The Middle East, As Always

Rod Dreher takes on President Bush's recent speech before the American Legion. He observes:

Lord have mercy, will he not observe that to more than a few people in the Muslim world, freedom does not mean the same thing it does to Americans. Freedom means freedom to live as they believe God has commanded them to live. Democracy means electing people who will implement God's law, as they understand it. This crazy hubris, believing that everybody in the world wants the same thing as Americans, is wrecking us.

For the full article, read.

In last weekend's Dallas Morning News Dreher writes about Suyyid Qutb, founder of the Muslim Brotherhood and the "philosopher of Islamic terror." His conclusions are worth reading. Go here.

William J. Abraham is a Professor at Southern Methodist University's Perkins School of Theololgy. In spite of that, he hits the nail on the head, here.

And finally, common sense and reality from, of all places, The Boston Globe, here.

Travel Journal--26 June 2006

I awoke on the morning of June 26, 2006 in a Swiss-style chalet high in the Kackar Mountains of northeastern Turkey. I had left the Republic of Georgia 11 days earlier. This area of Turkey is known in the travel guidebooks as the Georgian Church country. The region was once part of Georgia, both ethnically and politically and a few ruined, soaring Georgian-style Orthodox churches from the 10th-12th century remain. Even so, they are quite a draw. I had hoped to visit four. While this appeared to be easily managable looking on the map, the reality of the mountainous terrain and twisting dirt roads defeated this goal. We managed to visit three, and by that time I was ready to come down out of the mountains.

Our pension was in Barhal, a small village wedged between the base of a mountain at the confluence of 2 rushing streams, 19 miles and 1 hour and 20 minutes up a torturous dirt road from Yusefeli. If you are looking to get away from it all, Barhal is a likely spot. A dolmus or two make the run up from Yusefeli, but the village doesn't see much traffic beyond that. My bed and board, including supper and breakfast cost $25. The only other tourists there consisted of a party of Swiss mountaineers. Incredibly fit, they all seemed about 6'2", wore hiking shorts and boots, and looked liked they could be extras from any old Nazi propaganda film. I had to wonder--if you are Swiss trying to decide where to go on holiday, wouldn't you rather go to the beach than the mountains?

That morning, we drove up the trail past the village towards the Barhal church. Up until last year, it had served as a mosque and was currently closed pending restoration as a museum. The 10th or 11th century building was perhaps the best preserved of the three I visited, but the least prepossessing. This was due in part to it being wedged in on the side of a hill, with a grade school immediately adjacent, and trees closing in all around. There simply wasn't anywhere to stand back and get a perspective of the structure. I peered through the cracks in the doors--all the frescoes had received a thorough Islamic whitewashing years ago. It merely looked like a bland, deserted mosque. Before we left, my guide and friend, Turan, climbed a nearby mulberry tree and shook down plenty of delicious fruit for us.

