“It’s my fault, all my fault; I should’ve tried harder,” he said. A quintessential characteristic of his – always pinning the blame on no one other than himself.

They were closing us down; there was no more hope.

He had returned hopeful after the bidding: his paperwork had been in order, and he’d been at it for weeks, day and night. In fact, he hadn’t slept much since the great wave had hit them on the 16th of July. I recall seeing his worried sleepless face on the morning of the 17^th; he hadn’t slept a wink. He’d been up all night making “namaz” (prayers) for his country. He’d been confused by the events. The slowly emerging, dizzying “facts” confounded him.

The wave had been the talk of the staffroom in the days to follow. Some said that their country had just been making good progress and now everything, who knows maybe 10 or 15 years of building, had been lost, all in a single night. Teachers, first by the hundreds and then by the thousands, had been sacked, and their licenses revoked. I was shown a picture of a teacher with an angelic appearance who had been put to death because he had allegedly been involved in terrorism. The morale dropped with each passing day and the friendly smiles and warm greetings turned into frowns and drooping shoulders. I woke up each morning with a sense of angst and prayed for peace, justice, and truth to prevail in my colleagues’ country. The realization started setting in that they wouldn’t be able to return home that year. Their children would not be able to see their grandparents the next holiday. And with the school being shut down, they had no idea where to go. They told me that it’s become too dangerous to contact their families; people are being detained by the thousands. Some told me that their parents believed the news and not their own accounts of what had happened; a certain blindness had descended upon their countryfolk.

My colleagues are deeply patriotic. There were Turkish flags and laminated Turkish words labeling things and framed pictures of the Hagia Sophia and Istanbul on the walls of the school.

Talk about the failed coup eventually ceased in the staffroom and my colleagues refused to be dispirited further by it. Weeks went by and everyone kicked into survival mode. CV’s were being updated, job applications were being sent out in a frenzy, reference letters were being written, and my friends had nowhere to go. They were stranded or worse, they’d become alleged “terrorists.” My friends: terrorists? Ludicrous!

I’ve known them for over five years and the only allegation I could make against them is that they work too hard! Most work seven days a week. Our staffroom was open 24 hours and I’d often see them working in there as late as 11 at night. They had once compelled me to redo a video promo I’d made about the school just to insert a clip of the Prime Minister at the time, Erdoğan, and his wife who had attended a Turkish Olympiad (Türkçe Olimpiyatları) where Ghanaians had performed a traditional Turkish dance. Both Erdoğan and his wife were deeply touched. I’m not sure if I had gotten my facts straight… so he, Erdoğan, was blaming my colleagues of plotting against him? The reasoning behind this had confounded myself and my colleagues alike.

They’ve travelled land and sea to make other nations pro-Turkish and pro-Turkey. Never had I picked up on an ounce of resentment against Turkey from my devoted colleagues.

And when my colleague had exerted his final efforts and realized that the fight to keep the school open had been lost, he sighed and said: “It’s my fault, all my fault; I should’ve tried harder.” My heart broke upon hearing these words uttered by a man who teaches his students on weekends and until eleven o’clock at night to help prepare them for their exam the next day. My heart was shattered when I heard those words from the man who had learned to push on with his teaching responsibilities despite an onslaught of dengue fever, his shirt completely soaked and his eyes deeply sunken.  “You should rest Abi,” I said to him. “I will rest in the hereafter,” he stoically replied.

My heart was crushed when he still blamed himself when powers beyond his control had worked against him, the man who had once removed the tie from his neck and wrapped it up neatly and made it a gift to me following my comment about its beauty. How can my heart go on if the man – who took me to his unfurnished house, save for a mattress on the floor, to give me his own mattress when mine was infested with bed bugs – is labelled a “terrorist”? Tell me, how should I respond? What should I do to convince people that none of this is his fault, that he’s a man of peace, a teacher by trade and nothing more, that he’s nothing less than a saint? Tell me, what should I do?

Coming to the Canadian experience, which has no doubt been hovering in the backs of our minds, with a nation requiring so much intellectual mediation, we may well worry that as the memory of the parties who fought on the Plains of Abraham fades into the background of the national consciousness, only homo economicus may survive, who looks to the nation only to optimize consumerism in the quest for status, rationalized as the summa of self actualization.

And we may justifiably worry that the universals of human nature which have obstructed utopian visions will continue to haunt the national dream, among them nepotism, inequality of intellectual and social potential, and the quest for dominance through violence, which is also embedded in our genes. And by the way, on the score of economic man, you’ll be amused to know that the most sophisticated instrument for the study of national identity, called the National Identity Scale, is not the work of academics or Statistics Canada, but of marketing agents. You can google it. Their goal is to profile all of our nationalist sentiments, loyalties, and proclivities in order to target our purchasing inclinations. How ironic is it that interested parties are seeking to brand us as consumers by profiling our diversities of national feeling?

There are other obstacles to national experience and identity worthy of mention. The word itself is derived from “natio” which essentially means birthplace, taken from “nasci,” to be born. We may well wonder whether our place of birth is our life’s destiny. He or she who swears an oath to the Queen in a citizenship court is making a vow that is tantamount to a religious conversion. Yet where people are born remains a huge part of their identity. A group of Canadian nationalist academics back in the 1970s, in a narrow spirit of mind, confirmed that very belief by stating that anyone not born in Canada lacked a true national experience and should therefore be barred from all positions of influence within our university systems. What a doctrine to impose upon an essentially immigrant nation, eager to recruit talent from abroad to maintain its national dream!

Yet that issue will never ultimately die, because we will never ultimately agree about how we construct identity and fashion allegiances, who is really in and who is not. How malleable are we, and how much baggage from our pasts is too much when it comes to forming a new national community? And how much superiority can the native born claim for themselves?

Something once said by George Bernard Shaw cuts both ways: “There is nothing that can be changed more completely than human nature when the job is taken in hand early enough.” The gist of it is that we are indeed malleable, but only when we are young. Each of us here is as apt to speak Japanese as any child born in Japan, had we been born there. Yet nothing makes learning Japanese more difficult than first speaking English, because we were born here. So is birth tantamount to the only nation we can experience? How much plasticity do we have? Can a second language ever equal a first? That debate is likewise yours to discover.

The topic of memory in this context is also significant. It is not possible to dwell on all its complexities here, for memory is both key to the construction of t he self and key to those common experiences that define national identity. But self and nation entail different kinds of memory. A self is a point of view concerning its own lived history. National memories are preserved through books, paintings and pictures, letters, and journals housed in national archives and libraries. A nation emerges only when historical memory becomes personal memory, when the story of a people is internalized, inviting us to feel for and with those who created our national past.

Can a nation shed this component and still be a nation? I ask in innocence. Perhaps we can thrive together on current events. But if we require a deeper historical memory, how is it to be framed and disseminated? It is a real challenge for educators, who must referee among the embarrassing facts, the touchy opinions, and political correctness. Can we even afford an embattled Canadian history? Or do we beat our breasts and construct it as one long trail of colonializing abuse and ethnic misunderstanding? After all, two of our three founding peoples are conquered nations, and much of the history of Canada has been devoted to assuaging the loss of those former identities.

The Quebecois have a dearly-held sense of themselves as a first experience quality of nation centered on birth, language, a common history and culture, and at one time a common religion, yet they too must seek to embrace the contractual, legal, and secular components of a modern pluralistic society. The most intense intellectual debates within Quebec today are concerned with this very question. There is a lot of nostalgia in la belle province, and who can blame them? At some level, we all crave the kind of oneness they hope to find in a society still tenuously held together by a common language and traditions, made urgent by a history of perceived subjugation and collective hope.

Meanwhile, it is easy to imagine how irrelevant those confrontations must seem to newer Canadians who have no stakes in that conversation and can only hope for a second order gesellschaft nation or retreat into former national feelings; our historical solitudes go in many directions. Yet this part of our national experience cannot and should not be pretended away. And thus, how do we shape the collective memory of Canada? An attempt will be made in the transformation of our National Museum of Civilization into a Museum of National History, which I think we all recognize as an effort in nation building, in selectively representing the Canadian past in ways which will instill national pride in all its citizens. But whether this new institution will represent a faithful and comprehensive history or a cheerleading version of it remains to be seen. Behind it all is an admirable goal, to give our national memory a monument or shrine to make visible who we are, and to make it accessible to all the people.

