From my Bro in Istanbul

Dear Friends and Family,

Greetings! This will be my final email before my return home. Again, no summary statements. From now on I will avoid them. Instead, I will do my best to tell you where I have been.

Our arrival in Istanbul, getting off the overnight train from Konya: “We’re on the Asian side here,” our coordinator tells us. “There, across the water, that’s the European side. That’s where we’re staying.” As we board the ferry it hits me that we have crossed Asia—all of Asia, from Taipei on the western rim of the Pacific to Istanbul on the Bosphorus straits. And now here we are, about to land in Europe, the transit of Asia complete.

Istanbul is a fitting place to end a cross-cultural journey. Yes, it’s Europe, and it’s very European. But it’s domes, minarets, headscarves, and calls to prayer—not vaults, spires, crosses, and bells. The word “Turk” is still a generic expression for “Muslim” in parts of Europe, and now Istanbul is the only official remnant of the “Muslim invasion” that reached the gates of Vienna five hundred years ago.

But let’s be honest, the architecture and the religion are only the bedrock of this city. To get at the culture underneath, you have to look at the window-dressing. In the district where we’re staying it’s Euroville (well, Taksim is its actual name). The main street is a sea of dark fabric: black or dark brown jackets and sweaters, jeans, and—well, there’s little else that stands out by way of description. It’s the European uniform. The Euriform. And it makes the people virtually indistinguishable from those you would see in Berlin or Paris. In theory these are my people, culturally speaking. I’m on Team Europe. Appropriately restrained fashion statements, moderate incomes, genteel addictions, and a completely non-perverse taste for vice (which is itself a perversion, when you think about it): in other words, the full realization of the liberal-democratic vision of freedom.

But despite my supposed cultural leanings, I have to admit that the headscarf, contrary to its reputation as a political symbol, is the single most individualistic and expressive piece of clothing any Turk wears. For the life of me I can’t see how people see it as a sign of close-minded backwardness, as if the subtle varieties of jeans and black sweaters showed the slightest indication of a liberated aesthetic. The headscarves come in innumerable varieties: a modern, symmetrical, sharktooth pattern set within square black borders and a silver-grey background; a bright red, green, and white floral pattern with a yellow background that fades into blue through a scattering of what looks like oil bubbles of various sizes; a surprisingly strong presence of psychedelic designs: exotic purples, spirals, swirls, and indefinite borders. They may sound gaudy, but they are almost always exquisitely chosen and the accessories of sunglasses, lipstick, and long dark overcoats (or sometimes denim) combine to form an urban Muslim chic that puts the perpetually drab secularists to shame.

Which is not to confuse aesthetics with identity. After all, the fancy headscarves may go hand in hand with all the bulls*it of traditional gender roles. A sexy scrap of fabric is cold comfort for an institutionalized lack of respect. And if aesthetic androgyny helps the secularists to symbolize their vision of equality, perhaps their dowdiness can be forgiven. But for the love of public radio and libraries, I don’t see what’s wrong with primary colors.

I should stop now. A rant is as totalitarian as a summary, although in a different way. I will see many of you soon, and for those I won’t, well, I’m pretty mobile, so there is a good chance I will get to you in the not-too-distant future.

And by the way, I have been hired to do this job again starting in the fall. Wind up the world: I’m getting back on.

Love,

Kerry