Travel Journal (10)--Soganli

In so many ways, Cappadocia defies description. I hope the pictures posted on this and subsequent posts will convey some sense of the area. Much of the region is like an eerie moonscape, complete with bizarre volcanic rock formations; so much so that a few scenes from the original Star Wars movie were shot here. From on high, the region looks uninhabitable, but the gorges hide lush, productive valleys where all sorts of crops are grown. In the past, Cappadocia was heavily forested, but generations of sheep-herding have taken its toll.
















From time immemorial, Cappadocians have carved dwellings in the soft volcanic rock. These cave homes provide cool relief in the summer, and warmth in the winter. Christianity came to Cappadocia early on (Acts 2:8). In time, cave churches and monasteries dotted the area. These sites and their frescoes are, after Istanbul, Turkey's most popular tourist attraction. I am glad Turan and I started with the Soganli Valley. Some of the more popular Cappadocian destinations can become overrun with tour buses. Not so, Soganli. We had it much to ourselves--a great introduction to the region.























We visited 4 churches in this valley. Their original names are lost, but Turks have identified them either by some notable fresco or some physical characteristic. So the churches are known as the Black Hat Church, the Church of the Snake, the Church of the Dome and the Hidden Church. The frescoes are in generally poor condition. They have been damaged in 2 ways: first, intentionally by Muslims who gouge out the eyes of these "images," and second by graffiti. And before we work up too much anger over Turks destroying the frescoes by their graffiti, I might add that most of the graffiti is in Greek. The cave churches had ceased to be used actively long before the expulsion of the Greeks in 1923. Turan explained that there was a rural superstition that held that if you scratched your name on one of the icons, collected the paint dust from the scratching, and then mixed it with your bath water, then that saint would bless you. So, at least in the Soganli Valley, the damage by graffiti was largely by the pre-1923 Christian community itself.

Of course, the Muslim Turkish community was not without its own destructive superstitions. These cave churches have depressions all over their floors. These are shallow graves that have been emptied. In a period of drought, the local Muslims determinied they were being punished by having the graves of these "unbelievers" in their midst. So, they dug up all the graves and threw the bones of the "infidels" into the river. Turan was telling me of one instance, however, where they dug up the grave of a nun and found her in a remarkable state of preservation. This was so amazing to them that her body was preserved and is now on display (sadly) at the museum in Nigde. I tried to explain to Turan the Orthodox belief on this sort of phenomenon (to the extent that I myself understand.)

















The "Black Hat Church" was the center of a substantial monastic complex. In addition to the chapel, stables, a refectory, a baptismal pool, wine cellar, cells for the priests, and any number of other rooms filled out the compound--all in caves. The Church of the Snake was so-named from the fresco of St. George and the serpent. While we were looking around, we noticed a 30ish couple on the site along with us. They were quite friendly, asking where we were from, as we Americans are wont to do. I was surprised to find that they were fellow Texans, though had spent their post-college years in Baltimore. He was pleased to learn that I was familiar with the small town of his heritage in Texas, located about 100 miles southwest of my home.
















We continued on around the valley, crossed the willow-shaded stream with the adjoining pumpkin patches, and circled up the other side of the valley. Turan is very knowledgeable about the flora and fauna of Turkey, stopping to inspect some flower, or introduce me to the hoo-poo bird. We poked around the Hidden Church and the Church of the Dome and then made our way down the valley to the village. Here we stopped for some tea (spelled cay, pronounced chai). The Baltimore couple was at the next table and they were easy conversationalists. We found ourselves laughing and telling East Texas stories. Weird.

Travel Journal (9)--Cappadocia

Turan and I, somewhere in the Taurus Mountains

I left Istanbul to spend 6 days or so in Cappadocia. My traveling companion would be my good friend, Turan. He undoubtedly has the best job in the world. He spends his days introducing American, Australian or Israeli travelers to the wonders of his country, whether it be hiking in the Taurus or Kackar Mountains, scaling Mt. Ararat, scrambling down tunnels in the undergrown cities, hiking the valleys of Cappadocia, or sailing the Aegean Coast. I have traveled with him from Cappadocia to the Iranian border. He is to graduate the university this year with a degree in tourism. This is something of a anticlimax, however. He is already a walking encyclopedia when it comes to the history of Anatolia. Everywhere we go, no matter how remote, people seem to know him. Turan has farsighted ideas about the future of Turkish tourism, and has the dedication and patience to see them to fruition. He will do well.

Travel Journal (8)--The Nevisadze Crowd: A Summing Up of Turkey

If nothing else, I hope my last few posts have conveyed a sense of the deep affection I have for the Turkish people. That being said, I do have my problems with Turkey, just as they undoubtedly have complaints about the US. For example, there is the needless persecution of my church, even in inconsequential matters, such as this account. Similarly, God forbid that you get into a discussion in Turkey about Greece and/or Cyprus. Then of course there is their infuriating and continuing denial/equivocation/obscuration concerning the Armenian genocide, a subject which I have commented on several times in the last year. This determined stance seems to be cracking a little in the information age, and is becoming harder to maintain. In my view, all this can be laid at the feet of the sometimes suffocating Turkish nationalism--a belief that everything in the nation must be thoroughly Turkified. Anatolia has been many things in its long history, with the Turks being--considering the grand sweep of history--only the most recent manifestation.


















With my friend, Hakan at the Apricot Hotel


Turkey is an increasingly important, and independent player in the Middle East. Its location, as always, makes it an essential nation, so to speak. And its status as a thoroughly Muslim nation makes this all the more intriguing. For we are in an era of history in which Islam is once more on the move. There is nothing inevitable about this, but it is part of a historical process that has happened before. Islam may be resurgent, or what we see may simply be the flailing and thrashings of an inflexible ideology in its death throes--or some perverse combination of each. Either way, a death cult as Thomas Friedman calls it here, and as exemplified by recent events in Britain, has embedded itself in Islam. So moderately Muslim Turkey has in effect become a laboratory to determine if Islam is compatible or adaptable to the modern, or post-modern world. I firmly believe that if the West and Islam ever come to an accommodation and/or truce, it will have to be on the Turkish model. But we are learning that Islam is no more monolithic than Christianity. And Turkey is very much its own thing. It's applicability to other Muslim nations remains to be seen.

The secular/Islamist debate within Turkey is not straight-forward to us. The secularists--those we would naturally be inclined to support--are the ones who have ridden roughshod over Turkey's ethnic and religious minorities, while presiding over governments much too comfortable with the military establishment and its accompanying corruption. Also, their interpretationn of what we see as the separation of church (or in this case, mosque) and state is more along the French model than the American model. On the other hand, the AKP, the current ruling party in Turkey, is "Islamist," but only in the Turkish context. The AKP, to put it in an 1990s American context, is the party of "family values." They believe that traditional Turkish values have been jettisoned by the secularists. Interestingly, the AKP is seen as the party of good government, opposed to graft and corruption. Finally, they are the party of the rising Turkish middle class. All that being said, the AKP is being watching closely. The fear of creeping Islamism is a real concern. Rod Dreher, in a column today, here, expertly analyzes this dichotomy.

