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Ataturk's daughters.

Though founded upon Western secularist principles, Turkey has not been immune to the Islamic fundamentalist upsurge of recent years. Nowhere is Ataturk's legacy more pointedly challenged, the author shows, than in heated public struggles over matters affecting women and their status as full and equal citizens.

On a fine April evening in 1994, a conference at the Women's Library in Istanbul is drawing to a close. In the courtyard of the converted Byzantine basilica, 20 or so women, mainly academics and other professionals, prepare to leave after a day of discussions marking the fourth anniversary of the institution's founding. A sliver of moon rises over the Golden Horn, whose waters twist their way through this old, lower-class neighborhood.

One woman in the group nudges another and points at the moon: "Pretty, no?"

"No," exclaims the other in mock dismay, "I won't say anything nice about it!"

Nervous laughter runs through the courtyard as everyone catches the reference to the Islamic crescent. The joke is bitter. Just a week before, Turkey's main Islamic fundamentalist party swept the municipal elections of Istanbul and the nation's capital, Ankara. It wasn't a national takeover by any measure; the winning Islamist party, Welfare, took only 19 percent of the votes nationwide in fragmented local elections. This, however, translated into victory in 28 cities, including Istanbul, the most secular. Nobody at this point can say exactly what powers over daily life the mayors of cities have; to make drastic changes to the secular state and its laws, the party would need to do as well or better in national parliamentary elections in 1996.

But when Islamist parties start gaining ground, women and their institutions tend to be the first to notice. The Women's Library, itself supported by the city government, is just the kind of organization that could feel the pinch. Set down in the midst of a traditional neighborhood, designed to appeal not only to Western-style feminists but to any woman with an interest in women's history, it nonetheless stands firmly identified with Turkey's secular and egalitarian culture - and so could easily draw the ire of an Islamist mayor.

The ostensible topic of the anniversary conference is "Women in the Islamic World," but the participants have spent most of the day arguing over what will come next, what to do about it, and whether to panic. During the breaks, they wonder whether the wine they are sipping is illegal - the new mayor having proclaimed, on his third day in office, that alcohol would no longer be served at City Hall functions.

Everyone at the conference knows how the fundamentalists have moved in on women in Iran and other nations, shooting or beating those who refuse to veil their faces and segregating public workplaces. But Turkey's situation, they also know, is more complicated.

More than a year later, it remains so. In addition to a political system with an 80-year commitment to secularism, Turkey has had until recently a female prime minister, Tansu Ciller (who may yet be able to form a new government). It also has an avowedly "moderate" Islamist party cagey about what changes it actually seeks. Such cunning is necessary. A broad-based popular emotional investment in women's emancipation remains a badge of Turkey's modernity, proudly worn by many Turkish citizens.

After the group dispersed that evening two springs ago, I fell into conversation with a young woman named Deniz, who had returned to Istanbul the previous fall after spending a decade in America training to be an art historian. Hired to teach the introductory art course at the Istanbul Fine Arts Faculty, she had been surprised to discover that a substantial minority of the female students in her class wore the Islamic head scarf. In her own college years, a decade before, such a style of dress would have been illegal, head scarves being explicitly religious and the university firmly secular.

Deniz had tried to take the head-scarved students in stride, but two weeks into the term she was summoned by the dean, who told her the university had two serious complaints about her behavior. The first was that she was being too pleasant and tolerant toward the fundamentalist girls in her classes. Though the university had been forced to admit such students, the dean explained, it had an obligation, as a secular institution, to make them uncomfortable. The other complaint was that her skirts were too short.

I laughed at this, and Deniz looked astonished. "You find it funny because you're American," she said. "Not one single Turkish person I've told that to, not one, has understood why I thought it was funny."

It's easy for an outsider to laugh, harder to thread the maze of Turkey's contradictions and to appreciate the struggles that wove it. The "secularism" to which the Turkish state pledged itself in 1923 has much in common with the type subscribed to by Western governments - enough to set it off sharply from virtually all its neighbors in the region. But there are divergences from Western-style secularism as well. The most notable is the absence of any real connection in people's minds - in this nation 99 percent Muslim - between the concept of a secular government and that of true religious tolerance, for believers as well as unbelievers.

Embracing government "secularism" in the Western - or at least the American - mode would entail allowing girls to wear head scarves if they so desired and to forgo them if they wished. An American might also wonder how a state-run institution that set itself so implacably against the swathing of women's heads, railing endlessly against a religion that dictates how women should dress, could then turn around and impose its own form of dress code.

