
turned. 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
al-Zabīdī, Baghdad, p. 72 and p. 135.
60
al-Wardī, Lamaḥ āt ijtimāʿīya, vol. 4, p. 358.
61
Ibid., vol. 4, pp. 356–358.
338 dina rizk khoury

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 Com-
merce 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 nos-
talgic 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 popu-
lar 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).
 ambiguities of the modern 339

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 cre-
ated a sense of the period as one of moral decadence.69 In the ver-
nacular 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 assis-
tance 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 carpet-
baggers 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] (Bagh-
dad, 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.
340 dina rizk khoury

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 con-
stitutional 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 moder-
nity’s more disruptive aspects were held in check. Despite this nos-
talgia, 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 “contempo-
rary 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 Con-
naught 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 Flan-
ders, 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 proces-
ses 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 Common-
wealth War Graves Commission (London, 1988).
342 santanu das

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 53,486

Wounded 64,350
Missing 2,937
Prisoners 302
Presumed prisoners 523
Grand Total 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 sev-
eral disciplines: military and cultural history, literary criticism, geog-
raphy, gender and sexuality studies, works on memory and trauma,

3
India’s Contribution to the Great War (Calcutta, 1923), p. 79.
4
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.
 ardour and anxiety 343

psychoanalysis and more recently, anthropology.7 If the most influ-

ential 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 criti-
cism 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 Cul-
tural 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 correspon-
ding work on India and the First World War. Research on the Indian
experience of the First World War, with the intimacy and imme-
diacy 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 (Cam-
bridge, Eng., 2011).
344 santanu das

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 fruit-
ful: 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 impe-
rial perspective, can be found in James Willcocks, With the Indians in France (Lon-
don, 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 Cor-
rigan, 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.
 ardour and anxiety 345

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 Writ-
ers of World War I (New York, 1999), p. 323.
346 santanu das

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 recruit-
ment 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, par-
ticularly 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.
15
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.
 ardour and anxiety 347

Rs £
Towards the payment of war charges of the 15,300,000 1,020,000
20th Deccan Horse and the First Imperial
Service Cavalry
Prince of Wales Relief Fund 100,000 6,666
Imperial Indian Relief Fund 100,000 6,666
To the Admiralty in aid of anti-submarine 1,500,000 100,000
campaign
Our Day Collection for the Red Cross 100,000 6,666
Special Donation towards the prosecution of 1,500,000 100,000
the war
To Their Majesties for the relief of sufferers 375,000 25,000
from the war on the occasion of their Silver
Wedding
Other subscriptions 134,000 9,000
Share of expenditure of hospitalship ‘Loyalty’ 200,000 13,300
maintained by the Princes of India

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 Fly-
ing 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 com-
forts 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.
348 santanu das

“Socks, shirts, mufflers, waistcoats, cardigan jackets [. . .] tobacco, ciga-

rettes, chocolates.”21
Various factors are fused and confused behind this show of enthu-
siasm and munificence. With limited power of sovereignty, heav-
ily 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 Ksha-
triya 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
NAI, Foreign and Political, Internal B April 1915 Nos. 972–977.
22
NAI, Foreign and Political, Deposit Internal, 1915.
 ardour and anxiety 349

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 noth-
ing 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 extre-
mely anxious about the possibility of a global jihad. In the above quo-
tation 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 Novem-
ber, 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.
24
Wilfred Owen, “The Kind Ghosts,” in Complete Poems, ed. Jon Stallworthy (Lon-
don, 1990), p. 158.
25
For a detailed exploration, see Y. D. Prasad, The Indian Mussalmans and World
War I (New Delhi, 1985).
350 santanu das

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 mil-
lion 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 Mesopo-
tamia, 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 cen-
tury 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 junc-
ture 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 his-

tory, 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 under-

26
Hew Strachan, The First World War (London, 2003), pp. 99–100.
27
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).
 ardour and anxiety 351

stood, represented and imagined in the socio-political and literary dis-

courses 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 sol-
diers, 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 admin-
istration 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 extrava-
gant 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.
33
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.
352 santanu das

“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 con-
ferred 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 disor-
der 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 fig-
ures 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 supe-
rior 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
AATW, pp. xii, 269, vi, xviii.
35
AATW, p. 123, reprinted from the New Statesman, London.
36
AATW, p. vi.
37
AATW, p. i.
38
AATW, preface.
39
Quoted in India and the War (Lahore, n.d.), pp. 34–35.
 ardour and anxiety 353

Indian revenues towards meeting the expenses of any military opera-

tions carried beyond the external frontiers, except for preventing any
actual invasion. The consent of both Houses of Parliament was nee-
ded to suspend these restrictions. On 8 September 1914, Sir Gagadhar
Chitnavis, seconded by the Raja of Mahmudabad, moved a resolu-
tion 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 Madras-
based 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 wide-
ranging 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-govern-
ment 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 incon-
sistent 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
Legislative Council’s Proceedings, India (1914–15), vol. 53, 16.
41
AATW.
354 santanu das

with Annie Besant and Bal Gangadhar Tilak forming the Home Rule
Leagues in 1916, and ultimately paving the way for Gandhi’s leader-
ship 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 oppor-
tunity, 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 Colo-
nialism (Delhi, 1983).
 ardour and anxiety 355

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 ‘dis-
loyalty’ 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 Night-
ingale of India’ for her poetry in English and was one of the fore-
most 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.
48
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).
356 santanu das

It is, in my opinion, imperative that India should give the flower of her
manhood without making any condition whatsoever, since Indians were
not a nation of shop-keepers and their religion was a religion of self-
sacrifice [. . .] Let young Indians who are ready to die for India and to wipe
from her brow the brand of slavery rush to join the standing army or to
be more correct, India’s citizen army composed of cultured young men,
of young men of traditions and ideals, men who burnt with the shame
of slavery in their hearts, will prove a true redeemer of Indian people.49
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 Hydera-
bad 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.
50
Sarojini Naidu, “The Gift of India,” in The Broken Wing: Songs of Love, Death and
Destiny 1915–1916 (London, 1917), pp. 5–6.
 ardour and anxiety 357

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-colo-
nial resistance flows and fuses with imperial support for the war with
breathtaking fluency.
The poem remains a powerful example of how literature illumi-
nates the faultlines of history, exposing its contradictions and ambiva-
lences: 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 com-
plex 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 tradi-
tions: 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 sen-
suous 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.
358 santanu das

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 conclud-
ing section, I would focus on a particular region to demonstrate how

53
Jon Stallworthy, The Poems of Wilfred Owen (Oxford, 1990), p. 158.
 ardour and anxiety 359

any ‘Indian’ war response has to be nuanced to and understood in con-

text 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 govern-
ment 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 encour-
age 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 participa-
tion and recruitment.
In July 1916, Dr S. K. Mullick of Calcutta wrote to the Chief Secre-
tary of the Government of Bengal with a unique offer. He wanted to
raise and equip a regiment of citizen soldiers of 1000 men, compri-
sing 100 men recruited from each of the provinces of Bengal, Bombay,
Madras, U.P., C.P., N.W.F., Burma, Bihar, Assam and the Feuda-
tory 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 esti-
mated 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 Colo-
nial Punjab, 1849–1947 (London, 2005).
55
State Archives, Calcutta, Political File 1W-53 (1–5), B April 1916 Proceedings
697 to 701.
360 santanu das

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 King-
dom 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 strik-
ing 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 Mesopota-
mia. 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 non-
martial 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 Chan-
dra 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
Ibid.
57
Ibid.
58
Ibid.
59
Bhargava, India’s Services (see above, n. 17), p. 220.
 ardour and anxiety 361

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 Dou-
ble 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-edu-
cated Bengali youths belonging to the bhadrolok class. In an over-
crowded 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 Manindra-
chandra Sinha—and dedicated to the latter, the ‘factional’ nature of
the play is signalled by its dramatis personae which includes Dr Mul-
lick, Kumar Sinha and political figures such as Surendranath Baner-
jea 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/motilal-
gosh035420mbp_djvu.txt. (accessed August 10, 2008).
362 santanu das

Divided into two acts, the play is centred round the excitement
and initial misgivings (from the village women) about the recruit-
ment 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 evolu-
tion from their desultory, seemingly insignificant village life to their
“glorious” enlistment as soldiers of the First World War. Propagan-
dist and elitist, the play is nonetheless fascinating on a number of lev-
els. 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 disillu-
sioned—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 any-
thing 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] (Cal-
cutta, 1916), pp. 7–8. All translated passages from this play are mine.
 ardour and anxiety 363

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 end-
lessly 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 match-
sticks, 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 con-
version 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 burnt-
faces [contemporary Bengali racist slang for the English] came to the
village?

