Istanbul, 1892
The marble chamber of Yıldız Palace was heavy with the smell of ink, wax, and the faint coal smoke that clung to every cloak these days. The Imperial Council sat in tense rows, their eyes fixed upon the great map spread before them. To the untrained gaze it was a simple geography: the empire stretched from the Balkans to Mesopotamia, dotted with red lines and black markers. But to Abdulhamid, it was something greater — veins of steel and oil, a living body bound by language and faith.
Yet a body was nothing without a heart. And that heart, he knew, was the people.
"We speak of factories and rifles," Abdulhamid began, his voice sharp enough to silence a whispering vizier. "But rifles do not fire themselves. Machines do not walk to war. It is men, flesh and blood, who give life to steel. And so I ask you: how many sons will the empire raise this year?"
The Minister of Population cleared his throat nervously. "Majesty, the figures show promise. In Anatolia, birth rates have risen twelve percent since the introduction of marriage stipends. In Mosul and Basra, young families multiply thanks to land grants. In Damascus, reports claim families of seven or eight are no longer rare. Even in Sarajevo, Albanian families take advantage of the child stipends—though their priests grumble at the Turkish requirement."
Abdulhamid's eyes narrowed. "Let them grumble. They may curse us in their churches, but their children will grow under our schools. Their grandchildren will know no other tongue but Turkish. That is victory enough."
The Minister of Education, a bespectacled reformer, raised a point. "Majesty, if I may… the priests and mullahs resist in both Balkans and Mesopotamia. They claim that by tying stipends to Turkish schooling, we corrupt faith with politics. They say the empire demands not loyalty but their souls."
Abdulhamid leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "And what is loyalty if not the soul? Did Allah not give us language to bind us, reason to guide us, unity to strengthen us? Faith is not weakened by knowledge — it is completed. And if they resist, remind them of this: the Quran itself calls mankind to read. Reading Turkish letters is no betrayal. It is obedience."
Murmurs of approval rippled through the chamber.
Selim, standing in his usual shadow at the Sultan's side, broke the silence with a low report. "Majesty, Crescent Eyes confirm that resistance is strongest where foreign gold flows. Serbian pamphlets in Kosovo. Greek schoolmasters sneaking into Thessaly. British agents found near the oil lines. The people resist, but not alone. They are fueled."
Abdulhamid's fist struck the table, rattling inkpots. "Then cut the fuel. No more foreign priests without approval. No more foreign books. Crescent Eyes will silence the presses. And if any noble or chief takes foreign gold, strip him of land and title. The empire has one patron now — and it is the Sultan."
Selim bowed slightly, eyes glinting with cold satisfaction. "As you command."
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Later that week, Abdulhamid summoned the ministers of Treasury and Welfare. He unfurled a new decree written in his own hand.
"The Imperial Population Act of 1892."
It declared:
-Families of six children or more would be tax-exempt for life.
-Every new child would bring a state stipend, enough to feed and clothe them.
-Marriage funds would be established in every provincial capital, providing dowries for young couples.
-Orphans would be raised in Turkish schools, clothed, and fed by the state — "orphans of the empire, children of Allah."
-Families who sent all their children to Turkish schools would receive priority for land grants in Mesopotamia and the Balkans.
The ministers paled at the cost, but Abdulhamid silenced them.
"Money is a tool, not a master. We can melt silver for rifles, we can burn coal for steam — and we can spend gold to make children. Every child is a soldier in twenty years, a worker in fifteen, a mother of ten more. Coffins are more expensive than cradles."
The decree spread across the empire within weeks. In Anatolia, families celebrated as tax collectors turned away empty-handed from homes bursting with children. In Baghdad, oil merchants praised the Sultan for rewarding large families with land near new refineries. In Salonika and Sarajevo, peasants whispered that the Sultan had become the "Father of Children." Priests and imams alike grumbled, but the coin in their flock's hands was undeniable.
