Anecdotes from H.B. Paksoy, D. Phil.
St. Antony's '82
Oxford University

I

The admissions letter simultaneously offered me a place in St. Antony's, and informed me that no College lodgings would be available. I was advised to deal with that matter privately. I did. In due course, rented an apartment a good distance to the North of Summertown. To commute (as well as to explore the countryside), I purchased a two cylinder, air cooled, four wheel, nondescript brown coloured "car." The spare tire, tiny as it was, to save space inside, could only be accessed through the engine compartment. One College friend used to claim that it ran on cigarette lighter fluid. I was more concerned about nattily groomed horses confusing my mount with the fences guarding the hedges harboring the hedgehogs. I feared a preoccupied equs caballus hurting itself by attempting to jump over me as I drove past red-coated riders in the backroads of Cottswolds.

One morning, finding the "liquid sunshine" coming down from silver clouds with unusual energy, I fired-up both cylinders. Upon arrival, I parked my transport in the college car-park (nowadays, I understand, is buried under a new building), and made a dash into the Lodge to see what the new day had wrought. I reached my mail slot, found a hand-written note resting on top of the various incoming envelopes. Scribbled on a torn notebook page, it simply read: "Mr. Paksoy, you left your headlights on." I still would like to know how the Lodge Porters, situated on the opposite side of the old Convent building and without a view of the back lot, could see through the thick, impermeable stone walls.

II

Arthur Scargill and the Coal Miners Strike he led, at the height of that industrial action, occupied the British newspaper front pages and the newscasts for about a year. St. Antony's, despite the constituent cosmopolitan atmosphere and membership, almost from the beginning became firmly involved in the largely British affair. At first, spontaneous, Hyde Park style solidarity "speeches" were made by sympathizing Junior Members at the College JCR; one such speaker even making use of an empty soap-box. Next came "Soup Days," whereby the strike supporters had soup, but paid in the remainder cost of a regular lunch to a support fund. OXFAM had already widely used that method of fundraising, with the collaboration of St. Antony's, to combat the famine in Africa. Finally, the St. Antony's JCR elections, particularly the JCR Presidency, came into contention between the Strike Sympathizers and other JCR members who had other, perhaps even more fundamental, concerns. At formal JCR debates with the open-market (i. e. primarily anti-trade union) supporters, restrained complaints began to be lodged against the Laborites. Political polarization among the entire College membership was almost complete, jeopardizing even the closest of friendships and threatening budding romances. As the balloting day came closer, the campaign methods of the committed Scargillites became more unorthodox, decidedly aggressive. Those of us who came over from the Western Reaches of the Atlantic were the primary targets of the "true blue" strike supporters. Automatically assumed to be Reaganites, "capitalist," "all-for-business" and therefore rabid anti-labor, we were being accosted, by almost any means, wherever we might be found; especially on College property. The concern of the Western Atlantic Collective was mounting, given the vehemency of the Strike "campaigners." In an atmosphere of violin-string nerves, as a group, we felt the need to gather off-College premises, to discuss the conditions. One of those questioning councils concerned a cartoon published in a journal in competition to Punch. Mrs. Thatcher, the PM, was depicted wearing a simile of a Second World War uniform, surrounded by her prominent lieutenants, with Mr. Scargill tied to a chair in front of her. The caption suggested that PM was speaking: "Ve haff vays to make you shtop talking!" As I recall, the Scargillites were blaming the U.S. based organizations to be the source of that image they found so provocatively demeaning. We, viewed as the representatives of such despised "oppressors" of the peoples (sic), were being "urged" to repudiate our "leaders," and were being "invited" to "repent" and exchange them for Scargill and related ideologies. These unwelcome exchanges went on for the duration, seemingly interminably. In the end, despite the hot-headedness and zeal of the "Strikers," or perhaps because of it, the actual balloting yielded a more moderate slate of Officers. One could suggest that the Scargillites lost at the St. Antony's JCR elections, before they did so on a Britain-wide scale.