64
Chattopadhay, Bengali Platoon, p. 14.
364 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 burnt-
faces 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 ‘Ben-
gali 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 Mul-
lick’s letter to the government and directly results out of the anxieties
induced by the ‘theory of martial races’.

65
Chattopadhay, Bangali Plaaton, p. 36.
66
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.
 ardour and anxiety 365

The importance and influence of the ‘martial race’ theory in Brit-

ish India can hardly be exaggerated. Mined out of a combination of
Social Darwinism and indigenous social and caste distinctions, it gui-
ded 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 Ben-
galis, 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 con-
trasted 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 inter-
nalisation 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 ‘Effemi-
nate Bengali’ in the late Nineteenth century (Manchester, 1995).
72
Bhargava, India´s services, p. 219.
73
Chattopadhay, Bangali Plaaton, p. 16.
366 santanu das

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 move-
ment in Bengal when it became the hotbed of revolutionary extrem-
ism. Thus, in the years leading up to the war, the Bengali political
bourgeois found itself tainted were with the double stigma of effemi-
nacy 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 Ben-
gali race has been born to be clerks [. . .] Our honoured government,
sensing this limitation, has opened new grand avenues for of employ-
ment. 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 particu-
larly 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
Ibid., p. 27.
75
Quoted in Bhargava, India’s Services, p. 218.
76
Chattopadhay, Bangali Plaaton, p. 27.
 ardour and anxiety 367

emperor! [. . .] Sing the glories of the Bengalis.” Unabashed imperial-

ism 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 dramati-
cally 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 all-
India 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 agita-
tion, 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 Eng-
land, 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 adminis-
tration. Radio could penetrate households, reach as far as the outskirts
of the territory, and even open frontiers. However, for these very rea-
sons 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 auton-
omy 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 Ital-
ian ambitions, that country having long coveted Tunisian territory.
Up until the 1930s, Italian residents outnumbered their French coun-
terparts. The “Tunisian” society of the interwar period, where Tuni-
sian 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 propa-
gande 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 pen-
dant la Deuxième guerre mondiale (Paris, Lausanne et al., 1985), p. 382.
370 morgan corriou

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 authori-
ties, 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 chal-
lenge” represented by the local radio, Radio-Tunis, during the war. I
examine the influence of foreign broadcasting on the different popula-
tions of the country and the vain attempts of the colonial administra-
tion 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 Bour-
guiba: 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 His-
tory,” The International Journal of African Historical Studies 1 (2002), 131.
 radio and society in tunisia during world war ii 371

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. How-
ever, 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 Serv-
ices [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 Protector-
ate 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-va-
lidity of such agreements that violated the rights of the Protectorate:

6
The first radio station in Tunisia was apparently created in 1924 for military pur-
poses. 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 radiodiffu-
sion 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 broadcast-
ing 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.
372 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 Tel-
ephone 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 loca-
tion 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 Broadcast-
ing Department. The General Resident was concerned about encroach-
ment on his prerogatives: in October 1940, Admiral Esteva voiced his

8
“Si le Résident général peut engager la Tunisie, dans certaines circonstances, vis-
à-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.
 radio and society in tunisia during world war ii 373

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 broad-
casting in the Protectorate. A North African Directorate under the
National Broadcasting Department’s control was put in place; how-
ever, 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 pro-
tectorate’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.
374 morgan corriou

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. Dur-
ing the darkest hours of the Occupation, listeners from France dis-
covered 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 sta-
tion. 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 jus-
tified 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.
15
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 oppor-
 radio and society in tunisia during world war ii 375

The administration refused to consider the radio station as a local sta-

tion, 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 pro-
paganda, 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.
376 morgan corriou

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 manoeu-
vres.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 independ-
ent 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’ vigi-
lance. 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 Pro-
tectorate (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,
 radio and society in tunisia during world war ii 377

Muzzled, Radio-Tunis nonetheless allowed flashes of protest to fil-

ter through. Reading reports of the Protectorate administration, one
feels a real impotence with regard to subterfuge used by Tunisian-
announcers.
However, the impact of these rare “slips” on the Tunisian popu-
lation 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 con-
sciousness. 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 atten-
tion 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” regu-
larly 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 tolé-
rés 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 boun-
daries, in Leïla: revue illustrée de la femme (Tunis, 1936–1940) and in Leïla: hebdo-
madaire tunisien indépendant (Tunis, 1940–1941), PhD thesis (University of Virginia,
2008).
378 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-Tuni-
sian 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 criti-
cism.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 orientalis-
ing. 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

25
“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 prove-
nance cairote, on se croirait transporté dans la Vallée du Nil,” New series, 2 (Decem-
ber 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 Mame-
louk 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.
 radio and society in tunisia during world war ii 379

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 song-
writer, presented his song in honour of the palm tree, which Has-
sîba 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 opportu-
nity to underline the inadequacies of the classical language for modern
life. Defence of Arabic was thus one of the nationalists’ top priori-
ties.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 ade-
quately digesting their syntax and their morphology. They make gram-
matical 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, respon-
sible for the programming of Radio-Tunis.

33
“Fellah” is an Arabic word meaning small farmer.
34
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.
380 morgan corriou

If the few messages of resistance that managed to get through cen-

sorship on air did not play a significant role in the development of
Tunisian nationalism, the state-owned station, on the other hand, ini-
tiated numerous debates on the question of national identity, espe-
cially in the press. Radio thus became a regular topic in newspapers
and magazines. If discussion was limited, even nonexistent on Radio-
Tunis, 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 broad-
cast 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 some-
thing 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 restric-
tions 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, how-
ever, played a crucial role in Tunisia, especially in the “Moorish cafés”
 radio and society in tunisia during world war ii 381

(“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 Ital-
ians 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-in-
Chief 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.
382 morgan corriou

the streets with an irresistible Marseillaise, a glorious Chant du Départ

or a hilarious interlude by Fadila Khetmi”.40 The role of the Mediter-
ranean 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 listen-
ing 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 neigh-
bours and even occasional passers-by may “enjoy” these broadcasts.42
Throughout the Vichy period, anyone who tuned in to a foreign sta-
tion, 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 infringe-
ments 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.
41
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 voi-
sinage 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.
 radio and society in tunisia during world war ii 383

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 dec-
laration 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 autobiographi-
cal 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 harmful-
ness, 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 expe-
rienced 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 cou-
ches 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 Tuni-
sian jail (from March to September 1942) for acts of resistance.
46
Soupault, Le Temps des Assassins, p. 329.
384 morgan corriou

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 pos-
session 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 frame-
work used to control radio listening, we turn to its concrete enforce-
ment, 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.
 radio and society in tunisia during world war ii 385