Suspended between East and West, Asia and Europe, secular present and Ottoman past, Turkey is undergoing a reluctant reappraisal not only of its secularism but of other ideals that shape the modern republic. Countries with even more aggressive Islamic movements face similar reckonings, but only in Turkey do the details of the Islamic-secular tug of war play out so publicly in the arena of electoral politics. And of all the markers laid down in this culturally Muslim country by the state's commitment to its vision of secularism - a civil law code, minority religious rights, interest-bearing accounts in the banking industry - by far the most visible and contested is the status of women. In the public struggle to determine that status, the most powerful symbols remain, as always, matters of dress. Rulings on such matters as skirt lengths and head coverings are the moves played out on the chessboard of the female anatomy, in terms everybody can understand.

General Islamic doctrine offers a simple rule for hejab or covering: all the female "charms," except the face and hands, must be covered. An amazingly wide range of acceptable dress styles appears throughout various Muslim regimes, from the all-encompassing black abaya, or chador, popular in the early days of the Iranian Revolution, to the raincoat-and-scarf combination more common there now to the loose-fitting shalwar-kameez, or tunic and trousers, favored throughout South Asia. In Turkey itself, setting aside the majority of the upper class that doesn't cover at all, there are three prevailing types of hejab, determined not by doctrine but by age, profession, and social class.

One style is favored by the "traditionals," older women who cover their hair not so much for religious as for cultural reasons. These include Balkan Turks who cover their heads with a babushka-style handkerchief and village women who wear a scarf once they are married but rarely bother to tuck in every last hair. Then there are the young women students or professionals from the middle class who have adopted the large head scarf that folds around the edges of the face and, in a characteristic pattern, down over the shoulders of what is typically a loose-fitting coat. The wearing of such "turbans," as they are confusingly called in Turkish, is a statement of identity and rebellion.

An even stronger statement is made by women who go about dressed in a manner that secular types call carsafli - literally, wrapped in bed linen. Such women are poor and uneducated, usually belonging to the rapidly growing class of the "recently rural" - the economic migrants who are flooding from their villages to the city, faster with every passing year. The carsaf is a version of the black chador, draping to the floor in all directions and leaving a slit for the eyes. If you go far enough east in Anatolia, even the eye slit disappears, though the owner of the sheet can apparently see through the thin weave of the cloth.

A young Turkish professional, a merchant of soap and perfumes, once showed me a vintage 1930s picture of Istanbul's Galata Bridge, the 800-year-old footbridge over the Golden Horn. "See those wonderful women on the bridge, in those wonderful Paris fashions?" he asked despairingly. "How is it we have sunk to this, with women going over that same bridge wrapped in the black cloth like Saudi Arabians?"

That was in 1987, and a fair proportion of the sheeted bridge crossers might well have been Saudi Arabians, who swarm Istanbul in the summer to avoid the desert heat at home. But there is also no question that from year to year the concentration of covered women grows and that Istanbul, long the most cosmopolitan of the Turkish cities, changes visually with the years. Nor is there any denying that if at any point the government could have stopped this from happening, it would have done so.

Secularism is a cornerstone of the philosophy of Kemalism, by which modern Turkey's founder, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk (1881-1938), wrenched the newborn Turkish Republic out of the moribund Ottoman Empire in 1923 and set its face westward toward modernization. Distancing his regime from a religion that had justified the veil and purdah, Ataturk made a high-profile commitment to women's full equality a central part of his "march from East to West."

To some extent, the resulting Turkish secularism - the almost visceral recoil from symbols of overt or state-supported religion - has left intellectuals and government bureaucrats vulnerable to the charge of "secular fundamentalism," a charge that carried a particular sting in the 1980s, when cultural and political Islam became a force to reckon with. Unable to extend to the faithful the kind of tolerance that might have defused the drive for Islamic political action, a regional fact of life by 1987, the guardians of secularism found themselves stuck. The logical outcome was the turban crisis.

Deniz, who was caught off guard by the head-scarved girls in her class, had missed the turban crisis. I caught some of it on visits to Istanbul in 1987 and '88. As political spectacles go, it was a striking event, or, rather, series of events, starting in the fall of 1986 when growing groups of newly devout Muslim girls marched and demonstrated for the right to cover their hair with turbans in school. For the then still marginal Islamist parties (polls that year showed that only seven percent of the population favored the adoption of Islamic law, or sharia), it was a brilliant public relations success. So effective was it, in fact, that people assumed - and the papers reported as fact - that the girls were being funded with money from Iran and Saudi Arabia. (A fair amount of evidence has since turned up to support that allegation.)

