I am stuck in Erzurum, Turkey for a few hours---I arrived here an hour ago, missing my connection to Artvin by 15 minutes. Oh well. It's pouring, so I don't feel like exploring the city (plus, I'll pass through Erzurum again in about 10 days), which means I either sit for in a dark, smoky bus terminal, or I find an internet cafe (there's one on every block) and write a little about my previous week.
When I last wrote I was in Sivas. It was good to move on from there--no particular reason why, I was just eager to move again. I took a dolmuş to Divriği, and then a train from there to Erzincan. I caught a bus from Erzincan to Trabzon. (It doesn't matter if you don't know where the hell any of these places are--I didn't either until I was just a few hundred kilometers away from them.)
Let me pause for a minute to describe the Turkish ''dolmuş.'' If you translate the word literally, it means ''stuffed.'' (That should give you some idea.) Basically, you take a 10 passenger van, stick a few extra seats in it, jamm it full of people, and then go careening down the road, with no more than a horn and Allah as safety equipment.
To get off, you shout ''enecek var!'' and the driver abruptly brakes and steers to the side of the road, throwing passengers and luggage every which way. In the east, seating is segregrated by gender, which means I have to move a lot: as an unfamiliar, lone male traveler, no one lets me get too close to the ladies. (And what a bummer that is!)
Turkish buses are considerably more comfortable, but they have their downsides, mainly a constant stream of bad television and movies aimed at my eyeballs. A few weeks ago, I watched the Turkish equivanent of the Food Network (Kanal Yemek) for three hours. The trains are best: although they are painfully slow, they're cheap, quiet, and don't dangerously swerve to avoid tractors hauling loads of potatoes as the dolmuşes do.
Anyway, my route. I stayed in Trabzon longer than I had expected--five days--and then started moving again, more or less towards the Georgian border, and beyond it, Armenia. I'll cross the border into Georgia on Sunday, and expect to be in Yerevan, the Armenian capital, on Monday. I'll spend a few days there and then return to Turkey.
I spent last Friday night in Divriği, a tiny town known best for its famous mosque, built by the Seljuks in the 13th century. I visited it right before the afternoon call to prayer, which was almost drowned out by a brass band practicing in the school next door. I thought I would only stop for a few hours to see the mosque and eat a meal, but I got stuck until 3 a.m. Saturday morning, when I caught a train to Erzincan.
I'm glad I stayed. I ate dinner and drank a few beers in a little restaurant off the main square, where I met some curious people. (It's rare to find restaurants in the east that serve alcohol, and whenever I do, I do a little dance and shout hooray! Not really, but that's what I feel like.) As I was paying my bill, a very drunk old man embraced me and kept kissing my forehead. (A sign of respect.)
I eventually escaped his grasp, but as I was headed to the door, three men called me over to apologize for their friend--they explained that he's a great guy, but that when he drinks, he gets kind of crazy. I wanted to say that I know plenty of people like that, but that phrase requires some grammar I don't know in Turkish.
They insisted on buying me another beer, and who ever says no to that? We talked for about an hour, mostly about women. All I could really add was, ''bayan problem var!'' which means, ''women are problems.'' I don't really believe that, but it seemed like the appropriate thing to say. After all, one of these guys had been married three times, and another was trying to get 500 lira ($300) from an ex-girlfriend. Somehow I understood all that.
My time in Trabzon was pleasant. I stayed with Seher, a nice girl from couchsurfing, for three nights. (I spent my first two nights there in an awful hotel--one of the worst I've ever seen.) She introduced me to several friends, and I was really happy to spend time with girls again. Turkish society is heavily segregrated by gender, and after a my time in the masculine tea houses in Sivas and a smoky restaraunt in Divriği, it was really nice to talk with women. (I'll write about gender in Turkey sometime soon.)
So that's that. I can't possibly write about everything, but that's a good thing: I'll have stories no one has heard yet when I get back in December.
Scroll through images by mousing over the left or right side and clicking.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Ergenekon, ideology, and power
A large and highly anticipated trial opened in Turkey yesterday--that of 76 Turks, including multiple former military officers, for conspiring to overthrow the democratically-elected government of Turkey. Several have been charged with murder, and others with supporting various terrorist groups. This group is called Ergenekon, taking its name from the mythical Central Asian home of the Turks.
This is big news: I won't try to detail the whole situation (see the NYT for that), instead I'll try to explain how this trial fits into the current struggle to define 21st-century Turkey.
First, a little background. It is widely assumed that Ergenekon has evolved from an American-backed Cold War program known as Operation Gladio. Basically, the U.S. set up right-wing terrorist cells all over Europe that would harrass Soviet troops if they ever occupied NATO countries. Trouble is, these gangs didn't disband themselves at the end of the Cold War: instead, they morphed into violent right-wing gangs with links to organized crime and hate groups. Several European countries, most notably Italy, have fought to root these groups out for over two decades.
The existence of a Gladio-type group has been suspected in Turkey since the late 1970's. These were years of terrible political violence, and on several occasions, a strange thing happened: ballistic analysis would show that leftist fighters had been killed by guns that had also killed rightists. Someone was in the middle, killing people on both sides. Can you say agent provocateur? I mentioned in a previous post that there were elements in Turkey that had much to gain from an unstable, violent Turkey in the 1970's--they probably acted through an early form of Ergenekon to prompt the 1980 coup.
This current chapter of the Ergenekon story began when the Cumhuriyet Daily, a staunchly pro-military, anti-reform paper, was bombed in 2006. The same type and series of grenades that were used in the Cumhuriyet attack were later found in a safe house, later tied to several members of Ergenekon. At this point, one says, ''Huh. Why would a right-wing group bomb a right-wing paper?'' Well, those same right-wingers tried to blame the bombing on the Kurdish terrorists and radical Muslim terrorists.
It also appears that Ergenekon is linked to the murder of multiple pro-reform journalists and the burning of several Kurdish bookshops in the southeast. Finally, Ergenekon is also accused of ties to the PKK and Hizbollah. (Kurdish terrorists and radical Muslim terrorists, respectively. See above and shake your head.)
The idea was simple: unleash a wave of terror and destabilize the government, prompting a coup that would be welcomed by a populace weary of violence. This was not targeted at any single party, but could be ''turned on'' when necessary. It seems that Ergenekon was being ''turned on'' because the AKP, Turkey's ruling party, threated the interests of Ergenekon. (I'll get to that in a minute.)
If these charges are true, it will mean that many of Turkey's recent security problems have been aggravated by a group of men (and a few women) who ''love'' Turkey so much they are willing to destroy it. I think the evidence is pretty clear: this is a shadowy, murderous group with no regard for democracy. They intended to return Turkey to military rule of the harshest sort.
What is particularly unusual about this cases is that several former military officers have been charged. I intend to write about the military's role in society soon, but briefly: officers have always been untouchable. Their immunity is now challenged, and if they are guilty and sent to jail, it will be a giant step toward the equal application of the law in Turkey.
Like I said, this trial is part of a struggle to define 21st-century Turkey. For 85 years, Turkey has adhered (more or less) to the six principles of Kemalism, as laid down by Mustafa Kemal Ataturk. (Republicanism, populism, secularism, revolutionism, nationalism, and etatism. Etatism is dead--the other five live on.) This is a deeply ideological state: policies are not assessed by their effectiveness, but by whether they jive with Ataturk's ideas. Ergenekon is the most radical defender of these principles. After all, you don't see ''democracy'' or ''liberty'' on that list.
