Structure and Function in Turkish Society: Essays on Religion, Politics and Social Change 9781617191404, 161719140X

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Structure and Function in Turkish Society

Analecta Isisiana: Ottoman and Turkish Studies

89

A co-publication with The Isis Press, Istanbul, the series consists of collections of thematic essays focused on specific themes of Ottoman and Turkish studies. These scholarly volumes address important issues throughout Turkish history, offering in a single volume the accumulated insights of a single author over a career of research on the subject.

Structure and Function in Turkish Society

Essays on Religion, Politics and Social Change

David Shankland

1 gorbia* press

The Isis Press, Istanbul 2010

Gorgias Press LLC, 954 River Road, Piscataway, NJ, 08854, USA www.gorgiaspress.com Copyright © 2010 by The Isis Press, Istanbul Originally published in 2006 All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise without the prior written permission of The Isis Press, Istanbul. 2010

ISBN 978-1-61719-140-4

Printed in the United States of America

David Shankland is a social anthropologist with a special interest in modern Turkey, particularly social change, religion and politics in the Republican period, including the special study of the Turkish Alevis. After initial fieldwork between 1988-1990, he returned to Turkey in 1992 as the Assistant and then Acting Director of the British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, a post he held until 1995, when he returned to Britain to take up a lectureship in the University of Wales. In 2002, Shankland went to Germany as a Humboldt Fellow, tenured at the Institute for Turkish History, Language and Culture at the University of Bamberg. In 2003, he moved to Bristol, where he currently holds a Readership in Social Anthropology. As well as many scholarly papers, he is the author of Religion and Society in Turkey (1999), The Alevis in Turkey (2003), and has edited Archaeology, Anthropology and Heritage in the Balkans and Anatolia; the life and works of FW Hasluck, 1878-1920 (Two volumes, 2004).

TO CHRIS HANN AND ILDIKO BELLER-HANN

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements Sources

9 11

1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

13 29 43 59

6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

Structure and function in Turkish society Islam, politics and democracy in Turkey The demise of Republican Turkey's social contract? Integrating the rural: Gellner and the study of Anatolia Social change and culture: responses to modernization in an Alevi village in Anatolia Anthropology and ethnicity: the place of ethnography in the new Alevi movement Changing gender relations among Alevis and Sunnis in Turkey Studying secularism: modern Turkey and the Alevis The Open Society and Anthropology: an ethnographic example from Turkey Gellner and Islam Culturalism and social mobility: an Alevi village in Germany (with Atila Cetin) Ritual transfer and the reformulation of belief amongst the Turkish Alevi community in Europe (with Atila (Jetin) Uneasy capitalism Inspired restraint: Development and the rural community An interview with Professor Paul Stirling

79 97 109 125 131 147 167 185 207 213 225

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

These essays in this volume suggest a certain series of hypotheses to do with contemporary Turkey. They have two main inspirations. The first is that loose-knit community of Turkish area specialists who have written on the politics, history and society of the modern Republic for the last four decades or so. The second is more specifically the discipline of social anthropology, and two figures within it in particular: Ernest Gellner, and Paul Stirling. In conducting this work, my sense was and still is today that both groups are immensely useful to each other. It is one consequence of this potential conjunction of ideas that I attempt to outline in some detail in the opening chapter. There is occasionally a little overlap between the subsequent pieces, which I regret, but it has proved impossible to remove this overlap and still retain the shape of each. I have also occasionally previously drawn quotations from these collected essays, most strikingly in the case of 'Integrating the Rural: Gellner and the study of Anatolia', which first appeared in Middle Eastern Studies in 1999, and from which I used extensive albeit scattered extracts from my monograph The Alevis in Turkey. I offer my apologies for this, but plead that it is of all my articles, the one of which I am most fond, and I simply could not resist the temptation to present it here as it was originally devised. I should like to acknowledge repeated grants from the Economic and Social Research Council over the last two decades. From 2002 onwards, fieldwork in Germany has also been supported by the Humboldt Foundation through a fellowship based at the Institute for Turkish History, Language and Culture at the University of Bamberg, and subsequently by the UK Arts and Humanities Research Council. The full publication of this work will enable better acknowledgement of this extra-ordinarily fruitful stay, two preliminary essays from which are offered here. I should like to thank the Institute's Director, Professor Klaus Kreiser, for his profound advice and encouragement throughout. I should also like to thank the Institute of Oriental Studies in the University of Heidelberg, its Director Professor Michael Ursinus, Professor Raoul Motika, and Dr Robert Langer for extending a generous hand in welcome as my work in Germany progressed.

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As time goes by, I am struck again and again by the open-heartedness with which so many people are prepared to share and exchange ideas. This is above all the case with regard to a country as hospitable as Turkey, and in a discipline as friendly as anthropology. I can only confess that I am deeply grateful, and also aware of my many intellectual debts. With regard to these helping these essays alone see the light of day, I should thank David Barchard, Clement Dodd, Chris Hann, Sylvia Kedouri, Celia Kerslake, Sinan Kuneralp, Michael Lake, Robert Langer, Andrew Mango, Hege Markussen, Raoul Motika, Elizabeth Ozdalga, Nigel Rapport, Ozdem Sanberk, Petr Skalnik and Michael Ursinus. Though I can hardly claim to be independent of these, responsibility for any assertions made in this work remains mine.

'Structure and Function in modern Turkey': previously unpublished. 'Islam, Politics and Democracy in Turkey' first appeared in The EU and Turkey: a glittering prize or a millstone? ed. Michael Lake, London: Federal Trust for Education & Research, pages 49-60, 2005. 'The Demise of Republican Turkey's Social Contract?' first appeared in Government and Opposition, Vol. 31 Number 3, pages 304-321, 1996. 'Integrating the rural: Gellner and the study of Anatolia' first appeared in Middle Eastern Studies, Vol. 35, No 2, pages 132-149, 1999. 'Social change and culture: responses to modernization in an Alevi village in Anatolia' first appeared in When History Accelerates, ed. Chris Hann, London; Athlone Press, pages 238-254, 1994. 'Anthropology and ethnicity: the place of ethnography in the new Alevi movement' first appeared in Olsson, T., Özdalga, E., and Raudvere, C. (eds). Alevi Identity: cultural, religious and social perspectives, Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul; Vol. 8, pages 15-22, 1998. 'Changing gender relations among Alevis and Sunnis in Turkey' slightly amended version of an article that first appeared in Turkish Families in Transition ed. G. Rasuly-Paleczek, Peter Lang: Frankfurt, pages 83-97, 1996. 'Studying secularism: modern Turkey and the Alevis' first appeared in ISIM Newsletter 5, July 2000. 'The Open Society and Anthropology: An ethnographic example from Turkey' first appeared in Anthropological Journal on European Cultures, Volume 13, pages 33-50, 2004. 'Gellner and Islam' first appeared in Social Evolution and History, Volume 2, No. 2, Special Memorial Issue: the Intellectual Legacy of Ernest Gellner, pages 118-142, September 2003. 'Culturalism and social mobility: an Alevi village in Germany' first appeared in Alevis and Alevism: Transformed Identities, edited H. Markussen, Istanbul: Isis Press, pages 11-30, 2005. 'Ritual transfer and the reformulation of belief amongst the Turkish Alevi community in Europe' (with Atila £etin) first appeared in Migration und Ritualtransfer, Heidelberger Studien zur Geschichte und Kultur des Modernen Vorderen Orients, No. 33, edited by R. Langer, R. Motika, and M. Ursinus, pages 51-72, 2005.

12 13.

S T R U C T U R E A N D F U N C T I O N IN T U R K I S H 'Uneasy Capitalism' first appeared in Government

SOCIETY

and

Opposition,

Vol 30 Number 2, pages 277-282, 1996. 14.

'Development and the Rural Community' first appeared in The Turkish Republic

at Seventy-Five

Years,

edited by David Shankland,

Huntington: The Eothen Press, pages 51-66, 1999. 15.

'An Interview with Professor Paul Stirling', first appeared in Turkish Studies Association Bulletin (USA) Spring, 23, 1: pages 1-23, 1999.

1. STRUCTURE AND FUNCTION IN MODERN TURKEY

The essays in this work discuss politics, state and religion in modern Turkey. They feature greatly the Alevis, a heterodox minority. The Alevis are particularly interesting to any such study because they display a marked willingness to adopt an increasingly moderate form of Islam. This at once contradicts any idea that Islam is always intolerant or anti-secularist, and at the same time throws into perspective the remarkable re-Islamification that has taken place more widely in the Republic.1 To put this proposition in a slightly different way: the Kemalist project has indisputably been successful amongst the bulk of the Turkish population, but it is a success only in part. Most still accept without doubt Atatiirk's emphasis on modernisation and westernisation, and the idea that Turkey should be a republic. For some still his insistence upon secularism remains a key part of the Republic's social constitution. For others, however, it is increasingly irksome. Indeed, the dominant ideological question amongst the Sunni orthodox population has become less a debate about the fact of belief itself, but rather the ways in which it is possible to reconcile the eternal truths of religion with contemporary social life, economic expansion and rapid technological change. The re-introduction of orthodox religious mores into the public life of the Republic is a partial consequence of this active desire to reflect faith in all things. Amongst the Turkish Alevis, however, the debate is quite different. Here, the early religious reforms are, almost without exception, taken to be a thoroughly positive step. The question as to how and when religion needs to be reconciled with our changing social environment is far less acute amongst them in that they regard the issue as having been solved at the founding of the Republic. For much of the last three decades, at least, the central question amongst the Alevis has been, how can they help to secure secular policies (broadly, through leftist-leaning social democratic parties) within the Turkish political system? The collapse of the left in Turkey, and the rise of orthodox Islam have left them acutely concerned that they have failed in this regard. Their hope, almost universally, is that Republic as originally constituted can in some way be preserved. At the same time, there are signs that they are This chapter was presented in part to the research seminar series in Sabanci University, Istanbul organised by Profs. William Hale and Ali farkoglu in spring 2005.1 am most grateful for the most helpful comments that were made on that occasion.

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seeking a reformulation of their religious tradition, albeit in ways that are rarely expansionist. Instead, the Alevi revival movement tends to bifurcate between those who believe that the state should help them maintain their traditions against Sunni pressure, and a substantial number who believe that the state should play no part in their religious lives.1 A key question, then, is why should these Alevi and Sunni religious traditions be reformulating in such remarkably different ways? One should make the caveat immediately that any processes involved are indisputably very complicated and that the situation is not uniform. It is not at all clear, for instance, that the broad ideological perspective that I have outlined is true across all strata of society: one may cite the Alevi Kurds, for instance, whose traditional practice of Alevilik - 'Aleviness' - may differ in certain aspects from that of the Turkish Alevis. 2 It may also be the case that the religious mores of Alevis from different backgrounds are changing and reformulating in slightly different ways, something that can also be potentially investigated by taking a comparative glance at Alevi migrants in Germany. 3 Likewise, there is at present occurring a transnational institutionalisation, a codification, of Alevilik that may result in due course in the emergence of distinct Alevi 'schools' of thought. With regard to the wider Turkish population, it would also be quite correct to point out that that there are many different individual views and currents, a complexity that mitigates against making any simple presumption. For instance, the secularist individualisation of belief that was promoted by the Republic has been accepted as a legitimate interpretation of Islam by persons from all walks of life, both Alevi and Sunni, ranging from villages, small towns to the cities. 4 It is simply absurd to claim that this internalisation is elitist, as is sometimes suggested: it is populist - and it is certainly opposed to Islamist activism - but not elitist in any straightforward way. Indeed, Turkish society tends to bifurcate vertically into conflicting ideological groups which compete for state resources rather than horizontally into classes. These different groups may possess many different shades of opinion as to quite what 'secularism' may imply, creating a situation where the same word appears to mean different things according to the user. A lack

1 A most useful collected volume on the emergence of modern Alevi movements is Olsson et al (1988). See, for instance, van Bruinessen (1999). 3 On the Alevis in Germany, see the ongoing project directed from the University of Heidelberg, (Langer, Motika, and Ursinus 2005), also Chapters 11-13 of this work. 4 On this question, see for instance, Tapper (1991). For a more general characterisation, see Shankland (1999).

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of appreciation of these inner complexities explains why, still today, journalistic claims of elitism often ring so false. Nevertheless, even taking into account that secularism in Turkey is far more widespread, and far more varied, than can possibly be attributed to any fictional elite our problem remains. However varied the situation may appear in detail, it remains the case that emerging from one religious group, the orthodox Sunni population, there has emerged a consistent impulse to increase the place that religion plays in the public life of the country. The Alevi population, by contrast, has not been desirous to do so. 1 How can one explain these diverse paths of change?

Religion and the urban poor There are surprisingly few studies of comparative religion in Turkey, but those works that have examined political Islam have tended to stress the way that Sunni Islam has become integrated into politics through charismatic leaders, such as Erbakan, who became Prime Minister briefly in the 1990s as leader of the Welfare Party, and Erdogan who is currently Prime Minister as leader of the AK Party (the usual abbreviation for his 'Justice and Development Party'). They point out in turn that their appeal is often directed to those who were identifiably the poorest, in particular those who have recently moved into the cities, and now occupy their outskirts. The finest of these studies is perhaps that by Jenny White, who has worked for a number of years as a social anthropologist in outlying Istanbul. In her monograph on the rise of political Islam under Erdogan she charts brilliantly the way that its popular attraction is reinforced in mass ritual meetings. She describes how the appalling poverty in which many people are forced to live is illustrated in striking images, how emotional speeches by party leaders highlight the way that many are excluded from adequate schooling or social support because of a lack of state resources. 2 White's arguments are forceful and persuasive. There is no doubt that Islamist politicians have garnered votes from those who may be regarded as having come off worst in terms of economic development. There is equally no doubt that there is a mass of people who have embraced the possibility of

Though it may be noted that there are attempts by Islamists to enfold the Alevis within their own agenda, both for instance in the 1980s at the hands of the Welfare Party, and more recently through the lively international Nurcu movement. Again, this is something that may become clear by taking into account the situation in Germany. An interesting series of volumes on these and related questions has been produced by Engin and Erhard ( 2000-2001). 2 White (2002).

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supporting a political movement which they feel will redress their position, and that they are deeply receptive to this when it is expressed in religious terms. However, when one attempts to generalise, this leaves one with something of a conundrum. The Alevis, for instance, are just as poor (if not poorer) than the migrant Sunni community. Yet, they have not turned to radical, or political Islamic circles in order to highlight or to change their predicament. There is further, crucial conundrum. Followers of the Welfare Party and its successors are not the only persons who have a sense of religion. As do revivalist movements so frequently, they claim to be the true source of enlightenment, and all other versions the mere toutings of corrupt oppressors. It would be a grave empirical error take this claim at face value. Again, it ignores the Alevis: who see no reason why their right to believe in their own fashion should be so summarily dismissed. It ignores those who have been convinced by the Kemalist reforms, such as many women, who were first granted the right to work and vote through the early Republican reforms. It also ignores those who have worked through many of the post-democracy Turkish parties in order to achieve a balance between faith and tolerance: somehow, it is as if only those who have been most activist are permitted to define themselves as believers.

The roots of religious revival To define the religious revival exclusively in terms of the support that it receives from the urban uprooted, however tempting, is also to give a profoundly mistaken impression as to the social roots of the religious revival. The resurgence of faith within Turkish public life is not only the result of Islamist parties appealing to a displaced underclass. Politically, its roots can be traced to the beginnings of democracy in the Republic. Indeed, leaving aside the question of the very small, early opposition parties, it is no exaggeration to say that the transfer of power to the Democrat Party in the 1950s marked a fundamental change in the relationship between religion and public life. Simplifying an immensely complicated picture when looked at in detail, it was at that point that the government of the land changed in orientation, and its began to initiate a programme that attempted to work out the most appropriate ways that the re-introduction of Islam may be adopted within the framework of a still-secular Republic. In other words, Islam has taken an expanding role in Turkish political life since the late 1940s, and is not only the province of the more overtly religious parties that have later come to

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power. Rather than revolution then, we need to think of a much more variegated and complex pattern of religious revival, one wherein a gradual continuum, a slow return or evolution has been complemented by charismatic leadership.1 There is one further point that needs to be born explicitly in mind. The simple equation 'poverty equals fundamentalism equals revolution' is terribly neat. It appeals sometimes to a self-appointed group who almost invariably live in comfortable flats in Istanbul; the Turkish equivalent of 'Champaign socialists', a loose collection of scholars and intellectuals who are also known broadly as 'Second Republicans', ikinci Cumhuriyetgiler, who laud the revolutionary side of the Islamist movement. The heady sense of change that this sentiment encourages is indisputably attractive, with its sense of overturning the existing generation and bringing in fresh air. It also often has a certain transnational appeal, enabling them to interact with those outside Turkey who feel (rightly or wrongly) that they can both identify and solve Turkey's oft-noted 'democratic deficit' through encouraging political Islam. Nevertheless, far from being liberating in the sense used by modern individualists seeking to explore a post-modern world full of cultural richness, this approach overlooks the fact that the Islamist political movement is at heart a conservative revival. It seeks to place a particular, eternally true doctrine at the heart of political and social life, to enforce cultural rules surrounding the family, dress, music, dance and the place of women in relationships: in short to ensure a congruence between authority, place of abode, family and faith. To some, this image is a reassuring one, particularly when faced with the seeming dissolution of the family in many western European countries. Nevertheless^ it is not a liberal vision, and it is one that sits uneasily with the lifestyle of those commentators in Istanbul who amongst its strongest supporters. This point is crucial. It is this very same overlooked conservatism that links the urban poor in the outskirts of Istanbul with the social changes that have taken place more widely in the villages, towns and cities across Anatolia. Remarkably, it expresses itself through a uniform social organisation, one that transcends the boundaries that conventionally may be made between rural and urban forms of social life. Whether in the town or country Sunni sedentary communities tend to form small nuclear quarters, mahalle, which have at their centre a mosque. The mosque, placed at the centre near a market, or open space serves both as a symbol and a social centre that accentuates and reinforces the internal organisation of the community. Ubiquitous and versatile, this basic unit of social life may be found from the smallest village 1

This argument is written out in more detail in Shankland (1999).

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to the largest city. Crucially, one may become another: in other words, as small communities develop economically they may become absorbed into a larger social grouping without the quality of the mahalle becoming lost. 1 Equally, it is this social base that the migrant communities in the outskirts of the cities seek to recreate as time and opportunity allows. Indeed, as a town expands, the mosque may be built before the houses that come subsequently to be constructed around it. This unrecognised underlying similarity between town and country takes us to a further congruence. It is usual, both in Europe and in Turkey's city life, to draw a sharp distinction between rural and urban styles of life, the latter referred to sometimes disparagingly as koy, village, by irritated town dwellers, and rustic attitudes as koylti. Sociologically, though, this would appear too hasty a distinction when expressed in such absolute terms: it would appear eminently feasible for the typical Sunni sedentary settlements whether geographically remote or not, to transform into urban communities. What is true is that the style of urban life thereby produced is radically different from the more relaxed, culturally speaking, secular urbanity of established city life in the Republic. In other words, the religious norms of the Sunni sedentary village (described for instance so vividly by Delaney) 2 wherein public acquiescence to the cultural norms of Islam is regarded as absolutely essential for the good of the community, is far more transportable to the city setting than has been realised. One implication of this is that, rather than assume an inherent distinction between town and country within the settled Sunni population, it is better to think in terms of a much more seamless interaction as settlements divide and change, some small, some large, some growing as they become successful, some shrinking, but remarkably similar in terms of their social organisation. A further, and crucial implication is that reaffirmation and reconstruction, indeed the capability to achieve the transformation to modernity, is an integral part of the Islamic revival and its popularity. It is therefore not fuelled purely by failure, or resentment against an unequal world order, but encouraged also by the possibility of its success. We may put this proposition more formally: economic development brings in its wake exceptionally complicated social changes. Whilst it is hardly possible to be categorical about the way the different processes involved interact with each other in causal fashion, it is possible to observe the way that those settlements which are successful are expanding and transforming. The migrant communities on the outskirts of Istanbul, as much as the Sunni settlements in the hinterland, are able to integrate with the state, with the 1 2

Cf the most suggestive work by Behar (2003) on a neighbourhood in Istanbul. Delaney (1991).

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infrastructural services that are gradually brought to a community, in such a way that the existing social order is maintained. When disruption is experienced, whether through migration or otherwise, the dominant mood of the community is to call upon the local authorities, and the government to place more resources into the support of the social infrastructure, religious and practical, to overcome those disruptions. These varied services: road, electricity, health, school, police, mosque, Koran courses, and religious schools take their due place within the community. In doing so, however complex the processes that may take place when any single community is examined in detail, they reinforce rather than endanger the existing order. Far from an immobile under-class, then, engendering the spirit of faith in any simple fashion, the Islamic revival may be sought within individuals' relationship with the nation state, and within the social units within which they both do and also desire to live. Or, to put it another way, when searching for the social context of Islamic thought and Islamism it may be sought not exclusively within any stratified system, but rather in the specific organisation of authority, power, regulation and ideology throughout Anatolia. It must take into account not just the migration that has changed the face of the largest cities in Turkey but the much wider dynamic demographic and social transformation that has occurred throughout the country. This wider transformation, as much as the revolutionary Islamist political movements, is part of the story of the re-entering of Islam into the public life of the Republic, and an inextricable part of it.

The Alevis It would be unbearably over-confident to claim a precise understanding of why Alevi communities have exhibited such a different response to modernisation, not least because the situation is in such a state of flux. Nevertheless, it does appear that the Alevi communities differ very greatly in just those ways that I suggest are most significant: in their basic units of social organisation, in their relationship with the state, in the patterns of authority that obtain between men and women, in their means of achieving social order, and in their established definitions of how and when religious fulfilment may be achieved. Traditionally a rural community, the Alevis only rarely possess a majority in any one sub-province or region. Instead, by their own account, they often live in the remoter villages, rather dispersed. Rather than one distinct nuclear settlement, they tend instead to form their village community from a number of distinct, smaller groupings of houses that are separate from

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one another. Whilst the village as a whole may possess a mosque, it does not possess the same central role, nor indeed does the ostensive fulfilment of the 'five pillars' play a prominent part in the daily life of the community. Instead, the dominant form of religious worship is the 'reunion', the cem which takes place traditionally in a villager's house. The cem ceremonies are presided over by dede, hereditary holy men, whose position in the community from the religious point of view is upheld by virtue of their patrilineage being regarded as in some way in receipt of a special favour from God. This favour shows itself usually through one of the lineage's forbears having been given the power by God to perform a miracle. They may also be held to have been attendees at the original monastery of Saint Haci Bektag, who is held to have lived in the town of that name near Kirgehir. They may seek certification from the descendants of Saint Haci Bekta§, whom they know as efendis. As well as showing leadership in religious mores, the dedes may be called upon to mediate in disputes: indeed this role is formally part of the cem. ceremony, which must not take place unless all present are on good terms with one another. If there are disputes, they need to be resolved. If they cannot be, the congregation, still today, is likely to disperse without worship having taken place. The dede, from one point of view then, could be regarded a judge and a religious leader, the two roles being combined in the one position. However, the community, or the congregation, is an equally important component. It must support the decisions made by the dede by offering its avowed acquiescence, and as the dede proceeds with the ceremony he repeatedly must appeal to the congregation for their continued approval. Further, though the dede is decided by birth, which particular dede ends up presiding over any particular ceremony, or take a leading role in village life, is decided by the will of the village rather than the dede himself in that only by invitation can he preside over a cem ceremony. Hierarchy and community are offset by a third element: a sense of an individualised moral code of behaviour which the villagers know as edep. This altered or reformulated emphasis on the way to achieve religious fulfilment takes the Alevi villagers into a quite different direction from the Sunni communities with regard to their style of religious life. Profoundly influenced by the teachings of the Bekta§i brotherhood, it emphasises the esoteric, contemplative side of religion, or tasavvuf. Ideally, dedes have reached union with God, even if such maturity, or personal development is difficult to attain. However, all persons - both men and women - may strive to master their personal conduct, to seek control of their actions and it is this that is stressed within the cem ceremonies.

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This alternative, internalised perception of religious fulfilment is not unique. It draws upon ideas that are widespread within Turkish Islam, ideas that are available to all believers. What distinguishes the Alevis is the way that the community as a whole is predicated upon this mystical interpretation: that is, from the individual's point of view, it is the standard Alevi position. Indeed, the whole trend of the religious organisation of the community is to regard the 'five pillars' of Islam as, albeit a potentially necessary concomitant of religion, not its final fulfilment. In a Sunni village, a person may choose to take up such a mystical interpretation of Islam, in the Alevi village, a person is born into it.

Social change Though not all Alevi communities are the same, and there are very many different currents of thought, it appears to be a reasonable summation of the situation to suggest that those who have accepted the Republic _ and this includes the vast majority of the Turkish Alevis as well as some (though by no means all) Kurdish Alevis _ appear to be able to respect the writ of the state in their affairs whilst at the same time as maintain affection and respect for their distinctive Alevi cultural mores. Such a bland assertion certainly needs careful justification, and there are indisputably many different ways that the situation may be characterised. In addition, it is a contention that has occasionally been misunderstood. I should clarify immediately, therefore, that from the point of view of the Alevis themselves, this ability to adapt is often a source of pride, a indication of modernity. I would emphasise, however, that the process of this adaptation to a modern world of life often brings a shift whereby the hierarchical basis of the community become less strict, and the Alevi creed itself at least partially re-interpreted as a moral culture. This has resulted in a quiescent, nonproselytising form of faith, at least until the present, becoming pre-eminent within Alevi thought. From the point of view of the orthodox Islamists, leaving aside any doctrinal differences that they may have with regard to the Alevis, this is far from a symptom of success, rather a failure. In other words, the readiness of the Alevis to reformulate their way of religion so that it becomes even less dependent upon any formal precepts is, from the Islamist perspective, not a II (Bandtibility with true faith. It is, above all, the contrasting interplay between these two groups in village life, culture, faith, hierarchy and modernisation within the Republic that I attempt to treat in comparative fashion in the following essays.

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Structure and Function The argument is, I fondly believe, original in its application to Turkey. However, it has no such general pretensions. It draws upon pioneering ideas that have been developed within British social anthropology over a number of decades. Sadly, these ideas are less popular than perhaps they once were. I have therefore been placed in the slightly embarrassing position of suggesting that a school of thought that is supposed to be obsolete, actually leads to innovative conclusions in our understanding of modern Turkey, indeed that it works far better than any model that uses economic classes as its foundation. This is perhaps not the place for a detailed exposition of anthropological history (though I would hardly be human were I not hopeful that these essays may help to draw attention to the unnecessary and perhaps over-hasty rejection of these earlier thinkers). Suffice it to say here that, according to this approach, whilst economics is important, it is not regarded as necessarily always being dominant. Rather, it holds that the social order itself, and the hierarchies by which men and women organise themselves, is demonstrably related to the content of any particular ideology that may be perpetuated, reinforced or maintained within that group. Economics is still, naturally, important in this body of theory, but it is not awarded the primacy that is so often receives in more conventional sociological description. It remains puzzling why this approach, sometimes known as 'structural-functionalism' should have been so dismissed, sometimes by most respected thinkers, and in the face of an overwhelming evidence of its power. For instance, that there is a link between ideology and social hierarchies is the central, and the most powerful idea, behind very many strands of feminist thought. It is equally, in a slightly more oblique way, at the core of a very substantial part of modern social psychology, particularly that group of theories known as 'cognitive dissonance', that hold that individuals manipulate their existing perceptions in such a way as to avoid disequilibrium. Specifically, with regard to the material that is treated in these volumes, it provides a way that the difference between Alevi and Sunni Turkish villagers may be tackled, because it is precisely in terms of their organisation and ideologies, and the way that these mutually interact, that they differ from one another. In contrast, given that both Sunni and Alevi Turkish villagers are often subsistence farmers who till their own small-holdings, it is abundantly clear that something other than a differing mode of production must be invoked in seeking any causal explanation of why they should react so differently to the modern world.

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Stirling and Gellner It is possible to trace the ideas underlying the ethnographic presentation I make here specifically through two major twentieth century figures in British social anthropology: Stirling, who worked on Turkey, and Gellner, who worked more generally on the anthropology of the Islamic world. These two figures' intellectual lineages may in turn be traced back to other social anthropologists such as Evans-Pritchard, I. M. Lewis, and of course RadcliffeBrown himself after whose work this set of essays is named. 1 The great attraction of Gellner's work for my purposes is that he works simultaneously with a number of different parameters. More so than most ethnographers: he is interested in the way that not all Islamic movements are the same, the way that there are different interpretations of the faith even within a single Faith. He also expresses his argument in both comparative and diachronic terms. That is, he attempts to assess the way the balance between orthodox and less orthodox movements has changed and shifted over time. His explanation, that this depends partly on the relationship of respective groups with the state, and partly on the way modernisation is experienced by them matches my conclusions with regard to Turkey closely. Gellner has been attacked simultaneously because he is superficial and derivative, purely reliant on great thinkers such as Ibn Khaldoun, EvansPritchard, Montagne, or David Hume. 2 This is slightly unfair: he cannot easily be both at once, or not in any simple way. More specific criticism may be offered that his model gives no account for any Islamic movement that may secularise: in other words, he has not in his writings any account of a group such as the Alevis, whom I study here. Of course, he was not a Turkish specialist (though did write occasionally on Turkey), and at least one reviewer of my work has suggested that I am wrong to have expected him to know about the Alevis.

1 Nevertheless, as Stirling's and Gellner's names do occur so regularly in my work, it may be useful to note explicitly that I do not maintain that simply using these two researchers is any sort of panacea. On the contrary, anything that I write on Turkey is deeply informed by a whole host of distinguished writers, such as Beller-Hann and Hann (2001), Delaney (1991), Gokalp (1980), Hann (1990), Meeker (2002), Sirman (1988), Tapper and Tapper (1987), Tapper (1991), Van Bruinessen (1992, 2000) and White (2002) to mention some anthropologists alone who have worked on this most complex of countries. It is, however, to say that I find these two exceptionally useful for highly specific reasons as foils for the type of approach that I should like to advocate here. 2

Gellner's work has been treated in many places. The most extensive discussion is still perhaps Hall and Jarvie (1996). A collective discussion of his work is also found in a special issue of History and Evolution, my contribution to which is found reprinted in this volume as 'Gellner and Islam'. See also Macfarlane (2001).

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In fact, the interest of Gellner's work to the Turkish case is not that he overlooked a specific group. What rather is so significant is that he ignores a whole category of such groups, known often (rather inappropriately) as ghulat sects; small but distinct communities found throughout the Islamic world whose interpretation of faith differs consistently, and very markedly, from the political Islam that increasingly is dominating public debate. Nevertheless, as I try to outline in this work, the existence of these groups fits in rather well with his underlying presumptions as to the importance of the relationship between state, religion and social control, and taking them into account may ultimately even strengthen his characterisation of Muslim society. Certainly, Gellner's model, I would say, provides a crucial conduit through which one may introduce social anthropological ideas into our understanding of the Turkish Republic and, in turn, the material from Turkey complements his schema in most significant ways.

Stirling An easy, and to my mind intellectually unsatisfactory, willingness to explain the resurgence of religious activists through either class or international inequalities has had an unexpected consequence in that it has often led to the economic and social changes within modern Turkey becoming both oversimplified and overlooked. One man who spent a great deal of time attempting to counter this problem is Paul Stirling. Stirling is less well-known than Gellner, and wrote less. However, his work is easily available because he spent the last years of his life arranging for his notes, survey results, and publications to be loaded onto a web-site that is maintained by the Anthropology Department at the University of Kent.1 It is fashionable to decry Stirling. I am puzzled as to why this should be the case. For any researcher to be written off, it must be shown that their data is flawed or their conclusions erroneous. So far as I know, neither accusation has ever been made, let own proven, against Stirling's work. His ethnography has stood the test of time. The importance of his work as providing the clearest description of rural, sedentary village life has hardly diminished. His later emphasis on tracing the experience of social change within the community is immensely helpful in drawing attention to the ubiquity of this change in Anatolia. In addition, there can hardly be another anthropologist who has shared the results of their work so willingly, or indeed has provided so much detailed material to share. I can understand that each 1

http: //lucy.ukc.ac.uk/Stirling/.

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generation wishes to forge their own path - but if this is indeed a reason to reject previous research it should be stated openly rather than through specious dismissal. If, as has happened, another perfectly-dressed researcher waving the latest mobile phone tells me that the 'modernisation ethic' upon which Stirling's research is based is outmoded I shall find it difficult to retain that courtesy which is essential to all academic interchange. Stirling's work is here used throughout. At the heart of this book is an essay in which I specifically contrast the social organisation of the Turkish Alevi village where I worked with that described in Stirling's Turkish Village, which was Sunni in religious orientation. It might be argued (as he might indeed himself have done when reflecting upon this work in later life) that Turkish Village is now dated. It is clearly redolent of the Oxford anthropology of its time, even written at a level of abstraction which sometimes calls to mind the readiness of Evans-Pritchard to step back from Malinowski's 'imponderabilia' of social life. Yet, I would suggest here that it is precisely that readiness to see the village as a community ordered and organised according to certain social principles that gives it its strength. Social structure: the readiness that individuals have to permit themselves to be ordered in certain ways according to age, sex, occupation and hierarchy is an essential part of life in Turkey. This approach, far from doing his ethnography an injustice, enabled him to characterise it in a most helpful way. Later, Stirling turned to the study of social change, struck by the speed of modernisation within village on a return visit to their community. As he describes in the interview which appears also in this volume, he was particularly concerned at the readiness with which unwarranted generalisations are made concerning the economics of social change and development. Or, to put this worry in another way, he felt that an industrial revolution was taking place that, unlike those of former times, could be studied at that time of its making, and far more accurately than had usually been the case. In practice, such field research is difficult to carry out. It requires a detailed micro-knowledge of change at the household level, and a level of intrusion into a community that only later when we attempted to emulate his study in Germany, became clear to us. Stirling, perhaps because of his very long acquaintance with a particular village (but perhaps more simply because he possessed the appropriate qualities to be a first class anthropologist) managed it successfully. Nevertheless even our attempt to begin such a study in Germany according to this method has the inestimable advantage of providing a set of data that acts as an instant counter to that wild supposition dressed up as scientific statement which is so much part of the way 'development' debates are presented. Stirling himself, for instance, was able to

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show that the modernisation of the villages that he knew did not lead to the formation of stratified social classes. Some fared well on their move to the towns, others less so. Overall though, social mobility was astonishingly rapid: within a substantial degree of individual variation, and buttressed through the comparatively easy acquisition of property, his villagers often assumed comparative affluence. Stirling died before he was able to publish a monograph on this topic, but a number of papers did appear, and his database remains available for public study over the web. It acts as a firm antidote against those even to day who wish to present Turkey as a society that is somehow static, or ruled by a stationary few who maintain the rest of the population in poverty. The truth is very much more complicated, and very much more fluid.

Conclusion In conclusion, I would stress the following. Sometimes it has been suggested that I have claimed that there is some fundamental, almost Platonic reason why the Alevi and Sunni communities have differed and always must differ. In fact, my assertion is more empirical than this, and much less emphatic. I believe that it is a fact that the Alevis and Sunnis have taken diverse paths in spite of the enormous diversity that may exist within their respective communities. I also believe that the body of theory developed by social anthropologists helps enormously to explain this difference. I do not wish to claim any more than this. In particular, I have no idea how future movements will develop. These essays represent a snapshot of work conducted over a period of approximately fifteen years. I believe that they are accurate with regard to that period, and to some extent at least provide a way of approaching contemporary events. How the next fifteen years will develop I do not know: I hope that I shall be able to offer a similar collection then, but I would not now claim to know what it will contain.

REFERENCES Beller-Hann, I. and Hann, C. 2001 Turkish Region, Oxford: James Currey. Behar, C. 2003 A Neighborhood in Ottoman Istanbul: Albany, SUNY. Delaney, C. 1991 The Seed and the Soil, California: California University Press. Engin, Î and Erhard, F. (eds) 2000-2001 Alewiler/Alewiten, Hamburg; Deutsches Orient-Institut, three volumes.

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Gokalp, A. 1980 Tètes rouges et touches noires: une confrérie tribale de l'Ouest anatolien, Paris: Société d'ethnographie: recherches sur la Haute Asie; 6. Hall, J. and Jarvie, I. (eds) 1996 The Social Philosophy of Ernest Gellner, Amsterdam: Rodolpi. Hann, C. 1990 Tea and the Domestication Eothen Press.

of the Turkish State, Huntingdon;

Langer, R., Motika, R. and. Ursinus, M. (eds) 2005 Migration und Ritualtransfer, Heidelberger Studien zur Geschichte und Kultur des Modernen Vorderen Orients, No. 33. Macfarlane, A. 2001 The Riddle Macmillan.

of the Modern

World,

London: Palgrave

Meeker, M. 2002 A Nation of Empire: The Ottoman Legacy of Turkish Modernity, Berkeley: University of California Press. Olsson, T. Özdalga, E. and Raudvere, C. (eds). 1988 Alevi Identity: cultural, religious and social perspectives, Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul; vol. 8, distributed also by RoutledgeCurzon, London. Shankland, D. 1999 Islam and Society in Turkey, Huntington: Eothen Press. Sirman, N. 1988 'Peasants and Family Farms: the Position of Households in Cotton Production in a village of Western Turkey', unpublished PhD thesis, University of London. Stirling, P. 1965 Turkish Village, London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson. Tapper, R. and Tapper, N. 1987a 'Thank God we're secular! Aspects of fundamentalism in a Turkish Town' Caplan, L. (ed.) Aspects of Religious Fundamentalism, London: Macmillan; 51-78. Tapper, R. and Tapper, N. 1987b 'The Birth of the Prophet: Ritual and Gender in Turkish Islam', in Man, (N.S.), Vol. 22; 69-72. Tapper, R. (ed.) 1991 Islam in Modern Turkey, London; Tauris. Van Bruinessen, B. 1992 Agha, Shaikh, and State, London: Zed Books. Van Bruinessen, M. 1999 Mullas, Sufis and Heretics: the role of religion in Kurdish society, Analecta Isisiana; 44, Isis: Istanbul. White, J. 2002 Islamist Mobilization in Turkey: a study in vernacular Seattle: University of Washington Press.

politics,

2. ISLAM, POLITICS AND DEMOCRACY IN TURKEY

Of all Muslim countries, Turkey is known as that which has experimented with secularism, and with democracy, in most sustained fashion. In detail, the way that this endeavour has unfolded has often appeared extremely complex. Yet, there are some features that, if not exactly constant, do appear to lend the picture more stability than appears at first sight. That Turkey should be a Republic is absolutely accepted: there is no political or mass desire to bring back the Ottoman Empire. That Turkey as a nation should seek to develop economically is also universally welcomed. There are different assumptions of the way consumer society may operate, but there is no generalised suspicion of the development project itself. There also can be no doubt that democracy is permanently established. There have been changes in regulation, crises, new constitutions and coups - all this is well-known - but government by election is regarded ultimately as absolutely the correct way to run a modern society. Far more contested has been relationship between government, state and religion. At the outset, the founders of the Republic assumed that it would be possible to introduce a secular system wherein individual faith would be reduced to a personal negotiation between the self and God whilst the organisation and regulation of society should become the domain of human actors. It is to this end that Holy Law, §eriat, was replaced by European law codes, and the Grand National Assembly formed to represent the will of the nation. The western orientation of these reforms was mirrored too in the reorganisation of the education system, the introduction of laws governing surname and dress, the adoption of the western calendar, and of the twenty-four hour clock. It is sometimes maintained that this series of reforms was in itself antireligious. In as much as they were aimed against the existing theocratic system, this is indisputably correct. The Republicans were, though, careful to stress that their reforms were not against faith itself, but rather those who sought to become the mediators between an individual and God. In this they mirrored, or perhaps even were directly influenced by the anti-priestly rhetoric of the French revolution. Whatever their personal inclinations they certainly made no attempt to declare an atheist regime, and they left the way open for religious activity to develop based on the five pillars, the mosque and the Koran. It is also the case, I think, that the initial reformers assumed that,

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having established the necessary conditions to assure a modern way of life, secularism would become widely accepted - that even if it might be necessary to pass laws guaranteeing secularism, ultimately it would take root permanently.1 In practice, those who felt that a secularised Islam would become the established religion have been only partially right. Some proportion of the population have indeed been convinced. It is difficult to put any exact figure on this, but it would appear broadly to consist of the longest-established urban dwellers along with those from minority religious faiths, in particular the Alevis, a significant heterodox minority to whom we refer again below. Many professional women, who under the Republic were awarded the franchise and the right to work for the first time, are also amongst secularism's strongest supporters. Geographically, it would certainly not be mistaken to regard the western, Aegean coast as being more supportive of a secular Islam than the more eastern parts of Anatolia. Famously too, the armed forces, in particular the army, regard secularism an unalterable characteristic of the Turkish Republic. Nevertheless, as became clear with the introduction of a multi-party system and the first genuinely contested election in 1950, the majority of the population wished for the government and the state to take a much more proactive interpretation of its religious duties than was first envisaged. 2 Whilst revolutionary calls for the §eriat to be brought back were sharply repressed, the government did respond to this obvious desire by offering far greater support for the training of clergy and the religiously oriented schools that were aimed at producing them. They also permitted foreign exchange to be used for the pilgrimage to Mecca, reopened several important saintly shrines that had been closed and permitted the call to the mosque once again to be in Arabic, rather than the Turkish that the early Republicans had insisted upon. Over the second half of the twentieth century, it turned out that this broadly sympathetic orientation toward orthodox religion, combined with strong pursuit of market-led development, was the favoured position of the majority of the population, represented by such parties as the True Path Party, the Motherland Party, or the Democrat Party. The contrasting more secular, and markedly more left (from the economic point of view) orientation that is usually represented by the original and later reincarnations of the Republican People's Party has been unable to win sufficient votes consistently enough to form stable governments. 1 For standard works on the early Republic, see Balfour, J. (Lord Kinross) (1964); Lewis, B (1961); Lewis, G. (1965), and Mango (1997). 2 The argument contained in these pages may be found in more detail in Shankland (1999).

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This basic fact of Turkey's electoral mechanics has had certain profound consequences. Whilst the founding secular reforms have remained substantially in place, there has slowly grown the possibility to pursue a markedly more religious way of life, a development facilitated greatly by gradually expanding government funding for such activities. Channelled often through the Directorate of Religious Affairs, such funding tends to be based on supporting the neighbourhood mosque through providing an imam, upon Koranic schools, on providing funds for religiously-oriented schools, and subvention for religious publications. From the believers' perspective, such a choice of lifestyle implies too often membership of a religious brotherhood, or tarikat, nominally banned but now tolerated. There have emerged also prominent popular movements, such as that based on the works of Said-i Nursi, which seek to reconcile the seeming conflicts between modernity, science and Islam. 1 In effect, this has meant that Turkish society, without perhaps being intended explicitly that way at its outset, has become markedly pluralist. In the larger towns and cities at least, those who wish to resort to a less religious way of life, have been able to pursue professional lives in similar fashion to those in any other European country. Their recreation and aspirations too have been typical of the Mediterranean nations: centred on good food, dance, music, travel, the occasional glass of wine, beer or raki, purchasing or building a summer home on the southern coast. The more contemporary emergence of a consumer youth population, one that can be seen reflected in pop culture, or the Eurovision Song Contest held in Istanbul in 2004, is a natural emergence of this established secular orientation. At the same time, however, there can no doubt as to the commitment to their faith of the broad mass of the population, and there has gradually emerged an affluent middle class who have been markedly more reluctant to make the a straightforward distinction between personal piety and public secularism that such an orientation implies.

The rise of Islamist politics Actively religious, secularist, right, left: all these may be positions adopted within the established canons of the Republic. Many political parties based upon more extremist positions have been founded but then rapidly closed down, whether Islamist, far-right, or revolutionary communist. 2 One figure in particular, however, Necmettin Erbakan, appeared likely to escape this impasse. Erbakan is an interesting man: fluent, even loquacious, he decided to 1

On Said-i Nursi, see in particular Mardin (1989). On politics and religion in the early Republic, see Rustow in Frye (1957).

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advocate a broad-based appeal to an Islamic way of life, one that would draw in wealthy Islamist supporters and at the same time attract poorer constituents through proposing a new system, the 'Just Order'. Through his popular speeches, his brilliant rhetoric, and a great deal of hard work, he gradually built up a populist front, known sometimes as the milli gorii§, that did indeed succeed in gaining support from diverse quarters. There are commentators who suggest that Erbakan was permitted certain room to manoeuvre by those in authority, that a public reaffirmation of Islamic ideals was held by them to increase the chances of social peace and decrease the possibility of a sustained move toward communism. Whatever the truth of this, it is the case that Erbakan's third attempt at establishing a major party, the Welfare Party, was not proscribed as firmly as his two previous efforts had been and gradually grew in popularity throughout the late 1980s and 1990s. Their electoral success peaked in 1996, when Erbakan became Prime Minister in a coalition government. He fell from power soon afterwards, toppled by a combination of elements: some felt that his increasingly aggressive speeches could lead to social unrest, others were worried by his flamboyance. Some too felt that his association with disgraced figures in other political parties did not support his assertion of moral superiority. Above all committed secularists, and the army, were alarmed by his overt calls for sweeping change. Nearly a decade has now passed since these events unfolded. In retrospect, how can we evaluate his movement? Whilst he is a key figure in Turkish modern history, and he worked untiringly to the re-introduction of Islamic thought and practice, he was also clearly a potentially controversial figure. One problem lay in the rather strong language of his 'Just Order', his text for reform: 'The Slave Order that is part and parcel of the economic system in Turkey did not come about of its own accord. It is a consequence of systematic, planned and deliberate modern colonial initiatives stemming from the imperialist and Zionist forces of this earth. Zionism is a belief, and ideological force whose headquarters are found in America, in the Wall Street Banks of New York. Zionists believe that they are God's true servants; they are convinced that other peoples have been created as their slaves...World imperialism is not just colonising Turkey, but the whole of the Islamic world. The Islamic world's natural resources of all kinds, and above all petrol, are under imperialism's control...' 1 His comments upon interest rates (which he proposed to ban), industry (which he proposed to bring under total state control) and Turkey's conventional parties, whom he refers to continuously as 'counterfeit', are similarly robust. 1

See Shankland (1999; 209-214).

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Erbakan's forceful approach led many not to take him seriously, maintaining that he was obviously not a competent leader. This I feel is a mistake. In fact, the Welfare Party under his leadership organised and regrouped itself extremely efficiently. At a time when Turkey's political organisation was often rather weak, even disorganised, he encouraged the development of electoral and party lists of sympathetic individuals. These helped the party to target their activities effectively. Appealing to those who had fared worse from the transition to modernity, and indeed also to those who were newly forging life for themselves in the city, he stressed very effectively the needless poverty of those who were suffering from hyper-inflation, or the corruption of many of those successful in business or government. He also realised very early the importance of local politics: town municipalities in Turkey are directly responsible for a host of urban services even as the communities themselves are growing, developing and changing. Accordingly, mayoral elections tend to be rigorous affairs in which the electorate are overwhelmingly pre-occupied with the establishment and maintenance of their urban infrastructure. The candidate who appears best able to run the town efficiently in often tricky circumstances really often does win. Showing such sensitivity to their local constituents helped Welfare to build up a reputation for grass-roots activism and awareness of their voters' problems, particularly the poorest. This ultimately helped them gain control of both Istanbul and Ankara, the key cities in the modern Republic.

A transitory period Erbakan finally fell from power in 1997, his resignation precipitated by a meeting of the National Security Council in February that made a number of 'recommendations': amongst them that the religiously-inclined schools (by then catering for perhaps a third of all Turkey's school children) should be drastically reformed, and that anti-secular activities more generally should be prohibited. In the aftermath of this, the Welfare Party was banned, as was its immediate successor, the Virtue Party. Erbakan was banned from taken part further in politics, and the mayor of Istanbul, a certain Tayyip Erdogan, briefly imprisoned. At that point, in some ways, there was a feeling that Turkey had drawn back from the brink of a major societal confrontation between the secular and Islamist inclined proportions of the population. This sense of relief was reinforced by the result of the first immediately post-Erbakan general elections. They resulted in a surprisingly stable coalition between the

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Democratic Socialist Party (nationalist left), the Nationalist Action Party (farright), and the smaller Motherland Party (centre right). This meant that the veteran leftist Ecevit became the Prime Minister, and the figures on the right, Bah§eli and Yilmaz, Deputy Prime Ministers. Whilst this did indeed ensure a diversity of approach, and also two presented two fresh parties a chance to be in government, there turned out to be other, major difficulties. One of the reasons that the previous parties had been skittled out of power was that when Tansu filler was Prime Minister in the 1990s, she had presided over a series of major financial crashes that resulted in a massive devaluation of the lira and stringent government cuts. In order to prevent this reoccurring, and to gain a grip on the very high inflation, Ecevit's government adopted extremely tight control of the money supply, including restrictions on wage compensation to take into account inflation. This meant that civil service salaries, already extremely low, became increasingly inadequate even to maintain a simple standard of life. At the same time, the division of the respective governmental ministries between different parties exacerbated the already prevalent patronage base of Turkish political activity: in other words each party cast a blind eye at the faults of the other as they used the government's money in ways that they felt most beneficial for their supporters' direct needs. In effect, meant that, in order to maintain support for the government, Ecevit was prepared to overlook a level of political use of government finances that led to an already leaky public purse to become positively punctured. Unable to plug the growing black holes by permitting hyper-inflation, and forced increasingly to account for their activities by the IMF, the Turkish banking sector collapsed. The lira devalued catastrophically overnight. America and the World Bank pumped in billions of dollars to avoid a default and a systemic melt-down was just avoided. A furious electorate, totally fed up with flagrant financial impropriety, which they now associated equally with both the left and the right of the conventional parties, whether larger or small, took its revenge. As soon as elections were called, they turned en masse back to the Islamists, and in 2002, a newly formed party swept into power with a crushing majority. As soon as they were able to resolve the necessary legal complications, the new party, named the Adalet ve Kalkinma Partisi (Justice and Development Party - usually abbreviated to the AK, 'white' party) voted Erdogan their leader, the recently imprisoned mayor of Istanbul. For the first time ever, this meant that Turkey had an elected Islamist Prime Minister with a rock solid majority, a political platform far more convincing than had ever been achieved by Erbakan. Many wondered whether the army would stage an

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immediate coup. With such a popular mandate, though, it appeared entirely inappropriate and, whatever they felt privately, they did not do so.

The Erdogan government It is always difficult to write instant history: the government after all are still in their first term in office. There is not the slightest doubt though, that they have substantially retained the popularity with the electorate that initially brought them to power. There are a number of reasons for this. Indisputably, they were fortunate in inheriting a financial situation that had already developed some discipline under the previous government. This has meant that certain vital conditions: a stable lira, a rising tax income and globally benign interest rates have enabled them to preside over a partial economic recovery. The government showed also an extremely astute capability to deal with foreign affairs. At all levels of society, the Turkish electorate are avid followers of the news. They are also attuned to considering Turkey's place in the world. Erdogan's handling of the 2004 Cyprus referendum was, from this point of view, an absolute triumph. That the northern, Turkish part of the island should accept the United Nations' proposals and the southern, Greek part refuse them has, from the perspective of electorate in Turkey, placed the nation as a whole irrefutably in a position of the moral high ground. One delighted Ankara civil servant, by no means a supporter of the Islamist movement, said to me in its aftermath 'The whole world can we that seek peace, that we are not the ones who have broken the possibility of a settlement'. The government won similar kudos for its intricate, but ultimately successful withholding of Turkish military support from the intervention in Iraq and for its clear support of Turkey's membership of the European Union. It is possible therefore to see immediately certain crucial differences between the Erbakan and the Erdogan approaches to government. In contrast to the Erbakan government, Erdogan is unequivocally devoted to Turkey's membership of the European Union, a desire that is (in spite of the very rocky ride) matched by the majority of the population. He is far less dogmatic than Erbakan, and has pointedly avoided making pronouncements that appear at odds with the established way of running a modern nation's economy. He has no ideological opposition to the west, or to modern technology. He may then be seen as a representative of that moderate tendency within Turkish Mam that has sought to devise ways that religion may be seen compatible with modernity. This has led his party occasionally to be regarded as close to those

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standard, even familiar centre-right governments that flourished under Menderes, Demirel or Ozal. Indeed, it is often pointed out that his government includes many political figures who were prominent under Ozal and the Motherland Party. There are, however, significant differences. Erdogan's party has remained close to its roots in the urban poor. The anthropologist Jenny White, of the University of Boston, has charted brilliantly the way that the public rallies of the AK Party highlight the appalling inequality in Turkey, the direct result of the growing rise in income disparities that have increasingly become a feature of Turkish social life. 1 In turn, the rhetoric of unity that they promote through such public display relies greatly on their use of religious symbolism and they appear to be serious in their pursuit of a greater role for Islam in Turkey's public life. For instance, there has been sustained governmental pressure on the Higher Education Council, a foundation that is charged with regulating and protecting the universities. Through a law that is passing through the Assembly, the government wishes to legislate explicitly to change the way that the Higher Education Council permits entry to the university system so as to allow those who have graduated from technical high schools gain unfettered access to the university system. This sounds a fairly neutral, bureaucratic measure: it is not. The vast percentage of graduates from 'technical' schools are from imam-hatip schools, that is religiously oriented institutions originally founded to teach mosque prayer leaders but which now cater for a significant proportion of all high school graduates. Whatever view is taken on the bill (and this depends on whether one talks with the secularists or their opponents), the measure is not a neutral one, and opening up this pious route to university would have a profound effect on the shape of Turkish Higher Education. The AK Party can also be extremely tough. It is entirely normal for parties when they come to power in Turkey to replace civil servants within the bureaucracy their own figures, even those down to a very low level in the hierarchy. Here, the AK Party have been cleaning out the previous and reinserting their own supporters with a systematic determination which is quite remarkable, forcing through legislation for example, many older civil servants to take early retirement. Nevertheless there remain sharp differences between them and their Islamist predecessors. It is widely held that the AK Party have taken care to avoid direct rhetorical clashes in a way that would have been quite inconceivable for a Welfare party government. In part, at least, this restraint appears to be due to Erdogan himself, who has consistently emphasised the 1

White (2002).

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democratic and modernist orientation of his administration. We have already noted the eagerness to become part of the European Union. This orientation is reflected too in economic affairs. For instance, in a speech to businessmen in London on the 28 t h May 2004, Erdogan emphasised his government's commitment to the free market and stressed the openness of Turkey to foreign investment. He also noted that inflation this year will probably be under his government's target of twelve per cent. This is, given Turkey's recent history of hyper-inflation, a genuine triumph. More generally, the genuine social disquiet that accompanied the Erbakan-led Islamist expansion has not reappeared publicly. For instance, during the Welfare Party's rise in the 1990s, a riot in the centre of Sivas, a town in central eastern Anatolia, headed by what can only be described as extremist agitators led to the deaths by burning of many delegates at a folklore congress, whom they regarded as atheists and unbelievers. In retrospect, it appears clear that these events were precipitated by a number of factors coinciding: by an intolerance of scepticism toward religion by the mass within the town, by resurgent brotherhood organisations being permitted to operate freely; by the Welfare Party being in power of the town municipality, and by an administration reluctant to act to prevent the civil demonstration growing out of control . This meant that religious rioting was able to take over the centre of the city without any other active part of its government being able to impede them. We may contrast this to Erdogan's vastly more sympathetic reaction to the outrages in 2003 in Istanbul, when the HSBC banks buildings and the British Consulate were bombed. Then, he spoke out directly and convincingly against fanaticism. Many felt that he took enormous pains to distance himself from fundamentalism, and were reassured that he did so. A further example may be found in the field of heritage and culture. There are extremely diverse and unique archaeological remains through Anatolia, dug both by many European countries, and by Turkish archaeologists. These remains derive from many different periods and have importance politically too. Atatiirk envisaged the multi-cultural nature of Anatolia's past as a way of emphasising its non-Muslim, Turkish roots, and this presumption remains an important part of Republican consciousness today. Reacting to this, when Welfare were in power, there was an explicit attempt to impede the study of pre-Islamic archaeology, even an insistence that, for example, permits would only be given for the non-Islamic research if an Islamic monument would be surveyed or studied at the same time. There were also calls from within the Welfare Party for the Byzantine remains of Istanbul to be destroyed to make way for a ring-road around the city.

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The Erdogan Party have conspicuously avoided such ideological pronouncements, and have been explicitly supportive toward foreign excavations. They have been, as noted, tough: they did hold up various permits on taking power. They also withdrew some of the cross-funding for local projects that took place as a matter of course previously (for example, the State Water Works support for rescue excavation in the southeast). They also combined the Ministry of Culture (which is responsible for 'western' type activities such as music, dance, museums, theatre as well as excavation) with the Ministry of Tourism. However, each of these activities can be explained through pragmatism rather than prejudice: it is usual for a new government to wish to peruse and control financial disbursements that have taken place during the previous regime, and it may be an entirely sensible move to reduce the number of ministries and concentrate on the foreign exchange revenue that heritage tourism may bring. In other words, it appears that the full force of government and bureaucracy are not brought together under a unified ideological umbrella that would intensify or provoke. Taking things point by point as Erdogan appears to do, even if there may be a much more radical underlying agenda, separates issues, and to some extent defuses them. It also has the great benefit of being gradual: if any measure appears inappropriate or premature, if may be quietly withdrawn, and reassessed at leisure.

Challenges and reform Erdogan then, has been both sensitive and successful. Nevertheless, religion is an exceptionally complex subject in Turkey, and there is no reason to suppose that in the future the challenges that it poses to any government will be straightforward. Simplifying enormously, it may be suggested that the essence of the problem that Erdogan faces is this. Western Europe is founded upon liberal views. Even though on occasion in various countries within the European Union (at present notably in the United Kingdom) it may appear that these values no longer obtain, in the long term it is extremely unlikely that a commitment to choice within matters of faith, or the right to be sceptical will be quickly dismissed. Memories of religious wars, seemingly eclipsed by the Second World War, are in fact only just beneath the surface of Europe's collective consciousness. To put it another way: any movement away from religious tolerance between groups would be treated as a matter of exceptional seriousness in almost all of the member countries. Further, Western Europe is constitutionally based upon secularism. It is certainly the

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case that the way this secularism has evolved differs slightly in each country, but the practical fact remains that there is consensus that the rules that govern society are made by men, not God. Herein lies perhaps the greatest of the opportunities, and indeed the challenges that Erdogan has at his feet. Given the space for far greater freedom of conscience within religious matters both from the secular and the orthodox points of view that has emerged within the Republic, it will be possible for both the pious and those who simply have chosen not to believe to live alongside one another so long as the present balance is maintained. Erdogan has also consistently called for greater freedom of Christian worship within Turkey, something that in spite of its secular constitution has been notably difficult under the Republic. There is though, a further question that is nowhere near resolved, and that is how the government and the state may deal with the minority religious group known as the Alevis. The Alevis consist of a sizeable proportion of the Republic's population - it is not clear exactly how great for the census does not ask after detailed religious affiliation. Nevertheless, one may suppose that there are between ten and fifteen million Alevis in Turkey today. Both Kurdish and Turkish in terms of ethnic background, they are from the religious point of view markedly heterodox. They emphasise Ali within their ritual obeisance, and are markedly mystical in their interpretation of Islam's creed. In the past, this difference of religious approach has often led the Alevis to be persecuted. The situation is more complicated however, in that whereas only a proportion of the Sunni population were persuaded by the Republic secular reforms, the vast majority of the Alevi population support them strongly. In part this is because they appear to offer the possibility of full citizenship without discrimination by religion. In part though, the way that the Alevi understanding of religion has adopted and changed parallels the Republican reformulation of Islam. In other words, they have been prepared to internalise their faith, to regard religion as primarily a question of private moral values, and are not at all interested in reorganising society along the lines of a religious model. 1 The Alevis, naturally, just as any other religious group, may hold widely differing views. Nevertheless, the evident public reaffirmation of orthodox Islam means that they are vulnerable twice over: first because from the strictly orthodox point of view they are literally unbelievers and heretics. Secondly, because they support a secular Republic within a public political climate that is increasingly against it. Whilst this has all sorts of obvious ramifications in terms of the way different social groups may be 1

This issue is treated in more detail in Shankland (2003).