Leaving Barhal church, we continued away from the village, further and further up the mountain valley. I kept thinking that we had reached the end of the road, but on and on it went, following close to a mountain stream. A single strand of electric wire paralleled the road and stream--sometime precariously--and sure enough, here and there, clumps of cottages and huts lay clustered along the hillsides. We passed 2 backpackers and stopped briefly to talk with them and give directions. They had a copy of a page out of the Lonely Planet guide, but were otherwise close to being quite lost. Turan was able to be of considerable assistance. We asked where they were from and they said "Chicago." They then seemed surprised to learn that I was an American as well. When we left, Turan assured me that they were not Americans, but Israelis trying to disguise their nationality. I tended to agree, they certainly did not seem American at all. Interesting, though. Later we passed a young woman herding a few head of cattle along the road. I'm afraid our vehicle scattered her charges. Eventually, our driver Belial, dropped Turan and I off at a bend in the road. We were to hike up and around the mountain and meet him at another crossing. Hiking the Kackars was a little more than I had bargained for.The steep climb certainly dispelled any lingering illusions about my youth and vitality. As we ascended, we found ourselves approaching a solitary cabin with unlimited vistas. A young woman worked the field in the foreground, as an adolescent boy performed chores around the house. The head of the family was on the roof, building a porch roof across one side of the cabin. He invited us to have tea. In short order the daughter of the household brought out a large wooden tray, the teapot, and the ubiquitous tulip-shaped glasses and sugar cubes for our tea break. We squatted on our haunches, drank the strong tea and smoked. Turan and the man talked at length. Later my friend was to relate the man's story to me. This was their home only during the spring and summer months. The snow forced them out during the winter. During those months, the family lived in an apartment in Yusefeli while the father would go to Istanbul to work as a day laborer. Theirs was a hard existence. He said the government was encouraging them to suppliment their income with activities such as beekeeping. This led to a story about "crazy honey." In some of the mountain valleys, the bees feed on the poppies that grow wild. Their honey is to be eaten with great moderation and in very limited qualities. The man had a friend who had helped trap a bear on the other side of the mountain. His payment was a spoonful of this honey. He was angry, believing that he had been taken advantage of. They warned him only to just taste it. The friend did not heed the warning, however, put the entire spoon in his mouth. Ten minutes later he started to feel a little groggy, and the next thing he remembers is waking up 2 days later. After 3 cups of tea, we thanked our host for his hospitality and trudged on up the hill. I tried not to let on, but I was forever thankful when Turan took the trail that began to descend the mountain! We trekked through one hillside village where the old lady laughed at Turan when he ran from her bees. I was exhausted by the time we caught up with Belial and our vehicle. I settled into the back seat for a long rest. Before reaching Barhal, we were stopped as a maintainer worked on the road--scraping away a recent rock slide. Interesting, a mini-van from Georgia was parked in front on us, of which more will be told later.

We arrived in Yusefeli a couple of hours later. This is a bustling little hub, the only place in these mountains for a town of any size. Yusefeli was a conservative town where all the women on the streets wore the headscarf. Men clustered around the cafes, drinking endless glasses of tea, and the women walked together and kept completely to theirselves. Yet, the town's main draw was tourism, so you could still get a beer in the riverside cafes. We bought a watermelon, some homemade cheese, homemade bread, some juices and water and headed for our next destination--Dort Kilisesi. In Turkish, that means "4 Churches." Only one was left, but it had never been a mosque and was one I particularly wanted to see. It lay probably 20 miles out from Yusefeli in the opposite direction than Barhal. But here again, the mountainous terrain was make it a 2-hour journey. All roads in this region follow the streams, and this was no exception. I was intriqued to see rice paddies between the road and water. At Tekkale we turned right, heading further up the mountain valley.

At long last we reached Dort Kilisesi. The church was not completely visible from the road, but sat on a high bluff, which an orchard falling down the hillside to the road. We sat on the ground in the orchard and ate our picnic feast (really, Turkish watermelons are the best in the world). As it was threatening rain, I decided to go on up the hill alone. And perhaps Turan and Belial were tiring of my churches, as they chose to remain in the orchard. Dort Kilisesi sort of sneaks up on you. I was not prepared for the size of the structure. Simple in design, but immense. I entered into the cavernous interior. Dirt has silted up quite a bit on the floor, but the church is still solid, with roof completely intact. Rows of 4-story columns line the interior. The frescoes are fading fast, that, in fact being a major reason I chose to visit here. I took many snapshots, but other than Christ Pantocrator and angels, I was not generally not able to determine who they depicted. Sadly, the old church has also been an obvious and favorite site for teenage graffiti. I lingered for quite a while in the sanctuary, before stepping outside. Of the three churches I had visited in the region--Osk Vank, Barhal and Dort Kilisesi--this was my favorite by far.

