OF CLOUDS AND LIGHT

A Presentation to the Chicago Literary Club

By Arthur J. Diers

On December 14, 2009

OF CLOUDS AND LIGHT

I am coming alive again, and Turkey, for better or worse, has to do with it. Upon arrival in Istanbul I set out along a quiet street toward Taksim Square. Suddenly, I am engulfed in a horde of Turks dashing for buses exuding diesel stench and pushing into streetcars screeching past. I was told to go directly through the Square, but I can only let myself be carried along to the streetlight and then jostled across the street until I’m extruded by the human sea onto the bleak, vast, empty space—a sandy, dusty plain. I’m in a youthful mood from a country that thinks of itself as young after more than two hundred years, but I’ve been hit by the life force of a country just now feeling its oats after eighty-six years. Before me stands their Monument of Independence, built in 1928. I know because I’ve read about it in the travel literature. It celebrates the founding of the modern Turkish Republic in 1923. Like our Washington Monument, it honors their great leader. Hardly anyone is there.

Several armed guards lounge around, far enough away to make it seem ok to walk right up to it. It’s modest, mystical, a little weird to the Western eye. Ataturk, the Founder, with his generals celebrate his grand victory. On the other side he presents himself with his aides, the great statesman who rules and guides Turkey toward its future. All are surrounded by many flags.

As I approach I feel uncomfortable under the eyes of the guards. They become more alert. I have raised my long, large, heavy, grey 35 mm, Canon Photura camera. Many people have wondered what this big thing is. Could they think it’s a weapon? I try to act unafraid, calm and natural while taking a picture. I look over all sides of the monument as any tourist would. But I hestitate to linger, and walk ever so casually away. Out of the corner of my eye I see the guards relax, a raised gun lowered. A cloud of fear stays with me. I had been warned. Three days before departure three guards were killed at the American Embassy. Rumors flew. Was it Al Quaeda? Was it the Kurds? Was it a private matter? My friends insisted I cancel the trip. I pooh-poohed them. Now here I am slinking out of Taksim Square.

Just a few steps on I am relieved to enter Istiklal, a pedestrian way filled with a throng of happy, lively, contented people, shopping, gabbing, eating, walking or just watching. They are window-shopping, gawking, drinking, gaping at galleries, moseying about. A sense of communal well-being pervades the atmosphere. It is like Wells Street in Old Town Chicago in the Sixties. I am amazed at how my mood has changed.

A hearty fellow welcomes me at the entrance of an inviting tavern. “What a good-spirited crowd,” I exclaim. “I can’t get over how good we all feel.” I am filled with largess which I haven’t felt for years. “Of course,” he said, “But the important thing is that you feel good here.” “No,” I said, “We all feel good.” “No,” he argued, “what’s really important is that you feel good here.” Then I realized as I sipped my beer that this Turk’s fear was of American fear. His livelihood and personal safety are threatened by our violent intrusion into the heart of his world.

All that is forgotten as I continue my walk in Istiklal. Music filters out onto the street—mostly modern American music, but some lilting Turkish strains. I see a Yankee cap, Reeboks and Jordans, mini-skirts over tight pants, jeans on most legs—only a very few in traditional garb. Am I still in Chicago? I see the spirit of William James’ pleasing, lively, energetic pluralism alive and well here. I walk in Istiklal for hours and return whenever I can. I have seldom felt so good. Is it because of the underlying fear? Is it because I’m just coming out of an emotional fog?

I begin to feel again after having been in shock since my dear wife’s death three years ago. I’ve been paralyzed, numb and here I’m coming alive again. I am filled with wonder by the landscapes, historic sites, cities and people in Turkey. My senses are enlivened as I explore the historic roots of the menacing, warm and lively spirit of the Turks. I feel with force echos of the emotional clouds and shades of light in myself and in the Turks.

Their fear of the West is well-founded. One of the first documented incursions was the Trojan War. We traveled briefly south of Istanbul to Troy. In the Nineteenth Century Heinrich Schliemann, a German who became an American citizen, proved that Troy was located where Homer said it was, at this site which was then at the southern entrance to the Dardenelles. There amongst the carefully examined ruins stands a wooden Trojan horse about the size of my Dutch Colonial house filled with children running around inside and out.

Troy was one of the greatest cities in the ancient world. It was strategically located, controlling the seas--the passage between the Mediteranean and the Black Sea. In those days it was necessary to stop at Troy to await the return of favorable winds.