Turkey is more than Istanbul. Visitors for a few days to the city can wildly miss the mark in drawing conclusions about Turkey as a whole. But on the other hand, you can see anything in Istanbul. In fact, the most conservative--Islamist, if you will--Turks I saw were not in far eastern Turkey, but in the Phanar of Istanbul. Since 2003, I have spent over 6 weeks in the country, and have visited 26 of its 81 provinces. So, my overall impressions of the country are tempered by my experiences in central and eastern Anatolia as well. I conducted my informal "head-scarf survey" again this year. Wherever I happened to be, whether in numerous disparate neighborhoods, on the Metro, the tram, the ferries, sitting in parks, I think I observed a wide spectrum of Istanbul. There were plenty of women in variations of traditional Turkish Islamic dress. And yet, compared to last year, noticeably less so. A crowded tram car I was on contained only 2 women in Islamic dress. On Istiklal Caddesi, a woman so dressed would walk by only occasionally. It was the same situation on the ferry. All women on Nevisadze Sokak were in western dress.

My friend Hakan and I went for dinner one night at a small establishment near his hotel. And by small, I mean 4 tables set out on the cobblestone street. Nevertheless, we feasted on marvelous salads and mezes, cheese--so fresh, as he said, "you could still smell the sheep's teats"--and sea bass, followed by fresh watermelon, grapes, apricots and other fruits, and all lubricated by good Turkish raki. Hakan is 35 or so, and quite the entrepreneur. He is very much the hands-on operator of one of the best little hotels in Istanbul. He hosts tour groups on occasion. For a time, he was investing in apartment flats, and in a small construction company. He owns a small building in Beyoglu where he leases space to an architect. He has plans for a wine bar there, and perhaps opening a seafood cafe in conjunction with his hotel. Hakan would like to live nearby in old Sultanhamet, but his wife prefers the suburbs. He speaks several languages. Hakan is Muslim by birth, but unobservant. He is Muslim the same way most French are Catholic. And yet, as part of the burgeoning middle class, he supports the AKP. In short, I find Hakan to be a good representative of the new Turkey.

I read somewhere that the whole "head scarf issue" was actually receding in Turkey; that is was more of a political statement and symbol than a religious sentiment. Now that they had carried the day politically, the head scarf was less in evidence. I told Hakan about this and asked his opinion. He said that is exactly what has happened. He compared the head scarf to the peace symbol worn by American hippies in the 60s. It was a simply a political statement.

















Istiklal Caddesi at night

Istiklal Caddesi is the place to be seen in Istanbul--once the main street through old European Pera, it is now a pedestrian shopping street, a place where Istanbulis go to see and be see. The street stretches from Taksim Square on the north, to just north of the Galata Tower on the south. Its neo-classical architecture could fit anywhere in Western Europe. Since last year, there have been some changes not to my liking: the marvelous old Four Seasons Restaurant, operated by a soft-spoken Englishwomen, is no more. A gleaming new "Gloria-Jean's Coffee" has replaced it. A real Starbucks competes only 4 doors up the street. Three blocks further along Istiklal Caddesi, I found another Gloria-Jean's Coffee, with another copycat Starbucks 4 doors down.

















Istiklal Caddesi street scene


A few streets intersect Istiklal Caddesi, but primarily there are pedestrian-only passages coming off the street. Here one can find some of the very best of the sidewalk restaurants. My particular goal on Istiklal Caddesi, was not to shop (horrors) or eat, but rather to search out the hidden churches within closed compounds along these passages. I discovered an Armenian Catholic Church (I didn't know there was such), an Armenian Orthodox Church and a Greek Orthodox Church. Although one could glimpse a bell tower occasionally, by and large they were hidden completely from view. If the doors were unlocked, you could stroll into the compound of offices and apartments surrounding the churches.

The Armenian church was right around the corner from Nevisadze Sokak. This was a pedestrian-only street, that intersected one of the passages. The street contained at least 50 sidewalk restaurants, with just enough room for two people to pass between the outside tables. At night, it was largely bereft of tourists, but filled to capacity with Istanbulis of all ages, male and female--eating, talking, drinking and smoking. It is a wonderful atmospheric spot to capture the feel of Istanbul. It doesn't matter which restaurant you choose; they are all excellent. Choose your meze, point to the fish you want in the refrigerated cabinet, then grab an outside table, enjoy your Efes or raki and be a part of the tableau. Again, the crowd up and down the street were thoroughly Westernized--you could have seen a similar scene in most any European city.

I enjoyed it so much, I returned a second night. An Efes Beer-sponsored "Beerfest," complete with live band, was occurring at one end of the street. With such a crush of people, I pulled away from Nevizadze Sokak, determining to return later for supper. While doing so, I bumped into another friend. We made plans to see each other later that night at a nearby nightspot. That is how I found myself, near midnight, at a Turkish club just off Taksim Square. I didn't really care for the blasting techno beat, but the dance floor was packed with young Turks who thought otherwise. Whether this is a good thing for Turkish society is debatable--just as it is debatable whether it is a good thing for our culture. But as I worked my way back to the hotel, I added this image, as well as that of Nevizadze to the montage I was forming in my mind. The composite picture came into focus for me. There is no turning back. These people are not going back. Secularist or AKP, no matter. Their eyes are firmly planted West. Muslim? Yes. Turkish? Absolutely. But Western, none the less.


















Nevizadze Sokak

Travel Journal (7)--I Learn to Curse in Turkish

During my Istanbul sojourn, I decided to spend a day on one of the Princes Islands. In Byzantine times, deposed emperors and empresses and out-of-favor court officials were exiled here; hence the name, Princes Islands. In the 19th century, Greek and Armenian merchants from Constantinople built their summer homes here. Today, all the islands are becoming increasingly Turkish in character, as these homes are being acquired by wealthy Turks. Yet, the Christian minorities are still alive here, offering a rare glimpse back to the days when Istanbul was truly cosmopolitan. Indeed, this may be the last redoubt of the Constantinopolitan Greek and Armenian communities.

Last year, I visited Buyukada, the largest and with its lavish villas, hilltop monastery and horse-drawn carriages, the most popular island. I opted for Burguzada this year--much smaller and even quieter. Outside of a reportedly excellent beach, Burguzada offers nothing much beyond peace and solitude.

Of course, half of the fun of the islands is getting there. Ferries ply the waters from the wharf at Kabatas every two hours or so, all day long; stopping first at Kinaliada, then Burguzada, then Heybeliada and finally Buyukada, before reversing the process. I always get a seat on the upper outside deck on the bow of the boat. The views are spectacular--Istanbul is best seen from the sea. A ferry ride to the islands offers an unparalleled view of the vast, modern city that is Asiatic Istanbul, something most visitors never see. But most importantly, the ferry ride provides for some excellent people-watching.

















I settled back and zeroed in on observing two young couples traveling to the islands together. Both of the young men were dressed much the same, in the style of young Turkish men--button-up shirt, jeans and black shoes. The girlfriends, however, were a different matter. One was dressed casually in jeans, in a western style. The other wore a headscarf and an elegant long white coat, in the Islamic style. Among the boat's passengers, women in head scarfs were a distinct minority. Both couples sat next to one another, and they spent the ride, shall we say, "canoodling," if that is still a word. It was life-affirming to watch young people in love. While the one in western dress was perhaps slightly more demonstrative than her friend, I really noticed no appreciable difference between the two couples. This little scenario illustrates an important truth about Turkey. Islamic sentiments, while obviously in evidence, are ultimately sentiments filtered through Turkish culture. As such, they are inevitably more muted and moderate than similar expressions in other Muslim countries.

















