THE LONG PATH TO ‘AVRUPA’
By Dietmar Pieper
Spiegel Online
,1518,584066,00.html
Germany
Turkey’s push towards Europe, a drive that is older than the country
itself, has long to helped to hold the internally divided country
together.
Editor’s Note: The Frankfurt Book Fair, the world’s largest publishing
event, opened its doors for its 60th year on Tuesday. Close to 7,400
exhibitors from 100 countries are presenting literature at the event,
including 3,300 German publishers. This year’s guest country is
Turkey, which is represented by 165 publishing houses. This week,
SPIEGEL ONLINE will run a series of features and interviews about
Turkey in conjunction with the book fair opening.
Next to the steep, red marble staircase, a small cable car provides
a jolting ride up the hill. After having been given a good shaking,
visitors emerge unsteadily from the car and look around. A hundred
meters above the gate at the street below, in a house surrounded by
hibiscus bushes and fig trees, lives Yasar Kemal. A world-class author,
Kemal is considered the eminence grise of Turkish literature.
After greeting his guests, Kemal sits down in an armchair in front
of the fireplace. A large window offers a panoramic view across the
Bosporus, encompassing Istanbul’s Asian and European sides. Ferries,
oil tankers and fast, white yachts glide beneath the large suspension
bridge connecting the two sides of Istanbul, the Occident and the
Orient. The minarets of Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque punctuate
the city’s skyline.
Strong, black tea is served in small, stemmed glasses, and Kemal talks
about his life. And what a life it has been! He spent his childhood
in Cukurova, a fertile strip of land in religiously conservative
southeastern Anatolia. At the age of five, he witnessed his father
being stabbed to death during a family quarrel in the mosque. He
began to stutter, but telling stories and writing poetry became
his passion. He was a journalist and a socialist politician. He
was imprisoned three times because the things he said and wrote
displeased the powers that be. He was tortured and was long unable to
talk about the experience. He refers, only half in jest, to prison as
"the school of Turkish literature."
Kemal is a Kurd, and for he and his wife Ayse, a mathematics professor,
it is a matter of course that they speak Kurdish at home. But it is
the Turkish language in which he writes his novels, in his clear,
almost calligraphic handwriting — novels that always have something
to do with the history of his country.
Kemal has experienced everything that can possibly happen to a writer
and intellectual in Turkey. He has been condemned, and he has been
venerated. He is even patriotic, in his own way. "Anatolia can be
seen as a source for the world’s cultures," he says. He is pleased
that his country is being presented as the guest of honor at the
Frankfurt Book Fair this year, but he says that he will not submit to
the commotion of the fair and the stress of the trip again. "Younger
people should do that," he says, emitting a deep, warm and slightly
roguish laugh. He has been to Germany many times, including in 1997,
when he was awarded the Peace Prize of the German Book Trade.
A few steps from the fireplace, in front a wall of bookshelves, is his
desk, with a few sheets of ivory-colored paper and dozens of sharpened
pencils on it. Kemal is working on the fourth volume of his "island
novels," the story of refugees who are forced to start a new life on
an island in the Aegean Sea. There are so many stories to tell, says
Kemal, from the days when the Ottoman Empire was going under, and when
World War I and the ensuing confusion plunged millions upon millions
of people into hopeless destitution. But he also has a simple message
to impart: "Anyone who starts a war should never see the sky again."
Kemal was born 1923, although he does not know the exact date. It
was the year in which the Turkish Republic was founded. His life is
closely intertwined with the history of Turkey, a history that has
always progressed in one direction, politically, economically and
culturally: from East to West.
Although Kemal has left his native Anatolia behind, and has been
living in Istanbul for more than half a century, Anatolia continues to
shape much of his life today. He grew up in the tradition of village
storytellers. "At the age of eight, I sang folk songs in public. I was
called Kemal the Singer," he says. It was not until he became a young
man that he shifted gears to write. It was a difficult transition.
Instead of the Kurdish and Turkmen popular poets, his new role models
were the great European novelists: Goethe, Tolstoy and Stendhal —
especially Stendhal — as well as America’s Faulkner.
