Category: Religion

Little Drummer Boy

August this year is the month of Ramazan, the Islamic month of fasting. Many Turkish visitors have returned home to be replaced by pallid-skinned north Europeans and their summer break sprogs. Pious Moslems are not meant to eat, drink or indulge their vices between sunrise and sunset.

Ramazan commemorates the time when the first verses of the Koran were revealed to Mohammed. This period of self-denial is intended to teach Muslims about patience, spirituality, humility and submissiveness to God. It’s not dissimilar to the Christian Lent which commemorates Jesus’ 40 days in the wilderness and his temptation by Satan. The purpose of Lent is to prepare the believer, through prayer, repentance, alms giving and self-denial, for the annual rite of Easter and the ultimate sacrifice.

As with last year, I’ve noticed little obvious religious observance around us. However, that doesn’t stop our sleep being disrupted by the Ramazan drummer boy who performs throughout the old town each morning at 4am. This time honoured tradition is intended to wake the Faithful so that they can fill their bellies before daybreak. What a racket. Has nobody heard of alarm clocks in this day and age? Apparently the tradition is banned in much of Turkey but then so is the ritual slaughter of sheep by the untrained during Kurban Bayram (the feast of sacrifice), talking on mobile phones while driving and not paying staff until the end of the season.

Icing and Slicing

We were delighted to be invited to celebrate the forty something birthday of a brand new friend. Vetpat Vicki is a gorgeous gal with pretty eyes and the radiant smile of an angel. The drenching humidity failed to dampen our spirits as we supped and chatted into the wee small hours. Earlier in the day Vicki was treated by her Turkish nearest and dearest.  A slice of Victoria sponge at three followed by the slaughter of a sheep at four. It’s a sign of things to come as we edge closer to Kurban Bayram, the annual feast of sacrifice.

I Believe the Children are our Future

For all the fast talk of political Islam and a return to piety, there truly are two sides to this magnificent resurgent nation. Istanbul’s Kadir Has University clearly has a modern, progressive curriculum that allows students to express themselves in  music and dance in a fun and inclusive way. I’ve picked three great examples of this. The first two are uplifting romps that had us rolling in the aisles. The third brought us to our feet. You’ll see why at the end.

You might also like to look at Turkey’s Got Talent. I challenge you not to at least smile.

Yes, this really is a duet with Jennifer Saunders, presumably remixed from Shrek 2.

Thanks to Death by Dolmuş for this one.

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Be Careful What You Wish For

Election fever has gripped the nation ahead of the national vote on June 12th. Democracy is a serious and sometimes deadly business in Turkey judging by the recent bomb attack in Istanbul. Thankfully, no-one was killed this time.

The view from our balcony provides a voyeuristic treat of meandering misplaced tourists, lunatic drivers in a rush and colourful electioneering travelling vans blazoned with party political slogans crowned with giant loudspeakers. We’re serenaded by an ear-piercing mix of Turkopop and Soviet-era patriotic marching tunes. It’s all very jolly.

The current government incumbents, the AK Party is flying high in the polls and victory seems assured. It’s the margin of success that interests me. A strong opposition is essential for a healthy democracy anywhere but the Opposition here appears fractured and ineffective. The AK Party may secure a sufficient majority in Parliament to revise the Turkish Constitution without recourse to a referendum.  If Turkey continues to slip towards religious conservatism, we may reconsider our place in the sun.

The End is Nigh

To paraphrase Mark Twain the reports of our deaths have been greatly exaggerated. I arose yesterday morning expecting the Day of Judgement only to find a day of sunshine. Poor Harold Camping, leader of the Family Radio Ministry got it wrong again. It’s a tough call. The Old Testament was originally written in ancient Hebrew and has changed down the centuries as it has been transliterated from one language to another. I doubt what we read today bears much resemblance to the original texts. Perhaps this is why the old goat can’t get his sums right. For months happy clappy Harry and his nutty band of religious doomsayers have been touring the United States in a camper van spreading the good news to the damned. I bet they feel stupid now.

Tuscan Turkey

Charlotte and Alan fancied a day trip and invited us along for the ride. We decided on a pilgrimage to The Virgin Mary’s House (or Meryemana – Mother Mary, in Turkish), near Ephesus followed by excursion to nearby Şirence. We travelled the now familiar Izmir road arriving at Selçuk for a tasty and inexpensive pide lunch. Replenished, we ascended the mountains to Meryemana (or Mary-enema, as Alan calls it).

Completed in 1950 in neo-Byzantine style on 7th century foundations, Mary’s gaff is a cute, unassuming little bungalow, now a consecrated church but with the character of a shrine. It’s the centre piece of well-tended park overlooking a pretty wooded valley.  We entered the house reverentially and gazed upon the small effigy of Our Lady. It felt contrived to me. I have little time for religion and give more credence to the tooth fairy. Outside in the courtyard Liam lit a candle as is required of a fallen Catholic.

There is scant biblical evidence that Jesus’ mum found her last resting place there (before her Assumption, of course). This hasn’t stopped the place becoming a side show on the bible tours circuit or various popes cashing in on the act with papal sponsorship. Naturally, there’s the obligatory tacky gift shop selling Chinese made plaster figurines and vials of holy water. Liam procured a small woodblock icon of the Madonna and child that is now proudly displayed on a shelf in the loo.