Turkish universities had run into trouble with such symbols before, but their attempt to uphold the ban against head scarves was their most dramatic miscalculation. For a time, the administrators held out firmly. Several girls were expelled and became folk heroes in the Islamic right-wing media. Six student organizers were arrested, and government spokesmen, supported by the normally left-leaning secularist press, declared that they had found a compelling reason not to give in: one of the organizers was Iranian. With the Islamists calling for freedom of religion, the supposedly liberal press insisted that the turban controversy was an issue of religion versus the legitimacy of the state. The president, an ex-general named Kenan Evren, made ominous noises about "cultural backsliding," and Evren was understood to speak for the firmly secularist and Kemalist army.

Finally, the Supreme University Council, tired of creating teen-age female martyrs, lifted the prohibition at the end of 1987. By then, though, it was widely agreed, the controversy had produced one more significant and probably irreversible effect: the religious youth organizations had become sophisticated political organizations, primed for further activism.

Kemalist-style secularism was ill equipped to deal with the upsurge of the back-to-Islamic-roots feeling that made the Welfare Party attractive in 1994. Kemalism in fact rests on an array of early prohibitions against symbolic religious expression of various kinds, though most of those prohibitions have eased with the years. In the early decades of the Turkish republic, before the first of four coups that introduced multiparty democracy in the 1940s, the mosques were forbidden to issue calls to prayer in Arabic; only Western classical music could be played on state-owned radio; non-Western dress, including the veil, was strongly discouraged, while the fez, designed for ease in touching the forehead to the ground in prayer, was officially banned.

In opposing aspects of Islam that prescribed a traditional role for women, in particular those that barred them from education, Ataturk was indefatigable. He campaigned for an end to traditional practices such as child marriage, arranged marriage, bride-price, and veiling. At the same time, he instituted free and compulsory primary education for both sexes and created "village institutes" that offered compulsory adult literacy classes for men and women. The replacement of the sharia personal code with the Swiss Civil Code in 1926 outlawed polygamy and the Islamic practice of divorce by repudiation. Granting women the right to vote, to run for elective office, and to serve in the army, the code lifted Turkish women above women in many European countries.

While strongly supported by much of the urban elite, Ataturk's reforms met with fierce resistance in the rural areas where, in the 1920s, the majority of Turkey's tiny population lived. In The Emergence of Modern Turkey (1986), historian Bernard Lewis quotes Ataturk's dry evaluation of the role of military rule in his project of persuasion: "We did it . . . while the Law for the Maintenance of Order was still in force. Had it not been, we would have done it all the same, but it certainly is true that the existence of the Law made it much easier for us."

To be sure, many countries with Muslim populations and officially secular governments have extended voting rights to women. In few, however, was the emancipation of women so bound up in the national project of modernization and Westernization. To Ataturk, women's equality was a psychological centerpiece not only of the nation's modernity but also of family life. Characterizing the "Turkish mother" as "fundamental to the nation on a thousand and one points," he managed to knit the idea of women having careers to the goal of "15 million Turks in 15 years," a drive to repopulate after the disastrous War of Independence (1919-23) and the empire's messy end.

More to the point, Ataturk managed to capture the popular imagination on the question of women and make the cause central rather than peripheral to political reform. The ground had been prepared by the socially engaged literature of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, including reformer Namik Kemal's novel The Poor Infant (1874), which explores the tragedy of arranged marriage for intelligent and sensitive women, and his still-popular play Fatherland, or Silistre (1873), whose female protagonist disguises herself as a man to go to war.

Ataturk's own personal life dramatized his desire to put women's issues high on the agenda. He shocked his cabinet ministers by dancing with his wife, Latife, at parties, and even insisted - much against prevailing custom - that she be present at their wedding. One long-term effect of his actions, evident even now, is the degree to which modern Turkish democrats see the success of women's emancipation as central to their own self-identity as Western.