I have thrown up a lot of obstacles to the realization of national identity in modern diversified societies. Unfortunately, I cannot resolve all the stressors and dilemmas which I have raised. I would be bigger than God if I had a band-aid for all our national divisions, and I would be a menacing tyrant if I had the power to imprint nationalist universals by fiat in the mind of every citizen.

What I would venture is that we all desire to be members of a national community—to participate personally in that cluster of ideas which not only holds us together but distinguishes us from all other nations, and to experience it as part of our extended personal identity. It is a level of the self that is big, but not too big, and still within imagining. National sentiments are strong when Canada does well in international ratings concerning our financial fundamentals. We are justifiably proud of our social welfare net, our peacekeeping objectives, or when planes fly overhead in formation, or when we take Olympic medals or win the World Series.

But we sense there is even more pro patria to be felt through education, historical consciousness, generous feelings toward our fellow citizens, and openness to dialogue and exchange. Emotions cannot be coerced, but when we feel them, they can help form the bonds that hold us together. In Canada, a dialogue among cultures has replaced the monolithic orientations of older and more traditional societies, which is now as it must be, but it is an ongoing experiment all the same, with an uncertain outcome. That brings us back to the intercultural and interfaith dialogues sponsored by such organizations as the IDI (Intercultural Dialogue Institute), which are vital to the shaping of our national ethos; we become one in sharing our differences and in understanding just how those differences still pertain both to our common humanity and to our national aspirations. In that regard, we can champion Fethullah Gulen’s great commission when he urges that “Each person who loves his or her country has to be a proper representative of that nation. Every member should invest in its values and put energy and aid into its development, and follow this pathway throughout life.” It is a great reciprocity conducted by granting identity to others and assuming an informed identity for ourselves.

A nation is dialogic. It is made by thinking it together. My purpose has been to think about the self and its experience in the context of nation, and how buying in cognitively adds to our experiencing of the self as a thinking participant. I can’t imagine a working nation without conditions like respect for law and the rights of others, respect for democratic institutions, and fiscal integrity. And here we get into the hard points for discussion. We need working languages to avoid our own Tower of Babel; thus it seems reasonable that we foster the two official languages of Canada as efficient vehicles of communication. We need citizens with religious sensibilities, even if they are confirmed atheists, but we must be wary of guiding ourselves in matters of the collective secular nation by religious principles more specific than generic ethics and civic morality; the French Revolution got that right. We need residents who imagine the common good and respect the dignity of life by instinct. And I would add my support for extending the historical consciousness of the nation, because Canada has had a rich history in its scant 400 hundred years of urban settlement. Canada has been pluralistic from its inception, yet we have forged a sense of a single dominion historically grounded and tied to a precious social and political formula based on reason and the spirit of order and cooperation. Yet I think we can remain true to our inspiring cultural diversity through discussion and sharing. Upon such a heritage, minds can build a nation.

I seem to recall that it was a beer company that branded us with a bit of national self-affirmation through its “I am Canadian” campaign. It was a “good feeling” ad. But Gulen said it more eloquently: “It is vital for citizens of a nation to say, ‘this is my country.’ The altruism of today will lead to the happiness of tomorrow’s generations.” And all this we do with our brains and minds in the most remarkable and mysterious of ways are, as a cognitive philosopher, are matters of eternal fascination to me. Nation-building we accomplish only by synchronizing our minds. We build an invisible yet compellingly real national community just by thinking in a collective way. Nation, in that sense, is a cognitive and emotional opportunity for the construction of the self, and clearly as a collective idea, nation has its adaptive value as a point of view from which we exercise our interests in the world. That alone gives grounds for the instauration of national bonds.

Donald A. Beecher is Chancellor’s Professor at Carleton University, Ottawa, Canada.
Editor’s note: The first part was published in the previous issue #99.

My leaves reflected the moonlight. I looked up at the moon, and it looked back at me brightly. But even its lights seemed somehow unfamiliar to me.

I slowly turned my flower head to the right to watch my brothers and sisters. They all looked pretty exhausted from the long journey, and in their face I saw the same concerns as mine. They, too, felt like strangers here.

Feeling a little bit depressed, I sighed and just wanted to sleep, but in this precise moment a move in the dark bushes that separated the garden from the fence attracted my attention. I caught sight of a small hyacinth. She looked at me curiously, as I smiled at her with mild exertion.

My smile was returned immediately, and visibly excited she gave a sign to those behind her. All of a sudden, there appeared a bevy of hyacinths, closely followed by – I could not recognize them right away – small carnations and roses.

Chatting and giggling, they hopped over to me and I realized that they were thrilled. A small carnation stumbled while running and fell to the ground. The hyacinth, which I saw first, ran back to her and helped her up.

The flower children surrounded me, eyeing me curiously. I smiled back at them kindly, a little nervous. Unexpectedly, they all erupted into laughter. I hadn’t seen such vivid flower children for a long time.

The hyacinth took the little carnation that had stumbled by the hand and started to speak:

“You and your siblings did arrive just now, didn’t you?”

I nodded, hoping that she was old enough to guess that I simply wanted to have my peace and quiet. But unfortunately, she apparently wasn’t… None of these little children were.

A murmur went through the swarm of children.

“Wow! Then you are a tulip, aren’t you? We have heard of you tulips. You guys are the first tulips coming from there,” said the hyacinth, pointing east. Her big eyes were shining with enthusiasm.

Yes, the East. From there, I came here; from a land where the sun rose and sometimes only reluctantly went down again.

My petals cramped. It had been very painful to leave that wonderful place, my home and my people.

As if reading my gloomy thoughts, the hyacinth said:

“It’s really beautiful here in the West! God showers us with water and it is pleasantly cool, sometimes even colder than we would like. Besides, we are well treated. The people are really fond of us.”

These words reminded me of the magnificent brightly lit tulip festivals, which used to be celebrated in the Ottoman Empire, of the nights made into days, and of the wonderful names we have been given, like face of the beloved or lucky star. At once I felt warm all over my carpels.

But once again, grief seized my flower head, and my sepals sank slightly due to their oppressive severity. “How long are you here, now?” I asked the kids, only to divert my attention from these thoughts.

The hyacinth shrugged her leaves:

“I don’t know exactly, but I think it was my great-grandparents, who were brought here.” The other flower children nodded doubtfully. They didn’t know anymore.

“Do you actually know anything of the country from which you, and…” – I briefly swallowed – ” … I originated?” They shook their heads. They were so young, so inexperienced. I smiled and sighed acquiescently, because I had to suppress my fatigue.

“Would you love to learn something about your country from me?” I asked.

The hyacinth politely set me straight:

“Here is our homeland. Here we were born, and here we are living in peace and joy with each other. I know my homeland. But I would pretty much like to hear something about the country where you and our great-grandparents come from.”

Smiling back at her, I was slightly confused about this answer. She was very smart, for sure, and would be a wise flower.

“Well, then sit down. I want to tell you about my homeland that is also the land of your ancestors.” They bounced close, and formed a semicircle around me with their eyes curiously focused on me.

“I am a tulip and I used to live and prosper in the Ottoman Empire, where I was surrounded with every imaginable flower. The Turks love us so much so that we have become an important part of their art and literature.”

Again a murmur was heard, and I had to smile about the naive way of these children. My fatigue and my gloomy mood slowly vanished. It was nice to relive those memories again.

“I don’t want to dive too deep into this topic. But we all are common motifs of the so-called Quatre-Fleur style of the Ottomans in the crafts.” It still made me very proud when I thought of it.

The hyacinth intervened:

“In this country, people say that we flowers have our own language. Each of us has a very special meaning for them and is given away as a present on certain occasions.”

I looked at her in surprise and let her continue. It sounded exciting.

“And not only have the flowers special meanings, but their colors as well.” The children in the semicircle nodded in agreement. “Tulips, for example, symbolize love and affection. Lovers present each other red tulips. Orange symbolizes fascination and blue means a promise of fidelity.”

My stamens trembled with joy when I heard that. How beautiful, indeed!

“This brings me back to the Ottomans,” I smiled at the children. “They also have something like a language of flowers, but somehow different from yours. They, for example, place yellow roses on the window sill, which is saying something like: there are sick or old people living in this house. In this way, passersby were prompted to behave quietly, which they did.”

I gave the flower children a short while to digest this new information, which apparently pleased them.

“By the way, do you actually know where I originally come from?” I asked them. They shook their heads. “My ancestors once left their home as well and were brought into the Ottoman Empire.”

The astonished hyacinth interrupted me:

“Does that mean that this isn’t the first migration?”

I gave her a nod. “Your ancestors were not the first, and I certainly won’t be the last who moves from one place to another in this wide world. There have always been trade relations between nations, and this will certainly remain so.”

