In October 2016 I visited the Serbian capital, Belgrade, picturesquely located at the confluence of the River Drava and the Danube. The city developed in line with the 18th-century Austro-Habsburg and Russian imperial model of bulldozing Ottoman buildings and mosques, which were either adapted or built over in ‘European style of progress and enlightenment.’ The four monuments of distinctly Ottoman architecture that survive to this day are all within the walking distance of each other in Belgrade’s, Stari Grad, or Old Town. Two are religious, namely the capital’s sole mosque, together with the turbe (tomb) of dervish Mustafa Bagdađanin. The two other monuments are konaks, or Ottoman-style residences. One built in the 1730s escaped being razed because it used to house Serbia’s first Serbian-language secular secondary school founded in 1808. The other konak, was actually constructed a century later, in 1830, already in autonomous Serbia. This was the official residence for Princess Ljubica, consort of the first Prince of modern Serbia, Miloš Obrenović.
Belgrade looks like any other Russian, Romanian or Bulgarian city, memories of the Ottoman past consigned to dusty tomes. The broad alleys are ill adapted to the Balkans’ snowy winters and hot summers. Unlike Ottoman narrow winding alleys and overhanging roofs, the modern architecture does not offer the coziness of self-contained neighborhoods (mahallas) or protection from elements. The point is to be imposing, hesitatingly imperial, decisively Orthodox and undecided whether to follow the direction leading to St Petersburg or Paris.
The Polish language originated as the sociolect of the Polish-Lithuanian nobility, which meant that its standardization was not steeped in a regional dialect, like that of French in the Romance dialect of Paris, or German in the language of Martin Luther’s German translation of the Bible (in other words, the Germanic dialect of the Electorate of Saxony). In the pre-written period of this language, prior to the 16th century, highly mobile nobles of various ethnic origins from all corners of the Commonwealth of the Kingdom of Poland and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania either contributed to this sociolect from various Slavic dialects or just adopted this coalescing social koine when they happened to be non-Slavophone. Polish continued as the sociolect of the Polish-Lithuanian nobility well into the 19th century, after the erasure of Poland-Lithuania from the political map of Europe in the late 18th century. In the early 16th century, Polish achieved the status of co-official language in the Commonwealth’s Kingdom of Poland, alongside Latin. At that time, Polish was modelled on the pre-Hussite (Catholic, ‘non-heretic’) Bohemian (Czech), both in terms of spelling and vocabulary. The Commonwealth’s political and economic might caused aspiring Orthodox boyars (nobles) from Moldavia and Wallachia (or today’s Romania and Moldova) to adopt it as a language of wider communication. In 1697 the Cyrillic-based Ruthenian (Ruski, seen today as the source of Belarusian and Ukrainian) was banned in the Commonwealth’s Grand Duchy of Lithuania, and replaced with Polish, which became the polity’s main official language, and thus consolidated the cultural Polonization of its nobility (who nevertheless persisted to identify themselves as ‘Lithuanians,’ or the Grand Duchy’s ruling elite). Specifically, the ban applied to the use of ‘Cyrillic letters’, which were ideologically associated with Orthodox Christianity (by the same token, in Muscovy – as Russia was known prior to 1721 – the Latin alphabet and language were disparaged as ‘Catholic’). Hence, Ruthenian written in ‘Polish’ or ‘Catholic’ Latin letters, with an addition of numerous Latin phrases, was perceived as Polish in Poland-Lithuania. As a result, the Polish language at that time straddled, what since the early 19th century has been imagined as, an ‘impassable’ classificatory divide between the ‘West Slavic’ and ‘East Slavic’ languages. (In observed sociolinguistic reality on the ground, both groups of languages actually belong to the North Slavic dialect continuum.)
I have spent the last two decades studying the rise and implementation of the idea of ethnolinguistic nationalism across Central Europe, or the home region of the majority of the world’s Jews for over a millennium until the Holocaust. The gradual establishment of Serbia, Greece, Montenegro, Italy, Romania, Germany and Bulgaria as ethnolinguistic nation-states during the 19th century was followed after World War I by the enshrining of the ethnolinguistic nation-state as the sole legitimate model of statehood in Central Europe. It meant the destruction of the polyglot, multiethnic and polyconfessional empires: Austria-Hungary and the Ottoman Empire, and also the detaching of similarly multiethnic borderland areas from Germany and the Russian Empire (soon overhauled into the Soviet Union in 1922). In their place the brand-new ethnolinguistic nation-states were founded, namely Finland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Yugoslavia and Albania, together with only briefly independent Belarus and Ukraine that were soon annexed by Bolshevik Russia.
Ethnolinguistic nationalism defines all the speakers of a language as a ‘proper’ nation. In turn, the territory compactly inhabited by the speakers of this language should be made into such an ethnolinguistically defined nation’s nation-state. The language now dubbed as ‘national’ is elevated to the rank of the nation-state’s sole official language. Ideally, no other languages should be allowed in official use and education, and the national language should not be shared with any other state or nation. These onerous conditions of ‘proper’ ethnolinguistic national statehood were successfully implemented across interwar Central Europe, much to the exclusion of speakers of languages other than the national one, but especially to the exclusion of Jews, even if they happened to speak a given national language. Interwar anti-Semitism, hand in hand with ethnolinguistic nationalism, additionally precluded assimilation of Jews, due to their ‘foreign’ religion, which – in line with the ‘science of race’ (Rassenkunde) and its application in the form of ‘racial hygiene’ (Rassenhygiene) – was construed as the biologized marker of the ‘Jewish race,’ and as such the ‘undeniable proof’ of their ‘irreducible Semitic racial foreignness.’