One of my guilty pleasures in Turkey is passing for something--anything--other than an American tourist. I was so flattered by a restaurant hawker who mistook me first for a Spanish tourist, and then an Italian tourist, that I actually sat down and had a bite to eat at his establishment. So, on the ferry, I was able to join in with the young Turks around me--with an arched eyebrow and knowing look--as we somewhat bemusedly took stock of the chattering American tour group who invaded our deck, a veritable flurry of heftiness in white sneakers, shorts and sun visors. Somehow, the conversations of American tourists rise above and drown out all other talk. The Turks around me seemed mildly amused and somewhat curious at the mutual sunblock-smearing rituals observed by these Americans once they had settled in. One lady was gushing to one of her fellow travelers about her necklace. It was an amalgam of religious symbols of all the major faiths of the world: a Christian cross, a Muslim crescent, a Jewish star of David, a Hindu something or the other, etc., all jumbled up together. A gaudy, unholy mess, in my view, but she was explaining just how spiritual it made her feel and just exactly how her new friend could order one just like it. How quaintly American.


















There were only a few of us who disembarked at Buzukada. Everyone else apparently headed off towards the beach. I lingered around the harbor town, which consists of a cluster of 2-story frame stores and cafes which quickly give way to the surrounding villas. The centerpiece of the town is the impressive Church of St. John the Baptist (with blue dome in the picture to the left). The shopkeepers in the town are all Turkish. But if you pay attention, you can catch glimpses of the Greeks, relaxing on their patios behind the summer homes. A few are making the rounds to do a little shopping. Grandsons in bathing suits and flip-flops are making their way to the private pool. Later in the day, matrons stroll down to the cafes with their Turkish nurses or housekeepers, to have some chai, or drinks, and sit and smoke. How do I know they are Greek and not Turkish? The henna hair rinse is usually a dead give away. Or you may catch a glimpse of a cross necklace. And then, of course, Greek woman smoke in public. Turkish women smoke in private.

















I decided to circumnavigate the island in a counter-clockwise direction. I followed the shoreline around to a concrete jetty. This was not the beach, but 4 or 5 young Turkish men were swimming and sunbathing. I relaxed on a park bench and enjoyed the ocean view. The island of Heybeliada (Halki in Greek) lay directly in front of me, with the shuttered Orthodox seminary commanding the hilltop. The water certainly looked inviting. As I was wearing cargo pants that zipped off at the knees, I quickly transformed myself from John the Tourist into John the Beach Dude. I have always loved to swim and before long I dove into the crystal blue sea. A short and invigorating spell in the ice cold water was enough for me.

After drying off, I set off again on my walk that took me near the summit of the island. From here I had a clear view of the town, nestled in the cove below, the other islands, and Asiatic Istanbul in the distance. I began to descend the hill, as the path became a street through neighborhoods with homes awash in hydrangeas and oleanders. I passed a small, pristine ochre-colored Orthodox church. The courtyard was locked, so I could not investigate. In short time, I come upon the Church of St. John the Baptist. A painter was working inside, so I was able to slip inside the sanctuary. He found me there, and was apparently trying to tell me that it was closed and I shouldn't be there. I pulled my cross from within my shirt and showed him, which seemed to satisfied him. I was able to spend a few quiet minutes there among the ornate Greek icons.

I finished my tour of the island and walked down to the dock, to learn that the next ferry would not arrive for another 1 hour and 20 minutes. So, I strolled back into town and took a seat at the Cafe Kardesler. Lunchtime was long past--I had totally forgotten about eating. I chose an ice cream snack and sat down to relax a bit. I felt bad about occupying a table for a great length of time without ordering much of anything, so I ordered a glass of chai as well.

















The waiter--as most Turkish waiters are apt to do with tourists--struck up a conversation with me. This presented some difficulties as he knew little English, and I even less Turkish. I can count to 20 and say thank you, but that is about the extent of it. I learned his name and that he was from Urfa. I tried to tell him that I had been there and that I thought it was a nice city. He then asked me where I was from. Oh dear, I thought. Here we go. I replied, "the U.S.," to which he quickly asked, "Where, U.S.?" I motioned for him to come closer, I put my hand to my mouth and whispered "Texas." He jumped back excitedly and exclaimed, "George Boosh, George Boosh, George Boosh!" All the while, I was trying to shush him. That's the trouble when we Texans travel abroad. Nobody associates us with people such as Lady Bird Johnson, or Tommy Lee Jones, for example. No, they automatically think of J. R. Ewing or George Bush.

My waiter friend would walk by, grin and say "George Boosh." I would respond with a thumbs down sign, to which he would copy. At one point, he came out and gave me a gift of Turkish worry beads that Turkish men are so fond of fingering. In return, I made a show of rolling my komboskini off my wrist and giving to him. He stepped back and motioned no, as if I were trying to hand him a snake. He knew what it was. After all, this is still a Greek island.

On the third glass of chai, my friend started teaching me some phrases in Turkish. He was say something like: George Boosh, sher-ef-eeze; and Deek Chaney, or-as-pu. I would repeat what he said, and then he would double over in paroxysms of laughter. I surmised that whatever it was that I was saying was not particularly edifying to our Commander-in-Chief. Or to Mr. Bush, either, for that matter. My friend came back with his cell phone and took a video of me reciting these lines. He then took it over to a co-worker and replayed it for him. I was glad to be able to provide so much amusement to the wait staff.

















I saw my ferry approaching, so I left a nice tip and waved goodbye to my waiter friend. The ride back to Kabatas was uneventful. The end of the tram line lay directly opposite of the dock, so I was soon settled in on a car, counting off the 8 stops until my neighborhood. On the 3rd stop, the doors opened, and my friend Turan, stepped onboard, right in front of me. What a coincidence. I knew he had business in Istanbul, but we were to meet a few days hence in Cappadocia and had no plans to get together in the city. We embraced and started catching up on things. Turan and I got off together and walked down to Cembelitas, where he knew of a nice han down a side-street. We ordered chai and a nargile and were soon deep into politics and world affairs. I suddenly remembered my notes from lunch. I pulled out my journal and asked him what "sher-ef-eeze" meant, and then "or-as-pu." He turned red, started laughing, and then translated for me. Sher-ef-eeze roughly meant "one who sells their wife as a prostitute," and or-as-pu implied that one was, well, an employee of the sher-ef-eeze. This is about as racy as it gets in Turkish. The language doesn't really lend itself to cursing. They depend on us in the West for that.

Travel Journal (6)--Dandolo's Grave

When talking to would-be or first-time visitors to Istanbul, I always advise them to see the Haghia Sophia if they don't see anything else. (This tack was lost on a young American girl I was talking to in the hotel lobby. We were in the very shadow of the Blue Mosque itself, and she had no concept of what it was, much less the Haghia Sophia. She and her sister wanted to go to the beach. What a waste of a perfectly good airline ticket). Of all the must-see sites in Istanbul, the Haghia Sophia tops the list. And that is also the main reason--more so than even Turkey's residual xenophobic nationalism--why Turkey will never, never, never, ever allow it to be returned to the church. For the Haghia Sophia is the very linchpin of the booming Turkish tourism industry. European Union or not, there are some things that they just will not do. I have signed those petitions that appear occasionally online and in our large Greek churches that call for a return of the Haghia Sophia to the Orthodox Church. I will continue to sign them, and encourage others to do so as well. It is a part of the good fight. Just don't expect it to ever happen.

