Rick Steves Travel as a Political Act

by Rick Steves

  Turkish Village Insights in Güzelyurt

  Big cities can be relatively cosmopolitan and homogenized by modern affluence. But small towns, with their more change-averse residents, are cultural humidors—keeping fragile traditions moist and full of local flavor.

  Güzelyurt, an obscure-to-the-world but proud-of-itself village in central Turkey, teaches me the richness and nobility of rustic village life in the developing world. Students of the world find that, in any country, remote towns and villages can be wonderful classrooms.

  Güzelyurt was all decked out on my last visit. I happened to arrive on the day of everybody’s favorite festival: a circumcision party. Turks call it “a wedding without the in-laws.” The little boy, dressed like a prince, rode tall on his decorated donkey through a commotion of friends and relatives to the house where a doctor was sharpening his knife. Even with paper money pinned to his fancy outfit and loved ones chanting calming spiritual music, the boy looked frightened. But the ritual snipping went off without a glitch, and a good time was had…at least, by everyone else.

  On a different trip, I learned that Turkish weddings are also quite a spectacle. I’ll never forget being a special guest at a wedding in Güzelyurt. The entire community gathered. Calling the party to order, the oldest couple looked happily at the young bride and groom and shared a local blessing: “May you grow old together on one pillow.”

  Whenever there’s a family festival, village Turks turn on the music and dance. Everybody is swept onto their feet—including visiting tourists. It’s easy: Just follow the locals as they hold out their arms, snap their fingers, and shake their shoulders. During one such Güzelyurt party, the man of the house came over to me—the foreigner—and wanted to impress me. Waving me to a quiet corner, he said, “Here on my wall, the most sacred place in my home, is my Quran bag, where I keep my Quran. And in my Quran bag I also keep a copy of the Bible and a copy of the Torah—because I believe that we Muslims, Christians, and Jews are all ‘children of the Book’…children of the same good God.”

  Leaving the party, I walked down the street. The town seemed cluttered with ugly unfinished concrete buildings bristling with rusty reinforcement bars. While I love the Turks, I couldn’t help but think, “Why can’t these people get their act together and just finish these buildings?” That was before I learned that in Turkey, there’s an ethic among parents—even poor ones—that you leave your children with a house. Historically Turks are reluctant to store money in the bank because it disappears through inflation. So instead, they invest bit by bit by constructing a building. Every time they get a hundred bucks together, they put it into that ever-growing house. They leave the rebar exposed until they have another hundred bucks, so they make another wall, put on a window, frame in another door…and add more rebar. Now, when I look at that rusty rebar, I remember that Turks say, “Rebar holds the family together”…and it becomes much prettier.

  At the edge of Güzelyurt, I came upon a little boy playing a flute. Just like in biblical times, it was carved out of an eagle bone. I listened. And I heard another eagle-bone flute, out of sight, coming from over the hill, where his dad was tending the sheep. As they have for centuries, the boy stays with the mom and plays the eagle-bone flute. The dad tends the flock and plays his flute, too, so the entire family knows that all is well.

  I hiked up the shepherd’s hill and sat overlooking the town. On a higher hill, just beyond the simple tin roof of its mosque, I saw the letters G Ü Z E L Y U R T spelled out in rocks. Listening to the timeless sounds of the community, I thought how there are countless Güzelyurts, scattered across every country on earth. Each is humble, yet filled with rich traditions, proud people, and its own village-centric view of our world. Güzelyurt means “beautiful land.” While few visitors would consider it particularly beautiful, that’s how the people who call it home see it. They’d live nowhere else. And for them, it truly is a güzel yurt.

  Defending the Separation of Mosque and State… for Now

  When visiting eastern Turkey, you don’t have a list of sights. It’s a cultural scavenger hunt. Years ago, I was exploring with a tour group and we saw 300 kids in a stadium. We dropped in to see what was going on. They were thrusting their fists into the air, screaming in unison, “We are a secular nation! We are a secular nation!” I asked my local guide, “What’s going on? Don’t they like God?” She said, “Yes, we love God here in Turkey, but—with the rising tide of Islamic fundamentalism just over the border in Iran—we are very concerned about the fragile and precious separation of mosque and state in our country.”