The story is well known. Priam, King of Troy, and Hecuba his wife, were about to have a son when Hecuba had a dream. She dreamt that she was about to give birth to a flaming torch. Their seer advised them that this meant that this child would bring Troy’s destruction—by fire. The child must be killed. Priam and Hecuba couldn’t do it. They gave the boy to their chief herdsman to take to the top of Mount Ida which we view with wonder high above us. We look with our own eyes at the very place where Paris was left to die. The herdsman returned to the mountain some time later to verify the death, but found that a she-bear had suckled the boy. He put the boy in his backpack (Paris is the word for backpack), and raised him to become a beautiful, charming, intelligent lad. As he grew he was a great help with the herds, on one occasion heroically driving away robbers attacking the sheep. His youthful hobby was to train bulls to fight each other, a favorite entertainment of the day. To enhance his reputation as a showman he offered a golden crown to any bull able to beat his champion. He was convinced that his was unbeatable. Ares, the bloodthirsty god of war, challenged him by himself becoming a bull and roundly defeated Paris’ prize beast. Paris willingly awarded the golden crown, and thus became regarded as a just, wise and noble man.

That made him a candidate for making a judgment which Zeus himself did not want to make. At a grand palatial wedding Eris, the troublemaking goddess of strife, offered a golden apple to be given to the most beautiful maiden of them all. Paris was then given the job of judging. Each of the contestants had persuasive perks to dangle before him. Hera would give him Europe and Asia. That’s quite an offer. Athena would make him the bravest, most skilled warrior on earth. What more could a strong young man want? Aphrodite would offer him the love of the most beautiful woman in the world. Everyone knew that that woman was Helen of Troy. What is a young man to do? He chose, not surprisingly, the love of a gorgeous woman. He followed his heart, asking for trouble. Is that what men do?

He was in Asia, what is now Turkey. Helen was across the waters in Europe, in what is now Greece. She was married to Menelaus, and had many former suitors in Greece all of whom were upset no end about the couple when they eloped to Troy. It was a cause for war.

The Greeks set out on a thousand ships to attack the most powerful city of the day, to defend the honor of their king and to gain control of the seas. The armies exhausted each other with ten years of heroic fighting, leading to many heroic deaths. Hector, Paris’s brother, was killed. Achilles the powerful warrior of the Greeks was stung by an arrow in the ankle and died. Paris, an inept warrior, was said to have snuck up on Achilles from behind. Paris himself was fatally wounded. Through all this the walls of Troy, walls we look upon today, were impregnable. We all know how the Spartans conquered—through trickery. Troy was burned to the ground as had been prophesied. To think that we Americans can stand there right now and have our shoes step on those charred rocks. The gods were not happy with this mess. Troy was no longer habitable. Many Greeks were lost at sea on the way home. Many Greeks stayed, dispersed, mated local women, and settled down on the Asian lands. Helen returned to hubby.

So it is with Europe and Asia throughout history. The continents at odds big-time, catastrophic conflicts ensue. There is romance and there is tragedy. Sometimes fear trumps everything to call the tune. Priam was afraid that his city would be burned to the ground. This led to actions which brought about what he feared, yet in the end commingling through intimate liaisons and such. The push of the West is persistent and lasting. The spirit of the East remains alive. This ebb and flow evolves into a tension between East and West inside the Turks. How they deal with it offers much promise to the world. I feel torn in myself between my western rationality and foreign passions which come of grief and longing for breaking into something entirely different. Maybe there’s promise for me, too.

After Troy the Greeks again from the West dominated Turkey, with Alexander the Great and others tromping through. We are dazzled by Pergemum, part of Alexander’s legacy. The Greeks brought their wonderful panoply of gods and goddesses with them. I peruse the magnificent archeological museum in Anatalya on the shore of the lovely Mediterranean Sea. There Artemis is represented more than any other. She took deep root in southwestern Turkey because she stood for the independence for which they longed. I, too, fell in love with Artemis.

In the Eighth Century BCE at Selcuk, near Ephesus, the Temple of Artemis was built. It was one of the wonders of the ancient world and is described by Antipar of Sidon:

“I have set eyes on the wall of lofty Babylon on which is a road of chariots, and statue of Zeus by the Alpheus, and the hanging garden, and the colossus of the Sun, and the huge labor of the high pyramids, and the vast tomb of Mausalus, but when I saw the house of Artemis that mounted to the clouds, those other marvels lost their brilliancy, and I said ‘Lo, apart from Olympus, the Sun never looked on a sight so grand.’”