Kemal’s path through life has been long. His country, restless and
wild, is still a traveler along its own path. "Turkey has been trying
to become ‘Western’ for 250 years," he says. Avrupa, Turkish for
Europe, is a fateful word for Turkey.
An especially radical figure in its past was Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the
founder of the Turkish republic, who remains sacrosanct in Turkey to
this day. "He was a strong leader," says Kemal. Great achievements are
associated with this historic mission, as are immense sacrifices. The
lives of millions of Armenians and Greeks, Kurds and Alevi have been
lost along the way. "They were determined to turn the mosaic that
Anatolia had become over the course of its history into a unified
state," says Kemal, as he sits up in his chair with an angry expression
on his face. "That was the greatest catastrophe."
Cem Ozdemir is a good person to ask when it comes to explaining Turkey
to the West. The Green Party politician, born in 1965 in Bad Urach in
southwestern Germany, is both a bridge-builder and a self-starter. He
was the first member of the German parliament, the Bundestag, of
Turkish descent. On talk shows, he liked to refer to himself as the
"Anatolian from Swabia," a region in the southwestern German state
of Baden-Wurttemburg. He had the misfortune of accepting a donation
from a dubious PR consultant, a scandal that made Ozdemir front-page
news. To clear his name, he resigned and ran for a seat in the European
Parliament, but he may soon experience a roaring comeback — as the
national head of Germany’s Green Party.
Ozdemir is participating in a public discussion forum in
Bonn. Turkey is the focus of this year’s Bonn Biennale, a theater and
cultural festival. The panel is discussing the modern and European
characteristics of a country whose 74 million citizens are almost all
Muslim. Is democracy taking hold? Is there a risk that Turkey could
slide into Islamism?
There are no easy answers to these questions, as Ozdemir explains with
the nuanced picture he presents. But there are trends and developments,
and there is reason to be cautiously optimistic. The politician, who
calls Turkey his "second home," points to the reforms of the last 10
years: laws banning forced marriages, honor killings and marital rape,
the relaxation of taboos relating to controversial issues like the
Kurdish question, Cyprus and the Armenians.
"Whenever I appeared on Turkish television in the past," Ozdemir says,
"I would ask the interviewer, before an interview began, which topics
we could not discuss. Sometimes it was so absurd that it boiled down
to a choice of words. For instance, a journalist would say: We don’t
refer to the ‘Kurds.’ ‘Okay, what are you calling them now?’ I would
ask. The journalist would respond by referring to something like the
‘Southeastern Anatolia question.’ That was Turkey. And this wasn’t
even that long ago."
There was a period in the 1990s when Ozdemir was Public Enemy No. 2
for some Turkish media outlets. The tabloid Hurriyet had a penchant for
printing his photo next to that of Abdullah Ocalan, the leader of the
Kurdish separatist group PKK (Kurdistan Workers Party), the implication
being: Look, two traitors! But Ozdemir’s supposed infractions amounted
to nothing more than condemning the Turkish military’s war against the
Kurds and upholding democracy. He became the subject of vile threats,
and bodyguards soon became a part of his daily life.
But things change, and Ozdemir is convinced that they will continue
to. "The fundamental issue is that we accept others, and that includes
their religion or atheism, their Kurdish or Cherkessian language,
their Alevi ‘cem evi,’ or meeting house, Jewish synagogue or Greek
Orthodox church. That’s all," he says.
Is this a vision? Of course it is. Ozdemir believes that visions
don’t necessarily have to be harmful in politics. He’s also a realist,
though. "Unfortunately, Turkish society is deeply divided and, sadly,
a large segment of the political elite is failing." His hopes rest
on those who are not part of any camp: not the diehard Kemalists,
who see every woman wearing the headscarf as the advance guard of
a theocracy, and not the religious fundamentalists, who dream of
infiltrating the state.