The children smiled at me.

“And from where did you come to the Ottoman Empire?” the little carnation asked me timidly.

“Well, my real home … We tulips were already mentioned by the Greek writer Xenophon, who lived from 430 to 354 BC. And in the fourteenth century the Persian poet Hafez introduced my species into literature. He called us Lale, and this name so much appealed to the Ottomans that they adopted it.”

“In Turkish garden culture we had our heyday with Sultan Ahmet III. At that time, a whole era was named after us: The Tulip Era – Lale devri, which began in 1718. The tulip hype exceeded all bounds. There were 1323 different varieties.”

“Do they only have tulips over there?”

I shook my flower head. “No. The Ottomans had many flowers, including hyacinths as well. A part of the courtyard gardens of the Sultan were always reserved for you, the hyacinths; and this is still the case today.”

The hyacinths giggled again and whispered to each other. “See, I told you,” the first hyacinth whispered to the others.

“The poet Fazli, an Ottoman poet, often wove the hyacinth motif into his poems,” I continued. “And in Edirne and Istanbul, there are meadows covered with fragrant hyacinths.”

“Do you also know where we came to the Ottomans from?” another hyacinth, tall but very thin, asked.

“From the gardens of Baghdad and Aleppo,” I told her. A murmur rose again. The crowd of children thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

“How exciting,” they blurted.

Thus I added, “by the way, you folks came to Europe in the sixteenth century.” While they kept on jabbering with each other, the little pink carnation looked at me expectantly. Then she squeaked hesitant and softly:

“Have you also got flowers like me in the Ottoman Empire?”

I smiled at her. “Carnations, you mean?”

She nodded eagerly, and her cute petals shook with her head.

“Of course, even at the time of Theophrastus, in 300 BC, you were already growing. But I guess it was the Arabs who brought you to the Ottomans. At least, you got your name from them. The Arabs call you Qaranful, which is probably derived from the Latin Caryophyllus or from the Greek Karyphillon. And the Ottomans call you Karanfil.”

The eyes of the flower children widened and they tried to repeat the name slowly. Apparently they liked it very much.

For the first time, a small rose spoke up, slowly and gracefully as is to be expected from a rose:

“And what about us? What did we mean to the Ottomans?”

Again, I had to smile. What a question!

“Roses are sacred to all Muslims and, therefore, also to the Ottomans. They play a major role in Turkish culture.” The roses looked at me in surprise. “The Ottomans never left rose petals lying on the floor because rose in their tradition symbolized the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.”

“Wow,” the children whispered reverently, as with one voice. The carnations and hyacinths respectfully looked up at the roses. They, in turn, humbly looked at me, waiting for me to go on, which I did:

Again, the flower children were whispering to each other. At the sight of them, I rejoiced. Now, they were my new neighbors. What luck! With them, I would certainly never get bored.

I looked over at my tulip siblings. They had already made themselves comfortable and were sound asleep. Out of the blue, I felt tired again. “Dear children! Tomorrow I’ll tell you more, if you want. But for today, it’s enough.”

A disappointed murmur rose. But the hyacinth encouraged me.

“Okay friends. She’s right. It’s enough for today. We should go back. Our parents are probably already worried. It’s getting late.”

“But I certainly would like to know more about my ancestors in Albania,” the little carnation complained.

“Arabia! Your ancestors came from Arabia! Just listen more carefully,” the hyacinth chastened her. She stood up and pulled the others behind her. “And now let’s go home!”

“Didn’t you forget something”, the hyacinth asked the flower children. As if on command they all turned again to me and shouted:

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Tulip!”

I laughed. The hyacinth had a very good grip on them.

“You are welcome,” I replied. “Good night!”

“Good night,” they echoed back, and with a broad grin and still fidgety, they retreated. I was alone again, and at once felt a little lonely. So I hurried back to my brothers and sisters.

This country seemed to be very exciting, at least more exciting than I would have thought. I smiled and suddenly did not even remember why it seemed so strange to me in the beginning.

Civil society has yet to define and accept broader human rights … The struggle goes on, building on those who went before us, for the benefit of those who come after us.

The 50th anniversary of President John Kennedy’s assassination this year is poignant for those of us who were well along in high school or had begun college when we heard the news that awful Friday afternoon. We still remember exactly where we were and what we were doing when the word came. I was in the locker room in the seminary dormitory with some classmates when a friend ran in to tell us. First came shock; then, hopeful denial. The television, however, confirmed the unbelievable reality. The next three days we rarely budged from in front of the television – not until the state funeral had ended.

Kennedy was, for many of us, the promise of our generation. His eloquence, humor, and charm captured our idealism, as certainly as his call-to-action inaugural address – “ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country” – inspired us to build our communities and bring our country further along the path of democracy. He urged us to reach out to the world. The Peace Corps, which Kennedy proposed at the University of Michigan during his campaign, captured our imagination.

Tragic history has a way of deadening dreams, and casting youthful idealism upon its ash heap. We strove to resist that trajectory and continued to push our energy forward in the civil rights movement, and those movements that followed … for women, the environment, and peace.

Many of my generation answered the call, and, with the help of Lyndon Johnson’s masterful implementation, and expansion, of Kennedy’s ideals, joined the Peace Corps, AmeriCorps, or the War on Poverty. Others of us dedicated ourselves to other visions of civil society. Some of us were brutally tortured to death. Many were beaten bloody at lunch counters and on buses, or had snarling dogs set upon them. Terroristic violence even killed four little girls at Sunday school in Birmingham, Alabama.

We endured the pain of the unimaginable assassinations of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr., and strove with grit to keep the dream alive and steady the course, despite the odds set against us.

Of course, we were not alone. We were building on the shoulders of the other generations in our time, and marching with them. All of us were honoring the legacy, lives, and struggles of those who had gone before us and now rested in peace. But it was Kennedy’s clarion voice that called us younger folks forth.

I myself ended up in the farm workers movement, following the leadership of César Chávez, and eventually moved into broader human rights efforts.

As I look back fifty years, I have learned that the struggle is so much more difficult than what we had seen through our idealistic-tinted glasses. I still cannot bear to watch the anniversary replays of President Kennedy’s assassination, and this year is even worse.

But there is never a moment that I don’t feel a stirring deep within my heart when I watch his inaugural address or listen to his speeches calling upon our “better angels,” as another assassinated president, Abraham Lincoln, did a hundred years earlier.

It is with the same stirring of heart that I watch the next generations so passionately pick up the struggle to make the dream real.

When I look back, I also see other formative people and events that helped move me in this direction. I have learned from this that everything we do well in life has a good impact on others and that we can always learn from the circumstances in which we find ourselves.

Probably the person who influenced my life the most was my grandmother. She was an intensely devout Christian, who practiced every day what she believed. She gave her money to the poor, visited people in the hospital, doted on her grandchildren, helped my parents support our family of six kids and send us to Catholic school, and prayed and went to Mass every day. My grandmother lived a life of compassion, tolerance, and justice. In her late eighties, she was on a picket line, supporting the United Farm Workers’ grape boycott.

Another important epoch in my life was the eight years in seminary, high school and college, studying to be a priest, even though I eventually chose a different vocation to which I felt called because it offered a more activist role in human rights work; after a stint in graduate school studying philosophy, I went on to become a lawyer.

But my time in the seminary gave me a good liberal arts education and taught me discipline, spirituality, philosophy, and grounded me in Catholic social justice teachings. It was the era of Pope John XXIII and Vatican II. Pope John was much like John Kennedy: he “opened the windows” of the Church and challenged us to bear witness to the Gospel in community life in new ways; to help build civil society, in effect.

And, in my later years, coming to know and work with people in the Hizmet movement inspired by Fethullah Gülen gave me yet a broader, more ecumenical vision of the world, and offered the opportunity of collaborating with people of the Islamic faith to help build civil society. This experience further deepened my own spirituality.

Few of us involved in human rights, I venture to say, are without a spiritual basis for our work. Like all generalizations, mine is surely excessive; but it does capture the point that very many human rights advocates remain in their work because of their spirituality, which comes in all shapes and sizes. As the Christian monk and mystic Thomas Merton warned, without spirituality, we find ourselves caught up in the frenzy of activism and overwork, which overwhelms us.

While in law school, I worked summers with migrant farm workers in Michigan, the vast majority of whom came from the Rio Grande Valley in south Texas, along the border with Mexico. It was the era of César Chávez, who galvanized the country around issues of justice, decent pay and working conditions for field laborers.