Onwards to Şirence, a small village perched high on the hills above Selçuk. Surrounded by vineyards and orchards set within a serene Italianate  landscape, Şirence had been a Greek populated settlement until 1923. During the exchange of populations between Greece and Turkey the inhabitants were told to pack their bags and leave for Athens. After being left to rot for decades, the village has re-emerged as a bolt hole for wealthy Turks attracted by the fine wood-framed stucco houses that clutch precariously to the hillside. Despite teeming hawkers serving the mob of tourists, both Turkish and foreign, the village retains a real appeal. We grazed at the stalls, drank beer, sampled wine and infused the charm.

We thought of  dropping in on fellow jobbing blogger and good egg Kirazli Karyn who lives only a spitting distance away but we didn’t want to descend unannounced and mob handed.

Islamic Chic

Islamic Chic

Our second day in Istanbul was spent meandering through the piazzas and pavilions of the splendid Topkapı Palace, epicentre of the imperial Ottoman court for 400 years. The unheralded highlight was chancing upon relics of the Prophet (yes, The Prophet). We gazed incredulously upon bits of His beard, tooth, sword, bow, a heap of soil used for ritual ablution and a clay impression of His foot – all allegedly genuine. Slightly less credible are the rod of Moses (of the plagues of Egypt fame), King David’s skull, Abraham’s cookware, and Joseph’s turban (though sadly not his coat of many colours). We were most disappointed not to see the Ark of the Covenant and a charred twig from the Burning Bush. Naturally we remained suitably deferential to avoid stoning by the Faithful. I suppose it’s no less fantastic than the implausible holy artefacts revered by the old ladies of Christendom.

In the extensive grounds we encountered the phenomenon known as ‘Islamic Chic’. Gaggles of giggling girls wandering about their Ottoman heritage adorned in exquisitely tailored dark hued, figure-hugging maxi coats garnished with sumptuous silk scarves of vivid primary colours. The head coverings, moulded at the forehead into a shallow peek as if hiding a baseball cap beneath, framed their painted faces. Modest and modern, I suspect the look is more a sign of wealth and status than of piety. We finished the day with a flourish by ambling around the excellent archeological museum.

Ol’ Constantinople is simply sublime and just gets better each time I visit. We travelled home that evening wanting more and vowing to return.

My Golden Horn

My Golden Horn

We took an all too brief trip to Istanbul to celebrate our anniversary. We did the usual whistle-stop tour of Sultanahmet (the old city). Haghia Sophia still leaves me in speechless awe every time I gaze up towards the magnificent dome that seems to float effortlessly above. Onwards to the curvaceous Blue Mosque built a millennium later. Better outside than in, the seductive silhouette of mosque and minarets defines the famous city skyline. Domed out, we rested outside in the lovingly tended park and endured the call to prayer in thunderous surround sound.

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We spent the evening in Beyoğlu, the increasingly hip shopping and entertainment district that looks proudly down on the old city from across the Golden Horn. We expensively dined along Istiklal Caddesi, the broad pedestrianised boulevard that runs like a spine through the area. After settling the extortionate hesap, we ventured out into the night in search of a minority interest inn to quench our thirsts and assess the locals. Unsurprisingly, the Byzantine gay scene is infinitely superior to any other in Turkey. We supped in a couple of minor league joints before ending the night in the appropriately named Tekyön (One Way), a large pulsating dance bar. It might have been London or Paris, except the disco tits on display were attached to young carefree Turks rather than cute Colombians. Discouragingly, you know you’re getting old when, like policemen, the competition is getting ever younger. We left the boys to their play and headed back to our hotel for a cocoa.

Apocalypse Now

I am availing myself of Karen’s five star facilities and superior broadband. I stumbled across another depressing tale of loopy American evangelical Christians who believe that the recent natural catastrophe in Japan portents the imminent End of Days. Their pastor predicts the apocalypse will commence on May 21st. He’s not sure what time exactly. Delusional disciples are travelling the length of continental USA in a camper van spreading the Word to the faithless. This may be just the harmless ramblings of those who’ve hit the altar wine and I don’t doubt the possibility that the world as we know it may well end in a cataclysmic event one day. Look at what happened to the dinosaurs.

What gets me is the supreme arrogance of these aberrant people who believe absolutely that come the Day of Judgement only those who believe in Jesus will be saved. The rest of us will suffer an agonising death and burn in Hell for eternity. Setting aside the gross insult to the innocent victims of the Japanese quake or the overwhelming majority of humanity who subscribe to an entirely different religious tradition (or like me, none at all), it all seems a bit unchristian. What about the remote people of the New Papua rain forest who’ve never heard of Jesus or the children too young to have the Truth revealed to them, to name just a few billion?

Superstitious nonsense, I say. Still, I’ve made a note of the date and will probably skip the flossing that morning just in case.

Hell and Damnation

I was sad yesterday when I heard that Elizabeth Taylor had died at the age of 79. Dame Liz retained her British nationality despite becoming the definitive all-American Hollywood star. Sensible girl. She wouldn’t have got the damehood without it.

I suppose she’ll be remembered more for the high drama of her personal life than her art. I will remember her for helping to raise over $100 million for the AIDS charity that she founded at a time when many thought that people with AIDS should be left to rot in the gutter.

I was mad today when I read that the congregation from Westboro Baptist Church intend to picket Dame Liz’s funeral. Margie Phelps, daughter of the hate group’s leader, Fred Phelps, tweeted “RIP Elizabeth Taylor is in hell as sure as you’re reading this and getting mad as a wet hen. She should’ve obeyed God. Too late!”  It’s nice to know the hell and damnation school of enlightened thought is alive and well.