Ozdemir gesticulates energetically on the podium in Bonn, and then he
leans back to discuss the subject from a broader perspective. "From
the Arab standpoint, Turkey was a colonial power first, then the
West’s listening post in the Cold War. Nowadays, Arab intellectuals
look to Turkey because it presents the historically unique opportunity
to achieve a democracy, with all its trappings, in a majority Muslim
society." For the Arab world, says Ozdemir, this is an alternative to
the model of Islamism and to the authoritarian models of government
in Tunisia and Egypt.
Ozdemir’s next sentence is a political one, meant to bring everything
together: "Turkey must take this third approach." It sounds a bit
mysterious, but perhaps this is the best prediction a politician can
make when it comes to a country like Turkey.
Part 2: Istanbul is Europe’s Megacity
Yasar Kemal and his wife, Ayse, have had a new favorite haunt in
Istanbul for the past few years. Once or twice a week, they drive
from their home on the Asian side of the city across the bridge to
the European side, to go out to dinner. Their destination is the
"Istanbul Modern," a privately run art museum in a former warehouse
in the port district that opened in late 2004. The museum restaurant
offers a spectacular view of the water at the point where the Golden
Horn inlet and the Bosporus converge. "We enjoy the quiet, the view,
the art and the fine white wine," says Kemal.
Oya Eczacibasi is especially proud of having a celebrity of Kemal’s
magnitude as a regular guest. Eczacibasi, who comes from one of
the wealthiest families in Turkey, is both the chief curator of the
Istanbul Modern Sanat Muzesi and the heart and mind of the entire
spectacular enterprise. A member of her staff calls it "the unofficial
Turkish national museum for modern art" — absent an official version.
Eczacibasi would never put it that directly, at least not publicly. The
49-year-old curator is the epitome of elegance and diplomatic
reserve. But it quickly becomes clear that, beneath her polished
exterior, Eczacibasi is a woman with an iron will.
"It took us 15 years to build this museum," she says. A contract
with the city of Istanbul had already been fleshed out in 1990,
but the agreement fell apart two years later. At the same time,
Eczacibasi received her first painting as a gift to a still nonexistent
museum. The large, two-by-five-meter (6.5-by-16-foot) work by the
artist Fahrelnissa Zeid, titled "My Hell," now has a place of honor
in the museum. The family that owned the work came to Eczacibasi and
said: "We are giving you this painting. We are confident that you
will build a museum."
A period of persistent lobbying work followed. "I spoke with many
prime ministers and cabinet ministers, but no one was interested in
a museum for modern art." Then, in 2003, it was, ironically enough,
Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan, the chairman of the Islamic
Party for Justice and Development (AKP), who became fired up about
the idea. "We showed him this building. We explained to him that it
was very well suited for our purposes, but that it needed access to
the street. He said: ‘Don’t worry, that will be taken care of.’"
And it was taken care of, so quickly and thoroughly, in fact, that
the Istanbul Modern opened on Dec. 11, 2004, almost coinciding with
the European Union summit in Copenhagen, at which the decision over
negotiations between the Europeans and Turkey over Turkey’s accession
to the EU was made. An agonizing week of negotiations ended with a
cautious "yes" vote — with reservations.
Eczacibasi smiles when asked about whether Erdogan was thinking about
Copenhagen when he threw his support behind her museum.
Most Germans would probably name London or Paris as Europe’s largest
city, or perhaps Moscow. But few would consider Istanbul, and yet
there is good reason to believe that that honor should in fact go to
Turkey’s megacity.
According to current estimates, more than 10 million, possibly even
15 million people live along the Bosporus. A large portion of the
metropolitan area, including the historic old city, is on the European
side. Istanbul’s three biggest football clubs — Besiktas, Fenerbahce
and Galatasaray — have participated in European competitions
for decades. And two years ago, the EU Council of Ministers took a
remarkable step when, on Nov. 13, 2006, it declared Istanbul Europe’s
Cultural Capital for 2010.
The road to that decision was just as remarkable as the decision
itself. It began eight years ago, when a Turkish professor discovered
that, in 1999, the EU changed the rules under which it awards the title
and funding. Under the new rules, cities in non-European countries
could also qualify. A group of private citizens quickly came together,
declaring it their goal to make Istanbul Europe’s official cultural
capital. The politicians joined the effort later on, after all the
preparatory work had been done.
