Tehran, February 1904
Snow blanketed the streets of Tehran, softening the sounds of carriages and bazaars. Yet beneath the silence, tension simmered. Persia, once a proud empire, had become a chessboard where Britain and Russia moved their pieces freely. The Shah, weak and indecisive, leaned first to St. Petersburg, then to London, begging for loans, granting concessions, trading sovereignty for survival.
But another player now stirred on the board. The Ottomans had returned—not with armies this time, but with books, teachers, engineers, and shadows.
In the northern city of Tabriz, a school bell rang. Dozens of children rushed inside, their sandals slapping against the frozen mud. The teacher, a stern young man from Salonika, raised a chalkboard covered in the Latin Turkish alphabet. The children recited in unison:
"Türk, Millet, Allah!"
Outside, Crescent Eyes agents stood watch in the crowd. Russian officers had already complained to the Shah's court about "foreign schools" poisoning Persian youth. But the parents of Tabriz sent their children anyway, for the Ottomans gave what neither Britain nor Russia offered: education for free, in the language of kinship.
Abdulhamid's policy, begun years earlier, was bearing fruit. Turkish textbooks had been smuggled across the border, disguised as religious commentaries. Teachers had crossed mountains under escort of Crescent Eyes. Now, in 1904, Ottoman-style schools dotted northern Persia, each one a seed of assimilation waiting to bloom.
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Istanbul, March 1904
Reports arrived from Persia, bound in leather and marked with the crescent seal of Crescent Eyes. Selim laid them before the Sultan.
"Majesty," he said, his voice calm but edged with urgency, "our schools in Tabriz, Mashhad, and Hamadan grow rapidly. Parents trust us more than they trust their own ministers. Our printing presses there already publish Turkish primers. The Shah knows of it, but he dares not stop us. He fears his own people more than you."
Abdulhamid scanned the reports. Pages filled with numbers—attendance rates, pamphlets printed, families loyal. One passage caught his eye: "In Tabriz alone, more than half of children under ten now speak Ottoman Turkish alongside Persian."
He closed the file. "Good. That is how empires expand—not with cannons, but with children."
Selim hesitated. "But Majesty, Russia has noticed. Their officers in Baku whisper of Ottoman plots. They prepare to fund new rail lines southward, to chain Persia before we take it."
"And the British?" Abdulhamid asked.
"Already they push for oil concessions near the Gulf. They bribe ministers. They promise Persia protection from Russia, while they bind her in debt."
Abdulhamid rose, walking to the map spread across his council chamber wall. His fingers traced the jagged mountains between Anatolia and Persia, then slid eastward to the steppes of Central Asia.
"In my first life," he murmured, "Persia was carved between them—Russian bear, British lion. But now we stand between both. We will not let them divide Persia without our hand upon the scales."
He turned to Selim. His eyes burned with resolve. "Expand the network. Send more teachers, more doctors, more engineers. Not secretly now, but openly, as gifts. Persia must see us as the hand that gives, while Russia and Britain only take."
Selim bowed. "As you command."
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Tehran, May 1904
In the royal palace, the Shah listened as his ministers argued. One cried, "The Russians offer us security, we must grant them rail concessions!" Another shouted, "No, Britain offers us loans for schools and trade!" The Shah wrung his hands, lost in indecision.
A third minister, his eyes gleaming, whispered: "And what of the Ottomans? They build schools without loans, hospitals without demands. Their doctors cure the poor in Mashhad, their teachers teach in Tabriz. Perhaps we should—"
He stopped as Russian advisors glared from the corner of the hall. British envoys leaned back with cold smiles. The Shah said nothing. Fear chained his tongue.
That evening, a courier from Tabriz slipped through the palace gates. In his satchel were Ottoman pamphlets, beautifully printed in Turkish and Persian: "One People, One Faith, One Future." The Shah held the paper in his trembling hands, reading the words. He did not speak, but the seed planted in his mind would grow.
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Tabriz, June 1904
A wireless tower rose on the outskirts of Tabriz, its spire piercing the sky. Ottoman engineers worked side by side with local craftsmen, guided by Tesla's diagrams carried from Istanbul. The first transmission crackled through the air, linking Tabriz with Erzurum. The townsfolk cheered, astonished that voices could leap across mountains.
Russian officers rode past, scowling. One spat in the dust. "This is not Persian," he muttered to his companion. "This is Ottoman conquest by other means."
He was not wrong. Crescent Eyes agents in Tabriz kept close watch on every Russian and British step. They bribed clerks, intercepted letters, and when necessary, eliminated threats. One Russian officer was found dead in his quarters, his reports missing. Officially, he had "drunk too much vodka." In truth, his death was the empire's shadow at work.
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Istanbul, August 1904
Selim reported again. "Majesty, Persia bends. The Shah cannot oppose us without angering his own people. Our schools swell, our clinics are crowded, our towers rise. Already Persian merchants speak Turkish in markets near the border. Russia fumes. Britain fumes. But the Persians smile."
Abdulhamid nodded slowly. "Good. We do not need Persia's land, not yet. We need Persia's heart. If the people lean to us, their Shah will follow, whether he wills it or not."
He clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the great map once more. The Balkans were red and quiet. Anatolia swelled with children. Mesopotamia flowed with oil. And now, Persia's edges glowed faintly with Ottoman light.
"The horizon shifts, Selim," he said softly. "First the Balkans, then Mesopotamia, now Persia. Step by step, we weave the Turkic world together. Step by step, we turn shadows into empire."
Selim bowed deeply. "And beyond Persia?"
Abdulhamid's gaze slid further east, to the steppes of Central Asia, where Turkic tribes still bowed under Russian chains. His voice was calm, but it carried a weight that seemed to echo through the chamber.
"Beyond Persia lies destiny. Our kin wait. Their children already read our books. Soon, Selim, we will not whisper to them through shadows. We will call them in daylight."