Off the Beaten Tracks

by Irina Bogatyreva

  “Hello!” The youngest of the men addresses me politely in Russian.

  I turn around, surprised.

  “Hello! Was it you on the phone? Are you Russian?”

  “Yes. But from Dagestan. I study here. Where are you heading?”

  At last I can explain everything in detail. At the same time I interrogate Ramazan, my interlocutor.

  Nurula wants to show me something and he calls me up to a glass display case. Inside there is a black square bundle wrapped in velvet, inscribed with Arabic characters.

  “This is a hair of the Prophet Mohammed,” translates Ramazan.

  Nurula begins opening the bundle, but the oldest of the men stops him.

  “They cannot show it to you,” explains Ramazan. “They only open it during important holidays.”

  The women are preparing dinner but they can only show their hospitality from behind the threshold. Nurula takes the plates from them at the door and brings them to the table. Another brother appears, his two children run among us dodging the outstretched arms eager to pat them on the head. Eventually I am introduced to the men. It turns out that the eldest is the father and the second-eldest is the Islamic scholar Mohammed Said, a friend of the family. I blush embarrassed by my initial lack of politeness.

  Before dinner I manage to meet the mother of the family. I go out from the living room into the hallway where a woman in a white shawl comes to meet me, her arms reaching out for a hug, her face radiant with welcome. She says something in Turkish, hugs me, then reluctantly but dutifully lets me join the men.

  During dinner there is general conversation. At first quiet, like the trickle of a small stream, then as loud and free as an overflowing river. The scholar asks about Russia. It turns out that he has twice been to Kaliningrad. A friend of his, a Duma deputy, lives there. For young people’s religious education he had invited representatives of different religions to lecture at one of the colleges. Only Muslims responded to his invitation.

  I ask lots of questions about young people in Turkey. I say that on first impression they don’t strike me as very religious. And that it seems that there are far fewer genuinely devout Muslims – those who pray every day – than those who are devout merely in name. The scholar and the others assure me that the devout make up no less than ninety percent of the total. I find that hard to believe.

  Ramazan goes on translating conscientiously and I keep forgetting about the food. The father keeps pushing forward different dishes, coaxing me to eat more. But the conversation itself is the main dish, a delicacy that we cannot get enough of. The scholar, Ramazan and I speak the most, with the older brother and the father sometimes interjecting, and the middle brother and Nurula listening in silence.

  One, two, three, four, five, six men and I am the only woman.

  The wives and sisters cautiously look in from the doorway but then hide again shyly.

  They would have certainly had dinner with us were it not for the male guests: the Dagestani and the scholar.

  Ramazan translates for me:

  “The women also want to listen, so they will be allowed to come in.”

  One after another they come into the living room. The men make room for them at the table but they try to maintain some distance and some even remain behind the threshold.

  “This girl looks a lot like a Russian girl,” I say pointing to one of the little girls wearing a bright pink scarf and raspberry-colored sweater.

  Ramazan translates. She smiles and nods.

  “She is Circassian,” explains Ramazan. “During the war between the Russian Tsar and the Imam Shamil many Circassians settled in Turkey.”

  Cautiously and timidly the women ask why I am traveling alone, don’t I have a husband or father or brother to travel with me? I explain as best I can that I can do very well without them on the road but refrain from adding that it’s easier and more interesting this way.

  Finally, at one point in our warm, sincere conversation, when it’s already hard to believe that we’re seeing each other for the first time and that I’m not a member of their family, the elder brother comes in and says that they have just telephoned their spiritual teacher and that he has granted them permission to show me the hair of the Prophet.

  The house storms into action. Women fuss about. Ramazan gets up as the upcoming event is explained to him. He automatically takes out a knitted white cap from his pocket and puts it on.

  The women give me a skirt to change into for the ceremony. They tie my headscarf properly. One of them suddenly gives me a ring from her finger: a turtle studded with precious stones.

  “No, no!” I protest. But her eyes express such trust and such openness that I put the ring on.

  The valuable parcel is placed on a small table in the center of the living room. People sit staggered around so that everyone can see. Among them I notice some new faces. This is too important and rare an event to miss.

  I can’t help asking:

  “Isn’t it forbidden to worship objects or images in Islam?”

  “This is not worship.” Ramazan points to the head of the family. “They are keeping this hair as a sign of love and respect towards the man who was sent by the Lord.” Ramazan translates my words and the father nodds confirming that it is an act of love.

  They put me close to the precious parcel. Off to one side is the older brother Ahmed and the middle brother on the other side. Seven-year-old Ahmed is also here.

  Everyone sings a greeting to the prophet:

  “Salalahu aleihi va saliam! – Peace to him and praised be Allah!”

  The two brothers start unwrapping the parcel. Under the velvet cover there is a colorful shawl, then another one beneath it, and another, and so on… It seems that all in all there are more than a hundred. I’m no longer afraid I’ll burst out laughing because I now have a happy smile on my face. If this happiness hadn’t already been inside me I would have breathed it in from the air all around. Happiness illuminats the faces of everyone present.

