Persian Empire 1845

Chapter 610 The Anatolian Famine (Part 2)
"So, we're just going to stand by and watch the common people fall one by one?"

Ibrahim angrily questioned Mustafa, who, however, was magnanimous and answered directly.

"Just ignore them and let them fend for themselves."

"Leave them to fend for themselves?" Ibrahim's voice trembled. "Governor, those are living, breathing people! The man who was killed by soldiers at the city gate, his child is still in swaddling clothes, how are you going to let them fend for themselves?"

Mustafa simply picked up his teacup and slowly blew away the floating leaves. "Ibrahim Pasha," he said, his eyes devoid of any warmth, "you grew up in Constantinople, so you probably haven't seen a real famine. Ten years ago, when Anatolia suffered a drought, I was an adjutant in Adana. I witnessed firsthand how refugees sold their own children for half a sack of wheat. When people are starving to the extreme, they will eat each other."

"How many people are left in Konya now? Thirty thousand? Fifty thousand? Nobody knows for sure. The granaries are empty, the transport teams are gone, and even the garrison is eating tree bark. How can I save them? Open the governor's granary? That little bit of food is enough for them to eat for three days. What about after three days? They will loot all the shops, burn down the government offices, and finally storm the military camp. At that time, not only will the refugees not survive, but the entire Konya will become a living hell."

“We can’t just watch them starve to death!” Ibrahim took a step forward. The imperial edict ordering immediate relief was dazzling in the morning light. “Constantinople may be far away, but as long as we jointly petition the Sultan and request the Sultan to allocate surplus grain from the surrounding provinces, we can…”

“Surplus grain?” Mustafa suddenly laughed, his laughter full of sarcasm. “Pasha, do you think only Konya suffered a disaster? Ankara’s granaries were empty last year. Refugees have even torn down the riverbanks just to find fish and shrimp in the water. The Syrian province does have grain, but the governor is a distant relative of Pasha. He would rather bury the grain underground and let it rot than share it with us.”

He rose and walked to the window, pointing to the scorched earth outside the city. His tone suddenly turned somber: "I know what you want to do. You want to emulate Suleiman Pasha a hundred years ago, opening granaries to distribute grain and save the people from suffering, ultimately making a name for yourself in history. But times have changed. The Ottoman Empire of today is no longer the extravagant empire it once was. Last month, the messenger I sent to Constantinople returned with news that the Sultan had mortgaged all the customs duties to secure a loan from Britain."
"If they're willing to sell the nation's lifeline, who would care about the lives of a few refugees?"

Just then, hurried footsteps came from outside the door, and a servant stumbled in, his face pale: "Governor, Lord Pasha, something terrible has happened! The refugees from the east of the city have stormed into the flour mill, looted all the owner's grain, and set the house on fire!"

Mustafa's expression changed instantly. He grabbed the scimitar on the table, turned around and walked out: "Send fifty soldiers over there. Anyone who dares to resist, just chop them down!"

"You can't do this!" Ibrahim rushed forward to stop him, but Mustafa shoved him aside, causing him to stumble and crash into a pillar.

The scene along the way became increasingly chaotic. Several refugees were scrambling around an overturned cart, fighting over a few grains of wheat that were leaking out from the gaps. The door of a shop had been smashed open, and the cloth and pottery inside were scattered all over the ground, but no one touched the inedible items. In the distance, a flour mill was already ablaze, with thick black smoke billowing and obscuring half the sky.

"Stop!" Mustafa drew his scimitar and shouted, pointing it at the refugees who were stealing the grain. The soldiers immediately surrounded them, raising their spears at the thin figures. The refugees stopped, some still clutching grains of wheat covered in dust, their faces filled with fear, yet also with a desperate, reckless ruthlessness.

Just as Mustafa was about to give the order to act, Ibrahim suddenly stepped forward, blocking the path between the refugees and the soldiers: "Don't kill them!" "Ibrahim Pasha, do you want to rebel?" Mustafa's scimitar turned towards him, the cold glint of the blade hurting the eyes.

“I don’t want to rebel; I just don’t want to see more people die.” Ibrahim’s voice was steady, yet carried an undeniable firmness. “Now, as the special envoy of Constantinople, I demand that you immediately contact the treasurer and open the granaries!”

"Are you crazy?" Mustafa looked at him in disbelief. "There are less than twenty cartloads of grain left in the granary. If we distribute it to the refugees, it won't last five days! After five days, they will still loot and burn. What will we do then?"

"It's better than letting them starve to death. If they all die, who will pay taxes for the empire? You should think about that."

Mustafa remained silent for a long time before finally sheathing his scimitar and ordering his attendant, "Go and fetch the treasurer, open the granaries, and distribute the grain to them."

The servant hesitated for a moment, then immediately turned and ran away. The refugees stood there stunned for a few seconds before realizing what had happened. Some began to cry, while others kowtowed to Ibrahim and Mustafa, murmuring "Thank you, Lord Pasha" and "Thank you, Governor," their voices filled with the relief of surviving a calamity.

Ibrahim looked at the scene before him, but felt no relief. He knew this was only temporary relief; Ankara's grain supplies were merely a drop in the ocean. To truly solve the famine, he would need the support of Constantinople. But would the Sultan and his ministers truly take this disaster seriously?
The granary doors finally opened, and the soldiers filled cloth bags with wheat seeds and distributed them to the lined-up refugees. Providing disaster relief at such a time required immense courage, and Ibrahim had done it.

Ibrahim began writing a report on the local situation. Once finished, he gave it to a messenger to deliver immediately to Constantinople. He didn't know if the report would change the minds of the Sultan and his ministers, nor whether the Ottoman Empire could weather the crisis, but he knew he couldn't give up.

As evening fell, Ibrahim stood on the city wall, watching the refugees cook over fires in the open space. The thin porridge made from wheat seeds steamed, and the laughter of children finally rang out across the scorched earth. A breeze carried the scent of wheat, and he suddenly felt that perhaps the Ottoman sun could rise again.

He just didn't expect that this hope wouldn't last long. Half a month later, a reply finally arrived from Constantinople, containing only a few short sentences: "The treasury is empty and unable to support disaster relief; the matter of Konya is to be handled by the governor himself. Also, the special envoy Ibrahim is to return to Constantinople immediately to report on his duties."

Holding the letter, Ibrahim stood on the city wall, gazing at the still-cracked earth in the distance, and suddenly felt a chill run through him. He knew that this famine was far from over. And the Ottoman Empire, this ship riddled with holes, was still struggling in the stormy seas above the scorched earth, not knowing when it would sink into the abyss.

(End of this chapter)