Artemis was the twin sister of Apollo, the daughter of Zeus and Leto, his mistress. Hera, Zeus’s wife, hated her rival and threatened her life. So when Leto was pregnant she had trouble finding a safe place to give birth. She finally settled on the remote, barren island of Delos. After Artemis was born her mother was still in labor with Apollo and had great difficulty. Artemis comforted and attended to her mother through the ordeal facilitating a successful birth of the beautiful lad. I am touched by the suffering of this desperately lonely mother and the great comfort given by one who is still only a child. I, too, am becoming familiar with what it is to be deeply lonely after losing a companion of fifty years and wonder what new comforts there might be.

Much to Hera’s dismay Artemis became Zeus’s favorite. He protected her from his wife and gave her whatever she wanted. It delighted her. Artemis chose eternal chastity, independence, and she wanted to choose her own friends. She became a huntress, roaming the plains and forests and mountains with her nymphs—a motley crew. As the goddess of the moon she was especially active at night, unerringly accurate with silver arrows springing from her powerful bow.

Artemis was a helper in pain, a healer and a comfort through kindly death. Sacrifices to her would facilitate successful pregnancies or blessed deaths. Women sought her help in exacting vengeance when unfairly treated. She would be swift and sure in response. When her mother was raped, she saw to the horrible death of the offender. When a fellow ogled her while she bathed in the spring she turned him into a stag and his hounds devoured him. She was the supportive counselor of young women until they married and then wished them well. Evie, too was outrageously unconventional, vengeful when angry and a great comfort. I can’t get her out of my mind. But there are also moments when being without her offers a freedom I haven’t enjoyed before. I am relishing this strange land, leaving the strings binding me to a past life.

Artemis was said to have fallen in love with one man—Orion, the greatest of hunters. There are two accounts of how she brought about his death. One was that he threatened to kill all beasts with his great skill, so had to be stopped. The other involved Apollo, who feared that she was about to lose her chastity, so challenged her to hit a little speck a few hundred yards away in the water, so with her silver arrow she hit the mark and therewith struck the head of Orion who was swimming far away. As I fall in love with this goddess I wonder if I too am looking for someone unattainable, longing for what cannot be.

Artemis had a commercial value. Likenesses of her were bought to wear or to decorate homes. Statues of her are everywhere, more and more are uncovered to this day—in stone, marble, granite and silver. My house is filled with likenesses of Evie and the wildly ordered abstract art that sprang from her diseased brain in her final years. I feel their power as the Turks did with representations of Artemis.

Artemis dominated the religious scene even after the Roman conquerors came with another incursion from the West and did their thing—built roads, cities, temples, aqueducts, monuments of emperors, theatres, large public spaces, baths. We walk down the streets of Ephesus, the most complete Roman city remaining in the world, with remnants of what Rome built around us. We sit on one of the row of holes in the bath, imagining how it would be to be bathed in steam in good company having the constantly flowing waters whisk away all excrement—urine, feces, perspiration, waiting for an attendant to bring a towel, talking in praise of Artemis. Who would question this gracious goddess who comforted so many? I stand at the top of the great theater of Ephesus, overlooking the entire city, and from that vantage point below me was the great plaza where Paul of Tarsus with his Christ challenged Artemis.

This plaza was an arena for public discussion, as Bughouse Square in Chicago used to be. Paul was a well-educated peripatetic preacher who had stature as a Roman citizen. He was an incandescent charismatic ascetic who charmed and commanded respectful attention. He had an Obama-like religious vision, a message suited for changing times. The unity of the Roman Empire made for the possible sense of one god beyond the outmoded tribal structure. The Jews had one God. Paul preached that the Jew’s God, attested to in the Scriptures, was everyone’s God, that this God sent his Christ (Greek for Messiah) to transform the world, to make the only sacrifice necessary--displacing all the Greek gods. He specifically declared that Artemis is henceforth displaced. Jesus brought forgiveness of all sins; love to all and as a bonus eternal life. Join the brothers and sisters who sing his praises, remind each other of his story, become one of those filled with the loving spirit that is bursting with generosity to each other and all others, including especially the poor. This was Paul’s message.

It was not well received. Artemis was loved too much to be insulted in this way. The livelihood of the silver makers was threatened. The populous was restive, a riot ensued, Paul was arrested and charged with disturbing the peace. He was put in jail with a hefty sentence, beaten badly. He avoided Ephesus after that, only sending letters to his followers, guiding the community from afar.