Some time after the Her Majesty's Government (through the offices of COBRA task-force, dealing with the related exigencies) announced the formal end of the Strike, I was attending a cultural function at the dining hall, which, as customary, was converted for the evening. A few minutes into the performance, I discovered that two of the most staunch "Scargill Strikers" had bracketed me, in the middle of the Besse Hall. One of them, with half a smile, inquired as to how the "Business" was; while the other wanted to know what kind of business I was in, for he "was looking for a new career." I do not remember what came over me; I told them I was in the insurance business (untrue), and the water was fine for them to come on over. There was a brief silence, as the band accompanying the exhibition dancers grew louder. I could barely hear the inevitable follow-up question, possibly uttered to keep the conversation going, almost in unison by both: "what do you insure." My unequivocal, perhaps a bit too firm answer: "Swimming pools; against theft and fire." The expressions frozen on their faces suggested that they were no longer interested in me. Perhaps they were not that eager one way or the other anyhow.


III

After a St. Antony's High Table and the usual free, but strictly off-the-record SCR discussions over coffee and whisky following, I took my leave. It had been an eventful day. The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament was in full-swing in Britain, with Oxford participating, or, in certain instances, leading. The student campaigners in support had been particularly busy earlier. Hon. Michael Hazeltine, Minister for Defense, had been the guest of the evening. The CND advocates had just staged a "die-in" around the dining table, at the Besse building hall, holding hands as they silently dropped on the floor on their backs, "simulating," as they put it, "the aftermath of nuclear warfare." This was in addition to their verbal demonstrations, while Mr. Hazeltine was speaking. In fact the demonstrated "opposition" to Her Majesty's Government's policies were so vehement, the concern for the guest's safety could almost be read from the expressions of the usually unruffled St. Antony's Fellows hosting the Minister. All that was in the near past, fresh in memory, as I slowly walked down the stairs to the ground floor. I suddenly came face-to-face with Mr. Hazeltine. He was slowly pacing the floor, with hands clasped behind, in a reflective mood. We were completely alone, hour being nearly midnight, with dimmed building lights making the shadows imperceptible. With the sound of my footsteps, he looked up. We nodded briefly to each other, in general recognition, for I had sat almost directly across from him. I bid him good-night, thinking he was awaiting his transport. Turning away, my eyes rested on the statue of the College Patron Saint*, mystically offering blessings on all, ready to embrace any. His statue is somewhat offset from the corridor, roughly facing the staircase leading to the second floor. But, something was different about St. Antony that night. It took me several seconds to determine what. A beige colored, cloth cap was adorning his bronze head. I was taken aback, I rotated on my heels and looked back to determine if our guest had also noticed the extraneous addition. Mr. Hazeltine stole a glimpse, upward at the Patron Saint's headgear, and lowered his gaze at me with an equally whimsical smile. I saw the twinkle in his eyes, and could have sworn he was the one who had thus crowned St. Antony. Even if he had not, it seemed to me, he certainly approved of it, as if in reminiscence of a particular episode of Rumpole where an Old Bailey judge is handed a similar cloth cap by his wife for his perceived indiscretions.

* The Senior Founding members of the College adamantly state it is not the statue of St. Antony’s.

IV

Having arrived at St. Antony's from the blazing, sun drenched heat of Texas, it took me sometime to acclimate. I kept experimenting with various layers of clothing to keep warm, cool, dry; in and out of Bodleian library, and the College buildings. I finally found an optimum, albeit unorthodox combination. In exasperation, one of the outer garments I settled on, to wear over tie and coat, was a tunic-like, hip-high waterproof coat. Upon later reflection, I was reminded that it resembled the one specifically named after (later the Chief of the Imperial Staff, Marshall) Montgomery during the Second World War, as he always wore it in the field. The version of this tunic I owned was manufactured in Germany, but was marketed in the U.S. under an Italian brand-name, in a Jewish owned store. On my head, I wore, quite unselfconsciously, a French made grape grower's black beret (received as a present some years earlier) also for its waterproof qualities. That, too, I was to be reminded subsequently, was another trademark of General Montgomery's war-time wardrobe. At the time, to me, they were only serviceable pieces of gear, no more, and no such connections ever crossed my mind.