  Turkey still is a secular nation. But in recent years, with each election, the line between mosque and state gets a little more blurred. Turkey, like so much of today’s world, is in a tug-of-war between secular forces and right-wing fundamentalism. And, just as in other Islamic lands, Turkish fundamentalist groups use fear of perceived American meddling to win public support. With the ramped-up economic metabolism that comes with globalization—all those modern changes I found so striking—people whose time-honored ways are threatened cling to what makes their cultures and societies unique. They seek solace in their rituals, religion, and traditions.

  People around the world are passionate about their struggles.

  During the holy month of Ramadan, practicing Muslims refrain from eating, drinking, or even smoking during daylight hours. As a visitor, I find the Muslim faith all the more vivid and engaging during Ramadan. As an oblivious tourist, I kept stumbling into the subtle ways Ramadan affects everyday life. Sucking sweet apple tobacco from a water pipe, I offered my waiter a puff of my hookah. He put his hand over his heart and explained he’d love to, but he couldn’t until the sun went down. During Ramadan, if you sleep lightly, you’ll wake to the call to prayer and the sounds of a convivial meal just before dawn. As the sun rises, the fast begins. Later, as the sun sets, the food comes out, and the nightly festival begins. Muhammad broke his fast with a dried date or an olive—which remain the most common fast-breakers. Saying, “Allah kabul etsin” (“May God accept our fast today”), the staff at a restaurant where I was having only a glass of tea welcomed me to photograph them, and then offered to share their meal.

  Anywhere in Islam, witnessing the breaking of the day-long Ramadan fast at sundown is like watching children waiting for the recess bell. Throughout my visit, every time I witnessed this ritual, people offered to share their food. At that restaurant, I said, “No, thanks,” but they set me up anyway—with figs, lentil soup, bread, and baklava.

  Much as I enjoy these Ramadan experiences, my latest visit left me with an uneasy awareness of how fundamentalism is creeping into the mainstream. Mayors now play a part in organizing Ramadan festivities. During Ramadan, no-name neighborhood mosques literally overflow during prayer time. With carpets unfurled on sidewalks, it’s a struggle just walking down the street. I got the unsettling feeling that the inconvenience to passing pedestrians wasn’t their concern… as if they felt everyone should be praying rather than trying to get somewhere.

  I don’t want to overstate Turkey’s move to the right, but keen and caring secular observers see an ominous trend. I have friends in Turkey almost distraught at their country’s slide toward fundamentalism. To them, it’s an evolution that—like a rising tide—seems impossible to stop.

  Imagine watching your country gradually slip into a theocracy: one universal interpretation of scripture, prayer in school, religious dress codes, women covering up and accepting a scripturally ordained subservient role to men, judges chosen on the basis of the dominant religion, laws and textbooks being rewritten. When the separation of religion and state is violated, a moralistic ruling class that believes they are right and others are wrong sets about reshaping its society.

  Seeing this struggle play out in Turkey—a land that first adopted a modern, secular constitution only in 1924—is dramatic. I can feel the chill sweep across a teahouse when a fundamentalist Muslim man walks by…followed, a few steps beh
ind, by his covered-up wife.

  For a traveler, the move to the religious right is easiest to see in peoples’ clothes. As the father of a teenage girl who did her best to dress trendier than her parents allowed, I am intrigued by teenage Muslim girls covering up under scarves and, I imagine, duress. Sure, they’re covered from head to toe. But under their modest robe, many wear chic clothes and high heels.

  Throughout Islam, scarves are widely used both as tools for modesty and as fashion accessories. In a fine silk shop, I asked a young woman to demonstrate scarf-wrapping techniques. She happily showed off various demure styles. I asked her to demonstrate how to turn one of her scarves into a conservative religious statement. It took some convincing before she obliged. She tied the scarf under her chin and around her face, and then, with an extra fold across the forehead, suddenly she became orthodox. The power of that last fold gave me goose bumps. She took it off with a shudder.