The AKP, Turkey's ruling party, regularly declares its allegiance to Ataturk's principles, but no one (including me) believes them. (I think they're modernizers; lots of secular Turks think the AKP wants sharia law, which is crazy talk.) This is the least ideological government Turkey has had since 1923, and radical Kemalists are not happy about that. Some fight the AKP in parliament, others try to get it banned by the Constitutional Court, and Ergenekon prepares to destabilize the country and launch a coup.
(I'll write about the bizarre relationship between Kemalists and modernization soon--it's a doozy.)
I'm not saying there's anything wrong with Kemalism, but what is crazy is blind allegiance to it. The AKP and its reformist allies are focused on performance, not on the (admirable) principles of a man who died 70 years ago. It is time for Turkey to move past Kemalism, and this Ergenekon case is progress. Democracy (not one of Ataturk's principles!) cannot exist when the threat of a coup looms at every moment, and in Turkey, it does. The Turkish military is independent from the democratic government, and elected officials always have to be careful not to make the generals angry--that's the kind of thing that can prompt a coup, or at least a strongly-worded warning.
This struggle is also about power. Ergenekon represents the interests of an old oligarchy that is challenged by a new one, the AKP. (I won't pretend that the AKP is some ''power to the people'' movement--it's a new business elite pandering to religious people and liberal reformers, but it's a little better than the old parties.) Ergenekon is made up of retired military officers, media personalities, old-guard businessmen, and other elites that feel their influence waning: they have always lived in a Turkey where no one questioned their superiority, their near-divine right to rule.
Now, the AKP threatens the status quo. So these elites--who have no regard for democracy or liberalism, except when it serves them--do whatever is necessary to preserve Turkey's anachronistic power structure, even if that means killing people and ''palling around with terrorists.'' (For real.) They have been caught. I hope these bastards go to jail for a long time.
-----
Soon: my meandering trip through the east.
This is big news: I won't try to detail the whole situation (see the NYT for that), instead I'll try to explain how this trial fits into the current struggle to define 21st-century Turkey.
First, a little background. It is widely assumed that Ergenekon has evolved from an American-backed Cold War program known as Operation Gladio. Basically, the U.S. set up right-wing terrorist cells all over Europe that would harrass Soviet troops if they ever occupied NATO countries. Trouble is, these gangs didn't disband themselves at the end of the Cold War: instead, they morphed into violent right-wing gangs with links to organized crime and hate groups. Several European countries, most notably Italy, have fought to root these groups out for over two decades.
The existence of a Gladio-type group has been suspected in Turkey since the late 1970's. These were years of terrible political violence, and on several occasions, a strange thing happened: ballistic analysis would show that leftist fighters had been killed by guns that had also killed rightists. Someone was in the middle, killing people on both sides. Can you say agent provocateur? I mentioned in a previous post that there were elements in Turkey that had much to gain from an unstable, violent Turkey in the 1970's--they probably acted through an early form of Ergenekon to prompt the 1980 coup.
This current chapter of the Ergenekon story began when the Cumhuriyet Daily, a staunchly pro-military, anti-reform paper, was bombed in 2006. The same type and series of grenades that were used in the Cumhuriyet attack were later found in a safe house, later tied to several members of Ergenekon. At this point, one says, ''Huh. Why would a right-wing group bomb a right-wing paper?'' Well, those same right-wingers tried to blame the bombing on the Kurdish terrorists and radical Muslim terrorists.
It also appears that Ergenekon is linked to the murder of multiple pro-reform journalists and the burning of several Kurdish bookshops in the southeast. Finally, Ergenekon is also accused of ties to the PKK and Hizbollah. (Kurdish terrorists and radical Muslim terrorists, respectively. See above and shake your head.)
The idea was simple: unleash a wave of terror and destabilize the government, prompting a coup that would be welcomed by a populace weary of violence. This was not targeted at any single party, but could be ''turned on'' when necessary. It seems that Ergenekon was being ''turned on'' because the AKP, Turkey's ruling party, threated the interests of Ergenekon. (I'll get to that in a minute.)
If these charges are true, it will mean that many of Turkey's recent security problems have been aggravated by a group of men (and a few women) who ''love'' Turkey so much they are willing to destroy it. I think the evidence is pretty clear: this is a shadowy, murderous group with no regard for democracy. They intended to return Turkey to military rule of the harshest sort.
What is particularly unusual about this cases is that several former military officers have been charged. I intend to write about the military's role in society soon, but briefly: officers have always been untouchable. Their immunity is now challenged, and if they are guilty and sent to jail, it will be a giant step toward the equal application of the law in Turkey.
Like I said, this trial is part of a struggle to define 21st-century Turkey. For 85 years, Turkey has adhered (more or less) to the six principles of Kemalism, as laid down by Mustafa Kemal Ataturk. (Republicanism, populism, secularism, revolutionism, nationalism, and etatism. Etatism is dead--the other five live on.) This is a deeply ideological state: policies are not assessed by their effectiveness, but by whether they jive with Ataturk's ideas. Ergenekon is the most radical defender of these principles. After all, you don't see ''democracy'' or ''liberty'' on that list.
The AKP, Turkey's ruling party, regularly declares its allegiance to Ataturk's principles, but no one (including me) believes them. (I think they're modernizers; lots of secular Turks think the AKP wants sharia law, which is crazy talk.) This is the least ideological government Turkey has had since 1923, and radical Kemalists are not happy about that. Some fight the AKP in parliament, others try to get it banned by the Constitutional Court, and Ergenekon prepares to destabilize the country and launch a coup.
(I'll write about the bizarre relationship between Kemalists and modernization soon--it's a doozy.)
I'm not saying there's anything wrong with Kemalism, but what is crazy is blind allegiance to it. The AKP and its reformist allies are focused on performance, not on the (admirable) principles of a man who died 70 years ago. It is time for Turkey to move past Kemalism, and this Ergenekon case is progress. Democracy (not one of Ataturk's principles!) cannot exist when the threat of a coup looms at every moment, and in Turkey, it does. The Turkish military is independent from the democratic government, and elected officials always have to be careful not to make the generals angry--that's the kind of thing that can prompt a coup, or at least a strongly-worded warning.
This struggle is also about power. Ergenekon represents the interests of an old oligarchy that is challenged by a new one, the AKP. (I won't pretend that the AKP is some ''power to the people'' movement--it's a new business elite pandering to religious people and liberal reformers, but it's a little better than the old parties.) Ergenekon is made up of retired military officers, media personalities, old-guard businessmen, and other elites that feel their influence waning: they have always lived in a Turkey where no one questioned their superiority, their near-divine right to rule.
Now, the AKP threatens the status quo. So these elites--who have no regard for democracy or liberalism, except when it serves them--do whatever is necessary to preserve Turkey's anachronistic power structure, even if that means killing people and ''palling around with terrorists.'' (For real.) They have been caught. I hope these bastards go to jail for a long time.
-----
Soon: my meandering trip through the east.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Windy tracks lead east
15 October: on the train from Amasya to Sivas
The British built Turkey's railroads in the mid 19th century. The lines follow twisty paths through valleys, skirting the mountains--the Ottoman Empire didn't want to spend the money to tunnel through them. This makes for winding, bouncy rides. Trains are a slow and inconvenient way to get around Turkey, but I like them anyway.
I boarded the Samsun-Sivas Yolcu (Local) in Amasya a few hours ago, and I am hungry. I expected a well-stocked lokantı vagon, but to my surprise Yolcu services have no restaurants. I finished half a bar of chocolate I found in my bag two hours ago, and so now I must content myself with my books and the scenery.
