to pieces.
"This is not political. It is not about oppression. It is a religious war—Sunnis against Shiites," Professor Dogramaci said.
"Which one are you?" I asked.
"I am a cultural Muslim," she said. "I don't go to mosque. But Islam is in my past and my personal history."
"Maybe Iraq will just break up into separate states—Kurdish, Shiite, Sunni," I said.
"That could happen—a sort of federation. But I tell you this," she said, and she faced me full-on, looking darkly at me, and her dress of watered silk, her lovely necklace, and her glittering rings only made her more menacing. "The oil does not belong to the Kurds alone. It belongs to the people of Iraq. If there is a Kurdish state and they claim the oil, and the others are left behind"—she raised her hand, her sparkling fingers—"then I tell you there will be trouble."
"What kind of trouble?" I asked.
"I cannot be specific," she said, and looked like a fierce grandma. "But we will not stand aside and watch it happen."
Inclining her head, listening to this conversation, was Mrs. Zeynep Karahan Uslu, a member of parliament for the ruling AKP, the Justice and Development Party. She was attractive, in her mid-thirties, and had the same independent air as the professor.
Noticing her, the professor's mood lightened. She said, "You see? This woman is a parliamentarian. She has a child. She is from Istanbul. That is her husband, Ibrahim." Ibrahim, watching us, began to smile. "He follows her here to Ankara and looks after the child. Zeynep is a modern Turkish woman. I knew her father, a great scholar. I am so happy to see her!"
"Yes, it's not easy," Zeynep said. "Sometimes we sit in parliament until two or three in the morning. I leave and the police stop me. They see a woman alone in a car. They say, 'What are you doing?' I have to say, 'I have parliamentary business!' This would never happen in Istanbul, where people are up all night. But Ankara is a big, dull city."
Not dull at Hacettepe University, though, where I was to speak the next day. Big posters greeted me: " ABD! EVINE DÖN! "
"'USA—Go Back Home!'" my translator said.
"Is that meant for me?"
"No, no—it's for the demonstration on Saturday," he said, intending to reassure me. "The AKP is organizing it."
Zeynep's party—and she had intimated that the city was dull?
The foyer of the building where I was to speak was hung with posters of Fidel, Che Guevara, and Venezuela's Hugo Chávez. It was all like the sixties in the United States: inflammatory posters, yet the students were militant in a Turkish way, polite but firm.
Gory photographs along one wall showed Israeli atrocities in Palestine and massacres in Iraq—bombing victims, mass graves, blown-up houses, shrieking women, mourning families, children with arms and legs blown off, bloody bandages. And in large letters a declaration.
"What does that say?"
"'It is in our hands to stop all this!'"
At one table a pretty girl and a well-dressed boy, obviously students, were selling paper badges, disks trimmed in black ribbon, with a motto in the center.
Before I could ask, my translator said, "'We support Iraq resistance.'"
It was an amazing display, even daunting: flags, bunting, denunciatory posters, angry images, and now that I understood the Turkish words for "USA—Go Back Home!" I saw the demand all over—it followed me down the hallway to the university auditorium.
"Not a single person in this university believes the U.S. is right in the war," one of the teachers told me. "Not one."
Four hundred people were already in their seats. They were literature students. I told them that I was the same age as our bellicose vice president, but that was where our resemblance ended. After Dick Cheney graduated from college, he went to Washington to seek political power, and he never left. I joined the Peace Corps, to teach school in Africa. I distrusted politicians, and I avoided making friends with politically powerful people, because (I
"This is not political. It is not about oppression. It is a religious war—Sunnis against Shiites," Professor Dogramaci said.
"Which one are you?" I asked.
"I am a cultural Muslim," she said. "I don't go to mosque. But Islam is in my past and my personal history."
"Maybe Iraq will just break up into separate states—Kurdish, Shiite, Sunni," I said.
"That could happen—a sort of federation. But I tell you this," she said, and she faced me full-on, looking darkly at me, and her dress of watered silk, her lovely necklace, and her glittering rings only made her more menacing. "The oil does not belong to the Kurds alone. It belongs to the people of Iraq. If there is a Kurdish state and they claim the oil, and the others are left behind"—she raised her hand, her sparkling fingers—"then I tell you there will be trouble."
"What kind of trouble?" I asked.
"I cannot be specific," she said, and looked like a fierce grandma. "But we will not stand aside and watch it happen."
Inclining her head, listening to this conversation, was Mrs. Zeynep Karahan Uslu, a member of parliament for the ruling AKP, the Justice and Development Party. She was attractive, in her mid-thirties, and had the same independent air as the professor.
Noticing her, the professor's mood lightened. She said, "You see? This woman is a parliamentarian. She has a child. She is from Istanbul. That is her husband, Ibrahim." Ibrahim, watching us, began to smile. "He follows her here to Ankara and looks after the child. Zeynep is a modern Turkish woman. I knew her father, a great scholar. I am so happy to see her!"
"Yes, it's not easy," Zeynep said. "Sometimes we sit in parliament until two or three in the morning. I leave and the police stop me. They see a woman alone in a car. They say, 'What are you doing?' I have to say, 'I have parliamentary business!' This would never happen in Istanbul, where people are up all night. But Ankara is a big, dull city."
Not dull at Hacettepe University, though, where I was to speak the next day. Big posters greeted me: " ABD! EVINE DÖN! "
"'USA—Go Back Home!'" my translator said.
"Is that meant for me?"
"No, no—it's for the demonstration on Saturday," he said, intending to reassure me. "The AKP is organizing it."
Zeynep's party—and she had intimated that the city was dull?
The foyer of the building where I was to speak was hung with posters of Fidel, Che Guevara, and Venezuela's Hugo Chávez. It was all like the sixties in the United States: inflammatory posters, yet the students were militant in a Turkish way, polite but firm.
Gory photographs along one wall showed Israeli atrocities in Palestine and massacres in Iraq—bombing victims, mass graves, blown-up houses, shrieking women, mourning families, children with arms and legs blown off, bloody bandages. And in large letters a declaration.
"What does that say?"
"'It is in our hands to stop all this!'"
At one table a pretty girl and a well-dressed boy, obviously students, were selling paper badges, disks trimmed in black ribbon, with a motto in the center.
Before I could ask, my translator said, "'We support Iraq resistance.'"
It was an amazing display, even daunting: flags, bunting, denunciatory posters, angry images, and now that I understood the Turkish words for "USA—Go Back Home!" I saw the demand all over—it followed me down the hallway to the university auditorium.
"Not a single person in this university believes the U.S. is right in the war," one of the teachers told me. "Not one."
Four hundred people were already in their seats. They were literature students. I told them that I was the same age as our bellicose vice president, but that was where our resemblance ended. After Dick Cheney graduated from college, he went to Washington to seek political power, and he never left. I joined the Peace Corps, to teach school in Africa. I distrusted politicians, and I avoided making friends with politically powerful people, because (I
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