  The shawls finally end and caskets begin: a biggish one with a smaller one inside, then an even smaller one. And finally there it is: a glass flask with a few dark hairs from the Prophet Mohammed’s beard.

  The eldest brother raises it high. Then he passes it across his son’s brow. He catches the little daughter of the middle brother darting in and out among the adults and passes it across her brow as well. The father says something and the elder brother turns toward me. I obediently bend my head and the flask gently touches my forehead.

  I look at their faces.

  However beautiful the voice of each individual performer, when many voices blend in the choir it makes my heart stand still. Songs sound even more wonderful when sung in the name of the Lord.

  The hair of the prophet is just a pretext, a wave of the conductor’s wand for hearts already filled with love and ready to overflow.

  Nurula wouldn’t have left me there on the road in a million years. Why? Just look at his mother and father standing there. Or, I should say, standing before God – and that’s the real point.

  Awfully sweet Kurdistan

  In the morning Nurula came by, sad because there were no more bus tickets to Diyarbakir. He could do nothing but take me back to the same place where he’d picked me up yesterday.

  Nurula said goodbye quickly and hurried back to his car as if afraid to see the Kurdish terrorists attack and kill me on the spot.

  Towards midday, strangely enough still alive, I had made it halfway to Diyarbakir.

  Once the passing drivers saw that none of their warnings about terrorists were working, they went on with more reasons for fear:

  “There is no road to Diyarbakir.”

  “The road to Diyarbakir is closed.”

  “The road to Diyarbakir is snowed in.”

  Here I am standing on the outskirts of a smallish town, rather worried. I almost believe that there really won’t be a way to go further. The road does indeed go through a mountain pass. The mountains s
urrounding me, covered in white duvets, assert themselves eloquently.

  There are almost no cars.

  All of a sudden I see a silvery car, a foreign make. I extend my arm, and it cautiously, as if fearfully, stops.

  The driver is a young man, about 25, Turkish, in a business suit.

  “Do you speak English?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he answers with a surprised-fearful, childishly sweet expression.

  “I’m going to Diyarbakir, could you take me there?”

  He gets out of the car, opens the trunk and shamelessly checks me out as I’m putting in my backpack.

  Finally we set off. He turns to me, eyes full of wonder, eyebrows furrowed:

  “Tell me,” he says, pronouncing the unfamiliar English words slowly, “how did you end up here, all on your own?”

  “I’m traveling. I’m from Russia. I’m on my way to Diyarbakir. I’m hitchhiking.”

  “But that’s very dangerous. You may run into very bad people.”

  “But I ran into you.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  Oh, I know! How many times Russian drivers told me:

  “Hitchhiker? No one will take you!”

  “But you did.”

  “You just got lucky this time.”

  They believe they are the only ones capable of doing a good deed.

  Soon we start talking. His name is Ozgiur and he is driving to Diyarbakir, where he lives and works. It turns out that he is only half Turkish; his other half is Kurdish. It is perfectly appropriate that he should be the one taking me from Turkey to Kurdistan.

  The whole way we talk about Ozgiur’s job which puts him at odds with his religion since he sometimes has to drink alcohol at company events. He tells me about his family, about his parents, who are devout Muslims but who have never forced their children to be devout as well. Ozgiur wants to travel because he hasn’t been anywhere outside of Turkey. He has no time because of work, which “isn’t very interesting but in three years he will be a senior manager and after five more…”

  We only stop once, for lunch. Ozgiur orders several dishes for me and only one for himself, which he won’t even eat because he isn’t hungry.

  Diyarbakir welcomes us with the light of streetlamps as evening sets in. Ozgiur gives me a tour of the city. He invites me for coffee and traditional local sweets. He spends a lot of energy trying to convince me not to go any further, to spend the night here, in a hotel, where he would even get me a room. I don’t want him to spend more money on me. I’d stay if Ozgiur invited me to his house but he doesn’t, which puzzles me until I realize that he is simply afraid I would misunderstand him. I had the same problem at Nurula’s parents’ house in Erzurum. Why hadn’t the men in the living room paid any attention to me, a stranger and a guest? Because according to the rules of Islam, men are not even supposed to speak with women if they are not bound by family ties. Why did Ramazan look at my hands when talking with me? Because he wasn’t supposed to look at my face or make eye contact.

  Ozgiur is also afraid of offending me. In appreciation of the tradition and the religion responsible for this attitude towards women I don’t mind sleeping in the open air. There was one thing I could not refuse – Ozgiur was unbending – he insists on buying me a bus ticket to Mardin, the next city in Kurdistan and very close to Syria.

  Wishes fulfilled

  Now I am in the very center of Kurdistan; it surrounds me from all sides, even touching my clothes. I am traveling in a bus crowded with Kurdish men and women. They have a different language, different facial features: bold noses and darker skin than the Turks. It’s time to remember all the warnings that haunted me all the way here.

  I’m lost in my thoughts: what a long road I have covered today, from Erzurum to Mardin where we’re just about to arrive. But thanks to the eloquent darkness in the window, the clarity of my thoughts about the day is replaced by vaguer thoughts about the night. “Of course, I’m grateful to Ozgiur for the bus ticket, but… if I’d hitchhiked and someone picked me up it would mean he’s a good person. And a good person would have invited me home. When you are in someone’s car you are already his guest. On this bus I’m nobody’s guest… Where will I sleep tonight?”