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accommodated into the changing face of modern Turkey, in recent months, one development in particular has brought this question to a head. This is the extent to which the Alevis themselves are represented within a state institution known as the Directorate of Religious Affairs. The Directorate of Religious Affairs exists to channel support for religion, and does so at present through printing religious texts, providing mosque prayer leaders, organising religious meetings, providing religious interpretations (fetwas) and so on. It is a large body, one that has had a budget greater than the Ministry of the Interior, and has many tens of thousands of employees. The Directorate is funded directly from the public purse. However, at present it only provides for one single interpretation of religion, that is orthodox Sunnism. Their justification of this is that there are many subvariations of religious interpretation and it is incumbent upon them to recognise no one group more than any other. The Alevis, however, feel that they are forced into a position of funding a religious group that is directly against their own faith. This issue, which has simmered for many years, is likely to become a lively cause of controversy over the coming years as civil society groups representing the Alevis prepare a legal challenge to the state, demanding that their taxes not be forcibly used in this way without a degree of representation. One potentially workable solution to this awkward situation might be to institute a faith tax as in Germany, where those who wish for any reason may opt out. It might also be possible to diversify the purposes to which the funds of the Directorate of Religious Affairs are put, though this is in practice likely to be extremely difficult to implement. Erdogan's dilemma is acute in that he can only accommodate the Alevis without major social conflict if he can do two things at once. He will have to permit the expression of scepticism - as indeed is permitted in principle in any European country - and also admit the possibility that there may be more than one way of interpreting religious faith: that no group has the absolute secret of the true way to God. This is an enormous challenge. Should he succeed, he would have shown himself to be a very great prime minister indeed.

Conclusion In sum then, it would appear that the Erdogan government have so far succeeded in treating issues on their merits, have been populist yet pursued their own policies without resorting to an overall rhetoric that might destabilise an already tense situation. There is no doubt that there are

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irredentist strains that could lead to internal conflict in the future, even civil violence. Whether Turkey will avoid this outcome will indisputably depend on the skill of her own government. However, it will depend too on how Europe treats this issue. Increasingly, in order to resolve the political questions surrounding faith, it may be that we will have to revisit our own history, to a time when religious conflict was prevalent and study not just the tragedy of such conflict but also how the solutions were found. At present, though, Erdogan and his party proclaim that they are open to ideas, that they are listening, and listening hard. It would be equally a tragedy were the West, and the European Union, not to heed this message.

REFERENCES Balfour, J. (Lord Kinross) 1964 Atatürk, London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson. Lewis, B 1961 The Emergence of Modern Turkey, London: Royal Institute of International Affairs. Lewis, G. 1965 Turkey, London: Benn. Mango, A. 1998 Atatiirk, London; John Murray. Mardin, §. 1989 Religion and Social Change in Modern Turkey, the case of Bediuzzaman Said Nursi, New York; State University of New York. Rustow, D. 1957 'Politics and Islam in Turkey, 1920-1955', in Frye, R. Islam and the West, Gravenhage: Mouton & Co. Shankland, D. 1999 Islam and Society in Turkey, Huntington; Eothen Press. Shankland, D. 2003 The Alevis in Turkey: the emergence of a secular Islamic tradition, London: RoutledgeCurzon. White, Jenny B. 2002 Islamist Mobilization in Turkey: a study in vernacular politics, Seattle: University of Washington Press.

3. THE DEMISE OF REPUBLICAN TURKEY'S SOCIAL CONTRACT?

Largely implemented during the tumultuous years between 1923 and 1937, Turkey's laws, education system, civil service, economy, military, international outlook and trade are all founded on the premise of a Westernoriented separation between religion and state. This system has survived seventy years of economic, political and social transformation with remarkable resilience: Islamic brotherhoods, most recently a particularly vehement tarikat called the Aczmendis, are still prosecuted for calling openly for return to Islamic rule. Early this year, 1 the army expelled fifty officers who were accused of opposing the secular basis of the nation. In Ankara, the presidential symphony orchestra still plays Brahms, Beethoven and Mozart to packed houses in a concert hall built in early-republican modernist style whilst in the foyer, amidst exhibitions of abstract art, uniformed army officer recruits mingle self-consciously with students in jeans and bureaucrats in gowns and suits. In Anatolia, state-owned industrial complexes — such as the Siimerbank textile factories or the water engineering plants established to irrigate whole areas such as the Konya plain, or the sugar-refining plants set up to encourage and process the beet crop in remote parts of the country, each constructed with its own swimming pool, farm, plant nursery, orchard, sports facilities, fire brigade, clinic, creche, modern administration buildings, primary school, bar, ballroom, theatre, hostel and often palatial guest accommodation, to demonstrate the philosophy with which industrialization was to take place — are still open and running. A few have been privatised in their entirety, others have had some of their parcels of land and various of their amenities sold off, but by and large they continue, in state hands, to provide models of Kemalism, and (albeit at a great financial loss) they constitute a large proportion of the industrial output of the country. The two greatest threats to the stability of the Republic and the ideals upon which it was founded have been the slow re-Islamification, both of the state and country as a whole, and social unrest. A counterbalance to this instability has for many years been the army, which has been provoked sufficiently to conduct coups in 1960, 1971 and 1980. Whilst it is not always 1 Please note: this article was written in early 1996. Other then the occasional correction, I have left the text as it conveyed the situation at that time, written as a report in the immediate aftermath of the elections held at that time.

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clear whether the army has been spurred more by the spectre of an Islamic revival or by the (in Turkey at least) totally unacceptable possibility of sustained public disorder, the regularity of its interventions gives a spurious sense of cyclic order: in Ankara, ten years after the army's last excursion into politics, persistent rumours even forced the chief of staff to call a press conference to announce that, in spite of the date, they had no intention of staging a coup! In fact, whatever the political unrest, there have been several quite consistent underlying trends throughout the last decades. Amidst the disorder and sometimes chaotic government intervention, there has been remarkable and consistent expansion in production, averaging almost 3 per cent a year throughout the decades since the Second World War. 1 Democratic roots have deepened throughout the Republic so that now, in spite of the unfortunately-named 'démocratisation' package that the Left has been trying to push through the assembly (which refers more to the related but not identical question of human rights rather than any franchise), general elections are conducted with careful scrutiny and freedom of choice. On the down side, this development has been matched by consistently widening income differentials, leading to the creation of a massive urban poor. Probably for the first time since the creation of the Republic, there is a rising number of people who simply go hungry through lack of the means to find food. The call for the reaffirmation of Islamic beliefs and practices has been constant almost from the outset of the Republic. 2 The state has responded steadily since the first genuinely free general election, won by Menderes in 1950: it now supplies mosque prayer leaders sufficient for almost every village in the country, logistical support for those who wish to go on pilgrimage and abundant eschatological literature. A large number of state vocational schools have been opened with a significant component of their curriculum based on Islamic themes.3 The army itself has been influenced by this shift in perception. After the initial two interventions, the army tried to ensure that civilian power was given to the Republican Peoples' Party (CHP), the party which Atatiirk had set up as a channel for his reforms at the outset of the Republic. In 1980, however, after the third and last coup, despairing of politicians in general — and the brand of social democratic left-wing politics with Marxist overtones for which the CHP had come to stand in particular — the army turned instead to a philosophy known as the 'Turk-Islam synthesis'. This is a doctrine, 1 See, for instance, Stirling's 1993 introduction, 'Growth and Changes: Speed, Scale, Complexity' to a collection of essay on rural Turkey, which attempts to sum up social change in Turkey in recent decades. Also Hann (1994). 2 Cf. the early article by P. Stirling, 'Religious Change in Republican Turkey' (1958). 3 See the essays in Tapper (1991), esp. that by Ak§it.

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emanating, at least in part, from a group of right-wing academics in Ankara University, whereby the common Turkish and Islamic basis of the nation is reinforced and stressed by the state. Insofar as it was taken up and employed by the generals, it appears an attempt to create peace between otherwise conflicting factions without explicit appeal to an established political group. This policy has indeed largely succeeded in preventing a resurgence of political violence, though it has been replaced by the more localized but even more bloody ethnic conflict in the east. 1

Turkey's Social Contract The paradox of the army supporting the state-based teaching of Islam gives an important clue as to the survival of the secular republic. In fact, the state has become both Islamic and secular, continuing to provide for Islamic practices with ever-growing sums of money whilst at the same time maintaining the importance of the Republic's founding secular tenets. This agreement has been Republican Turkey's unwritten social contract: a recognition by both sides that the state would support both those who wish for secularism and those who wish for increasing encouragement to be given to Islam. It has been greatly aided by a common reluctance to discuss people's religious beliefs in public in any confrontational way: a prohibition that has had the happy consequence at least that, until the 1990s, any state religious discrimination against the Alevis, a mystical Shi'ite minority, has been avoided, though the recent overt Sunnification of the system has led to the Alevis becoming increasingly vulnerable. It has, however, been an uncertain solution. This is not just because of any potential Sunni/Alevi clash but also because of the gradual polarization of the secular and non-secular element within the Sunni Turkish population. Kemalist intellectuals have been increasingly worried, though largely quiescent, comforting themselves with the thought that the main structural blocks of secularism are still in place, a frequently made vague assertion 'that Iran is not possible here', and the further hope that if the state teaches Islam, at least a secular variety will be encouraged. Strong believers in Islam have remained equally unsatisfied, claiming that there are still basic problems with the pursuit of Islam in the country: indeed, there is no obvious point, short of bringing back Sheria law, for someone who wishes a return to an Islamic way of life, to cease to apply the pressure: one concession, one more convert, and one more mosque only leads to the next, as is attested by the massive sums of money which are being poured into monumental Ottoman-style mosques in many city centres.

1

On the Turkish-Islam synthesis, see Giiven? et al (1991).

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Political Islam The immediate political threat to this uneasy compromise lies in the increasing success of the Welfare Party (RP) led by Necmettin Erbakan. Islamic political opposition has long been a fact of life in the Republic, but it has rarely managed to take a place in the assembly, and only once as part of a coalition government led by Ecevit in the 1970s. In 1990, however, Erbakan gained fifty representatives in the Grand National Assembly (albeit by combining with the extreme right-wing National Action Party ( M H P ) on the hustings in order to pass a compulsory, national 10 per cent barrier). Whilst this was in itself uncomfortable to many Kemalists, it did not manage to destabilize a right/left coalition formed between the Social Democratic People's Party (later to merge with the re-established CHP) and the True Path Party (DYP), led by Turkey's first woman prime minister, Mrs Tansu (filler. In the 1993 local elections, however, the Welfare Party won the city municipalities of Ankara and Istanbul. The shock of their winning control over the Republican capital was enormous. On the memorable day when the results of a long slow count finally became clear, the Welfare Party took to the streets around the ministries in great convoys of cars waving their flags, 'V for victory signs aloft, sounding their horns. Girls dressed in black veils shouted abuse at women students and office workers in Western dress. Indeed these middle-class women in particular, who are most under threat from the religious revival, began to talk of being forced to wear headscarves, to mutter hopefully about the army and to wonder whether they should learn how to fight. This concern was reflected by the Republican People's Party, who increasingly stressed that they, as the original Kemalist Party, were the true protectors of secularism. The heavyweight newspaper Cumhuriyet (Republic), recently rescued from bankruptcy, began to devote ever more of its coverage to Islamic activities in an attempt to assert its role as the secular watchdog of the press. The fear of the intellectuals in the run up to the elections, therefore, was not just whether the Welfare Party was going to win, but also that if it did, the status quo might be destroyed by the winners' triumphantly coming out explicitly against the secular state, rather than implicitly as hitherto for decades, leaving the Republican establishment with no choice but to resist vigorously or be the witness of its own demise. The middle classes were (and are still) singularly unprepared to cope with such an open confrontation. The continuing conflict in the east, the ever-increasing media coverage which liberalization of television channels has made available to the Islamic cause, and the highest inflation on record gave further cause of unease and fear as the elections approached.

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The Elections The immediate need for these elections was created by the collapse of an uneasy left-right coalition in September 1995. It collapsed largely because Baykal, the leader of the CHP, demanded a genuine share in governing, rather than a simple sphere of influence in a number of ministries (notably the Cultural and Foreign Ministries) and (filler was unable or unwilling to countenance this possibility. President Demirel announced that henceforth Turkey, being a modern nation, could cope with the wintry conditions that have led people to avoid winter ballots, so 24 December was agreed on as an appropriate day and the scene was set. After a quiet election day and comparatively low-key campaigning (made the more quiet by restrictions on indiscriminate use of party posters and flags), the results, declared provisionally the next day, left no one happy. Table 1 Turkish General Election Result, 24 December 1995, Showing Successful Parties Only Politicai Party

Name in English

Leader

Refah Partisi Dogru Yol Partisi Anavatan Partisi Demokrat Sol Partisi Cumhuriyet Halk§i Partisi Biiyuk Birlik Partisi

Welfare Party True Path Party Motherland Party Democratic Left Party Republican Peoples' Party Great Unity Party

Erbakan Ciller Yilmaz Ecevit Baykal Yazicioglu

Total

Seats 158 135 125 76 49 7 550

Out of a total of 550 seats, the Welfare Party gained the most (158). It was followed by the True Path Party (135), the Motherland Party (125), the Democratic Left Party (76) and the Republican Peoples' Party (49) (see Table 1). The Kurdish Party, (HEDEP), failed to pass the ten per cent barrier for representation in the Grand National Assembly, as did the Nationalist Action Party ( M H P ) led by Tiirke§. The remaining seven seats were taken up by a splinter Islamic nationalist party, the 'Great Unity Party' who campaigned under the banner of the Motherland Party in order to pass the barrier. It has now separated from its election partners to form the smallest party in the Assembly.

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The results of this roughly equal share of the vote by three parties meant that no one party could form a majority, and each could feel legitimately disappointed, (filler thought that her great triumph in steering Turkey into the customs union with Europe and her tough stance on the Kurdish issue would be appreciated more by the electorate. Yilmaz, the head of the Motherland Party, filler's right-wing opposition, expected that crippling inflation and the only significant fall in annual production outside the years of military rule, would tell more strongly against (Tiller; Ecevit, the leader of the Democratic Left Party, had hoped that his appeal as the only honest man in Turkish politics would be stronger, Baykal thought that the publicity he had received as the head of the junior coalition partner would be more helpful than it was, and Erbakan had envisaged that he was finally going to be able to form a majority on the basis of a popular plebiscite for a return to Islamic principles, if not the Sheria itself. In spite of any dashing of his hopes, these results still represent a great victory for Erbakan. Not only does he have the largest party, but geographically his party now has a majority of representatives in the great mass of the Anatolian provinces, leaving only the west and parts of the Black Sea as yet to come under its control. The first great speculation in Ankara was to whom would Demirel give the chance to form a government? Erbakan was for days before the election claiming that the existing system was fraudulent, that the parties were in the hands of infidels, and more besides. After the election, however, he announced that he would talk, or form a party with anybody in order to achieve a happy stable government. He defended this sudden change by claiming that, after the election, having told the truth to the electorate, it was his duty to get along with their duly elected representatives to serve the people as best he can. The first test of the Welfare Party was at the swearing-in ceremony, where members have to give their oath individually in front of the Assembly, and the nation's television cameras, that they will be bound by the constitution and by the secular reforms created by Atatiirk. In the event, during the course of a marathon ceremony, even the most vituperative of the anti-secular representatives swore word for word that they would uphold the constitution, and the first possible crisis passed without incident. This sudden conformity (matched indeed by Erbakan's similarly rapid change from wolf to sheep after the last chance he had to form a government in the late 1970s) put Demirel in a difficult position. Is it right to give the chance to form a government to a man who only occasionally, rather than consistently, denies the secular basis of the Republic? In the end, concealing any doubts, Demirel took the only course he really could take and offered the chance of forming a government to Erbakan, who spent the next days in talks

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with the respective leaders. He tried to form a government with filler, and with Yilmaz, failing on each occasion. In rotation, the opportunity then passed to (filler, who then failed to come to an agreement with Yilmaz, to the increasing frustration of the secular press who were demanding a coalition between the two right-wing parties in enormous headlines, (Tiller finally had to return to Demirel to confess that she too had been unable to form a government. Yilmaz then had the task of trying to form a coalition. Yilmaz turned to Erbakan. To the fury of intellectuals and the secular press, they announced that they had reached agreement: a complicated arrangement by which the office of prime minister was to alternate, beginning with Yilmaz, whilst many of the ministries would be placed in the Welfare Party's control. Before the elections Yilmaz had stated resolutely and explicitly that he would not form a coalition with the Welfare Party. It is not clear what made him feel that he could safely make such an about-turn: he may have felt that he could placate his supporters through offering them rewards, that the army was no longer prepared to take an interest in the government, and that his wife was not serious in public threats to divorce him should he go through with such a move. 1 Indeed, he may not have been genuine in this agreement at all, hoping that the reaction to such a move would be sufficiently strong for the backbone of the Kemalist revolution — the bureaucrats and the army — to force Ciller into a compromise favourable to him. Through whatever unknown means (and in the days succeeding the Welfare/A/VA/3 coalition announcement the pressure on Yilmaz to keep to his original pledge was certainly intense) their agreement was retracted. Yilmaz and filler agreed to form a minority government, and a right-wing coalition based on the Motherland and the True Path Party, with a rotating premiership based on the Israeli model, was agreed. Yilmaz is its initial Prime Minister, and Ecevit has agreed to provide support for the government from without. This has the advantage that the privatisation programme, which was being threatened by the continual quarrels with the left-wing in the previous coalition, might now go ahead, though Ecevit will no doubt be chary about supporting moves which threaten his populist image and may, ultimately, prove just as hard a nut to crack as Baykal. Against this also has to be set the habit of each new prime minister of firing the people brought in by the previous incumbent, a custom which, if followed as scrupulously as usual,

This last threat is more significant than a piece of political gossip. Men can prevaricate on the question of their belief much more easily than women, and it would be a highly significant gesture of support should Mrs Yilmaz act as a focus for their opposition to the Islamic movement. See also Browning (1985).

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will cause havoc in the upper reaches of the government each time the prime ministership is alternated. Leaving the question of Yilmaz and his new coalition as one for the future, the sudden prospect of Erbakan so remarkably close to becoming prime minister raises a host of questions about the underlying situation in the country. What explains the Welfare Party's rapid rise to success? What programme would it be seeking to implement, and what are its chances of implementing it? Where does this leave Turkey now? It is best to look at these questions separately.

The Rise of the Welfare Party During the run-up to the elections, and just after the results became clear, I held a fascinating discussion with one of the Welfare Party's leaders. The reasons he gave for their recent success are interesting and convincing. He asserts that the National Salvation Party, the forerunner of the Welfare Party in the 1970s before it was wound-up in the aftermath of the 1980 coup, when considering how to build its voter constituency, decided to concentrate on the people who go to mosques regularly. In doing so, its leaders were encouraged by the thought that they would easily win a majority if all the people who go to pray voted for them. However, during the period in opposition during the 1980s, they realized the disappointing fact that although people may go to mosques to pray, they often give their votes to other parties. Accordingly, a group of younger Welfare Party activists decided to organize a movement to go into the community as a whole, to solicit votes even in the most seemingly inauspicious of places, places which might normally be thought of as entirely secular, even anti-Islamic: they congregated on the beach, on the lawn of the Bosphorus University, in night-clubs. The politician explained that they would attract attention by finding first a prominent place to pray, and then justify themselves to the people who came to remonstrate with them, slowly attempting to convince them of the importance of their mission. He described also the difficulty of being so open, and that they were often mocked. He further added that the success of the mass Islamic movements in Iran, in Algeria and then in Egypt, was an important psychological boost, and helped make them feel confident that that they too might be able to base a movement on genuine general popular appeal.

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Economics and the Welfare Party Whilst this account may to some extent be apocryphal, it is certain that the Welfare Party has decided to soften its image of being no more than a party of bearded mosque-goers, (this has even led to the surprising sight of headscarfed models in cat-walk shows demonstrating Islamic fashions). It is also certain that it has decided to broaden its doctrinal base, deciding that however attracted people may be to the idea of an Islamic government, this is not enough in itself: they also wish for prosperity. Erbakan repeatedly promises that with the false regime founded on the principles of the capitalist West reformed, Turkey will develop rapidly, so rapidly that it will overtake the West. Erbakan summarizes his philosophy in a little booklet published by the Welfare Party Adil Ekonomik Diizen (A Just Economic Order), which contains a condemnation of Turkey's present 'enslavement', and outlines the new form of economic order which the Welfare Party will bring in when it comes to power. 1 Erbakan's explanation of Turkey's woes is simple, breathtakingly so. He claims that the whole world is in the grip of a Zionist conspiracy: that the Zionists control the major banks in New York, through them the World Bank and the international monetary system. The Zionists lend money to Turkey, to the Islamic world, and to other countries, and then by charging interest on the money ensure the continuing impoverishment of all debtors. He comments on the widespread income discrepancy within Turkey, and claims that the people who do have money are allied to these Zionist elements. He regards the political parties, be they right- or left-wing, as fraudulent in whatever they claim because of their links with these groups and the Western 'imperialist' nations. He further sums up his argument in a series of 'microbes' which are responsible for the present position as follows: interest, tax, the mint (ie. money supply), exchange and credit. His argument against interest is that it bears no resemblance to the value of the work which may be conducted with the money thus obtained. As for tax, it impoverishes people who have worked hard for their salaries; on the money supply he says that printing money without any economic basis simply fuels inflation, that the exchange rates are manipulated by the Zionists and Imperialists to devalue the best efforts of Turkey's workers, and that to give credit without linking credit to the production of the article concerned is merely an excuse for extortion, from the point of view of the worker, Erbakan claims that for every salary, a third of the true fruits of labour is lost in tax. A third more is lost in national interest payments, and a further proportion through devaluation of the lira against 1

Erbakan (1991).

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foreign currencies and social insurance. For this reason, workers benefit from only one sixteenth of their labour.

The Just Economic Order Erbakan's description is wild, and abhorrent in its racist overtones, but many of the comments that he makes are telling. It is true that conditions are appallingly difficult for many, that the waged are taxed almost however little their earnings, whilst it is notoriously easy for owners of property and businesses to evade paying any tax at all. Though studiously ignored by the parties in power, international (and domestic) interest repayments are one of the biggest economic problems Turkey will have to face in the future, and inflation has been fuelled by over-printing money. His suggestions for how he will replace this system are rather more difficult to follow. He explains that the 'Just Economic Order' which the Welfare Party will institute 'contains elements of both capitalism and communism, but with the valuable, and without the harmful aspects of both'. He amplifies this by saying that there will be a healthy mix between private and public industry, that profit will be permitted but not interest, that the people will be protected from monopolies, that income tax will be substituted by a production tax, and that credit will be issued only when it is provided with suitable backing. Whether or not these individual points add up to a sensible system, it is clear that Erbakan's overall philosophy relies on creating a mandate for radical change with millennial overtones. The crucial, ever repeated theme of his economic theory is that interest is the root of the evil in the capitalist system because in itself it is non-productive: that there is no guarantee that people will be able to increase production with the money they have borrowed sufficiently to cover the interest that they will have to pay on it, leading them often further into debt and ultimately disaster. He asserts again and again that when the evil of interest is banned, production will expand many-fold, exports will boom, unemployment will end.

The Voter Appeal of the Welfare Party The Welfare Party appeals at different levels to different sectors of the voters. From without, and by the rival political parties, Erbakan is often regarded as the Welfare Party's liability. This is simply (and now demonstrably) not so. Erbakan is a master of the simple rhetoric which appeals to the mass of the

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Turkish electorate: it is the other parties which are handicapped by their continuous criticisms of each other, whilst seemingly allowing many of the population to go hungry. Increasingly, in his press conferences, Erbakan stresses the number of unemployed, the national debt and the terrorist conflict in the east. This message gains enormously in power when it is linked to an ideology with which the broad mass of the electorate are in sympathy. For example, there is a frequent idea among the less well-off that there is a great deal of money in Turkey but that corruption and profiteering prevent it from trickling down to their level. Erbakan's argument for a 'Just Economic Order' is often interpreted by them to imply that corruption is now so endemic that the only way to remove it is to bring back Sheria laws, which would permit a punitive punishment sanctified by Holy Writ, and only then might they be able to reap the fruits of their labour within an honest society. This open assertion was rare only five or six years ago, but it has become increasingly common as the position of newly-moved immigrants to the cities, even if they have managed to find a job, becomes ever more desperate. On a different plane, however, though the 'Just Economic Order' might seem anachronistic and unwieldy, it does at least serve as a basis for a wealth of doctrinal literature and provides a convenient contrast to the other parties. It can even be talked up to a level of meta-theory: the intellectuals of the Welfare Party are fond of meeting with journalists, and saying to them 'name one economic theory which has demonstrably solved any significant problem! No one knows any better than anyone else how the economy actually works. Given that Western academics are so over-confident, why shouldn't we suggest alternative, if radical theories?' — a line with which they are frequently successful, at least in gaining the attention of people who are weary of the fantasies of free-market economics.

Party Organization The Welfare Party does not only rely on rhetoric. It is extremely well organized, much better than the other parties. My informant explained that until 1983 they followed the usual party model: they had a headquarters at Ankara, then further province and sub-province branches which were responsible to each other in an ascending chain leading back to the headquarters. Over the following ten years they created a new level in this hierarchy, unique in Turkish politics, by appointing an officer in charge of each ballot box in every electoral district. They have furnished each officer with a list of the names of all the respective voters, and access to a computer terminal at the local branch. The names of the respective ballot box heads are

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kept on their data base in Ankara, along with an identification number. They expect the man to keep close tabs on the balance of votes in his particular small catchment area so that they can call him at any time for an exact assessment of their standing with the electorate. Within forty-eight hours of the elections, on 26 December, they had published a brochure outlining the Welfare Party's 'Great Victory'. In this leaflet they provide a press release by Erbakan summarizing the results, a breakdown of the party's vote in different regions of Turkey, an announcement of the Welfare Party's 'Golden Electoral Medal' for those three provinces which had cast the most votes for them, and a list of the names, education level and profession of every single one of the Welfare Party's new representatives. 1 This in itself, in these days of instant publishing, might sound an insignificant feat: this is not the case. In Turkey, to obtain accurate information, well-presented is always difficult. To obtain it immediately after an event has happened, with the implied coordination and pre-thought that this implies, is astonishing. The achievements of the Welfare Party have to be judged against the chaos, turpitude and general ineffectiveness of almost all organizations in Turkey, and among them they stand out as models of efficiency. At their party headquarters, and as members of parliament, they are curious for systematic knowledge about the world to a degree not noticeable in other parties. I remember a senior librarian in the parliamentary library telling me years ago that the most depressing aspect of his job was that the only members of parliament who had the faintest idea of how to use a modern library were the fifty representatives of the Welfare Party. Whilst this is no doubt an exaggeration, it gives an idea of their thirst for information. Within parliament, the representatives, though only fifty, combined with enormous effectiveness to force small changes through the assembly which do not actually contravene any law, such as greater numbers of prayer leaders for mosques, increased provision for Koran schools, and above all even more generous overall support for the Directorate of Religious Affairs, the coordinating body for Islam within the country. This determination shows itself further in other ways: party workers are prepared to go to great lengths to bring voters to the polls, even those from overseas, who have to come to Turkey's borders to register their votes. The same brochure which was published so quickly after the elections indicates that the Welfare Party won a far greater share of these votes cast at the border than any other party. Within the country, it is prepared to provide voters with presents: coal, coffee or money, as long as that person will promise on the 1

24 Arahk Seçim Sonuçlari (1996)

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Koran to cast a vote for Welfare at the ballot box. Funding for such behaviour, though obscure in its details, seems to come from three sources: sympathizers within Turkey itself, Islamic believers among workers abroad (who often feel a characteristic stiffening of belief as they remain distant from Turkey) and other Islamic nations who are sympathetic to their work. 1 These impressions, whilst scattered, give an indication of why the Welfare Party has become so successful: its doctrines appeal to those who have fared worst in Turkey's industrialization; it has generated a fusion of Islam and economics which enables it to claim both material and spiritual justification for its mission, one which has given a framework for approaching the world in an intellectually curious way. It has the added advantage of being highly organized, totally committed in the determination to gather votes, having ample funds, and benefits enormously from the disorganization, almost open dishonesty and exchange of public insults of the other parties.

Conclusions In the aftermath of the elections, there was a persistent rumour that the fortunes of the Welfare Party had peaked, a rumour that was spread in particular by the gossip over dinner in the diplomatic circuit at Christmas. This is an astonishing claim, particularly in view of the fact that the Welfare Party has increased its proportion of the votes across the board in three successive elections, and it is symptomatic of just how much the slow return of the Islam sympathizers in Turkey has been underestimated. There is not the slightest doubt that the Welfare Party will come to power in Turkey, the only question is what form it will take, and whether it will be able to use its power collectively against what remains of the secular government. The social contract of mutual tolerance which has served the Republic so well is now almost broken. Kemalism has changed from being an all-encompassing philosophy (though one within which a person could take up many different positions) which mediated the relations between citizen and state, and has now become only one of a number of alternatives which increasingly few people are choosing. Within these alternatives it will have to fight for its corner in a way that it has not had to do since its foundation, and its supporters may have woken up to the danger too late.

1

fakir (1994).

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There has been some reaction to the rise of the Islamic movement. Associations called the Atatürkgü Düsiince Dernegi (Associations for Atatürkist Thought), have suddenly become widespread. They have a headquarters in the heart of Ankara, and sub-branches in many Anatolian towns. They welcome members only on the basis that they are truly secular, whatever their party. This apoliticism is certainly reflected in the one local branch I know very well, which contains members from both the Right and the Left. As yet, however, they appear to have limited their activities to producing and selling Atatiirk souvenirs, a magazine which did not quite take off, and the occasional seminar and conference. Reflecting their feeling of powerlessness, the hope sometimes expressed by members of this Association, and others, is that the Welfare Party will come to power, demonstrate its incompetence, and thereby lose favour with the electorate. On this occasion, the Welfare Party has escaped this fate. If it had succeeded in aligning with the Motherland Party, it would appear to have intended to share out the ministries in such a way that the Motherland Party would have some control over the economy. Any failure to implement the only truly radical part of its policy programme can then have been excusable. Now that its hopes to be part of a coalition have come to naught, even if only perhaps temporarily, its claims that there is an establishment conspiracy which is preventing it from gaining power will be further fuelled. For the moment, everyone is being careful to avoid anything which might lead to an immediate, violent reaction: Demirel himself has made speeches carefully outlining the depths of the constitutional basis of secularism in modern Turkey. The new government is likely to stress piety, nationalism and free-market economics, the three key policies pursued by the late president Ózal when he was prime minister in the Motherland Party's regime. Open attacks on secularism will be difficult to carry out: Kemalists who feared the worst, feel relieved. In spite of this, the present crisis is an example of the way in which bitter enmity between party leaders can bring chaos to an already threatened order. It also offers a salutary lesson of efficient political party organization within Islamic movements, and of the grave fate which awaits a regime which permits its people to go hungry.

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REFERENCES 24 Aralik Segim Sonuglari Degerlendirmesi, Prof. Dr. Necmettin Erbakan'in Toplantisi, Doguyor'

REFAH

PARTiSi'nin

BÜYÜK

ZAFERI,

'Türkiye

Basin yeniden

Seri 1, (An evaluation of the 24 December election results:

Professor Necmettin Erbakan's Press Conference: THE WELFARE PARTY'S GREAT VICTORY, 'Born Again Turkey' series No. 1) 1995 Ankara, Refah Parti si. Ak§it, B. 1991 'Islamic education in Turkey', in Tapper (ed); 145-170. Browning, J. 1985 Atatürk's Legacy to the Women of Turkey, Durham, Centre for Middle East and Islamic Studies, occasional paper No. 27. Qakir, R. 1994 Ne §eriat Ne Demokrasi, Refah Partisini Anlamak (Neither Sheriat nor Democracy: Understanding the Welfare Party), Istanbul, Siyahbeyaz, 1994. Erbakan, N. c. 1991 Adil Ekonomik Diizen (Just Economic Order), Ankara, Refah Parti si. Güvens, B., §aylan, G., Tekeli, I. and Turan, §. 1991 Türk-Islam Sentenzi (TurkIslam Synthesis), Istanbul: Sermal. Hann, C. (ed.), 1994 When History Accelerates, London: Athlone Press. Shankland, D. 1993 'Diverse Paths of Change: Alevi and Sunni in rural Anatolia', in Stirling (ed.); 46-64. Stirling, P. 1958 'Religious Change in Republican Turkey' in Middle East Journal, Vol. 12, No 4; 395-408. Stirling, P. (ed.) 1993 Culture

and Economy:

Changes

in Turkish

Villages,

Huntingdon: Eothen Press. Stirling, P. 1993 'Introduction: Growth and Changes: Speed, Scale, Complexity' in Stirling (ed.); 1-16. Tapper, R. (ed.) 1991 Islam in Modern Turkey, London; Tauris

4. INTEGRATING THE RURAL: GELLNER AND THE STUDY OF ANATOLIA

Turkey has a special place in the heart of many Western commentators. In spite of the perorations of Edward Said, they remain attracted by its colourful past, beautiful mosques and sensuous culture. It is neither too big to be overwhelming, nor is it so small as to be insignificant on the world's stage. Its recent history is absolutely fascinating. Atatiirk's reforms, which transformed a dying theocratic empire into a vibrant secular nation-state constitute without doubt the most major, sustained and intricate attempt at social engineering outside communism. Little wonder then that so many people have felt the call to research, to travel and to publish their findings on its past and present.1 Intriguingly, however, there is a lacuna at the heart of several generations of European (and also American) historical writings on Modern Turkey. Almost without exception, they ignore rural society. 2 The explanation for this may be that the various authors: Bernard Lewis, Geoffrey Lewis, Stanford Shaw, and more recently Erik Ziircher have been attracted by the tremendous charisma of the early Republican reforms to such a degree that they regard the history, politics and economy of the Republic as largely deriving from the actions of an elite group in the capital.3 Whilst this might have some validity when thinking about the early period, it would not be possible to make such a justification concerning today's Turkey. The easiest way to demonstrate this is to think about the massive social change since the foundation of the Republic. In 1923 Turkey's population was largely rural. Transport infrastructure was rudimentary. The 1 This convenient size is sometimes held to explain the interesting propensity of British ambassadors to Turkey to remain closely associated with the countiy after their retirement. At least four have retained semi-formal links: two as successive chairmen of the British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, another as the president of the Anglo-Turkish friendship association based in London, and another as the chairman of a similar association based in Edinburgh. 2 Sirman (1996) makes a similar observation. 3 Bernard Lewis's seminal work on modem Turkey (1961) traces the westernisation of the Ottoman Empire, and the subsequent founding of the Republic without considering the internal dynamics of the Republic at all, outside the immediate political context in Ankara. Geoffrey Lewis (1965), whilst full of interesting comment, does not provide information on rural society unless it impinges on government. Later historians such as Shaw (1977), Davison (1981) and Ziircher (1994) are equally deficient in this regard. The inescapable conclusion is that indeed these people have been drawn exclusively to Atatiirk's great feats and the politics and economics of the urban scene, but then should not the claim to be writing history in general be tempered by making this more modest aim explicit?

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scanty railway system was the only way of moving comfortably around the countryside. Whilst of course some people did make journeys for all sorts of reasons, the localized nature of the communities and the almost entire lack of developed industries meant that outside periods of military service there was very little opportunity or reason for the vast majority of the population to move around. In part because of this restricted mobility, and in part for other reasons (such as the traditional central Anatolian obeisance to central authority) Kemalist supporters could be sure that any reaction to their plans for the new way of life in Turkey would find it difficult to coalesce and even more difficult to succeed in any effective way. 1 In this case, politics and even history do really appear to a large extent to consist of what is going on at the centre. By the 1990s, however, Turkey's population has multiplied five times over, from about 12 millions to 60 millions. The balance between the rural and urban areas has altered drastically. Today, Turkey's towns take up about 60 per cent of the population, as distinct from 14 per cent in 1927. Transport infrastructure, job mobility, social contacts, political relations, economic relations and production techniques have altered social life so radically that there is no village in Turkey that has not in some way been affected by this transformation, and no village which has not provided at least some of its population toward this change.2 The consequences of this rapid development are many, difficult to conceive with any accuracy and still more difficult to write down coherently. One crucial fact, however, is that the very speed with which urbanisation has occurred means that the majority of people who live in Turkey's cities are of village origin. This should not be understood as an obstacle to a person achieving success and fame. The Republic was in great part built by rural people who internalised western urban norms, regarding them as an integral part of the Kemalist programme. Indeed that the Republic should have had such an open policy to its citizens, discriminating on the base of neither ethnic group nor class is in itself extremely important. However, at some point in the Republic's history, probably around about the early 1960s, the number of people arriving in the cities began to outweigh the cities' capacity to absorb and inculcate these newcomers in the approved Kemalist urban lifestyle and this process has continued, accelerating throughout the decades.

1 The question of why the Kemalist reforms seemed to be so little resisted is discussed in Stirling (1984). 2 See Stirling (ed. 1993), introduction. The collected essays in that volume make a sustained attempt to present ethnographic research in the light of Anatolia's development, see also Hann (1990).

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Ankara, for example, was planned as a capital city of about half a million people, and now has probably five times that number. What was once a quiet bureaucratic city has now become choked with people struggling to make a living within an infrastructure hopelessly inadequate to meet their needs. Istanbul likewise has become a sprawling conurbation where the life of the great majority of its nine or ten million people is dominated by the inadequate food, air, water, electricity and housing in which they have to lead their lives. The poorest are begging for their daily bread in the streets, and all those but the very wealthiest are unable to escape from the effects of its overpopulation. Even those who have a job cannot be sure of being able to live: the monthly rate for a flat in almost any area is now substantially higher than most peoples' wages. This lack of access to very basic services is matched by the paralysis, over-manning and under-funding which attends almost all civil service departments. In Istanbul, as to a lesser extent in all large cities, this leads them to their being unable to discharge their functions in any but the most stuttering, spasmodic way. The state schools for example, key to inculcation of the nationalist ethic,1 faced with an ever-growing population, have taken to charging ever-larger sums in order for parents to register their children at them. These charges are semi-official, intended to cover repairs to the school, heating bills and so on. There are also consistent rumours that under-the-table payments are made by parents desperate for their children to attend the school of their choice, or even sometimes any school. Such is the pressure on further education places that pupils are unlikely to gain a place in a university without intense and often prohibitively expensive private tuition. Even then, the chances of success are slim: more than a million children entered the national university entrance exams in 1995, competing for about 400,000 places. Perhaps a fifth or even less of these places genuinely represent an established university education. Small wonder then that faced with the difficulty of integrating into the economic and social life of the town, people often retain links with their rural roots in many different ways. They may move back to the village for part of the year, obtain food parcels from the village, send their children to school in the village if the school there is better than those to which they have access in the town, retire to the village as their life draws near its end, and wish to be buried there after their death. Now, indeed, there is no sharp break between village and urban life. There is a continuum: all villages, however remote, have taken on some of the attributes of urban life, with piped water, 1 For an interesting study of the place of Kemalism in education in the early Republican era, see Kazamias (1966).

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televisions, refrigerators, washing-machines, cookers, improved roads, telephones, schools, electricity, health services now being common-place among the more wealthy, whilst even the poorest have seen some benefit. In turn, the increasingly mobile village populations drift in and out of the city: sometimes moving to it but not quite cutting their links off with those who remain, sometimes moving back when an urban venture fails. The city itself, with its decreasing well-established population losing successive ground is unable to inculcate its old morals or culture. Instead rural accent, dress, food, and manners now dominate much of the life of the city, often to the despair of the longer-established residents who deplore the 'villageification' of their environment. The upheaval that it has brought has resulted in literally millions of new incumbents falling on their own devices, recreating their own life-style and norms among a jumble of blaring often transitory music fashions, stark nationalist enthusiasm, flourishing reformulations of Islam and a buoyant black-market economy.1 Once the existence of this amazing melange is taken into account, a host of questions spring to mind. The most of important of these is, 'How is modern Turkey influenced by the fact that the clearly dominating urban culture (which used to control both government and state) has been replaced by a massive flux of people: vastly more mobile, economically, physically and socially than before, all learning a host of new approaches to life without being willing (or often being unable even if they are willing) to give up the philosophy, contacts and associations with their rural past?' This raises the perhaps incidental (but from the point of view of Kemalist sociology highly significant) problem of how to explain that a society can go from rural village to modern urban life without the benefit of the intervening secular liberal culture that they assumed was necessary to achieve this transition. Part of the answer to this problem is that the people en masse chose reformations of Islam rather than Kemalism, to achieve it. 2 Indeed, no study of religion in Turkey can possibly be adequate without a consideration of the way that Islam's particular formation in modern Turkey is deeply informed by its rural roots. There is a further, related issue. Where have all the towns come from? In a most suggestive essay, Altan Gokalp has pointed out that it is incorrect to conceive population change as consisting simply of the movement of people from their rural settlements to the already existing cities.3 True, the 1 See Stokes' account (1992) of the rise of Arabesk among the poor of Istanbul, in which he gives a vivid depiction of the way mass consumer music competes with the Kemalist conception of folk or 'traditional' music. 2 See Mardin's rich study (1989) of the Nursi movement. 3 Gokalp (1986).

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existing cities have grown enormously. But also, much of the new urban context has been created through expansion of the rural. Existing settlements are continually upgraded, progressing up the official scale from being part of a village (mahalle, or mezra) with no formal recognition to village (kdy), town (.kasaba), sub-province centre (ilge), to provincial centre (//), each grade attracting successively greater official funds and state-provided infrastructure, and thus facilitating the further process of expansion.1 Whilst the importance of political patronage in achieving this development is well known (the late president Ozal's birth-place was said to be the smallest sub-province centre in the country!) the question, 'What is it about Anatolian villages which makes them so particularly amenable to this urbanizing transformation?' has not yet been asked. Further, among the great complexity of ethnic groups and lifestyles in Anatolia, are all groups equally able to cope with this change? One of the more quirky sights of modern Ankara is the way that the village featured in Lerner's seminal The Passing of Traditional Society as being on the point of disappearance has not passed away at all, it simply has become a little, but coherent, part of a very large city.2 However, Lerner's community is a Turkish Sunni village, and it may be that other less orthodox groups are less able to go through this process of integration. The argument below attempts to highlight some of these points through a discussion of my research findings over a period of about five years' residence in Turkey since 1986. It would be absurd to claim that I am convinced of the absolute accuracy of these claims. There is as yet almost no reliable material on what might be called comparative social geography of Anatolia. 3 In its absence, I draw on concentrated fieldwork that I have conducted over a number of years, the limited number of available published studies (which were not written with comparative purposes in mind) and a number of working hypotheses strengthened by living and working in Anatolia.

The argument stated My broad assertion is that as Turkey modernizes, to understand the place of the transforming rural population has become necessary in a way, arguably, 1 Interestingly, a study by Suriya Faroqhi (1984) demonstrates that this progression up an official state settlement scale was a preoccupation even in Ottoman Anatolia. 2 Lerner (1958). J The early Kdy Envanter Etiidleri are thought-provoking but it is difficult to be sure of their reliability. Indeed, it is a great pity that this fascinating area has been so neglected. P. Benedict, E. Tiimertekin and F. Mansur (eds. 1974) seems to be still the most ambitious such project attempted.

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that it has not been before. Below, I also suggest that our models should, wherever possible, take into account the obvious but crucial fact that peoples' ethnic and religious background is a highly significant indicator of the way that they will develop. As a case in point, I concentrate on the way that the Sunni Turk majority appears to be taking a quite different path to the modern world than the Alevi, heterodox minority. Turkey is known today as a country and a society divided between Turk and Kurd. The tragic conflict in the east has reinforced this perception to such an extent that it colours almost all aspects of Turkey's relations with the west, and particularly with the European Union. However, this issue, whilst grave, masks the actual complexity of Turkey's population. There are small ethnic groups deriving from many parts of the Islamic world, in particular the Balkans.1 There are also several highly significant indigenous peoples, among them the Laz of the Black Sea coast. 2 Further, whilst nearly all Muslim, within the population as a whole there is a profound religious division between Sunnis and Alevis. This divide crosses the ethnic, so that there are Alevi Turks, Sunni Turks, Alevi Kurds, and Sunni Kurds. Many factors militate against giving very precise figures. Ethnic and religious groups are not allocated separate categories in the state census, nor has research been encouraged that would allow verification of the many local claims and counterclaims. Extremely tentatively, I would suggest that perhaps 67-72 per cent of the population are Sunni Turk, Sunni Kurds perhaps 12-15 per cent, Alevi Turks perhaps about 10-12 per cent, and finally Alevi Kurds about 3-4 per cent.3 My fieldwork suggests that these four distinct groups are reforming in such a way that a new, distinctive demographic pattern is emerging in Anatolia. It appears that the orthodox Turkish Sunni village communities are providing the focal point for the creation of the urban from the rural. Further, that they are achieving the transformation into towns without drastic reformulation of their traditional culture and social organization. The other three main groups: Alevi Turks, Alevi Kurds and Sunni Kurds for a variety of complex reasons appear to experience conflict and upheaval to a greater extent than their Sunni Turkish counterparts. I also believe that these groups are 1

Andrews (1989). On the Laz, see Hann (1990). 3 There is to my knowledge not one accurate census of the number of Alevi in modern Turkey. I should stress that these are assessments based in part on general observation and in part on extrapolation of my detailed fieldwork data. These estimates are slightly lower today (2006) than I made a decade ago. It is also worthwhile making the point explicitly that ethnic boundaries are extremely fluid things, and it is not, even today, clear as to when such distinctions may or may not come into play with regard to any one individual. On the Kurds see, Van Bruinessen (1992; 14).

2

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migrating to the cities in greater numbers than the Sunni Turkish people. If this conclusion is correct it implies that in the future Kurdish and Alevi minorities will be found increasingly in the cities, whilst Anatolia itself will become largely dominated by Sunni Turkish communities, some of which will become flourishing towns.

Sunni settlement

organisation

The diversity of populations and peoples in Anatolia is continuously surprising. A long tradition of inward migration means that a wealth of different small groups can be found next to one another, often reflecting the successive waves of Muslim peoples who sought safety in the remaining heartland of the shrinking Ottoman Empire. Rapidly changing local environments, whereby rich pasture land may alternate with bare peaks, and complex geological, even volcanic formations (such as in the sub-province of Kula in the west of Turkey), encourage a wide variety of livelihoods, even within a small distance of each other. In spite of this variety, there does appear to be an underlying characteristic Sunni sedentary village organization, one that can be discerned by observation in many parts of Anatolia. Typically, a number of households, often about a hundred, are grouped around a mosque in the midst of fields which they themselves own. This layout does not appear to be commonplace in the tea-growing (particularly the mountainous) areas of the Black Sea Coast, where houses are often very dispersed. The landowning peasant household is also less prominent in the east and south-east, where very large land holdings are more common. Nevertheless, the combination of nuclear settlement and household ownership is sufficiently widespread in the rest of Anatolia to be regarded a 'standard' village type. 1 It is this 'standard' type that appears (admittedly on the basis of qualitative rather than quantitative research) to be the focal point for the creation of the urban. Of course, which of the perhaps 50 or 60 such nucleated villages in any sub-province may actually manage the transition to large town is dependant on a multitude of factors: wealth, patronage, industrial development and luck. 2 Nevertheless, in the race to develop all villages are 1 See Stirling (1964; 26). Referring to Kayseri, he writes, 'All the villages in the area... are self-contained clusters of buildings separated from one another by stretches of unfenced land.' See also Sirman (1988; 36), 'Rural Turkey is a mixture of nucleated villages and small towns ...'. A

In discussion, the late Paul Stirling once told me that the seven villages around the village of Sakaltutan, where he conducted his first research, have all developed in slightly different ways, and that he could trace each one to distinct historical events affecting their communities. Sadly, I do not think he wrote on this question before his all-too-premature parting.

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effected to some degree, and whether successful new sub-province centre (ilge), or the smaller district centre (bucak merkezi) or simply a municipality (.belediye), these villages, founded as arable smallholding communities, seem remarkably able to cope with the gradual development process.1 Why should this be the case? The complexity of micro-change within a community means that any explanation must be appallingly partial, and one should be aware of this weakness. There do seem, however, a number of related reasons that could be put forward. A village (koy) is the lowest designation by which a settlement can receive official recognition in the state scale. In the case of the Sunni, sedentary, nucleated settlements usually one community is defined a 'village'. This means that the inner view of the village corresponds to the external definition which is imposed upon them. As services are introduced into the village, they usually are placed in the centre, close by the mosque, which is already the natural heart of the community. There are no indigenous peacekeeping mechanisms. Thus, as the state administrative and legislative procedures become increasingly part of village life, there are no internal ranking or formal procedures of social-control that are disrupted. Research by Sirman in the west of Turkey, and Stirling in Kayseri, has shown that the traditional households are able to convert to a cash-crop economy with surprisingly little disruption, each household in effect becoming a jointly managed family concern with multiple inputs. 2 Sirman's work and also Delaney's in central Anatolia have indicated also that the traditional pattern of gender relations may be reinforced, rather than impeded, by the villages' exposure to the outside world because men are able to dominate the incorporation of the state and business into the public spaces of the community. 3 Further, these growing villages embrace, willingly, the nationalist ethic that the state teaches. They may resent its authority, just as any other peasant community, but they do not reject the legitimacy of its courts (which as research by Starr has shown, apply the law with surprising sensitivity to local mores). 4 They do insist that the state, though founded on secularism, takes responsibility for teaching the tenets of Islam, and some

1 I should note that Professor Chris Hann has kindly commented on this point (personal communication) with reference to Shankland (1994), remarking that Stirling (1974) has attempted to show the disrupting evidence of modernization. It is true that all transformation is potentially damaging, but I believe that the Sunni Turkish communities by and large have survived this experience better than might be expected. See also Sirman (1988: 384): 'transition to commodity production in the Soke region has been rather smooth, and had not destroyed the fabric of social relations within the community'. 2 Stirling (1988). 3 Sirman (1988, 1990); Delaney (1991). 4 Starr (1992).

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men wish that it would go further down the Islamic road. In doing so, however, they are calling for more state involvement in their lives, not less. Thus, the rapid rapprochement between state and villager represents an intensification, but not a fundamental change in long-established, hierarchical village-state relations, and whilst it has extremely complex effects, economic development is able to continue within the framework of these relations within the fabric of the traditional Sunni village community. This path to development is not available to the traditional Alevi and Kurdish communities, which, unlike the Sunni Turkish communities, are founded on the premise that they will operate much of their social life outside, indeed in opposition, to central rule. Most spectacularly and obviously this is illustrated by the Sunni Kurds whose existing tribal organisation is helping them to resist state control even today. This has been shown in a number of works, but particularly in the monograph by Van Bruinessen.1

The Alevis The Turkish-settled Anatolian Alevis are much less well documented. In a rather different way than the tribes, with their emphasis on active opposition and conflict, the traditional Alevi communities achieved their opposition by being largely closed to the outside world. Unlike the Sunnis, they live in communities which are largely spread apart, each individual settlement usually smaller than those of the Sunni, a number of which are gathered together and defined a 'village' by the state. Their social organisation is hierarchical. About 10 per cent of men are regarded as being different from others by virtue of their birth into holy lineages. Known as dede (lit. 'grandfather') these men lead collective religious rituals which are forbidden to those who are not themselves Alevi. They also act as mediators in disputes, either within the framework of the religious rituals, or when invited to do so by their followers (talib). Relations between dede and talip are also governed by descent, a whole lineage is follower to a whole dede lineage. Even dede lineages must be follower to another dede lineage which means that there is an overlapping sequence of followers and religious leaders across the countryside. The religious ceremonial is centred on one main ritual, the cem, at which both men and women are present. Whilst long and complex, it marks in part the martyrdom of Hiiseyin, and peaks in a slow stepping dance, the l sema of the forty', which celebrates the passing of the mystical secrets to the Alevis from God through Ali. The religious (and theological) aspects of this 1

Van Bruinessen (1992).

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ritual are rich and interesting, and I hope to publish an account devoted to them elsewhere. For our purposes, it is significant to note that this ceremony cannot take place unless all present are on speaking terms with all others in the room. In the event of there being disputants, they come forward and kneel on a rug spread in front of the community known as 'Ali's space' (Ali'nin meydani). They face the dede, who attempts to bring them to peace. Not with punitive measures, but attempting to encourage people to forgive, to forget and if necessary to make amends for their wrong doing. The villagers say that only by praying face to face, and only by being at peace, can they have access to God, a small part of whom lies deep within us all. These dispersed, quiescent communities, closed to the outside world, with local leaders and their own specialised regulatory mechanisms, modernise with only great difficulty. 1 Among the problems are that the state requires each village to appoint a village head, a muhtar who will act as a link between the provincial and sub-provincial administration and the village. Unlike the Sunni Turkish village, in an Alevi village this creates a distinct rival to the dede, a source of conflict and disagreement between the representative national power of the state and an established hierarchy. The closed, face-to-face rituals are ideally suited to resolving conflicts within communities whose social links, economy and possessions are largely coterminus with the village quarters' boundary but are increasingly unable to cope with economic and social links which spread into Turkey and even further afield. The Alevis are traditionally almost entirely rural. In a rapidly modernizing Anatolia, they do not appear to have created their own urban centres. With the sole exception perhaps of Hacibekta§, a small town in the heart of Anatolia, which many Alevis regard as the resting place of their founding saint, they in no case form the majority of the inhabitants of a town (and even in that case they do not form the majority of the government officials within the town). Instead, they form sub-sections of the larger towns dominated by the Sunni form of mosque-worship, living in their own distinct parts of the community, in often rather uneasy relationship with the rest of the town. The remarks above are confined to the Turkish Alevis, among whom I have spent much of my research time. I have not been at all to the Alevi Kurds, nor is there more than the barest scattering of ethnography published about them. However, it seems from a most suggestive article by Bumke, that they suffer twice over: by being neither ethnically nor religiously part of the

1

Shankland (1993, 1994).

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dominating group Sunni, Turkish group. 1 Many appear to turn to extreme socialism. Certainly, they appear to be the largest refugee community from Turkey in Europe, particularly Britain. In Turkey, along with their Sunni Kurdish counterparts, they appear to be increasingly crammed into ghettoised communities in the outskirts of Istanbul and other large cities, particularly in the south-east, but even reaching as far as Konya more toward the west.

The work of Gellner Though unremarked, there is available a comparative theoretical debate concerning Islamic societies to which this demographic transition is closely relevant. It lies in the work of Ernest Gellner. Over a period of more than thirty years, Gellner developed and published a number of related theories concerning the Islamic world. These publications range from brief notes to the sustained treatment in his book Muslim Society. Together, they represent a highly ambitious effort by a western scholar to understand the sociology of Islam in the twentieth century. Gellner's work has been controversial, and there have been a spate of publications attempting to refute it. Most famously perhaps, Geertz' review, quoted on the cover of the paperback edition of Muslim Society, acclaims it as 'The boldest and most ingenious ... attempt in recent years to present a general account of the fundamental features of social life in the Islamic world'. 2 Yet if the review itself is consulted, it reveals that Geertz was far more ambivalent than this quote suggests. Other critics have attacked the ethnographic basis of Gellner's conclusions: Munson, for example, in an article in Man, which draws also on early sceptics such as Hammoudi. 3 Said, toward the end of Gellner's life, entered into a brisk, sharp though deeply hostile exchange in the Times Literary Supplement. On the other hand, there are supporters too: §erif Mardin, one of the most distinguished of all sociologists working on Turkey, has consistently defended Gellner's work. Wolfgang Kraus, a contemporary Austrian ethnographer researching in Morocco, finds that his fieldwork supports rather than refutes Gellner's, and has recently written an article specifically devoted to defending Gellner's position. 4

1 2 3 4

Bumke (1989). Gellner (1981). Geertz (1982). Hammoudi (1974), Munson (1993). Kraus (1991, 1998).

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I do not seek here to reassess the arguments over his North African material. Nor am I able to treat in anything but the most superficial way the fascinating but complex world of Ottoman history. I do believe however that his model is immensely helpful to our understanding of modern Anatolia: that it explains indeed a great deal of the diverse paths of modernization between the ethnic and religious groups identified above. In spite of this it is only correct to note that not only critics disagreed but the author himself was profoundly unsure of the extent to which the model applied to the Turkish case. 1 This puts me in the slightly awkward position of disagreeing with Gellner on the grounds that he is correct. A certain amount of clarification would appear appropriate. One of the reasons that Gellner's work is important to this article is that he combines the main groups within Islamic countries into a coherent analytical framework in terms of government and opposition. This means that he discusses the rural, the tribal and unorthodox as well as the urban powers at the centre. However, his prose is dense, and a number of arguments can be found throughout his work. I discuss here, in turn, four of his most important contentions, all from the collected set of essays Muslim Society. Contention 1. At one level, Gellner's argument is simple. He begins by suggesting that Islamic societies are usually divided internally between urban, settled populations and tribal 'penumbra' (his term) who are more mobile. He discusses Ibn Khaldoun's cyclic model whereby rulers, softened and corrupted by urban life, are conquered by tribes. The tribes, now in power, themselves weaken and are conquered in turn. He assumes that, at least until the onset of modernisation, this is, broadly, correct (pp. 16-29, 192-3). Contention 2. He suggests that the social base of the rural rebellion lies in the segmentary lineage model. Simply put, this model suggests that lineage groups divide or coalesce along patrilineal lines according to the place or scale of a disagreement. The more important the conflict the more segments will become involved (pp. 29-48, 190-1). If threatened from the outside, the group as a whole may combine together to face the common enemy. At any time, mediators, privileged through being more holy than other lineages, may attempt to bring about a reconciliation between opposing individuals or groups. These holy men may also become leaders in times of rebellion. This is the most controversial part of his work. However, for Gellner (and for the anthropologists who developed the theory), it offers a way to explain how the tribes can organise themselves, and resolve disputes independently of central authority.2

1 'Another objection to the theory ... arises from the very existence of the Ottoman Empire Gellner (1981; 73). 2 Fortes and Evans-Pritchard (1940); Gellner (1969).

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Contention 3. Gellner further suggests that the urban sedentary peoples, subordinate to the power of the state, possess a different style of religious life from those tribal peoples who operate as much as they are able outside its rule. Specifically, that a 'sober, scriptural' version of the faith is applicable to urban culture, and a less codified, rather more extrovert, person-centred version appropriate to the tribal context. He further asserts that this 'inside' or 'outside' the sphere of the state is a crucial divide, one that influences many aspects of social life. It is worth quoting a sample of this part of the argument in full. Referring to the rural, or oppositional groups he writes: Roughly speaking, there are two dominant life-styles. In one of them, your women work in the fields, are not secluded or veiled ... social groups are very well defined and visible, religious life is centred on public festivals in which women play a very definite part, and which reaffirm the identity and boundary of groups. Then, turning to the settled groups under the state's control: By contrast, there is on the other hand a more urban style based on commercial or bureaucratic employment in which womenfolk are secluded, and veiled when they come out ... where groups are more ambiguous and ill-defined, and where ritual life is more sober, rulebound, scripturalist, individualistic, anonymous and has a more marked tendency to exclude women. He ends by comparing the two, with the comment: 'The former style of course produces much less docile subjects of the state than the latter' (p.163). Underlying his argument overall is a firm causal chain: independence from central authority requires mechanisms of dispute resolution, such groups need figures to judge, or at the very least reconcile disputants, and this in turn leads to a particular interpretation of sanctity which privileges and protects those w h o are held to be those mediators. This in turn has implications f o r many other aspects of society including its gender relations. Contention 4. Interwoven throughout is his assumption that this set of arguments only works for the pre-modern period. He asserts that Islam will go through a reformulation as it modernises, particularly that the beneficiary of this transformation will the dominant urban 'style', which is literate and egalitarian (pp. 56-72). He assumes that there will be a reaction against those who claim inherited sanctity, and that the tribal groups will be unable to maintain their independence in the face of vastly increased central state power. Through lack of space, I have had to state only the outline of his argument. In his detailed exposition, he is careful to shade, to allow f o r the complexities of individual and collective life, to acknowledge that no trend is exclusive. However, these are at least the broad bones of his thesis.

