Trojan Horses: Turkey in Transformation

Every now and then, Christian or Muslim protestors appear before the Hagia Sophia, asking that it be returned to their faith.  It now stands as a state museum, both a pragmatic statement of Turkish secularism and one of the greatest testaments to Western faith rendered seemingly impotent.

We walk together through the archway, early Christian mosaics covered by Ottoman plaster and the mirror-faced marble of the mosque.  Here and there the plaster has been peeled away or the marble removed to reveal elements of its history, an emergent Virgin Mary or the damaged face of Christ, the gold tile chipped away in acts of iconoclasm or reverence, or somehow both.

We spent a great deal of time in this wonder, facing the intimidating symmetry and minarets of the Blue Mosque across the courtyard of Istanbul’s Old City. Here is where centuries of devotees have searched for God, for a Center to their own existence.

And later, the dervishes spin in an inward religious ecstasy, their arms tilted up to embrace the God who is ultimately found in their own hearts. All that spins around a thing comes from that thing, is that thing. That same evening we see a single man dressed as a dervish at a cafe, turning to the cheers and chatter of crowds.

Today, we planted trees on the hills outside Cannakale, remembering the months of fighting at Gallipoli, the tens of thousands who died here in World War I.  We spend a few minutes in the museum of a tiny village, peering at the carefully labeled artifacts of that war which they now find in their fields. Who won this battle?  What center did they find?  Here was the end of empire. Our guide tells us, had the British moved all of their fleet through the Dardanelles instead of losing 1/3 of it here, perhaps the Bolshevik Revolution would not have happened.

Tonight we walk the boardwalk of Cannakale, eating ice cream and wondering at the giant Trojan horse which looms above us, a gift from the Hollywood filmmakers of Troy. It is made of some composite material, not wood; craftspeople on the sidewalk sell facsimiles of the movie version to tourists.  Behind the horse, a single blue-lit minaret calls the evening prayer, but more people are looking at the Burger King menu.  Children pile on top of a series of plaster cows which decorate the sidewalk.

There is a seeming simple ease to the people here, who wander their sea coast drawn in two directions. Our guide Latif reminds me that this country is divided in half. There are those who are drawn to the traditions of a conservative Islam, who hope to find God in a nation different from the one we walk now. Will they tear up the plaster cows, ransack the Domino’s Pizza, and dispel the thinly-clad European crowd? Does the adornment of a place, its exterior wrapping, prevent
enlightenment? 

The others, wandering vaguely from rock-bar to tea shop, from cow to Trojan facsimile, have admitted a Western distraction into their culture of which even now they seem unaware. This other half of Turkey, holding the country to a secular course, orbits nothing that we can identify; their arms extend to the next incarnation of an iPhone. Our guide tells us that he has fallen from Islamic practice years ago.  Can there be iconoclastic acts against a McDonald’s? Can there be reverence?

Turkey in transformation, and forces pull apart in layers of its culture. Tomorrow we see a mythical Troy become a genuine archaeological site. How much will be history and how much Hollywood?  And what souvenirs will I make my own?

By Steve Chisnell, Model UN teacher/advisor