A visit to the Haghia Sophia is bittersweet--or at least it should be to a Christian with any semblance of a historical consciousness. On the one hand, there is the awe-factor, which sets in long before you ever enter inside. But there is always the accompanying sadness: sadness over its desecration in 1204, and then again in 1453, and its 500 years as a mosque. I resent the skewed, bastardization of the sanctuary to accommodate an orientation towards Mecca. The remaining frescoes are achingly beautiful, but then they represent perhaps 5% of what was once there, the rest either lost or covered up. I resent the 4 huge, hideous wooden medallions mounted in the 19th-century to honor the 4 caliphs. But most of all, I am irked by a slab of marble on the upper south gallery; for here lies the remains of Henrico Dandolo.

Henrico Dandolo, of course, presided as doge of Venice at the time of the Fourth Crusade. The fact that he was 90 years old and blind in no way lessened his influence. For it was the Venetians who financed and outfitted the Frankish mission to the Holy Land, and Dandolo accompanied the expedition to protect Venice's investment. The story of how the misguided Crusaders veered from their ostensible goal of liberating the Holy Land from the Muslims, and instead decided to lay siege, capture and loot Constantinople from their fellow Christians has been oft told (best by Runciman).

The scope of the disaster is still difficult to comprehend. London, Paris and Rome were cities of perhaps 40,000 to 50,000 people. Venice, the largest city in the West, approached 100,000 inhabitants. Constantinople, on the other hand, numbered over 400,000 citizens. The Franks had never seen anything remotely comparable. The capture of the city was something of a fluke, and the resultant looting went on for days. A section of the city four times the size of Paris burned to the ground. The Franks seemed more interested in wanton destruction, murder and rape. Meanwhile the Venetians were busy prying the gold, silver and pearls off the icons, dismantling the altars, and boxing up the relics--all to be shipped home. That is why if one really wants to glimpse the glory that was Constantinople, they have to go to Venice. (One has to wonder, what exactly did they have in St. Marks before 1204?) The desecration of the Haghia Sophia was particularly nasty and malicious. The 1453 conquest by the Muslims was a gentlemanly affair by comparison.

I generally do not engage in historical "what ifs." The tides of history are usually inexorable. But this is exactly what makes the 1204 fall of Constantinople so disturbing. It was hardly inevitable. Rather, the capture was a fluke, an aberration, and totally unnecessary. But the consequences, right down to the present, have been incalculable. Some argue that the Byzantines had been on a downward spiral since Manzikert in 1071, and as such, their downfall was just a matter of time. But Alexius I Comnenus stopped the hemorrhaging and re-established Byzantine hegemony in Anatolia. The wise John II Comnenus and Manuel I Comnenus continued to strengthen the Empire. Some historians contend that the rot had already set in, and the Comneni were merely pursuing a defensive game, playing one adversary off against the other. Certainly the Crusading activities of the Latins complicated their diplomacy. Yet the Empire was a going concern, with a stable, defensible frontier against the Seljuks. The fact that they were in the midst of a succession crisis in 1204 was nothing new. The Byzantines seemingly thrived on this sort of thing. So, if the Crusading horde had sailed on to the Holy Land as planned, there is no reason to believe that Constantinople could not have remained a Christian bulwark in the East through the coming centuries.

The Byzantines did regain control in 1261. And while Constantinople saw something of a cultural renaissance under the Paleologi, the society as a whole was a shell of its former self. They were no longer equipped to stop the Islamic advance--now at the Bosphorus. The fact that they held on until 1453 is at once a testimony to Byzantine diplomacy, as well the sudden appearance of the Mongol menace, breathing down the necks of the Turks from the East.

And so the disaster of 1204 is a tragedy, and the wily Dandolo one of the great villains of history. The fact that he is buried at the Haghia Sophia is particularly, and cruelly, ironic. These were the thoughts going through my mind as I stood by his grave. I turned my heal on the corner of his slab and walked on. That doesn't say anything particularly noble about myself, but it sure felt good.

Travel Journal (5)--Istanbul? Again?

This is the typical response I get when I explain my recent absence from home and work; a fair question considering this is my 4th or 5th time in the city. If not at exactly at home in Istanbul, I have at

















least become casually familiar with the city. It is now to the point where I actually bump into friends there. On three separate occasions recently, in different parts of the city, I happened upon friends and acquaintances. I am able to leave the airport by Metro, switch to the tram, then take the funicular and arrive at Taksim Square, all for about $2. I can launch off into untouristed neighborhoods sans map and find my way back. I have no qualms about slipping into a working-class taverna for a Efes, or a nargile. I have rescued first-time tourists on the brink of making travel blunders. If I am hanging around the hotel lobby, the staff may ask me for assistance in advising guests. So, in a very small way, I feel that I am a part of things there, as opposed to just being an outside observer.

















That's well and good, but it still doesn't answer the question "Why?" I suppose I wanted to return to Istanbul to scratch my Byzantine itch, so to speak. My guide in this was Freeley's wonderful Byzantine Monuments of Istanbul--a great read, but only if you are seriously into this sort of thing. Any remaining scrap of old Constantinople is covered, in great detail, in this work. My check-off list included several old churches (now mosques) somewhat off the tourist trail: the Church of Theotokos ton Loubes, the Church of St. Polyeuktus, the Church of the Pammakaristos, the Myraleion, etc. I wanted to stroll what had been the Meses, the once grand collanaded thoroughfare in which Emperor and commoner alike entered the metropolis. I wanted to approach the Apostoleion, the hill of the Church of the Holy Apostles, from this vantage point and imagine what once was. In short, I intended to wander about and perhaps catch a faint whiff of old Constantinople. But at night--I wanted to be counted among the thoroughly modern Istanbulis!

After stashing my bag at the hotel, I headed for the Sultanhamet tram stop. I planned to ride as far as Aksaray, get off and approach the Fatih Camii (site of the Church of the Holy Apostles) from the south, then circle back along the route of the old Meses (now Divan Yolu Caddesi and others). Along the way, I would visit the sites of 4 old churches and the Monument to Marcian.

The Church of the Holy Apostles is one of the lost wonders of Constantinople. Built atop the 4th hill by Constantine the Great, and rebuilt by Justinian, it was second only to the Haghia Sophia. St. Marks in Venice is modeled upon the Church of the Holy Apostles. Beginning with Constantine, and continuing for 700 years, it was the burial place of the Roman Emperors of the East. By the middle of the 11th century, other churches, mainly the Church of Christ Pantocrator, began to fill that role.

The Church suffered terribly during the capture of the city by the Fourth Crusade in 1204. The Franks ransacked the sanctuary and pried open the giant porphyry tombs of the Emperors--from Constantine the Great down to Constantine VIII--looted them of all jewels and other valuables, then threw the corpses into the street. Holy Apostles never recovered. The period after the expulsion of the Latins and return of the Byzantines in 1261 saw the construction of smaller, though exquisite, churches (Chora, Pammakaristos, etc.) By the time of the Ottoman conquest in 1453, Holy Apostles was almost in ruins. Mehmet the Conquerer tore it down and built the present Fatih Camii from the stones. Fatih Camii, while large, is for the most part indistinguishable from any number of other Ottoman mosques.















