A Turkish Carpet
by Tracy Worcester
Every year I abandon my family to stay with remote farmers in different corners of the world. This year I went to Turkey with Ian Warrell, who not only speaks the language fluently but has a profound knowledge of the country’s culture and heritage.
In less than half a century, Turkey has changed from a country where three-quarters of the population lived in rural areas, to one where three-quarters are in cities. Only last year it was praised as a paragon of neo-liberal economic virtue for making economic policy changes suggested by the IMF. However, it is now suffering from an economic crisis that is causing massive unemployment. So, having been one of the most rapidly urbanising nations, the crisis is making many Turks return to their rural roots.
Our journey began in the city of Kayseri, where smoke-belching factories and concrete high-rises crowd the skyline. Soon we were in the surrounding countryside, where small farming communities live in old houses, blissfully unaffected by the modern world - so far. Perched on a rock face in the hills of Capadocia, we found one such village where an old lady beckoned us up to her balcony. She told us “I would never leave my village. Everything we need is free and everyone knows and cares for each other here. If we need wood, we simply gather it. And food grows easily.”
With a beautiful backdrop of autumnal colours and snow-capped mountains, our journey continued into Eastern Anatolia. Exploring ancient dirt roads, through unspoilt wooded valleys with crystal-clear streams, we discovered what looked like Arcadia. We were struck by the remarkable symbiosis of people and nature. Everywhere locals were busy working the land. We chatted to an old man who was ploughing. When we asked why he was using chemical fertiliser, he laughed saying, “I must have been brainwashed! At first yields improved a lot. But I soon learnt the long-term effects of trying to outsmart Mother Nature. My soil is ruined. The poor farmers who couldn’t afford the chemicals in the first place are the lucky ones. I’m in debt now and have to try to slowly rebuild my soil’s fertility with animal manure.”
In this part of Turkey the countryside has been enhanced by human activity with villages only discernible by a concentration of green fields, orchards and stone houses. We stopped in a small village called Chardak. There we met Sevim, a constantly smiling mother of three who, with time-honoured hospitality, begged us to stay in her house. I admired Sevim’s freedom to invite as she wished. No permission was sought from anyone. As economic life revolves around the home and the family, contrary to popular ideas, rural Muslim women radiated dignity and authority. This view was to be greatly strengthened over the course of our trip.
In Turkish culture, with its nomadic origins, the guest has always held a privileged place. The fact that we were the first foreigners in Chardak generated a lot of interest. Family and locals joined us cross-legged on the beautifully woven red carpet to share tea, home-made bread, butter, cheese, rose hip jam, olives and honey. Sevim lit the stove, adding to the warmth generated by the draft mules and cattle in the stable below. We spent the evening joking and exchanging descriptions of our very different ways of life.
“I didn’t go to school”, Sevim explained. “Girls are bought up copying everything our mothers do”. She continued, “Though my work is sometimes hard, I enjoy working with my friends and relatives. We laugh and joke. We are always together. I couldn’t imagine working on my own. We have to plant and harvest, pickle and dry fruit and vegetables, make yoghurt and cheese, grind corn, bake bread, milk the cows, care for the draft animals, spin, dye and weave carpets and cushions - can you imagine doing all that by yourself? It would be impossible, so we all have to work together.” But then she said sadly “It’s harder today because many people from our family have left the village to work in town.&#