One night, after the Monday afternoon Russian and East European Center Seminar, as usual we congregated at the St. Antony's buttery for sherry prior to the Guest Table dinner on the second floor. One can hardly forget how the guests were led upstairs enthusiastically by Mr. Kaser, who more often and ably presided over the event than most others. This, Mr. Kaser did, invariably up the little known back staircase, all the while taking visible delight in using that concealed passageway. On that particular occasion, shortly before dinner call, I was approached by a man quite familiar, at least by sight, to the Monday night seminar regulars. He never missed one; appearing shortly before the appointed time, and disappearing, once again, at the conclusion. He always wore the same, or very similar, dark clothing, said little except during question time, especially if the speaker of the day was an office holder in a country where the Communist Party solidly led the political system. He spoke with an accent I could not quite place. This was the first time I had seen him outside the seminar room. He at first apologized for approaching me, and inquired if he could ask a favor. The moment was forcefully awkward for both of us. I did not even know his name, and he did not divulge it either. I tried hard not to think in terms of any banknote denominations in British or in U.S. terms that I might be asked to contribute to a charitable cause I knew nothing about; as I was known to be from the Western reaches of the Atlantic, and as such, assumed to have more money than sense. I attempted at mumbling something, anything. He was not listening. He wanted to know if I could secure him a helicopter form the army. He wanted to survey the remnants of a far-away church from the air, for a history he was writing. As I had no possible military affiliation or connections, I quickly suggested that he ought to make his inquiries in the direction of Her Majesty's armed forces. He half smiled, with a bemused expression, indicating he already had, without success. As I somewhat recovered from the exchange, I gained enough of my senses to think of the curiosity question to pose: Why did he choose me to ask for this favor, one I had obviously no powers to bestow? He answered almost in disbelief of what he heard, unhesitatingly and in an exclamatory manner: "you wear military clothes!" He clearly chose not to notice that I had that quintessential Texan footwear, cowboy boots on as well.


V

During my residence, Lebanese Studies were gradually being established at St. Antony's under the capable intellectual leadership of Albert Hourani. He and I had on occasion conversed on topics pertaining to Ottoman history although I was not working on the subject, and was not even his student. He took a genuine interest in the well-being of Junior Membes of the College, especially those regularly attending the weekly Middle East Center Seminars. At the time he was finishing more than one book, and acting as a consultant to a production company preparing a series of documentaries for wide television audiences. One day, after another such private historical session at the College, we prepared to part just outside the oak Lodge gates. He extended his hand to me, I clumsily tried to shift my umbrella, notebook and pipe paraphernalia to free my right hand. He smiled understandingly, and advised that I ought to acquire and always wear a raincoat. That way, he reasoned, I would have my hands free.

At one point, Professor Hourani gave a rare lecture at the St. Antony's Middle East Center. Deeply respected by all (and missed widely now), his lecture, coming especially during the height of the civil war in Lebanon, attracted a capacity crowd. After his presentation, entirely historical and avoiding any references to the ongoing shooting, the floor was opened for questions. The first inquisitor asked why Professor Hourani did not address the present conflict. Since that time, as one studying the history of a similar terrain, I often thought of Professor Hourani's public reply, more so than the practical personal advice he gave me: "I am a historian. It is the privilege of a historian to choose his time-period."


VI

Due to the subject matter of my D. Phil. thesis, I also frequented the weekly seminars held at the various St. Antony's Asian Studies Centers. At the time, Dr. Mark Elvin, the vastly knowledgeable student of China, was one of the hosts, and the celebrated, if controversial, Owen Lattimore was the speaker. It is recalled that Professor Lattimore was the personal emissary of President Roosevelt during the Second World War to Mongolia and environs. The controversy erupted, and books have been written about the Congressional investigations involving Professor Lattimore and his activities, primarily due to the accusations levelled against him that he was a Communist sympathizer, or, worse. He had to vacate his academic post in the U.S. In due course, he secured another in Britain; away from the spotlight institutions. On that day he was holding forth on one of his favorite subjects, how the borderlands between Mongolia and China were misunderstood in the West. He seemed to enjoy himself as he spoke. Towards the end, he attempted at a comparative example, and chose the case of Afghanistan; another cauldron of an issue of the international affairs of the time. He flatly made the statement that, rather than condemning the Soviets outright for their actions, the invasion of Afghanistan, an investigation ought to be funded to determine if the Russians were not actually invited to occupy Afghanistan, by the Afghan leadership. The audience, a mixture of Westerners of the pluralistic governance school and individuals from previously colonized countries in Asia, physically erupted to put Mt. Vesuvius (or, kindly insert here your favorite disaster) to shame. The "questions" began pouring like lava on Professor Lattimore, with at least as destructive force. I do not believe anyone expected an answer. The mood in the seminar room resembled that of a lynch mob. It was most definitely not the usual civility and tolerance that permeated these occasions. I was afraid, being the "Texan" in the crowd, I was going to be asked to provide the knotted rope (I still had my cowboy boots on). We were not too far away from a fork in a tree either, to throw over such a lariat. I am afraid, I, too, took my turn in presuming to lecture the lecturer; thus, perhaps avoiding a harsher scene and duties.