The Church of the Theotokos ton Loubes, or the Church of Constantine Lips, lies at the base of the 4th hill. The 1100 year old building is holding up just fine. Though open, I did not investigate much inside. 500 years as a mosque has obliterated anything of much interest to me. The site of Holy Apostles lies up the hill, 12 blocks north. Even in the midst of the jumble of modern buildings, it was still possible to envision the magnificence of the site. About 4 blocks away, in a busy working class neighborhood, I stopped and tried to take a picture that would convey some sense of the site (unsuccessfully). I was leaning up against a shop window, and only noticed afterwards that it was a wedding dress store. The displays were full of mannequins in full white wedding dress splendor. The two clerks behind the counter were dressed in headscarves and conservative long coats. Somehow, I was amused by this. While that sort of dress might do for everyday, for weddings they wanted the full American treatment, with all the meringue.

From there, my walk took me downhill, past the Aqueduct of Valens, past the excavations of Anicia Juliana's Church of St. Polyeuktos. Juliana was immensely wealthy, the royal heir of both the Eastern and Western Empire, and even considered as a contender for Empress of the East. She lost out to Justinian, who viewed her church-building with envy. The church is said to be modeled on the Temple of Solomon, though only the foundation remains. The Monument to the Emperor Marcian occupies the center of a small roundabout in a residential neighborhood. I am still amazed to see a column still there, 1600 years later.


















It took a bit of detective work to find the Myralaion, the church built by Emperor Romanus Lecapenus. In my search, I wandered into the strange Laleli District. Though just off the main road, the area was chock-a-block with flashy hotels, with glitzy lobbies open to the street. Often, there would be women sitting downstairs near the front desk. The stores displayed decidedly western clothes of a certain sort--a sort, I might add, that no Turkish woman, however westernized, would wear. In the midst of all this glitz, I stumbled across a 19th-century Greek church compound. Though clearly being used for other purposes now, the bell tower with a cross on top belied its original use. I did not like this part of town, so made my way back up to Ordu Caddesi. Later, in talking with my friend Turan, he told me what I had already surmised. Turks like to locate similar type businesses together. For example, there are districts where shop after shop sells fabrics. There is another street, across the Golden Horn, that I just call "Hardware Street." This district, it seems, was the Russian hooker district.

Visiting the Chora Church again and Pammakaristos for the first time forced me to utilize a taxi. The churches are inconvenient, but worth the trouble. The ride out there takes you along the southern shore of the Golden Horn, past the area where the Franks breached the sea wall in 1204, then along the still impressive Theodosian walls for a quite a stretch. Chora has the most sublime frescoes in Turkey--or anywhere else for that matter. Since last there, they have opened up the grounds and made it more tourist-friendly. I was surprised to see that the Church of the Pammakaristos was now open and charging admission (which I gladly paid). It's mosaics, while less extensive than Chora's, are every bit as glorious. While Turkey may continue to tighten the screws on its remaining Greek Orthodox citizens, they have awakened to the tourist potential of these historic Christian sites, not only here, but throughout the country. Enough for now.

Travel Journal (4)--Istanbul, Not Constantinople

"Istanbul" 1953

Words by Jimmy Kennedy
Music by Nat Simon

Lyrics:

Istanbul was Constantinople
Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Now it's Turkish delight on a moonlit night

Every gal in Constantinople
Lives in Istanbul, not Constantinople
So if you've a date in Constantinople
She'll be waiting in Istanbul

Even old New York was once New Amsterdam
Why they changed it I can't say
People just liked it better that way

So take me back to Constantinople
No, you can't go back to Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works
That's nobody's business but the Turks

Istanbul (Istanbul)
Istanbul (Istanbul)

Even old New York was once New Amsterdam
Why they changed it I can't say
People just liked it better that way

Istanbul was Constantinople
Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works
That's nobody's business but the Turks

So take me back to Constantinople
No, you can't go back to Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works
That's nobody's business but the Turks

I first visited Istanbul in 2003, traveling with my friend Bill, who is 20 years my senior. As he will readily admit himself, Bill has had a difficult time coping with anything that has happened in the world since the Eisenhower administration. He has this amazing ability to remember all the words to popular songs from the Big Band era (anything more recent, save perhaps Tony Bennett, is suspect). So, there we were, walking down the streets of old Constantinople, as he was jigging along, snapping his fingers and singing this old ditty from 1953. And now, this tune is stuck in my brain as well. Thanks, Bill.

I know that as an Orthodox Christian, I am supposed to say Constantinople, rather than Istanbul. I think I will demur on that, however, outside of church settings. The Byzantines themselves merely called it "the City," as befitted its unarguable position as the greatest city of all. Even the word, Istanbul, is derived from a Greek phrase meaning "to the city." In a perfect world, Constantinople, Thrace and Smyrna would have been awarded to Greece in the post WWI grand reshuffling. Greek greed, British perfidy, American meddling and one man who called himself Ataturk ensured that this did not happen. And the world has moved on mightily since then.

Turkish persecution (and that's NOT too strong a word) of the remaining Greek Orthodox in Istanbul continues to anger me. It is not overt, but rather a slow strangulation. Officially, the Turks are all smiles, seemingly oblivious to what they are doing, oblivious to the fact that there is a problem, and only become incensed when you imply that they are anything less than Western European liberals when it comes to treatment of their minorities. The Islamist AKP party now in power is, on the surface, much less overtly hostile to the Patriarchate than their secularist predecessors. Yet, the Turkish courts have not changed, obstinately refusing to consider the Patriarch as anything other than the head of the 1,500 or so Greek Orthodox in Istanbul (which is an exact reversal of the long-standing Ottoman policy, both before and after the Conquest). So, the future of the Patriarchate in Constantinople remains dim.

One of the glories of old Constantinople--right up through 1923--was its cosmopolitan flavor. The city was Turkish, Greek, Armenian and Jewish. Dozens of languages could be heard on its streets. No longer. Ataturk's greatest legacy is Turkish nationalism. The city, for better or worse, is thoroughly Turkish throughout. That is the cold, hard reality. So, like the song says:

So take me back to Constantinople
No, you can't go back to Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works
That's nobody's business but the Turks

Travel Journal (3)--NYC, A Tale of Two Churches

Frankly, I didn't plan to spend much time in churches during my Manhattan sojourn--saving that experience for the Republic of Georgia. I did manage to take in two rather famous--and in my opinion, disparate--churches in the city: St. Patrick's Cathedral and the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. The first is Catholic, the second, Episcopal. I skipped the The Orthodox Cathedral of St. Nicholas, as it was just too far removed from a subway stop to be practical.

St. Patrick's is probably the best known Catholic church in the US. Even growing up Protestant in the South, I had an awareness of this church--perhaps from my faint memories of the Kennedy administration. It has certainly played a significant role in the history of New York, if not the country as a whole. There was even a passing reference or two to it in Grey Gardens, the play I attended the night before.

The church is now very much hemmed-in and dwarfed by the surrounding skyscrapers. So much so, you are actually somewhat surprised at just how large it is once you enter. The nave was a welcome sanctuary to me. I am loath to admit it, but my stamina has not returned following my surgery. By the time I reached this block of 5th Avenue, I really, really needed a cool place to sit down. I took a seat on a rear pew and tried to take it all in.

The magnificent sanctuary and the shuffling tourist throngs in full uniform (shorts, tennis shoes, baseball caps and bulky cameras) testify to St. Patrick's star power. Yet while they certainly welcome and accommodate tourists off the street, I was pleased to observe that the church is still, thankfully, very much a place of worship. The candles of the faithful flickered everywhere. Some were doing their devotions at the the shrines along each wall. Most in the pews were in prayer. I decided to join them. I left the Cathedral refreshed and thankful for the experience.