Nuri Colakoglu, the director of Istanbul 2010, is extremely proud
of the award. "Our project is the first in this series that can be
attributed to a purely civilian initiative." The project is also backed
by copious private funding and economic might. In Turkey, leading
entrepreneurial families, with names like Eczacibasi (pharmaceutical
industry), Sabanci (banks, commerce), Koc (energy) and Dogan (media),
play an important role as patrons of the arts.
Istanbul 2010 director Colakoglu is the vice-president of the Dogan
Group, which owns Hurriyet and the television network CNN Turk. If
anyone has the wherewithal to make Istanbul 2010 a success, it’s
a man like Nuri Colakoglu. A journalist by trade, Colakoglu is
a notorious early riser, constantly on the go and extremely well
connected. "Together with six other madmen," he says, "I convinced
Bernie Ecclestone to bring Formula 1 racing to Istanbul a few years
ago. We kept needling Bernie until he said yes."
Colakoglu shows off his offices with the practiced graciousness of a
busy host. Istanbul 2010 is headquartered in a magnificent downtown
mansion built as the winter home of an Armenian banker in the 19th
century. Colakoglu, pointing to erotic murals on the high ceilings,
says that the owner occasionally lent his house to the sultan, so
that he could meet his mistresses there.
The program for the big cultural festival is gradually taking
shape. One of the high points will be a performance by the Berlin
Philharmonic in exactly two years. Other events are still in the
planning stages. "We want to offer the broadest possible panorama
of our city and our country," says Colakoglu. As part of his 2010
agenda, he wants Turks to "engage with our historical heritage, which
has been overlooked for so long." The picture Istanbul will present
to its citizens and the world will likely touch on taboos. From
avant-garde artists to devout Islamic groups, Kurds, Armenians and
other minorities — the goal is to include them all.
Is this a political statement? No, of course not, says Colakoglu,
before letting out a laugh. "We try to avoid all things
political. Politics are dangerous in this country."
Part 3: ‘Islamic Calvanism’
A bright yellow scrubbing machine moves back and forth across
the sand-colored travertine tiles. The parade grounds in front
of Ataturk’s mausoleum in Ankara, with a capacity of 15,000, must
sparkle before soldiers, politicians and diplomats arrive. Today,
a delegation from India is here to pay its respects to Ataturk,
the father of the Turkish nation, who died in 1938.
The site, known as Anitkabir in Turkish, is large enough to encompass
a small city. The remains of the man who invented modern Turkey
have been buried here since Nov. 10, 1953. No official visitor to
the Turkish capital can avoid a visit to the memorial. When Iranian
President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad visited Turkey in August, he traveled to
Istanbul and not Ankara, to avoid having to bow in front of Ataturk’s
mausoleum. Throughout his lifetime, the legendary Turkish leader
had nothing but contempt for Islam. He is said to have referred to
the religion of Muhammad as "the absurd religious doctrine of an
amoral Bedouin."
The veneration of Ataturk knows no limits in Anitkabir, which receives
a constant flow of visitors from all over Turkey: men in dark suits
and others in shorts, bent-over peasant women, chic urbanites who
have flung a shiny "turban" over their heads and necks as a sign of
their piety, and young girls in midriff-exposing tops.
The exhibit is a bizarre mixture of cult altar and Disneyland. It
includes wax figures of Ataturk in formal dress and Ataturk at
this desk, his complete wardrobe, from his military uniform to his
gray silk pajamas, his revolver, cigarette holders, perfume flasks,
hairbrushes and "Fox," his stuffed hunting dog. War panoramas with
life-sized figures recreate scenes from the battles that made him a
legendary figure when he was a general. The sound track blaring from
the loudspeakers includes death cries and warlike chants.
The sarcophagus is at the center of the memorial, but the 40-ton
block of stone is merely a solid piece of marble.
