Persian Empire 1845

Chapter 609 The Anatolian Famine (Part 1)
As Iran strives to promote free trade to the world, the situation in the Ottomans worsens. Climate problems that began last year have become even more erratic, and water resources are becoming increasingly scarce.

The Euphrates River tributary in the Anatolian Plateau resembles a dried-out snake, with a crack about an inch wide in its riverbed. The sun-baked pebbles are so hot under the scorching sun that they could fry wheat grains, but the wheat grains have long been gnawed to powder by locusts, and even the grass seeds have been dug up clean by starving people.

Hassan squatted by the riverbed, his fingers digging into the cracked mud, his fingernails filled with dirt. Behind him, half of the mud-brick house had collapsed; the thatched roof had been blown away by the hot winds of the past few days, revealing the dark beams, like withered ribs. His six-year-old daughter lay at his feet, her cheeks so sunken that the blue veins were visible, her lips dry and chapped, her breath thin as a thread.

“Water…water…” Her daughter’s voice was stuck in her throat, each word requiring immense effort. Hassan touched her forehead; it was frighteningly hot. He hurriedly handed her the last piece of dry, hard wheat cake he had been carrying. It had been picked up from the dead in a neighboring village three days ago; the edges were already moldy. But Fatima still managed to bite into it with all her might. Crumbs fell from the corners of her mouth, which she hurriedly licked back with her tongue, a faint light shining in her eyes.

Beginning in 1870, Anatolia suffered severe natural disasters. Due to two consecutive years of poor harvests, the Ottoman Empire's granaries were empty. Severe food shortages began to occur in vast rural areas of Anatolia.

Due to financial exhaustion and administrative inefficiency, the government was unable to organize effective disaster relief efforts. The food transportation system was also paralyzed by feed shortages and poor road conditions. Large numbers of farmers fled their lands and flooded into cities to beg, leading to urban disorder and pushing social structures to the brink of collapse.

Suddenly, the sound of hooves echoed from the village entrance. Hassan abruptly pulled Fatima into his arms, their backs pressed against the earthen slope of the riverbed. Last winter, when Ottoman tax collectors came to collect grain, he had seen those mounted soldiers; their scimitars could easily slice through sheepskin coats and steal the last bit of winter rations. But this time, it wasn't soldiers who came, but a man in a dark blue robe, his turban embroidered with silver stars and crescents, his horse so thin its ribs were clearly visible, white breath escaping its nostrils.

"Are you from this village?" The man reined in his horse, his voice hoarse as if it had been sanded. Hassan didn't dare look up, only hearing the sound of the horse's hooves pounding on the riverbed. "Have all the wells nearby dried up?"

"It was done...it was done three months ago."

“I come from Constantinople,” the man said, his fingers unconsciously tracing the edge of the sheepskin bag. “The Empire is sending troops south, but the villages along the way are deserted, and there’s not even a guide to be found.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the collapsed mud houses in the distance. “How many people are left in your village?”

"There aren't many left..."

The man didn't say anything, just left him some food, and then left.

Ibrahim Pasha's silk turban was covered in a layer of dust. He had been away from Constantinople for twenty days, and the relief documents had fallen apart during the journey. The imperial edicts on the pages, ordering "immediate allocation of funds" and "opening granaries for distribution," looked particularly ironic under the scorching Anatolian sun. As an official of Anatolian origin, he had been requesting relief funds since last year, but the Sultan and the high officials had all ignored his requests. Only now, seeing the situation worsen, had he been sent to carry out the relief work.

Reaching the gates of Konya, he reined in his horse. The area beneath the gates was teeming with fleeing peasants, huddled together on the dirt road like dried locusts. Emaciated children clung to the wheels of stagecoaches, their fingernails still stained with bits of grass. Soldiers on the city walls, gripping rusty spears and with half-sacks of moldy barley piled beside their boots, remained deaf to the pleas of the starving people.

“Pasha,” the city’s commander hurriedly approached, his scimitar wobbling violently from malnutrition. “The city’s granaries have been empty for a long time. Half of the relief grain sent last month was seized by the governor’s men as soon as it reached the outskirts of the city. The rest… is barely enough for the soldiers to eat.”

Upon entering the city, the scene was even more suffocating. The bazaar, once bustling with vendors selling spices and silk, was now nothing but ruins. A few shops that hadn't collapsed had their doors and windows boarded up, the words "No Grain" on the doors faded in the sun. At a street corner, two vagrants were wrestling over half a piece of naan bread covered in mud, their fingernails digging into each other's flesh, drops of blood drying instantly on the scorched earth. Not far away, an old woman sat under the collapsed eaves, cradling her dead grandson. The child's face was as dry as tree bark, yet she was still humming a lullaby softly, her voice barely audible.

Ibrahim went straight to the governor's mansion, and as soon as he stepped into the main hall, he heard the sound of an abacus. Governor Mustafa of Konya was hunched over his desk, frowning at the numbers in the account book. On the corner of the table was a pot of Ceylon tea, and on the side dish were two pieces of candied fruit—enough to feed a family for half a month in Anatolia today.

"Mustafa," Ibrahim slammed the document on the table, the ink of his red annotations spreading, "do you know how many people have starved to death outside the city? And here you are, settling your scores!"

Mustafa slowly put down his teacup, the sugar stains on his fingertips leaving a mark on the ledger. "Ibrahim Pasha, it's not that I don't want to provide disaster relief, it's that the roads to disaster relief have long been cut off." He pointed to the "transportation losses" column in the ledger, his tone tinged with self-deprecation. "The caravan I sent to transport grain last month was surrounded by refugees after only three days. The driver ran back to report that those people were carrying hoes and sickles, their eyes were red like they wanted to eat people—now no one dares to be a driver. Even if there is grain, how can it be transported to the refugees?"

"Then why don't you send soldiers to escort them?"

“Soldiers?” Mustafa suddenly laughed, his laughter filled with bitterness. “Go and see the barracks. The soldiers only eat thin porridge once every three days. Yesterday, two soldiers secretly went to dig up tree bark and were caught and beheaded. If I send them to protect the grain, they’ll rob it all before it even reaches the refugees.”

Ibrahim choked. He recalled seeing soldiers outside a camp in Ankara, scrambling to peel the bark off a dead tree, even picking at the insects inside. The Ottoman army was no longer the formidable force that had swept across Eurasia. Years of war had emptied the treasury, and now they couldn't even feed their soldiers, let alone provide food and disaster relief.
What chilled him even more was the court's procrastination. Letters from local officials pleading for aid poured into Constantinople, but the Sultan and his ministers were either busy negotiating loans with European powers or trying to protect their own fiefdoms, repeatedly suppressing the relief efforts. It wasn't until this spring, when refugees in Istanbul stormed the tax office and set fire to grain merchants' warehouses, that the Sultan finally issued a relief order. But by then, the granaries were empty, the transport teams had dispersed, and even able-bodied laborers were scarce. The word "immediately" on the document became the most ironic joke.

(End of this chapter)