This region is a muted place. The colors are simple: blue sky, gray clouds, yellow fields, black rails. Tractors break through with bursts of red, and the occasional train stations are painted an inappropriately-bright orange.
I've spent much of today watching Turkey pass out my window, which is etched, as always, with a crescent and star in the middle. We've squeaked through a series of towns with only a handful of buildings--many too small to warrant even a standard-issue orange concrete tren garı. The towns are little outposts in acres of fields, which earlier--back towards Samsun--were full of people harvesting turnips. The fields I see now, carved out of golden hills, are empty and waiting for winter.
The Yolcu runs twice a day. For many towns, it is the only reliable connection to the rest of the world. The few roads I have seen are not used by cars, but by farmers commuting to their fields via tractor. I sat near one family that got off at one of those tiny towns--they were picked up by a man on his tractor. The little girl (about three) sat on the driver's lap, the mother perched herself in front of the cab, and the father hung off the back.
I am the only foreigner on this train. I might have been the only foreigner in Amasya. While I was waiting for the train, a woman asked me, in German, if I spoke German. ''Alemanca yok.'' (No German.) She was surprised that I replied in Turkish, and asked about my family. I asked where she was going. She asked what I thought of Turkey. The conversation went on like that.
It seems that she wanted to practice her German, because she would speak first in that language, then repeat herself in Turkish. I was happy to have a real conversation and not make a fool of myself. My Turkish ran out just as my train arrived.
I admire (perhaps a little naively) the lives of the people I have seen from the train today. I hate fly-by cultural appreciation, but today I am guilty of just that. What happy people, waving to the train as it chugs by. Such well-built houses, and a beautiful place to live. Of course, I can't see the frigid winters of the hard times low crop prices bring through my window--I just see smiling faces and piles of turnips.
16 October: Sivas
I have whiled away my time in Sivas in one smoky tea house with my new friends. Ours is one of six on the second story of the city's main bazaar, which is built around an old Armenian mansion. (The Armenians, of course, are long gone. I'll get to that in a couple weeks.) Its walls are covered with carpets, slowly turning brown from the smoke, mostly from omnipresent cigarettes but also from nargiles. I have adjusted to the smoke, but not to the absence of women.
These tea houses are not for women. I asked, quite seriously, ''But where are all the girls?'' and the 15 or so young Turks watching a football match laughed. There are few places for men and women to spend time together in eastern Turkey. Sivas is reputed to be one of the more socially conservative places in Turkey, and men and women--even the most modern--do not mix much.
We talk about football, politics, girls--the same things they talk about for hours on end. I was asked endless questions about what I thought of Turkey, my opinion of American politics, what I am doing in Turkey, and finally, and crucially, to name Turkey's three big soccer teams. Easy: Ferenbahçe, Galatasaray, and Beşiktas. (This tea house was full of Beşiktas supporters: red, white, and black bracelets indicate their allegiance.) I guess that was my ticket to acceptance, because as soon as I passed their test, everyone became much friendlier.
We left the tea house around 11 p.m. and were back twelve hours later. In between, I slept on a couch at Hokay's flat and then ate breakfast at his sister's apartment--I get the feeling that this is pretty much how every day passes. I've become part of a group of three friends, all of whom are highly educated yet unemployed. This is common in Turkey, particularly the east. Tea costs about 30 cents a cup, so young men sip tea to pass the time.
The rain and cold weather I expected have arrived. Gray skies will probably be a regular feature of the rest of my trip--the sunny beaches of the Mediterranean feel a long way away. From here, I'll travel to Trabzon, a city on the Black Sea coast, and then make my way through mountain passes and small towns to Georgia and Armenia. My planning ends there--I'll look at my map and read my guide on the bus tomorrow.
P.S. Below you'll find a slideshow of my first few weeks in Turkey, and below that, an entry about how history is used for political purposes here. Çok güzel!
The British built Turkey's railroads in the mid 19th century. The lines follow twisty paths through valleys, skirting the mountains--the Ottoman Empire didn't want to spend the money to tunnel through them. This makes for winding, bouncy rides. Trains are a slow and inconvenient way to get around Turkey, but I like them anyway.
I boarded the Samsun-Sivas Yolcu (Local) in Amasya a few hours ago, and I am hungry. I expected a well-stocked lokantı vagon, but to my surprise Yolcu services have no restaurants. I finished half a bar of chocolate I found in my bag two hours ago, and so now I must content myself with my books and the scenery.
This region is a muted place. The colors are simple: blue sky, gray clouds, yellow fields, black rails. Tractors break through with bursts of red, and the occasional train stations are painted an inappropriately-bright orange.
I've spent much of today watching Turkey pass out my window, which is etched, as always, with a crescent and star in the middle. We've squeaked through a series of towns with only a handful of buildings--many too small to warrant even a standard-issue orange concrete tren garı. The towns are little outposts in acres of fields, which earlier--back towards Samsun--were full of people harvesting turnips. The fields I see now, carved out of golden hills, are empty and waiting for winter.
The Yolcu runs twice a day. For many towns, it is the only reliable connection to the rest of the world. The few roads I have seen are not used by cars, but by farmers commuting to their fields via tractor. I sat near one family that got off at one of those tiny towns--they were picked up by a man on his tractor. The little girl (about three) sat on the driver's lap, the mother perched herself in front of the cab, and the father hung off the back.
I am the only foreigner on this train. I might have been the only foreigner in Amasya. While I was waiting for the train, a woman asked me, in German, if I spoke German. ''Alemanca yok.'' (No German.) She was surprised that I replied in Turkish, and asked about my family. I asked where she was going. She asked what I thought of Turkey. The conversation went on like that.
It seems that she wanted to practice her German, because she would speak first in that language, then repeat herself in Turkish. I was happy to have a real conversation and not make a fool of myself. My Turkish ran out just as my train arrived.
I admire (perhaps a little naively) the lives of the people I have seen from the train today. I hate fly-by cultural appreciation, but today I am guilty of just that. What happy people, waving to the train as it chugs by. Such well-built houses, and a beautiful place to live. Of course, I can't see the frigid winters of the hard times low crop prices bring through my window--I just see smiling faces and piles of turnips.
16 October: Sivas
I have whiled away my time in Sivas in one smoky tea house with my new friends. Ours is one of six on the second story of the city's main bazaar, which is built around an old Armenian mansion. (The Armenians, of course, are long gone. I'll get to that in a couple weeks.) Its walls are covered with carpets, slowly turning brown from the smoke, mostly from omnipresent cigarettes but also from nargiles. I have adjusted to the smoke, but not to the absence of women.
These tea houses are not for women. I asked, quite seriously, ''But where are all the girls?'' and the 15 or so young Turks watching a football match laughed. There are few places for men and women to spend time together in eastern Turkey. Sivas is reputed to be one of the more socially conservative places in Turkey, and men and women--even the most modern--do not mix much.
We talk about football, politics, girls--the same things they talk about for hours on end. I was asked endless questions about what I thought of Turkey, my opinion of American politics, what I am doing in Turkey, and finally, and crucially, to name Turkey's three big soccer teams. Easy: Ferenbahçe, Galatasaray, and Beşiktas. (This tea house was full of Beşiktas supporters: red, white, and black bracelets indicate their allegiance.) I guess that was my ticket to acceptance, because as soon as I passed their test, everyone became much friendlier.
We left the tea house around 11 p.m. and were back twelve hours later. In between, I slept on a couch at Hokay's flat and then ate breakfast at his sister's apartment--I get the feeling that this is pretty much how every day passes. I've become part of a group of three friends, all of whom are highly educated yet unemployed. This is common in Turkey, particularly the east. Tea costs about 30 cents a cup, so young men sip tea to pass the time.