Ataturk lies buried in a crypt that is closed to the public. A camera
transmits a live image from the interior of the octagonal burial
chamber onto a flat-screen monitor. An information panel states that
the body of this outspoken critic of religion was embalmed according
to Islamic ritual and wrapped in sheets of cloth. The red marble
coffin is pointed toward the Kaaba in Mecca.
Mecca lies thousands of kilometers southeast of Ankara in Saudi Arabia,
and yet the dead man’s entire life was oriented toward the West.
Aladdin Boulevard is a tidy street that passes through the center
of Konya. The city in the Anatolian highlands was once the seat of
the Seljuks, a Turkic people who began the conquest of Asia Minor in
the Middle Ages. Today it is a stronghold for Islamic parties. In a
recent election, more than 70 percent of the city’s voters voted for
Prime Minister Erdogan’s AKP. Konya is nicknamed the "green capital"
of Turkey, green being the color of Islam.
But while Konya’s past mayors supported gender separation on public
transportation and a total ban on alcohol within city limits,
nowadays women with and without headscarves stroll in front of the
stone Iplikci Mosque, young couples walk hand-in-hand and roadside
signs advertise shops licensed to sell beer, wine and Raki, the
anise-based national brandy.
Akif Emre, a journalist with the pro-government daily newspaper Yeni
Safak (also known as afak), believes, paradoxically, that Erdogan’s
AKP has a moderating influence. "There is a shift in mentality,"
he says. "Conservative people are in the process of developing a
secular lifestyle."
Vedat Yondem, a representative of the Konya Chamber of Commerce
and Industry, sits in his freshly mowed front yard, extolls similar
views. "In the past, we only paid attention to ourselves, but today we
look to the rest of the world. We have become more open-minded." This
sentiment is supported by the experience of many small and mid-sized
business owners in Anatolia, who have created their own economic
miracle and now play a self-confident role in a globalized world,
conducting trade with the EU, Africa and China.
Turkish industry and agriculture were dependent on the government in
Ankara for decades. The country was run in a centralized way and kept
isolated from the outside world. But then, in the wake of energetic
reforms introduced under Prime Minister Turgut Ozal, thousands of
new businesses sprang up in the 1990s.
Almost overnight, sleepy provincial cities like Konya, Kayseri and
Gaziantep mutated into "Anatolian tigers," suddenly proud of their
mushrooming industrial zones and gleaming office towers. There is such
a strong, symbiotic relationship here between business and religion
that sociologists see "Islamic Calvinism" at work.
But the ordinary people have remained deeply pious. For centuries,
pilgrims have been converging on Konya to visit the sarcophagus of
Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi, the great Muslim poet and mystic, and the
founder of the Dervish order. Many treat the path to the grave of
the master as a minor pilgrimage, even though Islam in fact forbids
the worship of holy men.
"This house is the Kaaba of lovers. The immature are made adults
here." These words, written in the Persian language, are inscribed
above the "Gate of the Dervishes." In the 13th century, Mevlana taught
the virtues of love and tolerance, as well as humility and modesty. To
break the power of the religious order, Kemal Ataturk had Mevlana’s
monastery turned into a museum in 1926.
The faithful fold their hands together in front of Mevlana’s stone
sarcophagus. Others snap a photo with their mobile phones and keep
going. Thick panels of glass protect the relics, which were once owned
by the brotherhood and now belong to the state. They include a golden
casket containing a strand of hair from the prophet’s beard and a tiny,
ornately decorated Koran. There is also an even smaller Koran, "written
with the eyelashes of a beautiful woman, completed after 16 years,
at which point the woman became blind," a winking guide explains.
It was not until 1954 that the Turkish government allowed the
Dervishes to dance again. Even today the Sufis are not permitted to
mark the anniversary of Mevlana’s death in their house of worship,
the "tarikat evi," but only in a public gymnasium.
For Vedat Yondem, the businessman, this is yet another example of
Kemalist distrust. "But we will not be able to separate ourselves
from our roots," he says, with great confidence. "No one can force
us to do that."
With additional reporting by Daniel Steinvorth. Translated from the
German by Christopher Sultan