So it was that I ended up in the Valley and worked there for ten years, helping to support farm worker organizing efforts and undertaking other human rights endeavors. It was an amazing way to witness that people living in poverty had great personal wisdom and an amazing sense of family and community.

Eventually, my work brought me to Austin, Texas, and the Texas Civil Liberties Union.

In 1990, two of us located free office space in a benefactor’s community building and began the Texas Civil Rights Project. Over the years, through the help of many generous people and organizations, TCRP has grown to a staff of 38 people in five offices: El Paso, South Texas, West Texas, Houston, and Austin.

TCRP handles the full panoply of civil rights issues, including: voting, free speech and assembly, economic justice, jail and prison matters, police misconduct, discrimination, and disability. For 23 years, the Texas Civil Rights Project has been a tireless advocate for racial, social and economic equality for low-income people, through its education and litigation programs.

Some of the achievements of the TCRP staff include:

• Handling more than 3000 legal cases for poor and low-income people
• Developing a vigorous VAWA (Violence Against Women Act) legal program for abused immigrant women in rural Texas that includes our unique “Circuit Rider” component and counseling and support services provided by a MSW supervisor and social work interns
• Publishing twelve Human Rights reports on issues such as hate crimes, Title IX rights of girls in high school, and the death penalty, and seven “self-help” legal manuals, on matters like veterans rights, disability laws, and prisoner rights
• Conducting community and lawyer trainings for more than 50,000 persons
• Publishing more than 400 opinion editorials in Texas newspapers
• Giving more than 500 speeches and talks on civil rights to diverse groups (such as school conferences, law enforcement trainings, and senior citizen organizations)

Due to the tireless advocacy of many TCRP employees, jails in Texas counties now do much more in preventing inmate suicide, providing interpreters for deaf prisoners, protecting vulnerable inmates from sexual assault, and administering HIV medications.

TCRP set the national model in ballot accessibility for blind voters and has led more than 30 regional compliance campaigns in Texas under the Americans with Disabilities Act. Thanks to our intrepid staff, businesses, churches, and courthouses in Texas are much more accessible to elderly and people with disabilities, as are government programs.

TCRP’s Title IX programs on sexual harassment and equal sports opportunities have helped make rural middle and high schools more hospitable for young women, and respectful of them, and opened up the prospect of athletic scholarships to college for them. Our Safe Schools project works with community groups on anti-bullying programs for students and our “Equality under the Law” campaign addressed “benign” discrimination against African Americans and Hispanic Americans in banks, restaurants, motels, and other public accommodation.

Efforts to help South Asian, Muslim, and Arab citizens, permanent residents, and students who fell victim to post September 11th discrimination included filing a suit against a major airline and enlisting Texas attorneys to represent, on a pro bono basis, individuals who were questioned by the FBI.

TCRP worked with the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund (MALDEF) to help create single-member school board districts and assisted in redistricting the Texas Legislature and congressional districts so as to protect the voting and representational rights of minority citizens.

We assisted the NAACP is persuading the U.S. Department of Justice to audit the Austin Police Department and make more than 200 changes, including its use of force practices in the city’s minority communities.

TCRP joined with the American Jewish Congress in one of the first court cases in the country to challenge the constitutionality of government funding of a religiously-orientated job training program that used the Bible as an employment text and proselytized its trainees.

And we are a leading voice in raising questions about the fairness of Texas’ death penalty scheme, and the possibility of executing innocent people. So, too, are we an intrepid advocate of traditional civil liberties, such as free speech and assembly, due process, and equal protection under the United States and Texas Constitutions.

Our work that I’m proudest of dealt with:

• Ending secret collection of and research on blood of all babies born after 2002 
• Directing 480 suits under the Americans with Disabilities Act and related enforcement campaigns
• Challenging grand jury discrimination against Mexican Americans, women, and poor people
• Eliminating the statutory exclusion of farm and ranch laborers from the Texas workers’ compensation and unemployment compensation laws
• Extending the Texas Equal Rights Amendment to minority voting and redistricting
• Establishing a habeas corpus mechanism to review claims of innocence for persons sentenced to death
• Winning the right of blind voters to cast secret, adapted election ballots 
• Banning mandatory polygraph testing of state employees (and establishing privacy as fundamental right under the Texas Constitution)
• Protecting United Farm Workers Union members from retaliatory employment termination
• Securing the right of blind people to use dog guides in public accommodations 
• Seven McAllen police brutality class actions suits that reorganized the department

The most recent and profound personal development, as mentioned earlier, was coming to work with hizmet. It started with one of the movement’s interfaith dialog trips to Turkey and eventually led to writing a book on the eight-year-long political trial of Fethullah Gülen, which ended successfully and actually helped the process of more deeply democratizing Turkey.

International human rights law had always been a passion, and it was an honor to write on a subject that no one else in the world had written on. In subsequent trips, I met so many people in hizmet and was always singularly inspired by their good deeds, hard work, amiability, and commitment. It reminded me that people from all walks of life and faiths are struggling for democracy and human rights.

There remains much to do, of course. Human rights is a life-long struggle; it is painstaking to build civil society. As Eugene Debs, the renowned American labor organizer, said, every struggle for human rights is lost, and lost, and lost, before it succeeds. Indeed, many people have given their lives over the years, and suffered enormously to help make the world a better place for its people.

Civil society has yet to define and accept broader human rights, such as the right to employment, the right to a social and economic safety net, the right to medical care, the right to participate in community’s cultural life, the right to adequate standard of living, and the right to an education. The struggle goes on, building on those who went before us, for the benefit of those who come after us.

Eleanor Roosevelt put it well in her remarks at the United Nations in 1958:

Where, after all, do universal rights begin? In small places, close to home – so close and so small that they cannot be seen on any maps of the world. Yet they are the world of the individual person; the neighborhood he lives in; the school or college he attends; the factory, farm or office where he works. Such are the places where every man, woman, and child seeks equal justice, equal opportunity, equal dignity without discrimination. Unless these rights have meaning there, they have little meaning anywhere. Without concerned citizen action to uphold them close to home, we shall look in vain for progress in the larger world.

Such has been the journey of those of us inspired by John F. Kennedy all those years ago. It has been an incredible blessing to “labor in the vineyard” with so many good and decent people; they have contributed to my own growth as a person. I hope and pray that I have given back to them a portion of what they have given me. That, after all, is what living in the human community is all about:

We make a living from what we get.
We make a life from what we give.
What we have done for ourselves dies with us.
What we have done for others and for the world is immortal.
MaryAnn Evans

Harrington is founder and director of the Texas Civil Rights Project, a nonprofit foundation, promotes civil rights and economic and racial justice throughout Texas, for low-income people. He is author of Wrestling with Free Speech, Religious Freedom, and Democracy in Turkey: The Political Trials and Times of Fethullah Gülen.

In a globalized world, some regions – like Anatolia, which could be considered a bridge from east-to-west, past-to-future, and a melting pot for different cultures and religions – could pull from their centuries-long experience in child education to help others.
Ali Fethi Toprak

Child education or training is one of the biggest challenges parents face. During the child-raising process, every parent experiences some difficulties and needs help and guidance. Therefore, many parents naturally look for resources to educate themselves on how to better raise their children.

Pedagogy, defined as the art or science of teaching, offers different educational methods and models for children’s education. Some methods are so common that they are institutionalized. For example, there are about 4,000 certified Montessori schools in the United States, and about 7,000 worldwide. However, the necessity of a prepared environment and special Montessori teachers make this method available only to those who can afford it.

In addition to economic considerations, many pedagogical approaches in different countries have to balance cultural, religious, and regional considerations, so to better educate children. In a globalized world, some regions – like Anatolia, which could be considered a bridge from east-to-west, past-to-future, and a melting pot for different cultures and religions – could pull from their centuries-long experience in child education to help others.

Although most of the world only became interested in child education after the dawn of the twentieth century, there has been a long standing tradition of child education and training in Anatolia. Just as people specializing in child education today are called pedagogues, Anatolian professionals were called “mürebbî” and “murebbiye” during the Ottoman period. A mürebbî, or governess, provided great support in child training to parents, and when parents fell short or needed guidance in any respect, mürebbîs were in the immediate vicinity, available to help.