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Discussion Gellner's initial thought (Contention 1) that the model does not apply to Ottoman Turkey seems to be correct. Ibn Khaldoun's suggestion that urban decline is an inevitable consequence of governing is refuted by the success of the Ottoman dynasty in holding off tribal, rural rebellions. In spite of this, in Turkey there are peripheral groups who wish to lead their lives as much as possible without the power of the state. In particular, the Kurds (whether Alevi or Sunni) and the Turkish Alevis have founded much of their societies in opposition to central control. Gellner asserts (Contention 2) that societies opposing the state characteristically possess a lineage organization and mediators who can reconcile disputes, yet who may also lead a rebellion. This model is not in favour in anthropology today. 1 Nevertheless, the Kurdish material in Turkey appears to offer an abundance of material to support Gellner's position. To give the simplest example: soon after the Republic was founded, the Kurdish tribal Sunnis in large part combined together, and under the influence of Shaikh Said a leader from a religious lineage, staged a fierce rebellion that took a large part of the Republican army to suppress. 2 Gellner does not appear to be aware of the Alevis, particularly the Turkish, sedentary Alevis, who are more quiescent than his model of rebellion would imply. Nevertheless, they do constitute an interesting variant of his model. They possess mediators who depend on inherited sanctity for their authority, and they do largely organize relationships between mediator and follower via patrilineages. However, in contrast to the Kurdish Sunnis, where fierce exchanges lead to conflict and stand-off among men, among the Turkish Alevis, to be reconciliatory, calm, to turn the other cheek, is given a high positive value, and celebrated in their texts, poetry and ritual as an auspicious, even a holy thing. It is this peaceful mysticism combined with the patrilineal mediation, something that Gellner only knew to operate in the more confrontational tribal environment, that provides them a mechanism of social control in their small, sedentary communities. Gellner's argument that the wider pattern of social life including a religious style, is reflected in whether a group opposes or accepts central authority (Contention 3), is also confirmed when looking at the Turkish ethnography. The Turkish Alevis, for example, do not give great importance 1

One of the most consistent critics has been Kuper, (eg. Kuper 1996). See for instance Zürcher (1994 ;178): "That a sheikh, a religious leader, exerted great political influence was not at all extra-ordinary . . . The leaders of these dervish orders were often called in to decide quarrels between different tribes, and this gave them prestige, connections, and often considerable wealth . . . Sheikh Sait himself was an influential member of the Nakshibendi order." 2

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to praying in a mosque. Whilst they may respect the Kuran deeply, they rarely draw on it for textual exegesis, claiming that God is already present within all people. They quite self-consciously include women in their ritual life. They are fond of music, poetry and dance, which they use in both sacred and secular settings. In contrast, the Turkish Sunnis, their neighbours, largely exclude women from the mosque, place enormous importance on the literal truth of the Kuran, and place the 'five pillars' at the heart of religious fulfilment. Music is firmly excluded from the sacred, and even in some villages, from social life as a whole. More religious men among them may assert that music and dance are sinful or of the devil. As development gradually affects more and more of social life of the communities of Anatolia, as Gellner suggests (Contention 4) it is the sedentary Sunni communities, and their conception of Islam, who are doing the best out of the transition. Their villages expand. Their conception of religious life has come to swamp the Kemalist ethic. For example, out of several strands of mass religious thought, among the most important is that begun by Said Nursi, a Kurdish thinker who was active throughout the early Republic until his death in 1960. Whilst estimates as to the number of followers vary, many suggest two or three million people. This movement rejects the label 'brotherhood', insists on the importance of Koranic learning, claims to have reconciled the contradiction between literal belief and scientific knowledge, appears to have almost no ritual associated with its movement (but meets instead in 'discussion groups'), and regards the attainment of Koranic law, §eriat, as the ultimate stage in the restitution of Islam in Turkey. 1 The recent, highly successful Welfare Party (now named the Fazilet, 'Virtue' Party) is supported in mass by believers many of whom openly deplore women who fail to cover their hair, the laxity of the modern world, the influence of western consumerism (including pop music), and the capitalist economy. 2 In contrast, the Kurdish and the Alevi communities are experiencing profound uncertainties. This hardly needs stressing in the Kurdish case. The Turkish Alevis likewise have had enormous difficulty in transforming their traditional life into the urban. The dispersed, small communities, hierarchy between men, the mystical religious tenets, the close link between dede and talip, the closed religious rituals are an admirable way to maintain social control in an isolated rural society but do not modernise easily. In going through the massive re-orientation that becoming part of the Republic has 1 On contemporary Islam in Turkey see Wagstaff (ed. 1990), Tapper (ed. 1991). On the Nursi, see Mardin (1989) or in Turkish, a good introduction is Beki (1995). 2 On the Welfare Party, see Shankland (1996).

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forced on them, they have not rebelled. Instead, as they move to the cities, they have largely accepted the rule of the Republic state, albeit often with a left-wing tinge. Quite unlike their Sunni counterparts, among many men, literal faith in Islam weakens and is replaced by a preoccupation with Aleviness as a culture rather than as a belief system. 1 As this individual preoccupation grows, the dede lose importance, and the descent groups which are essential to the organization of religion in village life cease to be relevant to their lives. All this suggests that Gellner should be reconsidered in the context of Anatolia. His own uncertainty in that the cycle of rebellion and rule identified so long ago by Ibn Khaldoun does not work for Turkey is largely justified. In other respects, however, his contentions appear to be highly relevant, even to the extent of their being extended and refined through their comparison with the Turkish material. At the very least, the dismissive criticisms that his theories have met with need to be reconsidered and at best, he may provide a focus through which further work might be oriented.

Conclusions In this article, my specific hypothesis is that a new demographic order is appearing in Anatolia: the majority, Sunni Turkish population have succeeded in developing their villages into towns and their towns into cities. The Alevi Turks, and the Kurds (whether Alevi or Sunni) have been less successful in their traditional locations and tend to form diasporas around settlements which are dominated by the Sunni Turkish majority. In addition to this specific claim, this article is a plea: that the transformation of the countryside is profoundly influencing modern Turkey in general, and must be taken into account as we write history. The balance of politics, the formation of the urban, the ideology of those governing, and particularly the form of Islam that is coming to prevail, all these are deeply influenced by the different ways that the different rural populations are making the transition to the modern world. Of the many different approaches that could be taken in an attempt to support this claim, I have used the famous, if still not entirely accepted, research of Gellner. It seems that opposition to central rule is, just as Gellner thought, an absolutely central indicator of subsequent change, though there is more than one way that this opposition can be formulated. 1 The revival of Aleviism as a cultural phenomenon is discussed in more detail in Shankland (1998).

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Of course, I am only a single researcher. I have deliberately stated my argument broadly, in outline so that it may be as clear as possible. There are many different aspects that need to be qualified, shaded and exemplified in future. For example, I do not wish to maintain that all Alevis will leave their villages and move to the towns. I am suggesting that it is a trend, that a very great many are doing so. Just how many this 'great many' may actually comprise can only be established through field research. Such work would be much facilitated if there emerged a genuine discipline of comparative social and geographic studies of Anatolia. This may not be possible, at least until (a perhaps forlorn hope), there is something comparable to the Rhodes Institute that gave such impetus to Social Anthropology in Africa. However, even if the establishment of such a systematic research school is too optimistic to contemplate seriously, this article is intended as a small contribution to the already existing endeavours of those, at present, scattered scholars who are striving to understand the transformation of Anatolia.

Acknowledgements

This article is based on two long sojourns in Turkey: between 1988 and 1990 (during which time I was mainly studying villages), and between 1992 and 1995, when I was based at the British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara. I am extremely grateful to Dr Wolfgang Kraus and Professor Malcolm Wagstaff for their criticisms of earlier drafts. I would also like to thank Professor Chris Hann for his encouragement, and Professor John Davis, whose panel in the Barcelona EASA conference provided the initial stimulation for writing this article.

REFERENCES Andrews, P. (ed.) 1989 Ethnic Groups in the Republic of Turkey, Wiesbaden: Dr Ludwig Reichart Verlag. Beki, M. 1995 Tiirkiye'de Nurculuk (The Nurcu movement in Turkey), Ankara: Yeni Ytizyil Kitapligi. Benedict, P., Tiimertekin, E. and Mansur, F. (eds) 1974 Turkey: Geographic and Social Perspectives, Leiden: Brill. Bumke, P. 1989 'The Kurdish Alevis: boundaries and perceptions', in Andrews (ed); 510-19. Davison, R. 1981 Turkey: a short history, Huntingdon: Eothen Press. Delaney, C. 1991 The Seed and the Soil, California: California University Press.

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Faroqhi, S. 1984 Towns and Townsmen of Ottoman Anatolia: trade, crafts and food production in an urban setting, 1520-1650, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fortes, M. and Evans-Pritchard, E. (eds.) 1940 African Political Systems, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Geertz, C. 1982 Review of Gellner's Muslim Society, in the New York Review of Books, 27 May; 25-27. Gellner, E. 1969 Saints of the Atlas, London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson. Gellner, E. 1981 Muslim Society, Cambridge; Cambridge University Press. Gokalp, A. 1986 'Espace Rural, Village, Ruralité: à la recherche du paysan Anatolien', in A. Gokalp (ed.), La Turquie en Transition, disparités, identités, pouvoirs, Paris: Maisonneuve Larose; 49-82. Hammoudi, A. 1974 'Segmentarité, stratification sociale, pouvoir politique et sainteté: reflexions sur les thèses de Gellner', Hesperis, Vol.15; 147-80. Hann, C. 1990 Tea and the Domestication of the Turkish State, Huntingdon; Eothen Press. Hann, C. (ed.) 1994 When History Accelerates: essays on Rapid Social Change, Complexity and Creativity, London: Athlone Press Kazamias, A. 1966 Education and the Quest for Modernity in Turkey, London; George Allen & Unwin. Kraus, W. 1991 Die Ayt Hdiddi: Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft im zentralen Hohen Atlas: ein Beitrag zur Diskussion segmentarer Systeme in Marokko. Wien: Verlag der Ostrreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Kraus, W. 1998 'Contestable Identities: tribal structures in the Moroccan High Atlas' in Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, Vol.4, No.l; 122. Kuper, A. 1996 Anthropology and Anthropologists, 3rd ed. London: Routledge. Lerner, D. 1958 The Passing of Traditional Society, GÌ eneo: Free Press. Lewis, B. 1961 The Emergence of Modern Turkey, London: Royal Institute of International Affairs. Lewis, G. 1964 Turkey, London: Ernest Benn. Mardin, §. 1989 Religion and Social Change in Modern Turkey: The Case of Bediuzzaman Said Nursi, New York: State University of New York. Munson, H. 1993 'Rethinking Gellner's segmentary analysis of Morocco's Ait "Atta'", in Man, Vol. 28, No. 2; 267-80. Shankland, D. 1992 'Diverse paths of change: Alevi and Sunni in rural Turkey', PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Cambridge. Shankland, D. 1993 'Diverse Paths of Change: Alevi and Sunni in rural Anatolia', in Stirling (ed.); 46-64. Shankland, D. 1994 'Social Change and Culture: Responses to Modernisation in an Alevi Village in Anatolia' in Hann (ed.); 238-254. Shankland, D. 1996 'The Demise of Republican Turkey's Social Contract'?, in Government and Opposition, Vol. 31, No. 3; 304-31.

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Shankland, D. 1997 'Nationality, Ethnicity and Religion in the Republic of Turkey' in F. Tsibiridou (ed.) The Transition to Modernity, Komotini: Universite Democrite de Thrace; 91-104. Shankland, D. 1988 'Anthropology and Ethnicity: the place of ethnography in the new Alevi movement', in T. Olsson, E. Özdalga and C. Raudvere (eds.), Alevi Identity: Cultural, Religious and Social Perspectives, Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul, Transactions, Vol. 8 (distributed by Curzon Press, London); 15-22. Shaw, S. 1977 History of the Ottoman Empire and Modern Turkey: Vol 2, Reform, revolution and republic: the rise of modern Turkey, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sirman, N. 1988 'Peasants and Family Farms: the Position of Households in Cotton Production in a village of Western Turkey', unpublished PhD thesis, University of London. Sirman, N. 1990 'State, Village and Gender in Western Turkey', in Finkel and Sirman (eds.) Turkish State, Turkish Society, London: Routledge; 21-51. Sirman, N. 1996 'From Economic Integration to Cultural Strategies of Power: The Study of Rural Change in Turkey', in New Perspectives on Turkey, Vol. 14; 115-125. Starr, J. 1992 Law as Metaphor, New York: State University of New York Press. Stirling P. 1964 Turkish Village, London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson. Stirling, P. 'Cause, knowledge and change: Turkish village revisited', in J. Davis (ed.), Choice and Change: Essays in Honour of Lucy Mair (London: Athlone, 1974); 191-229. Stirling, P. 1984 'Social Change and Social Control in Republican Turkey', in Papers and Discussions: Türkiye ̧ Bankasi International Symposium on Atatürk, Ankara: Cultural Publications, Türkiye: Bankasi; 565-600. Stirling, P. 1988 'Labour Migration and Changes in Anatolia', 'Edited version of paper delivered to the Conference on Mediterranean Migrations held at Al Hacaima ... 11th-14th July 1988'. Stirling, P. (ed.) 1993 Culture and Economy: Changes in Turkish Villages, Huntingdon: Eothen Press. Stirling, P. 1993 'Introduction: Growth and Changes: Speed, Scale, Complexity' in Stirling (ed.); 1-16. Stokes, M. 1992 The Arabesk Debate: Music and Musicians, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Tapper, R. (ed.) 1991 Islam in Modern Turkey, London; Tauris. Van Bruinessen, B. 1992 Agha, Shaikh, and State, London: Zed Books. Wagstaff, M. (ed.) 1990 Aspects of Islam in Secular Turkey (Durham: Centre for Middle Eastern Studies. Zürcher, E. 1994 Turkey, A Modern History London: I.E. Tauris.

5. SOCIAL CHANGE AND CULTURE: RESPONSES TO MODERNIZATION IN AN ALEVI VILLAGE IN ANATOLIA

The aim of this article is to offer a contrasting analysis of social change in Alevi and Sunni village communities in Anatolia. In order to do so, it avails itself greatly of the work of the late Professor Paul Stirling. Stirling's work is perhaps particularly appropriate for such a contrasting study in that the length of his research is quite unparalleled in Turkish ethnographic work. He conducted his first study in 1949, living in a village near Kayseri. 1 This was the basis of his doctoral thesis, of a number of articles.2 Conditions then were often difficult; the winter that he spent in the village was ferocious. The village had no tarmacked road and the track that it had was often blocked by snow.3 Running water and electricity had not yet been installed.4 I too have conducted fieldwork in Anatolia, living in one rural community for a period of a year between 1988 and 1990.5 Unlike Stirling, the conditions that I experienced were not difficult. The villagers allowed me to use a house built by a migrant worker from the village, a man who now works in Germany. The whole village had running water and an electricity supply that was intermittent but generally enough for radio, television and light. The road, though not then tarmacked, was passable for motor transport for all but one or two days of the year. There was a health centre ( s a g l i k e v i ) from which, on the rare occasions that I became unwell, they gave me medicine. The villagers often explained how recently these amenities had come to their lives. Running water, electricity and the health centre only arrived in the early 1980s. The road was built in the early 1970s. More striking were the stories older men told when they reminisced of changes which had taken place since their youth. They remembered the village before tea became available; before about 1950, they had drunk water or yayla gorbasi, a soup made with rice and yoghurt. They often added that 'in those days' there was intense pressure on resources, much more so than today. They told a grim anecdote 1

Stirling (1951). Stirling (1957; 1958a; 1958b; 1960 and 1964) and the monograph Turkish Village (1965). 3 Stirling (1965; 16,24). 4 For further information on Stirling's research, see an interview he conducted shortly before his death (Shankland, 1999b), reprinted as Chapter 15 in this volume. 2

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which testifies to this, of a man who sent his water buffalo out to graze one day. When it returned in the evening, the man found that it had a large, neat square cut out of its flank, from which some one, presumably, intended to make themselves a pair of shoes. The great changes that the village has seen are referred to in this article, and by the villagers themselves, as 'modernization' (modernle§me) or 'development' (geligme) but it is difficult to verify the causal relationships between the micro-changes that these general terms conceal or the accuracy of the historical data that I have so far collected. For example, drawing conclusions from conversations with the villagers, I believe that migration has led to a decrease in population, that the fall in population has lessened pressure on resources and that the decreased pressure on resources has led in turn to a decrease in conflict between people. There is some evidence for this: during my stay many fields lay untilled, there was ample grazing for all. I witnessed no serious dispute over land or water rights. But in the absence of records, I can only speculate, uncertain even of the existence of the conflictridden past the villagers describe so vividly. At these times I feel the guilt and frustration, perhaps typical, of an anthropologist trained in the empirical, Malinowskian tradition. Stirling side-steps this problem in a most practical and enviable way. He has seen history and can compare the villagers' descriptions of their past with his own original ethnography. After his first revisit to the village in 1970, twenty years after his initial work, this long historical perspective prompted him to publish an article in which he presented an intricate flow diagram summing up the changes he witnessed.1 The series of micro-changes identified by-Stirling is in many ways applicable to the village, Susesi, in which I worked and it provides a reassuring framework for me to assess my own more scattered data. For instance, Stirling traces the ways that new sources of wealth may alter the social structure: having migrated, some of those who were poor become much more powerful because of their new-found wealth and contacts with the outside world. My landlord, Ahmet, used to be one of the poorest men in Susesi. His wife, who is also from the village, was born into the lineage that had traditionally supplied the village imam. This lineage was both greatly respected and rich in fields. In the late 1970s, his future wife, with whom he had an understanding, was living in Germany and he in the village. They decided when she came back on leave one summer that the time had come to marry. Opposition to the match from her relatives in the village was so great that she sought the help of her elder brother, who was a teacher 1

Stirling (1974).

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living in Istanbul. He liked Ahmet and in any case was not on very good terms with the older relatives still in the village, so he helped her by allowing her to marry from his house in Istanbul. The couple returned to Germany. There, Ahmet became a successful skilled worker. After some years had passed, he returned to the village in a Mercedes and commissioned the house in which I came to live. He has also bought a property in Istanbul. His social status has risen accordingly, so much so that they refer to him, albeit jokingly, as an aga, a great or powerful man. Those of his wife's lineage who opposed the marriage have done much less well. They no longer provide the imam to the mosque. That function has been taken over by a state employee stationed from outside. Many members of the lineage have left for Istanbul, but few have found jobs. Though similar in these and many other ways, in certain aspects the village I have studied differs greatly from Stirling's Sakaltutan. I cannot provide the same depth, nor, as yet, do I have detailed empirical evidence of the sort he has amassed. In spite of these handicaps, I believe that it is possible to identify the main ways in which the villages we studied differ. There are several reasons why this is important. First, Stirling's quiet authority and the quality of his work, has caused his village to be widely considered as typical of social change in Anatolia. Indeed, the title of his monograph, Turkish Village, named as if it were the only Turkish village, encourages this authority in spite of the disclaimer with which the book opens. Second, the village in which Stirling lived was Sunni. That in which I lived was Alevi. The Sunni are the orthodox majority. The Alevi are a mystical, moderate sect. Though it is difficult to be certain of exact numbers, they comprise a substantial minority, I surmise perhaps up to 15 per cent, of Turkey's population. 1 Though it is difficult to be clear about which characteristics may definitely-attributed to membership of either religious group, I believe that there is often a clear difference between the paths of change taken by the Alevi and Sunni villages as they modernize. If this is the case, a comparison between the villages we have studied is highly significant,

The question of the absolute number of Alevis in Turkey is extremely difficult, because there are so many claims and counter-claims. Based partly on my detailed research of one particular area and partly on general (though of course much more limited) experience of Turkey as a whole, my own thought is that the vast majority of popular claims, which may suggest that the Alevis are up to 30 per cent of Turkey's population, are exaggerated. It is perhaps overlooked that there are great regions of Turkey where there are no Alevis at all, such as Konya, or very few, such as the provinces on the Black Sea coast, which would more than make up for other areas (such as Amasya for example) where they are more numerous. Of course, until a reliable survey has been conducted, all such claims (included my own) will remain unsubstantiated. However, it should be recalled that such is the absolute size of Turkey's population (in the region of 60 millions), even if the figure does turn out to be nearer 15 per cent, that would still mean that there are nine million Alevis in the Republic, a mass easily large enough to be of highly significant social and political importance.

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not only for an understanding of the social change that is occurring in contemporary Anatolia but also (albeit in highly preliminary fashion) for our wider understanding of the different ways that distinct Islamic traditions may become a part of the modern world. 1

A Preliminary Village Model Both Sunni and Alevi villagers live in patrilineal patrilocal households clustered together so as to form nucleated settlements. 2 The land is fairly evenly distributed among the households in both villages. 3 Neither village has a special or distinctive, crop, but both plant mainly wheat and a little barley. 4 The soil in both is poor, with yields of no more than about 1:3 before using fertilizers, often much less. 5 Ethnically, the people of both villages are Turkish. Neither village rejects the Republican Government's rule: they are not radical or revolutionary in political outlook. The people of both villages are anxious to obtain health facilities, education, consumer goods and modern communications: that is, to avail themselves of the benefits of modernization. Turning briefly to the differences: Stirling ends his first restudy by considering those aspects of village life that appear to have changed least: The society is still the same society. The villagers in each village are still the same people (or their children and grandchildren) with a recognisably stable system of social relationships and of social values and assumptions. ... the village remains committed not only to Islam but to its own particular interpretation of Islam ... far from declining, formal religion is booming. Increased village economic resources are spent on mosques: societies for the religious education of children flourish and increase ... Religious dogma and practice are still absolute and eternal. .. f*

Extrapolating slightly (though I think legitimately) from Stirling's article, I think that lying behind this final section is the idea that, whatever the conflicts, disagreements and divisions that Sakaltutan may have suffered while modernizing (and much of the article is concerned with development's disruptive influence), the villagers have absorbed many of the problems

1 2 3 4 5 6

This point is considered in further preliminary fashion in Shankland (1999a). Stirling (1965; 25), Shankland (1993a; 73). Stirling (1965; 51-3), Shankland (1993a; 78). Stirling (1965; 44), Shankland (1993a; 84). Stirling (1965; 44), Shankland (1993a; 3). Stirling (1974; 228-29).

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associated with such rapid social change without any drastic alterations to core elements of their religious beliefs, sense of community or social structure.1 The Alevis with whom I lived have had quite different experiences. Their religious life, their traditional social structure and their sense of what it means to be part of a village unit are subject to conflict and transformation. Exactly those elements where Stirling finds the most continuity in a Sunni village are, in the Alevi villages which I studied, the most unstable. This instability may contribute toward a great lessening in population in many Alevi villages, perhaps even to some emptying entirely, as their inhabitants appear to migrate rapidly to large urban conurbations such as Istanbul and Ankara. In a previous article, I linked diverse changes among Alevis and Sunnis to differences in their traditional social organization.2 Based on the original ethnography collected by Stirling and on my own recent experiences, my suggestion was that the traditional Sunni Anatolian village, though not necessarily those in other parts of Turkey, consists of one nuclear settlement whose households farm, land which they also own. 3 As the villagers become more closely integrated into the modern Turkish state, this community continues to be the basis for local administration: the state labels them officially a 'village', respects their traditional land ownership patterns 4 and installs new services over which all villagers have equal rights. The state's etic view of the community largely matches the emic view of the villagers themselves. 5 I argued also that the comparative stability of the Sunni social structure identified by Stirling can in part be attributed to the non-prescriptive nature of their social organization: all men are regarded in principle as being equal, none have a special rank or authority conferred all upon them by birth. There are neither judges nor tribunals indigenous to the community. 6 Great changes in authority and rank can therefore be absorbed without a traumatic effect on any traditional means of maintaining the social order. I further suggested that religious practice in a Sunni village is, perhaps paradoxically, facilitated by greater contact with the present-day Republican, secular state. The villagers studied by Stirling appear never to have been greatly interested in Islamic law, §eriat, so they were little discomforted by the Swiss civil code introduced to the courts by the Kemalist reforms. 7 They 1

Sirman (1988; 384), Sirman (1990).

2

Shankland (1993b). Stirling (1965); cf. Sirman (1988; 26-27).

3 4

Sirman (1988; 248-49).

5

Tug (1975; 3-4). Stirling (1965: 149).

6 7

Stirling (1965; 273-4), Starr (1992).

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are, however, interested in following the 'five pillars' of Islam and in the body of moral ideals, ahlak, which they associate with religious practice. The state is able to help them with these. It can, and does, organize the hac (haj), the pilgrimage to Mecca. It teaches the Kuran by appointing Kuran-course teachers. It has made ahlak lessons compulsory in all state schools. Stateapproved imams are appointed to all village mosques. These imams not only teach the villagers how to pray, but also officiate at funeral ceremonies and marriages, ensuring that they are conducted in a manner appropriate to an orthodox Islamic believer. Finally, I argue, as have others, that religious and national identity have become deeply entangled in modern Turkey: as the Sunni villagers become conscious of being citizens of a modern nation, they express such membership in part through an increasing sense of being Turkish and in part by wishing to live in an avowedly Islamic country. That is, their sense of national identity embraces both being Turkish and being Islamic.1

An Alevi Village Model Nearly all these things are different in the Alevi village I studied and others in its immediate vicinity. A village invariably consists of more than one village quarter, or mahalle: Susesi has seven mahalles, each nucleated, none containing more than fifty households. Each mahalle substantially follows its own rotation cycle and possesses its own collective pasture. All but two have their own bath house, yunak (the other two mahalle share one). All but one have a copse, koru, from which they fetch firewood. Ekmek, the village immediately above Susesi, possesses ten such mahalles. The smallest number I came across in any Alevi village was two, the greatest twenty-five. Here, emic and etic do not correspond. Roads, school, electricity and health centre are all given to the villagers to share as a whole, but the traditional farming methods of the villagers and the reciprocal ties that bind them together are largely based in the smaller mahalle unit, each with its distinct set of ownership rights and obligations. There is a profound disjunction between the basic Alevi community and that of which the state defines them a part. Moreover, Alevis are not all born equal. Alevi society has three distinct ranks, in the region where I worked, they are in descending order efendi, dede, and talip.2 These ranks are distributed on the basis of the patrilineage (sulale) into which people are born. Alevi lineages are usually shallow: they rarely 1 Stirling (1958a), Lewis (1957), Mardin (1971) and Hann (1990). ^ The terminology varies slightly in different parts of Anatolia. Bumke (1989), Gokalp (1960, 1989), Melikoff (1975) and Yal9in (1969) provide accounts of life in Alevi villages. Allowing for these differences in nomenclature, they appear to support the ethnography that I offer here.

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have more than fifty households and often far fewer. In Susesi, three are termed dede (literally 'grandfather') lineages. Many households have migrated but about thirty of the hundred households remaining in Susesi are regarded as being part of these dede lineages. All but two of the eight neighbouring Alevi villages also possess dede lineages. No single founding figure is held to be the ancestor of all the dedes but dedes may trace patrilineal ties with certain other local dede lineages, thus forming a network of holy lineages linked by descent. Only very rarely do non-dede lineages trace such lateral descent ties. 1 All lineages, whether dede or not, are held to be subordinate to a particular dede lineage. Villagers refer to the subordinate lineage as 'talip', follower. A talip lineage is never beholden to more than one dede lineage. A dede lineage, however, may have many talip lineages. The most renowned dede lineage in Susesi has talips in many local villages perhaps encompassing forty lineages in total. All the Alevis of the area in which I worked, whether dedes or not, regard themselves as affiliated to the Bekta§i brotherhood or tarikat. Many go as far as to say that there is no difference between Alevi and Bekta§i teachings. 2 Their prayers and songs often celebrate Haci Bekta§ Veli, saying that he is their pir, saint. They venerate a number of men as being the descendants of Haci Bekta§, Veli himself whom they refer to as 'efendis,'. Though there are no efendis living near Susesi (most live near the tekke of Haci Bekta§, at the town of that name in the province of Nevgehir) they come once or twice a year to Susesi to collect modest dues and to answer questions on religious doctrine. The villagers say that dede/talip links stem from the decree of Haci Bektag, himself and can only be changed if the dede commits a grave fault, or neglects to pay regular visits to his talips. Ideally, the leaders of the Alevis are the 'efendis', the true descendants of Haci Bekta§. However, as they live far from the village and come rarely, in practice their duties fall to the dedes, who are accepted as being their local representatives, rehbers, (literally 'guides'). Often, dede lineages claim also a certain independent degree of sanctity. For example, one lineage claims that it is descended from the famous mystic Ibn Arabi. Another says that it is descended from a follower of Ahmet Yesevi's Sufi school in Horassan. 3 Lineages may also claim that they are bestowed with keramet, the ability, given by God, to perform miracles. 4 The dede's duties are usually summed up as to 'enlighten', aydinlatma, according to the teachings of the Alevi/Haci

1 2 3 4

Gellner (1969). Birge (1937; 211). Birge (1937; 31). Cf. van Bruinessen (1992: 212, Gilsenan, 1973).

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Bekta§ way. This embraces both spiritual and temporal authority: only dedes, are permitted to pronounce Alevi prayers or to lead Alevi ceremonies and, within the overall framework of the religious ideology, they are given the authority to mediate in disputes.1 These two roles are closely intertwined. The principal religious ceremony of the Alevis is the cent. At the time that I researched, in the village there was no special building where a cent might be held: it took place rather in the largest room of a house. One couple, a man and a woman, should attend from every household of the mahalle. Worship is not permitted unless all present are at peace with each other. Accordingly, before the ceremony begins, the presiding dede asks whether there is any disagreement. If there are people who have a quarrel with each other, they must come forward to the centre, known as 'Ali's space', Ali'nin meydani. As they kneel, the dede questions them on their conduct. If others wish to speak, they may do so and there may be sustained and heated discussion.2 After due reflection, the dede suggests an appropriate redress. His solution must be approved by all who are present, otherwise the problem is not regarded as settled. Thus, the Alevi village possesses a number of characteristics not present in the Sunni village described by Stirling. The Alevis have a powerful hierarchy supported by tradition in many interlocking ways, which is used to regulate disputes between people and to teach the fundamentals of Alevi religion. Unlike the Sunni, they are spread out in discrete small units within the village. The state supports both the inculcation of Turkish consciousness and the Sunni village conception of orthodox Islam. 3 The Alevis are proud of being Turkish, but their religion is quiescent, unorthodox, tinged with mysticism in many ways and not recognised by the state.4 There is thus a continual disjunction between Alevi beliefs and the religious teachings of the state.5 Today, given the explicit fashion in which the state supports Sunni Islam 6 some Alevis claim that they have been betrayed by the Republican Government. They claim that it has reneged on Atatiirk's original secularism, one of the most importance functions of which 1

Evans-Pritchard (1949), Lewis (1961) and Gellner (1969). Shankland (1993b: 57-8). 3 According to fifteen official charts, published in spring 1992 by the Diyanet i§leri Ba§kanhgi (Directorate of Religious Affairs) between 1979 and 1989 the number of Kuran courses went up from 2,610 to 4,715, the number of children, attending them from 68,406 to 105,403 and the number of people going on the hac went up from 10,805 to 92,006. I am most grateful to Susannah Pickering for drawing these charts to my attention. 4 For example, the head of the Directorate of Religious Affairs is reported by the Turkish Daily News of the 7 January 1994 as saying 'Alawism (Alevi'ism) is not a religion. Nor is it a sect of Islam. Alawism is a culture complete with its own folklore' (TDN, 7 January 1994, p. A2). 5 Pehlivan (1993). 6 Lewis (1988), Tapper (1991; 10), Pickering (1989), and Ahmad (1993). 2

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was, according to them, to protect them from Sunni pressure. Certainly, in spite of the unobtrusive way in which the Alevis practise their religion, it is clear that the Sunni villagers in the sub-province where I worked are aware that there are great differences between their forms of worship. They are often deeply suspicious of the Alevis and sometimes abusive about their cem ceremonies.1 Fear of the power of the state and of the disapprobation of orthodox believers, is not a new problem. The Alevis often recall the persecutions which they suffered under Ottoman rule. 2 What is new, however, is the dilemma that is forced on the Alevis by their desire to become part of contemporary Turkish society. To become modem citizens, they have to face outward rather than inward: they have to orientate themselves through the state-approved unit, the village, rather than the mahalle. They have to reconcile or accommodate literal belief in their traditions with the ideology of the modern Turkish state. Above all they have to accept the right of the state, through its many agencies, to rule over much of their lives. Individuals react in different ways to the problems posed by these dilemmas. To analyse changes in other peoples' beliefs is difficult. I am acutely conscious that people's positions shift over time and that a person may hold more than one, often conflicting, approach to the world. The schema I propose may have to be revised, or at least widened, as my research continues. With this proviso I would suggest that there are three broad positions which Alevi men can hold. 3 The first, and most common, is to give up literal belief in the sanctity of the dedes and turn exclusively to Kemalism. The second is to accommodate belief, often uneasy, in the dedes, supporting them where they can and, at the same time, offer loyal albeit pragmatic obedience to the laws of the Republic when necessary. These men often vote for parties associated with Kemalism on the national level, but they have not internalized its philosophy sufficiently to wish to oppose their dedes in a very active or aggressive way at the local level. Third, and least common, a person may seek to turn more towards mosque worship and the five pillars of Islam. The political position of these men is much less clear. These different perspectives in turn lead to groups that coalesce around different positions of power in the village social order. To demonstrate how this may come about, it is first necessary to turn to the village cosmology and to the way that it has adapted to the outside world of the state and Sunni Islam. 1

Yalman (1969). Cf. Birge (1937; 66-69). a I say men deliberately. I do not have sufficient knowledge of Alevi women to include them in a schema. I suspect that, on balance, they are more inclined to literal belief in Alevi customs than men. 2

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Tarikat and §eriat The villagers distinguish between two jural spheres, 'tarikaf and 'geriat', each with its associated religious practice. Tarikat implies the inner core of the community, that to which strangers are not welcomed and where the villagers' own rules obtain. §eriat implies that area of life governed by the state and the Sunni Islam that is associated with it. This separation is found also in other studies of Islamic societies.1 However, in this case at least, it is not entirely straightforward. The Alevi way of life does not make an absolute opposition between '§eriat' and 'tarikat'. Rather, using the idea of four 'doors' or 'ways' to God, it fits them into a complex, flexible framework whose ambiguities can be exploited both to refer to whole groups of people and also to a person's individual religious development. The four doors are §eriat, tarikat, marifet and hakikat.2 They may use §eriat to refer to the domain controlled by the state. They may also mean it to imply the way of life and practice of Islam typical of a Sunni village. They may also mean that part of Islamic doctrine that remains on the surface, available for all people to practise if they wish, but only the first stage toward God. Equally, by tarikat they may imply the inner life of their village, subordination to a dede and worship at collective cent ceremonies. They also mean the stage at which a person has come to understand that reality must be sought by looking for meaning under the surface of things. Marifet, literally, 'knowledge', appears to have no independent significance other than being a possible, and necessary, stage towards God. Hakikat implies being at one with God: a stage at which the normal constraints of the physical world disappear and miracles are the norm. Villagers refer to people who have reached this stage as 'developed ones', erenler. Haci Bekta§ had reached this stage and, ideally, so have dede lineages. Villagers stress that, even though most Alevis take the tarikat path, tarikat yolu, Islam in fact encompasses all four of these doors, which form a progression available to all people. Thus a person, even if Alevi, may choose to follow the religious prescriptions of the first, §eriat, stage as a preparation for the others. This willingness to acknowledge §eriat rather than entirely to reject it is evident in Susesi and in all the Alevi villages I visited. It is particularly clear in the positions available for men to fill. Whereas those who are responsible for the tarikat way are dede and the practice of being a dede is known as dedelik, those who are interested in the §eriat way are called hoca and the corresponding practice hocalik. 1 2

Gellner (1969). Birge (1937: 102-09), Schimmel (1975; 340).

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The villagers distinguish sharply between these two roles. Only a person born a dede can become one and the prayers that they pronounce are nearly always in Turkish. Any man who wishes may become a hoca and his prayers are nearly always in Arabic. Sometimes a hoca may be used as a substitute dede, for example to say grace at a meal after people have eaten. They have additional specialized functions: a hoca reads the nikah before the consummation of a marriage and it is a hoca who leads the burial service cenaze and intones hymns, ilahi, over the body as it is laid to earth. The relationship between the practice of §eriat and tarikat is profoundly uneasy. In Susesi, for example, there is a village mosque, the very epitome of §eriat. Its imam is Sunni, appointed by the state. The villagers are scrupulously and genuinely friendly towards him. They have given him a field to plough free of charge and a donkey to fetch firewood. On the other hand, many Alevis express a deep dislike of mosques, saying that whenever the Alevis are attacked by Sunni fanatics, it is after the Friday prayers, when they have been incited by the mosque imam. This ambivalence extends also to the secular authority of the state. Men are deeply suspicious of the motives of the state and often question the validity of its laws. They are proud of the techniques that Alevi villages possess to resolve their own quarrels and compare this with the Sunni predilection for recourse to the state courts. At the same time, they are careful to show respect to state officials. This respect is quite genuine: one of the most desired careers in the village is that of memur, civil servant, ideally a schoolteacher or nurse. When a man who had left the village when he was a boy became a mayor in an important Istanbul municipality, he assumed enormous weight in their community. They extend this respect to the village head, muhtar, whom they are required to elect from their number and who is the officially recognized channel for the state's interaction with the village. Indeed, in all the Alevi villages where I worked, they have now or have had in recent memory, extremely powerful, longserving headmen who often achieved something very-close to dominant rule over the community. This appears to be quite different from the situation where Stirling worked, where to be muhtar gives a person no particular power and the position is little sought after. 1 Overall, then, in spite of the great authority that the Alevi religious mores would appear to award the dede hierarchy, there at least three distinct structural positions in the society from which men may build a position of power: dede, hoca and muhtar. Of these, in the villages I know, that of muhtar is the most powerful. Of course, men also use all the other devices at their command to achieve power; cunning, wit, deceit, wealth, land, 1

Stirling (1965), cf. Hann (1990; 22).

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knowledge of the outside world, political contacts, age, force and, if necessary, brutality; but these are the three most significant structural routes available in the current village social order.

Some Examples Above, I outlined three distinct positions which men commonly assume: scepticism linked with Kemalism; belief, to varying degrees, in the dedes and increased inclination to a Sunni form of Islam. Each of the Alevi villages of the area in which I worked illustrated a different combination of these ideological and structural positions. I turn now to some examples. Ekmek, the village just above Susesi, has ten mahalles. One of these consisted entirely of dedes but they had little temporal power. Just as I began my fieldwork, a muhtar of fifteen years standing, who lived in a mahalle where there were no dedes, was about to step down. Now an elderly man, in his youth he had left the village to work as a civil servant and then, on his retirement, returned. He was a deeply religious man in the Sunni sense, inclined to follow the five pillars of Islam rigorously. Unlike most Alevis, who have no taboo on drinking alcohol, he eschewed drink, he hoped to go on the hac to Mecca as soon as he could obtain sufficient funds. His house, which was large, was built next to the village mosque. The villagers explained his religiosity by saying that his paternal grandfather was a Sunni who had come to the village as a young man to attempt to convert them. Failing in this, he had himself become Alevi and his descendants had remained attached to the village. Whatever the roots of his religious feeling, the muhtar created much of his access to the outside world through contacts facilitated by his religious orientation. In the sub-province centre, which is predominantly Sunni, he had a reputation as being a pious and honest man. In the village, he insisted that all men should come to the Friday prayers. He encouraged them by holding meetings to decide village business on the steps of the mosque just after the prayers and by holding court in his house afterwards to hear any petitioners. The dedes of this village were too weak to oppose the muhtar directly. Instead, during my time in the area, they had formed an alliance with their neighbouring mahalle, which was not at all inclined towards the form of religion favoured by the then muhtar. Indeed, this mahalle provided many of the musicians for local weddings and is almost entirely left-wing in the sense of being committed Republican and inclined to socialism in a mild way. Together, these two mahalles campaigned in the sub-province centre to be

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made a village in their own right, but they had not succeeded by the time I left the area. In another local Alevi village, the pattern is quite different. This village is much larger, consisting of eighteen mahalles spread out in an enormous circle along the rim of a large depression in the hills. The elected mayor of the village ('mayor' because the village has municipality, belediye, status due to its size) is himself descended from a dede lineage. He has built himself an attractive split-level house in the centre of the hills, equidistant from most of the village mahalles. His father, who is the senior practising dede of the lineage, was for two decades the manager of the village co-operative bank and mayor before him. In this village, there appears to be no significant orthodox religious opposition to the dede, indeed they appear to support attendance at the village mosque. Rather, the dede's opponents are almost entirely leftwingers, solcular, more forceful than those in Ekmek, who claim that the village is being dominated by a feudal lineage that should be driven from the community. The quarrel was even worse during the 1970s: the villagers say that then the left-wing, anti-dede sympathizers were so strong that the present mayor's father lost office in a heated election and the family had to leave the village. They only came back after the 1980 coup, when they could be assured of the protective support of the jandarma. Indeed, the strength of the leftists was broken by the crackdown that followed that coup.1 Even now in 2001, more than ten years after my initial research took place, the dispute continues, though his son remains in office, having been re-elected as mayor. In Susesi, the combination is different again. Even by the standards of Alevi villages, the muhtar was exceptionally strong. Though he has now migrated, at the beginning of my fieldwork, he had been in power for fifteen years. During the early 1970s, he was a youth member of the Republican People's Party, the party created by Atatiirk. He is fond of music and drink. His hospitality is famous still throughout the sub-province. When dignitaries came to the village, he entertained them with gusto. He spent many of his days in the sub-province centre, drinking with figures of all political persuasions. He accompanied members of the village to the government offices in the centre when they needed to appear in front of the judge or the governor. He spoke for the village with rigour when it was visited by the jandarma. The muhtar himself, in a conversation with me, attributed his success to two years in jail as a youth, followed by two years' military service in the east, so that when he returned to the village be was afraid neither of the outside world nor of other men.

1

Ahmad (1993; Ch. 9).

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It is clear, though, that he did not acquire his dominance without first overcoming the factions that opposed him. When he first came to power, hocagil, the lineage that would not consent to my landlord's marriage, still provided the imam to the mosque. When the incumbent imam died, the muhtar seized the opportunity to rid himself of the indigenous hoca lineage by requesting that the state provide an official imam to the village mosque. When the imam arrived, the muhtar gave him a house next to his own, the better to watch over him. The muhtar also used his ability to influence officials in the centre in an attempt to ensure that the imam supplied to the village remained ineffectual. This plan worked. The imam during my fieldwork was young, not very bright and showed great respect for the muhtar. The struggle that the muhtar pursued against the dedes is more complicated and lasted for a much longer period. He created ties with them by marrying the daughter of one of the most respected dede in the village. Yet, from the early 1970s onwards he systematically opposed any attempt that they made to impose their temporal authority on to the village. One of the planks on which he bases his position is utter scepticism concerning the dedes' claim to be holy, or to have some mystical power. For example, he told me that, accompanied by some friends of his generation, he had dug up the grave of a supposed saint and found nothing but a horse's skeleton. On another occasion, he told me that there was a tree, in one of his fields, supposed to be sacred, across whose shadow he was not supposed to plough. In spite of warning from the dedes that he should not touch it, he cut it down. 'They said', he added, 'that lightning would come out of the sky to strike me down, but nothing happened'.

Conclusions In this chapter, I have explored some of the changes and conflicts of power taking place in contemporary Alevi communities. For the most part, I have been able to experience such power struggles in only one phase of their often very long sequences. However, I think that even this brief discussion shows that the Alevi villages are characterized by quite different sorts of social change from those observed by Stirling. In the Alevi villages, the traditional social structure, religion and community are all key areas of debate and conflict in a way that contrasts sharply with the Sunni village example. We do not as yet have any equivalent to Stirling's corpus for an Alevi village; but his example has opened a trail that others can now follow in trying to provide comparable accounts. I believe that such initiatives are particularly necessary at the present time. Partly, this belief is based on the

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consideration that, at the moment, from the point of view of social anthropology, we still have insufficient material to offer other than the most basic of comparative overviews of the immense variety of life in rural Anatolia. Thus, I have no way of being sure whether the argument I offer, based on my limited experience, is reflected in other areas of Anatolia. I believe that it is. There are indications in the literature that Alevi villages are suffering difficulties, 1 and this supposition is certainly supported by discussions over a number a years with a variety of people, but this is hardly an adequate replacement for a fuller ethnographic picture. More urgently, however, Alevi migration appears to be continuing with particular speed. This rise in the Alevi urban population, as has often been remarked, is accompanied by a rapid expansion in publications concerning the Alevis. 2 These, while often of the greatest interest, nevertheless for the most part pay very little attention to the rural ethnography of these communities, concentrating rather on wider expressions of Alevi culture, or religion. Nevertheless, in doing so, they do make substantive claims, claims to do with population, history (even recent history), traditional Alevi religion or ritual, their relations with the state or with Sunni villages. All these can only really be adequately accepted if they have been substantiated by a degree of intensive fieldwork that, given the enormous size of Anatolia, has only really just begun. 3 Even if we cannot now surpass the initial work begun by Stirling more than fifty years ago, it is not too late to note his careful lead and the absolutely essential place that research in the field has when making wider, empirical claims about a way of life pursued by others. Only then, will we be able to make reasoned, properly contextualized evaluations of the Alevi 'revival', which is likely to become an increasingly prominent part of life in the Turkish Republic over the coming decades.

REFERENCES Ahmad. F. 1977 The Turkish Experiment in Democracy, London: Hurst (for the Royal Institute of International Affairs. Ahmad, F. 1993 The Making of Modern Turkey, London: Routledge. Andrews. P. (ed.) 1989 Ethnic Groups in the Republic of Turkey, Wiesbaden: Dr Ludwig Reichart Verlag. 1

See, for example, the work of Naess (1988) and Bumke (1989). There are a growing number of works on the Alevi revival, but see in particular Olsson et al (1998).

2

i

In this context, it is worth noting a most interesting work by Dr Huseyin Bal (1997) which describes life in two mixed Alevi-Sunni villages in Isparta. Perhaps less rigorous, but still very worthwhile, is a two-volume description of Alevi 'folk courts' in Anatolia (Metin, 1994).

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Bai. H. 1997 Sosyolojik Agidan Alevi-Sunni Farklagmasi __ve Biitunlesmesi (Difference and Unity in Alevi Sunni Relations from a Sociological Point of View), Istanbul: Ant Yayinevi. Birge, J. 1937 The Bektashi Order of Dervishes, London: Luzac. Bumke. P. 1989 'The Kurdish Alevis - Boundaries and Perceptions', in Andrews (ed.); 510-19. Evans-Pritchard, E. 1949 The Sanusi of Cyrenacia, Oxford: Clarendon. Gellner. E. 1969 Saints of the Alias, London; Weidenfeld & Nicholson. Gilsenan, M. 1973 Saint and Sufi in Modern Egypt, Oxford; Clarendon. Gokalp, A. 1980; Tètes rouges et bouches noires, Paris; Société d'ethnographie. Gokalp, A. 1989 'Alévisme Nomade', in Andrews (ed.); 521- 37. Hale, W. (ed.) 1976 Aspects of Modern Turkey, London; Bowker. Hann, C. 1990 Tea and the Domestication of the Turkish State, Huntington: Eothen. Hann, C. (ed.) 1994 When History Accelerates: Essays on Rapid Social Change, Complexity and Creativity, London: Athlone Press. Lewis. B. 1988 Islam et laicité, Paris: Fayard. Lewis, G. 1957 Turkey, London: Ernest Benn. Lewis, L. 1961 Pastoral Democracy, Oxford: Clarendon. Mardin, §. 1971 'Ideology and Religion in the Turkish Revolution', International Journal of Middle East Studies, 2; 197-221. Mélikoff, I. 1975 'Le problème Kizilba§\ Turcica, 6; 49 -61. Metin, I. 1994 (1992) Aleviler'de Halk Mahkemeleri, (Folk Courts among the Alevis) 2 Volumes, Alev Yayinlari, Istanbul. Moosa, M. 1988 Extremist Shi'ites. The Ghulat Sects, New York: Syracuse University Press. Naess, C. 1988 'Being an Alevi Muslim in South Western Anatolia and in Norway: the Impact of Migration on a Heterodox Muslim Community', in T. Gerholm &Y. Lithman (Eds.), The New Islamic Presence in Western Europe, London: Mansell; 74-95. Olsson, T., Özdalga, E. & Raudvere. C. (eds.), 1998 Alevi Identity, Istanbul: Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul, distributed RoutledgeCurzon, London. Pehlivan, B. 1993 Aleviler ve Diyanet (The Alevis and the Directorate of Religious Affairs), Istanbul: Pencere Yayinlari. Pickering. S. 1989 'The Religious Revival in Modern Turkey 1980 - 1988', M. Phil, thesis, University of Wales. Schimmel, A. 1975 Mystical Dimensions of Islam, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Shankland. D. 1992 'Alevi and Sunni in Rural Turkey, Diverse Paths of Change', Doctoral thesis. University of Cambridge. Shankland, D. 1993b 'Alevi and Sunni in Rural Turkey. Diverse Paths of Change', in P. Stirling (ed). Culture and Economy: Changes in Turkish Villages, Huntington: Eothen; 48 - 64.

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Shankland, D. 1999a Islam and Society in Turkey, Huntington; Eothen Press. Shankland, D. 1999b 'An Interview with Professor Paul Stirling', Turkish Studies Association Bulletin (U.S.A) Spring, 23, 1: 1-23. Sirman, N. 1988 'Peasants and Family Farms: The Position of Households in Cotton Production in a Village of Western Turkey', Doctoral thesis, University of London. Sirman, N. 1990 'State, Village and Gender in Western Turkey', in N. Sirman & A. Finkel (eds.), Turkish State, Turkish Society, London: Routledge; 21-52. Starr, J. 1992 Law as Metaphor: From Islamic Courts to the Palace of Justice, Albany; State University of New York Press. Stirling, P. 1951 'The Social Structure of Turkish Peasant Communities', Doctoral thesis. University of Oxford. Stirling, P. 1957 'Land, Marriage and the Law in Turkish Villages', International Social Science Bulletin, 9, 1; 21 33. Stirling, P. 1958a 'Religious Change in Republican Turkey', Middle East Journal, 12; 395 - 408. Stirling, P. 1958b 'Structural Changes in Middle East Society', in P. Thayer (ed.) Tensions in the Middle East, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press; 141 - 44. Stirling, P. 1960 'A Death and a Youth Club: Feuding in a Turkish village' Anthropological Quarterly, 33. 1, 5: 175. Stirling, P. 1964 'The Domestic Cycle and the Distribution of Power in Turkish Villages', in J. Pitt Rivers (Ed.) Mediterranean Countrymen, The Hague: Mouton; 202 - 13. Stirling, P. 1965 Turkish Village, London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson. Stirling, P. 1974 'Cause, Knowledge and Change: Turkish Village Revisited', in J. Davis (ed.) Choice and Change; Essays in Honour of Lucy Mair, London: Athlone; 191 - 229. Tapper, R. (ed.) 1991 Islam in Modern Turkey; Religion, Politics and Literature in a Secular State, London: I. B. Tauris. Tug, A. 1975 Village Administration in Turkey, Ankara: State Planning Organisation. Van Bruinessen, M. 1992 Agha, Shaikh and State, second edition, London: Zed Books. Yalman, N. 1969 'Islamic Reform and the Mystic Tradition in Eastern Turkey', Archives Européennes de Sociologie, 10; 41 - 60.

6. ANTHROPOLOGY AND ETHNICITY: THE PLACE OF ETHNOGRAPHY IN THE NEW ALEVI MOVEMENT

Periodically, even since the founding years of the Turkish Republic, there have been attempts to 'discover' the Alevis. These accounts have usually followed a pattern: the reporter stresses certain Alevi qualities: their humanism, their loyalty to the state, the equality of men and women, and the 'hidden' or occluded rituals which lie at the heart of their society. The Alevis then appear lost to the public view until the next intrepid writer, who produces something fairly similar. Today, in 1998, the situation is different. Whilst there is no lack of journalistic interest, there have appeared in addition a spate of publications covering diverse aspects of Alevi society, their history, relations with the state, ceremonies and doctrines. These are not just articles but major publications, going through many editions. Unlike the previous accounts, many of them are written by the Alevis themselves. It is frequently said that these new works lack innovation. This is unfair. There is no doubt that they represent something very different from the hitherto periodic rediscovering of the existence of the Alevi people. These volumes represent and display varied and important aspects of Alevi life: explorations of attitudes and beliefs which have previously been spoken rather than written down, the beginnings of a codification of an oral tradition, the working through of what it means to be an Alevi today in both fiction and prose, odd pieces of anecdote and research, and more coherent sweeps of several different aspects of Alevi social history and ethnography. Realising that they are such spontaneous outpourings, rather than outcome of a guided research programme, explains their colloquial tone, repetitiveness and at the same time the intimacy that they often offer the reader.1 Indeed, they are part of a general trend, and should not be seen as distinct from it. The past decade has seen an unprecedented rise in Alevi cultural associations, periodicals devoted to exploring the nature of 'Aleviness', television programs, discussion groups debating the 'Alevi question' and higher political exposure than they have 1 Out of many, see for example §ener (1982) for a very popular summary of Alevi religious history which has now gone through many editions; §ener (1994) for commentaries on contemporary Alevi problems, Bozkurt (1990) for a description of different Alevi customs; Birdogan (1990), for a similar and even more extensive description of Alevi traditions; Pehlivan (1993) for a discussion of the Alevi links with the Directorate of Religious Affairs; 6 z (1995) for an examination of Alevi history; and Kaygusuz (1991) for a novel conveying some of the difficulties facing Alevi villages in Anatolia as they modernise.

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before known. In short, there is occurring nothing short of the creation of a modern cultural heritage by a people who until recently were mute on the national stage. These developments are at once exciting and deeply worrying. One of the triumphs of the Republic is that the conflict between Alevis and Sunnis which marked some of the most bloody episodes in the history of the Ottoman Empire has been so markedly reduced The reasons for this are complex, but are certainly linked to the fact that both Alevi and Sunni Turks have felt able to identify with the aims and desires of the new Republican movement. Today, however, the increasing Sunnification of the Turkish nation has resulted in many Alevi people becoming uneasy. They are explicitly concerned that the ostensibly neutral territory of the state is being used for religious purposes and will accordingly result in their being discriminated against. The Alevi reaction to these fears will not be identical, their community is after all large and diverse. However, there is a sad possibility that increasing sectarian sensitivity will lead to open disagreement, even violence between the two sects. It need not do so, and I hope profoundly that it will not. However, it would be irresponsible for us as researchers actively associated with the study of the Alevis not to be aware of the dangers. This, indeed, is the rub. We are academics gathered together to discuss and publish an account of Alevi society. What we publish will also be taken up by the people for whom the revitalisation and recreation of their culture is a vital issue. How are we to evaluate our place in this cultural process of uncertain outcome? Should we not publish at all for fear of the way that this work will be used? I do not think so. On balance, I believe that a world deprived of reasoned research is worse off than a world with it, even if the consequences are so very difficult to predict. But what is our role? There is no simple response, and perhaps no one answer. In a famous passage, Malinowski, the man who above all was responsible for the ciystallization of Social Anthropology as a modern discipline, assumed that one of the prime justifications of field research was to provide information about the way people live before they are swept up in a tide of modernization.1 Whilst the process of global industrialization is perhaps less straightforward than he claimed, to supply as precisely and as clearly as possible ethnography based on detailed fieldwork seems to me still the best ultimate justification for our discipline. Not everyone will agree.2 At least, however, this approach conforms to the minimum academic requirement 1 2

Malinowski (1992; xv). Cf. the bold assertions in Moore (1996, Introduction).

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of supplying information as accurately as we can, and also, in as much as it tries to offer information which does not conform to the stereotyping of particular communities, avoids the oversimplification which is so often inherent within the political process. The Alevis are an excellent case in point. Contrast the situation today with that even a few years ago. Until the wave of industrialization and modernization which has swept through Anatolia since the late sixties and early seventies, the Alevi have been a largely rural community. It is true that many Alevi respect the Bektashis as their spiritual leaders, and that this provides a minimal degree of leadership and codification of their cbctrines.1 In practice, however, the rituals and practices of the Anatolian Alevis are those of tight, closely knit but far-flung communities which have developed a complicated and varied vivendi with the surrounding Sunni villages, so much so that it is not always possible to be clear where Aleviness stops and orthodox Islam begins: indeed individuals may take different lines on precisely this point. That is not to say that there is no sense of being an Alevi; there is, and a veiy powerful one at that, just that the eveiy-day boundaries are unclear. Contrast this with the situation today. Migration, modernization, industrialization are all continuing rapidly. The previously largely isolated communities are simply no longer so. Social ties, where they were once confined for the majority of the villagers to their immediate community and neighbours, now spread across the country, and even internationally. The great thirst to learn about the Alevis comes from the people who have moved from the community but who wish to retain contact with their cultural roots. No longer living in tightly knit rural communities with their local, mainly oral means of passing on their doctrines, they turn to writing and learning through publications, both scholarly and otherwise. In doing so, there is occurring a process of codification, of doctrinal specificity which simply did not exist in the village setting as I knew it. The previously fuzzy boundaries2 are in the process of being made hard, and as a result the past may suffer from a needless process of simplification.

Fieldwork

It is time to be more specific. Between 1988 and 1990, I conducted fieldwork in one particular sub-province, living in an Alevi village but making also frequent visits to the surrounding communities. At no time did I use an. J^ Birge (1937; 211).

I owe this expression to Professor Paul Stirling.

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interpreter, and by the end of my stay I had spent a little more than twelve months in the fieldwork area. I have kept in regular contact with the villagers and the area in question, though the account I give below is based largely on my experience during that one long period of fieldwork and my use of the ethnographic present refers to that period Administratively, the sub-province consists of a sub-province centre, which is also the largest settlement, and 96 villages. Of these villages, but for any state personnel stationed there, 20 are solely Alevi, 74 Sunni, and two both Alevi and Sunni. All the Alevi villages regarded themselves as being Turkish, as do all the Sunni villages but three. These last have come to the sub-province as the result of official resettlement policies: one consists of Kurdish people from the east, another of Muslims from Yugoslavia (known as gogmen - immigrants), and the last Muslims from Circassian (£erkez). Both Alevi and Sunni villagers explained to me that during the troubles of the late seventies sectarian relations had been veiy tense. This culminated in 1979, when there were riots, and the shops owned by Alevi had their windows smashed As a result of this, most of the Alevi of the sub-province centre moved out, leaving it predominantly, I estimate 90 per cent, Sunni. Now, relations are broadly peaceful: villagers of both seas come into the town in order to conduct their official business, attend market day and, occasionally, to sell their livestock. In spite of this, Alevi and Sunni largely go to their own respective shops, restaurants and garages. Unless a man is a civil servant or interested in left-wing politics he is unlikely to meet members of another sect on a regular basis. There is little inter-maniage between the two sects, and even in the two villages with a mixed sectarian population, Alevis and Sunnis live in separate village quarters. Though the two communities lead such separate lives, there are highly significant points in common. They are aligned to the same state, the same nation, speak the same language, and share an immense amount of practical and local knowledge. They both regard themselves as being Islamic. Among both Alevi and Sunni, the standard economic unit is the patrilineal, patrilocal household which owns the land it farms, and consumes its own produce. There are no large landowners, the average household holding is about thirty dontim.1 The land throughout most of the sub-province is poor: fields yield at very best 12 or 13 to 1, and most much less than this. In the whole of the sub-province, there is only one private business which employs more than ten people, and no tourism. In practice, whilst most people who stay in the subprovince cb farm, whether Alevi or Sunni the majority rely for their cash needs on relatives who have migrated, either to Germany or urban centres 1 Traditionally, the amount that one man can conveniently

2

plough in a day. Officially, 1,000 m .