I did not immediately proceed to St. John the Divine. I stopped in at Tiffany's, still remarkably unchanged from its movie depiction so many years ago. A nice saleslady with her hair pulled back in a bun assisted me in arranging for a small package to be mailed back home. I crossed over to Rizzoli's Bookstore and paid homage to the late, great Oriana Fallaci. I arrived at the Met in time for a docent's fascinating tour of the Lehman Collection, followed by a croque monsieur at the lunch counter at Zabar's. Only then did I work my way up to St. John's.

I approached the church with no real preconceptions or prejudices. In fact, I wasn't even completely sure whether it was Episcopalian or Catholic. St. John the Divine bills itself as the largest cathedral in the world. Detractors quickly qualify that it is the largest Gothic cathedral in the world. No matter. I am not going to quibble with either claim. Let's just say that this church is absolutely enormous.

It was designed to cover an entire city block. Under construction since 1892, the church has never been finished. And it never will be. I have since learned that they are strapped for cash, having few endowments. A major fire in 2001 was a further setback. One corner of the block that was once destined to be the last addition to the cathedral has now been carved off to make way for luxury high-rise apartments. The church charged a $5 admission fee. I didn't mind paying, but I thought it odd. Even with much of the sanctuary blocked off undergoing restoration after the fire, one is still struck by the utter immensity of the structure. Far into the church, one finally reaches the great dome of the cathedral, which I recognized from the baptismal scene in Six Degrees of Separation. I am told that the Statue of Liberty (minus the pedestal) would easily fit beneath this dome.

The nave was bustling with activity. Caterers were running everywhere--setting up tables and chairs throughout, and setting up tables around the outer ring of the altar for the wine glasses. Apparently a big reception of some sort was on tap for that night. It resembled nothing so much as a Gothic Convention Center.

Seven chapels ring the altar. Each one is dedicated to a particular immigrant groups to America: the Scandinavians, Germans, the British and Celts, the people of the East, the French, the Italians and the Spanish. The obvious omission of a chapel for immigrants from Africa is a stark testimony to the embedded racism of 19th-century America. Of course, no such layout could even be attempted today--there would have to be a chapel for each and every ethnic and interest group. I can see it now--a chapel for gay immigrants from Lithuania.

The last addition to the chapel was a silver triptych added in 1989. And it shows. The Cathedral is quite proud of the work of art--advertising it in their brochures and such. The triptych supposedly depicts the "Life of Christ." It contains a cross, with a Valentine's heart underneath that, and a baby underneath that, with either tear drops or rain drops raining down on what appeared to be an angry crowd--a sea of clenched fists or phallic symbols--I couldn't tell which. Angels who looked like Anasazi Indian figures fluttered upside down above the crowd. jeez.

The cathedral prominently displays a panel with important guests in their history: an Indian chief, Martin Luther King, Desmond Tutu, the Dalai Lama, etc. The last panel shows a "blessing of the animals" ceremony in the nave. A male priest held a piglet and a female priest held an opossum, with various barnyard animals gathered around. A camel and an elephant framed the nave scene. For some inexplicable reason, a Bolivian Indian family, in full native dress, stood front and center. With the addition of a couple of clowns, it could have passed for a traveling carnival show. Or the Texas Legislature in session. Episcopalians certainly have no monopoly on sillifying the sacred, but they remain the undisputed masters of the art.

The church contains an inviting children's park located south of the cathedral. I was walking away when the fountain in the middle of the park caught my attention. So, I circled back. The huge fountain sculpture is a tangle of human limbs, gazelle heads and lobster claws. I contemplated exactly what message the sculptor was trying to convey to children, but walked away completely baffled. For me, the fountain was a metaphor for the entire cathedral: overblown, confused, directionless. Its a great Gothic pile, but perhaps only a glorified community center, with seemingly little that would mark it as a place for worship. Frankly, I couldn't work up much enthusiasm one way or the other whether it was ever restored or completed. One rarely becomes passionate over a community center.

Travel Journal (2)--Grey Gardens

I enjoy the company of eccentrics. Most of my friends--certainly the ones who have stuck with me through thick and thin--fall into this category. And by the sometimes narrow standards of my community, I fit the description myself. One of my extended in-laws once let it slip about me--"Well, you know how strange he is." And they didn't know the half of it! So, it should be no surprise that Grey Gardens was the one play I had to see while in NYC.

The documentary from which the play is taken is now something of a cult classic. I was curious to see how it could be adapted to a musical format. But adapt it they did. And very well, I might add. The story concerns the near relatives of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis. Her aunt, Edith Bouvier Beale (known as "Big Edie") and cousin, also Edith Bouvier Beale (known as "Little Edie") lived at Grey Gardens, a rambling 28-room mansion on Long Island. Nieces Jackie and Lee, as well as Grandfather Bouvier, are portrayed in the play. The movie alternates between 1941 and 1973. Even in 1941, the Bouvier money was beginning to run thin. By 1973, it was long gone, and the two still inhabited the old house, now squalid and filthy and overrun with cats and racoons. Their plight caused some embarrassing publicity for the Kennedy family, and led to the now classic documentary.

The 1941 plot involved the prospective marriage of Little Edie to Joseph P. Kennedy, Jr. Old money families like the Bouviers, past their first bloom, were still useful to up-and-coming families like the Kennedys, with their eye on the main chance. Before the family alliance could be cemented, however, young Kennedy was spooked by both mother and daughter. While entertaining, they were hardly ready for prime time. The disappointed Grandfather Bouvier, put his arm around the actress playing the young cousin Jackie, and told her that it is now up to her to rescue the family.

The 1973 scenes of the wildly eccentric and bickering mother and daughter reminded me of a somewhat similar situation from 25 years ago. In our little town, two sisters lived in adjoining, somewhat tumbledown houses on my block. At the time, we were the only couple in the neighborhood under Social Security age. The pair took an especial interest in us, giving us a silver service as a wedding present, which to this day we still refer to as the S______ silver. They were old, even then, daughters of a once respected family that had more or less petered out. Both had sought fame elsewhere, only returning later in life. One was a show-girl, and disappointed actress. The other...apparently...as they say, was "in business" in Dallas. While checking on her one day, she told me that "she had had a lot of men come to her back door in her day, but none as handsome as me." I was uncomfortable with this, to say the least. As their disabilities and paranoia increased, my in-laws and I stepped in to help care for them. I was the one who often carried the food to them at night. I have vivid memories of the houses: a baby grand piano, a naked mannequin, their own bizarre artwork on the walls, a poodle with orange-painted toenails to match the orange lipstick preferred by one sister. In time, we moved them into one house, and conducted an estate sale in the other to raise money to allow them to remain at home. During the sale, I was sickened to find someone rummaging through the closet, stuffing old pictures into a sack. But the sisters declined rapidly and died within a short time of one another. A relative materialized from Las Vegas to quickly sell the houses and depart with the money. In the final estate sale, I purchased the armchair in which I am now sitting. Another chair in my study came from the other sister's house. On the wall next to me is a portrait--in one of those old curved-glass frames--of one of the sisters during her youth. And finally, stored away in a box, is a snapshot I copied from the pile of pictures in the closet. One of the sisters is sitting on a curb in Boston in 1924.....next to a very young Bette Davis.