The rain and cold weather I expected have arrived. Gray skies will probably be a regular feature of the rest of my trip--the sunny beaches of the Mediterranean feel a long way away. From here, I'll travel to Trabzon, a city on the Black Sea coast, and then make my way through mountain passes and small towns to Georgia and Armenia. My planning ends there--I'll look at my map and read my guide on the bus tomorrow.
P.S. Below you'll find a slideshow of my first few weeks in Turkey, and below that, an entry about how history is used for political purposes here. Çok güzel!
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
First photos from Turkey
Here is a slideshow of my photos from Turkey so far. I'm not taking enough pictures of people--I'll work on that in the next couple of weeks. If you click on the photo, the slideshow will pause and reveal a caption. Or, click here to see the show full screen. (Link leads to Flickr.)
Thanks to Fabio Cavassini for building the great tool that makes these slideshows so easy.
And here's some good reading for you: The New York Times has an article today about headscarf politics in Turkey. Take a look.
Thanks to Fabio Cavassini for building the great tool that makes these slideshows so easy.
And here's some good reading for you: The New York Times has an article today about headscarf politics in Turkey. Take a look.
History, nostalgia, and Turkish politics
A few weeks back, I heard something that seemed completely laughable to me. ''Ataturk didn't die of cirrhosis of the liver.'' Well, he did. Every Turkish schoolkid learns this; it's well-established historical fact. It's also one of the few signs of his personal weakness that is accepted here in Turkey.
It was strange to hear a Turk claim otherwise. I couldn't understand why this guy would insist that everyone--Ataturk's contemporaries, historians, the Turkish Ministry of Education--was wrong. But then I realized something. The day before, I had asked this same man if he thought Ataturk made any mistakes, and after thinking for a minute, he said no, he couldn't think of any. So I realized this: if Ataturk died of cirrhosis of the liver, that might mean he was a bit of a drunkard. And that would upset the whole idea of Ataturk the infallible, Ataturk the demigod.
Inconvenient facts are ignored, or often denied outright in Turkey. ''Ataturk died after he was given a faulty injection by his physician, which mimicked the symptoms of cirrhosis of the liver. Enemies of Turkey (both internal and external) have plotted to discredit Ataturk by slandering him as an alcoholic.'' This is completely baseless. There's nothing in the historical record to support any of this. But it hardly matters--those pesky foreign plotters have clearly mucked about in the records. And if I insist that all of this sounds preposterous, I have either been convinced by the plot, or worse, I am actually part if it. (Seriously.) It is like me claiming that Lincoln was actually killed by French businessmen disappointed that the South had been defeated in the Civil War.
I've gotten used to hearing all kinds of outrageous stuff when I talk about history and politics with Turks. At first, I tried to push back and argue on the side of truth--but I've realized that's kind of pointless and potentially dangerous. As a foreigner, my intransigence is tolerated by most, but I hardly want to come home with a broken nose because I've been criticizing sacred cows.
In Turkey, history is interpreted to support both individual and state purposes. People go hunting through records to find facts that support their political beliefs, ignoring those that don't fit into their world view. Of course, governments all around the world do this--we call it victor's history. What makes Turkey somewhat unique is that individuals do the same.
The story I've told about the end of Ataturk's life is a good example of of this. The official story admits that he died of cirrhosis, but makes no mention of the alcoholism that caused this. (I suppose the Ministry of Education just hopes students won't look up ''cirrhosis'' in an encyclopedia to find out what causes it.) No one could criticize Turkish schools for not teaching the truth, but the unsettling conclusion that Ataturk was probably drunk a bit in his later years--when he was making some really important decisions--is left out of the textbooks.
One of the big goals of my trip is to better understand how history impacts understanding of current politics. It's difficult to sum up what I've learned, but I think it's fair to say that much of Turkey's political discourse--particularly that of the right--is driven by a nostalgia for a ''golden age'' that never existed. (I should pause here to give credit to Esra Ozyurek, the author of ''Nostalgia for the Modern'' and ''The Politics of Public Memory in Turkey'' which I read before I arrived here. Her books got me thinking about all this, and influenced my own thinking quite a bit.) Ataturk, of course, was never drunk during that long-lost ''golden age.''
The official history of Turkey says that the country rallied around one man--Mustafa Kemal Ataturk--to defeat Turkey's foreign opponents and start the process of modernizing the country. The years after 1923 are portrayed as difficult, but as a time when the new nation was united and nearly everyone agreed with Ataturk.
This ignores the significant opposition modernizers faced, both from ethnic minorities (particularly the Kurds), the religious establishment, and supporters of the ancien regime. Ataturk and his allies suppressed dissent with brutal tactics--while the oppression never reached the levels seen in other emerging states, it was hardly a period that could be called ''free'' or ''democratic.'' Early Turkey was an authoritarian, modernizing state with little tolerance for dissent.
I've begun to believe that this authoritarian period was necessary to jump start modernization in Turkey. Some of Ataturk's reforms were extremely unpopular but clearly necessary. No democracy could have adopted an entirely different legal system or changed the alphabet as Turkey did--the population simply didn't support such revolutionary change.
However, by portraying this un-democratic period as one of near-universal agreement and national unity (instead of as a necessary but regrettable period), Turkey has created a strange national longing for a time that never existed. Modern Turkey is indisputably more ''European'' than the Turkey of the 1920's and `30's, but many Turks do not see it that way. Yes, they admit, Turkey is physically modern, but Turks were more forward-looking in those early days. I seriously doubt it.
How does this bizarre retelling of history benefit the state? Simple. By convincing Turks that ''we were once all united,'' people begin to think that it can be done again.
Why should Turks be divided today if they were united 80 years ago? Well, they weren't. Modern Turkey's divisions have always existed, but they were suppressed in the past and are ignored today. This nonexistent period of unity makes people ask questions like this: ''Why are the Kurds unhappy today when they too loved Turkey in the early days?'' Well, the Kurds didn't love Turkey even then. But nobody learns that.
The final draft of official history has yet to be written. Just last week, the Ministry of Education announced all mentions of the 1980 military coup would be removed from the grade eight curriculum because ''it present an image contrary to the democratic nature of the Turkish Republic.''
To paraphrase MC Hammer, stop and listen.
Teaching about a military coup might make students think that Turkey's nature has not always been so democratic? Well, duh. The very fact that there was a coup in 1980 (and in 1960 and `71, plus a bunch of other quasi-coups, most recently in 1997), indicates quite clearly that Turkey has not always been so democratic. But the state wishes its citizens to believe otherwise, and so it will be taught.
This is kind of like the U.S. saying that we won't teach about segregation and Jim Crow anymore because we don't want students to think that there were ever racists in our country. It is a sinister attempt to change the past by ignoring it.
But there is hope.Turkey's youth seems less willing to believe the what they're told than past generations. A healthy dose of disbelief would be a good thing for this country.
It was strange to hear a Turk claim otherwise. I couldn't understand why this guy would insist that everyone--Ataturk's contemporaries, historians, the Turkish Ministry of Education--was wrong. But then I realized something. The day before, I had asked this same man if he thought Ataturk made any mistakes, and after thinking for a minute, he said no, he couldn't think of any. So I realized this: if Ataturk died of cirrhosis of the liver, that might mean he was a bit of a drunkard. And that would upset the whole idea of Ataturk the infallible, Ataturk the demigod.