Nowhere was this more visible than in the initial pride and enthusiasm expressed to foreigners on the accession of Tansu Ciller as prime minister in 1993 - expressed not just by members of the educated elite but by a wide range of more modestly educated Turkish men on the street and in the bazaar, frequently with the addendum, "See, we're not so backward." The need to prove Turkey's modernity and Westernness gained urgency from an external political reality that Ciller herself has not been above exploiting - the strong impression that the European Union, long hesitant to grant Turkey membership, was turning its back in rejection. The EU's more encouraging response to the membership hopes of Hungary, Poland, and other Eastern European countries only stoked the insecurity that underlies a great deal of Turkish public and political feeling toward the West.

Ciller's sudden arrival on the political scene was typical neither of Turkish politics nor of the paths to power taken by female political leaders in other parts of the Islamic world (paths usually blazed by the deaths of husbands or other relatives). Ciller, by contrast, was an American-educated professor of economics who became minister of economics for then-prime minister Suleyman Demirel in 1991. Elected to the parliament as a fresh face, she became Demirel's protegee in True Path, one of a cluster of center-right parties with nearly identical policies. Demirel ascended to the presidency on the death of Turgut Ozal, a popular leader and successful economic reformer who had been in power (first as prime minister, then as president) since the aftermath of the 1980 military coup. Ozal died suddenly of a heart attack in 1993 after an exhausting trip through the Central Asian Turkic capitals. Demirel, seeking to build a coalition that would keep True Path in power, backed Ciller; she became prime minister at age 47.

At first Ciller played her advantages to the hilt. Shortly after she took office, she and Pakistan prime minister Benazir Bhutto made a wildly photogenic trip together to embattled Sarajevo. Europeans and Americans responded enthusiastically to the attractive, tough-talking leader; Ciller's background in economics fueled hopes that she would do something about the financial mess that had become noticeable under Demirel. But the glow wore off quickly. Early reviews of her economic performance were disappointing, and colleagues complained that she refused to listen to advice or work with a team.

If such complaints were gender tinged, they were the closest her opponents in the Welfare Party came to challenging her on the basis of sex - at least at first. As unhappiness with her performance intensified, barbs about the "blonde beauty" tended to increase. For her part, Ciller has assiduously avoided giving offense to the Islamic establishment, sometimes to the point of making other secular women uncomfortable, ostentatiously wearing a scarf on her head when she visits mosques or speaks with religious leaders. ("I'll bet she's never been in a mosque before this in her life," said a disgusted female professor at Ankara's Hacettepe University.) Just as important, she has drawn more and more support from, and given more and more rein to, an increasingly confident military establishment.

Any more deeply seated lack of confidence in Ciller's power could be inferred only from the persistence of rumors - starting with the Welfare wins and repeated every few weeks since - that she was about to be removed. If anything, the challenges to her gender came from her closer, more nominally secular rivals in the parliament, a group of whom, rallying for her opponent Mesut Yilmaz, chanted, "Mesut koltuga, Tansu mutfaga" - "Mesut to the chair, Tansu to the kitchen."

In person, Ciller can be steely. Asked in an interview about the role of groundbreaker, she softened slightly: "I have to succeed for Turkey, and also for Turkish women." The success of the fundamentalists drew no acknowledgment: a protest vote, she shrugged, against political fragmentation and the corruption of her predecessors; all the more need for the constitutional amendments at the national level that, in fact, she has since been tirelessly pushing to enact.

Asked for her views of fundamentalist Islam generally, she answered obliquely that Turkey's role is "to help both sides avoid becoming politically fundamentalist." Both sides? "Yes. If the Europeans decide not to help the Bosnians, or not to admit us to the European Union, because they want only Christians, that is fundamentalist thinking."

A little of that steel may be reason enough for the clerics to steer clear. In general, though, Welfare has been extraordinarily careful on the question of women, preferring to send its messages in stereo and to demur when questioned directly. "You never hear the answer to the question," complained Sirin Tekel, one of the Women's Library directors. "It's pretty clear what they would like to do [with women], but at that stage the whole population would rise up - they know that, so they're being very careful."

Though Welfare has never mentioned what it wants to do with, to, or about women, this very caution strikes many as a tip-off. One of its television campaign ads featured a blonde woman, a dentist, who appeared with her head uncovered. Party functionaries I interviewed in Istanbul were indignant at the suggestion that anybody's rights could be in danger.

"This isn't blocking anybody," said a spokesman for Tayyip Erdogan, the Istanbul mayor. "We've expanded opportunity. Before this, a woman in a head scarf could not work in City Hall. Now she can."