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 Intel-
ligence 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, turn-
ing on the radio could be risky, especially as offenders were severely
punished. In April 1940 a café in Kairouan found to have been broad-
casting 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 “nation-
alist 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: gen-
der, 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.
386 morgan corriou

certain resumption of nationalist activity” (“activité destourienne”) in

the town of Gafsa. The “most active militants” “often listened to for-
eign 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 ges-
ture. 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 Lib-
eral 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 con-
tinued 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 com-
munities fed (as shown by the confiscation of radio sets), and a more
lenient consideration in view of the diplomatic stakes. The enforce-
ment 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).
 radio and society in tunisia during world war ii 387

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 Depart-
ment in North Africa, asked the General Resident to show more flex-
ibility 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 cir-
cumspection 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 applica-
tion, 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 mau-
vaise 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 radio-
phoniques”: f. 2, letter from the General Resident to the Head of Security Services,
Tunis, October 27, 1941.
388 morgan corriou

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 listen-
ing. 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 pro-
grammes in “Moorish cafés”. The Residency asked for measures “to
bring this practice to an end, because of the current tendencies of Brit-
ish propaganda . . .”60

Orienting radio listening

It is not surprising, then, that the General Residency decided to cre-
ate a guided “radio station.” Following the example of the cinemato-
graphic 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 émis-
sions 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), Cultu-
res 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.
 radio and society in tunisia during world war ii 389

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 lim-
ited 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 under-
stand their reactions, which he should note down.”65 Indeed, the radio-
car staff had a double mission: spread Allied propaganda and gather
information on Tunisian public opinion.
Behind these policies of control and propaganda appeared the anxi-
ety 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. Accord-
ing 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 hos-
tiles à l’Axe. Après les avoir stigmatisées à maintes reprises, elle installa, Avenue Jules-
Ferry, 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’Ave-
nue 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.
390 morgan corriou

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 dou-
bled. 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 diffi-
cult economic conditions, most of these businesses survived the war.
Of course, not all of them specialized in the sale of radios—these shop-
keepers 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 tuni-
sienne de communication 31 (1997), 56.
68
MAE, 1930–1940, Political and commercial correspondence P, n. 657: f. 282, let-
ter 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 391

Europeans Natives Foreigners Totals

Morocco 34,000 6,000 Muslims 42,300
2,300 Jews
Algeria 97,000 5,000 102,000
Tunisia 13,400 6,200 6,400 Italians 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 attribu-
tion 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 remem-
bers 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 pro-
portion 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 window-
sill 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 dur-
ing 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.
392 morgan corriou

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 socia-
bility 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 neigh-
bours, “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 broad-
casting, technical conditions, especially electricity supply, impacted it
as well. Years before the transistor revolution, the many regions with-
out 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 adminis-
trative 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.
 radio and society in tunisia during world war ii 393

The audiences’ preferences

The popularity of the different stations is difficult to evaluate, espe-
cially 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 stan-
dard 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 cau-
tion 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 pop-
ulation 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 cir-
cumstances.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.
78
Boretz, Tunis sous la croix gammée, p. 54.
79
“[A l’occasion d’une intervention de Mustapha Sfar, cheikh el-medina, à Paris-
Mondial] L’opinion saine de la population tunisienne a noté avec un satisfaction mar-
quée 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 Gene-
ral Administration, Tunis, April 18, 1940.
394 morgan corriou

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 pub-
licized 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 Moor-
ish cafés having gone to the Municipal Theatre where there was a per-
formance 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 Ara-
bic 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 el-
Medina 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.
 radio and society in tunisia during world war ii 395

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 informa-
tion, which they discussed and exchanged. Radio sets appear in most
accounts of Protectorate Tunisia connected with the war. In his Chro-
nique 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 fam-
ily], 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 situ-
ation 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 remar-
ques 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.
396 morgan corriou

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 inhab-
itants, 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 com-
pletely 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 listen-
ing 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 Médi-
terranée (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.
 radio and society in tunisia during world war ii 397

World War II marked a stage in radio practices in Tunisia as in Euro-

pean countries. If radio listening remained contained socially and geo-
graphically, 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 vil-
lage 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. Mili-
tary action on Syrian territory, involving Syrian, North and West Afri-
can, 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 Mod-
erner 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 Ara-
bic 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.
402 katharina lange

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 never-
theless 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 expe-
rienced 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 regula-
tory 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 ʿisabat-
movement 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 Perspec-
tives [Les mandats français et anglais dans une perspective comparative], Social, Eco-
nomic 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.
 peripheral experiences 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 administra-
tive region (mantiqa) of Afrin, which covers about 2,050 km2, com-
prising 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-l-
Furāt 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. Lon-
grigg, Syria and Lebanon under French Mandate (Oxford, 1958), pp. 370–371 (with a
typographic error, turning 1941 into 1914, on p. 371).
404 katharina lange

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, contin-
ued 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, memo-
ries 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 imme-
diate event alone, but also by structured representations and interpre-
tations 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.
8
Recent publications by local historian Muḥammad ʿAbdū ʿAlī are valuable contri-
butions based on oral narratives and published sources, but do not use archival mate-
rial. 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.
 peripheral experiences 405

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 Leb-
anon—comprising civil administration and public services, as well as
public security—was to be executed by the French. Despite the prom-
ise 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 finan-
cial 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 coor-
dinated 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 spo-
ken 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 institu-
tions 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, includ-
ing 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.
406 katharina lange

wartime, efficient control of the Syrian-Turkish border was a mat-

ter 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 Syrian-
Turkish 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 sympa-
thies 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 Jarab-
lus, 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 Zealan-
der 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 prov-
enances and nationalities were active: beside the British Field Security

11
See for instance the discussions between generals Holmes (British) and Dasson-
ville (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.
 peripheral experiences 407

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 interac-
tions 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 desert-
ers 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 docu-
mented (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 func-
tioning 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 visit-
ing 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).
408 katharina lange

Qaimaqam (district commissioner) and the president of the munici-

pality 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 villag-
ers’ 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 pic-
turesque 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, assault-
ing 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 sol-
diers 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).
 peripheral experiences 409

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 continu-
ous stationing of foreign troops was yet another indication of the Free
French weakness and lack of resources. Somewhat bitterly, the report-
ing 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 observa-
tion 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.
410 katharina lange

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 vil-
lages 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 sev-
eral 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 Bed-
ouin. 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 [politi-
cal] situation,” noted Captain Chardar, French officer in Afrin in Feb-
ruary 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).
 peripheral experiences 411

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 agri-
culture 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 popu-
lation 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-land-
owner 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) brother-
hoods 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.
412 katharina lange

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 bor-
der 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. Through-
out 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 affilia-
tions to the National Bloc, the predominant nationalist party during
the Mandate.29 When the national Syrian delegation to the negotia-
tions 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 espe-
cially 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 ‘anti-
colonial’ 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 back-
ing; 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 Nation-
alism 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).
 peripheral experiences 413

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 essen-
tially 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 par-
liament 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 intellec-
tual 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, land-
owner from the Bulbul region. Fayiq Agha dominated Kurd Dagh pol-
itics 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 natio-
nalen 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.
414 katharina lange

both from similar, landowning backgrounds, but representing differ-

ent political orientations.
Since the mid-1920s, notables from Kurd Dagh had developed rela-
tions 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 authori-
ties 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 regula-
tory measures. Locally produced agricultural as well as manufactured

34
Ibid.
35
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 Hey-
demann, “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.
 peripheral experiences 415

goods were to substitute for the absence of large-scale imports; there-

fore, local and regional production, the circulation and allocation of
agricultural products were regulated by the Middle East Supply Cen-
tre (MESC) which had been established in Cairo in 1941. The MESC
developed from an institution subordinated to General Head Quar-
ters 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 distribu-
tion, 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 imple-
mented by the agents of the Office des Céreals Panifiables (OCP),
locally known and remembered as MIRA. This was initially estab-
lished 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 pro-
duced; 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 Heyde-
mann, “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).
416 katharina lange