Inconvenient facts are ignored, or often denied outright in Turkey. ''Ataturk died after he was given a faulty injection by his physician, which mimicked the symptoms of cirrhosis of the liver. Enemies of Turkey (both internal and external) have plotted to discredit Ataturk by slandering him as an alcoholic.'' This is completely baseless. There's nothing in the historical record to support any of this. But it hardly matters--those pesky foreign plotters have clearly mucked about in the records. And if I insist that all of this sounds preposterous, I have either been convinced by the plot, or worse, I am actually part if it. (Seriously.) It is like me claiming that Lincoln was actually killed by French businessmen disappointed that the South had been defeated in the Civil War.
I've gotten used to hearing all kinds of outrageous stuff when I talk about history and politics with Turks. At first, I tried to push back and argue on the side of truth--but I've realized that's kind of pointless and potentially dangerous. As a foreigner, my intransigence is tolerated by most, but I hardly want to come home with a broken nose because I've been criticizing sacred cows.
In Turkey, history is interpreted to support both individual and state purposes. People go hunting through records to find facts that support their political beliefs, ignoring those that don't fit into their world view. Of course, governments all around the world do this--we call it victor's history. What makes Turkey somewhat unique is that individuals do the same.
The story I've told about the end of Ataturk's life is a good example of of this. The official story admits that he died of cirrhosis, but makes no mention of the alcoholism that caused this. (I suppose the Ministry of Education just hopes students won't look up ''cirrhosis'' in an encyclopedia to find out what causes it.) No one could criticize Turkish schools for not teaching the truth, but the unsettling conclusion that Ataturk was probably drunk a bit in his later years--when he was making some really important decisions--is left out of the textbooks.
One of the big goals of my trip is to better understand how history impacts understanding of current politics. It's difficult to sum up what I've learned, but I think it's fair to say that much of Turkey's political discourse--particularly that of the right--is driven by a nostalgia for a ''golden age'' that never existed. (I should pause here to give credit to Esra Ozyurek, the author of ''Nostalgia for the Modern'' and ''The Politics of Public Memory in Turkey'' which I read before I arrived here. Her books got me thinking about all this, and influenced my own thinking quite a bit.) Ataturk, of course, was never drunk during that long-lost ''golden age.''
The official history of Turkey says that the country rallied around one man--Mustafa Kemal Ataturk--to defeat Turkey's foreign opponents and start the process of modernizing the country. The years after 1923 are portrayed as difficult, but as a time when the new nation was united and nearly everyone agreed with Ataturk.
This ignores the significant opposition modernizers faced, both from ethnic minorities (particularly the Kurds), the religious establishment, and supporters of the ancien regime. Ataturk and his allies suppressed dissent with brutal tactics--while the oppression never reached the levels seen in other emerging states, it was hardly a period that could be called ''free'' or ''democratic.'' Early Turkey was an authoritarian, modernizing state with little tolerance for dissent.
I've begun to believe that this authoritarian period was necessary to jump start modernization in Turkey. Some of Ataturk's reforms were extremely unpopular but clearly necessary. No democracy could have adopted an entirely different legal system or changed the alphabet as Turkey did--the population simply didn't support such revolutionary change.
However, by portraying this un-democratic period as one of near-universal agreement and national unity (instead of as a necessary but regrettable period), Turkey has created a strange national longing for a time that never existed. Modern Turkey is indisputably more ''European'' than the Turkey of the 1920's and `30's, but many Turks do not see it that way. Yes, they admit, Turkey is physically modern, but Turks were more forward-looking in those early days. I seriously doubt it.
How does this bizarre retelling of history benefit the state? Simple. By convincing Turks that ''we were once all united,'' people begin to think that it can be done again.
Why should Turks be divided today if they were united 80 years ago? Well, they weren't. Modern Turkey's divisions have always existed, but they were suppressed in the past and are ignored today. This nonexistent period of unity makes people ask questions like this: ''Why are the Kurds unhappy today when they too loved Turkey in the early days?'' Well, the Kurds didn't love Turkey even then. But nobody learns that.
The final draft of official history has yet to be written. Just last week, the Ministry of Education announced all mentions of the 1980 military coup would be removed from the grade eight curriculum because ''it present an image contrary to the democratic nature of the Turkish Republic.''
To paraphrase MC Hammer, stop and listen.
Teaching about a military coup might make students think that Turkey's nature has not always been so democratic? Well, duh. The very fact that there was a coup in 1980 (and in 1960 and `71, plus a bunch of other quasi-coups, most recently in 1997), indicates quite clearly that Turkey has not always been so democratic. But the state wishes its citizens to believe otherwise, and so it will be taught.
This is kind of like the U.S. saying that we won't teach about segregation and Jim Crow anymore because we don't want students to think that there were ever racists in our country. It is a sinister attempt to change the past by ignoring it.
But there is hope.Turkey's youth seems less willing to believe the what they're told than past generations. A healthy dose of disbelief would be a good thing for this country.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Çok cay, yemek, ve Türkiye (So much tea, eating, and Turkey)
Groups of old men congregate in markets all over Turkey to play backgammon. I have started to sit down and ask if I can play--it usually takes a little miming and a few words in Turkish to get my point across, but people are always happy to let me play.
That may be because I am not exactly a challenging opponent. I have been playing tavla (Turkish for backgammon) on and off for years, but I've never been very good. In my month here, I've played about two dozen games, and I have yet to win one fair and square. (I beat my friend Meltem last night, but she helped me a lot. The next time we played, she held her tongue and demolished me.) I'm getting better, and I think I'm good enough to beat my friend Isra when I return to Ankara tomorrow.
I am in Bursa, the first capital of the Ottoman Empire. This is where Osman had his dream about an empire that would eventually cover all of Anatolia, much of the Arabian peninsula, North Africa, and half of Europe. That empire is long gone, but its architecture remains. I sipped tea and wrote in the garden square of a middle-ages silk market this afternoon, and walked by the oldest mosque built by the Ottomans on my way to this cyber cafe. I have only been here for a few hours, but it feels very different than the unpleasant hustle of Istanbul.
I was in Istanbul until this morning. I went back for a couple reasons: I had an interview with Amnesty International yesterday about human rights in Turkey, and I also needed some more books. Istanbul has a remarkable variety of bookstores, many with good English sections. I just pretended that the prices were written in Mexican pesos, not Turkish Lira--it made it feel less expensive.
To be completely honest, my motivation for returning to Istanbul was not entirely academic. I also managed to procure a press pass to the REM concert here on Saturday night. Needless to say, I was not press--I just rocked out. (Sing-alongs and audience shout-outs are strange when there's a language gap between the audience and the performers. Michael Stripe says, "You all doing good tonight?" The crowd roars. Apparently that's not good enough. "Are you ecstatic tonight?" Confused murmurs. "Good" is in their vocabulary, "ecstatic'' not so much.)
But Istanbul is behind me. So is much of Turkey's Mediterranean coast, a bit of the Agean, and one strange city in central Anatolia. Since I last wrote, I traveled south from Ankara to Antalya, a booming city on the Mediterranean, and then west along the sea through a series of small towns to Fethiye, a pleasant port town with a growing tourism industry. From there, I left the sea and made my way to Eşkisehir, a rather strange city between Istanbul and Ankara. You know the story from there--Eşkisehir to Istanbul, Istanbul to Bursa. I'll tell the story as it unfolded.
Most tourists are drawn to Antalya by two remarkable attractions--a seven-kilometer-long beach just to the west, and Hadrian's gate, which was build in 130 c.e. to commemorate said emperor. I enjoyed both, but if I go back to Antalya, it will be for an unusual store named Owl Books.
