The morning light filtered through the stained glass of the palace's council chamber, casting soft colors across the long oak table. Around it sat men of stature and thought—local scholars from the Greek quarters, a few senior archons, Ottoman-appointed scribes, and Ulemas from nearby madrasahs. Cemil stood by the ledger, meticulously marking names as they arrived. But as it is, they are in their own circles. It seems the friction is still there.
As I entered, conversations died off—though not the tension. Several of the Greek scholars avoided my eyes. Their robes were clean, their posture dignified, but the resentment was unmistakable.
"Greetings, my şehzade," said one of the older archons, his Greek-accented Turkish formal but slightly clipped. "At what objective have you summoned us here?"
I walked to the head of the table. "To all of you—men of learning, guardians of wisdom. I extend my gratitude for gathering here on short notice. Eventhough, the crucial is there, we still at war with the Russians, and we recently had rebellion. And yet, I see the weight on your faces, and I will not pretend to ignore it. Athens has suffered much, and mistrust lingers still. But I ask you not to look at the uniform I wear—nor the title I carry—but the burden I bear."
The Ulemas bowed respectfully. "Insha'Allah, we will try our best to assist you, Shehzade Selim."
Before any of the Greek scholars could respond, one of them, a younger man with sharp eyes and thin spectacles, rose from his seat.
"And yet you speak of burden, Shehzade, while my people see only sabres and smoke. You want trust—but you bring troops. You speak of unity, but instead, you rebuild mosques first."
A ripple of agreement moved among the Greek side of the room. One older scholar—a lay theologian from a nearby Orthodox parish—cleared his throat.
"What assurance do we have that this 'unity' will not come at the cost of our language, our customs, our children?"
At that, one of the Ulemas stirred. "Have we not lived in peace before this rebellion? Was it not Russian interference that brought flames to this city? Must we forget the decades where we shared courts and coins?"
A Greek archon leaned forward. "Yes, we remember. We remember also which buildings were guarded, and which were left to burn."
The debate swelled, voices rising. The table pulsed with old wounds—resentment unspoken now poured like wine. I watched it, let it flare—then stood with my hand raised.
"Enough."
Silence.
"I understand your grievances. More than you might believe." I walked slowly around the table. "But I will remind you—this land is not just Orthodox or Muslim, Greek or Turk. It is Ottoman. And that means one thing: it is ours, together."
They watched me now, as I continue to explain it.
"I am not here to build a sultanate that echoes the past. I am here to build a future where every soul under the Empire—regardless of tongue, color, or creed—may walk with dignity. And to walk with dignity, one must first learn to stand."
Cemil stepped forward quietly, handing me a scroll. I unrolled it before them.
"That is why I called you here. Not for accusation. For vision."
I looked to the Ulemas first. "We have spoken before of expanding education—of building a place of learning here in Athens. But I do not wish to build a copy of the Enderun Palace School."
Now all of them looked puzzled.
"You… do not?" one Ulema asked.
"No. The Enderun is for the court. What I want to build is a learning abode, for all."
The room tensed.
"I propose a school where Greek and Turk, Muslim and Christian, rich and poor, may study together—not despite their differences, but because of them. A school where arithmetic is taught beside philosophy, where language is learned alongside law. Where a child of a merchant and a child of a soldier may both write their names not in rebellion, but in responsibility."
One of the Greek scholars raised an eyebrow. "You mean to put our children… in the same rooms?"
I smiled lightly. "Are we not already in the same city? On the same street? Under the same sky?"
One of the younger Ulemas frowned. "And if it causes conflict?"
"Then we will teach them to resolve it—with reason, not fear."
There was quiet now—not hostility, but thought. Resistance shifting slowly to curiosity.
I added, "I do not ask for full agreement today. Only your cooperation. Your minds. Your experience. Let this be the first ever. A free education to the people in the empire."
Cemil closed the scroll, placing it gently on the table. "We will call it the Bayt-ül Hikmah Athens—the House of Wisdom."
"I have another name, Darul Hikmetion" I do the gesture.
Majority nodded, agreeing to the name of it.
One of the elder Greek archons tapped the table. "I will admit, Shehzade… I have never heard a prince speak of such things. But I hope that you understand, it was not as easy as it is. Let we make some discussion, and will give the answers to you."