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).
 peripheral experiences 417

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 har-
vests in 1941 and 1942. The OCP was supposed to control the grain
market and to assure the provision of grain to the civilian popula-
tion 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 popula-
tion voiced regular complaints against the employees of the OCP, their
negligent and corrupt practices. Foodstuffs and livestock were increas-
ingly smuggled into the region from Turkey. The gravest problem was
insufficient provision with grain, flour and bread, which was also regu-
lated 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 demon-
stration that almost resulted in closing the market. Similar to the hun-
ger 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 gov-
ernor 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’; Bul-
letin 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).
418 katharina lange

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 ter-
ritories 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 safe-
guard supplying the population. The villages higher up in the moun-
tains 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. Dur-
ing 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
 peripheral experiences 419

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 hard-
ship. 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 employ-
ment 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 recollec-
tions: “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).
420 katharina lange

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 Brit-
ish forces employed thousands of Syrians as ‘indigenous labourers’
to relieve ‘white’ troops by clearing airfields, constructing or repair-
ing roads and fortifications, transporting goods by automobiles and
horses, and so on.
Despite the positive terms in which recollections of British employ-
ment are narrated today by those Kurd Dagh villagers quoted above,
there are indications that the wages paid by the British were not actu-
ally high. For example, when Farajallah al-Hilou, a prominent com-
munist of Lebanese origin, called for a raise of daily wages in Aleppo
in summer 1942, he cited notably the case of the day labourers work-
ing 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).
 peripheral experiences 421

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 com-
munication, the new, locally recruited units should “provide a net-
work 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 offi-
cials.58 While Assyrians were to be enlisted in Iraq and, possibly, Per-
sia, 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 Champ-
chesnel: “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 administra-
tion; objections to recruitment of Kurds and Armenians (which would potentially
provoke conflicts with the Free French) were voiced by the Foreign Office, while mili-
tary 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. Bed-
dington to the Commander in Chief of the British 9th Army, February 28, 1942, both
CADN, S-L, 1er vers., c.p., 770).
422 katharina lange

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 con-
cerns 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 “disor-
der” 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 agree-
ment 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 activi-
ties 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 Mis-
sion, 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).
 peripheral experiences 423

became a reservoir for recruitment to the British armed forces. A list

of 18 recruits from Kurd Dagh and the neighbouring town of Nub-
bul, 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 sales-
men 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, hav-
ing 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 Febru-
ary 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 Hebdo-
madaire 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 Pales-
tine 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 Pal-
estine, 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.
424 katharina lange

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 hold-
ing camp south of Aleppo. From there he was sent on with other Syr-
ian 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 win-
ter 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 intel-
ligence 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 Brit-
ish 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.
 peripheral experiences 425

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 cover-
ings: 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 join-
ing 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).
426 katharina lange

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 vil-
lagers: 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 pre-
tensions, 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 compli-
cated 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 Offi-
cer in Aleppo, February 19, 1942 (CADN, Syrie-Liban, 1er vers, c.p., 770).
 peripheral experiences 427

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 dur-
ing 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 ‘tradi-
tional’ 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 (eco-
nomic) regulation introduced by the Allies were taken over by the Syr-
ian 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

73
ʿAbdū, Al-Ḥayāt al-siyāsīya fī Jabal al-Akrād.
74
See Vitalis and Heydemann, “War, Keynesianism, and Colonialism,” especially
pp. 132–133, for the argument that the regulatory mechanisms and instruments intro-
duced by the Allies during the Second World War decisively shaped the development
of Middle Eastern post-war economies.
428 katharina lange

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 occu-
pation 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 port-
city of Saint Louis, colonial capital of Senegal founded in 1659, his-
torically 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 commu-
nity of African interpreters, brokers (traitants) and military collabora-
tors, 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 Sen-
egal, 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 citoy-
enneté française dans les territoires d’outre-mer (Paris, 1953), pp. 106–107; Mahmood
Mamdani, Citizen and Subject: Contemporary Africa and the Legacy of Late Colonial-
ism (Princeton, 1996).
430 francesca bruschi

multi-level framework of trading partnerships, patron-client relation-

ships, political allegiances, affiliations to social or religious associa-
tions, 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 institu-
tions 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 intel-
ligent 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 char-
acterise 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 pro-
foundly 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 His-
tory. 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 conse-
quence was a universal concession of civil and political rights. In his
study about Senegal, Michael Crowder considers the Universal Decla-
ration 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 hinter-
land 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 includ-
ing 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 peo-
ples 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.
432 francesca bruschi

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 politi-
cal 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 enter-
ing 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 aboli-
tion 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 actu-
ally 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 “infor-
mal empire” to the formal exercise of sovereignty over West African
territories, the government of the Third Republic allowed administra-
tive 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 re-
introduced 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, His-
toire 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 conces-
sion of rights as a reward for loyal collaboration became central to
colonial ideology and was interiorized by the Senegalese elites: prais-
ing 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 Euro-
African 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 Afri-
can 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 origi-
naires played a major role in denouncing abuses not just inside the
Communes where French Law applied, but also in the protector-
ates. 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 colo-
nial 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 authori-
ties and Muslim societies in Senegal and Mauritania,” in Jean Louis Triaud, ed., Le
temps des marabouts (Paris, 1997), pp. 155–180, p. 169.
434 francesca bruschi

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, reli-
gious affiliation became a reason to withdraw privileges accorded in
earlier times, starting with the special legal status enjoyed by origi-
naires. A growing number of African representatives sat in the colo-
ny’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 origi-
naires 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 gov-
ernment was trying to find an answer to the logical consequence of a
full and broad application of the assimilation policy to all French ter-
ritories. Showing instrumental use of universalistic principles accord-
ing 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 elec-
toral 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 civiliz-
ing mission was inspired by universalistic principles, but the degree of
social development of African native populations, no matter if assimi-
lated 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 administra-
tion refused to consider the originaires as full citizens, and colonial
jurists started to question their electoral and civil rights. The establish-
ment 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 con-
sidered 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 administra-
tion 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 occi-
dentale 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.
436 francesca bruschi

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 metro-
politan public opinion that “Africans were ready to defend their com-
mon 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 Fed-
eration could easily offer 10,000 volunteer soldiers each year.19 Despite
promises of transforming them into professional soldiers, African vol-
unteers did not show up in sufficient strength and voluntary enrol-
ment 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 occu-
pation.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 Com-

munes, 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 Senega-
lese 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 rep-
resents a benchmark both in the history of political representation in
contemporary Senegal and of French rule in Black Africa.26 Success-
fully 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 sala-
ries 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. Serv-
ing 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.
438 francesca bruschi

lobbies, Blaise Diagne was the first black African to sit in the French
Parliament, devoting the first two years of his mandate to the recogni-
tion 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, deploy-
ing 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 citizen-
ship 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 ser-
vice 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 vol-
untary 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 obli-
gations.30 In the winter of 1914–1915 Diagne exerted pressure on the
government and obtained better conditions for African soldiers serv-
ing 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 elec-
toral 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 Social-
ist 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 com-
pliance 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 Séné-
gal 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 incorpora-
tion.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 Com-
munes.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 dis-
tinct 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 arro-
gance 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.
33
“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 eco-
nomic, 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.
440 francesca bruschi