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within Turkey, and are now prepared and able to remit back regular sums of money. There are also major and important differences in social organization and ideology. One of the most striking is the settlement layout: Sunni villages are collected together in distinct, nucleated settlements. In the centre of each lies a mosque. As the village expands, a new quarter adjoining the old may be built, in which case a new mosque is built in the centre of the new quarter. By contrast, the Alevi villages are more dispersed, sometimes in as many as twenty village quarters, each separated from the next, and each with its distinct fields and pasture and woodland rights. Whilst there usually is a mosque in an Alevi village, it is not usually in the new style with dome and minaret, and there is very rarely more than one for the village as a whole, however many village quarters there may be.

Patrilineages Patrilineages have been a subject of controversy among people who study Anatolia since Stirling asserted their existence among the Sunni village he studied in Kayseri.1 In fact, among the villages, both Sunni and Alevi, where I worked, the lineage exists and operates much along the lines described by Stirling: a number of households are linked together through common descent through male ancestors. In certain circumstances these lineages co-operate together for mutual defence and other social support but were not otherwise corporate groups and rarely reached more than about fifty households. In the Sunni communities, amongst men there exists a loose equality: they differ by virtue of their wealth, their age and their position in the lineage, but no man is held to be qualitatively superior or closer to God than any other. This is quite different among the Alevi, whose society has three quite distinct ranks. About one in ten Alevi lineages regard themselves, and are regarded by their fellows, as being descended from a founder distinguished in the eyes of God through possessing keramet. Keramet, is sometimes literally translated as 'charisma'. In the context used by the Alevi, it is used to mean favoured by God by virtue of being able to perform a miracle, as in Sufism in general. The oral histories of dede lineages invariably include one or more episodes in which a male figure has performed such a feat. The distribution of these lineages varies: occasionally, a village quarter consists only of dede lineages, on other occasions a dede lineage lives in a village quarter where the other residents are not dede. Often, a particular dede lineage would claim 1

Stirling (1964.)

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descent from other similar dede lineages in the area, forming a network of related lineages laterally across the countryside. Every lineage, whether a dede lineage or not possesses a dede lineage with whom they were defined talip. At one level, to be a talip implies to be in a relation of subordination and respect. In practice, a talip lineage may call in a dede to mediate in quarrels between them or another lineage. He may also be requested to mediate in marriage negotiations, and if widely respected, requested to comment on matters of significance to the community as a whole, 't he ded.es themselves characterise their task to be the way, the light, the inspiration to a community. They sometimes refer to themselves as rehbers, guides, whilst their followers may refer to their ocak, 'hearth', with implications of being the source of light and warmth of a household These two ranks are accompanied by a third: that of efendi. Efendh are said to be descended from Haci Bekta§ Veli himself. They usually live at Hacibekta§ town, and representatives come to the village about once a year, when they may collect a due, known as hak kulak. It is said that the efendis may be used as a sort of court of last appeal if there are disputes to be settled I did not see them fulfil such a function, though many villagers do revere them, and I think some would accept them in such a role.1 Whilst the efendi lineage may have little influence on the day to day life of the community, the legendaiy figure of Haci Bekta§, and his monastery are highly important within the village cosmology. The villagers say that the dede/talip links were given to them by Haci Bekta§, Veli. Many dede lineages claim to be descended from holy men who attended Haci Bekta§'s tekke in the town of that name, near Nevgehir. The emphasis on Haci Bekta§ is reflected also in prayer and poetry, where he is referred to variously as 'Saint' (Pir) and 'Sovereign' (Hiinkdr). Several of the villagers visited the tomb of Haa Bekta§, whilst I was in the village, referring to the trip as going on the pilgrimage, hoc. Many villagers claim also that Haci Bekta§ is descended from the twelve imams, and through them to Ali himself. Haci Bekta§, is thus at once a spiritual focus, and also an orienting figure through which the Alevis build up a link and define their place in the wider world of Islam as a whole. The three ranks together give Alevi society a strong hierarchical basis, one that links in all its members into an overlapping network with a well-defined ritual, spiritual and poetic tradition.

1 Of the distribution of power within the village, Shankland (1994), reprinted as Chapter 5 in this volume.

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Alevilik and Sunnilik The dedes are rightly regarded as one of the keys to Alevi society: they are at once its focus, its teachers, temporal judges and links to their religious heritage. From the individual's point of view, however, Aleviness can be more focused. All the villagers I spoke to were quite clear that to be Alevi was encapsulated in the saying 'Eline, diline, beline sahip oil: 'Be master of your hands, tongue and loins!' Glosses on this vaiy, though the most frequent is 'Do not take what is not yours, do not lie, and do not make love outside marriage!' The phrase is well-known within mystical Islam, where it is called edep, the Alevis are distinctive in that they have made it part of the very core of their concept of religious fulfilment. The Alevis further characterise their way of life through a series of comparisons with the Sunni communities with which they are surrounded The principal Alevi ceremony is the cent, at which both men and women worship together. The cem celebrates several things at once: its core rituals symbolise the martyrdom of Huseyin at the Kerbala, but they also include music and interpretation of key themes within Alevi doctrine, such as the edep philosophy. The ceremonies may last for several hours, and one of their features is that all in the congregation must be at peace with one another before worship can begin. If there are any quarrels, the protagonists must either make up their differences, or leave the gathering.1 This last point is veiy important with the Alevi men, who contrast their way with the Sunni prayer in the mosque, saying that the greatest problem about praying in a mosque is that it is possible to be next to a murderer without realising it, something which the Alevi prohibition on strangers, and on all present being at peace with each other before the ceremony begins precludes. Though men vaiy to the extent that they are able, or indeed wish to articulate their religious beliefs, many men also draw a contrast between the depth of the Alevi, and the supposed superficiality of the Sunni religious experience. Thus, they maintain that belief in the Sunni God is based on fear, but that the Alevis base their faith in love, a love which is within all people and that can be found within them. They illustrate this by saying that in the beginning, God created the world, and gave creatures life {can). However, He looked at his work and felt that there was nothing which truly reflected His Being. Accordingly, He gave all humans a part of Himself, this part is our soul (ruh). Now, when we pray together in the cem, we do so face to face, and through the collective worship, see into one another's' hearts and so become part of God 1

For a parallel description of rituals in the west of Turkey, see Gokalp (1980).

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The Four Doors of Islam The boundaries of Aleviness however, are not ultimately made up with a simple contrast between the Alevi and the Sunni way of going about things. Whilst it is important to realise that individual villagers vary to the degree with which they elucidate these matters, the dedes teach that there are four ways to God: §eriat, tarikat, marifet and hakikat. A person may pass through one stage on an individual progression to God, going from the §eriat to the tarikat level (where most Alevis are said to be) to marifet, and finally to hakikat, when a person is at one with God. At this last stage, the physical properties of this world no longer become an impediment. Dede lineages are ideally held to be at this last level. These categories also apply to the more broad practice of Islam itself. There is a consensus that the ritual and prayer which is taught by the dedes is loosely known as tarikat. Tarikat is associated with the use of Turkish rather than Arabic in religious poetry and prayer, and also implies the private life of the Alevi community, where a strict segregation between men and women (haremlik/selamhik) is not usually practiced. It is for this reason that it has been necessary to 'discover' the Alevis so many times in the last decades: the Alevis traditionally do not allow strangers access to their ceremonies, nor do they provide detailed accounts of their rituals, procedures and doctrines. As I write, in 1997, this is changing very quickly: but certainly whilst I was in the village in 1989 I was permitted to attend cem ceremonies only after a great deal of discussion and deliberation. In spite of this token acceptance, many men were highly concerned at talking with me, and whilst wonderfully hospitable, clearly preferred not to discuss such intimate matters. To the villagers, §eriat, generally is thought of as the way religion is usually conducted in the local Sunni villages. §eriat, however, also implies the power of the state, the religious orthodoxy that it supports, the use of Arabic prayers, and the public, male side of life. 1 In practice, though, the Alevi villagers did not absolutely reject the ideas and practices associated with §eriat. Rather, life in the village itself consisted of a subtle interplay between different concepts of §eriat being the outward form of existence, and tarikat being the inner, more meaningful reality. It is immensely difficult to extract these inteiplays between belief and practice, and turn them into a codified document and say this is Alevilik.

1 Gellner (1969) in his research among the Berbers in the High Atlas mountains also stresses such a contrast, between the Makhzen, the area controlled by the state and its codified, orthodox Kuran-based rule, and siba, the area outside its authority where the Berbers defined their own practice of Islam much more freely.

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To give an extended example of this. Only dedes are permitted to lead Alevi rituals, and only they may pronounce Alevi prayers. Yet the dedes themselves may pride themselves on their knowledge of Islam as a whole. Further, if a non-dede man is interested in religion, he may take the trouble to learn a body of prayer associated with orthodox religion, he may also learn how to conduct a funeral and to lead a mosque prayer ceremony. Such men are known as hoca, and the practice hocalik. This acceptance of the orthodox Islamic practice shows itself in many ways. The village only has one mosque, a building which but for being slightly larger looks not greatly different from the traditional village house. However, they respect the mosque imam, though a Sunni man appointed by the state, as the official prayer leader in the village. They gave him a house, a donkey with which to fetch wood, and gave him the use of a field to grow wheat without charge. Whilst veiy few men attended the five daily prayers regularly (I believe two), rather more than this would go to the Friday prayers (up to a dozen), and the mosque would be full on the two religious festivals of the year: kurban bayrami and §eker bayrami. The sequence of funeral rituals illustrates this syncretism also. After their death, a person, whether man or woman, is washed, placed in a shroud and laid out in front of a purely male congregation in the open air, just as they are in a Sunni village. The mosque imam, or a village hoca, then pronounce a service which the villagers' regard as being part of orthodox Islam, common to both Alevis andSunnis. Whilst I could not be sure of this claim, certainly the fact that the state-trained mosque imam may conduct the ceremony gives it support. The body is then taken to the graveyard, and interned to the intoning of ilahi, Arabic hymns, by the hoca. Three days after the funeral, however, a further and quite different ceremony takes place, known as dar gekme. In this, neighbours and relatives collect in the deceased villager's house. In the main room, twelve people, six men and six women line up in a horseshoe formation. They face a number of dedes lined up in front of them, and the spouse or close relative of the deceased. To their left, the hoca recites a prayer, and a verse is read from the Koran. I was unable to attend this brief ceremony, but I was kindly supplied the text of the prayer. It consists chiefly of repeated supplications to the one God, begging for mercy and asking for forgiveness. After the ceremony, the congregation partakes of a sacrificial meal. Nothing like this is found on the Sunni side, indeed it contains various elements: the dedes who bless the sacrifice, and the men and women gathering together in a private ceremony are characteristic of the Alevi doctrines, whilst the prayer recited by the hoca is associated with orthodox Islamic practice.

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In sum then, the Alevis acknowledge the (Efferent practices of their neighbours but do not disassociate from them entirely in their own ritual and personal life, they contrast the workings of the state with that of their own community but they do not reject the authority of the state. The consequences of this overlapping of different ritual cycles and different layers of belief within Alevi life are profound The traditional assertive firm self-belief that characterises so much of religious belief is absent. Their doctrines are embedded within the wider sphere of Islam, and the orthodox Sunni practices are not rejected but respected and side-stepped. Ultimately, this means that the Alevi communities in Anatolia define their everyday existence more in terms of peacefully going about their daily lives rather than in any form of proselytising, and that inherent within the veiy terms of their religion is the possibility of different forms of belief and practice. A sociological argument could be put forward to explain this tolerance: one of its consequences is that outsiders are able to be accommodated within the villages, another that individual believers can take up different individual positions within the Alevi faith: moving toward the supplementing of the Sunni form or moving away from it as the case may be, without suffering the condemnation of their fellows. Whatever the sociological explanation may be, there is a built-in respect for other people's views which, along with the emphasis on the mystical inner self, gives Aleviness much of its fascination for the outside world, and indeed for its present apologists.

Conclusion In conclusion, then, I would reiterate my main plea There is a process of reevaluation of the Alevi culture and heritage which may lead to the codification of different Alevi schools, each with their own texts and moral codes. The creation of these different areas of thought will inevitably lead to speculation as to which is the true, the final form of the Alevi religion. In practice, however, any claim to be a true form of Aleviness will be empirically incorrect, simply because Aleviness has over the centuries arrived at such complex forms of accommodation. More importantly still, the very fact of learning to live with the dominant tradition has resulted in a combination of mystical philosophy and a doctrine of peace and equality between the sexes which is remarkably attractive. If, as researchers, we permit this flexibility, inherent within Alevi communities, to be written out of the process of cultural revival, we are failing in the one area where we may be of use. This is not to say that we in turn will offer one single interpretation of Alevilik: not at all, there are many ways that a re-interpretation of the Alevi heritage can

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take a particular person. Nevertheless, this indication of a complex background that we can offer ultimately is perhaps the one justification for our interfering with the process of cultural recreation that we have gathered together to celebrate and to discuss.

REFERENCES Birdogan, N. 1990 Anadolu'nun Gizli Kültiirü Alevilik (The Alevis: Anatolia's Secret Culture), Istanbul: Berfin Yayinlari. Birge, J. 1937 The Bektashi Order of Dervishes, London: Luzac & Co. Bozkurt, F. 1990 Aleviligin Toplumsal Boyutlari (The Social Dimensions of Aleviism), Istanbul: Tekin Yayinevi. Gellner, E. 1969 Saints of the Atlas, London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson. Gokalp, A. 1980 Têtes Rouges et Bouches Noires, Paris: Société d'ethnographie. Kaygusuz, I. 1991 Son Görgü Cemi (The Last Görgil Cem), Istanbul: Alev Yayinlari. Moore, H. (ed.) 1996 The Future of Anthropological Knowledge, London: Routledge. Malinowski, B. 1992 (1922) Argonauts of the Western Pacific, London: Routledge. Öz, B. 1995 Aleviligin Tarihsel Konumu (The Place of the Alevis in History), Istanbul: Der Yayinlari. Pehlivan B. 1993 Aleviler ve Diyanet (The Alevis and the Directorate of Religious Affairs),Istanbul: Pencere Yayinlari. §ener, C. 1982 Alevilik Olayi (The Alevi Phenomenon), many editions, Istanbul: Yön Yayincilik. §ener, C. 1994 Alevi Sorunu Üstüne Dü§ünceler (Thoughts on the Alevi Problem), Istanbul: Ant Yayinlari. Shankland, D. 1994 'Social Change and Culture: Responses to Modernisation in an Alevi Village in Anatolia' in C. Hann (ed.) When History Accelerates, London: Athlone, 238-254. Stirling, P. 1965 Turkish Village, London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson.

7. CHANGING GENDER RELATIONS AMONG ALEVIS AND SUNNIS IN TURKEY

In spite of occasional sectarian violence, and its attendant publicity, the Alevis, a heterodox group consisting of perhaps slightly less than 20 per cent of Turkey's overall population, have for many years been a taboo subject within the country. 1 This is changing. Newspapers are publishing detailed articles on Alevi issues, whilst live chat shows have featured Alevi and Sunni representatives involved in heated and sometimes vituperative exchanges of views. 2 The underlying tension was reinforced in January 1995, when a television presenter uttered a highly offensive facetious remark about the Alevis. The broadcasting station responsible for the programme was deluged with calls, and an angry crowd rioted outside its buildings. Several individuals later announced that they intended to sue the station for defamation. The Alevis themselves are playing an active part in this surge of interest: they are setting up cultural centres devoted to exploring the music, poetry and mystical ideology which is central to the Alevi creed. They also publish magazines and books which, as well as providing descriptions of the rich Alevi cultural heritage, discuss the place of the Alevis in the Islamic canon and their role in the modem Turkish Republic. 3 The mix of conflicting ideas, opinions, counter statements, prejudice and claims about the Alevi today gains much of its intensity through the place it holds in the political process: republicans, secularists and more old-fashion left-wing groups stress that the Alevis are firm supporters of Kemalist tenets. The orthodox Sunni religious groups, particularly as represented by the Welfare Party, alternate between two different approaches: they often condemn the Alevis because of their unorthodox doctrines. During the run up to the last general elections, however, they appealed to them for support claiming that, as a distinctive Islamic group, the Alevis should be sympathetic to the 1 This article was written in the mid 1990s. A decade later, I would have structured the argument rather differently, but I believe its conclusions still to be broadly valid. 2 For Alevi discussions in the newspapers, see for example; Cumhuriyet 6 - 1 2 ^ February 1994 on Halac-i Mansur and the Alevis, Cumhuriyet 1 2 ^ September 1994 on Alevi organisations, Huriyet 3 0 t h October 1995 on reforms desired by the Alevis, Cumhuriyet 161*1 August 1994 on the Alevis and the Islamisation of Anatolia or Cumhuriyet 1 9 ^ August on the Alevis and the seriat.

For an example of an Alevi newspaper, see Kervan. For ajournai, Cem or Nefes. All three are published in Istanbul. From the many books published recently, see Eral (1993), Ôktem 1994), §ener (1993), Bender (1994), Pehlivan (1994).

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Welfare Party's programme of once again bringing Muslim identity to the fore. Of the debates, my chapter concentrates on women, social control, and religion. In particular, on the sociological truism that for men, the way that women feel, dress and behave is a vital reflection of the values of the community which they espouse: that, though women may resist with varying degrees of success, men are prepared to use physical and mental coercion to make women conform to their will. 1 The part that religion plays in this process is controversial, debatable and highly significant. In spite of any claims to the contrary, it is verifiable by observation that all over Turkey the firmer a man is in his orthodox Islamic beliefs, the more care he takes that the female members of his family are segregated, controlled and covered. Conversely, Alevi religious ideology, distant from mainstream religion, is much less insistent on the subordinate place of women. Alevi men are aware of this, and even may declare that women in their society are better off in general, and not just from the point of view of religion, than their Sunni counterparts. The issue is particularly sensitive in Turkey today. Any discussion comparing the Alevi and Sunni can hardly take place without religious questions coming to the fore, and, as religion is raised, the place of women in their respective societies comes soon after. Indeed, one of the most frequent insults by Sunni who wish to offend Alevis is to mention the supposed immoral activities which take place in their societies. It was such a comment which sparked off the reaction, and the subsequent riot at the television station. The discussion below is based on fieldwork among villages conducted between 1988 and 1990, and on later experience of living in Ankara. Living and working in the city, it is often difficult to detach myself from the bare statistics of modernisation: of production growth, population expansion and consumption charts, and empathise with the multiplicity of change faced by villagers or a village.2 Mindful of this problem, I should make it clear at the start that in the main body of this article I shall be contrasting Alevi and Sunni villages as I encountered them in a sub-province in the central northeast part of Anatolia during 1988 until 1990. From the different aspects of social change which collectively may be summed up as 'modernisation', I concentrate only on organisational, cultural and political change.3 In the latter 1

For a discussion of this theme, see Moore (1994: esp. 827). Cf. Stirling (1974). 3 The affect of modernisation on women is usually treated in terms of economic variables, for example Kandiyoti (1989), which are not sensitive to differences in religious sect. Indeed, the dominating position held by economics derived from neo-Marxist categories when analysing social change in Turkey (eg. Keyder 1983) means that the Alevis have been almost entirely neglected in studies of rural change. The one exception to this is Ak§it (1985). 2

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part of the article, I comment on the way Alevi and Sunni groups appear to create links with urban society. These impressions are based on my longer acquaintance with the people of the sub-province and on more general impressions formed in the past two years whilst in Ankara. I am deeply aware, however, that my work only covers a small part of the dilemmas which people face throughout their daily lives, and that these impressions, both those gained in the villages and those later in Ankara may need to be revised in the future. A final qualification: in some places in the article I refer to 'men', in some to 'people'. This is deliberate. Though I write about men and women, it is extremely difficult for a male researcher in the villages to collect adequate information on the lives of women. I have therefore sometimes written 'men' where I am sure as I can be of opinions expressed by males, and, rather than put words into the mouths of women, left extant this gendered pronoun.

Alevi

and

Sunni

Sunni social organisation and religious ideology have been discussed in many publications. 1 For this reason, only a sketch of Sunni village life is given below, sufficient for the purposes of comparison but perhaps little more that this. The Alevis have not been described in such detail (though see the works of Gokalp). 2 In brief, Alevi religious doctrines are mystical in that they stress the importance of the inner self as opposed to the external rules of Islam and stress also their spiritual descent from Ali and his followers. This combination resembles what is sometimes known a 'ghulat' sect. 'Ghulat' (lit. 'extremist') groups are found in many Islamic countries, and their doctrines are often so distinct from the normal canon of Islamic belief that they are unacceptable to orthodox believers. 3 However, in spite of their apparent affinity to Shi'ism, the Turkish Alevis today hesitate to describe themselves as Shi'ite, and do not identify with Shi'ites of other nations. Though men rarely have identical interpretations of their past, it is most frequent that they define themselves as Turks first and foremost, and then maintain that the Alevi religion is descended from the pre-Islamic Shamanistic practices of the Turkic east, only later becoming transformed and influenced by Islam by the Arabs. 4 In this way, in spite of often being regarded as unorthodox in their practices or beliefs by others they are able to identify 1 2 3 4

Eg. Stirling (1965), Mardin (1989), Tapper (1991). Gokalp (1981,1989). Moosa (1988). Cf. Mélikoff (1975, 1988).

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themselves as both Muslim and Turk: indeed, they often pride themselves on being staunchly loyal to the Turkish Republic.1

The traditional setting In the sub-province where I worked, Alevi and Sunni largely live apart from one another: of its ninety-two villages, twenty are Alevi, seventy Sunni. Two villages consist of both Sunnis and Alevis, but even in these mixed villages Alevis and Sunnis in separate village quarters (mahalle). All but three villages are Türk. These three non-Tiirk villages, all Sunni, consist respectively of Kurds {Kürt), of Balkan Muslims (Muhacir) and Circassians (Çerkez). 2 I am not sure as yet how the three incoming villages fit in to the social patterns of the sub-province, therefore my analysis refers only to the Türk villages, both Alevi and Sunni. Relations between the two sects during my time in the sub-province were peaceful, though villagers say that during the civil unrest which led to the coup in 1980, several riots broke out in the sub-province centre. In spite of this peace, often Sunni men were uncomplimentary about the Alevis, claiming that they are not Muslim. 3 Alevi men, on the other hand, often regarded all Sunni as fanatic (yobaz), and went among them as little as possible. There are few marriages between the sects, and little other social interaction at the village level. Contact between the two sects within the subprovince is limited mainly to those people who have who interact with the state at the sub-province centre: eg. an Alevi village head-man representing his villagers to the sub-province governor, an Alevi child going to the town lycée, an Alevi man who has become a civil servant: perhaps a school teacher, or a woman who has become a nurse, or to those who are interested in becoming active in party politics.

Islam and women in the Sunni villages Nearly all the Sunni villages consist of one nucleated settlement with patrilineal, virilocal households grouped around a large village mosque. Almost every person expresses faith in Islam (müslümanlik). Most of these sum up Islam's requirements as the 'five conditions' (believe in the one God, fast, pay alms, go on the hac, pray five times a day). Some add a comment on 1 2 3

Dumont (1989). Cf. Andrews (1989; 92, 110 and 167). Cf. Yalman (1969).

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the literal truth of the Koran, or stress also the significance of appropriate moral behaviour (ahlak). Of course, actual practice varies. I estimate that about 70 per cent of men, perhaps more, keep the fast during Ramazan. Perhaps a third go to the mosque once a week on the Friday prayer, and a few, mainly older men, keep the regular five-daily prayers. A few men from each village go on the hac} Not just individuals, but whole communities develop distinct characteristics in the way that they interpret Islam. Thus, if a group particularly strong in their belief gain control of a village, they may succeed in banning alcohol in the village as a whole. They are likely to begin a collection for a prominent mosque in the village centre, to open a Koran course for children, to be tolerant of tarikat groups within the village, providing that it is an order they favour, to wear Islamic-style beards, and woollen caps rather than the more usual flat caps. They are also likely to forbid musicians, usually Alevis who come to play for weddings. Contrariwise, there may be occasions when a group less sympathetic to Islam gains control. These groups are extremely unlikely to proclaim anti-Islamic sentiment openly, but they may be less insistent on the importance of the community as a whole conforming so rigorously, more likely to tolerate boisterous wedding ceremonies, dance and open drinking within the village. The relationship between those who believe strongly and those who believe less strongly is asymmetrical. A man, or men, may make an open call for the village to be more faithful without attracting disapprobation. However, a man can only express scepticism publicly at the risk of a sharp reaction, 2 and perhaps violence. Nevertheless, people who do not conform to the religious tenets of the village are tolerated as long as they do not proclaim these views openly. During the month of Ramazan, those who wish to drink or smoke do so out of sight of those who are fasting. In a village where alcohol is discouraged, a man might go to the sub-province centre to drink rather than be observed in the village itself. If a man is found in the vicinity of the mosque at the time of the Friday noon prayer, he accompanies those who are on their way rather than openly refuse to attend. Thus, the social norms of the village allow believers to assert themselves strongly. Unbelievers, or downright sceptics, are restricted by the tempo of village life and by the collective importance of mutual belief from any strong expression of this disbelief.

1 2

Cf. Tapper and Tapper (1987a). Sirman (1988).

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Women and Islam in Sunni villages have been discussed in many publications, perhaps in most sustained and provocative fashion by Delaney. 1 Here, I would only stress that the collective cultural Islamic framework in the villages has deep implications for relations between the sexes. In almost any setting, secular or otherwise, women are said quite explicitly by men to be their inferiors: to be weaker and rightly under men's control. They are segregated from the public spaces of the village and from much of the male activity of outside world. This segregation and subordination is mirrored in the religious sphere: women are only allowed in the mosque during the Ramazan, and only then out of sight of men. Their seclusion is justified by appeals to the defiling nature of women: men say, for example, that their aptes (ritual cleanliness) is broken if they observe a woman whilst at prayer. I sometimes heard men assert that women are §eytan (Satan), and should be buried more deeply than men. Within the family, where men expect to be the head of the household (hane reisi), they say that it is sinful (giinah), for women not to obey their husbands, or for them not to wear their headscarfs. Thus, the key cultural matrix of village life, the almost universal respect and belief in Islam, contains also the demand for the subordination and the separation of women from men, and this subordination is congruent with the distribution of power between the sexes within the village, whilst the very universality of Islam within the village makes it difficult for any alternative philosophy of life to gain any credence.2

Alevi villages Whilst the gender divide is emphasised and accentuated within Sunni ritual practice and religious ideology, this distinction is minimized within the equivalent Alevi discourse. Instead, the fundamental difference between people from the religious point of view revolves around whether or not they are of a holy lineage: dede, literally 'grandfather'. Dedes are both secular and religious leaders of the community: only dedes are permitted to teach Alevi tenets, or to lead Alevi ceremonies and dedes may also adjudicate in disputes between people and attempt to bring the community to peace. Dedes attempt to achieve this regulation and reconciliation on the basis of a central tenet: 'Eline, beline, diline sahip ol!', 'Be master of thy hands, tongue and loins!'. Though interpretations of this principle vary, the most common is 'Do not steal, lie or make love outside marriage'. The Alevi 1 2

Delaney (1991). The early work of Makal (1954) bears witness as to this difficulty.

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say that these conditions are the basis of 'Aleviness' (Alevilik), given to the Alevis by God through His messengers, and that all people are answerable to God as to the extent that they have abided by them on their death. Their central religious ceremonies, known as cem, take place in the winter months, usually, but not always in the home of a dede lineage. Ideally, one couple from every household of that village quarter (mahalle) attends: this couple may be a husband and wife, or any other combination of the two sexes: for example, a mother and son, or a brother and sister. The ceremony begins with the dede asking whether all present in the room are at peace. If there are people, whether men or women, who are at odds with each other, then they come forward and are questioned by the dede. The ceremony cannot continue until their dispute is resolved or the protagonists have left the room. The ritual itself has several distinct stages, including a sacrifice offered to the dede. It culminates in a \sema of the forty' (Kirklar semahi). In this, two couples, man and wife, dance slow, carefully stepped movements to the sound of a minstrel recounting the events which led to the martyrdom of Huseyin at the Kerbala. As this finishes, there comes a more lively dance; gonuller semahi which also involves men and women: women whirl, and men turn sharply from left to right, their arms raised, in synchrony with the women's turning movements. The Sunni and Alevi form of Islam, then, contain two markedly different approaches to women: one excludes and subordinates them, the other insists on their participation in its central rituals, and includes them as equals in its most important credo. In the sub-province, this difference in approach is reflected also in the secular sphere: there is markedly less segregation between the sexes in every day life in the Alevi villages where I lived. Men often work together with women in the fields, or sit with the women at the ovens whilst they work. Within the houses, it is usual for men and women to eat together. This lack of segregation is most noticeable at dusk, when men and women often stand around in groups chatting until darkness falls, when they return to their homes. Does this imply that Alevi women are less subordinate than Sunni women? I think not or, at least, not in any straightforward way. Taking women in a Sunni village: Islam is not the only way that men subordinate women. Rather, Islam is only the most powerful, the most pervasive and the most difficult cultural barrier for women to overcome, only one of a number of constraints both mental and physical on their behaviour and activities. For example, though in a Sunni community, a man may say that it is giinah, sinful, for a women to disobey her husband, such behaviour is also ayip (a

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powerful connotation of 'not done') and implies lack of respect (saygisizlik). Practically speaking: even should she wish to change her situation, a woman is less likely to possess money, less likely to have sufficient knowledge of the outside world and less likely to have an alternative location to live than a man. Delaney's Seed and the Soil explores this theme in detail, attempting to demonstrate a connection between men's conception of creation and their dominance over women. She endeavours to show the importance of this single cultural construct on women's behaviour, but in fact her rich and detailed ethnography illustrates very well the multiple nature of the bonds: physical, economic and cultural which make women dependant on men within a Sunni village community. When the Alevi villages are examined also from this point of view, their position appears markedly less well off than is implied by the Alevi religious philosophy. Just as in a Sunni village, women are deprived of access to the outside world where possible by men. Women rarely go to the market in the sub-province centre when there is a man available, and widows are often afraid that they will be cheated through their inexperience of handling money. Though in every day life, segregation is not usual, when a strange man is present the women are told to leave the men to talk. They also are depreciated through more informal comments and beliefs: men saying, for example, that women are a little weaker than men, or that a woman must not cross a man's path for fear that the man's good luck be broken (ugur kesme). Further, even though religious tenets demand the participation of women in rituals, the title 'dede' is only applied to men. Women who are part of a dede lineage, either through birth or marriage, are named anne, (lit. 'mother'). They sit apart from other women during religious ceremonies, they may play a part in solving quarrels between women and, exceptionally, work closely with their 'dede' husband but, in practice, they certainly they have less power and less prestige than their male counterparts who invariably dominate the religious ceremonies. This difference in attitude also emerges in traditional inheritance rules: all the Alevi men I spoke with maintained that women do not inherit: goods, fields and houses being divided among the surviving males. Though my research on this topic is still in progress, the inheritance cases I know of so far conform to this rule. It is perhaps better, then, to describe the relations between the sexes in the traditional Alevi and Sunni setting as being different from each other rather than more favourable to women. Indeed, where I worked, Sunni women are presented with a more stable picture of authority than the Alevi women: they possess their own domestic sphere, their own ranking system and elaborate

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rituals which men do not attend, 1 arid also are aware of those areas of social life into which they should not intrude. Alevi women have very much less clear picture of authority, and are never quite sure when to leave men alone or when they are free to join them. The Alevi parallel conceptions of women as being at once equal and not may, therefore, in some circumstances create conflicts which make it very difficult for women to know the appropriate way to behave and, accordingly, acute distress.

The modern setting On the basis of my present research, I think that the situation is different in the modern setting. It appears likely that Alevi women find it easier to take a part in the modern world independently of their menfolk than their Sunni counterparts. To put it another way: that the Alevi contention that women in their society are better off than the equivalent Sunni women may be warranted when it is applied to the urban, as opposed to the village, setting. The final section of this paper is devoted to examining this contention. I should stress that the comments below apply to the people of the sub-province where I worked, and I am not clear as to the extent they apply to Turkey as a whole. Modernisation is too complex a phenomena to capture in its entirety. However aspects of the changes which are taking place can legitimately be isolated and evaluated provided they do not claim to be exhaustive. In this case, I think that it is uncontroversial enough to say that the foundations of village life in the sub-province are broadening: its economic life is increasingly part of the national and international system, its means of reconciling disputes and achieving order within the community are becoming the province of the state, the assumption of being part of a national unit is an ever increasing component in personal identity, and religion becomes increasingly created and recreated by ties which the villagers create with the world outside them (individual contacts, the state and the media) rather than their face-to-face rituals or doctrines which they themselves create. The Sunni and Alevi villages experience many of these changes in common. Their economies are both reliant on remittances from villagers who have migrated, or on inputs from the state. 2 They both are becoming more affected by the state paraphernalia of law, courts, jandarma and police. 3 They are both willingly accepting their membership of the Turkish nation. 1 Cf. Dobkin (1967), Nicholas (1972), Fallers and Fallers (1976), Tapper and Tapper (1987b), Tapper, N. (1990). 2 More detail on the setting of the villages is provided in Shankland (2003). 3 This process is described in fascinating fashion by Starr (1978, 1992).

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However, the effect that these changes have on their communities, and the way that they embrace these difference is not the same. I have looked at different aspects of this varying response to modernisation elsewhere:1 briefly, however, it is particularly relevant here that the bond created between citizen and state has different elements in the two communities. In a Sunni village, a man usually expects the state to be the protector and perpetuator of the Islamic faith (though rarely of the §eriat),2 and the extent to which the state fulfils that role in turn influences his willingness to plead allegiance to it. This feeling is widespread throughout Turkey, and as a result successive Republican governments have played a growing part in the organisation of religion within the country. The Directorate of Religious Affairs, for example, employs imams sufficient for every mosque in the country which requests that one be appointed, and provides ancillary support for many aspects of Islam's practice: it sanctions mosques as they are being built to ensure that they are facing toward Mecca, publishes widely on religious subjects, sends sermons to be read out in mosques during the Friday prayers and provides a commentary on the correct interpretation of Muslim tenets. Other branches of the government contribute as well: the state media broadcasts religious programmes and announce the hour of the break of fast province by province during the Ramazan. The Education Ministry publishes religious text books for schools and runs a network of schools known as 'imam-hatip ', in whose curriculum Islamic thought is prominent. These school are continually growing in significance; according to recent informal estimates, up to a third of all middle-school pupils attend them. The fact that Sunni Islam has merged so successfully with the nationstate is highly significant for relations between the sexes. It means that whatever other influences there are on gender relations, many Sunni men embrace an ideology which reinforces both their subordination to the nationstate and the superiority they feel that they possess over women. Their two most important social relationships; that between citizen and state and that between man and wife, are encompassed with one single, embracing philosophy. Indeed, the two feed into one another: men insist that the state supports Islam and, having achieved this, draw strength from the fact that it does so. In turn, the importance of Islam in their control over their family is a factor in their determination that the state should support their belief.

1

See Chapter 6 above. ^ Tapper and Tapper (1987a).

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Of course, religious movements differ in their approach and in the degree to which they intellectualise their position, and there are movements within the framework of active Islamic belief attempting to demonstrate that women are well-off within the faith. Echoes of these have reached the subprovince. Further, it would be unbearably condescending to deny that there may be many women happy with their daily life within this faith. In spite of tin's, it does not appear that women are able to translate individual assertion within Islam within the sub-province into liberty of action, material wealth or status, the objectives by which their menfolk would define their own independence.

'Alevilik' in the modem setting Most Alevi men are much less desirous that the state become actively involved in religion, and they are less likely to sustain individual faith in the literal truth of their doctrines. Indeed, though no one man's response is precisely the same, an individual's belief often gives way either to downright scepticism or to activities in which the weight of faith is not expressive and religion more obviously the celebration of their particular culture. For example, taking the role of music within Alevi traditional society. Music is played during religious rituals, at weddings, and in informal drinking gatherings (muhabbet) which also have overtones of worship. Nowadays, some men do not wish to attend religious ceremonies, nor do they wish to affirm faith in God. These men nevertheless are often extremely fond of Alevi music, playing it on cassettes whilst driving, at wedding ceremonies or when celebrating with friends. They do not regard such music as possessing religious significance, even when it is the same music which would be played at a cent ceremony, nor do they acknowledge the possible sacred implications of muhabbet when drinking with others: though they are often concerned to stress that such music is important for Alevi culture (ktiltiir). A similar shift effects the sociological base of the power of the dedes. They have ever decreasing power to influence activities within the community as adjudicators or judges, but they may become important as a focal point for the maintenance of a sub-culture within an otherwise increasingly Sunni dominated national ethos. This is particularly likely to occur if they have also achieved success in a secular sphere such as academia, the civil service or business.

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Though the Alevis with whom I lived are so aware of their distinctive culture, there is no movement among them toward Alevi nationalism. Rather, they use the 'Turkish' part of their identity to identify with the Turkish state, and the 'Alevi' part of their identity to govern their private lives and to identify where they are different from their Sunni neighbours. They also acknowledge that there is common ground between the two communities: that both groups are Turkish, that Alevilik is a kind of Islam, just as Sunni is an alternative possible path. This helps them to develop a position of tolerance: they do not to wish to be dominated by the Sunni majority, nor do they wish to convert to Sunni Islam, but they take their place alongside their Sunni neighbours in the army, and in other branches of the civil service, in order to serve the Turkish state, of which feel they are a legitimate part. In spite of this separation between public duty and private culture, the living philosophy within which they articulate their identity with the Turkey Republic owes an enormous debt to their religious tenets. They plead openly and frequently for tolerance and for peace between people. They may say that it is appropriate for a citizen to be faithful, not to tell lies, not to steal, mimicking consciously or unconsciously their edep philosophy. They combine this philosophy with a deep admiration for Atatiirk. Not just because of the obvious fact that he saved them from persecution on religious grounds but also because they have genuinely internalised the type of secularism which he wished to introduce. It is usual in a Sunni community for individuals to make a separation between public and private life: identifying their private life with religion, and public life with the state. The Alevis, however, have taken a further step in that they have in great part removed the basis of the symbols by which they orientate themselves in the world from the religious to the social: people adopt appropriate behaviour believing that it is what society demands, not that God ordained that it should be so. The failure to achieve this shift in inner vision among Sunni communities has been the most marked failure of the Kemalist programme, 1 whilst its achievement among much of the Alevis makes them particular sympathetic to the Republic and the social vision put forward by Atatiirk. Women in Alevi society are influenced by these changes in complex ways. Men still dominate women. Few Alevi men wish to change the traditional division of labour within the family, nor do they wish to give up their designation as head of the family. However, within this overall confrontation between the sexes, at least three different interlocking factors can be identified: first, Alevi men lack the codified, explicit discrimination against women built into Sunni Islam: they move into the city with a host of 1

See Chapter 2 above.

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informal controls on women's behaviour but without such a codified conception of their superiority that is sanctified by religion. Secondly, because Alevi men accept the principles of the Republican state, and indeed more broadly, those of the modern world in general upon which it was founded, women may be freer to exploit its laws and practical assertions of their equality such as access to higher education and independent careers than their Sunni counterparts. Thirdly: the religious edict that women should share life with men, and be free to express themselves freely, because it is also embraced by Kemalism becomes consistent with the philosophy with which Alevi men would like to enter the modern world. That is, though they may feel internal conflicts and contradictions, men themselves accept as part of their own personalities the idea that women are equal to men because to do so also acquaints with their conceptions of themselves as citizens of the Republic: the positive affirmation of women's equality becomes part of the living philosophy with which they identify themselves with Republican ideals. It is in this way, then that a religious edict, in its traditional setting no great help for women, becomes in its post-industrial setting a significant factor in their favour in the relationship between the sexes. Women still live in a world largely created by men, but it is one which permits them to be freer than their Sunni counterparts when taking their place within it.

REFERENCES Ak§it, B. 1985 Koy, Kasaba ve Kentlerde Toplumsal Degi§me, Ankara: Turhan Kitabevi. §ener, C. 1994 Alevi Sorunu Ustune Diigiinceler (Thoughts on the Alevi Problem), Istanbul: Ant Yaymlari. Andrews, P. 2002 (ed.) Ethnic Groups in the Republic of Turkey, 2 vols., 2nd, enlarged ed. Wiesbaden: Reichert. Bender, C. 1994 12 Imam ve Alevilik (The Alevis and the 12 Imams), 2 nd edition, Istanbul: Berfin Yayinlari. Bumke, P. 1989 'The Kurdish Alevis, Boundaries and Perceptions', in Andrews; 510-518 Delaney, C.1991 The Seed and the Soil, California, California University Press. Dobkin, M. 1969 'Social Ranking in the Women's World of Purdah; a Turkish Example', in Anthropological Quarterly, Vol. 40; 65-72. Dumont, P. 1989 'Le poids de l'alevisme dans la Turquie d'aujourd'hui', in Turcica, 21-22; 155-172.

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Eral, S. 1993 Çaldiran'dan Çorum'a Anadolu'da Alevi Katliamlari (From Çaldiran to Çorum: Massacres of Alevis in Anatolia), Istanbul: Yalçin Yayinlari. Fallers, L. and Fallers, M. 1976 'Sex Roles in Edremit', in Peristiany, J. (ed.) Mediterranean Family Structures, Cambridge; Cambridge University Press; 243-260. Gellner, E. 1981 Muslim Society, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gokalp, A. 1980 Têtes Rouges et Bouches Noires, Paris: Société Ethnologie. Gokalp, A. 1989 'Alevisme Nomade: les communautés de statut à l'identité communitaire', in Andrews; 524-537 Keyder, Ç. 1983 'Small Peasant Ownership in Turkey: Historical Formation and Peasant Structure', in Review 7: 1; 53-107. Kandiyoti, D.1989 'Women and Household Production: The Impact of Rural Transformation in Turkey', in Glavanis, K. and P. (ed.) The Rural Middle East: Peasant Lives and Modes of Production, London: Zed Books; 183194. Makal, M. 1954 A Village in Anatolia, trans. W. Deedes, ed. P. Stirling, London: Valentine, Mitchell & Co. Mardin, §. 1989 Religion and Social Change in Modem Turkey, New York: State University of New York Press. Mélikoff, I. 1975 Le problème Kizilbaç, in Turcica 6; 49-67. Mélikoff, I. 1988 'Les origines central-asiatiques du soufisme anatolien', in Turcica 20; 7-18. Moore, H. 1994 'Understanding Sex and Gender' in Ingold, T. (ed.) Encyclopaedia

of Anthropology.

Moosa, M. 1988 Extremist

Shi'ites.

Companion

London; 813-830. The Ghulat Sects. New York: Syracuse

University Press. Naess, R.1988 'Being an Alevi Muslim in South Western Anatolia and in Norway: the Impact of Migration on a Heterodox Muslim Community', in Gerholm, T. and Lithman, Y. (eds.) The New Islamic Presence in Western

Europe,

London: Mansell; 174-195. Nicolas, M.1972 Croyances et pratique populaires turques concernant la naissance, Paris: POF. Öktem, N. 1994 Laiklik, Din ve Alevilik Yazilari (Essays on Secularism, Religion and the Alevis), Istanbul: Der Yayinlari. Pehlivan, B. 1994 Alevi-Bekta§i Diigüncesine göre Allah (Allah in Alevi-Bektagi Thought), 2nd edition, Istanbul. §ener, C. 1993 Atatürk ve Aleviler (Atatürk and the Alevis), 3rd edition, Istanbul: Ant Yayinlari.

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Shankland, D. 1993a 'Alevi and Sunni in Rural Turkey, Diverse Paths of Change', in Stirling, P. (ed.) Culture and Economy: Changes in Turkish Villages, Huntingdon; Eothen; 46-64. Shankland, D. 1993b 'Alevi and Sunni in Rural Turkey, Diverse Paths of Change', Ph.D. thesis, University of Cambridge. Shankland, D. 1994 'Social Change and Culture: Responses to Modernisation in an Alevi Village in Anatolia', in Hann, C. (ed.) When History Accelerates, London: Athlone; 238-254. Shankland, D. 2003 The Alevis in Turkey: the emergence of a secular Tradition, London: RoutledgeCurzon.

Islamic

Sirman, N. 1988 'State, Village and Gender in Western Turkey', in Sirman, N. and Finkel, A. (eds.) Turkish State, Turkish Society, London: Routledge; 21-52 Starr, J. 1978 Dispute and Settlement in Rural Turkey, Leiden: Brill. Starr, J. 1992 Law as Metaphor, New York: State University of New York Press. Stirling, P. 1965 Turkish Village, London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson. Stirling, P. 1974 'Cause, Knowledge and Change: Turkish Village Revisited' in Davis, J. (ed.) Choice and Change; Essays in Honour of Lucy Mair, London: Athlone; 191-229 Stirling, P. 1988 'Labour Migration and Changes in Anatolia'. Manuscript of paper delivered to the Conference on Mediterranean Migrations, Al Hocaima, Morocco, llth-14th July 1988; pp. 21 Stirling, P. (ed.) 1993 Culture and the Economy: Changes in Turkish Villages, Huntingdon: Eothen Press. Tapper, N. 1990 'Ziyaret: Gender, Movement and Exchange in a Turkish Community', in Eickelman, D. and Piscatori, J. (eds.) Muslim Travellers, Berkeley: University of California Press; 236-255. Tapper, R. and Tapper, N. 1987a 'Thank God we're secular! Aspects of fundamentalism in a Turkish Town' Caplan, L. (ed.) Aspects of Religious Fundamentalism, London: Macmillan; 51-78. Tapper, R. and Tapper, N. 1987b 'The Birth of the Prophet: Ritual and Gender in Turkish Islam', in Man, (N.S.), Vol. 22; 69-72. Tapper, R. (ed.) 1991 Islam in Modern Turkey; Religion, Politics and Literature in a Secular State, London: I.B. Taurus. Yalman, N. 1969 'Islamic Reform and the Mystic Tradition in Eastern Turkey', in Archives European de Sociologie, 10; 41-60.

8. STUDYING SECULARISM: MODERN TURKEY AND THEALEVIS

Any researcher interested in modern Turkey can hardly escape the controversy that has surrounded religion in the last decade. The rise and fall of Erbakan and the Welfare Party, the National Security Council's secular 'recommendations' in February 1997, the partial closure of the Imam-hatip (religiously-oriented) schools, and the formation of 'Western Working Groups' to investigate alleged infiltration into the civil service by religious activists, are just a few instances of how prominent these issues have been. How, as observers, are we to attempt to understand the significance of these and similar events in today's Republic? There is no simple answer, but it seems possible to suggest, at least as a starting point for discussion, two simultaneous but contradictory trends. First, there appears to be a rapidly growing heterogeneity, particularly in the large urban centres such as Istanbul, Izmir and Ankara. The precise reasons for this are unclear, but certainly linked to Turkey's growing integration with the outside world, and encouraged by the highly successful (if uneven) economic transformation of recent decades. At the same time, it seems that Turkey is tending to bifurcate sharply between pro- and anti-secular movements. On the anti-secular side, there are the popular Islamist political movements, the Islamic brotherhoods, the followers of Said-i Nursi, a constellation of Islamic business, media, charities and associations, and the extremely violent Hizbullah. On the secular side, there are the followers of the original Republican People's Party, moderate believers (such as those who might find themselves holding the central ground in the True Path Party), parts of the senior bureaucracy (particularly the judiciary), much of an increasingly consumerist oriented youth, the military (led by the army), and not least, almost the entirety of the unorthodox minority, the Alevis. 1 It can be argued that this split is profound. Even taking into account the fact that people may change their perspective, that movements may sometimes blur into one another, and that there is a vast difference between rhetoric and action, the side that an individual takes in this ideological divide may lead them into quite different social contexts in their daily lives: the one likely to include a combination of religious rituals, mosque-going, tarikat 1 For a fuller discussion of the issues set out here, see my Islam and Society in Turkey (1999).

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membership, Koran courses, right-wing or religious political parties, Islamic discussion groups, Islamic foundations (both economic and pious), the Islamic media and a personal rejection of revelry, ostentation, and overt displays of emotion; the other leading to a less structured life, but likely to include broad acceptance of the republican state, its secular ceremony and ritual, alcoholic drink, dance, and if also politically committed usually though certainly not exclusively involvement in left-wing groups. Indeed, it is this tendency to 'bunch' along the two sides of the secular/anti-secular split that explains much of this divide's volatility, and its potential to harm Turkey in the coming decades.

Studying secularism We often remind each other, both at conferences and in our writings, that we should be as sensitive as possible to diversity within Islamic societies. In spite of this healthy discussion, it seems that the emergence of overtly secular movements in Turkey has not attracted the same attention as the more actively Islamist trends, whether that latter study be to stress the Islamist movements' rise or, conversely, their supposed decline. There is, for example, a persistent tendency to give more weight to the pronouncements of the Islamifying movements, such as the Nurcus and their related groups, and discount the more moderate voice of the Directorate of Religious Affairs, perhaps assuming that since it is government-led, the people with whom it is associated must in some way be less 'Islamic'. Yet, many of the thousands of people who work for the Directorate, along with those who worship in its mosques and participate in its wider activities, certainly regard themselves as genuine Muslims and accept the secular state. 1 Likewise, we have a far greater knowledge of the inner workings of the SUleymancis than we do of the increasingly visible jeunesse dorée who spend great parts of their lives in clubs, restaurants, pop concerts and summer-houses. Yet these people are still capable of taking vows at a shrine outside Bosphorus University in an attempt to pass their university degrees, or of planting a rose bush at the time of Hidillrez in early May with a little wrapped image of their desired goal suspended from one of its branches. Many of these people would reject with anger any imputation that they are not 'Islamic', though they are not in the slightest interested in Islamist politics or in opposing the secular state.

1

A notable exception is the research of Tapper N. and Tapper, R. (1987).

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'Culturalism' It can be suggested that this imbalance is partly a question of the language that we use, and the categories that we employ to label Islamic societies. To give an immediate example, within the immense amount of journalistic (and therefore prominent if not in itself powerful) coverage that is attendant upon Turkey and the European Union, there is a core of writers, such as Hugh Pope of the International Herald Tribune or the sepulchral anonymous scribes for The Economist, who maintain that the secular state is in some way by definition illegitimate, that the correct course for Turkey would be to reintroduce some form of more overtly Islamic central state.1 This, bluntly, is part of an expanding curse in sociological writings that might be deemed 'culturalism': an implication that just because people are from one particular group they have to behave in the presumed standard fashion for that community.

The Alevis The Alevis, the heterodox minority, are a further case in point. In the dozen years that I have been studying and conducting fieldwork among them, there is not the slightest doubt that they have been undergoing a transformation: a process of codification of their previously oral tradition, one that has been rapid and interesting to witness, resulting in a large number of publications, an increasingly strong public profile, and above all, a large part of its population becoming profoundly secular. This does not mean that Alevi people are all the same, far from it. Whilst it is necessary to make the caveat that the situation is extremely fluid, there are those who embrace secularism enthusiastically, so much so that they wish no longer to regard their culture as a religion at all, rather as a moral ethic to help guide their everyday existence within the Republic. These may regard 'Aleviness' as being henceforth unnecessary as a separate or distinct category. There are those who, whilst accepting the Republic, wish to maintain closer contact with their traditions within a sharply secular nation: these people are likely to be active members of the political left. It is perhaps the smallest distinct group that seeks more explicit recognition. For instance, CEM Vakfi, led by an Alevi religious figure, wishes to make the government teach 'Aleviness' explicitly, basing its argument on the political principle 'no 1 Eg. The Economist, 17 April 1999: editorial, or The Wall Street Journal, 4 May 1999: article by Hugh Pope.

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taxation without representation'. These people are likely to regret the social change that has been forced on to their communities, and wish for something that they might refer to as 'traditional' Alevi values, though as their leaders have rarely spent much time in Alevi villages, they are unlikely to be so at all. 1

Varying belief As researchers, what sort of language should we use to discuss this diverse social change? To imply that social change among the Alevis is predominantly a religious reformulation is mistaken. This is not meant to imply that the Alevis have become 'unbelievers' something which would distress and irritate many of their members. Nevertheless, the shift undergone by the majority appears rather akin to that which Christianity has undergone in Europe: most Alevis predominantly experience their music and dance as a cultural rather than a religious experience; roughly akin, for example, to attending a Mozart requiem or a Bach cantata in a cathedral, an event not primarily motivated by religion, regardless of the music's original social function. In spite of this emergence of what appears to be a secular moral humanism, there is an increasing sense among those who study the Alevis that their 'predicament' should be linked with that of the Kurds in the east; casting them as a deprived minority that are being deprived of their religious rights within the Republic. 2 This is precisely the 'culturalism' against which I am attempting to warn in the study of Turkey. Precisely who is being 'deprived' of their rights? It is worth re-iterating that, first, within the antisecular/secular divide, described above as being so important and so significant, yet overlooked, the Turkish Alevis have almost in their entirety come out in favour of the founding Kemalist reforms. They have conspicuously resisted open calls from the Welfare and now the Virtue Party to re-identify themselves primarily a religious minority. Secondly, when the immense and growing heterogeneity of the Alevi population is taken on board, it is only the minority who are seeking reaffirmation of their traditions through explicit acknowledgement from the state. Of course, they wish to be free to act as they wish: this goes for any population, but the majority have no desire whatsoever to be recast a millet either by their traditional religious figures or by well-wishing advisers in international academic and institutional 1 2

See Shankland (1998), reprinted as Chapter 7 in this volume. See, for example, Yavuz (1999).

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politics. It would be a tragedy if, the Republic having escaped much of the bloody conflict between sectarian m o v e m e n t s that was prevalent in the Ottoman Empire, we as researchers were to contribute to it now through misplaced wholesale attribution of characteristics where, in fact, n o such unanimity exists.

REFERENCES Shankland, D. 1998 'Anthropology and Ethnicity: The place of Ethnography in the New Alevi Movement', in Alevi Identity, edited by T. Olsson, E. Özdalga, and C. Raudvere. Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul, transactions, 8; 15-23. Shankland, D. 1999 Islam and Society in Turkey, Huntington: Eothen Press. Tapper N. and Tapper, R. 1987 'Thank God We're Secular! Aspects of Fundamentalism in a Turkish T o w n ' , in Aspects of Religious Fundamentalism, edited by L. Caplan. London; Macmillan, 51-78. Yavuz, M. 1999 'Media Identities for Alevis and Kurds in Turkey', in New Media in the Muslim World: The Emerging Public Sphere, edited by Dale F. Eickelman and Jon W. Anderson. Bloomington: Indiana University Press; 180-197.

9. THE OPEN SOCIETY AND TURKEY: ETHNOGRAPHIC EXAMPLE FROM TURKEY

AN

The Open Society and its Enemies has been largely ignored by the modern anthropological community in Britain. Superficially, perhaps, this is surprising because many of the themes that Popper covers in his great work are entirely familiar to anthropology, amongst them social control, ideology, hierarchy, power, religion and caste. Yet, the differences in approach are also profound. Anthropology has, for much of its recent existence, operated on the premise that all cultures are equal, and therefore not to be judged. Individual practitioners have not quite, perhaps, always actually believed that from a personal point of view that all peoples are equally attractive, but they have certainly insisted upon the suspension of disbelief in terms of their disciplinary practice. Further, anthropology has not just subscribed to at least some form of cultural relativism it has also rejected any formal assumption that change is better: that the evolution of cultures over time can possibly lead to a form of life that is more beneficial than another. On a personal level too, many anthropologists (though of course not all) have been inclined toward the left from the political point of view: the brutal attack on Marxism that comprises the second volume of The Open Society can hardly led them to embrace its contentions warmly, even whilst they may have enjoyed its vigour. 1 Even leaving aside what might be termed inadvertent incompatibilities, there are also aspects of the text in itself that might be regarded as problematic from a methodological point of view. Popper believes himself to be concerned with general models of human society, but the work itself is largely a criticism of the writings of two schools of political thought and their implications. The societies with which they were ostensibly concerned were not accessible to Popper independently of the texts he considered; one was set in the distant past, and the other, however accurately it may have been observed at a distance, was hardly available to him for first-hand observation. There are further differences. The desire of anthropology to see cultures and societies as objects of study in themselves has encouraged a characteristic emphasis on micro-analysis and discouraged wide scale comparisons. Here, the exceptions for once really do illustrate the rale: thus the closely argued work of Hallpike (1979), Macfarlane (2001) and above all Ernest Gellner (1988) stand out in sharp contrast with the conventional pre-occupation for concentrated field-work that takes account of social change only as much as it impacts immediately on the community in question. On the individual politics of leading anthropologists, see in particular Goody's The Expansive Moment (1995).

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At least some of anthropology's scepticism, even if unspoken, as to the value of such abstract visions of human society may lie in the quite legitimate contention that almost no society can when it is actually considered in the flesh be absolutely 'closed', and indeed none absolutely 'open'. There will, it may be argued, almost always be possibilities for subverting authority in a setting that appears to be ideologically rigid, and conversely many ways in which petty tyrannies may be created and pursued in societies that are theoretically liberal. In the end, the ethnographer may argue, until a detailed exploration of Popper's political theories is set against the accumulated comparative ethnographic record, his account is no more than sophisticated but abstract textual or even literary criticism. At the very least, a more practical investigation would force a more nuanced consideration of the applicability of such terms. At worst, it might lead to major reconsideration of his views. Modern

Turkey

By way of preliminary illustration of such an exercise, here I shall content myself with a sustained ethnographic example drawn from fieldwork that I have conducted amongst the Alevis, a heterodox Muslim minority, who consist of perhaps one in six of modern Turkey's population.1 Turkey herself is, coincidentally, doubly interesting for such a study because in great part the issues that are raised by Popper's vision of liberty in social life have been an explicit element within the Republican national programme. The easiest way to clarify this point is perhaps through a comparison, albeit a very rough and ready one. Broadly speaking, in the United Kingdom, problematic aspects of the relationship between religion, the state and social control are no longer part of general discussion. Whereas throughout much of our country's existence to adopt a particular religious stance carried with it profound political implications, today religion is regarded as being primarily a cultural orientation, a private rather than a public matter. There is no active perception at all that religion in broad is a political threat, or indeed that it may decide our social order: quite the contrary the Church is regarded as a part of our culture that, for better or for worse, is in constant quiet decline, and whose influence is waning. Indeed it is this secular, but established social order that forms a quiet but insistent background in The Open Society, one that enables Popper to offer a vision of successful societal arrangements to contrast with the nightmarish 'closed' alternatives.

1 It is not usual for census in modern Turkey to take account of a person's religious background. For this reason, researchers and participants have relied equally on widely fluctuating estimates. For more on ethnic groups in Turkey, see Andrews (2003).

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In Turkey, on the other hand, the relationship between religion, ideology and the state is a live issue, one that is part of the very fabric of the nation, discussed, debated and unresolved. Constitutionally, the nation is secular. Sovereignty lies in the Grand National Assembly, and the laws of the land are made by Man, not God. For the Kemalist founders of the Republic, this secularism was just the liberation that Popper envisaged. It enabled individuals to contemplate their own relations with God, freed them from the crushing weight of clerics and the associated collective dogmas of a theocratic religious scholasticism that had prevented scientific and social progress. 1 Today, however, the early Kemalists' rationalist orientation sits increasingly awkwardly upon a population, predominantly Sunni, of whom at least a substantial proportion remains markedly convinced that it is an essential concomitant of belief that the rightful order of human society has been ordained by God, who shall judge and condemn those who have not conformed to His will. In practice, the uneasy dialogue between those who have been convinced by the internalisation of belief advocated by the Republican interpretation of faith, and those who desire that the state and government reflect rather than decide the structure of religious life should take has resulted in a long series of gradual concessions to proponents of orthodox Islam. Accordingly, since about 1950 (that is, the transition from a single party system to a multi-party democracy), there has been an increase in religious education, in places of worship, in religious literature, and in the budget of the Directorate of Religious Affairs, a process that collectively has resulted in a very marked reincorporation of Islam into the public life of the Republic. This revival has been matched by a gradual albeit uneven rise in political Islam, through the successive religious parties led by Necmettin Erbakan over three decades until the 1990s until the majority Islamist government finally gained by Tayyip Erdogan in 2001. 2 The impact of these changes on the lives of those who inhabit the cities and towns of the Republic is, remarkably, as yet almost entirely unrecorded. In broad terms, there are those individuals who express extreme disquiet; who note bitterly the rise in social pressure to fast during the Ramadan, who claim an increase in women wearing veils, and a corresponding decline in the possibility of expressing religious scepticism. As a whole, however, the secularist movement remains remarkably uncoordinated. What was, at the outset of the Republic part and parcel of its national framework 1 There are many accounts of the Kemalist revolution. The biography of Atatiirk by Andrew Mango (2000) outlines well his intellectual position. 2 For more on the re-Islamification of the later Republic, see Shankland (1999), on the rise of Erdogan, see the justly renowned work of White (2002).