To Michael, with whom I have the privilege to share love of books
Do Michael, leis a bhfuil sé de phribhléid agam grá leabhair a chomhroinnt
Michaelowi, co ukochał książki jak i ja
Michaelowi co, jako i jō przaje knigom
I became a reader in the nineteen seventies, now I realize, it was the golden age of the book. Volumes – we didn’t then know the now commonplace expressions – came as ‘hardbacks’ (w twardych okładkach in Polish) or in ‘soft covers’ (w miękkich okładkach), invariably tight, and also neatly sewn in the former case. When speaking of hardbacks we actually meant ‘books in cloth binding.’ It was unthinkable that a hardback would be enclosed between covers merely made of a harder type of cardboard. Such an underhanded move would not befit any respectable publishing house, and readers would consider it as cheating. Our expectations of paperbacks were also higher than what we demand of them today. A softback might be flimsy and disregarded by the serious connoisseur of belles-lettres, but still manufactured to last for a good while. Its pages were kept safely together with steel clamps. With time, especially on damp shelves, the clamps rusted and leaked tell-tale red stains onto the paper, which became symbolic of paperbacks in the era preceding the glued spine that entered the publishing stage in the latter half of the seventies.
It was the first dissatisfaction in the realm of letters which I encountered as an increasingly conscious and discerning reader. Copies of the books, which I eagerly wanted to read would not open easily, and were a strain on my fingers to keep them open. I was taught to respect books and not to harm them. They were spoken of in these anthropomorphic terms, as if books were living, defenseless creatures. (In a way they were, as proved by the then recent war, World War II: millions of volumes burnt to ashes in the pan-European conflagration, and with them distant lands, surreptitious trysts, memories of days long gone, captivating stories and ideas – even those forbidden – disappeared from the postwar reader’s gaze starved of sought-for reading material.) Forcing a volume to stay open at the page I wanted it to, invariably meant a breach to the flimsy spine. In no time a book originally published in a single volume devolved into two or more disheveled parts brushing sides, all loose, within the same cover.
Once, Poland was a success story of postcommunist transition. Throughout the 1980s this largest satellite state of the Soviet Union in Europe faced unprecedented privations symbolized by rationing cards, never-ending queues and shortages of absolutely all essentials. The situation eventually delegitimized the communist regime and simultaneously radicalized the population. The only solution to this dilemma (apart from following the option of a bloody civil war with Soviet involvement) was a negotiated change to democracy and a free market economy. That is what followed, despite economic difficulties heaped on the state’s inhabitants (especially in the countryside and in the urban areas with rapidly decommissioned heavy industry) in the course of the systemic transition. In 1999 Poland joined Nato and half a decade later, in 2004, the European Union (EU). The prudence and efficiency of governance in economy was such that after the current economic crisis hit in 2008 Poland was the only EU member state where economic did not plummet and actually continued to grow. In the new eastern half of the EU, the country became the partner of Germany and France in shaping the Union’s future. On the wave of these successes the Polish Prime Minister Donald Tusk was elected President of the European Council (that gathers the leaders of all EU member states).
Numerous stories and novels by the greatest living Albanian writer, Ismail Kadare (1936-), build on anti-Ottoman stereotypes and metaphors, ostensibly directed against authoritarianism, as exemplified by communist Albania. However, the author appears not to notice the irony that, like many of his compatriots’, his own name is of an Islamic and Turkic origin. In one short novel, Komisioni i festës (1977, The Feast Committee), Kadare describes a historical event. In 1830, Reşid Mehmed Pasha (1780-1839) as Grand Vizier and Serasker (Commander-in-chief) of all Ottoman forces in Rumelia (or the Balkans) invited about 500 southern Muslim Albanian beys (that is, chiefs, warlords, village leaders) for a feast of reconciliation in Manastır (or today’s Bitola in Macedonia). The 1820s had been a destructive and murderous decade across the entire southern Balkans, where the Greek War of Independence had been fought out between 1821 and 1833. At the end of this period, in the north, the Russian armies attacked the Ottoman vassal principalities of Walachia and Moldavia in 1828-1829. Shortly afterward, the Egyptians defeated the Ottomans in Syria (1831-1833).
One Friday morning in late August 2014 I attended a seminar at the University of Stirling on how literature, Scottish literature, reflects or fails to represent the devolution. A participant remarked that within the British Empire, the English ran their emporium of commerce while the Scots built an imperium of spirit. Scottish spirit. In this view of the imperial British past, Scots wrote, invented, founded universities and educated the ballooning British Empire from Canada to South Africa, India, Australia, and to New Zealand. Unfortunately – according to this view – in the wake of the Great War when settler colonies were turned into dominions complete with home rule, these pioneers of Scottish spiritual imperium speedily morphed into Canadians, South Africans, Anglo-Indians, Australians or New Zealanders. The spiritual imperium of Scotland disappeared two generations earlier than the English’s emporium of commerce.
All of a sudden, Scotland appeared even poorer than it had been before joining the English imperial project of the British Empire. The spirit declined, though it was not extinguished, even when Scotland became just a northern appendix of England in the decades that followed World War II. Hence, the long-striven-for project that bore fruit in the form of devolution and the Scottish parliament, remains soulless, a political feat that needs grounding in the spirit in order to be revived. The spirit of the nation. The Scottish nation in a future independent, or maximally devolved, Scotland is to be civic, open, tolerant and all-embracing. But to be true to itself, this nation also must be a phoenix reborn from the long-gone-cold ashes of the aforementioned Scottish imperium of spirit.