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 Sen-
egalese 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 ‘paci-

fication’, 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 opti-
mistic 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 inde-
pendently 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 Octo-
ber 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 boycot-
ting conscription. Both the military and economic soul of colonization
lamented poor health of African populations, compromising the gen-
eral ‘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 bur-
den above all in the scarcely populated regions of the interior. Inaugu-
rated in 1912–1913, the call to the army remained relatively moderate
before the outbreak of war, to rise in 1914–1915 and reach consid-
erable 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 arbi-
trarily, 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 mili-
tary 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 reck-
lessness 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 Gam-
bia, 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 Fran-
çaise, 1900–1905,” Canadian Journal of African Studies 14, 3 (1980), 429–450.
46
Michel, L’Appel à l’Afrique, p. 124.
442 francesca bruschi

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 deliv-
ered 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 adminis-
tration 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 conscrip-
tion. 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 legiti-
macy 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 mili-
tary 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 mili-
tary 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 pro-
mulgated 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. Mis-
conduct 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 griev-
ances 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 undoubt-
edly 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 pro-
gressive radicalization of their position.54 African veterans and soldiers

50
Echenberg, Colonial Conscripts, p. 46.
51
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
444 francesca bruschi

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 ideol-
ogy 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 insta-
bility. 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 repre-
sentation.60 The administration opted for opposing any kind of lib-
eral reform and, notwithstanding his personal prestige and increased
authority, Blaise Diagne was incapable of assuring any progress in lib-
eral 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 origi-
naires’ model. The dualistic approach of the administration, consid-
ering 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.
446 francesca bruschi

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 differ-
ences 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 adminis-
tration 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 Com-
munes police checks on foreigners and suspect people were strength-
ened.61 The main consequence of the 4 December 1920 Decrees,
formally aimed at decentralisation, was a reduction of the adminis-
trative and political privileges enjoyed by the Four Communes. The
General Council was transformed into a Colonial Council representa-
tive 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 metropoli-
tan or colonial regiments and the 170.000 survivors were conscious of
their right to receive compensation in return for service. The war expe-
rience 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 East-
ern Mediterranean after the end of the war engendered a radicaliza-
tion 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 conscrip-
tion in FWA. While the conditions applying to Africans serving in
French regiments were defined by a law approved in March 1919, ben-
efits 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 vil-
lage 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 domina-
tion 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.
448 francesca bruschi

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 pro-
motion 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 grad-
ual 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 associa-
tion, in the rest of the Federation any attempt at creating political and
even solidarity associations among veterans was blocked. The paci-
fist 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 miss-
ing 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 taxpay-
ers.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 natu-
ralization 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 pro-
paganda, 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 Confer-
ence 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 pub-
lic education was more developed, new professional categories were
appearing for whom any political emancipation was restricted. Ask-
ing 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 administra-
tion’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 exploi-
tation: 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 sys-
tem “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.
450 francesca bruschi

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 domi-
nation 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 des-
potism, 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, represent-
ing 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 offi-
cial declarations about the real objectives of assimilation revealed the
ambiguities of French colonial policy. Even if forced labour was nomi-
nally 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 Sen-
egal 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 gov-
ernment 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.
452 francesca bruschi

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 Brit-
ish 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 spo-
ken 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 start-
ing 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 com-
pared the dictatorships imposed on Europe with their own situation
and were anxious about the possible developments of colonial domi-
nation.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 repre-
sentatives 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.
85
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.
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 rep-
resentation were made, but “any idea of autonomy, any possibility of
evolution outside the imperial French bloc, even the possibility of con-
stituting 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 sol-
diers’ 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 physi-
cally 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 self-
determination 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.
89
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.
454 francesca bruschi

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 self-
government 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 pos-
sible at least the first significant erosion of the most iniquitous aspects
of colonial domination. Through a series of decrees indigenous jus-
tice was reformed, trade unions were legalized, minimum standard
of working conditions were defined—also embracing the progres-
sive suppression of any forms of forced labour—, the role of public
education was reinforced, and the most evident signs of racial dis-
crimination 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, vet-
erans’ 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 signifi-
cance and the practical consequences of living under a democratic sys-
tem. 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 evi-
dent in the inter-war period, when, faced with the impossibility of
imposing the abandonment of their Koranic status on the African citi-
zens 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 recogni-
tion 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 Com-
munes 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 vehe-
ment protests, Senegalese women received political assimilation, the
resistance to emancipation showing once again the blindness of colo-
nial 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 con-
scription 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 Con-
stitutions 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.
456 francesca bruschi

and enrolment are major factors in explaining the evolution of Afri-

can 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 societ-
ies 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 deepen-
ing 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, creat-
ing many expectations and with permanent social and political conse-
quences 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 ter-
ritories, 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 expe-
riences. 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 photo-
graphs are a poignant reminder of the passage of time.
As Mr Davis speaks of his war-time service his mild-mannered rem-
iniscences 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 Surya-
kanthie 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.
458 suryakanthie chetty

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. Evi-
dent 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 disil-
lusionment 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 con-
tradiction—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 veter-
ans whose names do not appear on the memorials where they pay
their respects.
His disillusionment was rendered concrete by the rise of the apart-
heid 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 arti-
cles are the means by which Mr Davis connects himself to the larger
historical narrative, for his war service has given him some small con-
nection to the events of the war and the post-war era. Prime Minis-
ter 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 individ-
ual 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
 “our victory was our defeat” 459

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 legis-
lation 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 inequal-
ity and were designed to force black labour to the mines, and bur-
geoning 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 increas-
ingly 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.
460 suryakanthie chetty

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 por-
trayed 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 gen-
dered 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.
 “our victory was our defeat” 461

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 opera-
tion 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 com-
bat 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 coun-
terparts 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 Non-
European Army Services (NEAS), was formed to bear the responsibil-
ity 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-in-
Chief 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.
462 suryakanthie chetty

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 Ser-
vice (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 volun-
teered 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 urbanisa-
tion 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 participa-
tion.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 Demo-
cratic 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, Remember-
ing 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
 “our victory was our defeat” 463

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 percep-
tion 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 pas-
sage. 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 school-
ing 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 prior-
itised 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 fight-
ing 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 child-
hood 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.
464 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 pro-
vided 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 uni-
form, 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 soci-
ety, the rights and obligations of citizenship were increasingly associ-
ated 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 exclu-
sive 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 partici-
pate 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.
 “our victory was our defeat” 465

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 interna-
tional 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 Mok-
gatle, 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 cit-
izens 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 participa-
tion 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.
466 suryakanthie chetty

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 unswerv-
ing 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 implementa-
tion 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.
 “our victory was our defeat” 467

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 ques-
tion, 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 wor-
ried 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.
33
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.
468 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 oppor-
tunity 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 cor-
responded 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 hold-
ing 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 captur-
ing transport vehicles led to a huge number of Allied soldiers being
taken prisoner-of-war when Major-General Klopper eventually sur-

35
May Kirkman in an interview with May Kirkman and June Borchert.
36
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 pro-
paganda was E.G. Malherbe, the Director of Military Intelligence. Cf. Sentrale Argies
Bewaarplek/Central Archives Depot, BNS 1/1/266 C17/73, p. 1.
 “our victory was our defeat” 469

rendered to Axis forces. Of the approximately thirty thousand men

taken prisoner, South African soldiers formed approximately one-
third.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. Contradic-
torily, 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 mili-
tary 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 pres-
surised 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 short-
fall. Initiated by Colonel G. C. G. Werdmuller, the Director of Recruit-
ing, 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.
470 suryakanthie chetty

making them capable and assured young women. After weeks of lec-
tures, learning military etiquette and the advice of older women, the
shy, awkward girl was transformed into a mature, capable and respon-
sible woman. This was a far cry from her previous persona—a trans-
formation 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 symbol-
ized the duties, and particularly rights, of citizenship. In the newspaper
Ilanga Lase Natal the arming of black men was portrayed as a neces-
sity, 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 prin-
ciples 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.
 “our victory was our defeat” 471