As I stood outside I heard a noise--lots of voices and commotion, in fact, coming from down the hill. I then saw a man approaching the church. I observed him as he slowly crossed himself three times in the unmistakable sweeping movement of the Georgians. My heart lept--the Georgians are here! I approached and tried to make him understand that I too, was Orthodox. I didn't think to show him my cross. Needless to say, we were having trouble communicating--the only word I knew was "madlapt" (sp.), Georgian for "thank you." But we eventually understood each other well enough and shook hands heartedly. The rest of his party had joined us by this time. It seems he was the driver of the minivan we were behind way back in Barhal. The group included 2 female teacher/chaperones and a gaggle of teenagers being taken on a cultural tour of their heritage in what is now Turkey. The young people seemed excited to be there and anxious to see the church and frescoes, once they had finished with their extensive greetings to me. Now I ask you, how many of our teenagers would submit to doing something like this, much less be excited about it? Not many, I fear. We posed for pictures and the one here says it all.

I said goodbye to my Georgian friends and brothers and walked back down the hill, and back into Turkey. I did not realize how much I had missed Georgian society in these 11 days. I do not want to engage in any cheap, simplistic Christian triumphalism. But, this incident brought home to me a great truth. We were only a few miles away (as the crow flies) from Georgia proper. But between there and here lay a deep, cultural chasm: the division between a Christian society and the Muslim world. I am still at something at a loss to express it adequately, but the sense of it is as real as anything I have ever experienced. The strictures of the Muslim world, the separation of men and women, and the very presuppositions from which they order their life may not be so obvious at first, until that is, they are contrasted with these curious, lively, noisy, loving, and sometimes untidy Christians. Thank God for the Georgians.

My Akdamar Poll

If you find yourself in far eastern Turkey, in the environs of the breathtakingly beautiful Lake Van, you are probably there to visit Akdamar Island. Such was the draw for me. Akdamar was the locus in this part of "Armenia" from the 900s until about 1918 or so, when the last of the local Christians were killed in the Armenian genocide. At one time, the island housed a royal palace complex and an extensive monastery, in addition to the cathedral church. The church served a comunity of over 140 area churches and 40 monasteries. Today, only the church is left, and it has stood vacant since the end of the First World War.

The church is currently undergoing a government-sponsored restoration, after decades of neglect. Admittedly, this may be cause for concern--the restoration of an ancient Armenian church by the Turkish authorities--but I will give them the benefit of a doubt. Ankara's aggressive PR campaign and overtures to join the EU undoubtedly play a part in this. That, and the dawning realization that there are tourist dollars in these crumbling Christian ruins. Day in, day out, three ferries continuously ply the 2 kilometers between shore and island. Our ferry carried 36 passengers--35 Turks and 1 Texan. I believe that this is a hopeful sign. Turkish nationals are apparently interested in visiting Akdamar and picnicking among the jumble of ancient Armenian tombstones with their huge, ornate crosses. The point is this: there is no way to "Turkify" Akdamar. It is wholly, completely, totally Armenian--and Christian.

My 35 Turkish fellow travelers broke down into 19 men and 16 women. In my journey throughout Turkey, I took to observing the number of women wearing headscarves. They have become common (and an issue) in Turkey only in recent years--tied to political and social conservatism, a "return to traditional values," if you will. I find the wearing of headscarves to be an obviously inexact, but not unreliable, measure of Islamist sentiment.

Lake Van lies in far eastern Turkey, in supposedly one of the most conservative regions of the country. Nevertheless, only 4 of the 16 women wore headscarves. Again, I find this hopeful, and is illustrative of the complex and changing nature of Turkish society.

The Islamist agenda, just as the practice of Islam itself, is somewhat different in Turkey. The Turks are both staunchly Muslim and secular at the same time. This dichotomy precludes making hard-and-fast conclusions about the culture. In fact, the only place I visited where all women wore headscarves was in Yusefeli, deep in the mountains of northeastern Turkey, although I am sure that is also the case in most rural villages, as well. I have been told that for many women, the wearing of the headscarf is more of a political statement than a show of religious fundamentalism. Throughout eastern Turkey, I could draw no firm conclusions--some women wore them, many did not.

There seemed to be no sifting-out between those who did and those who did not. Young women in headscarves--or even dressed "full burkha"--walked arm-in-arm with girls without the scarf who wore western-style blue jeans. My guide told me that each girl made the decision for herself, that there was no pressure one way or the other. I doubt seriously if this is the case in many rural areas, but otherwise I suspect it may be so. What is frowned-on, however, by all parties, is the wearing of short skirts. This is really just not done in Turkey.