As for the true Islamic radicals, the ones Welfare disavows because they discard tact and openly urge the adoption of sharia, they too can be cautious. Drinking tea in the center of Istanbul's fundamentalist neighborhood of Fatih, I asked a bearded and capped magazine editor about Ciller's legitimacy. He jumped up and rummaged through bookshelves that offered, along with ordinary religious materials, a variety of gruesome anti-Semitic tracts, coming back with a volume of his own commentary. "In here," he said, presenting it to me, "I write that a woman can even be caliph."

The most widely accepted explanation for Welfare's mayoral wins was, as Ciller said, not Islam but corruption: the other parties had failed so resoundingly to solve economic and administrative problems, even pragmatic secular Stamboullis wondered if the straight-and-narrow fundamentalists might not be able to get the trash picked up on time.

And yet Islamist parties, too, have their flanks to protect. The first news stories after the election were not about trash or taxes but about an incident in which a group of teen-age boys had responded to news of their party's electoral victory by going up to women whose skirts they considered too short and spitting in their faces. Reading the news accounts of this incident while flying to Turkey in the spring of 1994, I felt in a small way what I later learned many women in the secular elite experienced powerfully: a sinking, whirling sense of inevitability, the sort of feeling that comes when you hear that someone you know has a deadly disease.

But the story proved to have a surprise ending. The spitters were attacked by passersby, who sailed in with their fists; two days later, Welfare announced that it did not support the street harassment of women. This was modest, to be sure, but more explicit than any Islamist party, in Turkey or elsewhere, had ever been on the subject of street harassment. Though harassment on the basis of dress has been heard of in the year since, and one woman in the provinces was recently reported shot by a relative for failing to veil, the party's official position remains unique among Islamist parties holding office. Then again, no other religious party in the Islamic world is currently in the position of having to hold onto votes and woo an electorate.

Which is the real Turkey? That question, which hangs over the country's increasingly contested politics, is of long standing.

The taboos against Islamic practice, so strongly pushed by Ataturk, began to break down shortly after his death in 1938. For most rural women, it's agreed, they never really took hold at all. Along with the East-West and Islamic-secular divides, the other great split in Turkish consciousness lies between city and country. Like the others, this one is borne out most powerfully and visibly in the lives of women. Overall, the literacy and professional-employment rates for Turkish women are higher than anywhere else in the Middle East: women make up one in six judges, one in four doctors, and over 40 percent of the enrollment in schools of medicine and law. There are three or more generations' worth of firmly feminist, Kemalist women in politics and the professions.

But outside the cities in this country of 60 million, there are eight million illiterate females, a dramatically lower average age of marriage, and burdensomely high fertility rates. Most annoying to the authorities is the persistence in the villages of the practice of contractual religious marriages (sometimes arranged for very young children). Birth control and abortion, while legal and widely available in the large cities, play little role for rural women who continue to plow the fields and to function as Anatolian family farmers have for millennia. Women remain the principal harvesters of the Black Sea tea and nut crops, while the men, following a pattern seen throughout the Middle East, frequently spend their days in the village coffee houses. Few women in the cities have contact with this other side of the moon, where folk Islam, as opposed to the rigorous new kind, continues much as it always has.

The great exception to the secular-religious dichotomy was Semra Ozal, the late president's colorful, liberal, and cigar-smoking first lady. After his death, Turgut Ozal was greatly credited in the outside world for his economic reforms and privatizations, as well as the light touch with which he brought the fractious country back together after the 1980 military coup. But during his term as president, the Turkish intelligentsia attacked him bitterly for having accommodated the fundamentalists after military rule was lifted in 1983. A devout man, Ozal made a point of going on hajj, the Muslim pilgrimage, with Saudi Arabian friends - the first secular Turkish leader ever to make the trip. But the main reason he gave a hand to the fundamentalists was to counter the threat of communism. Building mosques and separate religious schools, inviting fundamentalists into the army, Ozal incurred the wrath of people who thought he had opened the door to Islamist influence in politics.

On women's issues, though, Ozal drew no complaints. "Semra Hanim," or Madam Semra, was a continuing demonstration that such a man could be religious and yet have a wife who traveled freely and pursued her own public-service agenda in the villages. She took a special interest in family planning, traveling often to remote areas, holding public health clinics, distributing birth control devices, and periodically presiding over mass registrations of illegal religious marriages with the civil courts.