I was especially stirred by this place, the theatre at Ephesus, because I was raised to believe Martin Luther’s Pauline message as the Gospel truth. I am stunned. Here it was new. I consider the hundreds of sermons I’ve heard from my father, and the dozens of books I’ve read from Saint Augustine to Paul Tillich elucidating Paul’s message. But here in this place it was fresh—altogether a new vision of God in the world spoken for the very first time. Since then there have been so many words. Hopefully, there have been as many acts of kindness.

Later, when I wander around in the vast, and I do mean vast, sacred space of Hagia Sophia I see that Christendom, a couple of centuries later, had its day. It is the Great Church in Istanbul which was the center of Christendom and the largest structure in the world for nearly a thousand years. It stands high above the strong, deep wide waters of the Bosporus and the Golden Horn, overlooking the rolling golden hills of the magnificent city. My renewed sense of being alive tingles with awe in Hagia Sophia, which means Holy Wisdom. Beautiful overwhelming spaces have always made my heart sing. When I was a child the wordless stillness of big churches affected me. In my adulthood I have come to love spacious, hallowed temples--like St. Isaacs in St. Petersburg, Berliner Dom, the great Mosque in Casablanca. But Hagia Sophia surpasses them. Her echoes resound in literature, architecture, history, religion. I decided to make this trip largely because of her. She is about to die.

But her birth begins with Constantine whose exploits in the early Fourth Century developed him into a consummate warrior and diplomat. He was the illegitimate son of a powerful leader in Rome, grew up in the east of the empire, in what was then called Byzantium. Because his genetic credentials were suspect he had to fight every step of the way. He opposed religious persecution of all sorts. His superiors kept trying to find ways to get rid of him. Legend has it that on one occasion he was set up to battle a lion. The poor animal didn’t have a chance. He sought out compromises whenever possible through marriage and such until he reached the top in about 325 A.D.

During his ascent he felt increasingly alienated from the Greek gods. I am most irritated as I stand beneath the gigantic columns in Didyma, row upon row of them. Here at the Temple of Apollo, I am among these incredible columns where the great leaders of the day anxiously waited while the priests and priestesses carried on the smoky, mystical exercises germinating prophetic utterances to determine their fate. Here I am without a camera, having left the heavy thing in the bus. I should have gotten that cheapy at Walgreens to have in my pocket. My irritation turns to awe as I consider those anxious patrons as they approach the great power of Apollo. The lives of the great leaders’, Constantines’s rivals, were in the balance. I think I know how they felt. The shifting economic tides make me profoundly anxious. What is my fate? What guru will give me the wisdom needed to preserve my health, save me from poverty in my old age, keep my family safe. The priests and priestesses of the temple did what our gurus do. They do what seems most rational to them at the time and prophesy Constantines’s defeat—time after time. It pissed Constantine off.

How much his conversion was political and how much religious is a continuing matter of debate. When he approached Rome with his outnumbered force to take possession of the capital his warriors were carrying shields with crosses on them. This because of a vision he had in 311—a flaming cross with the words “in this sign, conquer.” He moved toward declaring Christianity the religion of the state and himself the leader of both. A religion espousing one god and one emperor fit him quite nicely. It was a dramatic change from the waning power of the Hellenistic gods toward a new unifying force which made his empire cohesive toward the future. He moved the capital of the empire from Rome to the city he renamed (surprise! surprise!) Constantinople. It became the grandest city in that world. Many say that if it were not for Constantine Christianity would have continued only as a small sect. Of course, in order to maintain his position he had to among other things murder a son, but was kind enough to off his wife in a more gracious way—having her lapse into unconsciousness in an overheated bath. To play it safe he reserved his baptism for the moment before his death.

Before he died he opened and presided over the formative councils of the Christian church wrapped in the most eloquent luminous garb, flowing multi-colored robes, carried with dramatic delicate dignity, setting the aesthetic tone of the Christian East with its devotion to divine light, aesthetic richness and liturgical splendor. He was like Elvis—with his costume and movements and voice capturing the imagination of the age. Or like Michelle Obama with her down to earth, classy, intelligent CJ Crew wardrobe and Lanvin sneakers capturing freshly the strut of our age. In this way Constantine set the tone for Christendom, presiding over the councils which hammered out most of the doctrines of the faith which are confessed by Christians today. Who would think that Turkey is the cradle of Christian doctrine? I heard my mother confess the Nicene Creed just the other day. It was negotiated a few miles east of Istanbul. When I showed her pictures of Turkey she exclaimed. “Turkey! Who on earth would want to go to Turkey!”