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and remains theoretically an indissoluble clause of its constitution, appears from the outside at least, greatly weakened.1

The Alevis The Alevis, and their changing relationship with the Republic, should be understood against this shifting, uncertain ideological background. Traditionally a rural society, their interpretation of Islam is profoundly unorthodox. Of other Islamic movements, the Alevis are perhaps most strongly influenced by the Bektashis, one of the largest Turkish brotherhood movements. Saint Haci Bekta§ is regarded by them very often as their spiritual leader, and his tomb and monastery (tekke) in Kir§ehir, in central Anatolia, a revered place of pilgrimage. From the sectarian point of view, they are influenced by Shi'ism in as much as they favour Ali very strongly in their interpretation of Islamic history. However, their esoteric or mystical orientation is so strong that they may be regarded often by both Sunni and Shi'i alike as not, properly speaking, Muslim at all, and they themselves do not regard themselves as Shi'ite. 2 The extent to which the Alevis were a coherent community in premodern times is gradually becoming a source of debate. 3 Nevertheless, it certainly appears that communities resembling the Alevis were often persecuted in an Ottoman Empire that became gradually more explicitly Sunni, and viewed any Shi'ite influenced movements as potential traitors. This persecution is perhaps, in itself, sufficient to explain much of the strong support that the Alevis appear to have offered the resurgent Republican nationalist movement, a movement that was from its outset at odds with the centre of Ottoman authority in Istanbul.4

1 These issues are treated in more detail in Shankland (1999). I perhaps should emphasise once more the intended tentative nature of the general comments I make on secularism, and indeed more widely on Turkey in this paper. Turkey as a nation is both large and complex, and (as I know to my cost) it is extremely difficult to predict with any accuracy how events will pan out. 2 There is now a growing literature on the Alevis. I should make it clear here that my ethnographic material refers to the Turkish Alevis, and does not take into account the Kurdish Alevis, among whom I have not unfortunately had the chance to research. My own ethnographic account has been published in Shankland (2003). For work on the Kurdish Alevis, see the quite brilliant work of Van Bruinessen (2000). On Bektashi doctrine, the work of Birge (1937) remains definitive. For a comparative account of the Alevi place within Islamic societies, see the useful Moosa ( 1988), and for a good edited volume which includes many aspects of the Alevis wider relationship with the republic, see Olsson, Ozdalga and Raudvere (eds.) 1998. 3 For a comment on these issues, as well as a key outline of Alevi society and history, see Melikoff (1998). 4 The best account of the formation of the Republic remains Lewis (1961). For an eye-witness account of the stand-off between Istanbul and Ankara, see Ryan (1951).

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Even if, however, the Alevis' support for the Kemalists was at first pragmatic, there appears no reason to doubt that they found the emerging secular philosophy of the nascent Republic very attractive. They supported the Kemalist 'Republican People's Party', in effect a vehicle for Atatiirk's reforms, vigorously. This affiliation continued as Turkey entered multi-party democracy after the Second World War. 1 Then, many Alevis moved 'left' along with the Republican People's Party whilst the 'right' became characterised by a combination of those who favoured the relaxation of secularism combined with a greater emphasis on rapid economic wealth generation through the free market. The seriousness of this societal division between left and right can hardly be under-estimated: it resulted in something close to a civil war, and helped to trigger three army coups, the last and most serious in 1980, whose impact is still felt today. Whilst since 1980, political distinctions have slowly become less clear-cut, the religious opposition between Alevis and Sunnis has if anything intensified. It is not misleading to suppose that the partial success of the Republican programme enabled religious differences for much of its history to be occluded within ostensibly secular political orientations. In turn, one apparent success of post-1980 policies was that sharp political confrontation diminished. However, for many Alevis something of the left/right distinction remains even while becoming overshadowed increasingly by more overt discussions of political Islam, and its place in the life of the Republic.

The Alevis and the 'Open Society' So remarkably uniform has been the Turkish Alevi support for the early Republican programme that it is sometimes held that the Alevis have been in some way inherently secular: that they are a sort of nascent 'Open Society'. This approach seems to assume that the successful Kemalist introduction of secularism into Turkey reflected traditional Alevi village society so closely that its members did not have to change their communities to become part of the new nation state, but were already at one with it. I hold this argument to be absolutely false. It is entirely true that Kemalism found a welcome reception amongst the Alevi villages, and above all in those who regarded themselves overtly as of Turkish origin, but that compatibility is far more complex than it appears at first sight. In fact, 'Aleviness', Alevilik, taken literally, assumes the sort of cosmological concatenation between divine ordination, history, and temporal authority that lies at the heart of Popper's 1

For a helpful of this period, see the work by Cemal §ener (1982).

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conception of a closed society. In integrating so willingly, therefore, with the Republic and its secular ideals, rural Alevi society had to change very markedly. In effect, they become a most suggestive illustration of a transforming social process that appears at least to mirror many of the distinctions that Popper implies when discussing the contrast between 'open' and 'closed'.

Dedes and social hierarchy An appropriate point at which to begin our illustration is perhaps the question of hierarchy. In the Alevi village setting, both men and women vary in rank according to the status of the patrilineage into which they are born. The highest is efendi, and reserved for those who are descended from Haci Bekta§ himself. Where I worked, there were no efendis living in the area, and they visited only rarely in order to collect dues. Nevertheless, the villagers often showed their members great respect, and it was widely understood that the efendis could be used as a sort of court of appeal in the event of a serious quarrel. Pious villagers regarded them as being descended from Ali, and therefore from the Prophet Muhammed himself. The next rank is that of dede, who are often considered the local representatives of the efendis. Whilst the situation on the ground may vary from one region, and indeed one village to another, dedes typically preside over a series of communal rituals that are regarded as essential for the wellbeing of the community, known as cems. Without dedes there can be no cems, without the cems the teachings of Ali have not been fulfilled. This sense of interconnection extends to the temporal as well: unless all are at peace within the assembly, the cent cannot take place. If there is any dispute, the dedes may be invited to mediate. During the cem, his suggestions are aired in front of the assembled throng, and their ratification requested. Further, all lineages (whether dede or not) are follower (talip) to another dede lineage. The relationship between follower and dede may vary considerably. At the very least, however, a dede is supposed to visit his followers at least once a year to perform a ceremony known as the gorgu. At this ceremony, representatives from each household are questioned as to the appropriateness of their conduct over the year in a collective setting similar to that of a cem. If a follower is himself a dede then he cannot perform rituals for his followers until he has passed through the gorgu. In some areas, the gorgti is held in the autumn, and villagers are supposed not to plough their fields until the gorgu has taken place.

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Miracles This hereditary structural relationship is supported by the villagers' religious cosmology, wherein men are not all equal in the sight of God. It is widely accepted that in order to become dedes, a patrilineage have at some point in their past received a sign from on high, or keramet. This shows itself typically in the form of their ancestor having performed a miracle, perhaps illustrating their control over nature by making a plant or fruit ripen instantly, or a cauldron of water boil with only a handful of straw. A dede lineage may also, in their own right claim descent from famous or saintly figures in the Islamic world. The most important lineage in the region where I worked, for example, were regarded as being descended from the mystical writer Ibn Arabi, or Muhitin Arabi. Sometimes too, it is accepted that a dede lineage has been authorised by Haci Bekta§, and a practising dede may show a license stamped by the efendis at Haci Bektash permitting him to undertake religious leadership within the community. The dominance of this form of social life, which they also know as the 'Tarikat' way, is further stressed in their preferred religious text, a volume known as the Buyruk which they regard as being written by Imam Jafer. In a series of parables, this text the rightful order of society back to Ali, and to the commands of Allah himself. It extols frequently the absolute necessity of all in the community having a leader, and the consequences that arise if they separate from the 'way'. This has been of necessity a very brief summary. However, it may be seen that Alevi society consists of a three-fold hierarchy within a unified religious cosmology, supported by both text and oral accounts. These stress both the importance of leadership and subordination, and the supreme importance of the community being at one in accepting this message. Any lone voice, at least on public and particularly ritual occasions, is seen as a threat to the overall good. Indeed, dissent is by definition disruption, and may result in the exclusion of that person from the community, a punishment known as du§ktin(ltik). Just as Popper criticises with such anathema when considering Plato's vision of social life, the collective is important than its individual members, the community's maintenance ensured by a social order whose existence is enshrined within a philosophy that cannot legitimately be questioned without accusations of parting from the correct road.

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Opposition Yet, just as in any other society, there is opposition from those who find insistence on conformity and regulation, respect and peace irksome. Of the many ways that individual resistance to the collective weight of the community may be displayed some may, for example, become cantankerous, keep themselves to themselves, retreating as much as possible into the family house. From my discussions with villagers, it also appears also that those who found the closeness of village life unbearable in the more distant past, simply left. Sometimes, they became conscripts in the Ottoman Army. Sometimes, by their own account, they may have become freelance adventurers. Later, after the establishment of the Republic and the gradual onset of industrialisation, it is certainly likely that those most frustrated were amongst those migrated and found it possible to stay in the urban environment through finding work.1 There are also more structural forms of dissent. As already noted, the Alevi interpretation of Islam is profoundly unorthodox. They do not usually pray daily in the mosque, fast during the Ramazan, or go on the pilgrimage to Mecca. This gives rise to a continuous inner tension in that their distinctive form of social life rests upon reassuring the community that they are correct to reverse the usual practice of Islam, that to give priority to the mystical and hierarchical over the orthodox egalitarian practice of mosque-based worship is the true path, revealed to only a few. Such an approach is vulnerable, both within the community and outside, to those who assert simply that to pray in the mosque and respect the five pillars, as most Muslims do, is in fact a necessary and crucial part of the Muslim faith. In all the Alevi villagers where I have researched, there are stories of individuals, and indeed whole communities, who have come to doubt. Sometimes, they linked this to forced conversion, for example because of a Sultan passing through the region with an army. They told stories too, of missionaries moving into the Alevi villages, anxious to convert them to a more acceptable religious position.

Conversion and the Republic It is extremely difficult to be sure of the way social movements have developed within the village communities, and equally awkward to have to attempt to summarise brutally what surely is in reality a vastly more The comparative sociology of peasant communities is beset with pitfalls. Nevertheless, this sense of individuals simultaneous distrust and reliance on the community is well described by Just in his ethnography of a Greek island (Just 2000).

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complicated process. However, perhaps unexpectedly, in the area where I worked it appears that gradual conversion to Sunni Islam continued after the foundation of the Republic: that is, the dismantling of the Ottoman Empire did not immediately cause conversions to Sunni Islam to cease. A possible reason for this is that whilst the Republic instituted a sharp secularism it resulted also in a marked simplification Turkey's social make-up. Whereas previously, there had been many different religious groups, by virtue of war, population exchange and internal conflict, under the Republic the population became almost entirely Islamic. Fuelled by this, seemingly very early, a sense of being Sunni Muslim became as important as being Turkish in the inculcation of a national citizenship, enabling and encouraging even those groups who might have been rather uncertain of their past to plump firmly for an Islamic identity in their everyday interaction with their now fellow citizens. 1 What does, however, appear to have slowed down such conversion is the gradual polarisation of politics within the Republic after the 1960s. If my assertion is correct, it may be explained by the fact that voters began to be offered an alternative for the first time: a choice between a secular policy that deliberately minimised the role of Islam in public life as extolled by the Republican People's Party (CHP), whilst Sunni villages more in favour of supporting orthodox Islam through the state were able to channel their support through a succession of moderate right-wing parties. By declaring their membership of the CHP so forcefully, the Alevis gained access to a national political movement through which they were able to express an almost entirely secular affiliation with the nation and its modernising programme. This movement peaked in the late 1970s under Ecevit, at which point the Alevi villagers appear to have almost unanimously supported his blend of secular democracy, a movement that many activists felt was based on the Scandinavian model of state-supported affluence. From the point of view of the villages' internal dynamics, it appears that this internalisation of a secularised democratic-left vision often enabled a current of thought to develop in the villages that opposed both the dedes and the conversion of the Alevi villages to orthodox Islam. Coinciding with a rapid population expansion, it facilitated a generation of youths in their assertion that their voices should be heard in the activities of the community. As their political thrust was part of an expanding national movement, they were able to support their philosophical scepticism with access to the

For an extended discussion of this point with regard to the Laz of the Black Sea Coast, see the major monograph by Michael Meeker (2002), with regard to the Alevis, see Shankland (2003: Chapter One).

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expanding state infrastructure. This inevitably meant that the authority of the dede lineages came under strong attack, accused this time not of heresy but of being a feudal remnant. Likewise, the clear identification of the right with resurgent religion further slowed down any Alevi pro-orthodox Islamic movement. In practice, this impact of these conflicting ideas appears to have contributed toward great variation in the practice of religion in the Alevi villages. Depending on the respective strength of the different factions, some Alevi villages ceased to hold cems at all. Some of those who had moved partly toward Sunni Islam maintained an uneasy mid-way point between the two. Others again appeared to hardly hold religious ceremonies at all, particularly those communities who were dependent upon dedes visiting them from afar.

Culture and Religion The detailed analysis of Alevi political thought would naturally illustrate different approaches, from what might be regarded as mainstream Republican Kemalist 1 to various degrees explicitly more left-wing. Of particular interest here, however, is a particular nuance in the way an explicit cultural identity as 'Alevi' appears to have emerged simultaneously with the rise of the democratic, secular left movement. Indeed, the definition of 'Alevi' appears to have undergone a transformation, wherein its humanist, esoteric elements became emphasised at the expense of the hierarchical relationship with the dede. Correspondingly, an authoritarian, transcendent conception of God's nature gave way to an emphasis a forgiving, internalised deity who could be experienced through the self. One way in which this transformation was facilitated was through emphasising an aspect of traditional religious life known as edep. Edep is a shortening of a longer expression Eline diline beline sahib ol!, 'Be master of your hands, tongue, and loins', and often interpreted to mean 'Do not lie, do not steal, and do not commit adultery'. Whilst it is known throughout Turkish Islam, the Alevis differ once more in that they give this great priority: every person, whether man or woman, is supposed to lead their lives according to this edict. So strong is this sense that the Alevis sometimes

' There are many different versions of 'Kemalism'. Here, I should specify that the villagers mean most often an interpretation close to that of Ismet inonii, the second President of the Republic, for whom they have great regard.

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suggest that it is the very definition of what it means to be an Alevi, the Alevi equivalent of the Sunni 'five pillars'. In the traditional setting the edep philosophy of individually correct behaviour is set within an overall doctrine that applauds peace, harmony development of the inner self and quiescent contemplation of the divine mysteries, one that is integrated within the social hierarchy of inherited sanctity and a sense of an all-powerful community voice. Remarkably, as the sceptical movement amongst the Alevi community emerged, it appears that it is this inner 'soft' sense of the importance of individual behaviour that they came to stress. The religious setting, with its reaffirmation of allegiance to Islam, subordination to a dede was regarded increasingly as of little importance, even though individual sense of appropriate moral behaviour through the 'three Alevi conditions' remained. In this way, it was possible for Aleviness as a political movement in itself to give way to a bifurcation: politics became just that ie. to seek power on the basis of defined social policies, whilst morality became defined as the way an individual, rather than a social order, should be organised. The way that individuals make this transition, and indeed the extent to which they may or not accept it, naturally is immensely complicated. However, one way it seems to be described by the Alevis themselves is by referring to their way of life less as a religious path than a cultural one, using the word ktilttir. This enables them to listen to their music less a representation of divine mysteries than as a label of their particular orientation toward life, and leads them also to an increasing willingness for their rituals and ceremonies to be celebrated in public, often urban settings. Not all, of course, are in favour of this interpretation, but it does appear legitimate to suggest that this became the dominant social direction within Alevilik by the mid 1990s.

The Alevi revival A decade later, the situation is rather different again. So complicated are international cultural and religious movements that it seems almost inappropriate to offer any immediate summary. However, there appears to be no doubt that there is a revival of interest in the Alevi movement by the Alevis themselves, one that has taken place in such a way that have been difficult to predict at the end of the 1980s. In part, this is a reflection of wider technicological and social change in that the migrant Alevi community have produced an ever-growing number of books, and now web-sites charting their history, customs, predicament and desires. However, the 'revival' is leading

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too to a reformulation of the practice of Alevi religious life. Instead of cems being held almost casually, in a large village house, there are being built specialised cemevi, purpose-built buildings which are suitable for collective rituals and which are used also for the teaching of Alevi thought and music. Often such initiatives are led by civil society institutions, such as trusts or associations especially created for the purpose, and financed by donations from the community. This resurgence of Alevi thought is taking place primarily in the urban areas, amongst those who have migrated, whether to larger cities in Turkey or abroad. Indeed, there are certainly those who would regard Germany, rather than Turkey, as being the dominant intellectual force in the Alevi revival. Whilst this is partly true, in that there is a large number of Alevi associations in Germany, the pre-occupations, and the divisions between these movements reflect very strongly experience of the Alevis in Turkey. In particular, they are split profoundly between those who believe that the Turkish state should offer some aid to the practice of Alevilik as a distinct religious group within the Republic, and those who feel that the Alevis have to maintain a more oppositional perspective in order to retain their independence. That the movement should be divided is not at all surprising: indeed, it would be more so were it uniform. What is perhaps more so is that the Alevi revival has not only resulted in a growth in interest in the Alevis as a people, but also appears to have taken the form of a more explicitly religious reaffirmation of their own particular path. Whilst it is difficult to obtain quantitative figures, my impression is that it has led to some villages at least to hold cent ceremonies again where previously, in the 1980s and early 1990s, they had ceased to do so. Whereas for so many years, Alevilik was viewed gradually becoming viewed as a culture, its other face, that of an explicitly recognised form of Islam is increasingly coming to the fore. There are a number of reasons that could be put forward as to why this is the case. There is in Turkey as a whole a strong movement toward the reincorporation of Islam into public life. This means that in schools, in the work-place, in the civil service, it becomes difficult for Alevis simply to assert the fact of their citizenship in order to gain acceptance as a member of the Republic. Instead, as rituals, such as the Ramazan, become increasingly publicly celebrated their different perspective becomes more, rather than less apparent. This in turn means that a certain invisibility through integration into the urban life of the Republic is no longer easy to achieve. Further, as the more recent migrants to the cities from the villages seek work, they tend to settle in a cluster on the far outskirts of Istanbul. There conditions are often extremely difficult, and to the more mature members of the community, the

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social control that is part of the traditional practice of Alevilik does not look as unattractive as it did to them when they were younger members of the village in its rural setting. Indeed, for these older generation, the reincorporation of Alevilik is a way that the moral emphasis on correct individual conduct may be re-instilled, and they may attempt to insist on participation in the cem and associated gorgii rituals. Finally, the political Islamist movement now in power does not necessarily oppose this reformulation because whilst for some the Alevis will always remain not, properly speaking, Islamic at all, other Islamists are pleased that faith may emerge as a primary identity amongst a population who were more Republican in their public profile than religious. For those who had hoped for the success of the social-democrat movement combined with Kemalism, however, this is profoundly disturbing: one remarking to me that the Alevis have succeeded in 'moving the rural to the urban' rather than become modern citizens in their own right. The situation today is, therefore, both in a state of flux and extremely tense. It is difficult to be certain, or even express any firm inclination at all, as which of a number of outcomes are likely in the future. It is sadly, however, all too likely that direct confrontation will emerge at some point in the future in the form of a sectarian conflict. This may not happen, of course, and one must hope that it does not. With regard to the more specific question of the secularisation of the Alevi community, it would appear unlikely that the traditional Alevi practice of community, dede and follow will re-emerge in quite the same way as before: the diverse nature of the community, now dispersed as far as Europe, Istanbul as well as remaining in part in the villages, mitigate against such a homogenous, ordered way of life. The problems of social control, conflict, and the inculcation of morality still remain, however, even if there is no immediate solution.

Conclusion Leaving aside the potential disciplinary incompatibility between The Open Society and anthropology, has the consideration of an ethnographic example been helpful? In many ways, I think that it has. Almost any ethnographic study suffers from the problem of what might be termed historical uncertainty: my understanding of the shifts through which Alevi thought have moved in the last century may be in partially, or even greatly in error. Nevertheless, even viewing traditional Alevi society in the way that Popper might have analysed it, that is in synchronic terms as a complex social system that

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produces certain restraints on human behaviour, raises certain questions about relationship between tyranny and a 'closed' society. Alevi village life in premodern times appears to have been constraining, in some ways stifling, it is certainly 'closed' in the sense that Popper uses the term. However, it does not appear to have produced a tyranny. On the contrary, the delicate relationship between dede follower and community, the emphasis on harmony and reconciliation, the localised nature of much of the structure of authority, the existence of household based land-holdings: all of these mitigate against the total dominance of any one individual. Undoubtedly some men were powerful, even brutal. However, an argument could be made that Alevi society, albeit 'closed' from certain perspectives, existed as much to regulate power as to concentrate it in the hands of any one individual or group of individuals. Taking into account a more diachronic point of view, however, changes our perspective once again. Even in the brief space of time that I have been able to make a study of the Alevi community, it is quite clear that there have been fundamental changes in the way that Alevilik is interpreted and experienced. Unless my understanding is profoundly mistaken, at least some of this change has occurred through and resulted in shifting relations between power, ideology and authority. What was in the traditional setting a religion has at least for some been able to become secular, a culture. Morality itself, something that was regarded as previously literally true and necessary because of divine decree, has become (again, at least for some) replaced by a justification that draws upon social and humanitarian considerations more than those proclaimed by a divinity. This particular interpretation is only one, albeit an important one, it is true, and must be considered in the light of an increasingly difficult political setting that may cause reformulations. Nevertheless, it remains a crucial part of the modern Alevi movement. The example from Turkey, naturally, may not be immediately applicable in other comparative settings. However, in as much as it concerns the secularisation of a religious tradition, aspects of the situation are immediately relevant to The Open Society. The chief actors in that text are clearly the Spartans and the Hegelian/Marxists: the butt of Popper's wrath. Less emphasised, but still vital is the contrast that Popper makes between these and the Open Society itself. Whilst the 'Open Society' is for Popper many things: liberty, creativity, absence of oppression, amongst his supposition is that 'openness' is in some way linked to an acceptance of Christian moral values, viewed not as the word of the son of God, but simply as humane ways to organise social life. Whilst it is perfectly possible (particularly with the example of the Alevi s in mind) to concur that secularised morality that was once (but no more) enshrined in religion is a

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highly suitable way of leading our lives, the humanitarian concept of an individual that is morally responsible for their actions within society may be no more than a stage, a by-product of Christian teachings. If so, it may that an individualised humanitarianism is as precarious as any other doctrine, and its destruction may arise not simply through the re-imposition of a closed society but through the lack of any ritualised structures through which to inculcate that moral sense. Popper was of course aware of this, and it is perhaps why he maintained that kernel of 'untouchablity' in his open model in his depiction of the Christian west. The real world, however, is unlikely to permit such a convenient sleight of hand. Ultimately, it might be that nearly all human cosmologies are historicist in their assumption of the future being the inevitable result of an unfolding chain of events over which we have no control, yet equally obviously some seem to loose their power to intrude upon individual freedom without actually being rejected entirely, such as in the developed world in England (with its constitutional monarchy, hereditary Lords, and established Church) in the twentieth century, where Popper himself came to settle. Nevertheless, the comparative benignity of British society lies not just in the liberal freedom to question the existing constitution, but also in the extent to which its unquestioned assumptions are shared by the rest of the population. In the case of the Alevis, the level of social control needed in traditional society to continue required a level of universal lip-service to the authority of the dede and the voice of the community that really was unacceptable to many. They however, just as we in Britain, are faced with the uneasy problem of how to create stable structures to replace those that have been rejected.

REFERENCES Andrews, P. (ed.). 2003 Ethnic Groups in the Republic of Turkey, expanded edition, two vols, Wiesbaden: Dr Ludwig Reichart Verlag. Birge, J. 1937 The Bektashi Order of Dervishes, London: Luzac & Co. Hallpike, C. 1979 The Foundations of Primitive Thought, Oxford; Clarendon Press. Gellner, E. 1969 Saints of the Atlas, London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson. Gellner, E. 1981 Muslim Society, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gokalp, A. 1980 Têtes rouges et bouches noires, Paris: Société d'ethnographie. Goody, J. 1995 The Expansive Moment: the rise of social anthropology in Britain and Africa, 1918-1970, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gellner, E. 1988 Plough, Sword and Book, London: Collins Harvill. Just, R. 2000 A Greek Island Cosmos: kinship and community on Meganisi, Oxford; James Currey.

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Lewis, B. 1961 The Emergence of Modern Turkey, London: Royal Institute of International Affairs. Macfarlane, A. 2001 The Riddle of the Modern World, London: Palgrave Macmillan. Mango, A. 2000 Atatürk, London: John Murray. Meeker, M. 2002 A Nation of Empire: The Ottoman Legacy of Turkish Modernity, Berkeley: University of California Press. Mélikoff, I. 1998 Hadji Bektach un mythe et ses avatars, Leiden: Brill. Moosa, M 1988 Extremist Shi'ites, New York: Syracuse University Press. Olsson, T., Özdalga, E. and Raudvere, C. (eds.) 1998 Alevi Identity, Istanbul: Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul, Transactions Vol. 8. Popper, K. 1966 The Open Society and its Enemies, two volumes, London: Routledge, Kegan, Paul. Ryan, A. 1951 The Last of the Dragomans, London: Geoffrey Bles. Shankland, D. 1999 Islam and Society in Turkey, Huntington: Eothen Press. Shankland, D. 2003 The Alevis in Turkey: the emergence of a secular Islamic tradition, London: RoutledgeCurzon. §ener, C. 1982 Alevilik Olayi (The Alevi Phenomenon), Istanbul: Yön Yayincilik. Turan, S. 1994 Din Tacirleri: Bir Siyasinin Négatif Yiizü (Merchants of Religion: The Negative Side of a Politician), Istanbul: Utku Yayinlari. Van Bruinessen, M. 2000 Mullas, Sufis and Heretics: The Role of Religion in Kurdish Society, Istanbul: Isis Press. White, J. 2002 Islamist Mobilization in Turkey: a study in vernacular politics, Seattle: University of Washington Press.

10. GELLNER AND ISLAM

Of the diverse fields in which Ernest Gellner made his reputation, his work on Islam remains perhaps the most controversial.1 It is the one area where he has been dismissed, sometimes out of hand by his fellow academics, and that which is regarded as being most out of kilter with current understanding of ethnographic and anthropological theory. It has inspired rather little secondary analysis, certainly less than his historical writings, or his theories on nationalism. 2 Yet, North Africa was the only region where he undertook fieldwork in the conventional sense, and he retained a fascination for the ideas that he developed whilst there even as he concentrated upon his wider analyses of world social history. Certainly, no study of his intellectual contribution could be made without referring to his thoughts on Muslim societies. We are faced then with a problem. A topic about which Gellner wrote repeatedly, as if it held a significant, even vital place in his overall thought, is regarded subsequently as being amongst his least successful. 3 Why should this be so? Perhaps inevitably with such a varied thinker, the answer is not simple. In part, it might be because he failed to produce one, single work on Islam that might summarise his position in quite the same way as he did with his other theories. The closest perhaps, is the long first chapter in Muslim Society (1981). However, its allusive style mitigates against straightforward digestion of its argument.4 Lacking a straightforward representative text, even those who might regard themselves as being well-versed in Gellner's writings 1 This paper was given initially to the Prague Gellner seminar in November 2002, organised by Dr Peter Skalnik to whom I should like to offer my warmest thanks. The research in Germany described in this paper was supported jointly by the Humboldt Foundation, Germany and by the UK Economic and Social Research Council. o Thus, Macfarlane's recent volume (2001) is in great part a sustained dialogue with Gellner's theories of history. There is nothing comparable discussing his theories of Islamic society in such depth. The excellent general volume on Gellner edited by Hall and Jarvie (1996) for example, nevertheless is substantially reliant upon reprinting the earlier critical articles by Munson (1993) and Hammoudi (1974). 3 Amongst the many critical of Gellner's Islamic theories are Munson (1993), Geertz (1982), Hammoudi (1974), and Roberts (2002). The late David Hart (2000), in the last set of essays on North Africa published before he died, wrote that he had specifically turned to social history as a rejection of Gellner's position. Not all have been critical, of course, and it should be noted that Wolfgang Kraus has found Gellner's work accurate (1991, 1998), and §erif Mardin is a consistent supporter (1989). 4 At risk of introducing a facetious note, one of my abiding memories of being at Cambridge in the 1980s (where Gellner was at that time William Wyse Professor) was an ebullient North American Master's student going around his classmates challenging them to affirm that they had read the elliptical first chapter of Muslim Society through to its conclusion. I believe that his scepticism turned out to be entirely justified.

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tend to gain an impression of his theories from his summaries of his own position, such as may be found in Postmodernism, Reason and Religion (1992), or Anthropology and Politics (1994). These summaries inevitably render all the more terse the already sometimes rather concentrated prose.1 It is also the case that, in his theories of Islam, Gellner had the misfortune to enter unfashionable territory twice over. He relied upon the validity of a famous British anthropological insight, known colloquially as 'segmentary lineage theory', for his overall model of Islamic society, so much so that it might be regarded as essential to it. Yet, a whole series of writers over several decades believe that they have refuted lineage theory generally,2 and it is exactly on this issue that many of his critics, such as Munson or earlier commentators such as Hammoudi, have felt most confident in attacking him. 3 This almost unanimous assault has without a doubt gravely weakened the impact of his ideas within the anthropological fraternity. Gellner's work on Islamic society also assumes that there is a connection between a person's viewpoint and their place in the social order, a link that the earlier generation of structural-functional anthropologists had taken for granted. Such an assumption underlies indeed not just his work on Islam, but is entirely integral to his wider project, as for example a glance at The Legitimation of Belief (1973), or the later Plough, Sword and Book (1988) illustrates. Yet this approach is today profoundly unpopular, so much so that even those who, upon mature consideration, would not necessarily find such a connection illogical or inappropriate are not given the necessary intellectual background to appreciate that this theme structures much of his writing. Thus, the mere fact of his being part of an earlier generation in a field that has undergone increasingly swift changes has rendered many of those who come later confused by both the immediate complexity of his writings and their underlying presumptions.

Models There is yet another difficulty, though this time of his own making. Gellner can hardly be blamed for the intemperate rejection of segmentary lineage theory, or indeed for the success of fashions that he spent considerable effort 1 In contrast, the path of Gellner's thoughts on nationalism is far easier to trace, from the initial exposition in Thought and Change (1964), through to Nations and Nationalism (1984) and the posthumous Nationalism (1997). We lack such a sustained, separate overview of his thoughts on Islam, and so far as I know no such essay exists in any unpublished form. 2 See, for example, the criticism of Kuper (1982), and the later summary that he made of the debates in his Anthropology and Anthropologists (1996). 3 Munson (1993), Hammoudi (1974).

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trying to impede. 1 However, he has been faulted, and I think quite rightly, for working with models that are ultimately too simple. This, for example, has led Alan Macfarlane in a lucid recent monograph to explore inadequacies in his theories of feudalism. 2 It has also stimulated Roberts to point out that Gellner's approach to the social map of North Africa is rather too blunt. 3 Indeed, it often appears that Gellner assumes that tribal formations are the only significant social structures that operate outside the immediate authority of the state, and in Muslim Society, Gellner castigates Montagne quite unmercifully for the seemingly plausible suggestion that 'checker-board' moieties may be a significant aspect of the social life of the mountain Berbers. Most seriously, perhaps, Gellner's theory of Islamic society occasionally appears rather static. It does not consider the dynamic interaction of different religious groups within a similar region, trans-national aspects of religious practice, or indeed how Islam might fare abroad, outside its traditional heartlands (or indeed perhaps even outside the Maghreb). 4 Thus, though there is not the shadow of a doubt that interaction with other faiths, particularly in the context of migration, is a crucial aspect of the Islamic world, it is not immediately clear from his work how Gellner would approach this issue or the extent to which his approach may be generalizable outside its immediate focus. This list of problems, both deserved and undeserved, is indisputably formidable, and could even be extended, for example, by noting the ways that Gellner failed to take the varied history of Islamic countries into account. It might be thought therefore that Muslim Society must remain no more than a limited tour de force, one that will be difficult to take further, or for subsequent generations to build on. Nevertheless, this essay takes up the challenge through an ethnographic presentation of Turkish material, and specifically Turkish migrants in Germany. My study is very narrowly focussed — it would certainly take a much longer account than this to go through the possible ramifications and consequences of each difficulty for his

Fortes noted this in the foreword to a pamphlet aimed against segmentary lineage theory published by Holy (1979) through the Anthropology Department in Queen's University Belfast, when he pointed out that the only way that lineage theory could be dismissed would be to assume that the anthropologists who have reported such phenomena were either incompetent or wilfully misrepresenting the situation on the ground. 2 Macfarlane (2001). Paul Stirling, who both admired Gellner's work, and was briefly his doctoral supervisor at the LSE, was also fond of making this point in conversation. 3 Roberts (2002). 4 Already when Muslim Society appeared, its lack of historical sensitivity was noted by Vatikiotis in his Encounter review (1982: 68); 'Nor can it [the book] deal with the core area of Islam, especially during the Abbasid period, when the separation between state and society was complete by 850 AD'.

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theory — but I think nevertheless that it illustrates certain issues that go to the heart of Gellner's conception of Islamic society. In spite of the severe qualifications I express, I believe that it may be demonstrated, quite conclusively, that there is much that is valid in Gellner's underlying approach, particularly his assertion of the paramount importance of a group's orientation toward the state, of patrilineal social organisation, of the reciprocal link between hierarchy and ideology, and his emphasis on the relationship between faith, social change and modernisation. Even given its faults, I would hold his essay to be one of the utmost relevance in our study of the Islamic world and indeed its diaspora. The remaining part of this essay is devoted to exploring this point, initially with a brief exposition of Gellner theories, then a consideration of the Turkish ethnography itself.

Muslim Society A useful way to conceptualise Gellner's thought on Islamic societies is to divide it into two: his description of traditional life, and his vision of changes that may be associated with their modernisation or industrialisation. The contrast is sometimes questioned as being wrong-headed, with some of the debate surrounding the use of the word 'traditional'. This is, I believe, a red herring. The labels are not important. Gellner's point is that society is transformed radically as it modernises, in all sorts of different ways. This was one theme that he did not try to simplify overmuch. Nevertheless, in Muslim Society Gellner did present a very distinct set of ideas, depending on whether he was discussing the traditional or the modern or modernising Islamic world. We may sum these up thus: drawing upon a number of thinkers, he concurs with them that pre-modern Islamic countries are characteristically divided internally geographically between those who accept central rule, and those who would reject it. He also agrees that a distinctive attribute of those who lead their lives in opposition to central rule is that their societies are largely tribal, and that this collective cohesion provides them with the capability to withstand governmental troops, and on occasion even overcome them. He suggests too, that in those societies opposed to the central state, indigenous mediators may emerge whose right to judge is decided not on the basis of any formal qualifications but rather through birth, and that this birthright is governed by the patrilineage from which they stem. Just which patrilineage turns out to be 'mediator-producing' is not inherently predictable, but they are nearly always regarded as in some way appropriate to take on that role because of an auspicious sign from God. This gives rise to a neat circle: because the right to be a mediator is given by

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religious sanction, and the mediators themselves are also the representatives of religion, there is a mutual reinforcement of temporal and sacred authority that serves to strengthen and protect their position. Gellner found this picture of traditional social life within Islamic societies entirely persuasive and became markedly irritable when sceptics questioned the lineage-model upon which his description was clearly based. However, whilst empathising with his opinion of the sceptics of lineage theory, when the Turkish material is taken into account, it becomes immediately clear that his analysis may be complemented and refined. In Turkey, those groups who have in their traditional life expressed opposition to the state (whether Ottoman or Republican) often fall loosely into contrasting positions. There are those who are self-consciously tribal, rather large-scale and frequently even ostentatiously rebellious. These largescale tribal groups are, just as is often noted in the early literature, prone to a rather Old Testament sense of the right to pursue reciprocal revenge. This results in a rather unstable fission and fusion that may lend itself to mediation by lineages which stand outside the immediate fractious situation. Whilst not entirely so, such groups are typically Sunni Kurds, and occupy the eastern and south-eastern part of Anatolia. They conform closely to the type regarded by Gellner as being the only consistent societal formation within Islamic societies that is founded upon opposition to the influence of the state. In fact, there are others, still predicated in opposition to the state, still rural but quiescent, sedentary and divided into much smaller groups than the larger tribal formations. What might be called the social tone is also quite distinct. These sedentary groups draw upon a much more quiescent view of Islam than is envisaged in the segementary model. They are usually Turkish, but of a persuasion known as 'Alevi', and are profoundly influenced by the teachings of the Bektashi brotherhood. Here, whilst there are still patrilineal mediators, relations between members of the group are much more intimate. Rather than draw upon a philosophy of revenge, there is a strong bias toward religious quiescence. This has sometimes led commentators to assume that there is a direct connection between the Alevis and Christianity. 1 Whilst intriguing, such a historical connection is not immediately relevant here. What is important to us is that patrilineal dispute mediation is sanctioned by a powerful esoteric philosophy that insists upon peace rather than revenge, and that it is able to work in sedentary rather than nomadic societies that nevertheless predicate much of their social identity through their opposition to central rule. This contrast is summed up in the table below.

1

This topic is well-treated by Ayfer Karakaya-Stump (2003).

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Table illustrating different central rule in Anatolian Islam 1

forms

Type

Group in Turkey

Transhumant/nomadic/ tribal, in organisation very close to the segmentary lineage model posited by the British school (and Gellner).

Mainly Kurdish tribes in east, but found also in other southern and western regions in lesser numbers.

Very small scale dispersed sedentary communities. Patrilineal links important but localised, no large scale groups united by kinship.

Turkish Alevis, mainly found in central-eastern areas.

of

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to

Dominant religious and cultural philosophy Strong ethos accepting the idea that violence may lead to reciprocal employment of force, religion frequently expressed through acceptance of sacred hierarchy, knowledge often enthusiastic rather than learned, uneasy relationship with state, barely accepting central authority. Emphasis on small-group collective rituals accompanied by dance and music, dislike but tend to avoid rather than rebel against central authority, religious teaching is the prerogative of holy lineages who also mediate in quarrels, strong esoteric tendency leading to generalised affirmation of the importance of peaceful, neighbourly relations.

The Transition to Modernity It may be remarked that Gellner made no claim to be making an exhaustive catalogue of human social groups and that, therefore, neglect of this distinction is not significant. In fact it has profound consequences, and most clearly so when the transition to the modern world is considered. In general,

1 This table contrasts the Turkish Alevis of central eastern Anatolia with the Kurdish Sunnis of the east as described by, for example, Martin van Bruinessen (1992). Though this division is extremely important socially (Shankland 1993, Chapter 1), the overall ethnic composition of Turkey is naturally very much more complex than this (see Andrews 2002). In particular, it should be noted that the Kurdish Alevis may not fit in with my characterisation here. My hypothesis would be that, in such communities, there is a marked clash between the quiescence taught through 'Aleviness' and the more aggressive tribal ethos. I believe that there is some support for this idea, though I regret that I have not conducted fieldwork amongst such communities. Recent essays by Van Bruinessen provide a first-class introduction to Kurdish Alevi religious mores (2000). See also the earlier essay by Bumke (1989) which appears to support this contention.

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Gellner's argument puts him in the position of being an early sceptic of the position that modernity invariably leads to secularism. In Islam, he suggests that the growth of military technology weakens the capability of the tribal groups to compete with the centre, and that the rise of nation-states favours, rather than undermines, the emergence of a simplified, orthodox form of faith. The explanation that he offers to account for this emergence emphasises the possible fusion of belief in an almost entirely transcendent God with the bureaucratic, individualistic existence that is characteristic of life within a modern nation. This, according to Gellner, permits literal faith and modern citizenship to be reconciled rather than conflict with each other. Whether his account is entirely valid or not, it does contain an important and clear contention: that any esoteric, hierarchical, inward-looking mystical form of faith largely becomes rejected, leaving the field clearer for a much more puritanical, egalitarian expression of belief, one that may express itself in politically active terms. Both with regard to the Islamic world, and with regard to Turkey, this general contention is borne out. The esoteric, hierarchical aspects of faith were dismissed by the early, secularist Republicans when they sought to implement their modernising reforms. Instead they encouraged a rather sharp Sunni egalitarian Puritanism in which little trace of the rich and complex Sufi tradition of the Ottoman Empire remained.1 This emphasis is apparent still in Turkish Islamic practice today. There is also no doubt that faith is buoyant, and that despite the secular basis of the nation, religion has become increasingly prominent as each decade since the Second World War has passed.2 The more recent, triumphant success of the Islamist Party in Turkey, which came to power with a majority government in late 2002, would seem only to confirm again Gellner's predictions. However, there are also other currents of thought. The secular Republican model has convinced some people, who though they make up different and perhaps mutually antagonistic sectors of the nation, such as the moderate political parties, the political left, the army, the majority of working women, the dominant chambers of business, nevertheless constitute a highly significant proportion of modern Turkish society. Further, though there is abundant evidence to show that religious faith can be combined with wealth, the established middle classes in general have adopted a form of modestly pious secularism, one that their children seem cheerfully to have converted throughout the eighties and nineties into a consumer enthusiasm for music and enjoyment that leave little space for any but the most vague sense of religiosity.

1 See Mardin (1999). Gellner also touches upon this issue in his one essay entirely devoted to Turkey (Gellner 1994). For an account of organised religion's intensifying links with the state bureaucracy and public life since 1945, see Shankland (1999).

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There is also the case of the Alevis. It would be fair to state, I think, that despite any refinements that certainly need to be articulated, the main thrust of the reformulations that Gellner noted as being typical within Islam do manifest themselves in Turkey, at least amongst the majority Sunni population. Any disagreement would concern the level of shading, the respective proportions to any one factor or faction that one might care to give, arguments that might indeed rest in part upon one's definition of faith or secularism. The Alevis, however, are a quite different matter. Amongst their community, the changes that have taken place appear to be the very reverse of those predicted by Gellner. As they become part of the nation, far from stressing the orthodox aspects of their religious faith, the Alevis typically affirm the esoteric part of their creed. The 'five pillars' of orthodox practice receive less, not more attention. Here, faith becomes redefined not as belief in a supremely transcendent being who may only be appeased through repeated practice but sublimated into a sense of appropriate moral behaviour and justified by frequently offered assertions that a person's worth and the appropriate route to an inner God does not, unlike that of the Sunnis, demand any particular attendance at the mosque. It would be vastly too confident in our powers of understanding of social change to offer any exact explanation as to why this transformation has taken place. In my published work, I have attempted to link it to the changes that take place as the Alevi communities modernise, suggesting that as they merge with the outside world, the transference of loyalty to the Republican government weakens the patrilineal structures, the holy lineages, and encourages the dispersal of the tightly-linked small communities, and their face-to-face rituals, that they helped to lead. From the point of view of the individual, what appears to remain is a generalised sense of the importance of honest behaviour, conformity to which in itself leads to a sense of fulfilment of religious self-worth. Some individuals may encourage collective religious ceremonies taking place, but the compulsion that is part of village life becomes, in the urban setting, reduced to an optional attendance, even though the individual moral teachings of that esoteric faith remain. This is inevitably a blunt summary of a very complicated set of issues that are themselves changing very quickly. There can be little doubt, however, that modernisation has led the Sunni and Alevi Turkish populations respectively into quite different dominant ideological directions in their everyday lives. Whereas the political orientation of the Sunni population (whether Kurdish or Turkish) has since the commencement of democratic elections inclined toward requesting the state to take greater responsibility for teaching Islam, the majority of the Alevis have supported the Republican

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People's Party, Atattirk's vehicle for secular reforms. Whilst wider debates within the Sunni community have typically surrounded the place of faith in the modern world, and the possible reconciliation of science with divine revelation, those within the Alevi community have been markedly more sceptical in tone, questioning instead the worth of belief, or even the existence of God. The Alevis indeed may be said to be an Islamic community questioning literal adherence to any creed — not just at the political level but also often at the level of individual faith. They do so through an almost exact reversal of the cultural mechanism posited by Gellner, whereby it is the orthodox not the esoteric that is dismissed to a secondary role in their life and thoughts. Of course, no movement is static. Whether this is a permanent change is a matter that only time, and systematic research, will illustrate. However, overall, this development both supports and contradicts Gellner's model. It contradicts it sharply in that the Alevis illustrate a way in which the majority of an Islamic community have embraced secularism. It supports it in that the most important internal divisions within Turkish society turn out to be, just as he assumed, predicated upon whether a group is part of or against the government. Those who accept central rule, the Sunni Turkish majority, have followed a path almost exactly that he regards as most likely for Muslim societies to follow. The two main groups who predicate their existence independently of the state in traditional society have not. The one, the Alevis, has embraced secularism. We have not discussed the other, the Sunni Kurds, here. It may be noted though that as well as being known for their strong piety, they also produced a famous but violent expression of Marxist nationalism channelled through the PKK, a markedly non-religious organisation. Thus Gellner's overall appreciation of the complexity of the transition that these periphery groups undergo needs reconsidering. Nevertheless his underlying assumption that they in some way are radically different is emphatically supported even though the distinction 'against' or 'for' the state appears to reflect itself in the transition to modernity more strongly than he allowed for.

Migration and the Outside World The study of migratory movements would appear to provide a solid way that this ethnographic contrast may be evaluated and revisited. It might be argued, for example, that the Turkish Alevis' insistence upon supporting the secular basis of the Republic is no more than a logical choice in the light of the persecution that they fear at the hands of the orthodox majority. Accordingly

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abroad, in the liberal atmosphere of modern Germany, they may feel no such secular compulsion. A parallel case could be asserted concerning the Sunni migrants and the relationship between economic affluence and faith. If religious resurgence is no more than a reflection of perceived economic inequality, as is so often assumed, then one might then expect to find a gradual lessening of religious activism amongst the socially mobile migrant community abroad. There is an intriguing aspect to Gellner's position that, even though he did not discuss migrants at all, might imply that he would suggest the opposite. Albeit perhaps counter-intuitively, his argument appears to assume that self-identification with any egalitarian bureaucratic state apparatus through a sense of citizenship is enough to provide a framework for the maintenance of Islamic belief. 1 If this interpretation is valid, it suggests that integration with the host nation, even if nominally Christian, will not necessarily lead to a lessening of faith. This has awkward policy implications because it implies that successful inter-cultural dialogue will need extremely sophisticated articulations of what exactly is being discussed: a blanket appeal to an illdefined 'integration' will be very little likely to be effective because it will not address the relationship between multi-culturalism, secularisation and faith sufficiently directly. Or, to put it another way, if Gellner is right there is no 'hidden hand' that will assure secularisation goes hand in hand with absorption into European affluence. These of course are highly abstract arguments, even if fascinating ones. It is easy to forget how difficult it is to disentangle different causal factors, indeed that several different impulses may be taking place at the same time. With regard to Germany, where this research has taken place, the picture is further complicated because the relationship between religion and the German state (and respective Länder governments) is changing quickly and in part shaped by the complex special rules that govern the practice of religion in Germany as a whole. It is also the case that the vast and growing field that consists of migration studies in Germany possesses a preponderance of sociologists and demographers rather than anthropologists. This leads to a certain emphasis on macro-analysis, on comparative integration studies that deal with very large samples. Often the differentiation between Alevi and Sunni amongst the population selected for analysis is not noted in the initial design, rendering it extremely difficult to disentangle what may be due to 1 It is possible that explicit confirmation of this or otherwise may exist in Gellner's various published lectures and articles that appeared after the initial publication of Muslim Society. However, there is a simpler justification for this assumption in that Gellner needed the independence of the nation-state from any one religion for his argument to avoid being circular: if only Muslim nations produce the Islamic faith, then he has proposed no more than an infinite regress.

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differences between the two groups and what is more common to the migrant experience as a whole. Nevertheless, in order at least to begin the discussion, I discuss below the preliminary findings of a research project amongst the Alevi community that we have begun in Germany.

The Turkish Alevis in Germany The initial aim of our study is to trace the fortunes of the migrants who have emigrated from one particular Alevi village in Anatolia who now live in Germany. 1 This gives rise to an apparently initially rather small data set, about 90 households, but nevertheless, as a study, appears to possess certain technical advantages. One of the problems dogging the otherwise resurgent field of Alevi studies is an emphasis on cultural 'revival'. This has given rise to a stream of publications exploring Alevi traditions and 'identity', but led equally to other aspects of the lives of the Alevis being ignored. Everyday questions of social and geographic mobility, economic success, participation in associations, willingness to accept the sobriquet 'Alevi' become replaced by a blanket idea of a rather simple 'Aleviness' which vastly over-simplifies the complexities of their existence. By concentrating on all the members from one village, we hoped to be able to offer a much rounder picture of social life than is otherwise usual, indicating for example, those inactive, as well as active, within Alevi associations, or those not interested as well as those interested in pursuing their religious philosophy in their new land. In the event, too, any earlier fears that the sample might be too small were quickly overcome by the fact that, geographically, the villagers households in Germany are vastly spread apart from one-another, from as far as Munchcn in the south to Nordhorn on the Dutch-German border. Our problem has become, therefore, how to investigate even this comparatively small sample adequately, as in effect clusters of villagers have to be considered a number of different and disparate social settings rather than just the one that constitutes the village in its traditional Anatolian setting. Whilst it is premature to make categorical judgements on a piece of research that we hope will last for a sufficient length of time to provide at least cautious longitudinal indications of social trends amongst this community, our preliminary impressions are coloured by one factor in particular: the fact that overall satisfaction levels are extremely high. The 1 This project is conducted together with Mr. Atila Qetin. A paper given to the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology, Halle in November 2002, which appears as the next chapter in this volume, describes the methodological background to this field project in more detail (Shankland and £etin 2002).

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answer of any such emotive question depends of course how the query is phrased more precisely.1 However, it is already clear that work patterns are stable, with unemployment almost zero, and divorce rates are low. Nearly all who can avail themselves of the opportunity to become German citizens as changes in the law facilitate their doing so, and many of the villagers are beginning to buy their own homes in Germany rather than, as is so often noted in the literature, investing in Turkey. Sociologically, there are naturally many fascinating questions that may be investigated, such as links with the village and with Turkey, the maintenance or otherwise of kinship patterns, differential patterns of integration across generations, and so on. There are also, naturally, some persons who have not succeeded in forging a successful life in the foreign setting. These persons perhaps are worn out emotionally or physically, a few have returned to Turkey. Nevertheless, and even including the fact that not everything is straightforward, our enquiry is profoundly coloured by the migrants' overwhelmingly positive expressions of their life overall in Germany. Religion In as much as our preoccupation here, the reformulation of traditional religious life in the urban setting, may be summed up simply, it may be stated that once more the migrant Alevis continue to contradict Gellner's model of modernisation within Islamic societies. Broadly, whilst they debate their own traditions strongly, there is no mass movement toward Sunni orthodoxy. Instead, though they remain uncertain and divided as to the most appropriate way to maintain their own distinctive religious tradition, they support secularism firmly. The support for a division between state and personal faith is just as strong as in Turkey, refuting any suggestion that secularism is purely a rhetorical device to avoid repression. Further, it may be recalled that, in the Turkish setting, the Alevis possess hereditary religious leaders. Known often as dedes (lit. grandfather), they are responsible for teaching Alevi doctrine and take responsibility for religious ceremonies. Gellner assumes that such hereditary privilege is incompatible with modernity, causing such leadership by birth to loose

It is possible that such high satisfaction is a general characteristic of migrants' life in Germany. However, looking at the Alevi specifically, this feeling may be linked to the fact that the villages are a minority in Turkey, and therefore are accustomed to leading their lives in an environment where they are not the dominant culture. Occasionally, in conversation with the villagers, they have indeed put forward this explanation of why they should be able to cope with being foreigners within German society. Until survey projects distinguish between Alevis and Sunnis in their design, this will remain an important moot point.

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popularity drastically. Amongst the Alevis, such a shift has occurred, but only partially, and then in such a way that merits a brief explanation. Whilst historical trends can only be summed up with great care, the gradual politicisation of Anatolia within the modern Republic appears to have reflected itself within the Alevi community in certain discernable ways. Those who were most active in the Republican People's Party substantially redefined their traditional religious mores as 'culture', kiiltiir, and were opposed to the hereditary religious leaders. However, those villagers less politically active, and indeed the dede lineages themselves, appear to have been less clear-cut in their rejection of Aleviness, Alevilik, as a religious philosophy, and continued to give importance to the concept of hereditary leadership. This gave rise to an internal split within the communities that, whilst potentially serious, was in fact masked by a remarkable degree of ambiguity in the way that Aleviness could be celebrated. For example, even radical villagers would sing songs and dance dances that possessed clear roots in religious tradition, albeit in a secular setting, whilst dedes themselves were not opposed to drinking, music or dancing in wedding celebrations, and joined in willingly. Whilst the Alevis in Germany are profoundly influenced by events in Turkey, it would appear that this underlying division is reforming in a slightly different way amongst them. 1 In as much as an Alevi person seeks religious fulfilment or indeed recognition of their distinctive way of life, they almost invariably join or form civil associations, in Turkish, derneks. Such associations are dotted around Germany, in most towns where Alevi migrant workers may be found, such as Berlin, Essen, Koln, Bamberg or Miinchen. Gradually, however, many of these small associations have opted to join an umbrella association known as the 'Alevi Federation', based in Koln. All associations who take part in the federation are known by a similar sobriquet, 'Alevi Cultural Centres'. As the name implies, the dominant philosophy of this umbrella association is that 'Aleviness' may be understood as a culture as much as a religion. One of their most successful ventures is the organisation of a huge music and folklore festival evening in Koln, an event that was later repeated in Istanbul, which they called 'The song of a thousand years', Bin Yilin Tiirkilsu. At an everyday level, they publish a magazine, 'The Alevis' Voice' Alevilerin Sesi.2 In as much as they seek explicit recognition of 'Aleviness' from the German state, they do so stressing that it is a separate and distinct 1 Cf. a very fine recent article on the Alevi community by Martin Sokefeld (2002), in which he stresses this point. See also Tan (1999). 2 The full title of this federation is Almanya Alevi Birlikleri Federasyonu. Their journal, Alevilerin Sesi, is not easy to find abroad. However, they have a very informative web-site that may be found at http://www.alevi.com/.

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form of Islam, one that is not linked to Sunni or orthodoxy in any straightforward way. Indeed, they sometimes add that their ideal is an entirely separate 'church' that would be entirely secular, one organised along Christian lines, with a trained clergy rather than one that is decided along hereditary lines. Ironically, even in order to take part in this negotiation for official recognition, they have to redefine themselves as religious rather than cultural community in terms of German law. This has resulted in a leading member of their community, himself a lawyer, concentrating in his doctoral thesis on the necessary legal devices by which such proof may be offered. The wider Alevi community, however, whilst not opposed per se to the federation in as much as they feel extremely strongly that a failure to organise will lead them to be dominated by an expansive Sunni orthodoxy, are not nearly as strongly opposed to the concept that the hereditary dedes should be responsible for teaching religious mores. When they hold ceremonies around Germany, they still insist that dedes should preside. Those Alevis in our sample who sense a religious calling still only feel able to claim spiritual leadership if they themselves are from a dede lineage. Contrariwise, those who are dedes recall often their duty to the community, and agonise over that point at which they may be regarded, both in terms of their own path in life, and in the eyes of their followers, as ready to take on a moral and spiritual position of responsibility. Equally, these persons' sense of being part of the Muslim community is often less bounded than those who lead the federation's initiatives. They may, for example, simply regard their form of Islam as being a profounder version of faith, and not regard orthodox Islam as in itself illegitimate or mistaken. Politically, such a position may lead them to sympathise with a movement in Turkey known as the CEM Vakfi, led by Izzetin Dogan. Izzetin Dogan, rather than confront the Turkish state directly, is attempting to seek support from its treasury to maintain Alevilik as a religious path that is not incompatible with Sunni Islam. In Germany, this approach appears to receive its strongest expression through a breakaway movement from the federation known as the 'Alevi Academy'. Led by a dede, and based in part at a large Alevi association centre at Wiesloch, near Heidelberg, the academy seeks to train dedes in various aspects of Islamic and Alevi history so that they will continue to be proficient at leading the community. Whilst courses have newly begun, they have attracted support from known and respected researchers from the wider Alevi and academic body.1

1

The Wiesloch association has a web-site at the following address, http://www.wakm.net/.

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Any attempt to make instant judgments is naturally fraught with difficulty. However, considering the matter throughout the period of fieldwork, it appears to me in part that the partial survival of support for hereditary religious leadership amongst the wider Alevi population in Germany may be explicable as being due to a readiness amongst the population as a whole to secularise at an individual level, or to put it another way, to abdicate religious responsibility to others. It is part of Gellner's thesis, one that he notes throughout his writings and lectures, that in Islam a man is his own constant revolution, that every man is potentially an author as well as actor in the playing out of his religious life. Amongst the Alevis, this is not the case at all. Most men have no desire to see their traditions disappear entirely, nor indeed for religion to vanish, but they view it as the dedes' job to ensure that any decline is halted. Broadly speaking, this leads them to support constitutional representation so long as it has no power to interfere with their own everyday lives. A parallel in our society is not so far away, of course, in that many countries in Europe still possess monarchies that represent a community through hereditary principles without the power to exercise authority that such a position used to entail. I admit readily that this is no more than speculation. It can only be fleshed out by fieldwork over a much longer time frame. There are also, indisputably, complex undercurrents, such as the interplay between a sense of Turkish and Kurdish ethnicity that sometimes comes to dominate different local associations, that we have not mentioned here. Nevertheless, neither the movement by the federation to model their community on the German established church nor the insistence of the lay Alevis that the dedes should be encouraged and permitted to continue their duties in Germany, would appear to be anticipated by Gellner in his work, making the Alevis an exception to his theories not just in the traditional setting but also as they come into contact with modern Europe.