  A Kurdish man of about thirty-five turns to me shyly:

  “Where are you going?” He suddenly asks in English, rather haltingly.

  “To Mardin, then to Syria.”

  “And where are you from?”

  “From Russia.”

  “Oh! From Russia!”

  Soon we’re sitting on the floor, a large tin tray in front of us covered with plates of food: yogurt, fried eggs, rice with meat, homemade bread. For the first time on this trip I’m eating on the floor.

  It turns out that the Kurd from the bus is a schoolteacher. He, of course, wants to know where I’m planning to spend the night. When he learns that I plan to sleep in a tent he thinks for about half a minute and says:

  “My mother and I are going from Ankara to see my brother in Mardin. If you don’t mind, I would like to invite you to his house.”

  In the darkness of the poorly illuminated streets we step out of the bus, my expectations for the evening already infused with the warmth of my travel companions’ hospitality.

  The three of us walk home together and have a lively conversation. I remember all the warnings about Kurdistan and smils to myself quietly.

  Chapter 2. Arabic Christianity

  Neon crosses

  Will I really have to sleep in a tent in Syria? Have I not been surprising my friends with stories about how Syria is the most hospitable country in the world, that you need only raise your hand on the road and the first car will stop? That you need only make eye contact and people will immediately invite you for tea or lunch, or offer you a place to spend the night.

  The day is ending and night is taking over covering the sky with a black blanket moth-eaten by shining stars. Night finds me on the highway from Aleppo to Damascus. The highways are alive with cars racing at high speed, hurrying to finish the day in the warmth of their own homes. And my outline barely visible in the dim light of streetlamps is too weak to tear them away from their thoughts of home.

  At some point I turn around to face the traffic and notice the inviting red rear-lights of a little truck which has stopped to pick me up. Syria is Syria – you only need to raise your hand…

  The driver doesn’t speak a word of English and this is my first day in an Arabic-speaking country. With what words could I thank him? Involuntarily, I smile broadly. How can he express hospitality and good wishes? A small illuminated shop by the side of the road is selling hot chocolate. The driver slows down.

  I’m holding a big cup of chocolate. I carefully take a sip and immediately burn my tongue. Waiting for the chocolate to cool, I concentrate on holding the cup so it doesn’t spill on the bumpy road.

  I want to enjoy this tasty treat down to the last sip but the very last drops end up on my light blue jacket.

  The driver and I exchange understanding looks and laugh merrily.

  I take out my notebook and illuminate the Arabic words with the help of a flashlight. Somehow or other I have explained something to the driver. And it seems I have understood some things too: we are going in the direction of Hama, a city on the road to Damascus and Jordan. The driver’s name is Salim, and it even looks like I’ll have a place to sleep tonight.

  * * *

  The road tricked me again: it lulled me to sleep in Salim’s car. When I open my eyes I see huge crimson crosses glowing on the walls of village houses. I turn to Salim:

  “Christian?!”

  He nods and smiles.

  Of course, I knew that there were Christians in Syria and I’d been curious to meet them. With wide-open eyes I look at the crosses and the reindeer with branching antlers harnessed to sleds.

  My plan was to travel through Syria quickly and I didn’t intend to look for Christians. With Christmas only two weeks past, how can I be surprised at
such an unexpected gift?

  Salim took me to the house of his older brother. The whole family came out to greet me. You can recognize Christians by two signs: women with uncovered heads, their luxurious dark hair is an unexpected treat for the eyes; and a second sign: they offer wine with dinner which is even more unusual in an Arab country. Since there was still some time left before dinner I asked to wash my hands. The female half of the family fussed over me. One woman drew me a bath, another one took my formerly light blue jacket (now darkened with brown stains). They gave me shampoo, soap, a towel. The women spoke ceaselessly in Arabic, smiling, gently touching my arms above the elbow.

  The door to the bath closed. I hadn’t even hoped I would be able to wash in privacy.

  Once again, a tin tray spread with dishes is set in front of me. I am supposed to eat all of it but I don’t have a chance to swallow one bite as I first have to satisfy the hunger of those around me, patiently answering questions from all sides.

  The younger daughter, eighteen years old, speaks English. Her name is Hanouf. I can’t come up with the answer to one question before she’s back with another:

  “When are you going further?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “No,” she says sternly. “Tomorrow you’ll be with us.”

  “Really?” I thought for a second. “Well, OK then.”

  * * *

  In the morning, I hadn’t even opened my eyes before Hanouf’s parents came into the room. How long had they stood behind the door, waiting for me to wake up and give them the green light to enter?

  The father sits on the divan, a smoking cigarette in his hand. He has black hair with a streak of grey and a black moustache which looks very good on him. He forgets about his cigarette, smiling with his moustache and looking at me from time to time while asking a half-sleepy Hanouf to translate. It occurs to me that he may have decided not to go to work today – what is going on in his home is too exciting: a real live foreigner! Today is a holiday for him.