A proper church building, the one that wows me today, reflects this faith’s grand vision. Justinian built it a century after Constantine. It was a good thing he was a sports fan. At great cost and with exceptional leadership he extended the weakened empire to some of its old glory, but alienated many. Riots began at the games in the Hippodrome, like those violent eruptions at soccer games in Europe. There were weeks of unrest. Much of the city was destroyed. Justinian had been a patron of the Blue team whose main rival was the Green team. A leader of the Greens led the opposition and was about to be crowned king in the Hippodrome while Justinian huddled in terror with his loyal guards in the palace making plans to flee for his life. His wife, Theodora, a champion of women’s rights in Byzantium, stood in his face and told him in no uncertain terms that any king worth his salt would fight to the death. She herself was not going anywhere. Justinian pulled himself together, organized his Blues, sealed off the Hippodrome in a sudden strike, and proceeded to slaughter thirty thousand protesters, being careful to kill anyone who tried to escape. It reminds me of Rwanda, the slaughter with machetes slashing. Think of the hard labor, think of what work it is to hack out one life after another, one head or arm or heart after another—hack, hack, hack-- until all thirty thousand are dead meat within a day or two. It was eight hundred thousand in a little over month in Rwanda.

Justinian then launched a mission, an engineering feat, like Kennedy’s mission to the moon. He gathered the best architects, engineers, artists and skilled artisans. He collected the finest materials from throughout his empire—marble, gems, minerals (especially gold), and in five years built the Great Church which stands to this day. Anthemius of Tralles was the scientist and mathematician who designed the structure. I look up at the dome, so high above--183 feet high, and 100 feet in diameter. I have to turn my head around to see how it is suspended over a square, supported by huge pillars called pendentives, buttressed by immense half-domes. Originally large windows ringed the dome, gilded lamps were suspended from the ceiling, and this light was reflected magically by the mosaics which covered the entire surface of the walls and vaults. John Ash describes the scene:

“The ground (embedded in the mosaics) was always gold…light in its most concentrated form…The ceaseless movement of light within the church was intended to render the entire structure insubstantial, as if barely tethered to the earth. The Byzantine ideal was dazzling illumination.” (Ash, John, A Byzantine Journey, Random House, New York, 1995. p. 21f.)

Hagia Sophia was its finest material representation.

It was not to last. The Byzantine way persisted for more than a thousand years with the Great Church at its center. But it was weakened when ten years after the church was completed a plague felled half of the population. The anxiety we felt about Swine Flu reminds us that the threat of plague is still with us. Imagine what it would be like if half of our citizens died in a plague.

Then, in the Eighth Century the iconoclastic movement, fearing the return of the pagan gods, righteously destroyed all beautiful sacred objects—all paintings, mosaics, statues. Imagine what it would be like to have all of the beautiful objects around us righteously destroyed. I guess the aims of the radical jihadists give us some sense of this threat. Our delight in development may do it, too. Just a few mosaics from the Twelfth Century have been restored recently for me to see. They are spell-binding, offering just a hint of the glories of old.

Poor leadership led to the loss of the great agriculturally prosperous center of Anatolia in 1071, at the Battle of Manzikert. That lush fertile region was almost blithely given away. It filled me with grand feeling, overlooking the fertile valleys between the high mountains, fields without fences, without buildings, without billboards, a little like Vermont—just luscious crops of grapes, wheat, tobacco, lemons, beets, oranges, blueberries, apricots. It reminds me of how my father was ecstatic about the bounty of Iowa. I did not know that Turkey is such a fertile land. Its greatest asset was given away.

The Crusaders from the West were asked to come and help defend the empire against the threat from the east. They came, were amazed to see a city so much more beautiful and so much more culturally advanced than anything in the West. They were dazzled and then burned, destroyed and pillaged it in 1204. Apparently, they were the wrong kind of Christians.

Then Byzantium was killed softly by Rumi, a poet, mystic, Islamist confronting by this time a somewhat ossified Christian style. I met Rumi in Konya at Turkey’s center. Rumi lived in the Thirteenth Century. He converted all with “kindness, friendship and good example.” He believed that love for the Creator was latent in all men and refused to acknowledge the importance of religious labels. He offended no one, included everyone. He believed that music and dance and poetry were ways to facilitate love and developed the practice and ritual of the whirling dervishes, whom we reverently observe silently whirling, whirling in expansive white robes in the wide, ancient spaces of the caravanserai which is on this night a temple of the soul. At his tomb in Konya we join throngs of people from all levels of society, well-dressed, with reverence paying their respects. Upon his death leaders of five religions (including Christians and Jews) helped carry him to his tomb which lies under a striking turquoise copula and is topped with his wildly colorful turban. I burst out laughing. His humor radiated to me over the centuries. Ordinarily, when I look at a woman dressed in traditional Islamic garb she is positioned to act as though I don’t exist. So when a lovely young woman partly veiled looks at me directly with a glowing smile it is as though all political, cultural and sexual boundaries are pleasingly crossed. Only in Konya. The wonderful moment is still with me.