Conclusion To return, in conclusion, to the question of the Turkish Sunni community in Germany. Here, it would appear once more that Gellner's approach is more applicable. Recent research by the outstanding European Forum for Migration Studies at the Otto-Friedrich University Bamberg illustrates that satisfaction levels amongst the greater part of the Turkish immigrant community, whether Alevi or Sunni, appear to be very high. Their work, as well as other surveys, suggests that by a variety of measures and in spite of the undoubted problems of youth unemployment, occasional confrontation, and political controversy

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that may emerge, there is occurring a rapid process of absorption and integration. 1 Yet, if faith and belief are looked at more specifically, the evidence as to whether this broadly successful migration experience has led to the secularisation of faith is much less clear. Amongst such a large community there are inevitably enormous and widely differing views, but there would appear to be no doubt that there is a resurgence of belief within the Sunni community, one that centres upon the 'five pillars' and emphasises the place of the mosque at the heart of the community. Here again, the pattern that Gellner notes, whereby one single figure notable for his piety and distinct interpretation, leads the community is often valid.2 Usually, the centres of religious practice and worship that are so created and led by inspired individuals become embraced by one of the larger streams of thought within Turkish Islam in Germany, such as the Milli Gôriiç (supporters of Erbakan's political Islamic movement), Suleymancis (a brotherhood-like organisation of that name), Kaplancilars (followers of the Islamic revolutionary army founded by Kaplan), or mosques officially sponsored by the Turkish Directorate of Religious Affairs. 3 Here, whilst the socio-economic process of integration assuredly continues, these movements could not obviously be described as secular. The reconciliation between bureaucratic participation in a rule-bound, egalitarian society and activist faith appears to take place far better than the liberal integration model, with its presumption that multi-culturalist toleration is a natural concomitant of participation, would appear to assume. This rapid resumé is naturally at the expense of a nuanced assessment of the situation. Nevertheless, there would appear be sufficient evidence that Gellner's assumption that integration into a nation-state does not lead inevitably to secularism be further examined and discussed. It is perhaps interesting, finally, to pause and consider why the Alevis should differ so markedly from these Sunni movements. Perhaps, once more, the clue lies in Gellner, this time on the very first page of Muslim Society, where he notes that Islam has never had to 'render unto Caesar' in the way that Christianity has done. This is a little too sweeping a comment. It is certainly not true of the Alevis, who are indisputably Islamic and expressly sought quietism in the 1 EFMS maintains much of its research results on-line (www.uni-bamberg.de/efms). On a positive approach to integration, see also the recent summary published by the Turkish Embassy in Berlin Zar Integration... (2002). 2 See for example, a good description of the establishment of places of Islamic worship in Bamberg by Mihçiyazgan (1990). 3 It is always difficult in an article of restricted length to make general contentions. However, in brief the Turkish Directorate of Religious Affairs (a body with a budget larger than the Ministry of the Interior) even though founded with the express purpose of buttressing secularism within the Republic, now has such a dominant role in the recreation, leading and interpreting of religion that it is highly debatable as to whether it may be regarded as secular in any straightforward way. The other three movements (Milli Gôrii§, Siileymartellar, Kaplancilar) are founded expressly with a view to strengthen Islam vis-à-vis the state.

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face of the orthodox centre. Nevertheless, it might be this, sociologically speaking, that is the key causal factor that can help to trace why they have taken such a different path from the orthodox majority, and through breaking the rule bring it sharply into perspective. The Alevis possess today a desire to seek a modus operandi vis a vis the existing powers, whether they are in Turkey or in Germany, that envisages a separation of their culture and the state's rule. Yet, unlike the Sunni communities (or indeed the tribal communities with their sense of literal independence) the Turkish Alevis have rendered unto Caesar: they do not like central authority, but they have long ago sought to accommodate, ignore and shape authority rather than rebel against its rule. Nevertheless, the contrasting, mutually-reinforcing relationship between orthodox, Sunni Turkish Islam and the state makes it doubly clear how rare the Alevi case may be. 1 Once more, Gellner may have hit the mark in broad even whilst being too simple in the models that he employs. Infuriating though this may be, it strengthens our sense that there is much in his work on Islam that deserves careful and extensive study, both in the Muslim world, and amongst its diaspora populations.

REFERENCES Abdullah, M. 1981 Geschichte des Islams in Deutschland, Graz: Verlag Styria. Andrews, P. 2002. Ethnic Groups in the Republic of Turkey, 2 n d edition, with a supplementary volume. Wiesbaden: Dr Ludwig Reichart Verlag. Antes, P. 1991. Der Islam als politischer Faktor, Bonn: Bundeszentrale für politische Bildung. Bielefeld, H., and Heitmeyer, W. (eds.) 1998. Politisierte Religion: Ursachen and Erscheinugsformen des modernen Fundamentalismus. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Blaschke, J., and van Bruinessen, M. 1985. Islam und Politik in der Türkei. Jahrbuch zur Geschichte und Gesellschaft des Vorderen und Mittleren Orients 1984. Berlin: Express Edition. Bumke, P. 2002. The Kurdish Alevis: boundaries and perceptions. In Andrews, P., Ethnic Groups in the Republic of Turkey (vol. 1, pp. 510-519). Wiesbaden: Dr Ludwig Reichart Verlag. Donnan, H. (ed.) 2002. Interpreting Islam. London: Sage. Fuller, S. 2000. Thomas Kuhn. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Geertz, E 1982. Review of Gellner's Muslim Society. New York Review of Books, May 27:25.

1 Aspects of these movements have been described in many publications. See Abdullah (1991), Antes (1991), Beefed and Heitmeyer (1998), Heine (1997), Jonker (1999), Karaka§oglu-Aydin (1996), Lemmen (1998), and in particular the works of Schiffauer, eg. (1991, 2000).

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Gellner, E. 1964 Thought and Change. London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson. Gellner, E. 1969 Saints of the Atlas. London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson. Gellner, E. 1973 The Legitimation of Belief. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Gellner, E. 1981 Muslim Society. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gellner, E. 1984 Nations and Nationalism. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Gellner, E. 1988 Plough, Sword and Book. London: Collins Harvill. Gellner, E. 1992 Postmodernism, Reason and Religion. London: Routledge. Gellner, E. 1994 The New Circle of Equity. In Hann, C. (ed.), When History Accelerates, London: Athlone, 229-237. Gellner, E. 1995 Anthropology and Politics. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Gellner, E. 1997 Nationalism. London: Phoenix. Gellner, E. (ed.) 1985 Islamic Dilemmas, The Hague: Mouton. Gellner, E., and Micaud C. (eds.) 1973 Arabs and Berbers, from Tribe to Nation, London: Duckworth. Hall, J., and Jarvie I. (eds.) 1996 The Social Philosophy of Ernest Gellner, Amsterdam: Rodopi. Hammoudi, A. 1974 'Segmentarité, stratification sociale, pouvoir politique et sainteté: réflexions sur les thèses de Gellner', Hesperis 15: 147-180. Hann, C. (ed.) 1994 When History Accelerates. London: Athlone. Hart, D. 2000 Tribe and Society in Rural Morocco. London: Frank Cass. Heine, P. 1997 Halbmond über Deutschen Dächern: Muslimisches Leben in unserem Land, München: List Verlag. Holy, L. (ed.) 1979 Segmentary Lineage Systems Reconsidered, Queen's University Papers in Social Anthropology 4. Belfast: Queen's University Press. Jonker, G. (ed.) 1999 Kern und Rand. Religiöse Minderheiten aus der Türkei in Deutschland, Berlin: Verlag Das Arabische Buch. Karakagoglu-Aydin, Y. 1996. Z w i s c h e n T ü r k e i o r i e n t i e r u n g und migrationpolitischem Engagement: neure Entwicklungen bei türkischislamischen Dachverbänden in Deutschland. Zeitschrift für Türkeistudien 2: 267-282. Karakaya-Stump, A. 2003. '19 t h Century Missionary Accounts of the Kizilbag Religion and a Discussion of their Impact on Later Treatments of the Subject, with Reference to Hasluck's 'Heterodox Tribes'.' In Shankland, D. (ed.), Anthropology, Archaeology and Heritage in the Balkans and Anatolia, or the Life and Times of F. W. Hasluck, 1878-1920. Istanbul: Isis Press; 329-354. Kraus, W. 1991 Die Ayt Hididdi; Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft im zentralen Hohen Atlas: ein Beitrag zur Diskussion segmentarer Systeme in Marokko, Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissen-schaften. Kraus, W. 1998 'Contestable Identities: Tribal Structures in the Moroccan High Atlas', Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 4 (1): 1-22. Kuper, A. 1982 Lineage Theory, a Critical Retrospect, Annual Review of Anthropology 11: 71-85. Palo Alto: Annual Reviews Press.

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Kuper, A. 1996 Anthropology and Anthropologists, 3 r d ed. London: Routledge. Lemmen, T. 1998 Türkisch-islamische Organisationen in Deutschland. Eine Handreichung. Altenberge: CIS Verlag. Lewis, B., and Schnapper, D. (eds.) 1994 Muslims in Europe, London: Pinter Publishers. Macfarlane, A. 2001 The Riddle of the Modern World, London: Palgrave Macmillan. Mardin, §. 1989 Religion and Social Change in Modern Turkey: the Case of Bediuzzaman Said Nursi, New York: State University of New York. Mihciyazgan, U. 1990 Moscheen türkischer Muslime in Hamburg: Dokumentation zur Herausbildung religiöser Institutionen türkischer Migranten, Hamburg: Behörde für Arbeit, Gesundheit und Soziales. Munson, H. 1993 'Rethinking Gellner's Segmentary Analysis of Morocco's Ait Atta', Man 28 (2): 267-280. Roberts, H. 2002 'Perspectives on Berber politics: on Gellner and Masqueray, or Durkheim's mistake', Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute (N.S.) 8(1): 107-126. Schiffauer, W. 1991 Die Migranten aus Subay, Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta. Schiffauer, W. 2000 Die Gottes-männer, Türkische Islamisten in Deutschland, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Shankland, D. 1999 Islam and Society in Turkey, Huntington: Eothen. Shankland, D. 2003 The Alevis in Modern Turkey: the Emergence of an Islamic Secular Tradition, London: Routledge. Shankland, D. (ed.) 2004 Archaeology, Anthropology and Heritage in the Balkans and Anatolia, or the Life and Times of F. W. Hasluck, 1878-1920, 2 vols, Istanbul: Isis Press. Sökefeld, M. 2002 'Alevi Dedes in the German Diaspora: The Transformation of a Religious Institution' in Zeitschrift für Ethnologie 127: 163-186. Tan, D. 1999 'Aleviten in Deutschland. Zwischen Selbstethnizierung und Emanzipation', in Jonker, G. (ed.), Kern und Rand. Religiose Minderheiten aus der Türkei in Deutschland, Berlin: Verlag Das Arabische Buch; 65-90. Van Bruinessen, M. 1992 Agha, Shaikh, and State, London: Zed Books. Van Bruinessen, M. 2000 Mullas, Sufts and Heretics: The Role of Religion in Kurdish Society, Istanbul: Isis Press. Vatikiotis, P. 1982 Review of Gellner's Muslim Society, Encounter 58, March issue: 68. White, J. 2002 The Islamist Mobilisation in Turkey, a Study in Vernacular Politics, Seattle; Washington University Press. Zur Integration 2002. Zur Integration der Türken in Deutschland: Allgemeine Behauptungen und Ergebnisse vin Studien, Botschaft der Republik Türkei. Berlin.

11. "CULTURALISM" AND SOCIAL MOBILITY: AN ALEVI VILLAGE IN GERMANY David Shankland and Atila £etin

The material offered here is based not upon a completed research project, not perhaps not even one that is 'in progress' in the sense that this phrase implies an established path toward a conclusive result. Rather, it marks an attempt to collect ethnographic data on migrants that will complement a longitudinal study of a community that I have been looking at in Anatolia for nearly fifteen years, and, at the same time, the beginning of a long-term initiative to look at the gradual establishment of the Alevi, Turkish communities in Germany. That the project is also today, still ongoing, means our comments should be considered a series of working notes indicating the different possible angles that may influence the work's design. To give a rough indication of the time scale that we are envisaging, whilst that pilot project (as we shall outline below) took place throughout 2002 and into 2003, we reckon on perhaps five more years of further fairly systematic (albeit perhaps not continuous) research, followed by a final publication only toward the end of the decade. The research team is at present two, myself and a long-term colleague in the field drawn from the Alevi community, Mr Atila (Jetin. It has then at present just one "outsider" and one "insider" in its design, who should be judged entirely equal partners in terms of its execution and evaluation. The ideas that I put forward below represent our joint conclusions.

The 'way in' Just as any researcher instigating a new project, it was naturally incumbent upon us to search for a 'way-in', that kernel of an idea that would enable the enquiry to begin, and provide at least an indicative framework with which to structure any results. In this instance, the work of the late Professor Paul Stirling appeared to be particularly appropriate. There are a number of reasons for this. It may be recalled that Stirling was a pioneer in the anthropological study of Anatolia, one who provided an unusually clear and coherent picture of

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life in a Turkish village as it was in at the end of the 1940s. 1 As the years went by, he maintained contact with the village where he worked, and gradually became fascinated by what he felt was the chance to witness an "industrial revolution" at the very moment of its happening. In part, this took him into a consideration of the wider changes in Turkish government and society, in part too it decided him to concentrate on migration. He made the simple, but I think entirely valid, hypothesis, that by tracing as exhaustively as possible the lives of the members of one particular community over time, it would be possible to discern in a way that is otherwise extremely difficult, their fortunes as industrialisation progressed.

Migration and Social Mobility Stirling worked on this theme until his death in 1998. He did not use questionnaires, nor indeed tapes, which he felt were not worth the effort in terms of the time it took to transcribe, translate and evaluate. Instead, beginning with a rough template of the issues that he felt were most important, he made intensive visits to the community and collected his data through informal interviews. He was not alone in these visits - as well as a government representative, he was accompanied by several assistants, including in the later stages of the work Dr Emine Incirlioglu, who has written sensitively about her work on the project. 2 There is no need, perhaps, to summarise Stirling's conclusions extensively here. He was struck by the importance of using electronic media to compile, sift and present results, and from the outset of the project attempted to commission or utilise software that could be used with his material. Accordingly, though he died before achieving the final publication of his work, many of his conclusions and findings are available on-line, in a site maintained by the Anthropology Department at the University of Kent. 3 In spite of this, it might be helpful here to highlight a few aspects of his project. Initially, Stirling was pre-occupied by just how thorough, and far-reaching the modernisation project in the village has become. He had a clear recollection of his earlier work, and the appallingly difficult conditions of the villagers' lives. Then, in 1948, they were operating at something very close to subsistence 1

See Stirling (1965), Hann (1994), Shankland (1994). Incirlioglu (1994). 3 I have not given exact references for all Stirling's papers. They are available, along with a free-access database and his field-notes, they are available to down-load from the web-site: Paul Stirling's Turkish Village Archives, URL http://lucy.ukc.ac.uk/Stirling/index.html. My comments here are partly based too on the long interview held with Stirling (Shankland 1999) in which he discusses his approach, reprinted below. 2

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agriculture in very awkward and tricky soils to work. Within his lifetime, their lives had become immeasurably richer, even affluent in the sense of adequate comfort, warmth and nourishment. This general change was accompanied by an infrastructural implementation of roads, telephone and electricity that meant that, in many ways, his life in Britain was similar to that in the village. For this reason, he was extremely sharp with those who suggested that the Kemalist project had somehow "failed". On the contrary, he felt that its success was tangible and available for all to see. 1 With regard to the villagers who had migrated from the community, he made similarly incisive observations. Though they had moved to a number of different cities, including Kayseri, Antalya and Adana, he found that unemployment was low. He suggested further that there opened up very quickly a progressive social differentiation between rich and poor, one that was not present in the original, agricultural setting. In other words, he maintained that his material indicated the widespread presumption (one that, though perhaps with slightly different terminology is still present in much sociological thinking today) that underclasses emerge through poor peasants migrating into the cities and forming a static block confined by their structural position in the economy, quite false. This argument is enormously important when applied to the Turkish case, because it forces us to rethink the idea that the gecekondu with which so many Turkish cities are surrounded are in any sense a stable pool of poverty. There are indeed many poor, but many of these poor do succeed in ultimately bettering their position. 2 Property and Profession Whilst Stirling was careful, even scrupulous, to note that the complexity of social life makes all attempts at a causal explanation extremely problematic (see in particular here Stirling 1974) he nevertheless felt confident enough suggest two factors that may be of particular importance in explaining the success of the villagers as they migrate into the larger cities. The first is property. The villagers rarely possessed sufficiently significant sums of capital to purchase a piece of land, or house outright. However, joining the shantytown communities, they would first occupy a piece of land near a city through erecting a hut or temporary dwelling. Then building on that piece of land, they would construct a much more permanent structure, almost universally, a 1 See, for instance, the forward to the essay collection that he edited on Turkish villages (Stirling 1993). 1 See here the articles on the Kent web-site in general, but also particularly that entitled Labour Migration and Changes in Anatolia.

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concrete flat-topped apartment that could have further floors built on. Then, by putting pressure on the local municipality in exchange for votes, they would gradually gain access to utility services and encourage their tracks to be turned into tarmacked roads. Finally, they would equally pressurise the municipality into recognising their title over the land, legalising their situation. This enabled them in turn to construct larger buildings. Those who negotiated this process most successfully then had marketable property that they could sell if they wished to move into a better-established part of the city. This process relies upon a particular concatenation of circumstances: the respect that, in spite of other widespread upheavals, is paid to individual title over property in Turkey, the existence of powerful local democracies, the weakness of the bureaucracy in the face of political patronage (which means that it is readily open to manipulation by the political parties) and a nationwide but uneven expansion in utility provision (which creates an extremely competitive market for such services). In the case of the villagers from Sakaltutan, the village where Stirling worked, it is facilitated by a further factor. They gradually came to specialise in one particular trade: tiling and plastering. This meant that they were able to exchange information about labour markets, rates, and provided informal training to each other within the framework of an existing social network. That trade too, was particularly well chosen, because it contained the possibility of social and professional advancement. A man could, if skilled, courteous and hard-working, build up a good number of customers and himself rise from being a workman, to a team leader, to a contractor and finally perhaps himself become a developer. Thus, a fortuitous choice of profession combined with the wider social circumstances of modern Turkey, Stirling felt was able to explain why rapid migration may lead not to the emergence of class, but a much more fluid, differential picture of social advancement, in which some may fail but others may succeed.

Methodological

Implications

Just as in any other sociological analysis, it is possible to question some aspects of Stirling's work. He offers a rather too cleaned-up picture of life: it is certain that he was aware of the difficulties, corruption, bureaucratic complications and occasionally physical danger that life in Turkey (and of course other places as well) offers, but they do not appear in his written work. Though he was conscious that his work might appear rather blind to gender differences, he did not integrate that realisation fully into the presentation of his results. Again, and most importantly for our project, he did not look at religion at all. The villagers with whom he worked were exclusively Sunni,

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the majority group in Turkey. It is possible that the results of his analysis would appear rather different if the Alevi, religious minority is taken into consideration. Finally, he looked exclusively at migration within Turkey. He made one brief trip to Germany, but did not look in any detail at the villagers abroad. All this means that, in spite of the intrinsic interest of his research, it is not at all clear to what extent it is generalisable or even applicable in an international setting.

Borrowing Stirling's Model In spite of these potential difficulties, we felt that there remained advantages in borrowing Stirling's approach as a way to begin our project into investigating the lives of Alevi migrant villagers in Germany. We too, just as did Stirling, have begun to build up a detailed knowledge of just one, specific community in Anatolia. Our project too is concerned with modernisation, social change, and the integration of the village into the outside world. Just as Stirling's community they have, in spite of social upheavals in Turkey as a whole, led reasonably peaceful existences for much of the Republic. Relying on poor, subsistence agriculture, they too have not developed extensive cash cropping but instead rely almost entirely upon migration in order to enter the cash economy. There are therefore, sufficient parallels between my existing research and Stirling's to be able to benefit from his methodology and experience in instigating such a detailed micro-study. More than this even, there is one paramount factor that decided us to begin with Stirling's approach. He possessed the inestimable advantage that he was not, per se, interested in ideologies. Though he was fully aware of the importance of religion, of culture, and of ways to think about our human predicament, he did not regard them as in any way sui generis, as categories that could in themselves be studied independently of the wider physical attributes of what it means to be alive. In other words, whilst he was profoundly sceptical of Marxism, he shared its concern with poverty, with the treadmill of everyday, grinding agricultural or working life. Or to restate the point less emotively, he was aware that the villagers were Sunni, were Turkish, male or female, followers of the right or of the left in politics, but did not regard these factors with the same primacy as the fact of their simply

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being persons who had to cope with the everyday business of being alive.1

Culturalism This pragmatism is of immense importance in the study of the Alevis, which simply put, is increasingly dogged by an insidious labelling that might be termed "culturalism". The wording is perhaps not very important. However, what we mean by this is a process whereby the fact of a community belonging to a particular group becomes the dominant consideration in any description of their society, so much so that scholarship concerning them becomes circular: they are assumed to have something called "Alevi culture", this (and its reformulation, rethinking, discussion, and exploration) becomes the sole focus of the work, which is then published or discussed as an essay on Alevi culture that is intended, by implication, to represent Alevi society more generally. In other words the locus of anthropological fieldwork, at its inception devoted to a multi-variant exploration of social life, has become gradually narrowed until it is aimed at exploring one phenomenon to the exclusion of all others. Any attempt at moving away from this ideal type to looking at the more varied nature of individual experience is equally lost. We do not wish to suggest that "culture" is not important: it is often utterly crucial, and of obvious importance in today's world of uneasy shifting collective identities. However, the challenge for anthropology is to achieve an integrated perception, not simply to ignore all other aspects of social life other than that of culture.

The Alevis By way of a relevant illustration of this point, we may consider the Alevis, and the way that the study of their community has developed, both nationally and internationally. The Alevis are a minority in modern Turkey, consisting of perhaps 15 per cent (maybe a little more or less) of the country's population. Largely rural, they have for long been characterised by their separation from mainstream urban life. Partly this is undoubtedly because 1 In this respect, Stirling was very close to the Malinowskian model of anthropology, much closer than his teacher Evans-Pritchard, with whom he had a very uncertain relationship, perhaps indeed in part due to this differing view-point. Whilst Stirling was too sensitive to the use of language to use 'instinct' in any simplistic way, he certainly held (just as Malinowski taught) that some sort of universal individual biological drive: for comfort, power, sex, shapes societal institutions. Stirling's insistence on investigating where possible all the members of a small community is linked to that Malinowskian pragmatism, and again marks him off from Evans-Pritchard's greater readiness to work with ideal types.

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their unorthodox religious opinions led to them being viewed with suspicion, sometimes even persecution by the orthodox majority. Partly, though, it may be explained by the fact that their social organisation is largely predicated upon organising their own affairs as independently as possible from centralised rule. To this end, they have developed a complicated, shifting relationship with the orthodox tenets of religion whereby they do not so much dismiss such orthodox tenets completely as stress that their way is better. Inherent within that alternative "way" is the presumption that certain holy patrilineages (known often as dedes) have the right to mediate in disputes within the framework of collective rituals, rituals from which outsiders are excluded. These collective rituals, the specific path that the Alevis follow from the doctrinal point of view, and the inner, quiescent philosophy that accompanies this way of life, are sometimes known collectively by the villagers as "Aleviness", Alevilik, and contrasted with Sunnilik, "Sunni-ness" by them. Whilst the Alevis have often been noted in travellers accounts, featured indeed in missionary reports, even mentioned in a novel by Morier (1834) in the early nineteenth century, systematic research into their communities by anthropologists paradoxically grew less, not more at the outset of the Republic. The reasons for this are much more complicated than might appear at first sight - it is not just that the Republic was not particularly enthusiastic about anthropology into minority communities, but also that the emphasis in the modern anthropological world, influenced by the Malinowskian revolution, moved away from south-east Europe and toward Africa and Oceania at just this point in time. Thus, just at the point when anthropology reached its peak as an investigative discipline, not one major study of the Alevis was conducted.1 Instead, interest in the Turkish Alevis in particular revived from within Turkey, where their ready embrace of secularism enabled them to integrate almost seamlessly with the Republican People's Party, causing them in turn to become known by them, and an object of heightened interest. This selfidentification with the secular Republic continued, and even intensified with the polarisation of politics, so that particularly during times of heightened religious tension, the Turkish Alevis voted almost entirely for the left. In turn, the rise of urban liberal intellectuals of a radical persuasion, some of whom themselves were Alevi, encouraged the further growth of an indigenous 1 The early study of the Alevi/Bektashi has net yet been exhaustively quantified. See however, the discussion of these issues in the edited volumes Archaeology, Anthropology and Heritage in the Balkans and Anatolia: the Life and Works ofFW Hasluck (Shankland 2004), which looks in particular at these issues through the work of Hasluck at the turn of the century, particularly Karakaya-Stump (2004). The articles by Crowfoot (1900) and Grenard (1904) are perhaps representative of this early period, though see in particular Melikoff (1998) for a general overview, and the still renowned monograph by Birge (1937).

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movement interested in the Alevi way of life. This movement intensified with the beginning of migration, both to urban centres within Turkey (and in particular Istanbul), and with the migration of Alevis to Germany, where a similar though perhaps rather slower process of identification of the Alevis with the intellectual radical left has taken place. More recently, and coinciding with the gradual introduction of electronic media, there has been a much more rapid expansion of Alevi studies, with now perhaps some several hundred titles available on the market. I have simplified a much more complicated historiography, of course. I have not, for example, mentioned the interest in the Alevis that historians of Islamic history, such as Professor Melikoff, have occasionally shown. Nevertheless, I think that the process I have outlined is broadly accurate. One of its consequences is that there is now a very close relationship between those from outside who study the Alevis, and those from within the Alevi movement who are interested in their own society. In some ways this is extremely healthy, and the small research team that constitutes this project is a case in point. Indeed, it mirrors the experience of anthropologists in many parts of the world, who have found far more quickly than they anticipated, that their results, thoughts and conclusions become the object of debate and discussion within the host community. However, just as any other social process, this may have positive and negative aspects. In this case, it seems as well as being so fruitful, to have encouraged a particular concatenation of western scholarship and indigenous revival that is, ultimately perhaps, not very helpful for an investigative exploration. Researchers from within Turkey are often preoccupied with illustrating the uniqueness of Alevi culture, history or religion, or have overtly political agendas, whilst those from outside fascinated by this revival, have increasingly been caught up with writing about this and little else. In other words, already pre-occupied with "culture" the movement of anthropologists and intellectuals in Europe toward the Alevi "question" has become centred on the public, reaffirmation of "Aleviness" that is encouraged by the indigenous activists, who in turn are both actors and subjects in the research material that is generated.1

With regard to anthropology in Turkey as a whole, it would seem possible to identify a shift, whereby previously professional anthropologists in Turkey consisted of persons from established urban families going to look at rural life, whereas at least with regard to Alevi studies, many of those today interested are more self-consciously returning to the society from which their parents or grandparents came, in order to investigate a culture with which they can identify personally. For two important collected volumes that are relevant to these issues, see Olsson et al (1988), and Kehl-Bodrogi et al (1997).

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Why should this be deleterious? This development is not necessarily damaging in itself, but rather it does have highly significant opportunity costs because it permits empirical investigation to become so diminished within the anthropological programme. We have noted above that the Alevi communities' traditional social organisation in Anatolia is not terribly well known. This remains the case today, in spite of the explosion of works about them. Obviously, there are great differences, say, between Alevis from the Aegean, from Van, and from, say Amasya. However, there exists not a single study, not one, that has attempted a synoptic comparison of the differences and similarities in their different styles of life. A more fruitful or important field for anthropological research could hardly be envisaged. And, of course, as modernisation continues, and the traditional reliance upon networks of dedes lessens, and as indeed "Alevilik" becomes more codified the various, diverse ways in which fairly isolated societies have experienced Aleviness in the traditional setting will simply be lost. Yet, whilst we can claim to have no easy answers, from our own reading, and from our experience of travelling throughout Anatolia, we think that a pattern of systematic difference does emerge. Broadly speaking, leaving aside more modern considerations of ethnic or political affiliations, it would seem that the Alevi communities toward the east of Anatolia are less likely to achieve a synthesis with orthodox Islam than those further toward the west, and therefore more likely to regard state-led imams and mosques simply as an intrusion. They are also more likely to maintain a sense of endless renewal of divine inspiration (keramet) upon which holy figures may draw, in contrast again with the Alevi communities more toward the west, which sometimes regard firmly all such miraculous intervention as occurring in the past. There are also more technical questions to do with the differing affiliations between different holy leaders and their followers, which though interesting and may yield interesting diverse patterns, are perhaps more appropriate to a discussion between specialists.1 The almost complete neglect of this fascinating question is more serious than simply the loss of a diverse historical record that still, just, is available to be researched. The creation of a blanket Alevi identity has served too to push into prominence spokespersons for particular groups, who are not just researchers but also activist members of the community. It is perfectly possible, as Gellner has maintained (1984) that the creation of such historical identities is essential for the development of political consciousness, and in turn proto-nationalist movements. However, this perhaps understandable 1 A good introduction to the question of eastern Alevilik lies in the work of Van Bruinessen (2000). For a general introduction, see Andrews (2003).

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development has too the unfortunate consequence from the scholarly point of view of obscuring the voice of all those who are content to live in a more anonymous, universal secular life within the modern city, content to be persons within a broad national identity. In the case of the Alevis in Turkey, and indeed in Germany as well, there are certainly large number of individuals who prefer, rather than a revival or even the creation, of a political cultural movement, such a life. Indeed, they may regard its imposition of an Alevi identity as a reaffirmation of the tight social control that is typical of village life, and have no desire whatsoever to reencounter a process of collective labelling that they have succeeded in escaping from. There is yet another problem. Modern Alevi "culture", viewed as its rituals, music, poetry, articulate humanist philosophy is genuinely very attractive to the western scholarly mind trained to be gentle and thoughtful in all things. Though this way of life was occluded, deliberately concealed from outsiders, in the village setting, it has gradually become the dominant way in which Alevi society has come to represent itself to the outside world. In this guise, it is in its insistence on the separation between the law of the land and culture, profoundly secular. From this, however, it is sometimes maintained that the Alevi have always been secular, that there is something inherent within their communities that has permitted the separation from authority and ideology, permitting free discussion of both. This is utterly false. Just as we in the west, the Alevi communities had to learn how to become secular. In traditional society, the very basis of the social order lies in the fact that neither the dede nor the decision of the community (toplum) can be flouted with ease. Both these essential social institutions draw their legitimacy from the distinctive Alevi interpretation of the Islamic canon. That this link is now less clear, and has certainly weakened (most Alevis abroad are now no longer clearly bound to a dede nor to the decisions of a fairly homogenous community) means that Alevi culture has changed profoundly as it becomes reformulated in the migrant setting. To assume that the Alevis have always been secular (as even leading authorities on the Turkish issue have maintained on occasion in conversation) is simply to mistake the volatility, and the dynamism of Alevi society. Again, it is the insistence on culture as a category independent of other social considerations such as power and the social order that has led to this mistake being propagated. We could continue. In sum though, we have identified at least three areas of social life that we believe have been damaged by "culturalism": 1) we believe that there is a comparative pattern in traditional Alevi social organisation, but it can be discerned only with the greatest difficulty in spite

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of the huge numbers of those now interested in the Alevi issue. 2) That same "culturalism" appears to push all the people into one particular social framework, one that they may possess no desire to be part of 3) An over insistence on "culture" leads to its reification, and has led to a great neglect of the way that Alevi society and its ideas have changed over time, and particularly the way that they have been reformulated (and not simply translated) in the migrant setting.

Susesi: Internal and External Migration Taking all the above points in mind, we decided to design a project that would begin as simply as we possibly could devise it. To this end, we devised a loose set of questions that would aim at looking at the following broad three areas of social life: the first is broadly speaking demographic. We have attempted to conduct a complete survey of all the households in Germany who have moved here from the village, either directly, or from other locations in Turkey. This includes demographic information such as age, sex, occupation, and location, and also kinship and marriage links, language acquisition, length of time in Germany, citizenship, periods of unemployment and house ownership. It also attempts, in preliminary fashion, to gain some sense of the household's links with Turkey, and with their fellow villagers. Our second area of interest concerns more the overall context of life in Germany, their geographical and social mobility over time, the patterns of daily social life, of ritual, religion, and interaction with "civil society" associations, or political activity. The final, and most abstract, attempts to gain some more qualitative sense of the experience of the individuals in Germany, not just their integration in a simple way in terms of their being part of the labour market, but also their acceptance (or otherwise) of German society, and some attempt, however rough, at gaining an appreciation of their overall contentness. This household-based approach, obviously based on Stirling's approach, actually suits the situation of villagers from Susesi, the village that forms the subject of our research, rather well. Very simply, the villagers in Susesi appear to have pursued subsistence agriculture until about the 1950s, with some cash obtained through seasonal labouring on the Black Sea coast. Migration to urban centres began very rarely at about that date, and gradually accelerated throughout the 1960s, and then intensified in the 1970s, and 1980s. The village population reached its peak in the middle-late 1970s. Now, there are many households, perhaps two hundred, in Istanbul as well as more than a hundred in Europe, most of which are in Germany. Those households who have come to Germany tend usually to live in those cities still where the

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labour placement office located them on their first arrival. They are thus extremely dispersed, and whilst they maintain contact with each other, retain the stable marriage bonds and economic emphasis on the household unit that is characteristic of village life. Simply summarising statistical results is perhaps rather tedious. Indeed, we are still checking and rechecking our survey results. However, we draw some preliminary conclusions from what, after all, will be a body of empirical data that will form the foundations of our later research material. Extremely roughly, it appears that satisfaction with German society is astonishingly high. Whilst obviously aware of their sense of cultural difference, it was extremely unusual in any part of our work to find anger, or dissatisfaction with Germany as a social entity. Indisputably there are problems for some, even most individuals, particularly perhaps for adolescents who become faced with the difficult and even unwelcome necessity of choosing whether their household background, or a more obvious "German" culture is most appropriate for them. However, overall there is a dominating sense that regular work, a steady lifestyle and good relations with neighbours leads to better things, and that the above all others, the German nation has (at least until the recent economic slowdown have) solved this essential problem. This finding is important, because however much our later discussions lead to refinements and better identification of those complications which indisputably do exist, it provides immediate setting for the more quantitative data that we have begun to amass. Take, for example, the question of marriage. The Alevis are known as a highly endogamous society, but I have never found this true in any straightforward way. Rather, it seems that the insistence upon stability through a marriage bond leads them to value a spouse from a familiar background: it is not so much the question of "foreignness" but sociability that it is important. This issue is thrown into relief in Germany, because the migrant community here is faced with strong pressure from their relatives in Turkey to take members of the village, who may otherwise find it difficult to gain regular employment. Whilst this sense of duty does prevail still, those in Germany are increasingly attempting to resist such matches, because they believe that where one of a couple is from the village, and the other brought up in Germany, there develops a strong inequality within the relationship that puts enormous strain on the marriage. If this turns out to be a trend that is borne out by the data that we shall collect over the next five years concerning marriages, then it may mean that the vexed political issue of the extent to which those who do not speak German should be permitted to enter the country by marriage will perhaps (at least with regard

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to the Alevi community) gradually cease to become relevant because the community itself will already attempt to minimise such matches. Again, this sense of stability impinges upon the question of religion and "civil society". From our preliminary enquiries, it would appear that there are roughly speaking two opposing trends. Simplifying enormously, it appears that the great bulk of the migrants from the village for much of their stay in Germany have not actively sought out regular occasions for worship. They are not personally sceptical, but occasions for the collective ritual celebration of their faith have not been easy to come across for the majority. As against this, in the Alevi community as a whole in Germany, there is a powerful move to create a codified, scriptural form of Aleviness which did not previously exist in the Turkish village setting, one that will provide a suitable basis for training of school teachers within the German system. This is led by a small number of men, many of whom (though not all) are drawn from dede lineages, and channelled through associations dedicated to the maintenance of Alevi culture that operate in many different cities. As this development is at present still taking place, it is not yet clear how the links between religion and society will evolve. It may result in a structural relationship between religion and society that is akin to that in Christianity, or conceivably evolve into one more typical of orthodox relgious life in which the rhythm of both individual and collective life is explicitly brought under a sacred rubric. The situation is gradually evolving, in that the reformulation of religious mores leads to patterns of ritual that are markedly different from those in the village, but my conclusion at present is that the former is more likely. If so, it may help to explain why those who lead the associations have often found it extremely difficult to attract sufficient activists to maintain them. However, this will depend in great part on the situation in Turkey. As the villagers in Germany become separated from their village communities, they are less influenced by its appeals for help, financial and otherwise. Nevertheless, they are extremely worried about the re-Islamification, a reIslamification that is so markedly evident from the recent elections, and this in turn may serve to provide an impetus to their associations in Germany that otherwise they may have been in danger of losing. In turn, the secularists within the village community in Germany may feel that they need to support the activities of the moderate associations in order to prevent the rise of other, more orthodox strains of thought. The situation, at present so finely balanced,

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will be one focus of our work in the coming years.1

Social Mobility and the Alevis Turning back now to Stirling's findings, how have they been replicated in the German setting? Certainly, having begun this research I would now be less critical of two of his methodological points. It may be recalled that Stirling did not use cassettes, and in certain respects he appeared to fail to take women fully into account in his survey. We had hoped to improve in both these regards. However, in both areas we have encountered difficulties. The first is, at present at least, the villagers whilst delighted to talk (and will happily discuss their experiences in Germany for many hours) do not wish to be taped, leaving only a handful who are happy to be recorded in this way. We do not know whether this is merely a question of acquaintance, or whether it reflects a more self-conscious worry concerning their predicament as migrants in a foreign country. It might simply be that in any society, only a certain proportion of the population are comfortable with having their thoughts noted down in such a permanent way. Perhaps Stirling was right in believing that an exhaustive survey mitigates against extensive tape recordings. Secondly, Stirling decided that he would only take notice of women in his survey when they remained part of village households. In other words, when a woman married, if she left the village population to live with her husband, she left his data-base. However, if a women married into the community, then she entered his records. We had hoped to overcome this, and to trace the daughters of the village who had married outside, but this too is proving extremely difficult. Just as Stirling suggested, the patrilineal organisation of the society makes it extremely difficult to trace lateral links unless they are channelled through a male. Just occasionally, when a man has retained on good terms with his sister, or a father his daughter, we have been able to follow up such connections, but only on occasion. It still remains awkward even to trace the whereabouts of some out-married women in a way that is socially acceptable, and even more so to ask intrusive questions concerning their lives.

1 The work of the CEM Vakf_, though based in Istanbul, is likely to become highly relevant to this process even in Germany (see, for example, Dogan 2003). Amongst the many emerging studies on the Alevis more widely, the research of Sokefeld (2002a, 2002b) is of great interest, as is the centre on Ritualdynamik at the University of Heidelberg. This work in turn includes discussion of important German-based associations, especially the Alevi Federation at Koln. We hope to treat the relationship between the local Alevi associations, and this more overarching Federation in more detail in a separate publication.

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With regard to social mobility, perhaps the single most significant of Stirling's findings, there are markedly contrasting results. It will be recalled that Stirling noted two, interlocking trends. The first was social mobility through property, the second through specialisation. Within our results so far, the first of these trends is extremely marked, the second less so. It should be explained that the villagers are widely dispersed, living in Berlin in part, but also in Stuttgart, Köln, Augsburg, Koblenz, Essen, München and other cities, towns and even villages. Rather than gradually come together to form a large population in one of these cities, they appear to be settling within their respective diverse locations, often the same that were allocated to them originally by the labour office in the 1960s and 1970s. Just as Stirling suggested, there has emerged a marked economic differentiation between households, but it is reflected not usually through conspicuous success in business or through promotion within the factory or service industry where they work, rather through making a conscious decision to stay in their present employment and to buy an apartment, perhaps even construct a house. Those who have done so often have made a conscious decision to divert investments from Turkey, where in previous years most money was sent or used to construct buildings, and acknowledge their permanence within Europe. Those who have bought property are also those most likely to have at least one, or more, German citizens within their households. Those who have made this step, indeed, are those who express the most satisfaction with their lives within Germany. Yet, quite unlike the Sunni community that Stirling studied, there is no clean sign of economic specialisation within the migrant community. We have already noted that many remain with the work, or very similar work, to which they were first allocated. Their means to affluence is a steady job, acceptance of the system where they live, gradually building up good ties with neighbours and creating trust in the workplace. The majority are in manual or semi-skilled labour, and a few have set up their own business, such as a büfe or (in just one case) a failed dönerci. Curiously, the one family that appears to have accumulated significant wealth have done so through property: having become estate agents, and now possess substantial family houses.

Conclusion Here, we have discussed only part of the project. Amongst its aims are to look not just at the migration from the village to Germany, but also at the distribution of the entire village population, whether in Istanbul, Germany or other European cities. We hope that this will not just shed light into a most

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fascinating period of village history as its people emerge into the modern world, but also on the reasons for the villagers' departure. This too, will enable a much more nuanced picture of the migrants' lives in Germany for, whilst they are gradually becoming more independent, they are influenced by pressure and memories of Turkey, of the village, and of the very significant presence of the village in Istanbul. Even at the outset, however, this approach does seem to suggest once more the viability of a model of exhaustive fieldwork that was first mooted by Malinowski and, albeit at one remove, endorsed by Stirling, however it may need refining as the work continues. There is one final issue that, as yet, we have been unable to resolve. There are two variables that make the study quite different from Stirling's. The first is that the community he studied are Sunni, and ours Alevi. Secondly, he worked in Turkey, and we have only here discussed the migrants in Germany. If we were to compare Stirling's results with Alevi migration in Turkey, then a quite different pattern would emerge, and the similarities would be enormously less obvious. Whereas he notes a diverse pattern of migration, high employment, and steady social mobility through working in the private sector (just, indeed, as we have found in Germany), the Alevis in Turkey display a steady accumulation of population of only one, highly concentrated part of Istanbul, high unemployment, and much more limited social advancement. The one similarity between the German and the Turkish case is that in Turkey too, the Alevi villagers with whom we am familiar have no labour specialisation. Indeed the most usual, almost the only way, for Alevis in Turkey to find advancement is through the civil service or through politics (usually in the Republican People's Party or its successors), and not through the private sector at all. Any brief explanation for such a phenomenon risks sounding glib, but it would certainly seem possible to consider that much of the pattern of Alevi migration in Turkey accords with the gradual "ghettoisation" of their community through pressure from the Sunni majority, with the (at least in part) secular state providing them with some limited means of advancement. We could then explain their more stable distribution in Germany as a function of the comparative lack of discrimination against them. Why, however, they should in both settings fail to develop economic specialisations in the context of the modern economy remains puzzling. At risk of returning to a rather abstract analysis, it might be that the Weberian assumption of a connection between Puritanism and economic wealth is correct. This would imply, of course, that the Sunni Turkish community in Germany has been conspicuously more successful economically than the Alevis. Anecdotally, there does seem some support for this, but we should be delighted in the future to locate comparative economic statistics with regard to the Alevi and Sunni communities' occupational success in Germany.

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REFERENCES Andrews, P. (ed.). 2003 Ethnic Groups in the Republic of Turkey, expanded edition, two vols, Wiesbaden: Dr Ludwig Reichart Verlag. Birge, J. 1937 The Bektashi Order of Dervishes, London: Luzac & Co. Crowfoot, J. 1900 'Survivals among the Kappadokian Kizilbash (Bektash)', in Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, n.s. III, Vol 30; 305-320. Dogan, 1. 2003 Professor Dr. fzettin Dogan'in Alevi islam inanci, KültUrü ile ilgili Görüg ve Dügünceleri, edited by Ayhan Aydin, 3rc* enlarged edition, Istanbul: CEM Vakfi. Gellner, E. 1984 Nations and Nationalism, Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Gokalp, A. 1980 Têtes rouges et bouches noires, Paris: Société d'ethnographie. Grenard, M. 1904 'Une Secte religieuse d'asie mineure, les Kyzyl-Bachs', Journal Asiatique, dixième série, Vol III, 511-522. Hann, C. (ed.) 1994 When History Accelerates, Essays on Rapid Social Change, Complexity and Creativity, London: Athlone. încirlioglu, E. 1994 'Negotiating Ethnographic Reality: Team Fieldwork in Turkey', in Hann (1994), 255-275. Karakaya-Stump, A. 2004 'The Emergence of the Kizilbag in Western Thought: Missionary Accounts and their Aftermath', in Shankland (ed), 329-354. Kehl-Bodrogi, K., Kellner-Heinkele, B., Otter-Beaujean, A. (eds.) 1997 Syncretistic Religious Communities in the Near East, Leiden; Brill. Mélikoff, I. 1998 Hadji Bektach: un mythe et ses avatars, Leiden: Brill. Moosa, M. 1988 Extremist Shi'ites, New York: Syracuse University Press. Olsson, T., Özdalga, E. and Raudvere, C. (eds.) 1998 Alevi Identity, Istanbul; Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul, Transactions Vol. 8. Schiffauer, W. 1987 Die Bauern von Subay: das Leben in einem türkischen Dorf, Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta. Schiffauer, W. 1991 Die Migranten aus Subay, Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta Schiffauer, W. 2000 Die Gottesmänner: Türkische Islamisten in Deutschland : eine Studie zur Herstellung religiöser Evidenz, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Shankland, D. 1994 'Social Change and Culture: Responses to modernisation in an Alevi village in Anatolia', in Hann (1994), 238-254. Shankland, D. 1999 'An Interview with Paul Stirling', Turkish Studies Association Bulletin (USA), Vol 23, no. 1: 1-23. Shankland, D. 2003 The Alevis in Turkey: the emergence of a secular Islamic Tradition, London: RoutledgeCurzon. Shankland, D. (ed.) 2004 Archaeology, Anthropology and Anthropology in the Balkans and Anatolia: the life and works ofF.W. Hasluck, 1878-1920, two vols, Istanbul: Isis.

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Shankland D, and £etin, A. 2005 'Ritual transfer and the reformulation of belief amongst the Turkish Alevi community in Europe' in Langer, R, Motika, R., Ursinus, M., (Eds): Migration und Ritualtransfer, Heidelberger Studien zur Geschichte und Kultur des Modernen Vorderen Orients, No. 33, edited by R. Langer, R. Motika, and M. Ursinus, pages 51-72. Sökefeld, M. 2002a 'Alevism Online: Re-Imagining a Community in Virtual Space', in Diaspora, Vol 11: 85-123. Sökefeld, M. 2002b 'Alevi dedes in the German Diaspora: the Transformation of a Religious Institution', in Zeitschrift für Ethnologie 127: 163-186. Stirling, P. 1965 Turkish Village, London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson. Stirling, P. 1974 'Cause, Knowledge and Change: Turkish Village Revisited', in Davis, J. (ed.) Choice and Change: Essays in Honour of Lucy Mair, London: Athlone, 191-229. Stirling, P. 1993 Culture and Economy: Changes in Turkish Villages, Huntington: Eothen Press. Van Bruinessen, M. 2000 Mullas, Sufis and Heretics: The Role of Religion in Kurdish Society, Istanbul: Isis Press.

12. RITUAL TRANSFER AND THE REFORMULATION OF BELIEF AMONGST THE TURKISH ALEVI COMMUNITY David Shankland and Atila £etin

However much one may hope, or even insist, that a person's faith should not be relevant to the creation of a shared value system, it is increasingly obvious that religious ideologies, and their reformulation in transposed, or transnational settings is an explosive issue, one that will have to feature not just in work by academics, but increasingly taken into account by those in public life. The price of failure, and the systemic conflict that may result in consequence, indeed, is so great as hardly to be contemplated. Given the general importance of the problem, it is worthwhile to begin by offering some remarks on issues that, even if obvious, are still of great relevance. The first is this: migratory flows into Europe are often reflections of a much wider, irreversible movement from the rural to the urban. For many who are caught up in this process, their moving marks the end of a way of life as well as their incorporation into a new society. Not all rural communities are the same, but particularly those who do possess a complex or rich ritual life are unlikely to be able to reconstitute that complexity in the new, urban setting because the underlying pattern of life is so radically disrupted. Indeed, almost every aspect of ritual activity may be affected during the process of transfer and relocation: language, organisation, teaching, funding, presentation, the time and setting, and the proportion of the community who actively participate. One implication of this is that any analysis of ritual reformulation may usefully bear in mind the multiplicity of the change that is taking place. Another is that what is no longer practiced may be as potentially interesting as the more easily recordable manifestations of renewed activity amongst the migrant communities. Yet another is that claims of cultural continuity need to be treated with great caution: the modern anthropological emphasis on the way culture is continually recreated by present-day actors can hardly be more relevant than when considering the transformation and relocation of ritual. Further, even if spelling out this point appears to be hardly necessary, the question of the manifold differences between and within rural cultures, and the way that these may react differently to the modern setting needs to be considered explicitly. However straightforward or basic an observation this may sound, it is of absolutely crucial importance when considering the Alevi

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Turkish population, who form the subject of this paper. Whilst Muslim, the Alevis are of a heterodox persuasion. As their name suggests, they are influenced by a love of Ali, though they do not typically claim any Shi'ite identity. Instead, profoundly influenced by the Bekta§is, they prefer to stress the inner, esoteric side of existence. This leads them to a dislike of §eriat, or Islamic law, and, at least in the village setting, a marked reluctance to pursue the 'five pillars' which are a characteristic of more orthodox interpretations of the Islamic faith. 1 The late Ernest Gellner famously remarked that it appears to be a characteristic of Muslim society that, as it encounters the modern world, the mystical or saintly side of life appears to become attenuated, and the more strictly orthodox aspects of religion come to the fore. 2 This generalisation is, it would appear, by and large remarkably accurate, and certainly (even with many provisos) may apply to the majority, Turkish Sunni community in Germany. The Alevis, however, appear to illustrate an absolutely opposite direction of changing belief: it appears to be the orthodox, more formal side of religion that tends to remain in the background in the urban setting, and faith as a whole markedly influenced by a humanist interpretation of Islam that places the person at the centre of religious fulfilment. One consequence of this is that it may even be deemed that traditional ritual activity is no longer necessary, or even desirable, for a person to lead an emotionally fulfilled existence. In this case, at least amongst certain individuals, what we may observe is a translocation that results in ritual largely disappearing from their lives. It is possible, even likely that the Alevi reaction to modernity is replicated amongst other, similar heterodox groups within Islam, such as the Nusairis, the Druse, Ahl-i Haqq and so on. From this, it may be tempting, even exciting, to construct comparative theories of social change amongst heterodox or quietist Islamic movements; groups which are sometimes referred to as the ghulat sects.3 Nevertheless, it is important to be cautious. Any such potential sociological generalisation has to be tempered immediately by a consideration of the specific historical setting of the Alevis vis-à-vis Turkish society, a setting that also shapes the way that their communities are developing and changing in Germany.

1 Alevi doctrines are described in more detail in Shankland (2003). For background on the Bekta$is, see Birge (1937); on the Alevis, see Mélikoff (1998). 2 Gellner (1981). 3 For a comparative approach, Kehl-Bodrogi et al (1997). On the ghulat sects, see Moosa (1988).

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The historical setting This is hardly the place to reiterate the immense and complex endeavour that resulted in the formation of modern Turkey. However, summing up the, for us, most relevant part of this process, it may be noted that, whilst the country's population is in many ways remarkably heterogeneous, two dominant ways emerged in which a person's identity came to be formed with regard to the new nation: a sense of being Muslim, and a sense of being Turkish. All sorts of other self-prescriptions may at different times and different places be brought into service during a person's life, but it was mainly through these two ideals, and different combinations of them, that citizenship came to be celebrated.1 Though the picture is immensely complicated in detail, this has helped to give rise to what may be regarded as two major fault-lines in Turkish society. The first, and most important, of these is religious: that is, a division between those who wish the state to pursue Islam more rigorously, and those who are against such developments. The Turkish Alevis have willingly, even enthusiastically embraced the idea of a Turkish Republic, but they have been markedly more reluctant to subscribe to a public identity that assumes they are Muslim, in part at least because of the association so often made between being Islamic and the orthodox tenets of the Sunni version of the faith. This has facilitated their supporting the idea of a secular Turkish Republic, and they continue to identify strongly with the original, Kemalist presumption of a Turkey in which religion should remain a private matter.2 However, since this earliest formation of the relationship between religion and state in the Republic, there has been a marked shift. It is today the case that the state is involved with, and supports, the pursuit of Islam in a number of different ways. For instance, religious lessons are compulsory in all state schools. There are a large number of religiously-oriented special schools (tmam-hatip), and most mosques run also Koran courses for girls and boys. These courses, and a host of other administrative matters concerning the correct fulfilment of religion, are co-ordinated through a major institution known as the Directorate of Religious Affairs that has a total personnel approaching 100,000 persons and a budget larger than many ministries. This gradual incorporation of religion into public life has been matched by popular political movements too. Since 2002, these have culminated in a majority

1 For a more detailed outline of these contentions, see Shankland (2003; Chapter 1). For a parallel approach on the emergence of the Republic, Meeker (2002). There are several works in Turkish that outline this affection for Atatiirk, but amongst the most useful is still §ener (1982).

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Islamist government, the first occasion that there has been so since the introduction of full-scale democracy in 1950.1 Regretting the institutional, political and financial support offered to orthodox Islam intensely, the Alevis today may maintain an interpretation of themselves as a persecuted minority, one that was severely proscribed by the Ottoman State and today is faced still by the perennial problem of religious persecution at the hands of an intolerant orthodoxy. They may regret, for instance, the military coup in 1980, subsequent to which compulsory lessons in religion were re-introduced into the school curriculum. More recent events, such as the death through an arson attack of delegates at a folklore conference in Sivas, amongst whom were many Alevis, the emergence of religious terrorism, and the increasing number of women who go veiled in black in city streets have strongly reinforced these fears. These concerns, in turn, play a strong part in the way that the Alevis may reconsider the practice of their religious and ritual activity in Germany. It may lead, for instance, those who would otherwise be prepared to let lapse their traditional religious activity, seek to become members of Alevi associations or trusts, hoping therein to express their distinctive understanding of religion in a more structured, public setting than they would otherwise feel necessary. It is also the explanation offered by many Alevis for the readiness with which they are prepared to create a purely local association, one, for example, that will meet the needs of the Alevis in a particular town, and then link it to a wider 'umbrella', such as the 'Alevi Federation' in Cologne, their hope being that in this way they may gain greater representation at the national, and even international level. Thus, the specific fears of the Alevis in Germany concerning their future in the face of increasing Sunni oppression feeds into the already complex changes that have occurred in their lives as immigration and the process of integrating with German society continues.

Ethnicity The second great fault line in the Turkish context is the question of ethnicity. Throughout the history of the modern Republic most of its Muslim peoples, even if not originally of Turkish origin, have been able to reformulate a public identity as being Türk.2 Indeed, given the extraordinary mix of immigrant and indigenous peoples in Anatolia, this might be regarded as one of its greatest successes. However, this process has been noticeably less straight 1 Shankland (1999), for a more recent analysis, White (2002). ^ On ethnic groups in Turkey, Andrews (2002), on the Kurdish peoples, see Bruinessen (2000).

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forward in eastern Anatolia. Some, even most of those who derive from the region, have been able to develop a sense of being simultaneously Turkish citizens and Kurdish in origin, particularly those who have moved toward the western or central provinces, or successfully become part of life in the larger cities or civil service. Others, though, have not. This has led to the emergence of a distinctive sense of being Kurdish expressed as an alternative national identity, an expression that has also led periodically to violent protests, Marxist guerrilla movements and a counter-reaction from the state. Only a few persons in absolute terms, of course, have chosen such a violent path, but those few have often come into a direct clash with authority. This clash has in turn become the basis of a very large migratory movement to Europe, often on the grounds of political asylum. Even though the active numbers are small: there is no reason to doubt that a wider constituency of Kurdish Alevis identifies with the concept of an international left-wing front, with its anti-Imperialist emphasis, in a mild form. This in turn tends to provoke a division within Kurdish Alevism between those who are actively against any sort of traditional religion authority and those who seek to maintain it. The same contrast may be found amongst the Turkish Alevi communities, but it is not usually so marked, and they may find themselves caught up in this debate without necessarily themselves feeling any obligation to subscribe irrevocably to it. Thus, whilst there is a shared religious culture between the Kurdish Alevis and the Turkish Alevis, the reformulation of their traditional religious culture may not lead in identical directions. Turkish Alevis remain largely quiescent, often extremely loyal to Ataturk and to Kemalism, but angry with a Turkish state which they regard as being greatly responsible for a dangerous resurgence of orthodox Islam. Though equally distressed, Kurdish Alevis, on the other hand, are more likely to reinterpret the tenets of Alevi Islam in a way that legitimises political activism. This may lead them to seek redress through participation in a more direct or forceful way than would be the norm amongst the Turkish Alevis. Both groups may seek to open derneks, 'associations', or houses where religious activities, particularly the Alevi cems or 'reunions', may take place, but they may not see eye to eye in the way the associations should be run or managed. This in turn may result in uneasy cohabitation: a strong sense of mutual community in many respects, certainly a sense of shared faith, but at the same time a marked difference in opinion of the sort of activities that should take place, and the extent to which they should reflect 'radical' opinion. A simple, but often significant instance of this, is the fact that the different members of an association may take opposing positions as

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to whether it is appropriate to display Atatiirk's portrait. Those most actively or self-consciously radical may be vehemently against such a step, whilst most Turkish Alevis maintain an admiration for, and strong identification with, the Republic he founded. In the above general points, purely for heuristic purposes, we have identified various themes. We are acutely aware, however, that real life is, naturally, more mixed up: in deciding how to manage everyday activities, priorities tend to tumble in upon one another, and the respective personalities of the participants play a crucial role in how things will develop. Further, it should be underlined that we have noted possible trends among many: in reality, when life is taken as a whole, a person may assume many more complex positions and, indeed, may have friends and acquaintances across a very wide ideological spectrum without being convinced of any. In spite of these reservations, these impressions provide a very summary introduction to some of the dominant issues that concern the migrant Alevi communities.

This Study The above thoughts are stimulated in part by our specific study of a Turkish Alevi village in Anatolia, which has been underway since 1988.1 At the outset, Shankland's aim as a social anthropologist was to study the everyday life of the village, noting at the same time as much as might be possible as to the way that it was changing. Subsequently, the work has gradually developed to attain a markedly more longitudinal, and indeed international, emphasis. In order to assist with the project's increased scope, Mr Atila Cretin has also joined the research programme. This means that as from 2002, the research has formally had one 'insider' and one 'outsider', and the work will be published henceforth in our joint names. As the project stands at present, our aim may be said to examine as much as is feasible of the modern history of the village during the twentieth century, taking into account in doing so the social change that it has experienced and the way that it has gradually opened up to the outside world. 2 Whilst there are many ways that this could be approached, one 'way in' that we have chosen is to examine the destination and history of migration from

1 The main publication deriving from this work is Shankland (2003). Hann entitles this process suggestively When History Accelerates. This phrase captures well the sense of a community that, whilst always in a state of interaction with the outside, has nevertheless experienced a sudden, irreversible transition. See Hann (1994). 2

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the village, and its subsequent impact on the community as a whole. 1 This has led us to different parts of Turkey, and to Europe, in particular to Germany, where our work has kindly been supported by the UK Economic and Social Research Council and by the German Humboldt Stiftung. 2 As a result, in 2002 we were able to conduct a demographic survey that incorporated a very substantial proportion of the villagers abroad. This field research has generously been further supported by the UK Arts and Humanities Research Board, and it is anticipated that this part of the study, which will incorporate a wider sense of the changing patterns of the practice of Alevi religion will continue until 2007.

Migration and culture change When considering social and cultural change in the village, whilst there is no doubt that it has been markedly affected through outside influences that have not in themselves only to do with migration - one could think, for instance, of the introduction of new technologies, of changing government policies, of the introduction of democracy - some form of population movement appears inherent within almost any change. An obvious instance of this is the occasional stationing within the village of civil servants as infrastructural services (such as a co-operative bank or school) gradually have come to the community, or, conversely, when men from the village have been conscripted to serve in the Ottoman, and then the Republican, armed forces or when, as occasionally occurred in pre-Republican times, men would go to a local town's medrese to study. Even if one discounts these continual population movements, and thinks more definitely in terms of migration in search of work, it is important to realise that even here the shift to Germany is only one, admittedly very special, case. The villagers themselves remember clearly that they used to work seasonally on the Black Sea Coast, going particularly to Samsun. They say that this work gradually became available after the founding of the Republic because, after the population exchange with Greece, incoming Turks were given land by Atatiirk to work on the Black Sea Coast. Unable to reap or harvest their crops without skilled labour from outside, they offered work of 1 In this, we have been influenced by the longitudinal work of Stirling on social change and migration, see Chapter 11 above, also Stirling (1974,1988, 1993). 2 The Humboldt Fellowship was tenured at the Institute for Turkish Language, History and Language at the University of Bamberg, under the auspices of Professor Klaus Kreiser. We would like to take this opportunity to thank Professor Kreiser for his generous and unfailing support for this project.

