THE WONDER OF ANATOLIA: LAND OF ATATURK AND GULEN

He stoops to jet the red liquid into the cup with a deftness as polished as the silver urn strapped to his back, his gaiters and apron white in the sun, his gold-trimmed uniform and fez crimson as the juice itself, his smiling presence a page from a Turkish guidebook in quick and full dimension. "Look, Dee," I exclaim to my wife, "there's a berry-juice vendor!" We're standing on the sidewalk, having stepped off the charter bus, near Topkapi Palace in Istanbul.

The date is December 12, 2005. We've come to Turkey as guests under the sponsorship of the Institute of Interfaith Dialog—an organization promoting the vision of compassion, education and peace espoused by the Turkish spiritual leader M. Fethullah Gulen. The Brit Roger Housden and I being the only writers, our group of 47 consists mostly of clergy and theology professors and their wives from the Midwestern United States. Our three guides are Turkish college students attending classes at Texas A&M and Rice. We will be traveling throughout the country 11 days.

The first words one learns in Turkish are bound to be tesekkur ederim. They mean "thank you" and, given the nonpareil hospitality and graciousness of the people bubbling forth like fresh water from a spring, they'll be words the visitor uses over and over, time and time again. The naturally friendly gestures, smiles and helping hands one encounters at every turn imprint indelibly.

We stare agape at the jeweled crowns, the slabs of emeralds, the 84-carat diamond in the Imperial Treasury. The cornucopia of inlaid worth surrounding us denies comprehension. I recall the young, uniformed soldiers inconspicuously dotting the palace grounds with submachine guns slung across their chests. "Are the sentries' weapons loaded?" I ask Esad, our guide. "Oh, to be sure," he replies, "and they'll shoot to kill!" As we proceed on through one splendorous room after another, I contemplate this microcosmic symbol of the Turkish republic as a whole: a cultural treasure kept intact and orderly by an ever-proximate threat of military force. Since the institution of multi-party politics following the death in 1938 of the republic's founder, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, there have been four military interventions or coups.

Riding in from the airport that first morning, we were struck by the contrast of the old beside the new. Centuries-old stone walls bordering the streaming expressway; abandoned, crumbling-brick apartment buildings between modern, reflective-glass offices; ancient minarets thrusting up beside high-rises; stone castles on shores connected by steel suspension bridges. Turkey prides itself on having a secular governing body, yet the prevalence of minarets like green sprouts in springtime testify to the people's irrepressible religiosity. The muezzin's call to prayer drowns the din of street traffic.

Nevertheless, our scheduled visit to the Blue Mosque with its unique six minarets is postponed and our itinerary diverted to the Istanbul Military Museum where the Janissary Band, Mehter Takimi, the world's oldest military band, is giving a concert. (We would soon learn that in Turkey such decisions made on-the-fly are common, or, as the local expression goes, "The caravan is made on the road.") We rush through a labyrinth of hallways displaying uniforms and tents, scimitars and cannon, the evolution of machine-gun technology, up finally to the auditorium where the concert is in progress to the delight of throngs of school children. Oboes along with kettledrums and cymbals (both Turkish inventions) combine with the leather, brass and brilliant garments of the marchers to produce an impressive show of color and cadence, percussion and precision. The children love it. And the Blue Mosque stands waiting for a later visit by us entailing not only a prayer service but also a privileged audience with the Imam himself. One of the perks of traveling with men of the cloth.

On the streets the swift passage of vehicles, pedestrians and the omnipresent stray felines with regard to one another seems to us like mysterious, masterful choreography. How does the young man carrying sesame bread rings know when to dart from the curb, the bus missing him by mere centimeters? How does the yellow motorcycle calculate dodging the truck by a whisker and avoiding the woman crossing at the divider? The "illegal" U-turn is a mandatory maneuver, and rearview mirrors are more vital than windshields. By the end of our stay we will have come to regard the bus driver as a god in his own right.

We have descended Mount Bulbul near Izmir, having paid homage to the Shrine of the Virgin Mary (purportedly her last home), and it is late in the day when we reach the site of Ephesus. In no way has my imagination prepared me for what will soon appear before my eyes. Our guide on site is a short, elderly Turkish gentleman fluent in English, a retired history teacher. We begin among assorted rocks yet to be fully excavated and proceed downhill along a stone-paved street that will lead to the heart of what was once the largest and most glorious Roman city in Anatolia. As we meander past the remnants of baths, temples, dwellings and fountains, the sense of a structured, once-thriving community takes shape. We pass an infirmary and come to the huge public latrines where Father Ed, revealing a mundane streak of humor, is the first to have his picture taken posing on a seat. Then on to what would be my favorite facade (I being a former librarian), the Celsus Library. And finally on to the Grand Theater with a seating capacity of 24,500 where Father Ed redeems himself by offering an impromptu rendering a cappella of "How Great Thou Art" as the sun sets over the vista of Harbor Street.