"I understand." I replied.
~~
"For centuries," he began quietly, "Our children have learned under the candlelight. Our priests, our elders, our mothers—they pass down memory like heirlooms. The empire may rule the land, but the tongue… the faith… has been our homeland."
One younger scholar nodded. "And yet we cannot deny this Shehzade is different. He speaks not of conquest, but of convergence."
Another, skeptical but not hostile, interjected. "But what of the contains of it? Will Greek children be taught Turkish only? Will our Orthodox values be swept aside in favor of imperial dogma?"
The elder raised a hand, calming them. "I have lived long enough to see three rebellions, two famines, and more broken oaths than I care to count. Yet I have never seen an Ottoman prince invite us to the table—before the walls fell."
He turned to the younger men. "What do we risk in listening?"
One of the more pragmatic archons—Nikolaos of the Themistoklis guild—spoke up. "If this school is built as he says—open to both Greek and Turk, Christian and Muslim—then perhaps it becomes a seed. Not of obedience… but of stability."
Another older priest frowned. "Or a seed of slow assimilation."
Nikolaos raised an eyebrow. "And if we refuse? What will we teach our children then—that division is more sacred than understanding?"
A silence fell.
Then the elder archon tapped his cane once on the floor.
"We will not agree to anything today. But let us test him. Ask for equal representation on the school council. For the right to appoint Orthodox instructors for Greek pupils. If he concedes, perhaps he truly does mean this... Darul Hikmetion to be shared."
Murmurs of assent followed.
"And if not?" one asked.
The elder smiled faintly. "Then we will know his offer was just another form of conquest—draped in silk instead of steel."
He stood slowly, and the rest followed.
~~
Later, as the rest are back to the discussion, the old representative return to me.
"Shehzade," he said with deliberate clarity, "if this school is to be for all—then let us speak plainly of its form. We ask that our community be granted the right to appoint Orthodox instructors for our own children. Not under your court's approval, but under our church's blessing. Will you accept this?"
All eyes shifted to me.
Cemil glanced toward me, lips parted slightly in hesitation—but I raised a hand.
"I hear your request clearly, Archon," I said, meeting his gaze directly. "And I will not reject it."
A stir moved through the Greek side of the room, a flicker of surprise.
"But allow me to ask this, in return."
I stepped around the table once more, voice steady.
"If I grant you this right—of appointing instructors from your own faith and people—will you likewise uphold your duty? That those same instructors teach not only scripture, but numeracy, and reasoning, and the language of state? That they teach your children not how to hate the Empire, but how to live within it with honor?"
The archon's brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded.
"We do not seek to isolate. Only to preserve."
"Then we are not at odds," I replied. "Because I do not ask for your customs. I do not demand your tongue. I do not seek to erase one thread from the tapestry. But I will not allow the loom to be torn apart."
I let that settle, then added gently:
"In Darul Hikmetion, no teacher shall be appointed without the approval of their own community and the oversight of the school council, which will be made up of Muslims, Christians, and Jews. Each voice matters—but none rules alone except the Sultan."
Nikolaos exchanged a glance with the others. A few nodded. Even the skeptical priest seemed to relent—just slightly.
"I do not offer equality in words," I continued. "I offer it in structure. If you wish your children to learn dignity—then you must also let them learn from others."
"And if there is disagreement within the council?" asked one younger scholar. "If the communities clash?"
I smiled. "Then we will teach the children how to resolve what we cannot. For perhaps the future will do better than we have. We only can prepare the paper to draw, but the future generations will add the colours to it. Which is why it must be from us, this generation to prove we all can live in the same roof."
A silence fell once more—but this time it was calm. Thoughtful. Respectful.
The elder archon bowed his head slowly.
"Then let us begin these discussions, Shehzade. Perhaps history may finally owe Athens a new chapter… one written in ink, not ash."
After several discussion ahead, lies the first office of Education in Athens, led by Ulemas and Greek scholars, with the royal support as I planned, to reduce the friction between the Devlet and the Hellenic.
The construction starts as decision been done, while still on its foundation, the architecture are to merge both the Ottoman and Hellenic aesthetics, to reflect the fact that we can unite under common goals.
While things remain in stagnant, what I worried most is our ability in growing the economy. To pioneer the industrial revolution. We will need the brightest mind we have.