A Slave in My Family

Creative commons, author unknown

U tom stubu, kaže se, ima velika soba, mračna dvorana u kojoj živi crni Arapin.

In this pillar, it is said, there is a large room, a dark hall in which lives the black Arab.

from 'The Bridge on the Drina' by Ivo Andrić

Nobel Prize for Literature 1961

Ivo Andrić was a Bosnian Serb who wrote his prize-winning novel about the 16th century Turkish Bridge spanning the River Drina at Višegrad. From the moment I read it I needed to know, who was the mysterious Arab that lurked within a stone bridge and what was he doing in Bosnia?

Amin al-Husseini, an Arab born in Jerusalem, was indicted for war crimes in Bosnia by the post-war Yugoslav government, but it wasn't him. Modern Arabs travel to Bosnia to reach a Muslim haven in the heart of Europe, but it's not them. Ivo Andrić's Black Arab was not even an Arab, he was African.

The knowledge that Africans may have lived in the Balkans snuck into my life the back way and like many alternative routes began with a subjective decision.

I had my DNA tested.

What a wealth of suffering that simple sentence has revealed!

The genetic testing company 23andMe provided my DNA results in Confidence Levels on its Chromosome Painting page. The 50% Confidence Level is termed Speculative. (This is the one you see when you open the email.) At this level I have 0.3% Congolese and SE African genes. On the chromosomes themselves this is demonstrated by a tiny splodge of pink on chromosomes 2 and 3. At 60% Confidence the same splodges change to 0.3% Broadly Sub Saharan African. At 70, 80 and 90% confidence the splodges are still there but now they fall into a group termed ‘unassigned.’

0.3% is about one part in 250 or a 6X great grandparent. My great great grandfather Martin Mikatović was born in Tar in 1822, a village in the region of Istria in modern Croatia. A 2X great grandfather gives me 1/16 of my genes. A 6X great grandfather gives me 1/256 or 0.39%.

But which year is this?

Allowing 20 – 30 years per generation gives us 80 – 120 years before Martin's birth. My African relative, therefore, was most likely born between 1702 and 1742. That is a little over a century after the Mayflower sailed to America and Oliver Cromwell decapitated Charles 1.

Not that long ago.

If you were African in the 18th century and your DNA has turned up in a person whose ancestors came from a country within the Turkish Ottoman Empire, then you were a slave. And not a Pliny-the-Younger-type-well-looked-after-slave either. The Arabs sold black and white slaves but the black ones were on the lower rung and, like their brothers in the trans-Atlantic slave trade, frequently died as a result of cruel treatment. 'Some 10,000 slaves, black and white, were brought into the Ottoman Empire every year' and my relative most likely came from Kenya, Nigeria, Zanzibar or Sudan (1). In the mid-18th century, the demand for specifically black African slaves increased. (4)

The famous Turkish cotton industry required African slaves, and their descendants live in Turkey to this day. There they 'are often called “Arabs”... they also refer to themselves as Arabs...[and] this has led to a situation in which “Arab” means “black.” (1)

It is significant then that a little less than one eighth of my family came from Montenegro, a country that had belonged to the Ottoman Empire for most of the 1500’s and 1600’s and was semi-autonomous until its liberation in 1878. In addition, I have the same amount of Greek Anatolian genes as I do African. Greece was part of the Ottoman Empire and it is an easy leap to say that in those days a country like Bosnia, that was also incorporated within the Ottoman's vast domain, might have seen African slaves, although it wouldn’t have been the peasants who owned them. The Ottoman Empire collapsed a few years after World War 1, having expanded, declined and fragmented over its 600-year history and made very few friends in Europe during that time.

The history of humanity is the history of slavery, and I use a literary device when I say that ‘for over a millennium’ there was a thriving Arab slave trade in the East that sold men, women and children to the Ottomans and any others with the money to pay, including Europeans. This reign of misery was certainly longer than a thousand years and it is probably not known exactly when the Arab slave trade started although most sources link it with the rapid spread of Islam from the seventh century. In a true human spirit of self-justification, arguments rage on the internet about which slavery was worse, European or Arab. No question here. All slavery is an obscenity or, in the words of the great Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, ‘I don’t buy and sell human beings.’

Novigrad 2018 M Walker

‘See that wall? That’s to keep the Turks out.’

So said Silvana, my birth mother, pointing at my photograph of the 6m high Venetian wall in the port of Novigrad in Istria.

She was born in nearby Tar in 1920, two years before the fall of the Ottoman Empire, near enough historically to grow up with stories of marauding Turkish pirates. ‘Slaves [were] brought by pirates’ (3). Silvana called them Turks but history calls them the Barbary Pirates and they worked for the Ottomans around the Mediterranean and the Adriatic.

Silvana's family name, Mikatović, means the son of Saint Michael and is derived from the Greek for the Archangel Michael, Michali Taxiarhis, or Michael the Brigadier. The earliest reference to the name Mikatović I have been able to find was about 1720 in the Poreč area near Tar but there may easily be earlier ones. The church books from the seventeenth century that are displayed on FamilySearch.com are written with thick quills and ink in abbreviated Latin and, if I am in the wrong mood, scrolling through a hundred pages defeats me.

I ought to try harder.