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the sort that the villagers were able to provide. The villagers were also prepared to go in search of work to local towns if a factory had opened up that promised decent employment, or to work on other of the Republic projects, such as bridge building. Further afield, Istanbul was already early on an attraction, though in the absence of roads or transport it was said to take many weeks of walking to reach there. One man in particular, whose son later became mayor of one of Istanbul's larger districts, was said to be the first to go in the late 1940s, where he eventually found work as a gardener. A group of young men followed soon after, a departure that was said to be precipitated by over-zealous action by the local jandarma commandant, who had them beaten indiscriminately after they were accused anonymously of stealing a sewing machine from a neighbour. Though one of these men later relocated to Ankara, those who stayed in Istanbul settled in Bakirkoy, Zeytinburnu, and Osmaniye, now important districts of the city. Others later followed, working as labourers or workers in factories, as opportunity offered, resulting in a small but increasingly stable number of villagers living permanently outside the village. Thus, by 1961, when the question of possibly moving to Germany to work came about through the establishment of formal labour exchange agreements between Turkey and Germany, the question of migration to find work was not entirely new. Further, the village population that had already migrated provided a steady counter-point to those who remained in the village itself, and had a marked influence on the way the later more drastic migratory movements developed. Whilst the process of collecting detailed demographic data is still continuing, it already appears clear from our researches in Germany that those who later were able to study or work, even for a comparatively short period, in the city before coming to Germany appear to fare rather better than those who went abroad directly from the village. The free movement of workers to Germany stopped in 1974, but the village continued to experience migration, not so often to Germany, but to Istanbul. However, rather than the sporadic migration that had characterised population shifts until then, a very large number of whole households began to move. After the military coup in 1980, this movement accelerated, this time almost entirely to a shanty-town location on the outskirts of the city. By the time my own fieldwork began in 1988, many village houses were empty, boarded up forlornly. Many spoke to me of the wonderful conditions in Europe, where they had relatives. Others remarked upon the changing life of the village, and the way that migration had led to the loss of much of the excitement that derives from living in a vibrant community.

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In numerical terms, in 1988 the in situ village population consisted of around a hundred households. The villagers estimated that there were a further fifty households in Europe, and very much more than this already in Istanbul; perhaps a hundred and fifty. Whilst the ideal remained to move to Europe, with its promise of a regular income, the large number of villagers in Istanbul meant that, by that point, the weight of the community had shifted. Occasionally, a family would send a girl or a boy to Europe holding the marriage in the village perhaps, and then the couple departing back. More frequently, though, a household would gather up its possessions, rent a lorry, and depart to the city, where despite unsure prospects, they would hope to make a living amongst, at least, persons whom they knew well.

Ritual change and village life There can be no doubt that such radical social change operates upon the village community in a host of ways: the social order, economic basis of existence, understanding of the world outside the village, social relations, material culture - any one of these could form the basis of study.1 Purely, however, in terms of the reformulation of ritual, it is important to that it is usual distinguish in the village setting to distinguish between those aspects of communal life which are private to the community and which are outside intrusions upon it. There are different ways that this distinction may be conceptualised, but amongst the most usual is to refer to the world of the state, its officials, orthodox Islam and the practice of the 'five pillars' collectively as §eriat. The villagers contrast this with the inner world of tarikat, which includes their most important ritual celebrations as well as that collective body of esoteric lore associated with the practice of Alevilik.2 These are not usually discussed with outsiders, and until recently the central ceremony, known as cem or 'reunion', traditionally only took place at night, unobtrusively in a person's house. The organisation of these different spheres of activity is quite different: the state is responsible for the practice of orthodox Islam, as well as for the appointment and co-ordination of the services that are experienced by the village. In contrast, the teaching of Alevilik, is the responsibility of hereditary dede patrilineages who in turn trace their spiritual lineage to the Bekta§i brotherhood, and its founder, Haci Bekta§. Thus, a conceptual divide is reinforced by an actual division of labour within the community. 1 The most careful description of this complexity remains Stirling (1974). ^ See the ethnography by Gokalp (1980), on an Alevi community in the west of Turkey.

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In retrospect, an important challenge to this system in modern times appears to have occurred throughout the 1960s and 1970s, when a large rise in village population coincided with its much closer integration into the nationstate. One of the most important ways in which this integration occurred was through party politics. After the Republic was founded in 1923, the subsequent reforms were channelled throughout the country largely through a single-party system represented by the Republican People's Party (CHP). Whilst the village remained uneasy at any interaction with the state, they nevertheless supported the CHP strongly throughout the early part of the Republic. When the CHP in turn moved toward the left in the 1970s, the rising younger generation in the village embraced its modernising tenets enthusiastically, regarding at the same time the older generation and the dedes which they felt represented it as out of touch with the changing times. In some ways, this conflict appears forceful, a direct clash. However, it is also important to note that whilst this confrontation certainly weakened the existing authority of the dedes, and therefore the status quo within the village, in this case the criticisms of the younger generation stopped short of attacking the cent ceremonies head-on. Indeed, quite the contrary, during the intensifying civil troubles of the late 1970s, when the villagers mounted guard at night against attack by the right-wing local Sunni villages, the villagers say that the number of cems held increased, so much so that they took place almost every night. More subtly, many elements of Alevi musical culture gradually became pressed into service within a wider, national left-wing culture. The motifs in these songs certainly include contemporary references to political figures, but they nevertheless draw upon Alevi religious culture very substantially. It is worth considering the way that Alevi ceremony seemingly may be pressed into service in varying contexts a little more closely. The cem is the centre-piece of Alevi ritual life, a reunion that celebrates the giving of the secrets of life to Ali, and thus to the Alevi community, by God. The ceremony, however, is complex. It is at once a celebration of the sacred, a public discussion or interpretation of the Alevi approach to life and religion, an explicit reaffirmation of the community's social structure, a forum to resolve disputes, and a place of poetry, music and song. This complexity at once lends the ceremony great force, and also lends it to being articulated in parts. That is, different sections or motifs from the cem ceremony occur in settings that are not explicitly religious. For instance, one important part of the cem ceremony consists of the presiding dede offering an interpretation or commentary, yorum, on songs that are first sung by the minstrel, or a§ik. Particularly if the dede is well-known, this may last for a considerable time. The idea that

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reflective discussion and song may go together is paralleled also in formal secular settings, when a group of persons may sit together, drink raki (a strong drink similar to pastice), likewise with a minstrel, and talk. The word used for both gatherings is muhabbet: a word implying at once a peaceful collectivity, and also the possibility or evocation of divine love. Another instance of this cross-over between the formally religious and the secular, one to which we shall return again below, is the sema, or ritual dance. The cem may vary substantially in different parts of Anatolia. However, in this region, it is usual that two semas be danced. The first of these is the kirklar semahi, the 'dance of the forty'. This, perhaps the most important part of the cem, celebrates the giving of the secrets of life by God to Ali. A slow, sedate dance, it is conducted to the sound of the minstrel by older persons in the community, usually two men and two women. Following this however, is a dance that is known as the gonilller semahi, and is much more lively. This may continue for some time, and others join in turn. It is regarded as a pleasant way to end the cem's activities. This second sema may be danced not just in the cem but in other settings as well: for instance during marriages or when drinking with friends. Acceptable, even welcomed by those who wish to regard Alevilik as a way of life rather than purely a religion, it is a way that ritual dance may operate outside the formal confines of a religious ceremony, and occurred very often when I was in the village.

Drastic population loss The impact of the drastic population loss that occurred as the village community, in effect, relocated to Istanbul during the 1980s on this ritual organisation was very considerable. Unlike prayer at a mosque, which has almost no minimum requirements, Alevi worship is primarily collective, and difficult to pursue without a certain critical mass. The ceremony is intricate, and revolves around the fulfilment of 'twelve duties': these call variously for a watchman over the door, a minstrel, a person to prepare a sacred space, Ali'nin Meydam, a person to distribute water, couples to perform the sema of the forty, and so on. Further, it is predicated upon a reasonable number of persons being present. An important aim of the reunion is to celebrate unity, to resolve disputes between the different persons who may be present, and it must not take place unless all outstanding quarrels are resolved. It works best when centred upon a group who know each other at least by sight, who possess an established social dynamic, and whose members are familiar with the different specialist roles it calls for.

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It appears that, as whole households departed, and the population of the village dropped rapidly, the sense of a collectivity that the cem requires became very much more difficult to evoke. Those who organise, conduct and celebrate a cem are usually those who are most actively engaged with the community. It is just these households who left, along with the men and women of working age, for Istanbul. At the same time, while in previous years almost every household would have kept a flock of sheep or goats, the number of those engaged in animal husbandry dropped, making it markedly less convenient to obtain a suitable sacrifice. A cem cannot take place without a suitable dede. However, those in the region who were most highly regarded gradually passed away, and as their children migrated, the question of finding suitable replacement became noticeably more problematic. The village did not cease to hold cem ceremonies completely, in contrast to the apparent situation in other parts of Turkey. The villagers themselves explain this as being due to their insistence on maintaining an annual, special gorgu cem. Usually, a cem only takes place when a follower, talip, asks his dede to preside. In effect, therefore, it is triggered by the follower offering a particular dede a sacrifice. However, just once in the year, there is a more generalised cem, during the course of which all households in the community affirm their good relations with their fellow villagers, followed by a village sacrifice, kdy kurbani, at which every household eats a portion of the sacrificial meat. Even when the community's spirits were at their lowest ebb, this appears to have provided an annual fixed point for the renewal of ritual activity.

The 1990s and the villagers in Istanbul Coinciding with this period of rapid internal migration and ritual decline, the latter part of the 1980s, and particular the 1990s is sometimes regarded as a decade of 'Alevi revival' throughout Turkey as a whole. One manifestation of this has been a great number of publications, both in book form and more ephemeral that have appeared. 1 Another has been an increasing number of media programmes devoted to the Alevis and the supposed 'secrets' of their practice. This has naturally affected the village in as much as they are acutely aware that their customs, which they used to avoid sharing with outsiders, are now the subject of widespread discussion. They have reacted also to the readiness with which cems are celebrated more publicly by constructing a 1 For a set of essays concerning the changing situation of the Alevis at this point in time, Olsson et all (1988).

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designated building in the village where ceremonies may be held, rather than as previously, when they were held in any suitably large domestic dwelling. The sense of a 'national' revival has affected the migrants in Istanbul much more directly than the village itself, though even here the motivation for that revival draws on traditional conceptions of Alevilik being a source of peace and harmony within the community. Those in Istanbul possess the great advantage, from their point of view, of being in a district alongside friends and relatives, where they can share their lives and its difficulties. However, living conditions are not easy, and work is neither well paid nor easy to find. In these circumstances, in the outlying part of the city, where state services are only slow to arrive, many villagers are afraid that the everyday pressures of existence lead to a decline in moral standards. One response to this has been to found a village dernek, an association, that would serve to maintain a sense of community, and insist as much as possible that all become members. Another response has been to play an active part in the activities of the CEM foundation in the hope that Alevilik would thereby be strengthened. The CEM foundation is one of the most prominent of the Alevi civil society organisations in Turkey today. Headed by Professor Izettin Dogan, a senior member of the Alevi community, amongst its aims are to bring basic religious services to the displaced Alevi villagers through providing cemevis, 'cem houses': specialised locations where reunions may take place, and meals be served to the community. As well as providing a large communal space, they may act too as a focus for funeral ceremonies, for sema courses, and for other educational activities, such as saz (music) lessons. Dogan's immediate aim is to ensure that the ideas and philosophy behind Alevilik become passed on to the next generation at a time when the traditional links between dede and follower have been disrupted.1 However, he has a wider sense of purpose in that he aims to ensure that henceforth Alevilik be supported by the state, and that Alevilik be represented within the school curriculum. The argument that he puts forward is that the state pays very substantial sums of money toward the fulfilment of Sunni religious practice, and that the Alevis through their taxes are helping toward this. He argues that, rather than pay for a viewpoint which often regards Alevis as heretics, the Alevi population of Turkey should be permitted to have sufficient state funds to recognise their place in the modern Republic. Faced with what appears to be a sharp rise in Sunni religious practice in Istanbul and increasing weakness in their own practice of Alevilik this is an argument with which many of the villagers have a great deal of sympathy, 1 For a good general account of difficulties faced by the Alevi community in Turkey, see Ellington (2004).

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and they have willingly taken part in his scheme. Nevertheless, this formal approach does imply certain changes in the way that the ritual activity is constituted, and this in turn has certain practical consequences. In the village, a cent only takes place when a dede is invited to preside over a ceremony by the specific lineage which is regarded as being his followers. There is no established litany or codified book of prayer or service, but through mutual acquaintance both sides know pretty much what to expect, and during the course of the ceremony they may remind each other what the appropriate procedure is. This intimacy threatens to become lost in the Istanbul setting, where rather than a cent consisting purely of the members of a specific community, it may be much larger in size, and those who attend in the congregation not know the dede who presides over the ceremony. The cemevi also takes upon a variety of social functions that it did not previously possess: for example, it is usual in very large cemevis for there to be a morgue built in the basement. This enables a deceased person's body to be kept until its relatives can arrive, often from far afield, to attend the ceremony. This new custom in turn has led to an innovative change in the Alevi liturgy. In the village, it is usual for the funeral service to be held at the mosque, then the body be taken to the graveside. It is usual too that the villagers call a mosque imam or a hoca to administer the service, rather than an Alevi dede. The new funeral services, however self-consciously employ less Arabic than would be normal in a conventional funeral service, and give a much more prominent role to a dede} Whilst the villagers are aware of these differences, in Istanbul they appear not to have become acute enough to disturb the overall positive feeling with regard to the cemevi. In part this may be due to the fact that Alevis from the same region of Turkey tend to cluster together in a similar district, which helps to give some sense of continuity in the activities which take place under its auspices. In part too, this may be explained by the fact that the CEM foundation under Dogan puts forward an interpretation of Alevilik that is very close to that of the villagers' themselves: that is, he assumes that whilst Alevilik is a legitimate expression of the Muslim faith, their prime inspiration is the teaching of the Bektagis.2 They can therefore interpret Dogan's activities as exactly the sort of guidance that they would like to receive in order to maintain their religious path. They can also regard the cemevis as a collective building for worship in the Bekta§i tradition, a tekke, and they are pleased that, just as in the brotherhood tradition, there is a large 1 One of the most active Alevi researchers in the codification of this aspect of Alevi ritual has been Mehmet Yaman, see for example M. Yaman (2003). ^ Dogan's intellectual programme may be found in collected form in Dogan (2003).

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kitchen and canteen in the cemevi, where many people, however poor, can share a sacrificial meal. Of course, not all are so pleased. Those, for instance, who are most urbanised and best integrated into the Republic worry that the seeming reimposition of a village-type collectivity in the urban setting may lead to the loss of freedom of personal choice that modernisation may bring. Others may wish the state to have nothing to do with Alevilik, and denounce the efforts of Dogan to seek official support as an attempt at 'assimilation'. Nevertheless, in the profoundly impoverished setting of the outskirts of Istanbul, the Turkish Alevis from the village, already strong supporters of the Republic, have rather less disquiet than these voices in opposition imply. Indeed, the line taken by Dogan may appear to them the only alternative. For them Alevilik is at once a way that they may be able to gain some defence of their physical well-being through the state in a highly pressured and difficult situation, and a way that some social control may be encouraged in a community on the very edges of urban life through the teaching and inculcation of the peaceful, collective ritual endeavour it inspires.

The migrant community in Germany The Alevi community in Germany is perhaps better known even than that in Turkey. It is increasingly well organised, with more than a hundred associations. These play a diverse role: they may administer cemevis, organise conferences, publish diverse magazines and other works. The associations are often linked to an umbrella organisation in Cologne named the Avrupa Alevi Birlikleri Konfederasyonu (The European Confederation of Alevi Associations), known informally as the 'Federation'. There are also a number of major splinter groups, such as the Alevi Akademisi, which also may publish substantial quantities of material. Working with these associations are a number of highly skilled competent spokespersons who are often authors and researchers in their own right. Together, they constitute the driving force behind a plethora of web-sites that are beginning to synthesise and present large quantities of material associated with the Alevis. 1 They also are beginning to play an international key role in the codification of Alevi doctrine, both through a drive to achieve recognition for Alevilik as a distinct religion in the respective German state school systems, and through their increasing concerns

1

See a useful survey of Alevi material online: Sokefeld (2002a).

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that the Alevis remain vulnerable in the face of orthodox attacks, both in Turkey and more widely.1 This very public presence often places the associations in the forefront of any consideration of the Alevi community in Germany, and makes it very easy to overlook the changing relationship between religion and its practice that the wider migrant population is experiencing. Whilst there are many ways that this could be considered, one useful approach is to consider participation and the transmission of doctrine. In the village, almost all attend worship at the cems by virtue of being born Alevi. Participation, in terms of households represented at the ceremonies is therefore very high. In the village, the dedes are expected to teach Alevilik, and to lead the rituals. Most persons within the village will know something of the core teachings of the religion by virtue of their participation, a knowledge that they renew and refresh regularly through their attendance at the ceremonies, but otherwise the dominant feeling is that the perpetuation of Alevilik is the prerogative and responsibility of their dedes. Abroad, this sense of settled intimacy within a hierarchical setting is difficult to reconstitute for many reasons. One of these is that, in contrast to the situation in Istanbul, our survey indicates that the population from the village is distributed widely throughout Germany. Initially, this wide dispersal is perhaps easily explained by the first migrants during the 1960s and early 1970s being allocated work through the labour office, their geographical location within Germany therefore being dependent on where they were sent. However, this pattern appears to have maintained itself over time. If the work turned out to be congenial, they stayed in that job for a considerable length of time, even in some instances remaining in their first position until retirement. Subsequent generations appear not to have made strong efforts to move together again. Mobility does occur, but it is social rather than geographical. So long as a job has been found, it is becoming frequent that a villager buys an apartment or house in that location, gradually building up a social circle as they do so. The implications of this demographic pattern will be the subject of separate analysis. One possible conclusion, however, which the villagers themselves affirm, is that they do not feel threatened by German society, or the need to cluster together in the same way that they now do in Istanbul. Indeed, it is very common for the participants in our study to apply for, and become German citizens as they become householders.

1 A s well as online material, conventional publications are continually emerging and, occasionally also ceasing to appear. Amongst important examples are Alevilerin Sesi, published in both Turkish and German, the magazine of the Cologne Federation and Akademi, the official bulletin of the 'Alevi Academy', which first appeared in 2003.

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Initially, when the villagers moved abroad to Germany, they often explain that they were lonely and isolated. Not speaking the language, and with at that time little other support available to them, it appears that they frequently did not find it easy to come together to conduct ceremonies. Subsequently, though they became more settled in Germany - indeed some men recall strongly encouraging their fellow villagers to join them abroad this lack of religious facility in Germany largely continued. Instead, it became usual to wait until they had gone to their village on summer leave to offer a sacrifice or to hold a cem. Even though now four decades have passed, this custom has continued. Indeed, it has resulted in a major change in the ritual pattern of life in the village. In traditional practice, cem ceremonies were only held during the winter months. Now, however, they take place with equal frequency during the summer, encouraged by the number of migrants who still wish to offer a sacrifice. Many villagers do feel sympathy toward the associations that are developing in their neighbourhoods in Germany. They may occasionally attend their gatherings, and they may too play a more active part in their running. However, they also may remark that there are a number of problems with such regular participation. One of these is the question of dedes. It is often observed that there is an insufficiency of good dedes to lead the Alevi community. However, this problem is compounded when the question of who is to become a dede is considered. According to the villagers, and indeed to the CEM Foundation and most of the individual associations in Germany, a dede should be a person accepted as born into a dede lineage. However, the Alevi Federation takes a more flexible view, assuming that adequate training in religious knowledge is an acceptable substitute for such a birth-right. In this they are motivated in part by the desire to display intellectual leadership. They are also motivated by the way that they wish to present the situation as they negotiate with Germany's education system in the different Bundesländer for recognition and acceptance of Alevilik as a religious community in its own right. It appears that they were able to resolve an outright confrontation by recalling to the dedes that the urban tradition of Bekta§ilik allows for the induction of babas, religious teachers by training and appointment. This compromise enables them to move forward in their negotiations with the German administration, but it would appear to be a position that is not, yet at least, widely held by the wider Alevi migrant population.1

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For an article on dede s in Germany see Sökefeld (2002b).

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Another difficulty is that the Turkish villagers feel that the style of worship, of Alevilik, practised at the individual associations often owes a great deal to the influence of the eastern, or Kurdish Alevis. In some cases, this may mean that politics, and in particular nationalist politics, is more prevalent in the association than they feel comfortable with. In other cases, even if political discussions are not so overt, there may be genuine differences in religious style. Turkish Alevilik is very flexible, very influenced by the Bekta§is. It calls for an internalised sense of almost mystical contemplation, regarding itself as an alternative path within Islam. The teachings of the Kurdish dedes tend to be more formalised, give less priority to Haci Bekta§, and treat Alevilik as a much more distinct, separate form of religious practice, one with its own rules and regulations that should be adhered to. This may lead, for example, to emphasis on an alternative sacred calendar, one in which the month of Muharrem and other specific days may have prominence. Most Turkish Alevis, on the other hand, are more comfortable with observing just the two regular Muslim bayrams (that marking the end of Ramadan, and the Feast of Sacrifice), and otherwise conducting cem ceremonies when an appropriate dede is available to invite. The villagers, then, feel themselves in a dilemma. Often separated from each other, increasingly concerned at the prevalence of expanding orthodox Muslim pressure found amongst the Sunni Turkish community, they welcome contact with other Alevis. Yet, there is no guarantee that the associational activity in their particular town will be immediately congenial. Individual responses to this predicament vary: some may nevertheless take part in their local associations, adapting their own practice to that of the majority or the dominant group in the congregation there. Others may not join at all, or drop out. Still others may advocate founding a separate association that may reflect their local perception of Alevilik more closely. Others again may themselves become active in national debates. At present, however, it is the Alevilik practised in their own region of Turkey, with its flexibility and emphasis on divine love, that they regard as the most attractive. The situation is made yet more complicated by the speed with which there is developing a nation-wide, even international reformulation of Alevi practice, a debate that gradually affects the way that they perceive their own customs. An instance of this is the gdnüller semahi, the dance with which the reunion ceremony finishes in the rural setting. As noted above, in the village, this lively dance does not only take place in the cem, but also at weddings, and may occur spontaneously at any time when a group of people come together, drink and celebrate. Collective celebrations retain their importance in the Germany setting, where particularly for marriages or for circumcision,

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siinnet dUglinU, the far-flung villagers may drive across Germany, even from other European nations, to attend. It is usual that music be played, and they may both bring groups from Istanbul, who have developed electronic versions of their village songs, and also employ as musicians at the wedding those of their own number who have continued to play instruments after moving to Germany. However, there arises here a controversy. Many villagers take it for granted that they will toward the end of the evening, just as they would in Turkey, move from a folk-dance (halay) to dance a gôniiller semahi. However, a number of dedes active in Alevi associations but not specifically from the village have gradually evolved a collective position that to dance a sema within the framework of a celebration where drink may be found, where persons may be merry, is sinful, that the sema is an evocation of the sacred that should be confined to the cetn. Some villagers, wishing to show respect to this national reformulation of Alevilik, agree with them. They may, therefore, at the wedding and circumcision festivities have a word with the musicians beforehand to ensure that they do not begin a sema. Others, however, may disagree. Particularly those who, in Turkey, had felt able to dance the Alevi sema in the village setting in weddings and when drinking, as part of what they feel is the expression of Alevi culture, kultilr, may view this as an entirely inappropriate imposition of religious thought into a modernised Alevilik. At the national level, supporters of the prohibition argue not just on religious grounds, but add that to dance the sema in public is a form of 'assimilation', of folklore that renders Alevilik acceptable to the state, and therefore toothless. In response again, the Turkish villagers may argue that this antagonistic approach is simply a reflection of Kurdish nationalism, because it assumes there is something inherently mistaken about being loyal to the Republic, and to the Turkish nation. One man, extremely annoyed, went so far as to say to me, 'We've been crushed by the Ottoman State for centuries, now we move to Germany, and find ourselves crushed by the Kurds'. It is not clear how this debate will evolve. Perhaps, as would be usual in such cultural negotiations, an accommodation will be reached. It would be ironic, though, if a dance that is entirely possible in Turkey, in spite of the Alevis vulnerable status vis-àvis the orthodox majority, should become prohibited in the normally freer atmosphere of Germany.

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Conclusions In this paper, we have touched upon Alevi ritual practice, albeit in very summary fashion, primarily from the point of view of the cem. Whilst the three migrant communities we have discussed are intimately linked, in each case the dynamic is slightly different. The drastic population loss in the village led initially to their taking place less often than before, then later, as visiting migrants arrive on annual leave, their being held frequently in the summer, a profound departure from traditional practice. For many migrants in Istanbul, worried at the difficulties of maintaining the social order, Alevilik is once more regarded as a key focal point for the achievement of social control within the community, and the creation of a communal cemevi welcomed. In Germany, the difficulties inherent within creating a trans-national, or even international, Alevi religious practice out of its more localised, regional roots appear clearly, resulting in dilemmas at both the local level in terms of individual participation, and at the national level, in terms of the creation of a doctrine that will be mutually acceptable to the respective interest groups. There is no doubt whatsoever that the gradual transformation of a hitherto largely oral religious tradition into a literate urban religion will continue apace. What is more difficult to predict is the respective weight that the different factors we have discussed will carry. There is a strong desire amongst many Alevis to unify, and it is entirely possible that they will do so. This is particularly likely if Turkey's accession to the European Union progresses smoothly, because the respective administrative and social pressures within Germany and Turkey are more likely to be perceived as converging. If, on the other hand, Turkey remains outside the Union for the foreseeable future, it is possible that the ethnic divisions will appear more acute. It is also possible that the approach adopted by the CEM Foundation, which seeks to have Alevilik recognised as a legitimate interpretation of Islam and maintain hereditary dedes, will remain the most prominent in Turkey, whilst the Alevi Federation in Cologne, which seeks to reform Alevilik in such a way that it becomes more compatible with German society, remain dominant there. There then may emerge a much sharper distinction between Alevilik in Europe and that in Turkey: in short, a religious schism. However this fascinating process evolves, migration will have led to a profoundly new form of Alevi religious practice, one within which ritual transfer and relocation play a central part.

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REFERENCES Andrews, P. 2002 (ed.) Ethnic Groups in the Republic of Turkey, 2 vols., 2nd, enlarged ed. Wiesbaden: Reichert. Birge, J. 1937 The Bektashi Order of Dervishes, London: Luzac. Dogan, I. 2003 Professor Dr. izettin Dogan 'in Alevi islam ïnanci, Kültürü ile ilgili Görü§ ve Dü§ünceleri (The Approach and Thoughts of Professor Izettin Dogan on the Alevis Islamic Beliefs and Culture), ed. A. Aydin, 3r(* edition (CEM Vakfi Yayinlari; 5: Alevilik Temel Kaynak Kitaplari Dizisi; 1), Istanbul: CEM Vakfi. Ellington, G. 2004 'Urbanisation and the Alevi Religious Revival in the Republic of Turkey', in Shankland, D. (ed) Archaeology, Anthropology and Heritage in the Balkans and Anatolia: The Life and Times of F. W. Hasluck (18781920), 2 vols, Istanbul: Isis; 369-401. Gellner, E. 1981 Muslim Society, Cambridge: CUP. Gokalp, A. 1980 Têtes rouges et bouches noires: une confrérie tribale de l'Ouest anatolien, Paris: Société d'ethnographie: recherches sur la Haute Asie; 6. Hann, C. (ed.) 1994 When History Accelerates: essays on Rapid Social Change, Complexity and Creativity, London: Athlone Press. Kehl-Bodrogi, K., Kellner-Heinkele, B. and A. Otter-Beaujean (eds) 1997 Syncretistic Religious Communities in the Near East, Leiden: Brill. Meeker, M. 2002 A Nation of Empire: The Ottoman Legacy of Turkish Modernity, Berkeley: University of California Press. Mélikoff, I. 1988 Hadji Bektach: Un mythe et ses avatars, Leiden: Brill, Islamic History and Civilization, Vol 20). Moosa, M. 1988 Extremist Shi'ites, New York: Syracuse University Press. Olsson, T., Özdalga, E., Raudvere, C. 1988 (eds.), Alevi Identity Cultural, Religious and Social Perspectives, Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul; Transactions; 8, also London: Routledge Curzon. Shankland, D. 1999 Islam and Society in Turkey, Huntington; Eothen. Shankland, D. 2003 The Alevis in Turkey: The Emergence of a Secular Islamic Tradition, London: RoutledgeCurzon. Sökefeld, M. 2002a 'Alevism Online: Re-Imagining a Community in Virtual Space', Diaspora 11 (2002), 85-123. Sökefeld, M. 2002b 'Alevi Dedes in the German Diaspora: The Transformation of a Religious Institution', Zeitschrift für Ethnologie 127 (2002), 163-186. Stirling, P. 1974 'Cause, knowledge and change: Turkish village revisited', in J. Davis (ed.), Choice and Change: Essays in Honour of Lucy Mair, London: Athlone; 191-229. Stirling, P. 1984 'Social Change and Social Control in Republican Turkey', in Papers and Discussions: Tiirkiye Bankasi International Symposium on Atatürk, Ankara: Cultural Publications, Tiirkiye: î§ Bankasi; 565-600.

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Stirling, P. 1988 'Labour Migration and Changes in Anatolia', 'Edited version of paper delivered to the Conference on Mediterranean Migrations held at Al Hacaima ... llth-14th July 1988'. Stirling, P. (ed.) 1993 Culture and Economy: Changes in Turkish Villages, Huntingdon: Eothen Press. Stirling, P. 1993 'Introduction: Growth and Changes: Speed, Scale, Complexity' in Stirling (ed.); 1-16. §ener, C. 1982 Alevilik Olayi, Istanbul: Ant Yaymlari. Van Bruinessen, M 2000 Mullas, Sufis and Heretics: The Role of Religion in Kurdish Society, Istanbul: Isis. White, J. 2002 Islamist Mobilization in Turkey: a study in vernacular politics, Seattle: University of Washington Press. Yaman, M. 2003 Alevilik'te Cenaze Hizmetleri, Istanbul: privately published.

13. UNEASY CAPITALISM

Lapses into uneasy social science English and the occasional rather scholastic diversion do not prevent Bugra's study from being extremely interesting and potentially, even, important.1 It opens by claiming that businessmen in Turkey no sooner gain their money than they feel unsure, uncertain, and seek to justify their success by emphasizing their overall contribution to society. This stress on the private sector's worth to the nation immediately evokes Victorian Britain and the more recent ideals of the Tory Party. Indeed, the comparison between our societies is apt in more ways than one: the rising number of beggars in contemporary Turkey, the hideous sight of the rubbish in main cities being gone over by men in rags, not once but many times before the carts come to take it away in the early light, the sweatshops in the shanty towns, the widespread ignoring of the minimum wage, the growing income differential, the increasing openness of prostitution, the splendid homes of the rich and the startling, naked avarice displayed at a levels of society bring home daily the fact that Turkey is developing very fast, and the path that it is taking is not that of the welfare state. It soon emerges, however, that the main theme of the book will be the less attention-grabbing (but equally relevant) argument that throughout Republican history the state has repeatedly interfered with business activities in an unpredictable way, whatever the political colouring of the party in power: even, and in particular, under the Motherland Party. In one of the most lively passages in the book (pages 144-160), Bugra produces a powerful, sustained critique of the way that the government which came to power following the 1980 coup changed the import-export regulations, incentive programmes, interest rates and the rules for government procurement so that, though it was possible to earn money, it was almost impossible to be sure how it would be earned or from which business activity it would derive. Further, these rapid changes meant that the government was able to enrich a particular firm or to bankrupt another: the wave of interventionist policy not only resulted in widespread uncertainty but also encouraged nepotism and contributed toward the continuing high rate of inflation. Bugra's argument, and the evidence she puts forward, is thoroughly convincing: a refreshing 1 Bugra, A. 1994 State and business in modern Turkey: a comparative University of New York Press.

study, Albany: State

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contrast to the eulogies to Ozal so often written, even now, though he must be seen as one of the forebears of Turkey's present predicaments. Bugra does not confine herself, however, to the Ozal era. She looks at the period of the Republic's creation by examining the autobiographical accounts of early businessmen, demonstrating the great importance of their close contacts with the ruling bureaucracy and the army. Much of this material is both amusing and instructive. For example, the first of her autobiographies describes Sureyya Ilmen, a would-be businessman from a military family who opened a factory to process wool during the First World War. First, he needed his family's army contacts to ensure that the equipment would be allowed into the country, then, after it had opened, the army decided to confiscate his factory building for use as a stable. He was only able to stop this because the relevant officer-in-command was one of his father's previous aides-de-camp. Similar brushes with authority influence the whole of his business career. Bugra also discusses the much better known stories of Ko§, Sabanci and Eczacibagi, and it is very useful to have summary accounts of the careers of these key men. Finally, she includes in her account the conclusions which she has drawn from interviews held with present-day company directors, a list of whom is included in an appendix. By virtue of this rich material the book is in part an historical ethnography of the entrepreneurs in the Republic, and also a useful account of the conditions under which businessmen, both Turkish and foreign, must work. This is fascinating, and offers a very plausible explanation why foreign firms are still finding it so difficult to operate in Turkey: simply put, to offer to trade is not enough, they should be prepared to marry their hosts. Or, alternatively, to put such extensive roots down in the country that their pursuance of business there is not dependent on the success of any one contract. This is the dilemma as it is presented by Sakip Sabanci, in Bugra's words: ... After presenting several striking examples of instability stemming from the role that the state plays in the field of business, Sabanci suggests that the success of their business strategy largely lies in accepting this particular difficulty as a constant [and in taking] necessary precautions to prevent the ruining of an enterprise by an unexpected policy change ... In this uncertain environment, Sabanci suggests that the businessman must rely upon the support of his family ... According to him, harmony and cohesion among family members is the key to business success ...

In the next chapter Bugra explores Sabanci's point that kin are crucial in business. She discusses the composition and the development of holding companies, showing how they are often run by the family and in-laws of the

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original founders. In this, she also includes a very illuminating discussion on the primacy of owner-management and the difficulties faced by people who are salaried. In particular, on the fact that however high they rise in a company, such staff tend to remain consultants to the owners rather than assuming managerial or investment responsibility. The patron, meanwhile, are busy rearing their sons to take over the family firm by having them educated in American business schools. A final chapter looks at the way business associations (the equivalent of our chambers of commerce) have developed, and contains the particularly interesting point that the associations are reluctant to tackle the government head-on over policy, preferring to complain indirectly, and to chisel away at specific problems behind the scenes. In this chapter, she exhibits a sure ethnographic touch again by describing the way that the young Cem Boyner thrust himself to the forefront of the Istanbul Chamber of Commerce. He used his position to criticize the government openly, only to find that at the crucial face-to-face meeting with the bureaucrats the old business guard did not turn up at his side. Since Bugra's book went to press, Cem Boyner has moved to more direct ways of seeking power by forming his own political party though, as yet, he has failed to gain mass support. In this last chapter, Bugra has the kernel of an analytical framework within which the relationship between power and wealth in modern Turkey could be studied. Briefly, much of her evidence shows that the Turkish Republic has been astonishingly successful at separating these two elements in their society: wealth is concentrated into a business class. Civil servants, in conjunction with their political masters, retain their control over business by juggling the regulations governing trade. They do it so effectively that hey ensure that no one economic dynasty can hold too much power for too long (Bugra's informants frequently remarked on the difficulty of passing on a successful holding company to their descendants). The bureaucrats themselves are dependent on the taxation raised from business to fund their own wages which, though small, are at least regular. The inability of either sector to dominate the other entirely ensures the separation of wealth and power, and some form of status quo in society as a whole. Because the state also controls trade unions by governing strikes, in particular by forbidding them when they are supposed to threaten the national interest, this could develop into a useful, though perhaps unfashionable, functionalist interpretation of why the denial of class in Turkey has been such a key issue: those who work for the state hold the balance of power, and one of the things which might deprive them of that power would be if either labour or big business grew conceptionally more important than the idea of the paramouncy of the state (devlet). They therefore

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do all they can to deny the existence of class divisions. In this version, civil servants, memur, become priests concealing the existence of class struggle, though, ironically it looks as if in real life they have survived the threat of revolution (whether from the left or the right) only to succumb to a vibrant religious revival which equally denies the importance of class. If this does occur, the structural roles of businessman, state and worker may survive in something like their present combination, though the individual memur who helped to sustain the system in its secular form in the most part will not. Perhaps the most disputable parts of the book, though, are where Bugra hints at a causal connection between the integration of business with social life and the interference of the state in business activities. Her basic premise that the state (and kin) moulds economic activity in important ways will be acceptable to all those who are not politically committed to the idea of the purely free market. It is less easy to accept without qualification the conclusion that it is because the state interferes in business that businessmen actively desire to engage in society as a whole. This is certainly part of the story, but only a part. Businessmen are as inclined as the rest of us to search for legitimisation and power, and their turning toward other institutions of society is more than merely defensive. It is not just a question of causal nicety: 'business with a social conscience' has long been a theme in Turkey and realizing the depth, variety and complexity of the ties which business creates with society weakens the neat symmetry of Bugra's argument. Banks are required by law to support cultural events: the Vakiflar Bankasi supports a famous modern art gallery, whilst the 1§ Bankasi has for years been in the forefront of translating works of literature, both to and from Turkish. Sponsorship as an institution is fast growing, the Efes Pils basketball team is perhaps the most important of all Turkish successes in European team sports, whilst individual charity donations are well established as a social institution: should this fact ever be temporarily overlooked, Sabanci's women's student hostel building, thrusting into the sky, has written this fact firmly in the landscape of downtown Ankara. Several related explanations for this phenomenon, all of which relate specifically to Turkish society in its wider context, could be offered. The first, and most obvious, is that business must be considered in terms of the patronage links which predominate in Turkish society. This argument would run that in a society where almost nothing is sold, bartered or exchanged without being viewed as a factor in social relations as a whole, the generous behaviour of those with money is no more than fulfilling the associated implications of economic transactions, whether political or personal, tacitly agreed with when first entered upon. Secondly, there is the religious question

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and the obligation to give alms to people less fortunate. This is nowhere mentioned by Bugra, but it would be astonishing if in a country with a long history of charitable foundations, where many businessmen are also devout believers, this were not a factor. Thirdly, there is the particular obligation that different individuals and professions are encouraged to feel toward the perpetuation of the Turkish Republic's distinct, idealistic blend of public service, secularism, modernization and Westernisation. Teachers are told that their role in bringing up their next generation is crucial, the air force is told that it is vital to the country's independence, traffic police that they are necessary to the cities' smooth running, and most famously, members of the army that they are the protectors of the Kemalist republic. Businessmen, in spite of being of the private sector, feel this sense of public duty strongly and as people who have proved their adaptation to the principles of the modern world by the mere fact of their economic survival, they often feel that their position qualifies them to act and to speak out accordingly. Here we arrive at a paradox. In the country as a whole, the popular conception of the state is of a benign patriarch: the fount of civil authority. Alongside this widespread acquiescence, is a deep conviction that the state no longer works, and that those with wit or brains work outside its cumbersome bureaucracy. Business therefore becomes not so much a foil to set against the state in an endless dialectic (though that factor is of course present) but more prosaically the only sphere within which people are properly paid and, above all, the only institution through which one can get things done. In part, at least, it is in a spirit of exasperation that individuals look to the private sector for guidance in their affairs and the resulting burden of social responsibility on business has encouraged its close integration with all aspects of social life. These ambiguities and complexities are not brought out quite forcefully enough in Bugra's work, and as a result it struggles to transcend being a rather formal discussion of certain economic principles as they relate to Turkey. Indeed, through being so closely argued, her book rather falls between two stools. It is probably not combative enough to change the way the right-wing economists view the myth of the free market, and indeed contains rather too much solid ethnography about Turkey for them to wish to study the work in depth: if she really wished to shatter this perception, one cannot help feeling that she should have had a copy of Said's Orientalism at her side as her polemical model and gone for broke. On the other hand, just as seriously, she fails to jettison her scholarly apparatus and go for a full-bodied, rounded study of the social life of businessmen in modern Turkey, a study which, given the admirably thorough research which has gone into the central core of the book and her eye for telling and perceptive examples, might have been accomplished with ease. It would be fascinating to read either such book, and it is only to be hoped that this stimulating though flawed work is a foretaste of greater things to come.

14. DEVELOPMENT AND THE RURAL COMMUNITY: INSPIRED RESTRAINT

To speak before such a distinguished audience is a great privilege. It is doubly so because it provides also an opportunity to celebrate a friend and teacher, Professor Paul Stirling, who, if he had lived, would have addressed us today on this topic. It seems fitting to dedicate this talk to his memory, and to take his long research career as a beginning point for our discussion.1 Stirling, one of the most well known of all international commentators on modern Turkey, was particularly noted for the great depth and long timescale of his ethnographic research. This personal overview made him uniquely qualified to discuss the development of Turkey under the Republic. Indeed, it could be said that Stirling's maturity as a scholar developed hand in hand with Turkey's modernisation, and that he gained a great deal of his insights from observing this rapid social change. Specifically, Stirling conducted his first research in Turkey in a small village in Kayseri between 1948 and 1950. He submitted the fruits of this work for his doctorate in 1952, and then returned to Turkey to conduct further research in a slightly larger village, one close by his first. In the following years, he concentrated on university duties in Britain, but was able to return briefly in the 1970s, then for a much longer period in the 1980s, and finally for several summers' research during the 1990s. This research was written up initially through learned papers, then in his famous monograph Turkish Village.1 As he grew older, he began to piece the rich insights yielded by his long acquaintance with the villagers into a wider synthesis, writing on micro-social change and on issues of development in Turkey. 3 Finally, in a large project brought to fruition just before his death, he placed the accumulated field notes from more than fifty years of research on the world wide web. 4 Annotated carefully, placed within the framework of an advanced data-processing programme and a supplementary photographic record, they enable students from all over the world to gain

1 This paper was offered at a day to mark the 7 5 ^ year of the founding of the Republic. The paper here consists of the edited transcript, with also part of the question and answer session that followed. 2 Stirling (1965). 3 See, for instance, Stirling (1974). 4 Available on-line at http: //lucy.ukc.ac.uk/Stirling/.

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access to one the most extensive accumulations of ethnographic and social data that has ever been collected. In his interaction with the scholarly community, Stirling loved above all the small seminar groups, the informal questions that take place after a presentation, and the chance to scythe through vague or imprecise thought that such settings offer. When discussing Turkey, which his long experience enabled him to do with an unparalleled fund of examples, he frequently made one particular point: that the Kemalist reforms, whatever difficulties the Republic may suffer, have been an outstanding success. He did not like bureaucracies. He was certainly alive to the deficiencies and the conflicts that can arise in any society. All this made him acutely wary of becoming an apologist. Nevertheless, he felt that to deny the thorough transformation of the Turkish countryside, the development of the cities into metropolitan communities, the establishment of a transport, communications, educational, health and service infrastructure, the growth in industrial output, the emergence of a modern scholarly community, and the other similar indisputable attributes of a Westernised country was, simply, profoundly mistaken. In order to appreciate the soundness of such a judgement, it is only necessary to compare the situation at the outset of his research with that today. When Stirling began in his village, named Sakaltutan, in 1948, there was no electricity. There was no running water, there was no asphalt road, and there was no access to health facilities. Average life expectancy was about forty. The yield from crops was poor, perhaps no more than twofold, if that, or at best fourfold or fivefold. People were bitterly subject to the vagaries of the weather. If the winter was particularly harsh, they froze. Of course there was a vibrant village community, but the people who inhabited it were continuously reminded of their own mortality. They married young, cultivated children as a support in their old age, expanded their land holdings if they could, expected to work hard, and to die before enjoying greatly the fruits of their labour. Already, when Stirling had arrived this had begun to change. Some youths were working in the factories in Kayseri in order to supplement their income, and they came to the village at weekends and holidays. The great transformation, though, began after his research had commenced, through the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s. When he returned in 1972, though only briefly, he was astounded at the differences that he could see. The village was conspicuously better off, both individually arid collectively, via improved health facilities, remittances arriving in the village from migrant labour, vastly improved roads and far greater educational opportunities.

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During his later research, he was able to follow the changes in more detail, once more growing close to the community. This time, he was able to trace in detail the fortunes of the migrants who had left the village. He found that they had been absorbed successfully into the large local cities in the south, particularly Adana. There, through their specialisation in the building trade, many had come to own their own homes in the towns. Unemployment among them was low, and some men had done very well indeed. The overall picture of vastly increased prosperity that Stirling insisted upon is not in any way an isolated phenomenon. One of the closest friends from the area where I researched, a school teacher, was in his youth charged with looking after the family flocks and remembers vividly the excruciating boredom of having to sit looking after them for the whole day before bringing them back at night. He attended the local school, then gained his diploma, attending university throughout the social upheaval of the late seventies. Then, marrying a midwife, he initially lived in a new house provided by the Ministry of Health in his natal village. They saved for a new apartment, built as part of a co-operative in a local town. Moving there, he was able to fill it with books and live in comfort. Then, saving money again, he finally has bought a larger apartment in Ankara, with plenty of room for his family, and is able to play a full part in the intellectual life of the capital. My friend is not a businessman. He has not made money from writing. Along with his wife, he is simply a hard-working civil servant who has benefited from the far wider changes that have come to Turkish society in the last decades. To understand these changes in detail is exceptionally difficult precisely because of this universality: they affect every aspect of life in Turkey, and cannot be considered only as isolated economic statistics. To take only one very small issue among many that might be chosen, the relationship between rural and urban has profoundly altered. At the commencement of the Republic, Turkey was 86 per cent rural. Industrial production was rudimentary. The cities existed not so much as sources of labour but rather as seats of politics, education and government. Villages existed remote from the cities, and beset with their own specific problems, problems that were inherent within a lifestyle that could organise itself largely without any direct intervention from the administrative centres.

Scepticism and explanation Stirling was immensely sceptical about the models that are used to explain this transformation. He would point out, for example, that the gecekondu,

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shanty-town, dwellers who form a poor majority in the cities are often held to be a burden on the existing urban environment. He felt that this image of a static pool of impoverished déracinés was quite mistaken. Through his detailed statistics in micro-migration, he was able to demonstrate that there very quickly develops a massive economic differentiation among people. Even first-generation migrants were often able not just to better themselves in the towns but also to become extremely successful. By the late eighties, only forty years after his first coming into contact with the village, he found several genuine millionaires had been entered into his database. It is not a complete success story, of course. There are also some people who have not managed to get anywhere, because of some form of illness, difficulty in forming social relationships, or other misfortune. Nevertheless, his extremely detailed study, whilst laborious to conduct, proved that life among even the poorer migrants in Turkey is in fact very mobile: those who have the brains, capability and desire may indeed achieve their aspirations. Following Stirling's lead in questioning the models that people use to explain social behaviour, I would like to offer a further instance. In explanation of the creation of a new urban heritage, the dominant conception is that of villages emptying rapidly, and the population from them pouring into the cities. Of course this is partly true: Istanbul, Izmir and increasingly Ankara, or even Bursa, appear sometimes that they are bursting at the seams. It is quite understandable that long-established urban dwellers should complain at what they see as the 'villageification' of their environment. However, even a cursory glance at the regional population statistics, or even a short tour around Anatolia shows that this popular conception of the creation of the urban environment through mass migration concentrated on the largest cities is at best only partially true. In fact, as well as movement into the largest cities, urban life is also very substantially created through the expansion of existing village settlements into towns, and then into cities in their own right.1 This process is substantially aided by the state, so that a small rural community officially classified 'hoy ' may expand to become a municipality, 'belediye' and then perhaps a district centre, bucak merkezi, then a sub-province centre, ilçe, and then finally, a provincial centre, il, in its own right. In each case, a rise up the official state scale brings with it substantial funds to pay for the establishment of local political institutions (such as a salary for the elected mayor and his or her office staff), and increased infrastructural facilities in the shape of schools, roads, health centres, hospitals, police, energy projects, and universities. Each of these stages has a knock-on effect as the steady influx of wages into the 1

In formulating these ideas, I owe a very great deal to the work of Altan Gokalp (1986).

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community begins to increase the potential market available to local small retail and construction businesses. Of course, which of the many villages that are found in any one subprovince that will benefit from this expansion and transformation is not clear at the outset. Most try, but not all may achieve success. However, with luck, political acumen, ambition, drive and business sense many even medium-size villages have moved swiftly to become municipalities. Of these, some will become sub-province centres, even if the ultimate goal of becoming a provincial centre is available only to a few. Taking into account this possibility of the rural itself becoming urban means that our models of the relationship between rural and city life may become much more dynamic. We should not consider rural life as being isolated but profoundly connected with life in the cities, and in itself changing. Villagers, whilst often trying to move to the city, are at the same time actively trying to emulate city life and to incorporate urban institutions into their rural communities. Contemporary relations between village and city should not be typified as a migratory flow between two fairly static types of society, but rather as an interlocking whole, an intricate pattern in which migration to the large cities is important, but in which the development of rural communities also plays a key role. The Republican state has been, and is, an essential factor in this endeavour: it guides the rural communities, permitting and encouraging them to install infrastructural projects which then become the foundation for the further urbanisation of the rural environment.

The founding of the Republic Turning now to the founding period of the Republic, is there anything in its initial principles that would enable us to foresee this later pattern of dynamic, widespread expansion of the rural? It is widely held that there is not. The dominant intellectual conception of Turkey's modern history is that during the period prior to 1950, rural life was neglected, and that the increasing frustration of the villagers was one of the reasons for the later sweeping victory of the Democrat Party. As a partial explanation for the electoral victory, this may very well be valid: people in villages clearly felt that the Republican People's Party should be replaced by a different governing group. However, to extrapolate from the desire for change in an electorate to claim that this must mean that the early Kemalists neglected rural life in its entirety is surely too casual and too sweeping. I would argue that, quite the contrary, this early Republican period provided the basis for the subsequent development and expansion of rural life in today's Turkey.

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In order to realise this, we need to think of the way that the reforms proceeded in what was then a predominantly rural society. The Republican model was to cajole, instruct, decree, persuade and to illustrate the pattern that modernisation should take. They built factories, dispatched schools teachers, created model farms and, of course, opened the village institutes and hearths designed to pass on their Kemalist message. However, they did not adopt the communist model of collectivisation, nor did they seek to destroy the basic cohesion of village life. On the contrary, village law sought to cement the relationship between land and community by insisting that each settlement put aside a substantial parcel of land at its centre that could be used for collective grazing, but could not be ploughed or otherwise taken over. Further land reforms strengthened, rather than threatened, the possibility of poor peasant families acquiring land in their own names by aiming to reduce the size of large land holdings. That the Kemalists left the villages' social structure intact did not stem from an incapability to disturb their lives (they were undisputed masters of the land and of the armed forces) but was a deliberate, self-conscious action. The more I read and study material from this early period, the more I am convinced that the Republican People's Party and their predecessors had a very clearly worked out rural policy, which was based on development through rural communities' existing social life, and was not intent on destroying it. That they were able to do this at all depends of course, on the capacity of traditional, subsistence farming communities to absorb modern infrastructure. Very briefly, I would like to outline the way that this appears to be possible. Although village life is not the same all over Turkey, in central and western Anatolia, there is generally a standard type of village organisation, where there is a mosque in the centre of the village and nowadays between 50, 70, or 80 larger households grouped around this mosque in a tight-knit community. Most households own themselves enough land to meet their basic subsistence needs: they expect that they will work on their own land and that they will reap the benefits accordingly. The community also has still a fair amount of pastureland, which is owned collectively. So, village life consists roughly of a number of fairly homogenous, egalitarian economic units which also have a sense of being part of a larger whole, both at the village and national level. There is a very low division of labour, and they work together collectively when needed (even if such labour is largely in exchange for cash rather than the free mutual support that it is said used to be the case).

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As the state sought the development of the rural communities, it did so primarily through massive state investment in schools, roads, health, agricultural credits, electricity, water and telecommunications. Throughout this endeavour, as I have stressed, it did not undermine the basic economic freedom of the peasant to survive through their small-holdings but reinforced it, both through the maintenance of agricultural subsidies, and through the successive land law reforms. The infrastructure introduced to the villagers was given to the community as a whole, and often constructed through joint initiatives. 1 This emphasis on the private household alongside the public community is in many ways compatible with traditional village life, whereby the communal centres of mosque, tea-house and market at the centre of the village provide a shared resource for all, and it is not a coincidence that in many villages the state buildings are found in the centre, close to the mosque, mirroring the spatial organisation of the pre-modern period. I have only indicated in the barest outline why it might be that the agricultural village may integrate with the state, and even flourish as it comes into contact with a monetary economy. To justify this contention in detail would take much more time, though I should stress that other researchers, such as Sirman have made similar findings. 5 Passing on quickly, I would suggest that there is a further benefit of leaving the subsistence household unit and village community intact, even if the system of peasant, extended family farming appears obsolete to the economic advisers employed by the European Union. When people become migrants, being part of an extended household with an economic base means that they remain part of a clear social support network through the relatives that remain in the village. For example, when they are short of money and they cannot afford to maintain their children in the poor accommodation, which is, perhaps, all they can afford in an urban area at that time, they can send their children back to the village to be looked after by their grandparents who still live in the village. They can go back to their villages if they go temporarily bankrupt. In the rural area one does not go bankrupt, one simply 'runs out' of sheep and one borrows a few more from a friend and starts up again. If one is perhaps doing badly in the town having been hit by inflation or exploited by somebody in a poor job, food can be sent from the village to keep one alive until the situation improves. By maintaining what, from an economic point of view, is an outdated mode of production, the Turkish nation has nevertheless gained immensely in flexibility when it is trying to achieve social development as a whole. To conclude, my idea (stated here only in outline) is this: the accelerating transformation of the rural into urban settlements, and the related 1

For a fascinating discussion of these issues, see Sirman (1988).

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social mobility which is now a very important characteristic of Turkish society, derive in great part from the early Republican procedure of allowing the traditional peasant social organisation to flourish within an overall highly developed state-led infrastructural plan. If this model is correct, I submit that it may lead us to rethink the role of the state and the Republican People's Party within the subsequent development of the countryside, and indeed, in the nation as a whole. Questions from the floor: Q.

A.

Q.

A.

Could you tell us a little about support to the rural community? Could you explain what facilities exist, the extent and significance of the infrastructural services within those communities? Above all, the state is vital. Nearly all the infrastructural support in villages is provided by the government. This assistance is channelled through different ministries, which are responsible for developing particular aspects. In a village today you can expect to find definitely a primary school, probably a middle school and sometimes even a lycée of some sort. Probably 90 per cent of villages, perhaps more, have electricity. Nearly all have some form of state organised water supply, although that is not always necessary. The state also provides agricultural credits and in almost every village there is a health officer who can help transport villagers to the local hospital if necessary, and that health officer is also usually a midwife. This means that the basics of infrastructural support are present in almost every village in Turkey. I would like to ask about the role of the Turkish military in village life. National service affects just about everybody. Young men are taken from remote parts of the country and moved perhaps even abroad. This must have an influence on social progress. The idea of studying the effect of long periods of conscription on young people is an important one. I wonder sometimes whether some of the bitter social discontinuities of the 1970s were not partly caused by the fact that if everybody in the country is trained how to shoot, they may actually carry on doing so after they come back from their military service. Leaving this thought to one side, I accept of course that the theme of the Turkish army being a modernising influence must also be valid because people conscripted, if they do not know already, learn how to read and to write, and they also have basic history lessons about the background to the Turkish Republic.

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One further impression: in my experience it seems that when youths come back from military service they reintegrate quickly into the previous family units and social networks. So while they may have gained personally by the experience they have had in the army, conscription itself does not impact largely on the wider fabric of Turkish society. This is only a passing idea: it would be good to see a research project on this topic. Q.

A.

Q.

A.

As to one of the social consequences of this mobility, and with reference to the phrase Andrew Mango used about 'vibrant dynamism', 'people moving to the cities in large numbers', 'going where the bright lights are, where the work is', in a city like Istanbul, or the greater Istanbul area (which has the same population as the whole of Greece) is there any evidence that two kinds of religion have emerged from this mobility? Is there such a thing now in Turkey as a rural Islam and an urban politicised Islam? And, are you concerned about that? To answer the last part of your question first: I am concerned. However, I do not think that there is a separate urban and rural Islam because one of the consequences of the migration and the rapid expansion of the cities and villages is that there is no clear boundary between urban and rural life in modern Turkey. Consequently, the politicisation of Islam is not solely an urban phenomenon. The Welfare Party had a superb organisation, an organisation that extended deep into rural as well as urban life. It meant that it was able to recruit individual agents in almost every village. It possessed a direct hierarchical infrastructure. This meant that a manager in this particularly religious party could be sitting in Ankara yet could pass a particular piece of information on, or learn something about, any village in Turkey by simply asking that particular man, one's agent, in that particular village, whose responsibilities included recruiting more sympathisers. And so there is a type of continuity of political Islam, which is not dependent on a rural or urban boundary. As far as mobility is concerned, one of the main impacts on Sakaltutan, Stirling's village, was the mobility between Germany and Sakaltutan. This has had an enormous impact on social change and social life in the village. In Germany today, there are about half a million Turkish school children going to schools in Germany. But the statistics are shocking. Out of half a million, only 800 Turkish students are allowed to go to Gymnasium, which is the way though to university. But the remaining, a large population, have to go to Real Schule or to others. I wonder if you have any point to raise about this. Unfortunately, I cannot comment on that, although it sounds very unfortunate, because I am not a specialist in the Turkish diaspora in Germany.

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Q.

You have just said that you do not think that there was a difference between rural and urban Islamism. As someone, who has studied the Welfare Party itself, I can guarantee that they have two separate organisations. These are separate in how they move in rural and urban areas.

About the Republican Party and 1948, one of the reasons why, in 1948, 1949 and 1950 the Democrat Party finally came to power, was because of the great dislike felt for the Republican Party by the villagers. In all the documents available on this subject, none contain evidence of a coherent policy towards the Turkish villagers. There was one very good and very coherent thing that the government did at the time, and that was to establish the People's Houses, which actually played a part, later, in the emergence of great authors like Ya§ar Kemal, and Kemal Tahir. A.

Q.

Of course the Welfare Party must have organisations in the urban and rural spheres and, by definition, they must work differently in these different areas, but there does not seem to be a boundary. In other words one can find people in the most remote village with the most sophisticated political Islamic ideology. Likewise, in the heart of the town one can find someone wearing rural gear still, bearing the most rustic interpretations of Islam. You are right of course that at the moment academia says that the Republican government had no coherent policy towards rural life. However, the point of my paper is that I think that this is one area that we should look at again. It is quite clear that the Republic possessed some sort of policy. They did not, for example, take the collectivisation model, as they did in the Soviet Union which killed millions of people. In addition, there is no doubt that the early Republicans developed a self-conscious, deliberate policy that was aimed at reforming rural life. They did so within certain well-set parameters that avoided disrupting the basic unit of Sunni village life. Simply put, this inspired restraint is, in my opinion, one of the keys to the later success that the Republic now enjoys. Although it is dangerous to compare, if one looks at other societies, particularly in the Balkans, large numbers of people moved to the cities. They supported their fellow villagers, but this long-term social linking has tended to decay over one or two generations. How vibrant are the village communities in Turkey? Is that a potential problem? Will they remain?

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A.

One of the fascinating things about modern Turkey is the simple little statistic: 1923, 86 per cent rural, 1993, 60 per cent urban - a massive transformation! How did it come about? It partly came through migration but only very partly. It came most of all through villages changing themselves into cities so they created the urban on a rural panorama. How is that accomplished? By leaving the basic community intact. A small village has perhaps a hundred households. It wants to get richer. It attracts state infrastructure through persuasion, through political means, through simple luck because of a new state policy. As the state infrastructure increases and health gets better, the population grows. If they are fortunate they can become then a municipality. Some of the municipalities get changed into sub-province centres. The sub-province centres ultimately get changed into provincial centres. They may need all sorts of political machinations to get on that road but nevertheless it means that 20 or 30 years down the line any small basic little community can, depending on a combination of fortuitous circumstances, become a large flourishing town and perhaps even a city. So, the potential for change is always there. It is not a question simply of rural areas emptying to existing urban sites. This means that some villages will do more than survive, they will grow in their own right. A few will wither and become dormitories for older villagers who have come back to retire. Others will fall below the minimum needed to maintain a community and will become deserted. In this case, as you say, some links will become attenuated. Nevertheless, it should not be seen as a uniform, or simple process, but one that can only be evaluated by looking at each region, and each settlement on a case by case basis.