I did not notice appreciably more headscarves in eastern Turkey than in Istanbul, as one might expect. In fact, Istanbul is such a cosmopolitan place that it is much like New York in that you are liable to see anything there. For example, the old Greek Phanar district has been largely taken over by poor, fundamentalist Muslims from eastern Turkey. The bearded men are in woolen skullcaps and the women in black burkhas--some with eyes and nose exposed, and some with only the eyes exposed. You might as well be in Kabul. (And believe me, this dress--and what is signifies--is as alarming to most Turks as it is to us). Yet, just across the Golden Horn, along the Istiklal Cadessi, I had to look, and look, and look to spot even one woman in headscarf among the crush of shoppers. As I sat in the sidewalk restaurant, observing, I eventually counted three.

Most of Istanbul falls between these two extremes. Many young Turkish women who opt for the headscarf also wear attractive white close-fitting tunic-style coats. Older women often wear the ubiquitous, shapeless floor-length overcoats endemic to Turkey. They come in two colors: gray and taupe, and they wear them regardless of how hot it is outside. Unfortunately, women who wear these seem cursed to assume their shape. On the other hand, young women in headscarves are often dressed elegantly from head to toe, with special attention to footwear.

I am trying not to obsess on this issue, but merely attempting to gauge the extent and direction of Islamism in the one Muslim country in which I have some limited experience. Blanket assumptions about the Middle and Near East can be ill-informed, and as we are finding out, dangerous. My gut feeling is that Turkey's westward orientation is irreversable; no matter how long it takes, they will eventually join Europe. But they will do so as a decidedly Muslim nation. And Europe, no longer Christian in any real sense, but retaining enough of a veneer of such in their collective memory to be alarmed, is scrambling to confront this dilemma. I am also convinced that if the West ever comes to an accomodation or truce with Islam--and clearly, I am not at all hopeful that such will ever, or should ever occur--it will have to be on the Turkish model.

All or Nothing

I recommend most anything Theodore Dalrymple writes (and concerning Dalrymples, anthing William or Ian writes as well). He recently reviewed Efraim Karsh's Islamic Imperialism: A History. Dalrymple observes that:

The urge to domination is nearly a constant of human history. The specific (and baleful) contribution of Islam is that, by attributing sovereignty solely to God, and by pretending in a philosophically primitive way that God’s will is knowable independently of human interpretation, and therefore of human interest and desire—in short by allowing nothing to human as against divine nature—it tries to abolish politics. All compromises become mere truces; there is no virtue in compromise in itself. Thus Islam is inherently an unsettling and dangerous factor in world politics, independently of the actual conduct of many Muslims.

There's a lot of truth there. Read the entire essay here.

You're known by the company you keep

This picture may add fuel to the speculation about Prince Charles being a wannabe and/or closet Orthodox. This picture hangs in the reception room at Mar Gabriel Monastery, in the Tur Abdin region of southeastern Turkey. Charles visited Turkey in 2004, Tur Abdin being his only stop outside of Istanbul.

My Akdamar Poll

If you find yourself in far eastern Turkey, in the environs of the breathtakingly beautiful Lake Van, you are probably there to visit Akdamar Island. Such was the draw for me. Akdamar was the locus in this part of "Armenia" from the 900s until about 1918 or so, when the last of the local Christians were killed in the Armenian genocide. At one time, the island housed a royal palace complex and an extensive monastery, in addition to the cathedral church. The church served a comunity of over 140 area churches and 40 monasteries. Today, only the church is left, and it has stood vacant since the end of the First World War.