Fathers were also important figures in childhood education, and the Anatolian children were living as honorable members of society. Besides, Anatolia was an admired center for peace during this period. A Western observer, A. Ubicini (1818-1884, Lettres sur la Turquie – Letters on Turkey), made the following note in his diary on the role of the father; it is a great example of the father-model which today’s pedagogy is seeking:

“I don’t know of any other country where children live with so much love, care and compassion. Oddly enough, all this compassion and care is deepened in the fathers rather than mothers. It is really something to see that an Ottoman Turk holds his kid’s hand and walks with him on the road on Fridays (holiday in Ottoman times) or on another holiday. He keeps his steps as small as his child’s. When realizing that the child is tired, he puts him on his shoulders or let’s him sit by him while he rests in a coffee house, and he speaks to him with a great compassion and care.”

Understanding the roots of Anatolian pedagogy

There are studies to understand the basis of childhood education in the Anatolian model. Pedagogue Adem Güneş provides a systematic approach called “Anatolian Pedagogy.” According to his model, Anatolian Pedagogy aims to educate children in a way that is more compatible with the true human nature. It abstains from any behavior or stress that will disturb the nature of children. The nature of children is like that of plain paper. Since whatever is initially imprinted on it will remain for rest of its life, parents should aim to leave good images on this clean page.

In addition, according to Anatolian Pedagogy, a child should not be afraid to make mistakes, and parents, as much as possible, should not interfere with issues arising from childhood. Instead, mistakes should be accepted as strong and easily remembered lessons that provide a path for kids to correct themselves. Furthermore, Anatolian Pedagogy states that every child should be treated differently. Because Anatolian Pedagogy puts an emphasis on the differences of children, kids are not treated equal, but treated justly. For example, if one child is emotional while another is more social, the way parents show their love, mercy, and care should not be the same for both. Anatolian Pedagogy also implies that parents should not buy their children the same type of clothes. In addition, parents should not have the same expectations for the future education of different children.

Anatolian approach to reward and punishment

The approach of Anatolian Pedagogy to punishment is mainly shaped by the teachings of Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him. He educated kids not with punishment, but through mercy and compassion. Anatolian Pedagogy, thus, affirms that punishment will cause kids to lose self-esteem and will make them embarrassed. Moreover, Anatolian Pedagogy does not confirm giving rewards in order to change the unwanted behavior of kids. Thus, it aims to avoid the development of any artificial behaviors or false personalities in children.

The importance of living a child-centric life

Anatolian Pedagogy recommends that parents be tightly connected with their children. Interestingly, Anatolian Pedagogy advises parents to earn the love of their kids to avoid the common misconception that “your kids love you only because you are their parents.” From this perspective, mercy and love toward children should be unconditional. Kids must become aware of this, so that they do not fall into indebtedness.

Another aspect of Anatolian Pedagogy deals with the understanding of children’s emotions. Parenthood is not possible without this consideration. Parents in the Anatolian model were expected to adjust their lives according to their kid’s world – to live a kid-centered lifestyle. This also includes not disturbing the biological rhythm of children. A common problem of modern times is to live fast, and this may end up meaning “living without feeling.” Anatolian Pedagogy aims to prevent such carelessness.

Effect of culture on childhood education

Pedagogical advice cannot be independent from the traditions that compose a community. If cultural differences are not taken into consideration, the advice given for childhood education will be a new source of problems. The suggestions to solve similar problems in child training may even be different for families who live in the same region, but in different cities.

For instance, some habits considered as usual in a family from a metropolitan city can be unusual in a family from a rural city. If it is so different in the same country, imagine how pedagogical methods can differ from country to country? Would a German family and a British family have the same pedagogical perspectives? Could you compare the family structure and child training techniques in a French or Turkish family? In some cultures, it is essential that the child leaves his parents when he is 18, and he should be able to earn his own living, thus becoming an independent thinker who contributes to the social, economic, and intellectual welfare of the community. Under such conditions, the goal is to ensure that a child doesn’t have any emotional weaknesses. From this perspective, keeping a child’s emotions controlled is a positive. As a result, there are differences between this perspective and the Anatolian model.

These differences between Europe and Anatolia do not mean, “European pedagogy is bad,” and, “Anatolian Pedagogy is the best.” On the contrary, Europe defines its pedagogic standards by its own cultural values. European pedagogical approaches could be acceptable and valid for Europe. But if you try to apply them in Anatolia, or vice versa, they will likely be incompatible.

Each society should establish its own science of pedagogy from its own values. For this reason, pedagogical experts who understand their own cultural values should establish scientific theories for their own country and land. In the West, Piaget, Van der Horst, John Bowby, Alice Miller, and Maria Montessori have been influential; Sufi masters Mawlana Jalaluddin Rumi and Yunus Emre, who are marvels of love, compassion, and peace, offer great examples of Anatolian pedagogy that could inspire the world.

• Hatice Kocabas is a Psychology Student at FernUniversität in Hagen, Germany.
• Adem Gunes is the Chair of Child Education Department, Fatih University, Istanbul.
• Ali Fethi Toprak is a Senior Researcher, Texas Institute of Biotechnology at North American College, Houston, TX, USA

References

1. Montessori Schools. Retrieved from http://www.montessori.edu/FAQ.html on 03/04/12.

2. Montessori education. Retrieved from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Montessori_education on 03/04/12.

3. Adem Güneş. Anatolian Pedagogy 1&2. Şebmen Dergisi. Retrieved from http://www.sebnemdergisi.com on 03/04/12.

4. Adem Güneş (Pedagogue). Pedagojide Anadolu Ekolü & Insanlığı zirvelere taşımış terbiye yöntemi. Retrieved from http://www.ademgunes.com/?p=271 and p=677 on 03/04/12.

Permanent migration, unlike casual tourism, is not just a temporary pattern of visitation. It is a conscious choice of making home within the walls of someone else’s citadel, about stepping into their worlds. However, we live together now in the age where stepping into the world of others need not be restricted to direct one-to-one physical contact. Why do people need to move at all? Increasingly the electronic highway permits most of us access into the thoughts, minds and the geographical worlds of others. The television, the oral, print and visual media, the internet network are producing highways of virtual tourists scanning and accessing the worlds of others, without sometimes even the hosts being aware of their vicarious presences of others in their lives. Touristic escapades into the world of others can happen from the electronic comfort of one’s armchair.

However, a distinction needs to be made between these flippant voyeuristic tourists, and more permanent migration. Tourists are welcomed into most countries, significantly because of the huge revenue they deposit into the receiving country as they “taste the exotic other.” Permanent migrants by contrast are usually viewed rather more suspiciously. In this article I choose to focus on how Turkish citizens influenced by the Hizmet philosophy underpinned by Fethullah Gülen choose to understand their journey into the world of others, outside the borders of the society in which they were born (Çetin, 2011). What drives these members of the Turkish community to leave their native land and venture out? Are these adventures a matter of tourism, a matter of foreign infiltration, an economic plan, a matter of migration of a worldview of Islam? I make three broad arguments in this article: that this particular Hizmet form of migratory pattern is not a uniform goal for different parts of the globe; that this mandate is often understood in philosophical rather than pragmatic material terms, and that these migrants evolve in different stages in their settlement and relationships with the “motherland Turkey.” I will argue that living abroad for these unique “Turkish tourists” is sustained by a particular operational orientation of the Hizmet communal way of life. They become more than just visitors to foreign lands: they are bringers of philosophical insights for building deeper valuing and respect for dialogue and tolerance across the globe. But, is this a new kind of disguised evangelism? Do they walk in the shoes of their host countries?

Firstly, in reflecting on how the Hizmet philosophy has spanned across 140 countries, Mustafa Yesil, President of the Journalists and Writers Foundation (Istanbul) argues that the goal of crossing borders is not one of deliberate expansionism. Instead different individuals have chosen to interpret their mandate in multiple perspectives. The Turkish ambassadors are not exporting a single model of either educational, business, scientific, artistic, technical, or cultural know-how into the recipient countries. Hizmet, by definition is an attempt to reach out into the lives of others, to assist in collaborative partnership for the well-being of all who are engaged drawing measurably from the sources within the host context itself. The philosophy of Hizmet begins with a deep-seated respect, but also critique of their host countries. Foreign support from the source country (i.e. from Turkey) is sometimes a foundational option to spearhead projects.