In retrospect, Grey Gardens was an absolute delight. Despite their self-absorption, I found myself profoundly sympathetic to these two gals who never quite learned to play by the rules of society. Eccentricity knows no regional or societal bounds. For me, it was almost like going home.

Travel Journal (1)--Hanging Out in New York City

I stopped off in NYC for a few days before going overseas. While not particularly representative of the nation as a whole, the city nevertheless maintains a unique relationship to the rest of the country. One either loves the place or hates it. I find the city to be endlessly intriguing. I walked the streets and neighborhoods from East Village to the Upper West Side. I mastered the subways. I lost myself wandering through Central Park and the Met. I took in a play.

Despite our various local prejudices, New Yorkers are as friendly as anyone else. (We Southerners have been known to scoff at this notion, but what passes for friendliness down here is often just a cover for nosiness). People are much the same all over--the same basic worries, concerns, hopes and aspiriations, the same bundle of anxieties.

And while NYC is one of the great cities of the world--one that sets out to awe and enlighten--I would not classify it is an "easy" city. By and large, its public places do not lend themselves to the simple pleasure of merely "hanging out." But then, it has never pretended to be that kind of place.

I did manage, however, to just hang out a bit in Manhattan. One favorite spot was a little gem; a 24-hour French bistro, disguised as a diner, located in the Meatpacking District. The other was the city's great treasure, Central Park. Florent is easy to miss, a narrow diner hidden behind tinted glass, tucked between two dark warehouses. A popular nightclub down the street sucks up all of the attention on the block. Only after you have already stumbled onto the place do you see the small sign above the building. Laid out in typical diner style, with stools along the counter, booths along the wall and lots of chrome, the friendly staff and notices on an overhead bulletin board give it a neighborly feel. The food is exceptional (I recommend the crabcake sandwich), with a good selection of European beers. But for the tourist, the main attraction is the clientele. From my perspective, the eccentric and eclectic regulars at Florent offer a genuine sampling of what New York is all about. All in all, the diner is as good a people-watching perch as I have found.

Central Park is the ultimate place to linger in the City. 50 blocks long, this vast natural preserve is the great priceless treasure of the city. Without it, Manhattan would be dim and soulless. Woods and meadows, hills and fields, towers and lakes, rocky crags and trails, hidden places and wide open spaces--it is all here. While the young sought out the sun, I opted for the grassy shade, underneath a giant oak. I think I had the better idea.

Lying there, gazing up at the pricey penthouses along 5th Avenue on the east, and the toney San Remo digs of Bono, Steven Spielberg and the like on the west--put me in mind of my favorite New York movie; Six Degrees of Separation (1993). Some may remember this as the film which launched the movie career of Will Smith. Yet, it was Stockard Channing's show all the way. She is a great favorite of mine; no doubt I could sit rapturously listening to her read names from the phone book. She is that good. Channing and Donald Sutherland played Louisa and Flanders Kittredge, residents of a swank penthouse on the 800th block of 5th Avenue, overlooking the park. High-end international art brokers who move easily within the rarified air of the upper-crust Manhattan intelligentsia, their lives are up-ended by the Will Smith character (Paul), a seriously delusional gay hustler who pretends (or believes?) to be the illigetimate son of Sidney Poitier. To Louisa, he becomes a mirror into the vacuousness of their own lives, revealing that they are no less hustlers than he. Paul enables the Kittredges to clinch a deal with a South African investor. Unbeknownst to anyone other than Flanders, the transaction saves them from financial ruin. For their lifestyle, their very existence, is a mere house of cards.

Flan: Oh God!

Louisa: I don't want to lose our life here. I don't want our debts to pile up and crush us.

Flan: It won't. We're safe.

For now.

We almost lost it, Ouis.

The movie has aged well. It is still a damning indictment, not just of effete residents of the Upper East Side, but of our entire money-mad Western culture.

A final line from the movie:

Paul: To face ourselves - that's the hard thing. The imagination...that's God's gift to make the act of self-examination bearable.

Louisa: Well...Indeed.

Home Again

I have returned home from my travels; once more back at work and easing into my regular routine. My journey took me from East Texas to NYC to Istanbul to Cappadocia to the Republic of Georgia and back. In coming days, I hope to post some thoughts on the peoples, places and cultures I observed along the way.

You can take him out of the country, but ....

I have been away from my normal news sources the last 2 or 3 days, getting to and getting settled in here in Istanbul. But I did happen to turn on CNN and catch the rapturous greeting President Bush received in Albania. I was pleased to see it--good old fashioned pro Americanism is as scarce as hen's teeth these days. For Bush, it has about boiled down to Crawford and Tirana for this sort of thing, and I'm not too sure about Crawford. But then, I heard his speech in which he came out foursquare in favor of independece for Kosovo, and the sooner the better. Geez Louise. While he is at it, why not just come out for independence for Scotland, or Catalonia, or Wales, or for the Basques, or Flanders, or Bavaria, or Sicily, or Corsica, or Baluchistan, or Kurdistan, or Quebec, or Hawaii or for, well, Texas for that matter. All of them have a far greater claim to nationhood than Kosovo. Many parties have seen the dangers involved in Kosovo nationhood and were working for some diplomatically nuanced solution short of full independence. Let's hope these cooler heads (including Russia) prevail and Mr. Subtle's speech is soon forgotten outside of Tirana. And in the meantime, I am going to stay away from the televison until I return home. It just gets me riled up.

Hiatus

I will be taking a break from blogging for a few weeks while I do a bit of traveling. I should be back online in early July, hopefully with something of interest to tell.

Some Recommendations

I have recently come across several blogs worthy of consideration. The first is What's Wrong With the World: Dispatches from the 10th Crusade, found here. Any blog with a Byzantine double eagle on its masthead gets my attention. Their Statement of Purpose follows:

What’s Wrong with the World is dedicated to the defense of what remains of Christendom, the civilization made by the men of the Cross of Christ. Athwart two hostile Powers we stand: The Jihad and Liberalism. We are happy warriors, for our defense is motivated primarily by gratitude for what our ancestors bequeathed to us. We are hardly what the world calls “optimists,” for our sense of the crisis of our age is robust indeed; but despair is among the more fashionable sins today, and our hostility to it, too, is implacable. We put not our trust in princes, but stand on the Solid Rock, against which neither the tyranny of the Crescent nor the blank negations of Liberalism shall prevail.

Jihad is the Islamic doctrine of aggressive war waged with the purpose of subjugating all non-Islamic peoples to the political and legal authority of Islam. It covers virtually all manner of crime with the shield of piety by blessing massacre, plunder, enslavement and treachery if these are judged necessary in the cause of Allah. There is nothing like it in Christian civilization. Its roots lie in the very antiquity of Islamic civilization, and though it is surely true that not all Muslims have committed themselves to Jihad, it is also true that the doctrine is at least latent in all Islamic societies. As such, it stands as an inevitable threat.

Liberalism is a more obscure doctrine to define. Its grounding, we believe, lies in the assertion of Man’s sovereignty over his own nature and destiny, his brazen defiance of God. In political philosophy its mark is the reduction of all things to some strictly materialist standard, whether openly atheistic or more subtly economic. It collapses the mystery of Man’s dualistic nature. Christianity has taught us, in the common maxim, that man is in the world but not of it. Liberalism posits that he is emphatically of it; and by its logic even the worth of human life is made subject to the whims and calculations of worldly interest. The reductionism also issues in a deep antipathy for natural distinctions of any kind; Liberalism in the end renders men incapable of judgment.