The church is currently undergoing a government-sponsored restoration, after decades of neglect. Admittedly, this may be cause for concern--the restoration of an ancient Armenian church by the Turkish authorities--but I will give them the benefit of a doubt. Ankara's aggressive PR campaign and overtures to join the EU undoubtedly play a part in this. That, and the dawning realization that there are tourist dollars in these crumbling Christian ruins. Day in, day out, three ferries continuously ply the 2 kilometers between shore and island. Our ferry carried 36 passengers--35 Turks and 1 Texan. I believe that this is a hopeful sign. Turkish nationals are apparently interested in visiting Akdamar and picnicking among the jumble of ancient Armenian tombstones with their huge, ornate crosses. The point is this: there is no way to "Turkify" Akdamar. It is wholly, completely, totally Armenian--and Christian.

My 35 Turkish fellow travelers broke down into 19 men and 16 women. In my journey throughout Turkey, I took to observing the number of women wearing headscarves. They have become common (and an issue) in Turkey only in recent years--tied to political and social conservatism, a "return to traditional values," if you will. I find the wearing of headscarves to be an obviously inexact, but not unreliable, measure of Islamist sentiment.

Lake Van lies in far eastern Turkey, in supposedly one of the most conservative regions of the country. Nevertheless, only 4 of the 16 women wore headscarves. Again, I find this hopeful, and is illustrative of the complex and changing nature of Turkish society.

The Islamist agenda, just as the practice of Islam itself, is somewhat different in Turkey. The Turks are both staunchly Muslim and secular at the same time. This dichotomy precludes making hard-and-fast conclusions about the culture. In fact, the only place I visited where all women wore headscarves was in Yusefeli, deep in the mountains of northeastern Turkey, although I am sure that is also the case in most rural villages, as well. I have been told that for many women, the wearing of the headscarf is more of a political statement than a show of religious fundamentalism. Throughout eastern Turkey, I could draw no firm conclusions--some women wore them, many did not.

There seemed to be no sifting-out between those who did and those who did not. Young women in headscarves--or even dressed "full burkha"--walked arm-in-arm with girls without the scarf who wore western-style blue jeans. My guide told me that each girl made the decision for herself, that there was no pressure one way or the other. I doubt seriously if this is the case in many rural areas, but otherwise I suspect it may be so. What is frowned-on, however, by all parties, is the wearing of short skirts. This is really just not done in Turkey.

I did not notice appreciably more headscarves in eastern Turkey than in Istanbul, as one might expect. In fact, Istanbul is such a cosmopolitan place that it is much like New York in that you are liable to see anything there. For example, the old Greek Phanar district has been largely taken over by poor, fundamentalist Muslims from eastern Turkey. The bearded men are in woolen skullcaps and the women in black burkhas--some with eyes and nose exposed, and some with only the eyes exposed. You might as well be in Kabul. (And believe me, this dress--and what is signifies--is as alarming to most Turks as it is to us). Yet, just across the Golden Horn, along the Istiklal Cadessi, I had to look, and look, and look to spot even one woman in headscarf among the crush of shoppers. As I sat in the sidewalk restaurant, observing, I eventually counted three.

Most of Istanbul falls between these two extremes. Many young Turkish women who opt for the headscarf also wear attractive white close-fitting tunic-style coats. Older women often wear the ubiquitous, shapeless floor-length overcoats endemic to Turkey. They come in two colors: gray and taupe, and they wear them regardless of how hot it is outside. Unfortunately, women who wear these seem cursed to assume their shape. On the other hand, young women in headscarves are often dressed elegantly from head to toe, with special attention to footwear.

I am trying not to obsess on this issue, but merely trying to gauge the extent and direction of Islamism in the one Muslim country in which I have some limited experience. Blanket assumptions about the Middle and Near East can be ill-informed, and as we are finding out, dangerous. My gut feeling is that Turkey's westward orientation is irreversable; no matter how long it takes, they will eventually join Europe. But they will do so as a decidedly Muslim nation. And Europe, no longer Christian in any real sense, but retaining enough of a veneer of such in their collective memory to be alarmed, are scrambling to how to confront this dilemma. I am also convinced that if the West ever comes to an accomodation or truce with Islam--and clearly, I am not at all hopeful that such will ever, or should ever occur--it will have to be on the Turkish model.

Odds and Ends

When Bernard Lewis speaks about the Middle East, you had better listen. An excellent interview here.