The end of Byzantium came with the Ottomans. The East was rising again. Hagia Sophia becomes a mosque. The mihrab, the golden slab in the direction of Mecca replaces the altar. The walls are whitewashed, covering the mosaics. Giant Arabic calligraphic posters, huge words from the Koran, “Allah lives”, and the names of Muhammad and the first caliphs cover the high pillars. It jars me, as an heir of Christendom, to take in these alterations. It jarred the West to its core. We know how vulnerable we felt on 9/ll. With the fall of Constantinople in 1453, and with the Ottoman army approaching Vienna the West was gripped with fear. Constantinople becomes Istanbul, “to the city.” Mohammed, the Prophet, captured the imagination of the Middle East gradually stirring the Arabic speaking indigenous peoples. Osman fought off the Mongols in central Anatolia, united the squabbling Turkman tribes and founded a dynasty which created a great empire which came to dominate the Balkans, the Middle East and Egypt. The West was astounded by the grandeur of the architecture, garb and pageantry of Islamic culture. The Ottoman Empire cleverly administered its vast holdings, maintaining control while being religiously tolerant, and its military dominated every battle. The Sultan became the absolute ruler of an Islamic state. Suyleyman the Magnificent reigned at the height of the empire in the mid-sixteenth century and built the largest mosque which commands the city. I was disappointed that when we were there it was being refurbished. We could only see it from afar, but we could see it from almost everywhere we went.

Topkapi Palace was the home of the Sultan in those days as well as the seat of government, with three lovely courtyards. What a restful loveliness I find in those grounds--the gardens, the panoramic views, especially the rows of resplendent trees. After so much walking it is a pleasant place to sit. I sit near the entrance of the Palace of Justice, a small bejeweled center. Suyleyman is Turkish for Justice which is the Sultan’s sole function. We can think of it as though the Supreme Court were the only and absolute authority. I notice the peephole in this Palace from which the Sultan can keep an eye on his staff. What a delicate tower above from which he can view all that transpires. His spies are everywhere in the Empire. Local regions govern themselves with a considerable independence, but the Sultan will be informed of any infraction and when reported will investigate and respond with military action if it is a rebellious movement, or usually with just a few heads, hands or feet lopped off. It saves the expense of prisons. Usually it’s the heads.

Jews who fled the Christian Inquisition were treated with respect. The Ottoman Empire was a refuge for Jews through most of its history, since the West was so malicious toward them. Christians, too, were respected, but usually had to pay a higher tax, and had to send one son to Istanbul to be converted to Islam and educated for public or military service. What a way to control an empire! Many rose to high office. The Janissaries composed of these Christian sons became the fiercest of warriors. Sultans became experts at manipulating opposing powers to fight each other until history’s tide turned against them.

At the beginning of the Twentieth Century, the Sultan sided with Germany in the First World War, and the empire was defeated. The Turks still mourn the loss. It is not easy to get over being top dog. The whole nation continues to grieve. It is pervasive in the culture, so well articulated by Orhan Pamuk. I wish I could get over it, but that pervasive sense of loss is what made me feel so akin to the Turkish people. Coming alive again includes feeling the pain of the loss more acutely. Now I am, along with the Turks, experiencing both the old pain and the excitement of new possibilities—this mixture of feelings battling away.

The Ottomans had one great victory at the beginning of the war—at Gallipoli. I see Gallipoli from Canakkale, across the Dardenelles. I walk far along the waters, another one of those communal pedestrian ongoing festivals, to where there are no tourists. I have the walk of a foreigner, an American, a casual energetic manner. It suits my feeling out of place emotionally anyway. I point to a beer spout to order and choose a table closer to the sea expecting to be served there. A large burly fellow confronted me fiercely, loudly commanding what I don’t understand. I gesture apologetically that I don’t get it. He gesticulates with his powerful arms that I am to be placed right next to the bar. The force of his massive body was clearly behind his words. I am an American who has crossed a line. In his mind I may have control of the world, but I was not to have control in his bar. I felt that strong male dominance—another part of their culture. He was not to be trifled with. I meekly moved.