Run by a heavyset Turk named Mustafa, Owl Books is a used bookstore devoted to English works. Its hand-built shelves are somewhat organized by author, but the the joy of the place comes from wandering around looking at every book. (There aren't all that many.) I found it on my second afternoon in Antalya, and was greeted with a gruff ''Do you speak French?'' Kind of, I said. Mustafa had encountered an unknown French word in his book, and wanted me to translate it. Luckily, I knew the word so I could help.
I spent hours in that little shop, talking about literature and politics with Mustafa and his friends as they came in. He was curious about my project, and when I finished explaining, he insisted that he would introduce me to a man who was writing a history of modern Turkey, so we set off to a nice pension where I met his friend. It was a fortuitous encounter, as I walked off with advance copies of several chapters of the unpublished book.
After leaving Antalya, I spent one night in the backpacker hangout of Olympos, where I started playing tavla regularly. Olympos is kind of a soulless place. The mystique of the ruins--mostly Greek--have been diminished by the a strip of self-consciously earthy lodges, catering to the unkept dreads and tattered hemp pants crowd. It has become ''far out'' and ''like, really spiritual.'' The cheap beer and nice beach don't hurt either.
Maybe I am being too hard on backpacker culture. After all, I kind of am just that, but maybe a little more curious. However, signs that tout ''Great British Food!'' and ''Your Third Drink Is Free!'' have little to do with Turkish culture. I'm not sure why people would travel halfway around the world for something that can be found just about anywhere.
One day of sun, surf, and (admittedly spectacular) ruins was enough for me, so I moved onto the quiet seaside town of Uçağiz. The tourist season was ending, so I found a nice place to stay for half the going rate. All I really did there was eat fruit, read, and write. I did go on one misguided hike along the sea shore--I missed the trail on the way out of town and ended up scrambling over boulders and pushing my way through prickly plants. I was in full view of a German-flagged sailboat with a deck full of sunbathers. Some of them surely wondered exactly what I was doing. So did I.
That hike was supposed to be 3 kilometers long--a distance I ran in less than 10 minutes once. It took three hours. I found the trail on the way back, and it took 30 minutes.
From there, I went to Fethiye, a nice town with excellent soup. I stayed with Ümit, a great guy who lived in Brooklyn for 15 years. I would have taken him for a New Yorker had we not been in Turkey.
He and I had wildly different ideas about Turkish (and global) politics. I told him I wouldn't write about him, and I don't intend to break that promise, but it was good for me to talk with (and occasionally debate) someone with such a radically different understanding of Turkish society and history. All we could really agree on was that we would be friends.
Ümit showed me much of his city on bicycle. I admire anyone who will pedal daily in this country--drivers are not exactly to those of us who wish to share the road.
I had intended to make my way to Istanbul traveling along the Agean coast, but to be honest, I was quickly tiring of all that sun. (What can I say? I'm an Oregonian.) Via couchsurfing, I had been invited to spend Bayram, the holiday that marks the end of Ramadan, with a family in Eskişehir. Of course I said yes. So I abandoned the blue sky and warm breeze of the Mediterranean and headed inland to the much colder and grayer center of Anatolia.
Eskişehir is one of the stranger cities I have visited. It is not a common stop for travelers, but it appears that the city's mayor is determined to change that. He has redone all the pedestrian bridges in a cartoony style that would fit in at Disney Land, copied statues from many major European capitals, built an artificial lake to hold a newly-built 17th century frigate, and created an entire park full of plaster animals (and dinosaurs!). I do not think the strategy will attract all that many new visitors, but it certainly makes the mayor popular with little kids.
My focus in Eskişehir was less on the town and more on the wonderful family that hosted me. The Özels welcomed me into their home for four days and shared all of Bayram with me. It was an absolute honor to stay with them. Bayram is kind of like Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Halloween all rolled into one. In other words, it is a non-stop exercise in eating, during which one occasionally mentions the holy significance of the end of Ramadan.
At least that's how it was at the Özels'. Friends stopped by occasionally to visit, all dressed up--one of the many Bayram traditions in Turkey (and all through the Muslim world, I think) it to visit old friends. Turks view it as a somewhat burdensome obligation, but I enjoyed it, even though conversation often left me confused. I was content with an introduction and a few questions about what I was doing in Eskişehir. After that I drank tea and ate pastries while everyone else chatted in Turkish.
Food! I often said ''Çok yemek'' during my stay in Eskişehir. The holiday is colloquially known as ''Şeker Bayram,'' or ''Sugar Holiday.'' I sampled countless types of Turkish cuisine, including one strange (but delicious!) sweet pudding with chicken in it. I contributed by making an apple pie on my last night there, which was well-received. They had never seen anything like it.
I stayed with Zeynep (my couchsurfing contact) and her sister for four days in Istanbul after we left Eskişehir. Duygu, Zeynep's sister, is a reporter covering arts and entertainment, so she had a pass to the REM concert. When I mentioned that REM was one of my all-time favorite bands (after being prompted by a song on the radio) she said, ''would you like to go to the concert? I can get you in as a helper.''
And that brings the story of the last three weeks full-circle. Much has happened, and I enjoy every second of it. I am spending tonight in a hotel--this is only the fourth night in 35 that I haven't couchsurfed. If you're not familiar with the program, learn about it! It has made my trip more successful than I expected. I've met real friends in Turkey, and learned more about the country than I ever could have if I had decided to just stay in hotels and hostels. It's a great way to travel.
Until next time--hope all is well wherever you are. As usual, there's an essay about Turkish politics and history below. This one is about the headscarf in Turkey... read it if you like.
That may be because I am not exactly a challenging opponent. I have been playing tavla (Turkish for backgammon) on and off for years, but I've never been very good. In my month here, I've played about two dozen games, and I have yet to win one fair and square. (I beat my friend Meltem last night, but she helped me a lot. The next time we played, she held her tongue and demolished me.) I'm getting better, and I think I'm good enough to beat my friend Isra when I return to Ankara tomorrow.
I am in Bursa, the first capital of the Ottoman Empire. This is where Osman had his dream about an empire that would eventually cover all of Anatolia, much of the Arabian peninsula, North Africa, and half of Europe. That empire is long gone, but its architecture remains. I sipped tea and wrote in the garden square of a middle-ages silk market this afternoon, and walked by the oldest mosque built by the Ottomans on my way to this cyber cafe. I have only been here for a few hours, but it feels very different than the unpleasant hustle of Istanbul.
I was in Istanbul until this morning. I went back for a couple reasons: I had an interview with Amnesty International yesterday about human rights in Turkey, and I also needed some more books. Istanbul has a remarkable variety of bookstores, many with good English sections. I just pretended that the prices were written in Mexican pesos, not Turkish Lira--it made it feel less expensive.
To be completely honest, my motivation for returning to Istanbul was not entirely academic. I also managed to procure a press pass to the REM concert here on Saturday night. Needless to say, I was not press--I just rocked out. (Sing-alongs and audience shout-outs are strange when there's a language gap between the audience and the performers. Michael Stripe says, "You all doing good tonight?" The crowd roars. Apparently that's not good enough. "Are you ecstatic tonight?" Confused murmurs. "Good" is in their vocabulary, "ecstatic'' not so much.)
But Istanbul is behind me. So is much of Turkey's Mediterranean coast, a bit of the Agean, and one strange city in central Anatolia. Since I last wrote, I traveled south from Ankara to Antalya, a booming city on the Mediterranean, and then west along the sea through a series of small towns to Fethiye, a pleasant port town with a growing tourism industry. From there, I left the sea and made my way to Eşkisehir, a rather strange city between Istanbul and Ankara. You know the story from there--Eşkisehir to Istanbul, Istanbul to Bursa. I'll tell the story as it unfolded.