President Bush has been in trouble lately over his studied use of the term "Islamic fascists." And while I have been none too charitable to our President in recent months, he is correct on this one. The term comes closer to recognizing reality--vastly superior to the nonsensical "war on terror." To separate the Islamic part of the equation from the terrorism, is to purposely miss-characterize what is actually happening. If anything, the term is still too tame. For fascists, to my understanding, were all about order--their order to be sure--but order, nonetheless. We've often heard the old line about how "Mussolini made the trains run on time," etc. I think "Islamic anarchists" is more descriptive.

The chairman of the Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR) predictably huffed that it "contributes to a rising level of hostility to Islam and the American Muslim community." Well, that is typical PCBS. Whether it engenders hostility or not, is immaterial. What is needed is an awareness that the current conflict is just the latest episode in the 1400 year-old struggle of Islam against the West. It has ebbed and flowed, but at present, it is flowing our way. One can make the point that the current terrorism is an aberrant and virulent strain of Islam, but the greater point is that it is a recurring strain in Islam. Calling it what it is is healthy.

I suspect everyone is tired of the whole Mel Gibson episode by now. Even so, lest we get into high dudgeon over it, Rod Dreher addresses the Mel in all of us. And in doing so, he invokes Flannery O'Connor--always a nice move. Read it here.


And finally, Maureen Freely has an excellent essay in Sunday's NYTimes about the trouble a Turkish novelist is in over her use of the "G" word. That's right--genocide, as in Armenian. Read it to believe it here. We occasionally read of a nutcase and/or Iranian President who denies the Jewish Holocaust. In Turkey, Armenian Genocide denial has been a matter of statute law. Truth will out, and the official line is becoming harder and harder to maintain, but the legal and military apparatus is still poised to pounce on any writer who dares to speak the truth.

Travels with St. Ephraim

I am a firm believer in traveling light. On my recent journey, I lived for 30 days out of a medium-sized backpack, mastering the fine art of washing and drying clothes in a shower stall. By the time I returned home, I had transited through 8 different airports a total of 14 times, so this philosophy served me well. I found it hard to avoid being a little smug watching tourists struggle with way, way too much luggage. (I was noticeably less smug on the return--trying to keep up with 3 bottles of wine, a bottle of homemade Georgian cognac and a 4x6 Turkish rug I had accumulated along the way). I extended this rule to my reading material, refusing to take any books, not even travel guides. I simply copied what information I needed from them and pasted it in my pocket journal. I made one exception: The Spiritual Psalter of St. Ephraim the Syrian.

I find myself returning again and again to this small treasure of a book. Over the course of the month, I intended to read through all 150 prayers, maintain my regular prayer discipline and spend considerable time in contemplation. Well, truth be told, I failed miserably! My reading from the psalter was sporadic. Worse yet, so were my regular prayers. I do not discount that I encountered much that affected me deeply, that caused me to contemplate spiritual matters. Yet, I realize that I neglected my prayer life. I had, shall we say, a large time, allowing the excitement of new places and adventures to push my intentions into the background. I realized that I spent more time in prayer and spiritual reading in my busy, work-a-day schedule than I did when I had 30 days without restrictions. So maybe there is a good lesson learned there.

Five days after leaving the Republic of Georgia, I found myself in the old city of Diyarbakir, in east-central Turkey. Let's just say that Diyarbakir does not see much in the way of tourists. Home to 1.5 million, the city is beset with problems. Back in the 1980s and 1990s, the Kurdish insurgency rocked eastern Turkey. Whole villages were abandoned as people sought refuge in the cities. Diyarbakir's population mushroomed with the Kurdish immigration. Despite impressive development in the city (and the old city is ringed by a quite modern new city), poverty is still acute and there are still far too few jobs to go around. Additionally, Kurdish nationalism still hangs on in Diyarbakir, and as a consequence, the Turkish military maintains a heavy presence there. A small riot occured, I believe, just the month before I arrived. The Turkish government and military are quite serious about stamping out remaining rebel activity, so the official response to any trouble is swift and heavy-handed. One hundred years ago, Diyarbakir was an ethnic melting pot with Turks, Kurds, Armenians and Syrian Orthodox. In fact, the city was fully 1/4 Armenian Christian. Not so today. The Turkish genocide of the Armenians in 1915-1918 took care of that element, and the Syrian Orthodox have been squeezed out in recent years. Today, the city is overwhelmingly Kurdish. Diyabakir boasts the longest continuous city walls in the world, but that is about all they can put on the tourist brochure. And to top it all off, Diyarbakir has an unsavory (but not undeserved) reputation. Unlike anywhere else in Turkey, gangs of young pickpockets prey on any unwary tourists.