There were many Australians there mourning their dead, those hundreds of thousands of allied troops who lost their lives foolishly at Gallipoli, unable to gain control over this strategic waterway. Ataturk was the Ottoman general who led the Turks to this victory. Here he set out on the path to become the one shining leader who could pick up the pieces afterward.

After the War he organized Modern Turkey. The Allies divided the country up—the west to Greece, the north to Russia, the south to France. The Kurdish tribes wanted the east. Ataturk gathered loyal countrymen, peasants mostly, in the center of Turkey at Ankara. They formed a government, organized a militia which fought with the ferocity of the Ottomans to forge a nation. The French and Russians were tired of war, so did not press their advantage. Only the Greeks who believed that they owned Turkey in the first place came in with vigor to take the western lands. The Turks smashed them, eventually even displacing the Greeks who had lived there for centuries. It was brutal. A friend of mine whose grandparents had been uprooted from Turkey and lost everything lent me an old volume carefully detailing every atrocity wreaked upon the Greeks. It is entitled “The Greatest Massacre of the Twentieth Century.” After the ferocity of the bartender I could believe what my friend told me.

Ataturk seized the opportunity during a time of great change to shape the Turkish nation making it viable in the modern world. He retained his allegiance to Islam, but sent the Caliph packing, instituted a secular state, adopted the western calendar and alphabet, and secularized public education with the help of German Jews. He decreed that modern western music was good for his people. Women were given equal rights. He genuinely wished a democracy to emerge, but in the meantime arbitrarily repressed any activity deviating from his vision. He adopted many children, boys and girls, and educated them well. He lived an incredibly robust life, carefully monitoring each of his reforms, partying, womanizing, hunting, and happily drinking himself to death in his early 40s.

When he died in 1938, his policies were frozen into place, enforced by the military. A negative word about him is a criminal offense even today. The cult of Ataturk made up of the upper classes and the military continue to dominate but are constantly pressured by the lower classes whose Muslim spirit is strong. More democracy brings more restlessness which is put down. A Muslim woman wearing a veil at university becomes a huge national issue. The East and the West are in dynamic tension and neurotic conflict. And in the midst of it Turkey is doing very well, indeed. I have to admit that despite all the emotional turmoil this trip is helping me to learn that I’m doing very well, also.

I am impressed with what rambunctious neighbors Turkey has—Russia, Armenia, Syria, Iraq, Iran, Greece. Some neighborhood! Syrians and Iraqis have played the Kurds against them. Russia constantly presses for more access to the Mediterranean. The Greeks in their hearts still have some claim on their legacy and Cyprus keeps the old conflict going. Ancient tribes stir up trouble from within. There is constant talk of one plot or another. And yet the nation moves with peculiar balance. In my experience with individuals and families with irreconcilable conflicts, these conflicts often emanate so much tension, there is a break-up. The Turks have a kind of glue that keeps these conflicts from breaking up their cultural fabric. Their communal spirit embraces incredibly intense conflicts. They have become pivotal players in negotiating the Middle East toward a modicum of moderation. Barack Obama goes to Turkey first, in person, to begin his diplomatic offensive in the Middle East. This is also my first venture into this part of the world. Perhaps my dealing with harsh internal conflicts through many dark days will prepare me for something brighter.

During the Cold War American fear of Russian communism prompted us to arm the Turks. We helped them develop the strongest, most efficient military in Europe. Anybody who messes with them will have their hands full. I learned from my Army general companion that a huge American military base rests in Turkey a few miles from Syria in the south. The United States involvement has been most welcome, even though our intrusion into Iraq is vigorously opposed. Turkey develops very strong relationships with sharp edges.

Turkish poor, millions of them, have gone to Europe to find work where cheap labor is much needed. There they are treated like second class citizens a little like we treat the Mexicans. Efforts to join the European Union which the U.S. supports are thwarted by most Europeans. While trying to meet the necessary requirements and because of a strong women’s rights movement Turks have been pushed to reduce excesses of the old tradition of Islam--the honor killings and torture practices which linger. According to a poll taken a couple of years ago seventeen per cent of Turkish males support the stoning of women who are suspected of adultery (!), a practice, I am told, mostly in the southeastern section of the country. There is very little crime in Turkey. Due to Islamic influence alcohol consumption is low, but their wine is excellent. Drug use is negligible, prostitution is legal, marijuana is illegal but unenforced. Their homicide rate is much lower than ours.