Most tourists are drawn to Antalya by two remarkable attractions--a seven-kilometer-long beach just to the west, and Hadrian's gate, which was build in 130 c.e. to commemorate said emperor. I enjoyed both, but if I go back to Antalya, it will be for an unusual store named Owl Books.
Run by a heavyset Turk named Mustafa, Owl Books is a used bookstore devoted to English works. Its hand-built shelves are somewhat organized by author, but the the joy of the place comes from wandering around looking at every book. (There aren't all that many.) I found it on my second afternoon in Antalya, and was greeted with a gruff ''Do you speak French?'' Kind of, I said. Mustafa had encountered an unknown French word in his book, and wanted me to translate it. Luckily, I knew the word so I could help.
I spent hours in that little shop, talking about literature and politics with Mustafa and his friends as they came in. He was curious about my project, and when I finished explaining, he insisted that he would introduce me to a man who was writing a history of modern Turkey, so we set off to a nice pension where I met his friend. It was a fortuitous encounter, as I walked off with advance copies of several chapters of the unpublished book.
After leaving Antalya, I spent one night in the backpacker hangout of Olympos, where I started playing tavla regularly. Olympos is kind of a soulless place. The mystique of the ruins--mostly Greek--have been diminished by the a strip of self-consciously earthy lodges, catering to the unkept dreads and tattered hemp pants crowd. It has become ''far out'' and ''like, really spiritual.'' The cheap beer and nice beach don't hurt either.
Maybe I am being too hard on backpacker culture. After all, I kind of am just that, but maybe a little more curious. However, signs that tout ''Great British Food!'' and ''Your Third Drink Is Free!'' have little to do with Turkish culture. I'm not sure why people would travel halfway around the world for something that can be found just about anywhere.
One day of sun, surf, and (admittedly spectacular) ruins was enough for me, so I moved onto the quiet seaside town of Uçağiz. The tourist season was ending, so I found a nice place to stay for half the going rate. All I really did there was eat fruit, read, and write. I did go on one misguided hike along the sea shore--I missed the trail on the way out of town and ended up scrambling over boulders and pushing my way through prickly plants. I was in full view of a German-flagged sailboat with a deck full of sunbathers. Some of them surely wondered exactly what I was doing. So did I.
That hike was supposed to be 3 kilometers long--a distance I ran in less than 10 minutes once. It took three hours. I found the trail on the way back, and it took 30 minutes.
From there, I went to Fethiye, a nice town with excellent soup. I stayed with Ümit, a great guy who lived in Brooklyn for 15 years. I would have taken him for a New Yorker had we not been in Turkey.
He and I had wildly different ideas about Turkish (and global) politics. I told him I wouldn't write about him, and I don't intend to break that promise, but it was good for me to talk with (and occasionally debate) someone with such a radically different understanding of Turkish society and history. All we could really agree on was that we would be friends.
Ümit showed me much of his city on bicycle. I admire anyone who will pedal daily in this country--drivers are not exactly to those of us who wish to share the road.
I had intended to make my way to Istanbul traveling along the Agean coast, but to be honest, I was quickly tiring of all that sun. (What can I say? I'm an Oregonian.) Via couchsurfing, I had been invited to spend Bayram, the holiday that marks the end of Ramadan, with a family in Eskişehir. Of course I said yes. So I abandoned the blue sky and warm breeze of the Mediterranean and headed inland to the much colder and grayer center of Anatolia.
Eskişehir is one of the stranger cities I have visited. It is not a common stop for travelers, but it appears that the city's mayor is determined to change that. He has redone all the pedestrian bridges in a cartoony style that would fit in at Disney Land, copied statues from many major European capitals, built an artificial lake to hold a newly-built 17th century frigate, and created an entire park full of plaster animals (and dinosaurs!). I do not think the strategy will attract all that many new visitors, but it certainly makes the mayor popular with little kids.
My focus in Eskişehir was less on the town and more on the wonderful family that hosted me. The Özels welcomed me into their home for four days and shared all of Bayram with me. It was an absolute honor to stay with them. Bayram is kind of like Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Halloween all rolled into one. In other words, it is a non-stop exercise in eating, during which one occasionally mentions the holy significance of the end of Ramadan.
At least that's how it was at the Özels'. Friends stopped by occasionally to visit, all dressed up--one of the many Bayram traditions in Turkey (and all through the Muslim world, I think) it to visit old friends. Turks view it as a somewhat burdensome obligation, but I enjoyed it, even though conversation often left me confused. I was content with an introduction and a few questions about what I was doing in Eskişehir. After that I drank tea and ate pastries while everyone else chatted in Turkish.
Food! I often said ''Çok yemek'' during my stay in Eskişehir. The holiday is colloquially known as ''Şeker Bayram,'' or ''Sugar Holiday.'' I sampled countless types of Turkish cuisine, including one strange (but delicious!) sweet pudding with chicken in it. I contributed by making an apple pie on my last night there, which was well-received. They had never seen anything like it.
I stayed with Zeynep (my couchsurfing contact) and her sister for four days in Istanbul after we left Eskişehir. Duygu, Zeynep's sister, is a reporter covering arts and entertainment, so she had a pass to the REM concert. When I mentioned that REM was one of my all-time favorite bands (after being prompted by a song on the radio) she said, ''would you like to go to the concert? I can get you in as a helper.''
And that brings the story of the last three weeks full-circle. Much has happened, and I enjoy every second of it. I am spending tonight in a hotel--this is only the fourth night in 35 that I haven't couchsurfed. If you're not familiar with the program, learn about it! It has made my trip more successful than I expected. I've met real friends in Turkey, and learned more about the country than I ever could have if I had decided to just stay in hotels and hostels. It's a great way to travel.
Until next time--hope all is well wherever you are. As usual, there's an essay about Turkish politics and history below. This one is about the headscarf in Turkey... read it if you like.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Headscarf politics in Turkey
The headscarf debate has started again here in Turkey. Last week, the new rector of Boğaziçi University (one of Turkey's best) banned female students wearing scarves or other head coverings from the campus.
Headscarves are banned from almost all Turkish universities and other ''secular institutions,'' including government buildings and Parliament. This ban restricts freedom of expression and religion, and limits the advancement of devout women in political, economic, and social life.
The scarf is both a potent political symbol and an object of great religious significance. Unfortunately, its dual identity is understood by few Turks, which makes civil debate all but impossible. The secular Turks I have spoken with often believe that the scarf is an exclusively political symbol, and that women wear it out of political, not religious, conviction. Yet many religious Turks are deeply frustrated that an important object of their religion has been turned into a political tool.
The tensions surrounding this issue are indicative of the larger divisions in Turkish society. It splits the nation into three camps: devout Muslims who believe they are required to wear the scarf, liberal reformers who support freedom of religion and expression, and staunch (one might say radical) Kemalists who consider the scarf an attack on the principles of Ataturk and the secular republic. (Religious people find themselves allied with westernizing liberals quite often in Turkey. Strange bedfellows? Kind of.) This split has existed throughout Turkey's history. However, the religious camp has gained more political and economic power here in the last 10 or so years.
The headscarf ban is a product of the secular elite's deep insecurity with religion. The covered women I see on every street remind staunch secularists that Turkish Islam has not been completely neutered. It has not been transformed into a minor reminder of times long past--Islam is still an important social and political force.