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 vic-
tory seemed attainable, the possibilities for change became increas-
ingly 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.
472 suryakanthie chetty

the world was not divided by race and colour, but by interest and ideol-
ogy [. . .]. 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 spiri-
tual 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 inde-
pendence—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.
 “our victory was our defeat” 473

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 biologi-
cally 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 overthrow-
ing 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.
53
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.
474 suryakanthie chetty

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 Uni-
versity 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 our-
selves, but also for the Africans who are, after all, the bulk of the popu-
lation, 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 differ-
ence 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 demo-
cratic 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 ‘Dis-
cipline’ 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.
 “our victory was our defeat” 475

timony to segregation and discrimination as they remained segregated

entities.60
The Springbok Legion, initiated by ex-servicemen—but later domi-
nated 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 service-
men serving both overseas as well as within the Union.64 The organi-
sation 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 pen-
sion 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 effec-
tive in addressing their material concerns, its Communist Party influ-
ences, 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.
61
Roos, A History of the Springbok Legion, p. 19.
62
Rusty Bernstein, Memory Against Forgetting—Memoirs from a Life in South Afri-
can 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.
476 suryakanthie chetty

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 ex-
servicemen 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 Com-
mando which sought to realise some of the democratic aims for which
the Second World War was fought.72 It was formed by white ex-
servicemen 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 sympa-
thy, 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 com-
posed 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 rep-
resented by the far more conservative Labour Party to playing a role in the organisa-
tion 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.
 “our victory was our defeat” 477

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 Apart-
heid 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 discrimina-
tion 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 pre-
vent 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.
74
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.
478 suryakanthie chetty

National Party as a viable alternative in 1948 after the betrayed prom-

ises 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 Afri-
kaner nationalism was achieving a new dominance. These men now
faced discrimination in an environment hostile to South Africa’s par-
ticipation 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 soci-
ety. 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 Unre-
warded”, The Daily News, February 17, 2000.
 “our victory was our defeat” 479

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 expe-
rience. ‘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 war-
time 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.
480 suryakanthie chetty

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 impor-
tant 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 elec-
torate 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 pre-
sented 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 war-
time 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 liber-
alism. Radical organisations such as the Springbok Legion alienated

83
Interview with Alfred Davis.
 “our victory was our defeat” 481

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 Ethio-
pia, 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 rea-
sons for this gap existing rather than on the physical manifestations
of the memories.
My interest in national memory was triggered when trying to recon-
cile 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).
2
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).
484 anne samson

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 chap-
ter 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 ‘typi-
cal’ 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 par-
ticularly 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. Try-
ing 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).
6
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 Cul-
tural History (Cambridge, 1995); Jay Winter, Remembering War: The Great War
between memory and history in the twentieth Century (New Haven, 2006); Dan Tod-
man The Great War: myth & memory (London, 2005); Paul Fussell, The Great War
and modern memory (London, 1977).
 the impact of the east africa campaign, 1914–1918 485

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 syn-
opsis 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 keep-
ing 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 (Prince-
ton, 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.
486 anne samson

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 even-
tually 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 Gen-
eral 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 Lettow-
Vorbeck 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 non-
white 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).
 the impact of the east africa campaign, 1914–1918 487

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 fol-
lowing a minor rebellion in the colony to protect the Lake Nyasa bor-
der 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
James A. Brown, They fought for King and Kaiser (Johannesburg, 1991).
15
www.delvillewood.com (accessed September 22, 2008).
488 anne samson

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 remem-
bered. 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 sup-
ported 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 mag-
nanimous 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 realign-
ing 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
 the impact of the east africa campaign, 1914–1918 489

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 ter-
ritory 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 out-
come 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 subscrip-
tions 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 them-
selves, 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,
490 anne samson

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 ‘typi-
cal’ 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 his-
tory 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 narra-
tive 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 rec-
ognise 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 indica-
tion 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.
 the impact of the east africa campaign, 1914–1918 491

Contrast this scenario with the campaigns in Delville Wood, Pales-

tine 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 par-
liament, which led to the split and later rebellion in the country. How-
ever, 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 origi-
nally 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 discus-
sion. 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 Common-
wealth War Graves surrounding Aus.18

18
Author’s visit to Namibia, December 2007.
492 anne samson

At the other extreme is the campaign in Palestine. As South Afri-

cans 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 writ-
ten 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 involve-
ment in East Africa had to be ignored by both the leading political par-
ties. 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 partici-
pated 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.
 the impact of the east africa campaign, 1914–1918 493

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 Afri-
cans 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 repre-
sentative 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 Del-
ville 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).
494 anne samson

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 Septem-
ber. 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 addi-
tion, 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 Brit-
ish 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 danger-
ous 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 set-
tlers 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 lei-
sure and hunting purposes—the playground of the rich! Secondly not
 the impact of the east africa campaign, 1914–1918 495

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 fight-
ing 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 cam-
paign 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 Com-
monwealth 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 cem-
etery 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 indepen-
dence, the curriculum has been rewritten with history commencing

22
Forester, The African Queen; Boyd, An ice-cream war.
23
Nuno Severiano Teixeira, O Poder e a Guerro 1914–1918: Objectivos Nacionais e
Estratégias Políticas na Entrada de Portugal na Grande Guerre (Lisabon, 1996).
496 anne samson

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 sec-
tion 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 Ger-
mans 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 Lettow-
Vorbeck 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 promi-
nent 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.
 the impact of the east africa campaign, 1914–1918 497

Paice’s Tip and Run,26 and the National Geographic documentary The
Jungle Navy.27 However, as with previous publications on the cam-
paign, 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, dys-
entery and malaria.
From the above discussion, it is relatively obvious that the reason
Britain, South Africa and other countries have ignored their involve-
ment in the East Africa campaign is the fact that the dominant ide-
ologists 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 coun-
tries 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 forgot-
ten events are now remembered is an important tool for the histo-
rian 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 con-
scious 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 per-
spective 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).
27
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 millen-
nium (New York, 2005), p. 74.
498 anne samson

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 inter-
national 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 physi-
cal 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 Mus-
tafa 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 under-
went 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 transliter-
ated. For less familiar proper names and Arabic terms, as well as references, translit-
eration is used.
500 nadine méouchy

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 Agree-
ments 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 dem-
onstrates 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).
 the military and the mujahidin in action 501

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 prin-
cipal factors should be recalled: safarbarlik, starvation and repression.
Chronologically, the first is safarbarlik,6 the general wartime conscrip-
tion 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, mem-
bers 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 cor-
ruption” (‘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.
502 nadine méouchy

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 country-
side and deserts of Greater Syria between 1915 and 1919. Linda Schat-
kowski-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 civil-
ian 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 pro-
portional 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 Hou-
rani, 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, Insti-
tutions, 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.
 the military and the mujahidin in action 503

In fact, the Arab political committees established before the war and
claiming autonomy for Arab provinces were confronted with repres-
sion 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 Otto-
mans. 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 occupa-
tion spread from the mountains of western Syria. It consisted of guer-
rilla 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 Confer-
ence 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 South-
ern 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
504 nadine méouchy

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, hav-
ing 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 (singu-
lar: 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 pop-
ulation (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 Ideolo-
gies?” 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.
 the military and the mujahidin in action 505

Arab guerrillas;22 similar to ʿiṣāba later, the word Tchete was a pejora-
tive 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 representa-
tive 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, al-
Qism al-khāṣ, file 127.
506 nadine méouchy

