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If anything highlights the
schism in Turkish society, it is the December holiday season.
The abundance of Christmas
trees in selected neighborhoods almost makes one forget that is a predominantly Muslim
city. Yet, the trees underline what sets Turkish society apart from both its Eastern
and its Western counterparts.
Unlike any other effective
capital of a largely Muslim country, posh İstanbul neighborhoods such as Etiler drape
themselves with festive Christmas decorations, symbolizing a feast far more alien
to Turkish history and culture than the traditional garb of its poorer counterparts,
for much more than only commercial reasons.
A four-storey, man-made
fir-covered cone slices like a phallic symbol through Akmerkez, İstanbul's foremost
American-style, upmarket shopping center located in the very heart of Etiler. If
residents of Etiler shudder at the thought that the women of Fatih with their headscarves
and chadors are as much a reflection of Turkey as they are, than they at least should
respond similarly to the figure of "Noel Baba" (Father Christmas) and the ringing
of "Jingle Bells" in their own backyard.
The juxtaposition of
employing the symbols of someone else's feast, with an election campaign that stopped
short of positioning Noel Baba versus the chador, went a long away to illustrate
the problems of a country in transition -a transition that is taking place in an
ideological void in which the country has yet to define its post-Cold War identity.
It is perhaps that
void, compounded by the country's deepening economic crisis and debilitating war
against the Kurds, that should most concern Turks of all walks of life. It is what
has many Turks turning to İslam to provide direction.
Yet, to those who put
Christmas tress in their homes with little knowledge of the religious and cultural
significance of the tradition, the dividing line between Muslim religiousness and
Muslim militancy is vague at best
And while the numbers
of those attending prayers at my neighborhood mosque -I confess: I live in a neighborhood
which leans towards Christmas trees rather than chador- is increasing, many of these
faithful are unlikely to want to part with the achievements of a modern state bent
on reaping the fruits of progress.
"We have a cultural
rather than a generational gap. It's a violent interruption of our history. As a
result, one group of Turks does not understand what the other is talking about. It's
an argument between two deaf people speaking different languages," explains Erol
AkyavaF, a prominent Turkish artist who has resided in New York for the past 40 years.
Turkey has all the
makings of a "torn" society with little if any communication between its constituent
elements. Yet, behind the lines of the battle of the symbols, and the sky-high walls
of mutual prejudice, there may well be room for common ground.
To discover it will
take soul searching on both sides of the divide. For Turkey's militantly secular
elite this involves coming to grips with the fact that Islam remains an important
aspect of life to a substantial segment of the population.
At a recent visual
arts seminar involving fiercely secular Turkish artists and some put forward as participants
in the discussion by the Refah Party-run İstanbul Municipality, artist and art historian
Jale Erzan asked her pro-Islamic counterparts:
"Do you accept people
like me who doubt God? If religion is your starting point than we can't talk to one
other," she said. Silence enveloped the conference room as Mrs. Erzan focused her
intellectual guns on the heart of the issue. If anything, she was saying, mutual
acceptance is the sole basis on which dialogue is possible.
"I'm not religious,"
countered Gültekin Çizgen, a photographer and artist speaking for the
pro-Islamic participants in the seminar. "I don't believe in God. But I know that
the religious factor is important for society. I can't deny this."
James M. Dorsey is
the correspondent of the Wall Street Journal in İstanbul |
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