During my second week in Bursa, Nisa and Demet took me to visit one of the city’s large mosques. Nisa, in particular, is quietly passionate about her Muslim faith—more so than her friends—but you’d barely notice unless you were paying attention. Aside from the occasional heartfelt “Allah!” when a cat or kitten misbehaves, or her calm confidence when she once told me, “Allah protects me and the studio” after I questioned the wisdom of leaving the business keys under the doormat, her faith is worn lightly and kindly.
While wandering through the mosque, a spokesperson approached and struck up a conversation. When I mentioned that I don’t follow any particular religion, he smiled and told me that Allah had sent me to the mosque that day. He kindly offered me an English copy of the Quran, which I politely declined—and that was completely fine with him.
He then noticed I had removed my shoes and asked how I knew to do that. Before I could answer, he laughed and said, “Because the sign on the door told you to.” He went on to explain that much of life is like that—guided, taught, learned. The Quran, he said, offers teachings on growing up, parenting, and respecting others, and is continually modernised in its interpretation. He also explained that there are many types of Muslims, and that this—this Turkish way—is their truth, their book of life, their guide.
I don’t know if it’s a direct result of such strong belief, but there is a beautiful calm about the Turkish people. You see all generations laughing together, walking hand in hand through towns, along pathways, and on public transport. Elderly men gently clicking their prayer beads, or holding them quietly in thought.
It’s peaceful. It’s warm. And it’s truly lovely to witness.