(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 cen-
tury 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).
 the military and the mujahidin in action 507

there was the legacy of the Great War, which brought the mobiliza-
tion of men, the diffusion of modern military culture, the experience
of large-scale fighting and the circulation of great quantities of mili-
tary 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. Mod-
ern 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 Alge-
rian); the second category contained Arab officers from the Turkish
and Sharifian armies who served as Faysal’s liaison agents or as mili-
tary consultants to the rebel bands, or directly as ʿiṣāba command-
ers. 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 pos-
sible 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 pres-
ent, and refers here to coming from the ‘longue durée’.
29
For an analysis of the continuities and differences between the guerrilla move-
ment 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).
508 nadine méouchy

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 Muslimiy-
yeh.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 per-
mitted the official use of the Turkish language in the Sanjaq. The Syr-
ians 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 Hebdo-
madaire 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.
 the military and the mujahidin in action 509

officers in the Ottoman Army.34 The most renowned is undoubtedly

Ramaḍān Shallāsh, head of the Bū Sarāyā tribe. A graduate of the Mili-
tary 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 Intel-
ligence noted in 1921 that the Bedouin had modified their guerrilla
tactics.35 As far as the ʿiṣābāt were concerned, here again, French Intel-
ligence 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 atta-
qués 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 mili-
tary 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.
510 nadine méouchy

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 out-
right) the central government’s intervention in society, and easily sub-
stituted ʿiṣāba leaders for state administrative functionaries.”38 At the
same time, however, the heads of guerrilla bands were keen to legiti-
mize 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, fol-
lowing the death of ex-General Fuʾād Salīm.39
The Northern Revolt (thawrat al-Shimāl ) developed a military orga-
nization that divided the territory into four military zones, accord-
ing 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 nar-
rative, 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.
 the military and the mujahidin in action 511

occasionally with political leaders such as Ibrāhīm Hanānū or Tchete

leaders like Özdemir Bey. These decisions may have concerned a guer-
rilla 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 north-
ern 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 sup-
plies 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 lead-
ers for two main reasons. First of all, jundī refers to a noble image:
the expression junūd al-thawra calls to mind junūd Allah and distin-
guishes 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 lat-
ter was calculated according to the status of the fighter: mushāt (foot

40
Lacaze, Les Nomades et la question des frontières, pp. 56–57.
41
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.
512 nadine méouchy

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 mili-
tary 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 coex-
istence 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 Otto-
man 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 Otto-
man, chap. 3.
 the military and the mujahidin in action 513

of the sheikhulislâm and the mufti of the Ottoman state); secondly,

several Shi’i mujtahids in Iraq spread the call to jihad against the Brit-
ish 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 refer-
ence 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 effec-
tive 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 Damas-
cus 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 polit-
ical 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 (Berke-
ley, 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).
514 nadine méouchy

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 out-
lined 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 mush-
roomed throughout western Syria had no unified political or military
direction. The leadership of the Northern Revolt was strictly regional-
based, 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 lead-
ership 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 pil-
lars 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).
 the military and the mujahidin in action 515

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 numer-
ous 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
516 nadine méouchy

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 nar-
rative 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 muja-
hid 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 narra-
tive, 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, how-
ever, 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.
 the military and the mujahidin in action 517

At the same time, however, the dislocation modalities of the Otto-

man 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 politi-
cal 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 introduc-
tion 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 impor-
tance 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 trig-
gered by the Ottoman defeat. In this sense, the movement embodied
a transitional period. It brought the values of modernity to the coun-
tryside 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 post-
war 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 liter-
ary 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.
520 thomas degeorges

The article tells the inter-related stories of the government bureau-

cracy 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. Increas-
ing 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 par-
ties 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 inde-
pendent. 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.
 still behind enemy lines? 521

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 gov-
ernor of Egypt, introduced conscription to amass an army of roughly
130,000 men from Egypt’s population.5 Like Egypt, Tunisia’s experi-
ence 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 proce-
dures 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 person-
nel, 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.
522 thomas degeorges

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 unset-
tling 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 estab-
lishment 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 major-
ity of North African troops to three main combat zones: the north-
ern 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 Afri-
caine 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 Mili-
tary Affairs] (Tunis, 1992–1993), p. 172.
 still behind enemy lines? 523

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 informa-
tion 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 reli-
gious 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 opin-
ion], 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.
524 thomas degeorges

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 pro-
cedures 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 aspi-
rations 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 con-
fronted 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 adminis-
tration, but they also suffered at the hands of the nationalists who con-
sidered 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 research-
ers 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 combat-
tants de Tunisie (1950–1951),” Actes du VI Colloque International sur la Tunisie de
1950–1951 (Tunis, 1993), p. 182.
 still behind enemy lines? 525

During the First World War, the French authorities were over-
whelmed 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, guar-
anteed 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 gov-
ernment to expand the definition of ‘veteran’. In 1930, the French gov-
ernment 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.
526 thomas degeorges

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 meaning-
ful 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 pen-
sion 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 Mediter-
ranean. 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.
23
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, Fran-
çois 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 “Hospitaliza-
tion 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 rich-
est 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.”
 still behind enemy lines? 527

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 condi-
tions 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 orga-
nizations 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 confer-
ence 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 Governor-
General 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, compte-
rendu 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.
528 thomas degeorges

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 agri-
culture. By the early 1930s, the very factors which had contributed to
the economic boom of the 1920s (easy credit, mechanization of agri-
culture, 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 colo-
nial 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 avail-
able 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 reli-
ance 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.
31
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 Combat-
tants, 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 Combat-
tants, Le XVIe Congrès, p. 48.
35
Interfédération Nord-Africaine des Victimes de la Guerre et Anciens Combat-
tants, Le XVIe Congrès, p. 54.
 still behind enemy lines? 529

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 replace-
ment 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 mar-
riages. Since most of the Tunisian veterans were illiterate, the Resident-
General 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 Combat-
tants, 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 rec-
ommended further lowering foreign participation to 5%. It also called for the expul-
sion 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 Combat-
tants, Le XVIe Congrès, p. 57.
39
Meynier, L’Algérie révélée, p. 550.
530 thomas degeorges

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 vet-
erans 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 Supé-
rieur 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 Combat-
tants, Le XVIe Congrès, p. 30.
42
Ibid.
43
Ibid.
44
Dirk Vandewalle, A History of Modern Libya (Cambridge, 2006), pp. 28–29.
 still behind enemy lines? 531

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 con-
siderably reduced the government’s ability to meet current expenses
and sparked a wave of inflation. While such an enormous debt bur-
den 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 fol-
lows: 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 Lieutenant-
Colonel Coche.
532 thomas degeorges

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 fol-
lowing 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 legal-
ity 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, Direc-
tion 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.
 still behind enemy lines? 533

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 cost-
effective 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 over-
sight 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 Euro-
peans) 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 dilap-
idated 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 Secu-
rité, District de Tozeur N°1789, 19 Juillet 1946. Chef du District de Police à Con-
trôleur Civil.
534 thomas degeorges

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 iden-
tifying 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 European-
dominated 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 culmi-
nated 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 French-
language 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 “distribu-
tion 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 Con-
stantinois (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.
 still behind enemy lines? 535

North African veterans also established links with the major nation-
alist 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 implan-
tation 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 veter-
ans 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. Gendar-
merie 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.
536 thomas degeorges

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 (Inti-
fāḍat al-mudun, al-Fellagha, al-Yūsufīya) [The Popular Resistance in Tunisia dur-
ing 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.
 still behind enemy lines? 537

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 follow-
ing 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-spon-
sored 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.
62
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.
538 thomas degeorges

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 nause-
ated 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 nega-
tive 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 move-
ment, 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, Bour-
guiba 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 Mediterra-
nean. 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 post-
colonial 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 remain-
der 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.
 still behind enemy lines? 539

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 confronta-
tional 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 his-
torian 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.
540 thomas degeorges

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 Euro-
pean 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 Partner-
ship 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).
 still behind enemy lines? 541