For most of the history of Republican Turkey, religious Turks were effectively disenfranchised. They were considered an anachronistic element that would soon be left behind, but the secular elite took no chances--religious political parties were banned if they showed any potential. The CHP and MHP (the two parties that have ruled Turkey for most of its history) ignored the interests of religious people, and did little more than the occasional favor designed to win a few votes in the next election.
The electoral successes of the AKP in 2003 started to change this. The AKP is a moderately Islamic, pro-European Union party with a liberal economic platform. Most of the international press considers it the most effective governing party in Turkey in decades. Secular Turks have absolutely freaked out ever since it took power--I hear that the AKP plans to institute sharia and turn Turkey into another Iran pretty much every day here. As far as I (or most independent outsiders) can tell, there's no basis for any of this.
Anyway, the barriers that have kept the huge numbers of religious Turks out of politics are slowly fading away. The battle over the headscarf is part of this process. Like anywhere else in the world, a university degree is essential for social, political, and economic success in Turkey. Religious women have been denied this key credential for decades. I am not saying that the Ministry of Education has chosen to ban the headscarf as part of a sinister plot to limit the success of religious women. However, that has been the result.
I have a very hard time understanding the rationale for such deep opposition to the headscarf. As I wrote, it is a symbol--but a symbol of what? Resurgent Islam? The oppression of women? A hatred of prevailing hair styles? The debate in Turkey is always about the scarf as a symbol, not the issues it symbolizes. Serious Kemalists refuse to address the role of Islam and women's rights, so they talk about the danger of the scarf instead.
Like Christianity in the US, Turkish Islam is often a powerful force against rationalism and progress. (However, I think there are fewer nutsos campaigning against teaching evolution and sex ed here than back home.) Little is done in Turkey to blunt the impact of these anti-modern ideas. Instead, Turkey simply bans the headscarf from its ''secular spaces'' and claims it has addressed the problem of fundamentalist Islam.
The theory is something like this: If I chose my eyes and chant ''Na na na na,'' you'll disappear. Banning a symbol only pushes the real issues behind closed doors, where they are much more dangerous.
Further, I wonder why Kemalists aren't up in arms for better treatment of women in Turkey. The argument against the scarf often takes on an uncomfortably paternalistic cast: women must be protected by modern men from fundamentalist men. But that protection is just another restriction, not support for increased female empowerment. (After all, that might threaten the position of those modern men!) Who cares if women wear headscarves as long as they choose to? Is it impossible to be religious but also believe in equal rights and a democratic republic? Women are not equal in Turkey, but banning the scarf hardly remedies this.
My time in Turkey has concinced me that much of the rhetoric about ''The Republic'' and ''Ataturk's ideals'' is just a meaningless tool to maintain the status quo. Ataturk never dreamed of banning the scarf, but his words are often used to attack the rights of those who chose to cover themselves. This debate, like almost every other one in modern Turkey, has been transformed into a struggle over power. If Turks can be convinced that the AKP and the many covered women intend to create another Iran, they will run back to Turkey's old parties, the CHP and MHP. Those parties will then continue to rule for themselves and not for all.
The headscarf should not be an issue. It has been made into one so the real problems in this country can be ignored.
Headscarves are banned from almost all Turkish universities and other ''secular institutions,'' including government buildings and Parliament. This ban restricts freedom of expression and religion, and limits the advancement of devout women in political, economic, and social life.
The scarf is both a potent political symbol and an object of great religious significance. Unfortunately, its dual identity is understood by few Turks, which makes civil debate all but impossible. The secular Turks I have spoken with often believe that the scarf is an exclusively political symbol, and that women wear it out of political, not religious, conviction. Yet many religious Turks are deeply frustrated that an important object of their religion has been turned into a political tool.
The tensions surrounding this issue are indicative of the larger divisions in Turkish society. It splits the nation into three camps: devout Muslims who believe they are required to wear the scarf, liberal reformers who support freedom of religion and expression, and staunch (one might say radical) Kemalists who consider the scarf an attack on the principles of Ataturk and the secular republic. (Religious people find themselves allied with westernizing liberals quite often in Turkey. Strange bedfellows? Kind of.) This split has existed throughout Turkey's history. However, the religious camp has gained more political and economic power here in the last 10 or so years.
The headscarf ban is a product of the secular elite's deep insecurity with religion. The covered women I see on every street remind staunch secularists that Turkish Islam has not been completely neutered. It has not been transformed into a minor reminder of times long past--Islam is still an important social and political force.
For most of the history of Republican Turkey, religious Turks were effectively disenfranchised. They were considered an anachronistic element that would soon be left behind, but the secular elite took no chances--religious political parties were banned if they showed any potential. The CHP and MHP (the two parties that have ruled Turkey for most of its history) ignored the interests of religious people, and did little more than the occasional favor designed to win a few votes in the next election.
The electoral successes of the AKP in 2003 started to change this. The AKP is a moderately Islamic, pro-European Union party with a liberal economic platform. Most of the international press considers it the most effective governing party in Turkey in decades. Secular Turks have absolutely freaked out ever since it took power--I hear that the AKP plans to institute sharia and turn Turkey into another Iran pretty much every day here. As far as I (or most independent outsiders) can tell, there's no basis for any of this.
Anyway, the barriers that have kept the huge numbers of religious Turks out of politics are slowly fading away. The battle over the headscarf is part of this process. Like anywhere else in the world, a university degree is essential for social, political, and economic success in Turkey. Religious women have been denied this key credential for decades. I am not saying that the Ministry of Education has chosen to ban the headscarf as part of a sinister plot to limit the success of religious women. However, that has been the result.
I have a very hard time understanding the rationale for such deep opposition to the headscarf. As I wrote, it is a symbol--but a symbol of what? Resurgent Islam? The oppression of women? A hatred of prevailing hair styles? The debate in Turkey is always about the scarf as a symbol, not the issues it symbolizes. Serious Kemalists refuse to address the role of Islam and women's rights, so they talk about the danger of the scarf instead.
Like Christianity in the US, Turkish Islam is often a powerful force against rationalism and progress. (However, I think there are fewer nutsos campaigning against teaching evolution and sex ed here than back home.) Little is done in Turkey to blunt the impact of these anti-modern ideas. Instead, Turkey simply bans the headscarf from its ''secular spaces'' and claims it has addressed the problem of fundamentalist Islam.
The theory is something like this: If I chose my eyes and chant ''Na na na na,'' you'll disappear. Banning a symbol only pushes the real issues behind closed doors, where they are much more dangerous.
Further, I wonder why Kemalists aren't up in arms for better treatment of women in Turkey. The argument against the scarf often takes on an uncomfortably paternalistic cast: women must be protected by modern men from fundamentalist men. But that protection is just another restriction, not support for increased female empowerment. (After all, that might threaten the position of those modern men!) Who cares if women wear headscarves as long as they choose to? Is it impossible to be religious but also believe in equal rights and a democratic republic? Women are not equal in Turkey, but banning the scarf hardly remedies this.
My time in Turkey has concinced me that much of the rhetoric about ''The Republic'' and ''Ataturk's ideals'' is just a meaningless tool to maintain the status quo. Ataturk never dreamed of banning the scarf, but his words are often used to attack the rights of those who chose to cover themselves. This debate, like almost every other one in modern Turkey, has been transformed into a struggle over power. If Turks can be convinced that the AKP and the many covered women intend to create another Iran, they will run back to Turkey's old parties, the CHP and MHP. Those parties will then continue to rule for themselves and not for all.
The headscarf should not be an issue. It has been made into one so the real problems in this country can be ignored.
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