Some years later, having moved back to the US, I was made a Faculty Associate of the Harvard University Center for Middle Eastern Studies. As such, I was regularly attending the monthly functions of the Committee on Inner Asian and Altaic Studies, usually held at the Harvard Faculty Club and headed by the Agha Khan Professor of Iranian Studies, Richard Frye. At one customary meeting, I noticed Professor Lattimore being ushered unannounced into the room by his son, a distinguished academic specialist in his own right, in a wheelchair. I was certain he would remember me, at least for my lecturing him unabashedly. During the pleasantries we exchanged, he showed no signs of recognition. The program of the day involved an exposition closer to his primary field than mine. At the conclusion of the lecture, Professor Lattimore, in deference, was called upon as the first questioner. As he spoke, his voice grew stronger, his tone more astringent. Lucidly, forcefully, logically, he was slowly constricting his subject, and the object of his attention; seemingly employing almost all of the analogies and arguments used against him at that St. Antony's Asian Seminar room.

VII

Professor G. L. Lewis was my Tutor at St. Antony's, and my thesis advisor at the Faculty of Oriental Studies. As I spent quite a bit of time at the Oriental Institute Library, where he had his primary office on the floor above, we more often saw each other at the Pusey Lane facility than anywhere else. That is,
except when Mrs. Raphaela Lewis came over and we all dined at College. Mrs. Lewis always lent a sympathetic ear; more than anyone else, she knew of my academic tribulations (access to sources) and often softened the burden of anguish-de-jour of writing a lengthy work by her warmly straightforward manner and humor. She kept an eye on me. At one lunch she remarked with concern: "what else have you been doing, beside losing weight?" As usual, she was correct. In the fashion of Bletchley Park GCHQ code-breakers, I had been attacking the facsimile of a medieval manuscript, produced in an idiosyncratic alphabet, turning it into a semblance of English from Chaghatay Turkish. Apparently, one of the results was more visible than the rest, as it turned out, to the tune of twenty kilograms over a span of forty days.

Lewises adored the time they spent in Istanbul, where he was a visiting Professor at Roberts College (now Bosphorus University) a couple of times as well. They always invited their combined students (Hers, from Queen Elizabeth House) to their home, at the time on Boar's Hill, once every term, and regaled them with the exotic items they discovered and stories attached. Professor Lewis always paid careful attention to peculiar usages in languages, as those special occurrences often humorously demarcate exceptional grammatical attributes that he so beautifully demonstrated in his published works over time.

Being a Fellow of the British Academy, member of the Permanent UK-Turkish Commission, and various other bodies, Professor Lewis travelled widely. One morning, at the Oriental Institute coffee table, he announced to other senior members that the next rota of meetings of the Permanent UK-Turkish Commission was to take place in Cardiff. The Thatcher government was instituting a new policy of dispersing as much official tourism business as possible to the Northern regions of the country. In that manner, it was reported, the Government hoped to generate more income-transfer to economically disadvantaged cities, thereby reducing demands on development grants from the Treasury. Having heard that the Commission alternated its earlier gatherings between London and Istanbul, Professor Lewis's two beloved cities, I grew curious. I had to pose a question: "does that mean that the Commission will next convene in Zonguldak (the Turkish coal-mining town, much like Cardiff)?" Professor Lewis briefly reflected on my query, repeated it aloud, and walked out of the coffee room. The last I heard, the rota went back to the Istanbul-London track.