As Father Ed's voice drifts up into the furthest rows, I'm seized with a pang of mourning for what's been lost. What grandeur and vibrancy once ruled here, left now but to the testimony of stones. Was it internal strife, or conquest, or a changing of the waters that led to its demise? Or was it all of these? And what of us, just as human, today's observers of history's traces in a setting sun? Must our finest hour, our deepest love, our most ambitious dream suffer a similar doom?

Education being a key component in Gulen's formula for progress, we are frequently invited to dine with faculty of various schools and educational institutions, often with entertainment provided by the students. It has been raining lightly and there are pools on the play yard as we drive up to the bright, multicolored Gaglayan Private School (a Gulen school) in Urfa. It's recess and I see three boys shooting baskets. Although I haven't held a basketball in my hands in years, I can't resist the temptation to join them. In spite of their not speaking English, we are soon passing and shooting like a team, proof that sports can, indeed, be a universal language. In one foolish moment I decide to attempt a hook shot from the free-throw line. And by some miracle of fate it goes in! One boy throws his arms in the air and shouts: "NBA!" Ah, television and the Internet—what a small world we've become!

The lore of Biblical Abraham and Job abounds throughout the Urfa region. We see the castle towering above, the location from which Abraham was reputedly thrown down into the fire that miraculously turned into water and the faggots into fish. We feed the fish. Job's cave and well are not far away. It is here for the first and only time I encounter a street beggar—a young woman veiled and covered head to toe in black. She extends her youthful hand toward me and pleads softly in a tongue I can't comprehend. I have no lira. When I mention this to our guide, he frowns and cautions, "I'd be suspicious. She can go to any mosque—they're state-supported—and they'll help her." Later that day we travel on to Harran to experience the curious "beehive" mud huts and stand under umbrellas in the mist by the ruins of the Grand Mosque and the citadel.

Intermittently we are divided into smaller groups and taken to private homes to dine with Turkish families. Most homes are condo-style dwellings, stand-alone structures are the exception. We are accompanied by an interpreter and soon all the women are chattering away about recipes, domestic furnishings, children and shopping while the men discuss their professions, commerce and sports. The meals without fail are sumptuous, consisting of rice dishes, breads, numerous fresh fruits, meats such as lamb and beef, baked chicken, fish, vegetables, salads and pastries such as baklava. Always this is topped off with a serving of tea, called cay, in tiny glasses and sometimes the giving of a gift. One extended family in the Mediterranean city of Antalya is especially sociable, the women speaking some English. The view from their condo of the bay and beach is magnificent, but they complain that a social club below is noisy at night. So they're searching for another location and will move as soon as the young husband receives a promotion. During these home visits what must become evident to all are the common themes we as people share.

We tour museums displaying vast archeological treasures, the progression of tools and medical instruments and view mosaics with the delicate detail of paintings. Although the Islamic tradition forbids depicting the human form in representational art, geometric patterns of intricate beauty abound on murals and tapestries. And, of course, there's the obligatory shopping spree at a Turkish carpet shop. Three women are engaged in the tedious task of mending and reweaving carpets as we enter the doorway. I comment to them through our interpreter how I once wrote a poem about my recognition of growing old by watching the carpet wear away under my feet, and how, if only they'd been there, perhaps they could have rewoven my carpet and made me young again. They laugh at my humor and their faces glow at my appreciation of their craft. So while Dee barters with the shopkeeper, I copy down my poem from memory, having our guide translate, and present it to them as a gift.

On one occasion, we are refused entry into a mosque because the prayer hour is near. After an elaborate discussion with Cafer and Tufan, our other two guides, the doorkeeper, upon learning many of our party are clergy, relents and allows us ingress through a side door. As Tufan explains later, there are different degrees of "no" in Turkish. Some mean "absolutely not," but many convey the sense of "it's not allowed but maybe we can work something out." And an important distinction must be noted here—this occurs in a spirit of accommodation, not one of extortion or bribery as is common in some other lands. One notable example is the official policy toward Sufism, the mystical branch of Islam, perceived as decadent and banned by the government in 1925. Though still outlawed in any missionary capacity, its practice is tolerated, and performances by the Whirling Dervishes of Rumi are permitted in Konya, the center of Sufic mysticism in the Middle East.

Our long bus ride to Konya provides ample opportunity for a special surprise treat from Roger Housden. Having written extensively on poetry and spirituality, he generously consents to give an orientation on Sufism and the Mevlana Festival, and read selections from the poems of Rumi. The Whirling Devishes perform in the Rumi Cultural Center, and upon our arrival the crowd flowing in is crushing. Once seated in the huge auditorium-in-the-round, we listen to introductory music and singing, and enjoy refreshments provided by our hosts. At last the lights dim and the dancers file in and commence their ceremony. What we are witnessing is a religious ritual—infused with stages of symbolic meaning—that aspires to a mystical communion with God. The mesmeric circular motion and softly flaring robes draw us into a state of elevated quietude. The sense of warmth and peace is exceeded only when, the next morning, we stand beside the tomb of Rumi.