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Yet resistance remained. In Damascus, Arab clerics railed against the "Turkification" of their mosques. In Macedonia, priests cursed the Turkish alphabet as a tool of Satan.
Abdulhamid knew well that such resistance was dangerous if ignored. But unlike the sultans of old, he did not answer rebellion only with soldiers. He answered with both shadows and incentives.
Selim arrived one evening with two reports. The first detailed the arrest of three Serbian agitators caught smuggling nationalist tracts into Kosovo. The second described an Albanian tribe refusing to send its children to Turkish schools despite the stipends.
Abdulhamid studied the papers, his brow furrowing. "Hang the Serbians. Quietly. Their deaths must speak only to those who would imitate them. As for the Albanians…" He paused, then allowed a rare smile. "Send them twice the stipend, but only if they swear loyalty. Greed will tame them faster than steel. Crescent Eyes will ensure their chiefs do not cheat us."
Selim bowed, but Abdulhamid caught his eye. "Do not mistake me, Selim. Bribes build loyalty for a year. Schools build loyalty for a lifetime. The true victory will not be in the chiefs, but in the children who will forget their fathers' tongue."
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In March, Abdulhamid toured the empire's new institutions. He visited a technical school in Ankara, where boys in crisp uniforms read both Qur'an and engineering manuals. He traveled to Bursa, where a textile mill employed hundreds of women, their children in state-run nurseries nearby. And finally, he ventured east to Mosul, where oil fires lit the night sky and Turkish words echoed even in the markets.
At every stop, he repeated the same message: "One people, one tongue, one destiny."
But perhaps the most symbolic moment came in Sarajevo. Standing in the courtyard of a new school, Abdulhamid watched as children — Albanian, Bosniak, Serbian by blood — stood together and traced Turkish letters on chalkboards. Their voices rose in unison as they sang a Turkish anthem. Behind them, their priests scowled, powerless.
Selim whispered at his side, "Majesty, in another generation, these children will no longer know the prayers of their fathers."
Abdulhamid's gaze was unyielding. "They will know the prayers of Allah in Turkish. That is enough."
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By the end of 1892, the empire had begun to transform not only in steel and oil, but in flesh and faith. Birth rates surged where stipends flowed. Schools multiplied. Crescent Eyes quietly removed dissenters.
And yet, shadows lingered. Reports reached Abdulhamid of Russian agents crossing into the Balkans, funding Serbian resistance, whispering to Armenians in Anatolia. British consuls meddled in Mesopotamia, fanning clerical anger against Turkish reforms.
One winter night, as the Bosphorus shimmered beneath a pale moon, Selim entered the Sultan's chambers once more. He laid down a sealed scroll.
"Majesty. Evidence of Russian gold sent to both Arab sheikhs and Balkan priests. They mean to choke us from both ends."
Abdulhamid unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning the names. Each name was a spark of rebellion waiting to catch. Each spark, if left unchecked, could burn all he had built.
He rose, walking to the balcony. The city stretched before him — domes, chimneys, lights, smoke. An empire reborn. And yet fragile.
"When Allah gave me this second life," he murmured, his voice almost lost to the wind, "I thought He commanded me only to build steel. But I see now — steel is only bone. Children are flesh. Faith is blood. Without them, the body cannot live."
He turned back to Selim, his eyes burning with fire.
"Prepare Crescent Eyes. We will not wait for the Russians to light the flame. We will strike first. Quietly. Precisely. They will learn that this empire is not merely reborn — it multiplies."
Selim bowed, the shadow of a grim smile on his lips. "As you command, my Sultan."
And so the Iron Sultan's decade of steel entered a new phase — one of shadows and sons, smoke and faith, birth and death. The empire was no longer the Sick Man of Europe. It was a giant reborn, its lungs filled with oil fire, its heart beating in Turkish schools, its womb swelling with new life.
But across the steppes and the Balkans, enemies stirred, plotting in whispers. The great struggle was only beginning.