Turkey is becoming the twentieth most wealthy nation in the world. There is an energetic vibrancy that reminds me of the post-war boom in our country in the Fifties. Turkey manufactures most of Europe’s appliances. We see a plethora of condominiums based on Russian money, many now vacant. Arrogant Russians and energetic Germans flock to these gracious Mediteranean shores. Americans have been scared off. I savored their abundant produce through every delicious meal. I bought their splendid shawls for my women, a leather jacket for my son, a rug and onyx earrings for my daughter, t-shirts for grandchildren, a colorful tablecloth for myself—all finely crafted, all bargains. The Turks have a way of making a sale if the least bit of interest is detected. I am lucky I have a small suitcase.

Along with America Turkey is among the nations with the greatest disparity between rich and poor. A thrilling boat trip down the Bosporus, a broad busy waterway with Europe on one side and Asia on the other, shows off the prosperity. Majestic Ottoman mansions are restored to their original glory. Ottoman castles gleam, converted into schools, government buildings, homes for the wealthy, even a Four Seasons Hotel. We dine in a palatial valis along the shore, feeling bathed in Ottoman splendor. The new American Embassy rests high above the Bosporus. The wealth is astonishing. The historic waterway, over which millions have died and because of which millions have lived, is breathtaking.

Turkey and I are still in mourning. In the hearts of the Turks the glory of the Ottoman Empire with its powerful international reach is still the golden age of empire lost. My life with the golden embrace of Evie is gone. The way of being subject to the tyranny of her illness is gone. But the residuals of this oppressive time are still there for me as they are for the Turks. Caring deeply for another is fraught with an old pain.

But the memory of Evie is also nourishing. The Turks, too, are sustained by their memories. These memories are carefully preserved in the Ottoman, Greek, Roman, and Christian remains. They have restored not only Troy, Ephesus and Aspendos, Topkapi, and Hagia Sopia, but also the home where the Virgin Mary lived in her last days, her tomb and the site from which she ascended into heaven. With surprise I look through the picture window above the urinal there onto a lovely forest scene. How many picture windows are there above urinals? Aspendos is the most complete Roman Theatre in the world. I sing a folk song softly and it rings so easily through the monumental space, my compatriots are fooled into believing that I am a great singer.

The peculiar Christian monasteries hollowed out of the lava in spectacular formations are carefully preserved in Cappadocia. Huge holy chambers, dormitories and dining halls await, but beware of the seductively intriguing paths and crevasses with treacherous footing. I emerged from a high temple, stepped onto an angled rock, teetered toward a seventy foot fall, just about to fly into the treacherous future I fear, knowing there is no safety, no banister, then just barely catching my balance. Hagia Sophia was retired as a mosque and preserved as a museum, in part as a tribute to Christendom, with many mosaics restored, though sadly its demise is imminent due to the threat of earthquakes and the cost of restoration. That ancient Christian history is also a part of me, though it recedes under a cloud as do my memories of Evie, and I move on. Turkey is moving on in its own way.

I revel in the Turks’ communal exuberance in Istiklal and in the pedestrian ways beside the sea in Cannakalle, and in the main street of Anatalya. They are part of a lively, loving community resigned to life overshadowed by external and internal forces, including earthquakes. It is life lived in a happy familial spirit resigned to being without empire, shoved around by eruptions, violent conflicts and by an overbearing elite upper class. But there is also a light transcendent-like spirit. It hit me at the great white lime-covered mountain at Permakalle, and in the lava formations of Cappadocia. It includes a Rumi-like spirit most welcoming to strangers like me. The old saying is observed. “Every guest is a gift from God.” It is a spirit given voice by President Erdogan, the current Muslim Turkish leader, as he speaks to the Kurds. “The climate of warmth and brotherhood that spreads out of Turkey breezes through friendly hearts from northern Iraq to the Balkans and Gaza.”

In December 2009, President Erdogan was in Washington talking with the President and with Charlie Rose exuding that remarkable warm, friendly breeze toward America.

In closing I ask myself, “Why did I come to Turkey, anyway?” To be sure it draws me away from the dark clouds of here. But I want more. I want to find again in myself the vitality of the Black Sea dancers with their mighty leaps and hilarious flops. I want my senses awakened by the sprightly shenanigans of the Greek gods and goddesses. I want to be dazzled by the illumination of the Byzantines, the exotic scents of the Sultans, the sensuous moves of the belly dancers, the kindness of Rumi whose hospitality makes me feel at home in a strange land. Maybe among the clouds there is a glint of light.