As we have scurried down through the days of our itinerary, we have been inundated with sights, sounds and images too numerous to process in the here and now. The ferry-boat cruise along the Bosphorus our first evening, the impressive Underground Cistern of Emperor Constantinus I, dinner at the Gulen Sifa Hospital with the retired Turkish general, the well-preserved Roman Aspendos Theater (where a professor and I take turns reciting bits of Shakespeare to the towering, empty seats). At the scenic Duden Waterfalls, visitors are climbing over the cable fence to stand at the edge of the precipice and have their pictures taken. When I exclaim to our guide that in America signs would be posted forbidding that and an officer would be shooing them back or arresting them, he replies, "Well, in Turkey the cable is your commonsense warning—if you ignore it, it's your own neck!"

Nevertheless, two events do occur in close proximity that impress their profound significance upon me immediately. We're on an excursion to Bergama to explore the Red Basilica and the site of ancient Pergamon. Winding through narrow, stone-paved streets, our bus suddenly becomes ensnarled in a major traffic jam. Cars are parked on either side. Coming from the opposite direction, a car, motorcycle and bus confront us in the single-lane space. What to do? The drivers involved lean out their windows and begin calling to one another. At first we think they're arguing—but no. They're actually negotiating a solution. The cyclist wheels his bike around a parked car and is away. The auto parallel parks for the moment in a shop entry. The other bus backs up and turns into a blind alley, leaving just enough room for our bus to pass. And in less than five minutes, the problem is solved and everyone is on his way. I comment to Dee that if this were back home, the drivers would all be assigning blame and hiring lawyers. This to me seemed but one concrete example of the comity and spirit of cooperation that pervades Anatolian society. Great strength lies in that attitude—an attitude, sadly, much of America has forgotten. But an attitude that bodes wonders for Turkey's future.

Late that same day we are descending the serpentine road from the broken colonnades of Pergamon when a shepherd and his flock come into view. As we draw closer, the sheep begin to run, but in a manner that, as the road bends round, will take them directly in front of our bus. All at once the elder ram surges to the head, turns squarely and lowers his horns. Amazingly, the sheep all halt in their tracks as if on command, remaining safely alongside the ditch. We pause briefly to take pictures, the sinewy ram standing firm and statuesque, and I can hardly suppress my wonder at the apparent cognizance and proud leadership of this creature. A fitting symbol, perhaps, for Turkey's great father, Ataturk, who held a despairing people together to establish a nation and steered them securely toward progress and prosperity. Such, anyway, are the musings on a mountain road of a writer with a fondness for metaphor.

So finally, after crisscrossing Anatolia by jetliner, bus and automobile, we return to Istanbul for the grand finale. Our last full day begins with a breakfast hosted by the Journalists and Authors Foundation, a sister organization of the Institute of Interfaith Dialog. A Q&A session is conducted by the rising journalist Mustafa Akyol, son of the famous Turkish writer Taha Akyol. Then we are off to marvel at the magnificent architecture of Hagia Sophia and to spend our last lira in the Grand Covered Bazaar. That evening Dee and I are privileged to dine privately with Mustafa Akyol and engage in stirring discussions of politics, customs, Islam and history. The evening ends with a drive up to another restaurant on Camlica Hill, overlooking much of the city lights, where we rejoin our group. It has snowed in Istanbul while we were away, and the atmosphere here among the pines is that of a cloistered ski lodge.

Settled in on the long flight back with Dee sleeping soundly in the seat beside me, I'm given over to reflection. What exactly is it we can take away from these last 11 days? And precisely, what is it M. Fethullah Gulen has to teach us? To begin with, again and again, I was gripped by a sense of nostalgia for what I discovered waxing in Turkish society that I see waning in my own. The discipline and respect for authority in the schools as well as the will to student excellence. The harmony in communities. The respect for one's fellow man that extends naturally from a firmly grounded faith. And Gulen's great strength lies in his vision for the holistic flowering of human potential—physically, emotionally, intellectually and spiritually—that is embraced and promoted by others of good will for the betterment of the individual and society. A vision not dependent upon the charisma of its leader but rather upon the strength of its results.

I come away having witnessed what I believe are three great "frames of reference" for the denizens of Anatolia, guiding and shaping their life's every aspect. The first is the sweeping influence of history, constantly at the shoulder and under the foot, that codifies the people's heritage and identity. The second is the choice of secular government and progressive social measures that have modernized the nation due largely to the legacy of Ataturk. And last, but not least, is the near-universal practice of a "moderate" Islam that accentuates the love and compassion in the revelations to the Prophet. It is a beautiful country in so many ways, and I count myself a fortunate man to have many new friends there.

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