  Later that day, I dropped by Istanbul’s Eyüp Sultan Mosque, where all of the women wore their scarves with that forehead fold. Famous in Istanbul as the mosque attracting the most conservative worshippers, even its state-employed female security guards were wearing strict, religious headscarves. To my secular Turkish friend, it was striking—even disturbing—that state employees would be seen in this garb.

  The courtyard outside the mosque was filled with a kind of religious trade fair. Stalls offering free food, literature, and computer programs (with a Mavis Beacon-type prayer guide) stood side by side. Using incentives to target poor and less-educated Turks, it reminded me of the old-school strategy of Christian missionaries. The propaganda seemed mostly directed at women. My friend believes that women, even more than men, are pulling secular Muslim societies like Turkey to the right.

  The mosque was filled to capacity, and the courtyard was jammed with the overflow crowd. Women knelt to pray next to their men. But my Turkish friend predicted that in a few years, the sexes would be segregated. She pointed to a stairway already filled with fundamentalist women who believed they should worship separately. They’ve staked out this zone until a formal women’s area can be established.

  Marketers know that women make the purchasing decisions in American families. Considering this, I ponder whether women make the religious decisions in Turkish families, and to what degree women really are behind the changes in moderate Muslim societies like Turkey. I consider the impact women have on the political discourse in my country. It’s interesting that, in both our society and Muslim societies, women with an agenda can be at odds. Some women push their agenda in terms of “family values,” while others push their agenda in terms of “women’s rights.”

  Many things drive religious people to get political: a desire for economic justice, a moral environment in which to raise their children, equal rights, the “sanctity of life,” and hopes for salvation. These are powerful forces that can easily be manipulated by clever political marketing. They can drive people to war and they know no cultural or political boundaries.

  Observing the enthusiasm of this very religious crowd in the courtyard of the mosque, I could imagine someone who had never been outside of the US dropping in on this scene—and being quite shocked by it all. I asked my Muslim friend, “Should a Christian be threatened by Islam?” She said, “If you have self-confidence in your system, assuming it deserves to survive, it will. Christendom should be threatened by Islam only if the Christian West seeks empire here.”

  I find an irony in recent tensions between America and Islam. I believe we’re incurring incalculable costs (both direct and indirect, tangible and intangible) because our lack of understanding makes us needlessly fearful about Islam. And sadly, I fear that because we’re afraid of it, our actions create a situation where we need to be afraid.

  Islam in a Pistachio Shell

  As our generation sorts through the tensions between Islam and Christendom, a rudimentary understanding of the Muslim faith is a good life skill for any engaged non-Muslim. Here’s an admittedly basic and simplistic outline designed to help travelers from the Christian West better understand a complex and often misunderstood culture.

  Muslims, like Christians and Jews, are monotheistic. They call God “Allah.” The key figure in the Islamic faith is Muhammad, Allah’s final and most important prophet, who lived from A.D. 570 to 632. When Muhammad’s name appears in print, it’s often followed by “PBUH”: Peace Be Upon Him.

  Just as Christians come in two basic varieties (Protestants and Catholics), Muslims come in two branches. After Muhammad died in A.D. 632, his followers argued over who should succeed him in leading his Islamic faith and state, causing Islam to splinter into two rival factions. Today Shias (a.k.a. “Shiites,” less than 15 percent of all Muslims) are concentrated in Iran and Iraq, while Sunnis dominate the rest of the Islamic world (including Turkey and Morocco).

  The “five pillars” of Islam are the same for all Muslims. Followers of Islam should do the following:

  1. Say and believe, “There is only one God, and Muhammad is his prophet.”

  2. Pray five times a day, facing Mecca (denoted inside a mosque by a niche called a mihrab). Modern Muslims believe that, along with thinking of God, part of the value of this ritual is to help people wash, exercise, and stretch.

  3. Give to the poor one-fortieth of your wealth, if you are not in debt. (“Debt” includes the responsibility to provide both your parents and your children with a good life.)

  4. Fast during daylight hours through the month of Ramadan. Fasting is about self-discipline. It’s also a great social equalizer that helps everyone feel the hunger of the poor.

  5. Visit Mecca. Muslims who can afford it and who are physically able are expected to go on a pilgrimage (Hajj) to the sacred sites in Mecca and Medina at least once in their lifetime. This is interpreted by some Muslims as a command to travel. My favorite Muhammad quote: “Don’t tell me how educated you are; tell me how much you’ve traveled.”