Politicians like Mussolini who tried to divide these old regions into modern political entities and to impose a single national language on them forgot that the residents had long memories. Greek, Turkish, Slavic, Austrian and Italian eras intermingle and are remembered in place names, family names and local dialects. As Silvana said to me, 'you only speak the same because you have television and radio. We didn't have any of that.'

A case could easily be mounted that my African relative was a woman. More women were deprived of their freedom in the East than men whereas the reverse was true in the West (2). Perhaps she was a beautiful black concubine in an Istanbul harem or a nursemaid to a wealthy Turk. Perhaps she was a spinster, endlessly spinning cotton thread to weave the sails of the Ottoman fleet.

Although I am adopted, I have a lot of information about my birth family which helps makes sense of my genes but, having said that, a chronological issue remains. The academic papers relating to the settlement of Tar, my family’s village, state that the area was settled from Venice’s possessions in the south in the late 1500’s and 1600's, not the early 1700's when my African relative was born. These emigrants were mostly Slavs but not always. A whole range of ethnic groups from the south needed to escape from the marauding Turks at this time and Venice wanted to repopulate Istria which had been ravaged by the plague.

How do I feel about all this?

I am inspired to compose the Romantic Version. That's how I feel.

Around the year 1700 a baby girl called Mercy was born to a couple in Kenya. The baby was black and very beautiful and, as she grew towards young womanhood, she attracted attention wherever she went.

Mercy's village was close to the Indian Ocean and one tragic day when she was only twelve she was playing on the beach with other children when she caught the attention of a pirate ship. They captured Mercy, placed her aboard their reeking vessel and sailed her first to an Arab slave market in Aden, Yemen. From here she was transported to Cairo in Egypt in the belief that as a concubine she would fetch a high price.

However, the ill treatment and privations of the voyage took a heavy toll on her beauty, and she was purchased instead by a Turkish cotton grower. He set her to work in his fields near the Anatolian coast irrigating the cotton in the hot summer months and harvesting the fluffy pods as they matured in the late autumn.

Separated from everything she loved, Mercy began to die of grief.

One day, the cotton grower looked at the beautiful girl properly for the first time and, moved by a strange compassion, asked her why she looked so sad. Mercy could not speak his language and was unable to reply but, seeing that she had dexterous hands and fine fingers, the cotton grower removed her from the harsh fields and brought her into the long rooms where dozens of women sat all day spinning thread on drop spindles.

Their kindness and affection nursed Mercy's wounded spirit and she did not die, yet death remained present in her eyes for she could see no other way to be restored to her family and her culture. She often dreamed that she would die, in the same way that other people look forward to a joyful event.

After several years, the owner's son chanced to visit the spinning rooms bringing with him his Greek friend Dimitri. At this time Turkey was a multi-ethnic country and many Greeks lived there. Dimitri saw the beautiful girl spinning her everlasting cotton thread. Mercy lifted her head and their eyes met.

Dimitri was smitten and that night he could not sleep. His heart pleaded for the opportunity to look upon Mercy a second time. His soul begged him to free her.

But haggling over a price with the cotton grower was no easy matter and Dimitri, being a Christian in a Muslim state, did not have much money. However, that night the cotton grower had a dream in which he saw Dimitri and Mercy standing together with an angel by their side. He placed great store by dreams and was persuaded to agree on a lower price that was within Dimitri's limited means.

By now Mercy was sixteen, the age at which most girls married. When Dimitri explained that he wished to marry a black girl who had been a slave on a cotton farm, Dimitri's father was too shocked to reply. Dimitri remained defiant and, as he was over twenty-one, little could be done to stop the marriage. Nor would Dimitri lose his inheritance because Greeks who had not 'turned Turk', as converting to Islam was then called, were very poor.

In desperation, Dimitri's father paid a visit to the Turkish cotton grower who, realizing that he'd been manipulated out of a valuable slave by his own wayward emotions, was furious. He chased Dimitri and Mercy across the sea to the powerful city-state of Dubrovnik. He should have known better because not only were the magistrates of Dubrovnik rich they were also men-of-the-world and had managed alone out of all the countries in the Balkans to successfully bargain with the Ottomans to retain their independence. They simply stone-walled the unfortunate cotton-grower who left for his farm in a high temper vowing never to pay attention to his dreams again.

However, the Great Earthquake of 1667 had flattened the noble streets of Dubrovnik taking much of its fine architecture with it and, in the year of Mercy's birth, the city's magistrates had granted to the Ottomans a piece of coastal land only twenty kilometres to the north. By this means the Empire of Venice, that had for a long time looked on Dubrovnik with greedy eyes, would be forced to defeat the Ottomans before attempting to take it over in its weakened state. This was a very astute move by the magistrates, effectively guarding their city as it was being rebuilt, while simultaneously placating the Turks and frustrating the Venetians. Today the land still belongs to Bosnia.

And so, amidst the scaffolding, Dimitri and Mercy were married, but they did not feel safe in Dubrovnik with the Ottomans a mere twenty kilometres away. They decided to migrate further north to the Istrian peninsula. This was an area of great ethnic diversity and considerable Greek influence. Here Dimitri met the influential Mikatović family who over a century before had travelled north from Montenegro, another country with a strong Greek background. He noticed immediately that they had a Greek/Slavic name. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship and intermarriage between two families.