VIII

Shortly after the conflict between the UK and Argentina over Falklands/Malvinas broke, St. Antony's received a new contingent of junior members. A number of them were from Argentina. Having heard them speaking in Spanish among themselves, I greeted one of them at the dining hall cafeteria queue with "muchas carrambas señor." At first he was somewhat taken aback, as the salutation was entirely my concoction, assembled from perfectly legitimate components, but in an unorthodox sequence. He graciously and cautiously repeated my invention back to me, accompanied with a broad smile and queried: "where did you learn that?" Simultaneously, in the background, I heard audible, collective gasps; one young lady in the Latin American group also echoed my exaggerated exclamation with a discernible questionmark in her voice. I responded with "San Antonio, Texas" (where I had fashioned the statement as an undergraduate at Trinity University). From that day on (though he and I had little in common), whenever we encountered each other, he continued to greet me first, with "muchas carrambas señor." Most often, he would chase it with a friendly chiding of "your Spanish is improving."
During Trinity term and long-vac, Oxford is invariably overrun by day tourists. Bussed in from London, in caravans, the sightseers are usually on packaged holidays and arrive in segregated bunches. In most instances they wear their flags and enthusiastically comment on what they behold in their national languages vociferously.
Towards the end of late spring that year, I was making my daily trek to the Bodleian, dodging several such columns trooping through the streets. The sightseers were gawking at the obvious students in their commoner gowns flapping in the wind, as the latter hurried to the Examination Schools. I reached the ornate portal of the Bodleian Library with a large Spanish speaking contingent right behind me. At that moment, my Argentinean friend stepped out of the entrance. He and I, quite habitually and comfortably exchanged our mutual, private greeting "muchas carrambas señor" replete with tips of the hats to each other. The running commentary of the tourists in the background came to a complete stop in an instant. A deep quiet reigned. My friend and I gleefully smiled at each other as we parted towards our respective destinations. Since then, I often wondered if in some small congregation, somewhere, individuals are not greeting each other with "muchas carrambas señor," a la "San Antonio."


IX

(Sir) Michael Howard was the Chichele Professor of War prior to being appointed the Regius Professor of History. His war-time exploits are still whispered among those who are in the know. I decided to sit in on his discourses for a term, as he had the reputation of a good lecturer. Professor Howard was always punctual, and in the classroom, very formal. It was not customary to ask questions of the professor before, during or even after the set installment of the day; no exchanges. One morning Professor Howard entered the usual Examination Schools room and found that the previous orator had left several maps of Europe strewn over the blackboard and stands. He promptly began putting them away, since our subject had little to do with Europe that day. As he energetically rolled one map, I could no longer restrain myself. Making an allusion to the Napoleonic era wars, somewhat paraprasing, I softly mumbled "You might roll up the map of Europe, it will be useless for a while..." Professor Howard looked-up, searched the hall with his eyes to determine who made the comment. It must have been obvious. He smiled in my direction, almost imperceptibly, and responded in an equally quiet mumble: "Yes, I was thinking of the same quote."

Some days later, I entered the Examination Schools at the usual time. Professor Howard was not behind the lectern; an event of almost scandalous proportions. Five minutes elapsed with collective student curiosity boiling over. Finally, Professor Howard puffed in, red in face from obvious physical exertion; presumably from hurrying. He apologized to the students: "I have been appointed to the University audit committee. We were out counting sheep."

X

After a regular Monday night Seminar of the Russian and East European Center, we once again repaired to the Guest Table. The occasion, and the format, on the other hand, was not very usual. First, the Guests were from Hungary. Secondly, they arrived as a delegation; a rather high level one at that, comprising individuals as senior as they came in the then Budapest hierarchy. Moreover, it was clear that they were going through a full-dress rehearsal, prior to taking their proposal and application to much broader international audiences. I was looking forward to satisfying a bit of my personal curiosity during dinner.

We entered the dining hall in our standard single-file, encountering more unusual activities. The guest table was three times the usual length; the entire hall was bathed in piercingly bright lights; there were many individuals rushing about, not a very commonly observed behavior. We quickly learned that a delegation from Madrid, Spain, equal in importance to the one from Budapest, was visiting St. Antony's. They were joining the Monday night Table as the Guest of the College Warden (Sir) Raymond Carr, who was (and, still is) well known for his Spanish specialty, and the lights belonged to the Spanish TV crew following their quarry. We segregated ourselves around the table. The Spanish party and their St. Antony's hosts settled to the left, and their counterparts in the Hungarian side chose right, while I looked up to notice that some of the TV klieg lights trained on the table were situated on the mezzanine balcony overlooking the hall. The occasion proved to be noisy, most discussions were interrupted by the comments raining down on us from the mezzanine balcony overhead, which I took to be from the TV Crew exhorting their subjects to smile and such. There was no discernable ending to the evening. Physically blinded by the luminescence of the occasion, we all faded away.

Some days later, a St. Antony's friend I encountered told me that my face was quite prominently recognizable in Madrid, at least for a day or two. Of course, nobody knew my name or had any idea of my relevance.


Published in NEW TEXAS - A journal of Literature and Culture - 2005, Pp.77-91
(Copyright is owned by H.B. Paksoy)