So why would anyone even want to go to Diyarbakir? For me, I went for 1 reason--to see the Meryamana Kilisesi, the Church of the Virgin Mary. This Syrian Orthodox Church dates back to the late 300s, making it perhaps the oldest continuously operating church in the world. I had already visited a number of Suriani churches in Mardin and Midyat. They differ somewhat from the Orthodox churches I am used to, or have seen elsewhere in my travels. I realize, of course, that they are monophysite, like the Copts and Armenians. Beyond that, the altars are different, often more like elaborate niches, actually, with no iconostasis. (Altars in mosques are much the same, though Turks would never, ever admit that they copied this design from the early Christians!) The most noticeable difference, however, is in the iconography. Suriani churches are not covered in icons and frescoes. There may be a large icon or two, and perhaps some tapestries. Finally, the iconographic style is much simpler, almost child-like in some cases.

My guide, Turan, and I passed through the Byzantine walls into the old city. At first glance, it was no different from any number of Turkish streetscapes. We stopped at the Ulla Mosque, built with stones from the ancient cathedral at Diyarbakir. This is one of the oldest remaining Turkish mosques, perhaps 12th-century or so. I hate to be dismissive, but if you've seen one mosque, you've just about seen them all. There was a pleasant courtyard, however, and I took a few pictures so as to not offend my guide, who indeed by this time had become a good friend. From the courtyard, we prepared to venture out into the narrow labyrinth of alleyways leading to the Meryamana Kilisesi. We hid our cameras, and moved our backpacks to the front. The gangs here have the reputation of being able to strip a backpack before you know it. As we made our way towards the church, groups of these children seemed to take an inordinate interest in our progress, though Turan was able to keep them shoed away, for the most part. At one point, a man came out of a doorway and started walking with us. He gave Turan some warnings about what to watch out for, and then walked along with us, just to make sure we made it to the church without any trouble.

We reached the gate to the church compound, and rang the bell. In the East, you don't see much if you don't gain access to the courtyards. The beauty of their homes and lives is always hidden from public view. The caretaker admitted us and escorted us to the 4th-century church. The simple domed sanctuary was exquisite, though other than the altar, somewhat sparsely adorned. One large, bright reddish icon hung on the right wall. The caretaker explained that once the building could not hold all the worshippers. The Kurdish troubles, and the Turkish government's ambivalence to the plight of the Christians (sound familiar?) had forced most of the Suriani to flee in the 1980s. The church was now home to 3 Christian families. The priest ministered to these believers, as well as 2 families of Assyrian Catholics and and one Armenian remaining in the city.

Shortly thereafter, the priest came in and began the vespers service. At first, the caretaker and I and my guide were the only ones there. One by one, 4 handsome young men, ranging in age from about 17 down to 10, came in and took their places around the priest, and assisted him in the chanting. The service was in Aramaic, but I was able to follow the caretaker's lead in prostrations and crossing myself. In a previous conversation with Turan, he was surprised to learn that we prostrated ourselves in worship. So now he had a demonstration of that truth. And I wondered if he realized that the Muslim practice of prostration, like so much of their religion, was not new to them, but borrowed from the early Christians. We eased out after about 15 minutes and worked our way back into the noisy city.

And one more thing. Before the service, I had Turan ask the caretaker who the icon portrayed. Mar Efram, he replied. St. Ephraim, of course.