Q.

The status of a women in Istanbul and in other big cities has clearly changed. I wonder what the situation is in village life? My question is similar, you have painted a very seductive picture of all these movers and shakers, moving into Turkish cities and doing their thing and being very successful, but I wish to ask also what of the silent majority - the women? Professor Stirling used to say that there was a slow steady discernible improvement in the lot of women. In other words, that women in 1948 were treated very, very poorly. Even though some Turkish men today might maintain that they are good old-fashioned Turkish men and do not believe in feminism, ipso facto, there has been an enormous improvement in the position of women, both politically and economically. One final point is that in Britain we are finding that

Q.

A.

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girls, are now doing f a r better in school examinations than boys. Curiously enough, they found the same phenomenon in Turkey some years ago. Even in rural Turkey some girls are going to school. The moment you get to a small town setting, girls shoot ahead of boys in the school tests, and again in the university entrance exams. So, it is possible that the future of Turkey lies with the women.

REFERENCES Gokalp, A. 1986 'Espace Rural, Village, Ruralité: à la recherche du paysan Anatolien', in A. Gokalp (éd.), La Turquie en Transition, disparités, identités, pouvoirs, Paris: Maisonneuve Larose; 49-82. Sirman, N. 1988 'Peasants and Family Farms: the Position of Households in Cotton Production in a village of Western Turkey', unpublished PhD thesis, University of London. Stirling, P. 'Cause, knowledge and change: Turkish village revisited', in J. Davis (ed.), Choice and Change: Essays in Honour of Lucy Mair (London: Athlone, 1974); 191-229. Stirling, P. 1984 'Social Change and Social Control in Republican Turkey', in Papers and Discussions: Turkiye I§ Bankasi International Symposium on Ataturk, Ankara: Cultural Publications, Turkiye: I§ Bankasi; 565-600. Stirling, P. 1988 'Labour Migration and Changes in Anatolia', 'Edited version of paper delivered to the Conference on Mediterranean Migrations held at A1 Hacaima ... 11th-14th July 1988'.

15. AN INTERVIEW WITH PROFESSOR PAUL STIRLING

The interview below was recorded in Lampeter over two sessions, the first in December 1996, the other in February 1997. Along with the interviewer, Dr. Cemil Bezmen was also present on the first occasion. Sadly, Professor Stirling died on 17th June 1998, after a short illness. Among his papers was found the transcript, edited by me, with his manuscript corrections and ready to send back. While Stirling was a rigorous proof reader, and would no doubt have made further changes, this does mean that the text published here has been seen by him in all but the most minor details. I am very grateful to Mrs. Margaret Stirling for her comments on reading the text, and for her permission to publish. Professor Paul Stirling was known as the doyen of Turkish Social Anthropology, and achieved his position through an analytical incisiveness, attention to detail and systematic research. He conducted his field-work initially in 1948-1949, in Kayseri, supervised by Evans-Pritchard at Oxford. This later resulted in some seven articles and the classic monograph, Turkish Village-1 After fieldwork, he joined the staff at the London School of Economics. Twelve years later, he became the founding professor of Sociology and Social Anthropology at the University of Kent at Canterbury. He retired in 1984 and remained active in both research and writing. One of the features of his work is a ready acceptance of the use of computing power to process anthropological data. In recent years he had been among the first anthropologists to make their fieldwork notes available on the World Wide Web. 2 Stirling studied also the wider significance of social change in Turkey and had trenchant things to say on the models that are used to explain it. Many of his ideas have been explored in the later collection of essays inspired by his work edited by Chris Harm, and in an earlier collection of essays on Turkey edited by him. 3 1

Stirling (1965). Under the guidance of Dr. Michael Fischer, most of Stirling's articles, Turkish Village, fieldnotes, Ph.D. thesis, and also his large data-base, are available on-line at http: //lucy.ukc.ac.uk/Stirling/. This is part of a larger project based at the Centre for Computing in Anthropology at the University of Kent at Canterbury aimed at making all Stirling's material available for remote-access analysis. 3 Hann (1994). Stirling (1993). 2

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Here, he talks to David Shankland over two days. These are his edited comments [with very occasional elucidation added by DS in square brackets]. They move from his early forming experiences at Oxford to his first fieldwork, and his return to the London School of Economics. A second section looks at his successive return trips to the field, culminating in his later ambitious attempt at a wider examination of the complexities of modernization. They are a scrupulously honest account of his difficulties, struggles with both theory and method, and reasoned thoughts of someone who spent more than fifty years attempting to gain a better understanding of modern Turkey.

The Interview DS: Would you like to supply some background information as to how you came to take up anthropology? PS: I would go back to the last days at school and University and the war. My father and mother were middle class but it was not particularly a wealthy or educated home. I had an older brother, eight years older, who went to Cambridge and was influential, as was a very educated uncle by marriage. My older brother meant that I was a radical—I got very left wing in the sixth form. At school, the rest of the people were the sons of the local wealthy and I felt alone in being radical. At school, I was told to write a paper about nutrition in Britain. I suppose it must have been 1937 and my older brother sent me the Left Book Club literature to read for this paper. I was absolutely bowled over and appalled to read the ethnography, so to speak, though it was not written by anthropologists, of Durham miners: two unemployed Durham miner families living in one room with their wives and children because that was all they could afford and kicking their heels on a village street all day because the mine had closed down and the village didn't do anything else and there was no work. I also read Seebohm Rowntree and discovered that 40% of the citizens of York could not afford enough to eat. 1 I was absolutely shattered by this kind of detail so although I never joined the party—the Communist Party—I have been a bleeding heart ever since. The next thing my brother gave me was Ruth Benedict's Patterns of Culture just about at the beginning of the war. 2 Though when you look at it as serious anthropology it has some things wrong with it, it was mind1 2

Rowntree (1901). Benedict (1935).

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blowing to realize that there were all these other human beings who thought differently from me and were not just savages to be dismissed in the way in which one dismissed savages when studying Herodotus or Caesar in Roman History. I went off to the war, where I met an American Social Anthropologist in an Officers' Club somewhere, and I read various other things and came back and finished my classics degree. At that point—because of the extraordinary structure at Oxford—the degree included serious study of Philosophy, particularly Linguistic Philosophy. Ayer's Language, Truth and Logic was absolutely to the fore everywhere.1 The simple technique of saying "What do you mean by 'x'?" was a marvellously simple way of knocking all philosophical arguments. I found myself in a kind of movement, "Down with the rubbish!", wanting to be precise and simple and careful. In the end, I managed to get a decent degree in Philosophy by the skin of my teeth. By this time I was convinced I wanted to be an Anthropologist. I wasn't sure whether I was good enough to be an academic and I was trying to choose between trying to be an academic philosopher, or an anthropologist, or go in the Foreign Office. I took the Foreign Office exam and missed by 5 marks and by this time I didn't really want to go in anyway, though they did offer me a job later, when I was already in Ankara. In 1947, I went to see EP who had just been appointed to RadcliffeBrown's chair in Anthropology and he had me to tea. Walking along near Lady Margaret Hall I met another man with a long thin beard also looking for Evans Pritchard's house and he turned out to be J. H. Hutton, who was the Professor of Anthropology at Cambridge. Anyway we had a nice tea with EP. Of course I didn't realize it at the time, but from inside Anthropology they were looking to recruit bright young men or as I discovered later on, the Institute at Oxford was full of foreigners and they were only too pleased in a kind of chauvinistic way to have a straightforward, simple-minded Englishman coming along and wanting to do the subject. Unfortunately EP made a terrible mistake. He said something like, "Well, of course, if you have done Greats you don't need to do any preparatory study in Anthropology, just go straight in." So he allowed me to register for a Ph.D. on the subject without doing any pre-training. I went to some lectures about the various stages of rocks with terrible long names and other bits of Anthropology that went on in the Pitt-Rivers Museum. I was scornful of this, very foolishly. In fact I was encouraged to be scornful of it by the Institute of Social Anthropology, which had people like John Barnes, who had just come back from Africa, and Clive Mitchell. Gluckman was Senior Lecturer, Meyer 1

Ayer (1936)

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Fortes was Reader and EP was Professor. John Peristiany was also a lecturer, Fred Bailey and Mary Douglas were fellow students. It was decided that I would go to Turkey—a totally arbitrary decision. I wanted to go to Greece because I thought my ancient Greek would be useful. There was, however, no money to go to Greece so by an association of ideas I just moved across the Aegean and looked at Turkey. There wasn't anyone working on Turkey and nobody knew anything about Turkey as far as I could make out and so I just said I would go to Turkey instead of Greece. DS: To clarify that—you went to EP and he simply asked you where you wanted to go? PS: He said if you are going to be an Anthropologist you have got to choose somewhere to go and do fieldwork, so I said Greece or South Italy. I had been in South Italy in the war and had been fascinated wondering what went on in the South Italian mountain towns, but there wasn't any money for Italy at all. We looked at Greece, but it was then decided it wasn't oriental enough to be in the Scarborough scheme. While we were deciding that, I remember going to a meeting of bright young men who had been doing Greats with me and wanted to go to Greece to measure the Parthenon. We went round the room saying what we were interested in going to Greece to do, and they all had very nice classical projects. When it came to me I said I wanted to study Greek peasants. They all roared with laughter and I was very hurt. However, I went to Turkey instead. DS: What was the "Scarborough" report? PS: Roughly speaking they discovered in the war they had not enough people who had a knowledge of the Middle East and related areas. The Scarborough Committee was set up to encourage the study of Oriental and African languages and cultures. Anthropology got in just under the door on that and though most of these people were orientalists of the old fashioned kind, I got a Scarborough scholarship administered directly by the Treasury to go to Turkey. It was quite generous. They had no cannons whatsoever to decide how much to pay me so they paid me as a Third Secretary in the Embassy. They didn't give me the full allowances for being in Ankara, but they gave me the basic salary, travelling expenses and equipment and so on. In fact it was comic because they also gave me a kind of Colonial Officer's allowance and sent me to the Colonial outfitters to order tables and a tin bath and a whole lot of equipment which was standard equipment for people going off to administer the African jungles. DS: What did EP say when you said you were going to Turkey?

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PS: He was entirely in favour of this because our rationale was that Anthropology ought to start working in countries with history. I was also interested in the Malinowski idea that society was something that fitted together. I suppose another bit of this was that, although I had not read it properly, I had read Toynbee on civilizations, again influenced by my brother. I had also got the idea of Weltanschauen from somewhere—that Mozart's genius was not arbitrary, Mozart was something to do with the end of the 18th century and the way the society was structured and the way the whole thing fitted together. At that time I read a book on 17th century English literature by Basil Willey which made the same point.1 The notion of things having "social structure" was barely noticed even in classical history. I was taught Hobbes as though the fact that Hobbes had written in the sixteen hundreds was quite irrelevant. It could have been written by someone yesterday. Again, my tutor set me an essay on reunion in the 1st century AD and I had been reading the Monumentum Ancyranum. In the Monumentum Ancyranum, the people of Ancyra [now Ankara] send a petition to Rome to beg for permission to build a temple to Augustus. I asked in that essay, what conceivable religion could this be that you asked your Colonial masters who conquered you and were extracting taxes from you, permission to worship them? and, what did they think they were worshipping when they had a temple to auger? My model of a Church was based on Christianity, and I did not see why you had to get permission from Rome to put the thing up. I wrote the essay about this and the tutor said well, since Tacitus does not say anything about this it is not a legitimate question. That is the way which my first little bit of movement towards some kind of social explanation of things, a social question, was dealt with. It was slapped down and nobody thought of telling me to read Coulanges, who wrote about religion and city states in ancient Greece.2 I took my wife to Turkey. We had just been married: we celebrated our first wedding anniversary in Ankara. In the four terms from ending Greats in December 1948, to April 1949 when I left for Turkey, I was supposed to have covered the stuff of a "diploma" including a lot of geological rocks and things. I read an enormous amount of Ottoman history, but just reading it straight through is not the way to learn history. I was under pressure, reading books on Islam, Ottoman Empire and the Republic and trying to take Turkish lessons. We were hard up, because we didn't get the grant until I actually got to Turkey. I did have a demyship from Magdelen College for a year which wasn't very much money [a "demyship"' traditionally paid half a fellow's 1 2

Willey (1934). Coulanges (1874).

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salary], so though we were actually doing a little teaching and earning it was a very hard four terms. Of course, I was supposed to have covered Social Anthropology. We did have the weekly Institute seminar and I learnt something from this. I remember Max Gluckman lecturing. I had a weekly tutorial with EP, which he got paid for, but I didn't get much out of it, and he knew nothing about Turkey. That was when he made the remark that I should take two tables, one to pour coffee on, and one to write on, and not to make love to native women, but as I was taking my beautiful young wife with me I didn't think I was in danger of doing that anyway. We set off. We actually went by sea from Naples to Istanbul and went up to Ankara a couple of days later. The British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara had just been founded and was quite helpful with things like storage and boxes and equipment and so on. The English-speaking classes in Maltepe (which was as far as the upper-class part of Ankara went then), was frightfully pleased to have us because they were all bored with each other. To have this young Anthropologist turn up—"What is Anthropology?" "Fancy studying a Turkish village" "How interesting!"—was a splendid change for them and we were overwhelmed with invitations to dinner by English-speaking people. We didn't ask them back because we didn't have a home to ask them to, so we only got asked once, which was just as well as we were supposed to be getting on with other things. We were trying to learn Turkish and had the fortune to work with a man called irfan §ahisba§ who helped me enormously. When we got to Ankara the advice I had received from everyone was to hang around in Ankara, learn Turkish, let yourself be seen and wait for permission to go to the village. Now whether this was good advice I don't know because I had nothing to go on. All I can say is that it worked because we enrolled as graduate students at Dil ve Tarih-Cografya Fakultesi [Language, History and Geography Faculty of Ankara University] and we went down there every day. They gave us a room to ourselves and we met various academics—Professors of Psychology German-trained, and there was also a physical anthropologist, §evket Kansu. We also met Hamit Ziibcy Kogay, who worked in the ethnography museum and had written a book about marriage customs. It was in Turkish, so I didn't read all of it. Incidentally, I have never really read Turkish easily. I did read a book written by a member of the Agricultural Faculty of a study of a village outside Ankara which I found very interesting. I have still got the book at home. The people who advised me to be very careful were, I think, probably right. Nevertheless permission came through. We had a great misfortune at that point: my wife fell ill. I was wondering where on earth we could go for

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fieldwork, and not be too far away from medical facilities. Then, in Ankara I met a young doctor called William Nute. Dr. Nute was the son of the doctor at Talas, where there had been an American missionary school for a long time, and a medical clinic. There had been a small hospital which had closed but they still ran the daily clinic, and so it was arranged that we would go to visit them during our travels. We set off with a small group: an English teacher from the University who was an extremely tough Middle Eastern traveller kind of lady who loved the villages, a British Council man, Hamit Ziibey Kogay and us. We took the train out of Ankara to Yerkoy, took a bus from the railhead and went down through Yozgat, then Amasya to Trabzon, and back to Sivas. All along, we got people to show us villages. In Amasya, I can remember going out in a carriage with an armed jandarma and the kaymakam [sub-province governor] to visit villages. We, just the two of us, came back to Sivas and through to Kayseri where the Americans immediately offered us long-term hospitality. Margaret could live on the campus and I could go to the village while she got better from her illness. They would give us some rooms which we would pay a modest rent for, but we could eat with them and they had transport. They would actually take us out to the village. This seemed an irresistible offer. It was so convenient in almost every possible way and it solved the whole problem. What is more, Dr. Nute senior was the first person I had met who knew anything about villages in detail. He went daily on his horse as a doctor to the villages in the area. Not quite daily, but several times a week, so he knew about thirty villages. He knew where they were, how many people they had in them, he knew them personally, he knew the muhtars [village headmen], I spent two or three weeks in which I myself went out to villages. One day I must have walked 25 or 30 miles, round a whole series of villages. They were extremely surprised to find an Englishman with a smattering of Turkish which was just about good enough but still very weak. The Americans also helped me by taking me out in a truck to another village and (the only time I have ever ridden a horse) I went out on a horse so I got some idea what the possibilities were. Then, I bought a bicycle and also looked at some villages. I didn't learn much about the villages but I was absolutely determined to follow Evans Pritchard's advice and not to use an interpreter. I could see the sense of that because you have no idea whether the interpreter is interpreting correctly or not. Obviously there would be even unintentional subtle ways in which he would mislead you and if you didn't use an interpreter you had to get on in Turkish and that was much more sensible.

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DS: I suspect that the Turkish they spoke would be much more accented than today's? PS: Yes, that is true. It was heavily accented and I had great difficulty in following it as I had been taught very correct Turkish. I think that because of my classical training in reading languages, what I did was to transpose the noises in the village to Istanbul-version of Turkish so I could visualize it. I remember noticing at Oxford that some of the lecturers in French couldn't speak French though they knew an awful lot about mediaeval French literature. Anyway, I then decided on Sakaltutan. We sat in a room with the nahiye miidurti [district officer] with a room full of grey beards—who were in fact what I learnt later to be the biiytikler ["elders," the lineage heads or their representatives] who had come because he had come. He said to me "These are my children whom I care for and look after." He said to them "This is a guest from a foreign country and you have to treat him with great care and respect." So this is how I was introduced to the village. Then began the business of actually moving there. Margaret's health broke down again for a short time and I didn't actually start negotiating until the end of October about where I was actually going to live and what was going to happen. I remember going out and going round the village, being shown various rooms, discussing prices and trying to envisage what sort of a life it was going to be, living in these things with the colonial camping furniture, which was all waiting in crates with the American missionaries. Then somebody came up with the idea that I was to go into the school. They had built their own school voluntarily. They had constructed a village-style building which had a classroom with a little passage in front of it and two rooms next to that, one with a stone floor and one with a wooden floor. The village had an egitmen [school master], a member of the village with a few months' emergency training, who taught village children the three "Rs", and he kept his onions on the floor there. We arranged that I would come to the village on Thursday at the end of October 1949. DS: You seem to have got from Ankara to begin research in the village in very good time. PS: No, I arrived in Ankara on 3rd April, so in fact we got to the village in six months. Anyway, on the 27-28 October I arrived in the village with the American pick-up full of my equipment, and they had done absolutely nothing. There was no sign of any movement except that the onions had been removed from the room. The two rooms I had were interconnected with a door. I don't think there was any glass on the windows, so they unloaded the stuff into the entrance bit to the classroom and I spent that

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first night on a very dusty, dirty wooden floor in the front of the classroom in late October. DS: In October it must have been cold. PS: I had a camp bed and blankets and I had all the equipment with me. DS: So the equipment grant was useful in the end. PS: Yes, it was very useful, all this clothing and equipment was marvellous, and the Americans I think lent me another table. Anyway, the next morning I got up feeling like the end of the world. Margaret had not come because she was nowhere near fit and she was living with the Americans. There was a group of men—it was very nice weather actually, the sun shining and quite warm—sitting on the ground just outside the school. Following sort of Anglo-American-Ankara custom I said was there any chance of a woman to clean the place I was going to live in? They all looked blank at me. That any villager could possibly allow his wife near a strange man was, of course, absolutely inconceivable. I ought to have known that, but I didn't, and there was no response. Then a tall, thin man got up and said "Hadi, beraber yapakl" [Dial. Lit. "Come on, let's do it together!"] and he went and got a broom from his house. He came and we cleaned up and he went and organized the next door neighbour who was a camci [glazier] and carpenter, and they put the glass in and they did all the things which they had promised to do already. I was paying 20 liras a month, which everybody said was absolutely outrageous and I had been a fool to agree to such a high rent but, of course, it seemed reasonable enough to me and I was quite pleased. They got some nails and a hammer. They blocked off the door into the school and put shelves across it so that not only was it blocked off there was no way anybody could force it. Somehow or other I got hold of one of the sheet iron stoves which was bought in Kayseri in a street of stove makers—very thin iron stoves which burnt wood and I got a donkey load of wood, by luck, from a passing chap who was coming from villages well to the East where there were still remnants of a forest on a hillside. So I had a store of wood for the winter and I had various foodstuffs from the American missionaries, and there I settled in. I almost immediately cycled away for a night, because it happened to be Margaret's birthday, and came back again. The two people who occur all the time in my field notes from then on are the man who helped me to clean the rooms and the egitmen in the village. They were my chief friends and informants. It was quite a tough life though I had this colonial camping equipment, cooking stove, camp bed, tables and a chair and this sort of thing. I got some curtains for the little window so that they couldn't look in at night

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when I was undressing. I had two tables as EP had advised and life just went on from there. The first day or so I walked up and down the village and I talked mainly to children about who their fathers were and where they lived and began to construct a little map of who the families were and how they were related but events just took charge. They took charge of me in the sense that in the morning somebody would be hammering on the door asking for razor blades, would I write a letter or somebody was ill and would I go and see them. I suppose at a great legal risk—but impossible to do otherwise—I helped the sick. I had simple medicines with me and the American doctor gave me a lot of advice, and I had a great jar of aspirins and a j a r of stomach relievers. He also gave me antibiotics (which were then M & B tablets) with instructions of how not to kill people with them and descriptions of certain symptoms. If I couldn't cope with a situation I used to write him a letter—well that was during the winter. That is how it all began. Quite soon after I had been there a very poor man got ill and I diagnosed pneumonia on the doctor's instructions. I gave him antibiotics and he recovered immediately. I tried to stop him getting out and walking about the village the next day in the icy cold weather. I couldn't persuade him to go back. His house was terribly cold but he was taken in by his father-in-law. This made my reputation and after that I had no peace— people were asking for pills every day and when you got somebody you had to refuse because I knew the symptoms were something I couldn't tackle, they used to get angry and scream at me "Why don't you give me pills? You gave them pills, why don't you give me pills?" and no amount of explaining that my pills would not help their symptoms would convince them I was not prejudiced. DS: Was there one particular event which helped you get accepted? PS: No, I don't think there was one particular event. I think the fact that, on the whole, I appeared willing to help people, particularly with medical things, and that the people near me, in what was then the lower quarter of the village soon got to know me a bit, helped. The fact that I had come with permission, and the Government had taken me out there and installed me, I think all these things together. I was an enormous curiosity, and there was the standard thing that is so often reported by anthropologists that, to them, it was proof that their village was superior and had been chosen for this honour, having this extraordinary foreigner. In fact, the reasons why I chose that village were twofold:

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(1) According to my American doctor friend it had a pure water supply straight off the mountain. Most of the other villages used to get their water by digging deep great holes in the soft rock, filling them with snow in the winter and then drinking them all the summer. That was not the most hygienic way of conducting life. The fact that the village had water straight from actually running fountains in the mountain meant that not only the water I drank, but also the water I was given in other houses was much safer. (2) It had a road going through it. It was actually right on the road so the Americans could get to me and I reckoned if I was ill I could get out quickly. This was a through road, although it didn't go to Talas in those days, it went to Kayseri and Tomarza, which was the next small district. About three or four lorries went past a day, and every now and again an ordinary car for some official purpose. I used to stop the lorry drivers and they would buy me meat in town and I had some preserved meat as well. I also used to stop the lorry drivers and give them letters to post in Kayseri to Talas to Margaret so that we kept more or less daily correspondence going between us. My window looked up the road away from Kayseri, so sitting in the evening as soon as you saw headlights come over the top of the hill you would go out and wave the car down. One night I went out and waved a car down. It was a jeep with a driver—it was a new Vali [province governor]. He hadn't got as far as reading his papers to discover that he had a foreigner living in a village and I was extremely scruffy. I didn't make any effort to look smart. It was very cold and I wore two pairs of trousers and an old jacket, I didn't wear anything on my head. Suddenly finding one was in the presence of the local Vali, I suppose because I was in Turkey and because I had been brought up in a public school, I felt I was inappropriate. Nevertheless, he was delighted to take my letter and was extremely charming and said I must go and talk to him next time I was in Kayseri. He obviously realised I would not have been there without permission. What I did was to go in at the end of months. I went in at the end of November 1949 and had a couple of days having baths and normal food, seeing my wife and then went back at the beginning of December. I stayed I think until 23rd or 24th December to go in for Christmas and then I developed fever. It snowed so I couldn't use the bike to go back to the village and I tried to walk back. I got as far as a village just before Sakaltutan, which was only half an hour's walk, but there is a very steep hill to go over and I was really feeling all in.

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I had a very heavy rucksack with food and stuff that I was taking back. I went into a house which must have been a house which I knew the name of. There were two elderly brothers who lived together. It was interesting that one was clearly boss and the younger one was subordinate. The older one said to the younger one in a very typical village way "Take his rucksack" with no "please" or "thank you". So he took my rucksack to the top of the hill and gave it back to me and I walked down the hill to Sakaltutan. I arrived feeling quite ill and went and got my friend out and we went over and got the stove going and unpacked a bit. Then I took my temperature because I had a thermometer with me and I had a decided fever so I had a day in bed. The Muhtar was worried and I was worried and by this time it was snowing steadily. They all recalled stories about how three shepherds had been lost the year before last in the snow and never been seen again. Anyway in the end one of the villagers, who had a reputation for being a business man and very, very mean, who had the only horse left in the village, hired me his horse for 5 liras. Everybody said that was an absolutely iniquitous price to charge but I got on the horse and they gave me the village watchman and we set off for the fourteen miles back to Kayseri. I sat on the horse and froze and when I got so cold I couldn't stand it, I got off the horse and put him on the horse and ran until I was warm again. We did the journey this way into Talas very fast and I had a temperature of 105° F when I got there. It turned out I had got jaundice so I couldn't do any field work in January. At the end of January I went back which, as it turned out later on, I shouldn't have done on medical grounds. I also spent February there. At the end of February Margaret joined me in the village and we were together for the rest of the summer until August. Then we came home [to Britain]. She was still having health problems and we had to find a house to live in and so on. I didn't actually start writing until January because I didn't know how to start writing. DS: Writing up field notes? PS: No, writing my thesis. I had all these field notes and EP said start with the economics. I don't know why he said start with the economics, he didn't give me a reason; so I started with the economics in January 1951 and on 14th May I handed the thesis in, a purely ethnographic thesis. The only theory in it was an attack, a totally linguistic philosophy attack on the use of the word structure as a metaphor and trying to say what I meant by social structure. I had read various people on this problem. I think I was very cynical but also quite sophisticated, though there was no other theory at all. It was a straightforward account of village social relationships. Specifically a study of social relationships.

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DS: Your thesis was actually called "The social structure of a Turkish village?," wasn't it? PS: Yes that's right. DS: What made you use the words "social structure"? PS: I think it was Radcliffe-Brown. It depends what we were talking about. The Oxford Department at that time studied structure and these idiots, I was told, in the LSE used the word culture. I remember Meyer Fortes actually saying in a lecture that it is the structure that matters. If you are worshipping your ancestors, the fact that there is a patrilineal authority structure is what matters. Whether you use a chicken to sacrifice or a goat, what the form of the sacrifice is, is culture; but that is not really very relevant. Then there was talk about groups, in particular about corporate groups and non-corporate groups, so I went out thinking in terms of groups. It is clear in the thesis that the household was a group because there were relatively clear boundaries. There were very few people whose status in a household was ambiguous. The lineage was a group because it was patrimony of a kind and of course classical lineage theory held that women were ambiguous because they left their patrilineal father's household and moved into a marital household and then they belong to two lineages in different ways, but the men were quite clear. You couldn't possibly change lineage unless you ended up living with your mother's patrilineage and became a sort of honorary member because of demographic accidents or inter-village mobility, which was very rare at that particular time. Then there was the village. Within the village there was the mahalle [quarter]. They had shadowy boundaries, not sharp boundaries. So roughly that was the structure. Then there were pairs of relationships. I was working on how these "groups" and pairs interacted. In July 1951, after submitting the thesis, we went back to Turkey and to Elbagi. I still had money in the grant. Why I thought it was so desperately urgent to get the doctorate I am not really quite clear, but I had this timetable and I worked to it and did it. I think that was the hardest, most continuous work I have ever done— the last two or three weeks before I submitted. I was working all through meals. Margaret brought me meals at the typewriter. I hired a secretary and the last bit I actually dictated to her; then we had to correct her awful spelling by hand. DS: It was a self-imposed deadline? PS: Oxford then had a six monthly arrangement for handing in doctoral theses, so if you missed 14th May you had to wait six months before there was another cycle starting. It was obviously very much more convenient from all kinds of points of view if I could go back as a doctor with a doctorate

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already handed out. I just set my heart on this: I don't know why I didn't consider not doing it, I just did it and got it done and that is how the thesis got written. Then we went back to Elbagi. We didn't actually get in to Elbagi, as far as I remember, until September, and we were there until just before Christmas. I deliberately chose Elba§i, as it appeared to have a little bit more sophistication. I was invited by this man who was said to have a thousand decares, a lot of which was in ex-Rum villages because in that area a lot of people had left with the exchange of populations. So I was expecting some kind of contrast with Sakaltutan. There was some kind of contrast in the sense that there was the beginnings of a kind of upper class. There was one household where the man had a house in Kayseri. His sons had been to lycee. They had been officers when they had been conscripted and he lived half in Kayseri and half in Elbagi. There was another man called Gezici Ba§ Ogretmen [peripatetic headmaster], who had been hired out of a medrese [Ottoman school, abolished in 1924 during the early Republican reforms] by Atatiirk and sent to teacher training. He regretted not having chosen the law faculty, which he had had the option to do but for personal reasons he hadn't, so he ended up as a village schoolmaster. But he was an immigrant into the village, he was not a native. His family had arrived about a generation earlier I think from the East and some actually used the surname of Ardihan. Now, what I actually found was that the vast majority of the village was exactly the same as Sakaltutan but for this veneer of having a nahiye muduru who was occasionally resident, one or two slightly more educated families, and one family which were entrepreneurs and ran a small hotel somewhere in the back streets of Kayseri. The gap between the rich and the poor was greater than at Sakaltutan, but for the vast majority of it was very much the same kind of life. It was the similarities which hit me. I was surprised by this as I had expected more differences. It was much bigger too. It had over 200 households and I was there for much less time and so it was a more difficult piece of fieldwork. DS: Do you feel that Elbasi was integrated at all into the Ottoman economy more than Sakaltutan? PS: Yes I suppose it had been. Under the name of Zamanti there were records going quite far back, though I never had the time nor the skill to read them. There was a story, which I never checked, that one of the late 19th century landowners of the village had managed to have official connections to get the boundaries of the village fixed larger than those of other villages, but I think that the extra territory is probably more to do with the 1920s and the

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departure of the Christians than it was to do with the 19th century Land Registration Act, but I'm not sure. But certainly it did have a much bigger potential land per capita than the villages surrounding it, and it thought of itself as superior to the other villages. There was also the man who invited me to the village and then died. He was rich and had actually (according to the village) been instrumental in helping to get Kayseri onto the side of Atattirk in 1919. DS: And you found that their religious observances were similar as well? PS: I wasn't conscious of any difference at all except that they had a slightly better mosque at that time. They had a minaret on the mosque already. Sakaltutan didn't have one until 1957, though that is the first thing they did when they started getting a bit more prosperous. There were one or two men who were said to be §eyh [leader of a tarikat or brotherhood] and insisted on the moral unity of all humans. My long-term regret is that I didn't put more into the sociology of Elba§i because I think it was more various than Sakaltutan. There were more craftsmen, they had more contacts with the outside world. However, I never had the personal intimacies with Elbagi that I did with Sakaltutan—largely fortuitously because the people I got on best with either died or moved out or something and when I went back to the village I didn't have the way back in Elba§i that I had in Sakaltutan. DS: You went back to Britain that same year? PS: Yes. We had Christmas in Istanbul with American missionary friends and I started with the LSE on 1st January 1952. So I waited for the beginning of term to start my first experiences as a teacher. DS: Who else was with you? PS: David Glass was one in Sociology. Anthropology was Firth. Edmund Leach was running the Department in lieu of Firth who was in Tikopia, and Isaac Shapira was the other Professor but he didn't do any administration he could possibly avoid. There were about eight of us I think. Oh, and Lucy Mair was there, she was Reader in something to do with Anthropology and Colonialism but she was in fact part of our Department, and also Maurice Freedman and Stephen Morris. I taught there for twelve years. I left de facto in December 1964 because I had already arranged a sabbatical for the first term of 1965, which in fact disappeared down the sewer in the University of Kent because I was appointed to my Chair. They had a hell of a job finding a sociologist (one they did find resigned after one week) so they had an anthropologist instead. My

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appointment wasn't until April so, since I had a sabbatical, I just wasted it working for Kent. DS: You took up the post in Kent in September of that year? PS: I took up the post in Kent in April and we had the first students in October. So we spent the summer moving and thinking about libraries and appointments. I had to appoint three other people immediately to get the staff. Our quota was four for the first year, and ten for the second and third years, so I had quite a lot of thinking to do. And we had to plan syllabuses. Since I was an anthropologist I was trying to plan syllabuses which would combine sociology and anthropology and so we had to plan all the courses, the library was empty so we had to get the books, we had to get the people, we had to make up rules for dealing with graduate students, make up rules for dealing with undergraduate students. There were no departments, there was only Boards of Studies. So we had to invent departments (there were deliberately only three faculties in order to promote co-operation) because we couldn't do our teaching without some kind of administrative organization. There was an awful lot to do. DS: That meant of course that you left Turkey in 1951, and you didn't have a chance to go back for quite a long time. PS: In 1955 I went out to a UNESCO conference on the reception of law in Turkey, which was otherwise 100% lawyers. I don't know who invited me there, but I got there as a Sociologist and that is where I wrote the paper on marriage and land and the law in Turkey. 1 I took an extra month and instead of going and sitting in my village as it were I took a month's tour. I went around taking buses and trains and visited a lot of places. I have the notes from that but it didn't fill me in with a lot of background—it isn't something which I remember. I did also visit Sakaltutan and Elba§i, and they were very surprised to see me and very pleased, but they were brief visits because I had that plan of seeing more of Turkey. I didn't go back to Turkey again until 1966-67, when Ernest Gellner was invited to a conference in izmir by the Sociologists and got them to invite me but it came at a very awkward time. I shot to Izmir for a four-day conference and shot home again. Later, I got intrigued by trying to get back. John Peristiany ran a conference on Mediterranean Anthropology in Nikosia in 1970 and I bought my ticket via Ankara. I got off the plane in Ankara and took a bus to Sakaltutan and Elba§i. They were absolutely unbelievably welcoming, I was astonished how much. They seemed terribly pleased to see me and I believed them. Even knowing Turkish hospitality and the rules, they did seem 1

Stirling (1957).

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genuinely delighted to see me. I then arranged to go back in 1971 with a term's sabbatical. I was going to be paid by the Ford Foundation to be at the Middle East Technical University (METU), Ankara for four weeks. At that point the army took over the country and closed METU. METU Sociology department, and I also kept hoping that things would be all right, but at the very last minute, they told me I couldn't actually go because the University wouldn't be open. I went around to the Nuffield Foundation and they gave me enough money to go anyway, on the spot, when I told them the sad story. So I went to Ankara, and two days before I arrived in Ankara, the left kidnapped the Israeli Ambassador. The army clamped down very much more, and I arrived to find my liberal left-wing friends waiting for the colonels to come and knock on the door. Miimtaz Soysal, who was Dean of the Faculty of Political Science, was indeed incarcerated and tried three times. Each time he was acquitted the army re-arrested him and brought new charges and he was ill in gaol under very tough conditions. So some of my sociology colleagues were generally frightened of what might happen next. Nothing did happen to most of them, so that was all right, but I then had a terrible debate whether to go to the village or not. Half my friends said don't do anything that could possibly give anybody an excuse for being nasty to you, and the other half said that if you go to the village and just talk to your friends in the village then the authorities won't take that much notice of you. In the end, I decided to be cautious and ask the military government for permission. I sat at the [British] Institute of Archaeology [at Ankara] reading books and feeling very depressed. At that time it was a very collegiate atmosphere we all sat together and wore ties for supper. At the last minute I got permission to go to Kayseri, when the permission finally came through, though only for a week's fieldwork. I went to Kayseri and waited a fortnight for the piece of paper (which I had been assured had been issued) actually to arrive. During this time I made contact with the villagers and began talking to them in Kayseri. Then eventually it came. They gave me [as a devlet temsilcisi—government representative who accompanies researchers in the field] a young man who was absolutely charming. He was a Kayseri village boy who had become a history graduate in Istanbul and was working in the local museum on the coin collection. What I actually did was to go to the village with my complete census of every household and every human being that I had taken during my first fieldwork. In Sakaltutan I went right through the list and got information on every human being, how many children they had, where the children were, and

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how many people had left the village. I have still got that census and this young man was absolutely marvellous because he sat there and wrote it all down as I was doing the talking. When we got to Elba§i we had twice as many people still, and I had less time, so then I picked on every third household just straight out of the list because I simply didn't have time to do everybody. So I had all that information when I wrote the article on changes in the village. 1 What had bowled me over in 1970 in my visit was the enormous number of changes and the speed in which those changes were happening, particularly migrant labour. In 1950, there were a very small number of families in Sakaltutan who had already taken their families to town or taken their families out of the village but I didn't get a lot of data on them, and it wasn't until 1970 that I realised the migrant business was absolutely fundamental to mark the changes that were happening. So in 1971,1 collected all the data on the migrants that I could. I realised that here was an industrial revolution happening under my nose. I ought to have known, I had been teaching development after all. Nevertheless I was surprised and that's the article. And that's where I got the commitment, my own personal commitment to get back some time or other to the villages and do another decent piece of fieldwork. DS: As it turned out, that article was an attempt to analyse change in terms of micro-analysis? PS: That's right, yes. What I remember feeling was as follows. I had a lot of left-wing friends and I was very much a do-gooder, up the underdog. I still think the inequalities, even within the industrial countries, let alone in the world, are absolutely appalling and so in that sense I had been a fellow traveller at Oxford. But it seemed to me that the whole Marxist model of social change didn't tell me anything about what was happening in the village. It was far too macro, there was nothing which explained what I found in the village in the theories of social change that I knew so, I was back almost to square one. And that is what led me to what I regarded as a purely diagrammatic model, not an absolute model but a diagrammatic model aimed at the way in which all sorts of things change, at the way that the changes affect each other, and the way they affect other things. I don't like the word "function" because it has all kinds of moral overtones to certain people, and also because the attack on functionalism is so, to my mind, futile and silly. What is, it seems to me, crucial is the things that affect each other. If young sons can go and earn money over which their fathers have no control, then the relationships inside the family change. This means 1

Stirling (1974)

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in a sense that young men are less inclined to sit in the evening in the oda [lit. room: in this context, the main living room of a household] and keep their mouths shut because it's proper that young men don't speak in front of their fathers. They start speaking in front of their fathers. This affects gender relationships, it affects all sorts of things and there is a knock-on effect in great detail. This is what the article is supposed to be demonstrating. But this is still a dead-end because you can't really weigh the effect in any statistical way. You can't measure one factor against another very easily and my very complex model, where the changes were affecting each other, was my estimate—it wasn't validated by my survey or counting or anything. Nevertheless, it seemed to me that a lot of sociology just picks one fashionable hypothesis and trivially discusses this on a wide level without seeing it in relation to all the other things which are taking place. Accordingly, getting a model that is sufficiently complex on a wider scale would be very difficult because even for one village it wasn't adequate. So it's become a dead-end; I mean nobody was following it up as far as I was aware of, or taken much notice of that piece of argument, and I think that is because it defeats people. DS: Perhaps, but at the end of the article did you not mention that, in spite of all these great changes, they are recognizably still the same villages? PS: Yes, well that's still true, I mean Ali Osman who was my best friend in 1950 is just about to die in Sakaltutan now and his family is still there. He is still the same person and he is of the same religion. I mean, how much he has actually changed is difficult to say, I don't think very much. What has changed is the consumer behaviour, the use of telephone and contact with the outside world, the awareness of what goes on in schools, the awareness of the science that is taught in primary schools, this necessarily changes peoples' views of the cosmos. One of my favourite examples is this: Ali Osman is reading the Koran while I write my notes one morning. He looked up and said "It says here that the sun goes around the earth, but they teach my grandson in school that the earth goes round the sun. What do you say?" That is just one example of the thousands of cognitive changes which are imposed by nationalism, education, by contact with the West and going off to Germany and by the ceaseless conversations. This is something else social scientists don't talk about. Every time people come back to the village from Germany there are tremendous conversations, everybody asking questions, discussing, just as a matter of course and this is bound to have effects on the way people structure their lives.

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Of course also the whole economy of the village is totally different because most of the money that comes into the village is through remittances from outside the village, people are no longer dependent on the crops and their animals. They are an important part of the economy still but they are no longer the only economy. Also, a lot of money is flowing into the village in the form of wages from boys and men going off to work for the day in Kayseri and coming back on the bus in the evening, daily commuting in other words. DS: Is it correct that you spent the decade after this article trying to put these ideas into some sort of Turkey-wide comparative perspective? PS: Well this was rather a failure. I devised a research project and angled it towards getting all the demographic details of the two villages. Partly I thought that it would be funded by the Population Council. However, by the time I eventually applied to the Economic and Social Research Council, I had developed the idea that I wanted hard data on peoples' life histories and family histories over the period. I got back to Turkey by taking a sabbatical and early retirement from Kent, and becoming appointed to the Middle Eastern Technical University for three years. I had terrible problems with research permission, partly I think through being unwise and partly through reasons which don't go down well with the liberal decencies of Turkey. This time, I deliberately set out to hire a female Turkish collaborator because I was aware that I knew far too little about women and I was also aware that my Turkish had never been strong enough. When you sit in the village and somebody starts telling you a long story about what happened, you can't keep saying to the person, "I don't understand," so you end up not knowing quite what they said, just guessing roughly. I personally think that this happens to a great number of anthropologists besides me, and people don't talk about it too much. In the end, by a series of mischances I ended up with two research assistants. I could afford them both on the grant so it was all right, one male and one female. The female was much, much better educated and trained and intelligent than the male but the three of us went to Kayseri and we went through the whole thing together. By the time we got over all the problems of permission and everything else, I had six months left and I was only given permission on the condition that I stayed Visiting Professor of Middle East Technical University and taught at least one day a fortnight in Ankara, and so I did my fieldwork in six months, shooting off to Ankara. In fact one day a fortnight was not enough, so for various reasons I went for one day a week and that meant driving all the way to Ankara, spending two nights and going back again nearly every week. DS: This was in 1985?

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PS: Well, no. I went first in 1985. I had permission, and I went to Kayseri for the summer with the male assistant. We lived in Kayseri because getting permission to live in the villages was more or less out of the question. We went out to both villages fairly frequently and got various data. I went to visit people in Kayseri but I was only there for about six weeks, a summerlong vacation. I spent a lot of the time getting cards printed to put the family details on. I don't feel that summer I used very fruitfully. There were a lot of practical difficulties, and I spent a lot of time talking to the police to get permission. Then, permission was withdrawn. That was absolutely awful, and absurd. I didn't get it back until January. Then Emine Incirlioglu, my female research assistant, arrived also from the USA. We actually started by setting up a base in Talas. We furnished it, and started fieldwork in February. It was quite a comic situation actually because after much consideration and discussion we decided to take the risk, and the three of us moved into one unfurnished flat. We had a lot of neighbours in a new block of flats in Talas, which by then was a very rapidly growing suburb of Kayseri, where we had lived with the Americans before. It was twenty minutes from Sakaltutan but I had a car so that was all right and of course because I knew Sakaltutan so well and they knew me so well, going in and out wasn't a problem, not like doing fieldwork at a long distance. All the same, it was a nuisance. There were a lot of difficulties and our relationship with the neighbours appeared to be completely tolerant and friendly but there was one lady who insisted on coming to visit and checked to see if we were all sleeping in separate bedrooms and had our own places. We really set it up so that we could get details of the households, much more complicated details than I had first sought. I was told in Oxford in 1949 that I had to be aware of every household and know who was in it. I wrote these details in a rough notebook, but this time I was trying to do it much more systematically. Emine in particular was very meticulous. It takes a great deal of time trying to get everybody's birth date and so on. They don't know them, and they argue. We had a definite ideology of not conducting interviews, just talking about this and that, then letting things that came up lead on to other areas. I feel sad that I didn't get enough about cognition, attitudes, or "culture". That was partly because I knew that my Turkish was weak on that front and I suspect that a lot of false fieldwork is done by anthropologists with poor language skills who claim to understand the culture in that sense, but in fact do not. When I was alone with the villagers, they would take the trouble to make sure that I got the point. So I could cope but at a slower pace, so to speak, on my own. What I couldn't do was cope with the conversation when

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one of the others was present because the villagers would immediately talk to them in rapid Turkish and they would reply in Turkish, the conversation would then take off and I couldn't stop it to say, "Hey! I haven't understood." So I suffered from that situation. A lot of questions that I would have liked to ask about what they thought we didn't do so, because we were asking them when they were born and how they were related to each other and so on. I got lot of information on the migrants who lived in the towns and how old they were and what job they did but that was all second-hand information because we weren't in the towns ourselves. We did visit the towns but not enough and that was partly because I didn't have research permission to do that. Research is supposed by the bureaucracy to be very precise and limited. You weren't supposed to go outside your brief, and I thought that if I started saying, "I'm going to work in Adana," that would raise a whole lot of questions about the research and the bureaucracy, which would mean that I would never get permission—you have to have permission from all the governors of the areas you are going to work in. The official model of research is totally inconsistent with anthropological fieldwork. DS: But of course you weren't only looking at household populations, your point was to understand the data in terms of an overall matrix of changing society? PS: That's right, very much so: things like what household, where they get their income, where people move to, what occupation they have. Also a lot of information on migration movements and what occupations they took up, where they went and the pattern of migration and pattern of work in towns and how they got jobs. From Sakaltutan, nearly everybody was a building labourer and was working in the building trade. The earlier generation were plasterers, with a lot of other occupations but mainly plasters. And then they all switched to tiling. They said tiling was better paid, that it was easier to get work in tiling, that you did it indoors when the building was up and the roof was on, so it was much less arduous and a pleasant sort of job. Once you get established like that, then the skill in the town is to become known to be doing a reliable job, or a job which your contractor can sell. Obviously you had to be a reasonably good craftsman and to treat people more or less decently. So there was a strong motive to have a reputation as being a reasonable human being and a good craftsman. But the real skill was the social skill of knowing when to be in a kahve [lit. "coffee-house"; a cafe at which men collect together to drink (usually tea) and be sociable], how to talk to people, how to get jobs. They were quite clear about this, and the shy, diffident, not very bright ones had much more difficulty in getting work simply because they weren't as good at networking. I was interested really in

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the way in which the economic growth was transforming both the cognition in the villages and the social structure of families and family incomes and the way the kinship structures were developing as well. DS: So, broadly, in the 1950s there were, in Sakaltutan, about one hundred households, and by the time we got up to your fieldwork in the 1980s there were about the same number inside the village but a great number outside as well? PS: Yes, I'm speaking from memory but I think in 1986, when Emine and Mehmet were there, we counted 153 households I think in the village and about 150 migrant houses. I made an early decision that, as it was a patrilineal society in many ways, I would stick to that very firmly in my analysis, despite later criticisms. The problem was that I simply didn't have the resources to trace the children of daughters. If you chase up all the children of daughters and the daughters of daughters you have a very much larger number of people to cope with and we were right on our limits in chasing the town migrants through the patrilineal line. Thus, what I was interested to know about was the children of Sakaltutan fathers that went to town and the children of the sons of those families and so on. DS: So the moment a girl married out of Sakaltutan she left your database? PS: That's right, yes, but only after her marriage. DS: But if the girl married into Sakaltutan? PS: Then she came back into the database. This complicates the statistics considerably, but since I have never got the database working well enough to do statistics anyway (I hope to do this this summer), so far, it's something to be aware of in the future. When I say roughly there were 300 households where there had been 100, that is reckoning through the male line and of course this is the ideology from Sakaltutan. In 1950 the villagers felt quite clearly that a man set up a household by marrying a girl and taking her home, and being responsible for her, running a household with her and then having children. Then his sons would have households and so on and his daughters would set up other peoples' households and would go and marry out and set up with another man. So your daughters left you and your sons remained with you. Now, that ideology I applied to my statistics. Emine said it was prejudice, I don't know what it was, nevertheless it was a practical decision that I made because I didn't see how we could possibly cope with any more data that we were getting already. We were absolutely up to our ears in data from our collaboration.

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One of the interesting things is that when I got there in 1950 I had the impression of households often having five children growing up. Five children becoming adults was quite a large household, though there were some bigger ones, not many. When I went back in 1970 everybody had ten kids growing up because the child death rate had plummeted. By the time I got there in 1986, people were having five or six children again and not ten. This more or less reflects national statistics. So, very roughly, I lived through a population transition and back again. It occurs to me while saying this that we got terribly behind in the survey of Sakaltutan. I was trying to make it wall to wall, and we more or less succeeded by changing the method of collecting data and speeded it up. In Elba§i, we had a month, we worked extremely hard that month and we were quite efficient, but it was a very big village and we had to cut the sample in half so we only did l/6th of all households. Not a scientifically careful random but a more or less random sample of l/6th of the village. The data is not as good because of this. When we got to the end of August in 1986,1 had to make a decision. I thought about trying to hang on until December, but I had been away for three years already in the job so I didn't stay on, but in a sense I never quite got the fieldwork finished as I wanted to finish it. The next thing I suppose is where I feel deeply sad. I went back and tried to build a database. I don't really want to go into the details but I think my advisor on computers and statistics didn't realize how messy the data was. It was very messy because of the way we had done it. We had done it anthropologically: we hadn't pushed very hard, we had allowed ourselves to be distracted by interesting things that came up in the course of talking to families, we hadn't had formal interviews. So the data was very messy. I should have spent the first year trying to dean up the data before putting it into the computer. The data is not very well put in, it's not very reliable, some of the dates I know are wrong, so I have never felt secure. After trying to do it by learning a flexible system in which I would have been running the operation system, I moved over to a multi-relational database that was off the peg. I think that was perhaps a mistake because it put demands on information that wasn't actually there so that made it more difficult, and then I had to learn a new operating system (which I never really learned to use proficiently) in order to get the data out again. I had various people help me with it but I never learned myself. It has got details of I think four and a half thousand individual histories, including new-born babies, in 1985 and it has got something like 450 households from 1950 through to 1986, and yet I haven't managed to use this either to write a book or to sort out statistics from it. I'm still hoping

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that will eventually be done and I have actually got people working on it again. DS: That project then (the book) will try to combine your accumulated understanding of the macro processes in Turkey but relating to the places covered in the database? PS: It would have done, I don't think it can happen now, I am too old and I haven't got the intellectual energy. I have made lots of effort to outline a possible book but I have never been satisfied. I have always had the burden of trying to tidy up the databases and have never felt it's got to the point when it can easily be used. In 1992 I drafted 10,000 words, an explanation of the whole thing which is very thorough, too thorough in the sense that it makes the thing difficult for anybody else to take on board.1 DS: Would you mind nevertheless outlining the possible themes of the book? PS: Well, that is a problem which I haven't fully solved. I mean I had a lot of data on people going off to the town, setting up households, keeping relationships with the village. A few people come back to the village because they have had disasters. I have for example just written an article and published it on a very specific point. 2 Namely, that the number of cousin marriages rose in the first generation of migration because they were outside the village environment and cousins are the most obvious people to marry. You can't marry your neighbours in the town because you don't know what their family background is and it's not acceptable. And you can't marry back to people you do know about because you have now lost control over the neighbouring villages because you are now living in the town, so you go to your cousins. This coincided with the fact that because of the population boom and the end of baby deaths in the 1950s, everybody had an awful lot of cousins because two generations of ten child families produces a mass of cousins to choose from. Thus, the actual number of inter-cousin marriages didn't decline and the simple model, that people go to town and they become assimilated and

1

A preliminary version of this report can be viewed at http://luey.ukc.ac.uk/Stirling/. As well as the Introduction to the edited volume (1993) on macro social-change, Stirling appears to have written two detailed articles on migration: Paul Stirling, "Labour Migration and Changes in Anatolia" (edited version of paper delivered to the Conference on Mediterranean Migrations held at A1 Hacaima, 11 th-14th July 1988) and "Labour Migration in Turkey: Thirty-Five Years of Changes". All three of the pieces are available on-line at http: //lucy.ukc.ac.uk/Stirling/. 2

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they marry their neighbours and their school friends and so on, is wrong. You think you lose this inter-marriage business but they don't. It will happen I think. It is already happening to the second and third generations of migrants, but the first generation of migrants married their cousins more than their parents did. That is a specific point. In general, I keep seeing generalizations by sociologists and commentators on Turkey which are wrong. I know they are wrong because I have historical data that illustrates that people were not like that, but it is very difficult to get this into an article. You can't just write an article and say on page 5 "So-and-so and so-and-so said 'x' and they were wrong because ..." One of things that I want to say, and this I now express but I don't think that I have said it strongly enough, is that the process is extremely heterogeneous. The trouble with sociological statements are that they are generalities that everybody was doing "x" which is not true because people do very different things under the circumstances and some families react in one way and other families react in another way. There is an enormous difference in success rate measured in terms of income and in standards of living in the town. The least socially and technically competent end up heading, as far as I can see, for the kind of 15% underclass which you find in all industrial cities. Nearly everybody ends up somewhere in the middle because as a skilled plasterer or a skilled tiler you can make enough money in the city to lead a reasonable life. Nearly all of them, but not all, manage to get their own house, either by building illegally or by buying agricultural land at a knockdown price and building a house on it and so on. Again, illegally, without any planning permission. And then putting floors on top so you end up with a four story house built by your friend in the building trade and yourself and adult sons living in your flats. You buy land for your sons as well, so you end up as a small property tycoon. Then the government comes along and says right, we will have a street here and put a sewer there and you can have this bit of land and pay a charge which is quite reasonable, and there you are sitting on a legal totally approved piece of land, which you can then sell and buy a house somewhere else in a better area and so on. A lot of people did extremely well out of this. One of the things I want to say is that the whole illusion of the gecekondu that there are all these poor villagers going in and being exploited and ending up at the bottom of the urban pile is absolute rubbish. Nearly all the prosperous people in the towns are in fact ex-villagers, and the number of people who were there in the first place and stayed there is quite a small proportion of any town. All the middle classes and the teachers and things are all ex-villagers. When I went back in the 1980s, Sakaltutan had produced a few graduates, Elbagi an awful lot. They

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had over 100 people who became teachers and a lot of people who went to universities and other forms of higher education. And here, if I ever get the database right, I could do projections from the l/6th of people I know, statistics of this kind which would be quite interesting and useful. But somehow I managed to waste ten years not doing it. DS: Just before we finish, can I ask you a few points about the time before you started fieldwork in the village? Did the villagers talk much about the '20s, and '30s while you were there in the late '40s? PS: Here I have to plead slightly guilty to being influenced by the synchronic bubble in social anthropology. I fell into a dilemma here. I have said that I deliberately chose a society with a historical past, in contrast to most people who were going off and doing a society without a history because there simply wasn't any record except archaeological kind of evidence and material evidence of the past and that sort of thing. And yet in a sense I couldn't exploit this historical past, at least locally. I didn't do it partly because of resources, and partly because I didn't in fact have time. I had four terms between becoming an anthropologist and being in the field, and that was absurd. I had not learned Ottoman. Secondly, the archives and records in Turkey would have been extremely difficult to get at. At that time, there was a deliberate ideology that the Ottoman Empire was backward and bad and therefore you weren't supposed to know about it. Nosing round trying to find out about the recent past from documents would have been just as difficult at that time. In any case I had never been trained in this and didn't want to—I wanted to talk to people. For all these reasons, I failed in 1950 to do a recent history of the village. In 1986 I did in fact have some discussions about the 1920s. One fascinating thing is that far from resenting the end of the Ottomans, when the news came of the declaration of independence they were absolutely overjoyed. The head man in the village, who could read newspapers, had got a job on the road but he happened to be in the village at the time. He got a newspaper from Kayseri, brought it to the village with the declaration of independence on the 29th October 1923 and they all went mad, and had a marvellous time for a whole week. So there was no anti-Republican or anti-Atatiirk sentiment except that there were people who regretted the script. Here, opinion was divided a bit. Many people explicitly said, "No, the modern script is not right." Though they made little fuss about it openly, some people replied, "Well that's ridiculous, we can't possibly go back to the old script." And, soon after I got to the village for the first time, in November, three members of the village came back from Mecca. These were the first who had been allowed to go by

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the Republican Peoples' Party, to win over votes I think. We had enormous parties for them. The election followed in May 1950, and I actually have photographs of the villagers voting in the school next to where I was living. The village voted just marginally for the Democrat Party. The villagers treated it as a joke. I mean they actually dressed up and fooled about and they didn't take it seriously. In another village only a few miles away people were actually killed in fighting between the rival gangs. My theory then was, and I think not far out, that most communities had violent factional divides of quite serious proportions and very often involving feuding, so what happened was the side which held power at the time was automatically government and the opposition in the village or community or town to the people joined the other side. It was nothing to do with the ideologies of freedom of enterprise or anything; it was largely due to the local politics. DS: Was there any difference in the attitude to religion? PS: Yes, they were very sharp. People came to the village as the party campaigners and they were very straightforward. They were, all of them, both sides, saying, "We have got to be democratic, you must vote." That was interesting. They all said that very firmly, that it is more important to have a vote than it is for us to win. Which I thought was remarkable. There were stories about the Republican party doing things like collaring all the taxis so that nobody could get to the village and anyone had to be ingenious to get there at all. But the opposition, the Democrat Party, were very dearly on the side of religion. When they came to the village, they would go off to the mosque in their spare time. I remember a Democrat Party man coming to Sakaltutan, he came to the village propagandizing. He actually went to the mosque and they all went with him, so that he actually did his prayers in front of the village and showed that he was a good Muslim. The Republican People's Party didn't do that. There was a rumour, that turned out to be true, that the ezan [call to prayer from the mosque] which was legally at that time in Turkish, was going to be changed back to Arabic, that there would be more permission for school religion and so on. These were very small things compared with the secularism of Atattirk and the Republicans. But nevertheless a move in the other direction and I think that had a great deal to do with the victory of the Democrats in 1950. DS: Thank you very much.

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REFERENCES Ayer, A. 1936 Language, Truth and Logic, London: Victor Gollanz. Benedict, R. 1935 Patterns of Culture, London: Routledge. Coulanges, F. de 1874 The Ancient City: A study on the religion, laws and institutions of Greece and Rome, Boston: Mass. Hann, C. (ed.) 1994 When History Accelerates: essays on Rapid Social Change, complexity and Creativity, London: Athlone Press Rowntree, B Seebohm 1901 Poverty, a Study of Town Life, London: Routledge. Stirling, P. 1957 'Land, marriage, and the law in Turkish villages,' International Social Science Bulletin 9: 21-33. Stirling P. 1964 Turkish Village, London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson. Stirling, P. 1974 'Cause, knowledge and change: Turkish village revisited', in J. Davis (ed.), Choice and Change: Essays in Honour of Lucy Mair, London: Athlone; 191-229. Stirling, P. 1984 'Social Change and Social Control in Republican Turkey', in Papers and Discussions: Tiirkiye Bankasi International Symposium on Atatürk, Ankara: Cultural Publications, Tiirkiye: t§ Bankasi; 565-600. Stirling, P. 1988 'Labour Migration and Changes in Anatolia', 'Edited version of paper delivered to the Conference on Mediterranean Migrations held at Al Hacaima ... 11th-14th July 1988'. Stirling, P. (ed.) 1993 Culture and Economy: Changes in Turkish Villages, Huntingdon: Eothen Press. Stirling, P. 1993 'Introduction: Growth and Changes: Speed, Scale, Complexity' in Stirling (ed.); 1-16. Willey, B. 1934 The Seventeenth Century Background, London: Chatto & Windus.