All the world is darkened by these terrible falsifications of the nature of Man and the duty he owes his Creator. For solace we look not to the morbid optimism of the world, but to a hope which was ably captured in a statement of the man from whose short book we shamelessly take our own title, who by his great “metaphysical intuition of being” penetrated to the heart of these falsifications. His words were these: “The men signed of the cross of Christ go gaily in the dark.”

Another is the official website of Chronicles: A Magazine of American Culture, found here. Srdja Trifkovic is a frequent contributor, which speaks well for the site.

Finally, anyone out there who has spent any time at all trying to sort out the late 12th-century Comneni--the emperor Manuel I Comnenus, his kinsman the later Andronicus I Comnenus, his favorite mistress and cousin Theodora Comnena, her uncle Isaac, the Governor of Cyprus, their cousin, the emperor Isaac I Angelus, etc., etc., etc. will just looove this site.

554 Years Ago, Today

Pentecost

Tongues of Fire

Jvaris Mama Church, Tbilisi, Georgia

John Edwards weighs in on the "Clash of Civilizations"

I am not a big fan of John Edwards. Ever since the Carter years, there's just been something about grinning Southern politicos that rubs me the wrong way. Being Southern, I can get away with saying that. We produce gifted writers and other eccentrics who make for interesting acquaintances and quirky guests at cocktail parties. But as Presidential material, well...., Southerners are just godawful. There hasn't been a decent Southern President since Andrew Jackson (Think about it: Wilson? Johnson? Carter??? Clinton? Bush the Lesser? And Truman doesn't really count as Southern). So, I am especially not buying what this particular pandering Southern demagogue is selling.


Edwards gave a speech the other day, here, at the Council on Foreign Relations, in which he took the administration to task for its use of the term "global war on terror." This is a legitimate criticism, as numerous commentators have long noted the inadequacy of this nonsensical phrase. For "terror" is not a thing, but a tactic, or a specific weapon in an enemy's arsenal. It would be the same thing as saying that there is a global war on, say, aircraft carriers. Edwards goes on to note that this approach " has strained American military resources and emboldened terrorists," and that it is "little more than a bumper sticker slogan used to justify everything from abuses at the Abu Ghraib prison to the invasion of Iraq." I would not argue with his assessment up to this point.


But then Edwards goes too far, in my view, and falls into the very same thing he accuses Bush of doing, by engaging in a little "bumper sticker," sound bite sloganeering himself. He says:


"By framing this as a war, we have walked right into the trap the terrorists have set – that we are engaged in some kind of clash of civilizations and a war on Islam."

One of my pet peeves is the rampant misuse of Huntington's "clash of civilizations" concept. Both camps are guilty. Briefly put, the thesis is that there are civilizational groupings in the world, that these broad civilizations have their own particular commonalities, agendas and self-interests, and more to the point, that there has been, is, and will be conflict along the civilizational fault lines. The theory provides no cover for the aggressive interventionism and nation-building of the Bush presidency, as Edwards charges. Rather, it informs a cool realism about where a civilization's real interests lie. In my view, it provides a helluva better way to read both past and present than this simplistic idea that everyone in the world really just wants to be like us. They don't.

Edwards' accusation is a cheap shot aimed at the sound bite. But Edwards also accuses Bush of a "war on Islam." Hardly. In my view, Bush has been too hesitant, from the very beginning, to make any linkage of this supposed "war on terror" to its ideological base (Islam). The terrorists are not absolute nihilists. Theirs is not a terror disconnected from ideology, but the fruit of a particularly virulent (and reoccurring) strain of Islam. At some point we coined the now-dated phrase, "Islamofascism." At the time, I thought this was a small step in the right direction, as it at least attempted to describe the virulent nature of the terrorism nourished within Islam. But in retrospect, this term is as unsatisfactory as the "war on terror."

Any leader, or prospective leader, should recognize the very real civilizational dimensions of our current difficulties, as well as its long, long historical context (which places 2001 in line with 732, 1071, 1291, 1389, 1453, 1571, 1683, 1923, 1948). One who doesn't is either ill-informed or foolish.

Through Their Own Eyes

I have just finished reading Through Their Own Eyes: Liturgy as the Byzantines Saw It by Robert F. Taft, S.J. I commend this book, which should have particular appeal to Orthodox readers and inquirers, as well as those interested in all things Byzantine. Taft, a Jesuit, is a leading scholar on Byzantine Liturgy. A stint in Baghdad during the middle 1950s started him on his life-long study. This latest work is taken from his 2005 lectures at the Patriarch Athenagoras Orthodox Institute; deftly combining the best of both worlds--a scholarly work with rich, expansive footnotes, yet written in a lively and engaging style.

Like a good historian, Taft relies on the commentary of the Byzantines themselves, as he says, the "man-in-the-street's view of the Byzantines' participation in the worship of their church." Taft finds that Constantinopolitan worship could be noisy, boisterous, even rowdy affairs. Evidently, St. John Chrysostom's laments were not isolated occurrences. And yet, the very popularity of the services fed this behavior. One is also struck by the all-encompassing nature of Byzantine worship. The cycle of fasts and feasts defined life for the East Romans, from the Emperor down to the shopkeeper. The enthusiasm for the Liturgy was palpable. Homilies were wildly popular. The populace packed churches, even though services could seem interminable. Communion itself could take up to 3 hours.

I appreciate Taft's commentary on the Eucharist:

"Holy Communion is a gift received, not something anyone-not even the presider-just 'takes'....for eucharistic communion is not the sacrament of one's private communion with the Risen Lord. It is the sacrament of our communion with one another in the One Body of Christ, a body at once ecclesial and eucharistic."

He sees marked contrast with contemporary worship norms. The Byzantines "participated in the worship interiorly, by contemplating the unfolding of the mysteries," an approach "foreign to western traditions today." Taft contrasts their adherence to taxis or order, where "earthly institutions, both ecclesiastical and temporal , were considered to mirror the order of the universe, the cosmic array created by God" with "people nowadays [who] do not see themselves as finding their place in a scheme of things larger and-yes-more important than themselves. On the contrary, they see the larger reality in terms of how they can exploit it for their own self-fulfillment."

Some of his conclusions are worth pondering:

In other words, the Byzantine Orthodox Christians base the realism of their liturgy on faith in the reality of the Risen Christ. Because the human Christ is humanity glorified, he is present through his Spirit to every place and age not only as Savior, but as saving; not only as Lord, but as priest and sacrifice and victim. This is because nothing in his being or action is ever past except the historical mode of its manifestation. Hence Jesus is not extraneous to the heavenly-earthly liturgy of the Church, but its first protagonist....But in the Byzantine Orthodox tradition , the basis for liturgical anamnesis is not psychological recall, but theophany, an active, faith encounter now with the present saving activity of Christ. For what Christ was and did, he still is and does; it is he who preaches his Word, he who calls us to himself, he who binds the wounds of our sin and washes us in the waters of salvation , he who feeds us with his own life, he who is the pillar of fire leading us across the horizon of our own salvation history, lighting our sin-darkened path....In this theology, church ritual constitutes not only a representation, but a re-presentation--a rendering present again--of the earthly saving work of Christ.

Taft concludes that for those of us today who are in Byzance apres Byzance, "there is no end but only what comes next."