  The Islamic equivalent of the Christian bell tower is a minaret, which the muezzin traditionally climbs to sing the call to prayer. While traditionally minarets were grand (as pictured here), in a kind of architectural Darwinism, they are shrinking. As calls to prayer are now electronically amplified, the muezzin sings into a mic at ground level, and the minaret’s height is no longer necessary or worth the expense. Many small, modern mosques have one mini-minaret about as awe-inspiring as your little toe.

  Call to Prayer

  While the call to prayer sounds spooky to many Americans, I find that with some understanding it becomes beautiful. Traditionally, just before the sun rises, an imam (prayer leader) stares at his arm. When he can tell a gray hair from a black one, it’s time to call his community to prayer. While quality and warble varies, across Islam the Arabic words of the call to prayer are exactly the same. The first call to prayer of the day starts with an extra line:

  Praying is better than sleeping

  God is great (Allahhhhhh hu akbar…)

  I witness there is no other God but Allah

  I witness Muhammad is Allah’s prophet

  Come join the prayer

  Come to be saved

  God is great…God is great

  There is no other God but Allah.

  Big mosques have a trained professional singer for a muezzin. Many tiny mosques can’t afford a real muezzin, so the imam himself does the call to prayer. The qualitative difference can be obvious. Invariably, my hotel seems to be within earshot of five or six mosques, which creates quite a cacophony.

  My challenge is to hear the Muslim call to prayer as a beautiful form of praise that sweeps across the globe five times a day—from Malaysia across Pakistan, Arabia, and Turkey to Morocco and then to America—like a stadium wave, undulating exactly as fast as the earth turns.

  Prayer services in a mosque are usually gender-segregated. The act of praying is quite physical (repeatedly bending over) and—as a practical matter of respect for women, and less distraction for both sexes—
they generally worship apart from the men.

  Just as pre-Vatican II Catholicism embraced Latin (for tradition, uniformity, and so all could relate and worship together anywhere, anytime), Islam embraces Arabic. Turks recently experimented by doing the call to prayer in Turkish, but they switched back to the traditional Arabic.

  The Quran teaches that Abraham was a good submitter (to the will of God). The word for submitter is “Muslim”—derived from Islam (“submit”) with a Mu- (“one who”). So a Muslim is, literally, “one who submits.”

  Wherever I travel, having just a basic grasp of the dominant local religion makes the people and traditions I encounter more meaningful and enjoyable. Exploring Muslim countries leaves me with memories of the charming conviviality of neighborhoods spilling into the streets. Like Christmas is a fun time to enjoy the people energy of a Christian culture, Ramadan is a particularly fun and vibrant time to be among Muslims. My visits to places like Turkey, Morocco, Iran (described in Chapter 8), and Palestine (described in Chapter 9) have shown me how travel takes the fear out of foreign ways.

  Morocco: Everything but Pork

  Islam is as culturally varied as Christendom. Turkey is unique among Muslim states because of its European orientation and because of its alliance with the US (important during the Cold War, Gulf War, and Iraq War). Morocco, another Muslim country, offers a different insight into Islam.

  On my last visit to Morocco, what I found pleased me: a Muslim nation succeeding, stable, and becoming more affluent with no apparent regard for the US.

  Artists, writers, and musicians have always loved the coastal Moroccan city of Tangier. Delacroix and Matisse were drawn by its evocative light. The Beat generation, led by William S. Burroughs and Jack Kerouac, sought the city’s multicultural, otherworldly feel. Paul Bowles found his sheltering sky here. From the 1920s through the 1950s, Tangier was an “international zone,” too strategic to give to any one nation, and jointly governed by as many as nine different powers, including France, Spain, Britain, Italy, Belgium, the Netherlands…and Morocco. The city was a tax-free zone (since there was no single authority to collect taxes), which created a booming free-for-all atmosphere, attracting playboy millionaires, bon vivants, globetrotting scoundrels, con artists, and expat romantics. Tangier enjoyed a cosmopolitan golden age that, in many ways, shaped the city visitors see today.