So for example, when a school inspired by the teaching of Gülen is set up, the negotiations always revolve around the matching with the local cultural, political and curricular context of the society within which they are relocating. Nevertheless, the organization upholds the core Hizmet philosophical value of “a community serving the well-being of humanity.” When being set up in the context of corruption and greed, or rampant materialism, the philosophical carriers of Hizmet choose to realize alternate values. It recurs that matters of quality home, family and communal relations permeate their operations. In countries where abject poverty and malnutrition are dominant the Turkish Hizmet custodian usually chooses to address basic human dignities. The aim of these philosophers is to activate views of collective agency amongst the communities including a rethinking of the very values that the locals may have discarded (Agai, 2002). The Hizmet philosophy aims not to impose a value system, but to assist community members to realize what valuing system underpin their social systems, which perhaps have been forgotten or suppressed in their own contexts. The intent of examination of these values is to develop self and sustainable development.

It might therefore translate in many different ways in different social contexts. In the age of materialism in the western world the goal of the Hizmet activist is to be a beacon of alternate values; in the age of subjugation, personal and social liberations may be opted for; in the context of youth not taking responsibility for their action, then more pastoral roles may be offered. These are not absent of any core ethical valuing: the goal to realize the wonderment and potential of all human beings reaching their fullness of being. The choice for simple rather than lavish lifestyles characterizes these operations. The Hizmet philosophy of self and social upliftment is usually translated into many spheres of everyday life simultaneously: in terms of what it means to be a leader; in what it means to open up the minds and hearts of the young through schooling; in promoting rather than demanding fairness, respect and dialogue in business. The intention is not to draw attention to the doer, but the purpose of the action and its communal influence.

Secondly, it is easy to interpret, given the widespread reach that the movement underpinned by the Gülen teaching has achieved, that Hizmet is a disguised economic plot to enter into the markets of the foreign world. Mehmet Altan, a Turkish academic and journalist suggests that it should be understood that Gülen’s brand of modern Islam is an intersection of both the material and the spiritual wellbeing of a society. He suggests that Gülen introduces a more current interpretation of Islam in the modern world. Islam needs to find its presence in the everyday reality of its times, and will therefore be always a responsive and relevant religion. Altan argues that the fact that there are approximately 1.6 billion Muslims in 57 countries internationally, one would expect that there would be a proportional representation of the international wealth generated from these sources. This ought to be an economic reality. Muslims do not, he suggests, realize this full potential. Economic productivity is however, not an end in itself: it is a means for the broader upliftment and development of the society as whole. However, most so-called Muslim states who claim to be promoting this kind of productivity are more preoccupied with asserting their rights of access to supreme power in political and exclusive economic terms. The rampant econometric and political forces lead to a generation of fundamentalists who choose to assert their so-called Islamic identity through the use of force and terror. Productivity is understood in oppositional, competitive and dichotomous terms.

Gülen himself argues against this particular interpretation as being anti-Islamic since the core principle of Islam is to promote peace, dialogue, and tolerance. True Islam does not, in his view, promote a backward ritualized set of culturally interpreted routines that continue to oppress individuals into forms of subjugation, nor is Islam intended as a process of setting up hierarchies of alienation and othering. A more authentic understanding of Islam is guided by the interest to realize the full potential of all persons, of all classes, genders, or creeds. One will get to know God more closely when one understands more closely the plight and hopes of fellow human beings. Islam is not just a way of life, but a matter of a continuous internal journey for greater clarity of purpose and service to one’s fellow beings. One serves God through service to one’s fellow human beings. This spans across boundaries of race, gender, geography or creed. Hizmet as a philosophy therefore should know no bounds in terms of medium or method, shape or form. It is to be guided by clarity of intention and purpose of action. This conception of Islam recognizes the need for the faith to be located in the specific contextual landscapes with which its people operate: in the lived reality of the present (Gülen, 2011).

As a Catholic myself I am intrigued by how this Hizmet philosophy resonates parallel interpretations of the Second Vatican Council of the Catholic Church (Vatican, 1962a) which was a particular assemblage of the organized Church to examine its presence and operations in the modern world. The unified Church Council encouraged Catholics to open up to the real presence of the modern world in which the people of God existed. The Church (its clergy and laity) was exhorted to recognize the breadth of creative and productive diversity across the globe and that forms of liturgy and worship should be guided by such celebration and valuing of each other’s richness. One example is the shift away from all Church services conducted in Latin, the official language. Instead in order to access the worlds and lives of the community, local languages are used in praise and worship services and masses.

The Church cannot live in isolation of the many different representations of man’s relationship to the Creator. However we aim to seek “the common ground” across all religions and faiths. Hence inter-faith dialogue was the expressed mandate of the renewing Church (Vatican, 1962b). Migration into the world of others is therefore both an external and internal journey. The exhortation of Nostrae Aetate (Our common ground: On other faiths) (Vatican Council, 1962b) declares as follows:

“The Catholic Church rejects nothing which is true and holy in these religions… The Church therefore has this exhortation for her members: prudently and lovingly through dialogue and collaboration with the followers of other religions and in witness of Christian life and faith acknowledge, preserve and promote the spiritual moral goods found among these people, as well as the values in their society and culture” (ibid. 1962,2) (my emphasis added).

Thirdly, migration of Turkish persons living abroad should not be understood as a completely fulfilled agenda at the commencement of the journey. This agenda is likely to evolve over time: is likely to modify, solidify and yet expand. Kerim Balci (Chief Editor of the Turkish Review) argues that we need to interpret the following kinds of migratory patterns when examining the Turkish volunteers of the Hizmet movement, but these patterns are perhaps equally applicable to any of the types of migratory patterns globally, across time and space. The first generation of movers may be argued to be engaging in a “horizontal migration”: a migration in which they share what they presently know about their base disciplines, fields of areas of interest, skills or labor (for example, in education, business, science, agriculture, etc.). This generation is characterized by a listening mode which pays attention to the values of the society in which they are embedded. Their agenda is usually one of assimilation into the world of the other; of recognition and understanding of how to make sense of the other’s worlds. However, this generation usually stays closely aligned with their original mother country values, beliefs and operational levels of competences.

The second generation of migrants (sometimes offspring of the first generation, but sometimes a new wave of migrants altogether) tends to be more adventurous in their engagement with the host country. They tend to be more assertive in enunciating their own brought cultures. The next generations usually are able to transcend the class or status of their former generation and usually represent hybrid interpretations of the cultural values. This, Balci refers to as a “vertical migration.” It is usually the co-existence of these two generational forms that produce communities of particular cultural aggregations, as new forms of exerting power and influence are available. In the context of the Hizmet activities, the second generation usually draws from the quality of interaction established with the host countries and its peoples by its predecessors. In Turkish context, the second generation is a class of more confident proponents of the valuing system of the Hizmet worldview. It is usual that the host country have already seen the benefit of the Hizmet influence within their society and the second generation choose to build on this reputation.

A third wave of migration may be said to characterize these Hizmet activists. This constitutes what Balci refers to as a “re-migration”: a return to the “motherland” (of Turkey). It is important that this is not understood as a form of narrow nationalistic agenda to assist in the equally important contributions that are needed within the native (Turkish) society itself. This reverse migration is a response to the growing needs for a development of the agenda of reconstruction and transformation within the source Turkish society as it expands its footprints economically, socially, politically, culturally and especially educationally. Having been exposed to the global discourses of the many parts of the world in which they have served, these re-migrants may be said to introduce into the base (Turkish) society a quality of international discourse which societies seem alien even to the source (Turkish) society itself. Another interpretation of the re-migration is that the Hizmet philosophy, if powerful enough, should be able to sustain itself without the need of the presence of its original advocates. Local proponents take on the responsibility of sustaining its values.

The “foreign” re-migrants into the native homeland are sometimes treated as disrupters of the formative truths of a social system and this is notably present when more conservative entrenched values dominate in the source country. Reverse migration is not always welcomed by those who have remained sedentary in the home country. This pattern of migration forwards and backwards is cognizant of the impact that when one interacts with the world one is likely to shape it, as well as be shaped by it. The important consideration is the question whether the core values of the Hizmet “community serving humanity” philosophy still abides within these reverse migrants?

It is important to understand how the Hizmet migration is able to sustain itself especially when it enters into worlds which are vastly different to the home base traditions, religious practices and values. Engagement with the world of the others is done within the context of a brotherhood / sisterhood of fellow believers around an extended conception of “houses of light” in the form of houses, residences, dormitories, and other facilities where these pioneers socialize. The movement draws strength from the closeness of this supportive network which rally together to address the potential otherness of the environment within which they find themselves. The collective band of proponents share common cultural practices of dance, dress, diet, and resonant outlooks on worship and well-being. They therefore serve as a source of support and strength to each other, refining the values of their mission, clarifying of their goals. The leader of such a brotherhood/ sisterhood of support serve as a custodian and moral guide holding individuals in check and ensuring that the deeper philosophical intentions of their actions and practices are not subverted. This becomes a home community away from home: a living presence of their origins and sources in an external environment.

