1921, December 9th, Friday.
The ninth of December dawned over Constantinople, cold and clear. For Sultan Murad VII, every shadow seemed to lengthen, every tick of the clock amplified the profound anxiety that had settled in his heart. Today, deep in the Anatolian heartland, in the ancient city of Konya, his envoy, the scholar Behram Rıza Bey, was scheduled to undertake the most delicate and potentially momentous meeting of his reign – a clandestine dialogue with Hacı Shukri Efendi, the man who represented a fragile, unnamed conduit to influential circles within Mustafa Kemal Pasha's nationalist government. The fate of an empire, Murad felt, hung on the words to be exchanged in the sacred shadow of Mevlana Rumi's tomb.
He attempted to immerse himself in the affairs of state, but his thoughts were consumed by Konya. He met briefly with Tevfik Pasha, who, understanding the Sultan's preoccupation, kept his report concise. The final legal texts of the Port Authority Agreement were being exchanged with the Allied High Commissions for verification before the formal public pronouncements and the establishment of the new Port Management Board, scheduled for early the following week. Cavit Bey's auditors were still battling Colonel Hughes for full access to the 'Special Projects Fund' ledgers, but the British officer's obstructionism was becoming increasingly isolated and desperate. Murad nodded, his mind elsewhere. "Ensure Cavit Bey has whatever support he needs, Tevfik Pasha. We must not relent on that front."
As was his custom on Jumu'ah, Murad prepared to attend the congregational prayer. This Friday, he chose the Yeni Valide Mosque in Üsküdar, on the Asian shore of the Bosphorus. It was a less overtly imperial mosque than Hagia Sophia or Süleymaniye, a place that drew merchants, artisans, and families from the bustling Anatolian side of the capital. His journey across the water in the Imperial caique, though under the usual heavy guard of Fevzi Pasha's Hassa Ordusu, felt like a symbolic gesture, a reaching out towards the vast Anatolian landmass where Behram Rıza now ventured. Sheikh-ul-Islam Nuri Efendi, accompanying Murad, delivered a sermon that seemed to speak directly to the Sultan's hidden anxieties and hopes. He spoke of the Quranic verse, "And if they incline to peace, then incline to it thou also, and trust in Allah. Verily, He is the Hearer, the Knower." (Surah Al-Anfal, 8:61). Nuri Efendi elaborated on the profound Islamic virtue of seeking reconciliation amongst believers, the courage it takes to extend a hand of peace even in times of bitter division, and the divine blessings that attend sincere efforts to heal wounds and unite the Ummah against common adversaries. The congregation, many of whom had family fighting in Anatolia or yearned for an end to the national schism, listened with heartfelt attention. Murad found a measure of solace in the Sheikh's words, a spiritual reinforcement for the perilous path he had chosen.
Meanwhile, hundreds of kilometers away in Konya, Behram Rıza Bey, known only as Hafız Mehmed the wool merchant, was making his way with one of Esad Bey's disguised operatives towards the pre-arranged meeting point. It was not the main public entrance to Mevlana Rumi's magnificent turquoise-domed mausoleum, a place teeming with pilgrims and nationalist Gendarmerie patrols, but a secluded gate leading to a quiet, walled rose garden pavilion traditionally used by the Mevlevi shaykhs for private contemplation. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and ancient stone. Hacı Shukri Efendi was already there, a man in his sixties, his face deeply lined by sun and worry, but his eyes, when they met Behram Rıza's, were clear, intelligent, and held a profound, weary piety. He wore the simple, unadorned garb of a provincial Islamic scholar. There were no guards visible, no overt signs of an official reception, only an aura of profound secrecy and immense, unspoken gravity. After the traditional Islamic greetings and a moment of shared silent prayer for guidance, the two men sat on simple cushions in the sun-dappled pavilion. "Respected Hafız Mehmed," Hacı Shukri began, his voice low and measured, his gaze searching Behram Rıza's face, "your journey has been long and, I trust, not unduly arduous. Your willingness to undertake it, and the sentiments you conveyed through our mutual friend, have been… received with the seriousness they deserve by those in Ankara to whom I have access." Behram Rıza bowed his head slightly. "Revered Hacı Shukri Efendi, the journey was but a small testament to the profound desire of my master, the Sultan-Caliph, for an end to the suffering of our people and the tragic division that weakens our Ummah and our indivisible Turkish nation. He sends not demands, nor ultimatums, but a heartfelt plea for understanding, for a dialogue rooted in our shared faith and our common peril from those foreign powers who seek to extinguish the last light of Islamic sovereignty in these lands." He then, as Murad had instructed, spoke with eloquence and sincerity. He conveyed the young Sultan's deep sorrow for the past mistakes of Istanbul governments that had alienated so many in Anatolia. He emphasized Murad's respect for the immense sacrifices made by the Anatolian people in their struggle for independence. He spoke of Murad's vision of a revived Ottoman state, one that embraced all its peoples, upheld the Sharia in its true spirit of justice and compassion, and stood firm against foreign domination. He carefully avoided any language that could be construed as a political negotiation, focusing instead on the moral and spiritual imperative for unity. "My master," Behram Rıza concluded, "believes that whatever our past grievances, whatever our current political differences, we are first and foremost brothers in Islam, bound by a common destiny. He asks only if there is a heart in Ankara willing to listen to this plea, to explore if a path towards healing might yet be found."