Despite 80 years of modernity, you can still feel the pull of the 600-year Ottoman past, whose legends speak of contradictions no less twisted than today's. Ottoman culture gave the world the harem, that powerful image of female mystique combined with female imprisonment, but the reality of the harem - in literal meaning, the private dwelling quarters of the head of household - is endlessly debated among historians and sociologists, some of whom even see the centuries of gender segregation as laying the ground for women's institutions and women's political structures more powerful than those that exist in the West. And though mainstream Ottoman society was deeply marked by the two sets of restrictions that shaped the lives of women throughout the Islamic world - sharia, which imposed the unequal personal-status laws governing marriage, divorce, and inheritance; and purdah, the practice of restricting women to their homes - it seems also to have had a version of today's split between upper-class female freedom and lower-class female ignorance and confinement. The sultans' mothers and sisters had great power; people who know nothing at all about Turkey are likely to have heard a vague echo of the stories told of "Roxelana," the favorite wife of Suleiman the Magnificent (14907-1566), who altered the succession in favor of her son and was one of several royal women to engage in large-scale architectural patronage.

The original nomadic existence of the first Ottoman Turks, and their more distant Central Asiatic cultural forebears, made for relatively free lives for women even after the adoption of Islam, a freedom that was curtailed only with settlement and urbanization. Sociologists find a parallel in contemporary Turkey, where women who undergo the sharpest decrease in personal freedom are the ever more numerous "recently rural," transplanted from a life of hard agricultural toil to modest or squalid city surroundings where they cannot work or, in some cases, even go outside because of the proximity of strangers. Such scholarship suggests that it is not Islam itself that circumscribes women's lives but Islam in conjunction with pressures brought about by massive social change.

Moreover, many Islamist intellectuals go a step further and defend Islamic conceptions of womanhood in the same language their feminist critics use. Arguing that Western feminism arose specifically in response to female inequality under Christianity, they suggest that women are oppressed and objectified not by Islam but by consumerism and materialism, and that Islam has always offered a more "empowering" model for full female self-actualization, albeit in the private sphere.

At the very least, ardent secularists have been forced to examine their own prejudices. "We made a mistake with the turbans," sighs Turkan Akyol, minister for health and women's affairs, the second-highest-ranking woman in Ciller's government, a second-generation Kemalist, and a former university president. Akyol is filled with regret and trepidation by the successes of the Welfare Party, and with confusion. "We were too careful," she says. "My generation used to refuse all such things, even those of us who came from religious families, even if we believed in God. We always felt we had to be very careful of the slightest step in that direction, the slightest religious symbol. Probably it was too much, but it helped us, too, in the beginning - because when you make such a big change, you need taboos to avoid going back."

In Washington recently, in a conference room at the National Endowment for Democracy, a male journalist visiting from Algeria declared passionately that "it is women, and only women, who stand between us and Islamist takeover. All over the Middle East, women will save us from Islamism." Turkey is no Algeria. It is a nation of complexity and pragmatism, and whatever happens there is likely to happen slowly. Tolerance, it's said, is the option turned to when exhaustion and permanent warfare make all other paths impossible; it could also be the option into which parties are forced by electoral spinning and trimming, even if the opposite poles of the argument lie on opposite sides of the mental and philosophical world.

A splinter politician, traveling around the Turkish countryside to launch a party called New Democracy, takes pains to say he is reaching out to the people "who are not afraid of democracy, who are not afraid of religion." He tells a campaign anecdote that sounds like a Grimms's fairy tale: "I was at a picnic, campaigning, and I met a man with three daughters. The first daughter said, 'Oh! You're so handsome! Can I kiss you?' And she kissed me on the cheek. The second one shook my hand. The third one wouldn't shake my hand; she was too religious. But she wished me well." The candidate, whose name is Cem Boynar, is an industrialist who might do well in 1996 or disappear without an electoral trace. His candidacy hardly suggests the old Ataturkian metaphor of a straight march from East to West. Instead it conjures up a more complicated image, suggested by the turbulent waters one sees from the Istanbul bridge connecting Europe with Asia. The waves there move neither east nor west but roil endlessly above the colliding currents of the Black Sea, the Golden Horn, and the Bosporus, an apt image of a nation that will never be in anything as simple as transition.
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Title Annotation:Kemal Ataturk, women, secularism, and Islamic fundamentalism in today's Turkey
Author:Schwartz, Amy
Publication:The Wilson Quarterly
Date:Sep 22, 1995
Previous Article:The other Camus.
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