This article has attempted to argue that the migratory patterns of Turkish bearers of the Hizmet philosophy traverse the globe for different reasons, with different modes of operation, yet still underpinned by the quality of service. In the process they change and are changed by the many people they meet. They become part of the global humanity and commonality of value of purpose in our existence is thereby promoted. However as successive waves of migration evolve the challenge about this is a philosophical rather than material expansion which needs to be carefully guarded. Gülen (2011) argues, as do many religious and spiritual foundations, that one should be aware that one is patently in this world, but not of this world. We share a responsibility to guide the world to a better realization of its potential fullness of being; towards a greater goal of good. Therefore we cannot simply succumb to the world’s present values. We are here on a mission of realizing greater love, tolerance and dignity to all whom we meet. Our patterns of exit and re-entry from our home countries should be guided by this deep sense of quality of realizing the true freedoms of all whom we meet. I am surprised how much we across different religions, social and cultural systems share about these goals of and for good.

Acknowledgements

This paper draws from interviews conducted with the following sources during a cultural exchange visit of the author to Turkey in May 2012:

1. Mustafa Yesil: President of the Journalists and Writers Foundation

2. Mehmet Altan: Journalist, political commentator, academic

3. Kerim Balci: Editor-in-chief, Turkish Review

My thanks to Atilla Dag, Regional Director: Turquoise Harmony Institute, Durban, South Africa who provided the translation and interpretations of interviews during my May 2012 visit to Turkey.

References

Agai B. 2002. “Fethullah Gülen and his movement‘s Islamic ethic of education.” Critique: Critical Middle Eastern Studies. Spring 2002. 11 (1). 27-47.

Bourne, R. 2011. Update of Ramphal Commission report on migration and development. Presented to the Commonwealth Secretariat Advisory Council on teacher mobility, recruitment and migration meeting. Stoke Rochford Hall, Lincolnshire, United Kingdom. 01-02 June 2011.

Website http://www.ramphalcentre.org/pdf/Ramphal_First_Report_Commission_Mig_and_Dev.pdf

Çetin, M. 2011. The Gülen Movement: Civic Service without Borders. New York: Blue Dome Press.

Gülen, F. 2011. Towards a Global Civilization of Love and Tolerance. New Jersey: Tughra Books.

Vatican Council 1962a. Gaudium et Spes (Joy and Hope). Pastoral constitution of the Church In the modern world. Document of the Second Vatican Council. Rome.

Vatican Council 1962b. Nostrae Aetate (Our Common Ground). Declaration on the relationship of the Church to other religions. Document of the Second Vatican Council. Rome.

My most recent visits were to Pakistan and Finland, two countries that on the surface have very few in common, if any, in terms of continent, climate, people, culture, population, economy, politics, stability… you name it. And my conviction was once again confirmed that it is absolutely a necessity to see a country with your own eyes and get firsthand knowledge to be able to see beyond what you have through other means.

The Fountain presentation on media and values was conducted in four universities with great interest and participation. Students and faculties actively joined the discussion with invigorating questions on the universal themes and values The Fountain cherishes. Despite what the Western mind would expect of Pakistan, interestingly, the female ratio in the academia is visibly very high and their voice is no less strong than their counterparts in the West.

Finland has its own texture and character by all means. Although it was mid-April, there were still pockets of muddy snow especially in the northern-facing shades of the landscape and buildings. Hardly anyone in the streets was around, even at the airport terminal, with the exception of those enjoying the spring sun during their lunch break.

However different any given country might be from another, culture of coexistence is inevitably a common theme in both regardless of continent or culture. The Minister of Culture and Sports, Paavo Arhinmäki, who opened the conference organized by Finland Dialog Association and The Fountain in Helsinki on April 24, said “Encountering ethnic and cultural diversity is no longer the experience of just a few. It has become an everyday reality for many more people worldwide. Interactive skills and conflict resolution must become part of everyone’s civil preparedness. The desire to participate and act only becomes greater through personal involvement.”

This quote summarizes the universality of our need for greater awareness of peaceful coexistence and proves that our differences are a richness of diversity. Hence, this is one of the many reasons why The Fountain is actively engaged in different continents and societies and what we try to reflect in the contents. In the same vein, this issue covers themes that are universally relevant, like What It Means to Be Human, food safety, environment, bad memory, and senior citizens. This issue also offers thought-provoking articles on natural sciences, appreciating the compatibility of the type of food animals consume with their digestion system, the perfect physical make-up of birds, and the very interesting balance in the world that is bound with its rotation. Challenges in the gifted education are also separately discussed.

For those of you in the northern hemisphere, we wish you a good summer, and a reasonable winter for those of you in the south.

Two perspectives emerge in this context to address change in society. The first perspective is an instrumental one and relies on a rationalist, goals-oriented viewpoint. The second, cultural perspective relies more on stability and depth. The two values in this perspective, stability and depth, ensure constancy in the face of changing times but could also spell society’s death knell if it turns too far inward (Christensen et al, 2007).

 “From the vantage point of instrumental logic, the institution is intrinsically inefficient because it cannot quickly adapt to changing conditions for action or new problems. Yet from a cultural perspective one could argue that it is perfectly possible for an institution to live with such historical inefficiency over time” (Christensen et al, 2007, p. 46).

Historically speaking, these two vantage points have been in conflict: Conservatives who wish to maintain the institution, on one side, and liberals who wish to change those institutions, on the other. An extremely conservative approach creates “institutional lockdown” where the organization is deprived of any opportunity to change. On the far end of the spectrum would be an excessively liberal approach endorsing revolution. These diametrically opposed concepts create a significant dichotomy.

Edmund Burke, English statesman and philosopher, was extremely critical of the revolution in France. He defended the ancien regime as he felt that the institutions of France and Europe were the result of an evolutionary process that had reached its next highest point under the noblemen/monarchs of Europe. For him, European civilization was founded upon the institutional principles of chivalry and clerical learning embodied in the spirit of the gentleman and the spirit of religion. Those who wanted to overturn the French system were to him savages who opposed all of the etiquette that had built Europe (Kontler, 1997).

Before the collapse of the Ottoman Empire, a group of revolutionaries calling themselves the “Young Turks” attempted to change the institutional characteristics of the country. One of the Young Turks named Ahmed Hilmi was more conservatively institutional in his approach to reform. The Young Turks became more anti-religious, and Hilmi wanted Islam to remain the cornerstone of the country. He was starkly against those instrumental values embodied in positivism and materialism. He felt, much like Burke, that the country evolved to that point and that it had as its foundation a spiritual orientation which should not change despite whatever transformations might be needed (Bein, 2007).

Burke and Hilmi embodied the cultural perspective and were averse to revolutionary thinking. Nevertheless, both thinkers recognized that change was needed, but their approach was more incremental and less absolute. It was for this reason that Burke vehemently opposed the French revolution and Hilmi the Turkish revolution.

Positivism/materialism that was prevalent amongst the Young Turks has been criticized by scholars such as Dwight Waldo, who noted how it took on the same characteristics of absolute thought that is often associated with religion (Waldo, 1984). Hugh Miller makes this claim as well in his discussion on Postmodernism and Neo-liberalism, where he notes how the rational quickly becomes irrational particularly with performance measurement (Miller, 2007).

Dwight Waldo states, “In both disciplines (scientific management, i.e., positivism and public administration), these anomalies (inconsistencies between environment and paradigm) and difficulties have been revealed, frequently and characteristically in discussion of the problem whether management is a ‘science’ or an ‘art’ and the relationship of the science and the art” (Waldo, 1984, p. 55).

Jonathan Swift, in his classic novel Gulliver’s Travels, includes in his story the Island of Laputa. On this island, there are scientists whose science has no benefit for human civilization and in which all previous knowledge is rejected. The result is a detached group of people who do not benefit society and are themselves actually detrimental to it. The king of this island shows little interest in culture and only cares about mathematics and music. This island in Swift’s story represents Swift’s account of those who are positivistic in thought and how their endeavors are actually not benefiting society, but rather dismantling it (Swift, 1998).

Given this perspective, the instrumental perspective is called into question and its true ability to react to change correctly. The cultural perspective is more incremental in this respect, but as Christensen, et al (2007) point out, there is a risk of historical inefficiency. Would it be safer to say that society can live with this risk? If the goal is to operate efficiently/effectively in continual adjustment with the environment, then how can any semblance of community develop given that communities often need stability to grow? If the goal is community development that depends on integration and facilitation, then how can any semblance of necessary change develop? This represents the crux of an unsolvable problem in society.

