In his first
trip abroad as president, Barack Obama brought up the Armenian genocide in an address to Turkish parliament. Sort of. Instead of actually
mentioning the genocide, he noted that America “still struggles with the
legacies of slavery and segregation,” as well as its “past treatment of Native
Americans.” Each country, he went on,
must “work through” and “reckon with” the past.
Todd Heisler/The New York Times |
In discussions of Turkey’s genocide denial, many people, Turkish and American, cynically suggest
the real issue is reparations. If Turkey admitted it had committed genocide,
the theory goes, something, maybe international law or the US congress, would
then compel it to pay compensation to the victims. If this is really the concern, then let the US
example serve as a reminder that there’s no need to worry. If anything, as
we’ve discovered, apologizing for about past sins can be an excellent way to
defuse the any expectation of financial reparations.
Last April, the 100th
anniversary of the Armenian genocide led Americans to devote an unusual amount
of attention to 20th century Turkish history. Turks, in turn, devoted an
unusual amount of attention to 19th century American history, using every
internet forum available to suggest that American interest in the genocide was
hypocritical in light of our own country's troubled history. The difference, of
course, is that in America we have long been able to talk openly about slavery,
or the fate of our continent's indigenous population. In fact many of the
people most vocally urging Turkish society to confront its past have also
pushed Americans to do so as well.
But with each passing year,
a growing number of people in Turkey are openly discussing their country’s
past. Now it appears Turkey may finally be on the verge of realizing that when
it comes to wrestling with history, they’d do better to emulate American
hypocrisy than condemn it. For example, any basic cost-benefit analysis would
have long ago led Ankara to realize it would be cheaper to ignore non-binding
congressional resolutions than pay millions of dollars to lobbyists in order to
defeat them. Or Ankara could have used the language recently employed by the
French president, who simply explained that his country's debt to Haiti is
moral, not financial. But what prevented Turkey from taking this approach, at
least up until now, was not a fear of reparations but rather national pride.
Specifically, though, a kind of national pride reflecting the fact that from
the late 19th century to the Cold War, condemning Turkey's barbaric behavior
was a favorite excuse for imperialist land grabs. After World War One, the
Armenian Genocide in particular was an oft-cited justification for the dividing
Anatolia up between Western powers. In short, Turkey never had the luxury we
did in America, where our geopolitical power let us confront history on our own
terms, comfortable that we would only face the consequences on the rare
occasions we chose too.
Inevitably, this
raises the uniquely troubling question of how the darker parts of our country’s
history are related to the political circumstances that enable us to talk about
them. That is, did our national crimes facilitate the wealth, power and even
democratic values that give us the confidence to admit them?
In Turkey, however,
the historiographic impulse is reversed. Liberal academics have instead argued
that the Armenian Genocide, and the country’s refusal to reckon with it, help
explain all that is authoritarian, violent and undemocratic about Turkey today.
Some have argued, for example, that because Turkey’s industrial class owed its
wealth to the state, specifically the state’s expropriation of Armenian land,
they could never play the democratizing role that their class did in other
countries. Other scholars have seen a more direct connection between the state’s
genocidal treatment of the Armenians and its willingness to use violence
against the Kurds today. For those in Turkey bravely fighting against denial,
authoritarianism and state violence, this narrative offers a compelling way to
understand the link between these struggles.
But there is
another, potentially more disturbing possibility. By the low standard humanity
has set for itself in the 20th century, the modern Turkish republic stands
out for being relatively peaceful and democratic. This isn’t to minimize the political violence
that Turkey has experienced, of course. Political trials that occurred under
Ataturk’s rule ended with the execution of hundreds of political opponents,
while they state used deportations, massacres and even poison gas to repress Kurdish uprisings in Eastern Anatolia.
More recently, extrajudicial killings and collective punishment came to define
the state’s dirty war with the PKK which has now killed at least 40,000 people.
But tragically, this ugly record pales in comparison with the ongoing experience of many Middle
Eastern states or the historic experience of any European state that
participated in World War Two. Since 1923, Turkey has experienced less
dictatorial rule and less political violence than most of its neighbors, all
after the state systematically killed a million people in the first genocide of
the modern era.
Even more
disturbing is the possibility that genocide helped lay the groundwork for
Turkey’s relative stability and democracy. It is far from clear that it did,
but in many other contexts scholars have argued for the role of national
homogeneity in facilitating democratic transitions. Certainly, key moments in
Turkey’s own transition to democracy, were made possible by the existence of a
political consensus on essential matters of foreign and domestic policy. That
this consensus, and Turkey’s homogeneity more broadly, were based on mass
murder doesn’t negate the possibility they were conducive for putting the
country on a more positive political trajectory.
So what are we
to do with this? What are we to make of the role of slavery in the creation of
American democracy? Or the fact that if Turkey eventually becomes the kind of
strong, confident, democratic society that can acknowledge the Armenian
genocide, it could be, in part a legacy of genocide.
In his speech to
the Turkish Parliament, Obama claimed “History is often tragic, but unresolved,
it can be a heavy weight.” As an American, I’m proud we have the freedom to
wrestle openly with our history, and as a historian I can’t help but believe
that these efforts can make our society better.
But what if our ability to confront the most tragic parts of our past is
itself a product of these tragedies. This possibility is also something that we
must reckon with.