Woman Penetrates An Eastern Prison.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 19240, 29 November 1930, Page 17 (Supplement)

Woman Penetrates An Eastern Prison.

—And Meets Ali The Bold, Who Is Serving 101 Years For Brigandage.

No woman had ever entered the ancient city gaol of Smyrna until Miss Daphne Martin-Hurst, who has just returned to London, and whose article, describing her visit, appears below, was introduced by Hamit Bey, brother-in-law of the Turkish Minister of Justice at Angora. All doors were thrown open in honour of her visit, and murderers—-who constitute 70 per cent of the inmates —mixed indiscriminately with thieves and tax-evaders to welcome her. The most picturesque figure she met was Ali Efe {Ali the Bold), the last of the brigands. He measured swords unsuccessfully with Mustapha Kemal, the Turkish President, and is now serving a sentence of 101 years' imprisonment. T greatest contrast in Izmir—as the modern Turks call Smyrna—is afforded by two buildings which stand on either side of its principal thoroughfare. On the right is the modern School cf Gendarmerie, its parade ground overlooking the sea; on the left a massive gate guards the entrance to the ancient city gaol, dating from the reign of the infamous Mustapha 111., which, if one excludes the notorious Black Hole of Sinope, is the oldest and worst prison in the country. A warder was our prison guide—a stooping old man whose blue uniform hung limply from his decrepit figure. Amed with a bunch of gigantic keys, he led us slowly down a stone passage through a massive barred door, out into a circular courtyard, from which radiated seven long, low blocks of whitewashed buildings, between which were lanes leading to the various “ colonies.” Three of these blocks were inhabited by men under remand; one was for “ short-term ” prisoners serving sentences up to five years; while two were for convicts sentenced to from five to fifteen years, and from fifteen to 101 years respectively. The seventh building contained the school, sick-room and Turkish baths. The yard was crowded with prisoners, who talked together ahd followed me about wherever I went. No two were dressed alike. Many wore civilian clothes, but one little man with a tanned face, shaved head and fierce black moustache appeared to be wearing uniform. I asked' if he had been a soldier. “ No,” said Hamit Bey, “ he is an agricultural labourer serving five years for wounding.” “ Why is he in uniform then?” “ He is not,” said Hamit. “ Look closer.” And then I saw that his military “ uniform ” had been cleverly contrived of patchwork. The smart red stripes down the sides of his trousers, his opaulettes and resplendent medal ribbons had all been cleverly sewn on civilian gear. A handsome, intellectual-looking man, with curly grey hair, wearing a smart morning coat, had been in the employ of a European shipping firm. One day he found a compromising letter written by his wife, the acknowledged belle of the city. He excused

himself from the office, drove straight home, and cut off her head. Now he is serving fifteen years. “Lifers” are given the privilege of remaining at Izmir as long as they behave, but if they are “silly” they are sent to the fortress of Sinope, on the Black Sea. Probably 70 per cent of the convicts were serving sentences for murder, 20 per cent were in for theft, 5 per cent for debts to the Government (unpaid taxes), while the remainder were largely respondents and co-respondents in divorce actions, for, by the new law, all guilty parties in matrimonial suits are liable to imprisonment up to two years. In Turkey, I was told, “crimes of civilisation,” such as blackmail, forgery, and bogus company promoting are unknown. I asked the governor later whether there were many prisoners serving a sentence of 101 years. “Only two,” he replied, “both of whom are brigands. As they were captured quite young, the death sentence was mercifully commuted.” Many of the bandits, he said, had been killed, others had returned to their normal occupations when peace settled on the land, but these two— Ali and Hussein—had carried on, one in the mountains nearby, the other in distant Laristan. Finally they had pitted their strength against that of Mustapha Kernel. It had been a case of the last of the brigands defying the first really strong man the country had known in centuries. Perhaps I might like to talk to Ali and Hussein? The governor, Fevzi Bey, rang a' bell and gave an order. A few moments later both brigands, unguarded, strode into the room. Ali Efe (Ali the Bold) was a proud, handsome man of about twenty-eight, fair, upstanding, and more than six feet three inches in height. He was smartly dressed in high, shiny riding boots, whipcord riding breeches, and a military coat. He sported a button-hole, rnd from his khaki jacket depended a festoon of silver watch chain. Katchuk Hussein, short and dark, was a less attractive person. Ali had belonged to the famous Kozalakli band, which had plundered the rich- on a magnificent scale, distributing their spoil among needy peasants. This twentieth century Robin Hood, beloved by all save his victims, was the band’s sole survivor. As we left the prison the great gates of the gendarmerie were flung wide, revealing the sea, alive, movifig, and free in the sunlight. Behind us, in the gloom, there was a huge barred gate through which I saw men’s heads and arms silhouetted against the sparse light behind. Hamit Bey remarked, “The prisoners are fortunate; they get good breezes from the sea.”