Burke and Hilmi lived in revolutionary times and applied cultural thinking to solve societal problems. The questions raised in their times apply just as fervently today in terms of needed change. Many of those who had beaten the drums to the revolutions that gave rise to modern day societies have in turn given way to conservative descendants of those movements that resist all change. Much of what was lost in those revolutions has not been forgotten by the populace, and the only way forward is to adopt a “middle way” between the instrumental and cultural perspective. Maintaining this balance is often easier said than done.

Daniel Hummel is a Research/Teaching Assistant with a focus on Public Budgeting at Florida Atlantic University.

References

• Christensen, T. et al. 2007. Organization Theory and the Public Sector: Instrument, Culture and Myth. New York: Routledge.
• Bein, A. 2007. “A ‘Young Turk’ Islamic intellectual: Filibeli Ahmed Hilmi and the diverse intellectual legacies of the late Ottoman Empire.” International Journal of Middle East Studies, 39, pp. 607–625.
• Institution. 2010. Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary. Retrieved March 30, 2010, from www.m-w.com/dictionary/institution.
• Kontler, L. 1997. “The ancien regime in memory and theory. Edmund Burke and his German followers.” European Review of History, 4 (1), pp. 1–15.
• Miller, H.T. 2007. Postmodern Public Administration (rev. ed.). Armonk, New York: M.E. Sharpe.
• Swift, J. 1998. Gulliver’s Travels. New York: Oxford University Press.
• Waldo, D. 1984. The Administrative State (2^nd ed.). New York: Holmes & Meier Publishers.

We remember Africa today with recent famines and drought, especially in Somalia, Ethiopia, and Kenya, worst in the last sixty years. If one is not watching only wild life documentaries, Africa is one large portion of the old world, home for diverse cultures, a continent rich with natural resources, and this last one has been the major reason why it has become a large battlefield for many centuries.

Nigeria is the most populous country of Africa (seventh in the world), with over 250 ethnicities, over 500 different languages spoken (one of the countries with highest linguistic diversity). Nevertheless, Nigeria has also been the stage for tribal warfare and strife, and bitter incidents of some recent bloodshed still linger in our memories. In this respect, the theme of the conference fits perfectly well in this country, where there are seventeen schools, a university, and a recently established dialogue foundation inspired by Fethullah Gülen.

What other forms of engagement can we offer other than education and dialogue for peaceful engagement? What can be a more lucrative investment for a peaceful future than the one made in education and dialogue? With awareness of this need and commitment to serving all humanity, regardless of race, color, religion, or nationality, growing numbers of volunteers of education and dialogue are establishing schools, hospitals, dialogue centers, and relief organizations all over the world. Humble but selfless efforts of these volunteers who are inspired from thinkers like Fethullah Gülen are now yielding fruits of dialogue in more than 130 countries where children of warring nations are educated side by side, members of different religions enjoy the same meal, and pray for a peaceful future.

The current issue of The Fountain offers essays reflecting this culture of coexistence. The lead article expounds on the unique qualities of being human, reminding us the “know thyself” principle of Socrates, for “the one who has perceived the secrets of his or her own self has also known God.”

“Different Approaches to Interpersonal Conflict” stresses on how vital it is to be familiar with “conflict-related behavioral tendencies” for it “might help in the development of strategies for interpersonal, intercultural conflict resolution or prevention.”

Also in this issue Dr. Kurucan explains Islam’s stance for issues like freedom of practicing and teaching one’s religion, and in what conditions Islam allows war, if it does, in cases of violation of this right.

If on occasion we are able to block out the horror of September 11, those who travel by air are brought back to the reality of it whenever we go through the intensive and intrusive airport security screening now required at every airport in this country, and for that matter throughout the world.

Immediately following 9/11, questions and uninformed, insufficient answers were too often offered in hate-filled newspaper articles and on radio and television stations. Too often, the conversations were by their very nature laced with Islamophobia. The content too often demonstrated our collective ignorance as a people and nation about Islam, the Holy Qur’an, imams, mosques, and what really was the definition of Jihad?

As a counterweight, and spurred primarily by religious leaders in the three Abrahamic faiths, interfaith dialogues and summits began to appear first in America and then throughout the world. As a result, Islam, which had pretty much been a foreign word in America’s religious vocabulary, was now on the lips of everyone.

But in truth, ignorance about Islam continues to drive our reactive behavior toward one of the three great Abrahamic faiths. It is hard to believe, but in a recent poll conducted by the Pew Foundation, 40 percent of Americans still believe that President Barack Obama is a Muslim, because of his name. There continue to be concerns expressed in this country by American Muslims about their place in American culture and society. Where do they belong, and can they ever really belong, without being under a microscope all the time? My friend Eboo Patel, founder of the Inter Faith Youth Core in Chicago, has said, “I am more afraid now than I was after 9/11.”

And yet, within this capsule of ignorance and fear of the “other,” I believe that as a nation there is another reason why we as Americans have had such a hard time dealing with the horrors of September 11. As a nation, we have never had the opportunity to grieve over the horrible loss of life, the indelible visual experience of all that was attached to that fateful September morning ten years ago.

Ten years ago as a nation we were embraced quite frankly by almost every nation in the global community, offering help, prayers, and whatever support was needed at this time of national crisis. And yet, our immediate response as a nation was to seek retribution and frontier justice. Wanted “dead or alive” was a regrettable pronouncement offered by some. And the taunt to those who were religious terrorists was “bring ’em on.” As the nation gathered in prayer at Washington National cathedral, President Bush unfortunately misspoke and used the word “crusade” in his speech to the nation-a word that was frightening, and historically painful and confrontational to millions in the Muslim world.

Because of the reflexive need to immediately “strike back” at the perpetrators and planners of the 9/11 attacks, we never really had the opportunity to grieve as a nation. When we do not grieve over a great loss, we tend to have overly emotional, often unhelpful knee-jerk responses. Anger and aggression can be the first response to significant loss in one’s family, or in the larger human family. And without time to grieve, think and process, responses can be illogical and result in bad decisions.

For much of the last decade, we have not found the time to grieve over the horrors of September 11, 2001. Yet the hard work of interfaith conversation and interaction emanating from religious scholars, denominational leaders, and theologians of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam have led the way to places where people of faith have had wonderful opportunities. Through the discipline of prayer, the blessings of shared compassion, and the core teachings of their religious traditions, they have had a significant impact on moving not only America, but many other nations, from retribution to reconciliation, from theological illiteracy to literacy, from xenophobia to respect, tolerance, and acceptance of the “other.”

9/11 scarred the psyche of America, but also the public image of Islam. And yet the Jesus of Christianity reminds his followers that at the very center of their belief system is the word reconciliation—embraced by unconditional love and the quest for a peace that passes all understanding.

And it is no accident that Islam has as its radius the word salam (peace). The teachings of both Jesus and Muhammad have much in common regarding care for the “other.” Peace and divine love is at the heart of both Christianity and Islam. And it is that quest that now leads us to continue the healing process that must move forward between the brothers and sisters of Abraham. For it is the promise of the one God that true holiness can be found within the unity of our diversity.

It is now time, ten years later, to embrace the moment and make whole that which has been broken by the ignorance, fear, and illiteracy that too often define our understandings of religion. Much of that work has been undertaken in Washington D.C. through the creative efforts of the Rumi Forum, Washington National Cathedral’s Center for Global Justice and Reconciliation, Georgetown University, and the Brookings Institution through the U.S. Islamic World Forum.

Many efforts have begun in other parts of the world to engage in work that promises to positively impact the present opportunity—to seek the path of wholeness and reconciliation rather than division and violence. This is a journey begun by both Jesus and the Prophet Muhammad that now defines a new decade, a decade not solely focused on the 9/11 tragedy, but one that must become part of the global community. It is a journey made sacred by all those who lost their lives in New York City, Pennsylvania, and Washington and by the efforts of interfaith leaders throughout the world.

It is a new time, a new decade, where life promises to overcome the sting of death, where hate is trumped by the power of God’s love, and where people of faith have the courage to speak out against those who use religion for their own selfish desires for control and power, rather than as a means through which all can experience the reconciling love of God.

As a country, and as people of faith, we cannot make this journey alone. We will need partners and colleagues of other faith traditions that believe that this is the moment when we stand together, shoulder to shoulder, and proclaim that no one has the right to take another person’s life in the name of God.