Hacı Shukri Efendi listened without interruption, his gaze never leaving Behram Rıza's face, his fingers slowly working a string of prayer beads. When Behram Rıza finished, a long silence filled the pavilion, broken only by the distant cooing of pigeons and the rustle of autumn leaves in the rose garden. Finally, Hacı Shukri spoke, his voice heavy with the weight of Anatolia's suffering and resolve. "Learned Behram Efendi," he said, "your Sultan's words, as you convey them, are indeed… unexpected. For years, Anatolia has heard only condemnation, threats, or calls for abject surrender from Istanbul, often at the behest of foreign masters. To hear now of sorrow for past mistakes, of respect for our sacrifices, of a desire for unity based on faith and common peril… it is a language we had almost forgotten could emanate from the Palace on the Bosphorus." He paused, his eyes clouding with memory. "You must understand, Effendim, the depth of the bitterness here. We have buried too many sons, endured too much hardship, fought too long for our national honor and our very existence, to easily trust words from a capital still occupied by the very enemies we fight. The Grand National Assembly in Ankara is the sole legitimate representative of the Turkish nation's will to be free and sovereign. Its leaders, men forged in the crucible of war and betrayal, will not easily relinquish the independence they have won with blood." He then addressed some of the core anxieties of Ankara: "What of the Caliphate itself? Many here fear it has become a tool of foreign powers, a means to legitimize their occupation and divide us. What of the Sultan's true authority? Can he act independently of his Allied masters? Can he truly offer a partnership of equals, or does he seek merely to reimpose the old, discredited Istanbul hegemony over a free Anatolia?" Behram Rıza, as Murad had instructed, did not attempt to offer definitive political answers to these profound questions. Instead, he reiterated Murad's sincerity. "Revered Hacı, my master understands these deep concerns. He believes the Caliphate must be a symbol of unity and spiritual guidance for all Muslims, free from any foreign manipulation. He strives daily, as evidenced by his recent stand against Allied corruption in the Port Authority, to reclaim true Ottoman sovereignty in Constantinople, step by painful step. He seeks not to impose, but to listen, to understand, to find a common path forward where both the spiritual legitimacy of the Caliphate and the sovereign will of the Turkish nation can be honored and preserved, for the sake of our collective survival."
The dialogue continued for nearly three hours, a careful, searching exchange of views, of hurts, of hopes, however faint. Behram Rıza listened more than he spoke, absorbing the depth of Anatolian grievances but also sensing, beneath Hacı Shukri's cautious words, a profound weariness with the ongoing conflict and a deep, if heavily guarded, yearning for a just and honorable unity. As the sun began to dip towards the western horizon, Hacı Shukri Efendi rose. "Behram Rıza Efendi," he said, his voice filled with a solemn dignity, "you have spoken with sincerity and wisdom. I will convey the essence of our conversation, and my personal assessment of your Sultan's intentions as you have presented them, to those influential individuals I mentioned. They are men of diverse opinions, some more hardline, some perhaps more… receptive to such an unexpected overture from the Caliph." He looked directly at Behram Rıza. "I can make no promises as to their collective response. The path to any form of understanding will be exceedingly long and fraught with immense difficulties. But… your coming here, this dialogue, has perhaps… opened a very narrow window that was previously sealed shut. It has shown that there may yet be men of goodwill on both sides." He then offered a tangible, if still highly conditional, next step. "If, after I have reported, there is a desire from those in Ankara to explore this path further, I will find a way to send word back to your Sultan through our established discreet channel. It may be a request for clarification on certain points. It may be a suggestion for another, equally secret, exchange of views, perhaps with someone more directly involved in political councils, though still entirely unofficial. Or," his face clouded, "it may be a message that the time is not yet ripe. We must all pray for Allah's guidance." Behram Rıza Bey bowed deeply. "I thank you for your courage, your wisdom, and your willingness to listen, Hacı Shukri Efendi. My Sultan awaits your further word with a hopeful and prayerful heart."
Later that evening, in a small, secure room in a quiet corner of Konya, Esad Bey's operative received Behram Rıza's brief, coded signal: "The dialogue at Rumi's Gate was held. The Scholar is safe. He perceived a glimmer of cautious interest amidst deep reservations. He awaits permission to begin his return journey when deemed secure, carrying a full verbal report. Further communication will follow established protocols." When this message reached Murad in Yıldız Palace, decoded by a visibly relieved Esad Bey, the young Sultan felt a profound wave of emotion wash over him. The first direct, albeit entirely unofficial, contact had been made. His envoy was safe. And the response from Hacı Shukri, while making no concrete promises, contained more hope than he had dared to expect. A "narrow window" had opened. The agonizing wait for Behram Rıza's full report, and for any subsequent message from Hacı Shukri, would now begin. But tonight, as Murad looked out over the Bosphorus, he felt that the bridge of whispers he was attempting to build across the Anatolian chasm, however fragile, however perilous, might just be capable of bearing the first, tentative footsteps towards an almost unimaginable future. The path was still shrouded in darkness, but at Rumi's Gate, a single candle seemed to have been lit.