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 wid-
ows 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 vet-
erans 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 experi-
ences of previous generations. In this way, films such as Steven Spiel-
berg’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.
542 thomas degeorges

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 French-
Algerian 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 some-
where 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 pro-
vides 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).
 still behind enemy lines? 543

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 experi-
ences 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 volun-
tary 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. Boucha-
reb’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.
544 thomas degeorges

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 interest-
ing 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 politi-
cally 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 pen-
sion 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, non-

governmental 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 relation-
ships 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
 still behind enemy lines? 545

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 authori-
ties 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 indepen-
dent 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 par-
ties 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 inde-
pendent. 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 econom-
ics 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
546 thomas degeorges

of impersonal social policies that fail them without an adequate under-

standing 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 inde-
pendence 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 vet-
erans 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 par-
ticular 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 national-
ists 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 Herausforde-
rung: 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.
548 benjamin zachariah

catalysed by the Second World War.3 Efforts by the imperial govern-

ment 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 obliga-
tory, and were by the 1940s made by capitalists and avowed social-
ists 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 short-
term, 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 social-
ists and communists by Gandhians and by the right (often strategi-
cally merging with the Gandhians); but it was also used by socialists to
argue that communists were ‘foreign’ elements controlled from Mos-
cow. 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.
 the creativity of destruction 549

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 acrimoni-
ous 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 anti-
imperialist 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 leader-
ship and the postcolonial state it controlled thereafter claimed to repre-
sent 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 condi-
tions 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.
550 benjamin zachariah

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 environ-
ment 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 con-
ventionalised 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 bureau-
cratic 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.
 the creativity of destruction 551

problem of finding practical solutions might have to be preceded, fol-

lowed 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 aspira-

tions: ‘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.
552 benjamin zachariah

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 cre-
ated 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: Confu-
sion 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 popu-
lation whose work or loyalty was considered particularly crucial for the war effort.
15
See Rothermund, “Die Anfänge”.
 the creativity of destruction 553

public-service” from February 1941, enabling coercive measures to be

employed against the workers with a view to preventing “mass migra-
tions [. . .] 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 agri-
cultural 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.
554 benjamin zachariah

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 unof-
ficial cheap food and clothes shops in Orissa and to distribute cou-
pons, 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 vari-
ety 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 self-
interest. Questions of ‘development’ and post-war reconstruction were

22
Famine Enquiry Commission, Final Report, pp. 37–38.
23
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. (Lon-
don, 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.
 the creativity of destruction 555

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 dur-
ing 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-be-
demobilised 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 coordina-
tion 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 Informa-
tion Department, India Office, March 3, 1944, BL, IOR/L/WS/1/1335, cited in Bhat-
tacharya 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 Commis-
sioner until October 31, 1945.
556 benjamin zachariah

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 recov-
ery from wartime shortages and dislocations was to be achieved in
the shortest possible time. In India such considerations were explic-
itly 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 Govern-
ment 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 Miscella-
neous 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).
 the creativity of destruction 557

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 imperial-
ism’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 con-
nected with these efforts were Indians who saw themselves as nation-
alists 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, “Rewrit-
ing 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 (Lon-
don, 1993), chapter 11.
37
T. Hutton, “The Planning of Post-War Development in India,” Asiatic Review
XLIII (April 1947).
558 benjamin zachariah

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 parti-
coloured results of it.”39
The interest of many of these texts lies in their vision of what con-
stituted 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 Depart-
ment 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 reasona-
ble 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.
 the creativity of destruction 559

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 pro-
tected 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-remu-
nerative 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 His-
tory of India (London, 1986), pp. 119–120.
560 benjamin zachariah

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 business-
men, 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 nation-
alist 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).
 the creativity of destruction 561

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 spon-
sors 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 social-
ist 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 capital-
ism 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,” Mod-
ern 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.
562 benjamin zachariah

of practical import rather than on matters of principle, and appoint-

ing 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 machin-
ery 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, arma-
ments, 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
See Chattopadhyay, The Idea of Planning, pp. 214–235, for details.
57
“Bombay Plan,” pp. 1–6.
58
“Bombay Plan,” pp. 7–20.
59
“Bombay Plan,” p. 25.
60
“Bombay Plan,” p. 31.
61
“Bombay Plan,” pp. 44–50.
 the creativity of destruction 563

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 remis-
sion granted for asset depreciation and income reinvested on industrial
and agricultural production. The precondition was a “national govern-
ment”: “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 sig-
nificance 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: Distribu-
tion: 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.
564 benjamin zachariah

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 owner-
ship, 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 recog-
nised. 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 recom-
mendation of a closer look at Gandhian ideas in a more constructive

67
“Bombay Plan II,” pp. 27–32.
68
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.
 the creativity of destruction 565

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).
71
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 (Lon-
don, 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, Cas-
sell Professor of Political Economy at London University and was a well-known con-
servative 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.
566 benjamin zachariah

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 agree-
ment 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 pre-
liminary drafts of the Second Report and the correspondence thereon show a concern
with toning down the more categorical commitments contained in it to more non-
committal 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 Sec-
retary, 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
 the creativity of destruction 567

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.
568 benjamin zachariah

the universal validity of the Soviet model of heavy industry-led develop-

ment 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 consid-
ered 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 Advi-
sory 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
People’s Plan, p. 21; pp. 5–6.
92
People’s Plan, see M. N. Roy’s Introduction.
93
People’s Plan, pp. 21–2.
94
Report of the Advisory Planning Board (Delhi, 1946).
 the creativity of destruction 569

regarding the nationalist rhetoric of the Board, and his equal scepti-
cism 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.
570 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, per-
haps 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 pos-
sible to open out to scrutiny some tensions in the increasingly stan-
dardised and conventionalised language of development of the time.
So what was going on in the smaller reports? They perhaps ask simi-
lar 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 transforma-
tive projects.
The four-volume Report of the Health Survey and Development Com-
mittee, 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.
 the creativity of destruction 571

interesting highlights along the way, with its special emphasis on pre-
ventative 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 prob-
lems, 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.
572 benjamin zachariah

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 cen-
tral 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 radi-
cally 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 Govern-
ment 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 liv-
ing, 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.
 the creativity of destruction 573

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 set-
ting 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.
574 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 Govern-
ment’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 unfore-
seen 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.
118
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.
 the creativity of destruction 575

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 bal-
ances 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 Ster-
ling 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 ques-
tion, see Aditya Mukherjee, “Indo-British Finance: the Controversy over India’s Ster-
ling 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 Rela-
tions in the Post-Colonial Era: The Sterling Balances Negotiations 1947–49,” Jour-
nal 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,
576 benjamin zachariah

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 re-
equipment 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 Common-
wealth Relations Office files), BL, IOR/L/E/9/303–365, and the papers of the Ster-
ling 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 Impe-
rialism, (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 Sar-
athi 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 restructur-
ing 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.
 the creativity of destruction 577

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 custodian-
ship 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 mate-
rial much of the agenda of post-war and post-independence ‘devel-
opmental’ 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, “Indo-
British 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 consid-
ered 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.
578 benjamin zachariah

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 contem-
poraries 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 situ-
ations 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 ‘seces-
sion’ 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, Yao 121

319, 385, 394, 417
European 10, 17, 29, 43–52, 136, Zionism 492
173, 199, 211, 455
Indian 41, 53, 78, 79, 81, 89, 343,
345, 362–364
 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 index of names
Israel, Adrienne 108
I’tesamuddin, Mirza Sheikh 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 148,
149, 151, 153, 185, 265, 272
Özdemir Bey 508, 511
Paice, Edward 497
Peers, Douglas 98
Prost, Antoine 521, 524
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 65
Vivekananda, Swami 42
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
Yeats Brown, Francis C. C. 61, 357
Zeubauer, Yaul 490, 492
 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