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  Places we hope to see this May, in the company of friends new and old, staying in ancient “karvansarays” and villages where Abit grew up, where many in his large extended family still live. Details are being determined, and will appear here soon.
If you are interested in joining us, please let us know by sending us your email via the sign-up on the upper left…and thanks! Meanwhile, enjoy some images along with rousing music from the Turkish southeast…
 In my grade school spelling bee days, one of my favorite words was “meander”. Another was “Mesopotamia”. Portents at an early age that I’d marry a man from that region and settle with him in the valley where that river flows? Perhaps.
But rather than stay settled, we’ve taken to living out of suitcases this past year. I’m far from Turkey at the moment. Certain that I’ll always be a wanderer. Whether through a tumbledown Istanbul neighborhood, or here, in a vibrant vineyard after a week of rain. Shades of green, bounded by blue mountains…
 Sharp cold sun against winter-bared trees.
 The sound of running water to calm my racing mind and channel my focus.
It’s easy to be lulled by bucolic pastoral scenes, but my urban life awaits.
So for a few more days, I’ll relish my favorite color. Green. Pungent, fresh, eye-catching. Invigorating.
Drawing my attention to where I’m going…
Reminding me to always look up.
And to be assured that, mirrored within, the winter greens of California will always be with me.
 When asked why I love Turkey, I could take hours to respond, and often do. There is so much to say. But Natalie Sayin of Turkish Travel Blog says volumes in a single post, asking several bloggers, myself included, to submit our favorite photo of this ‘addictive’ country. Visit her blog, and see for yourself: Thanks, Natalie!
 It’s a barely forged New Year. One in which I vowed to blog less about me, and more about the crafts, the history and the cultural aspects of our work. I’ve even newly defined my vocation as a craftivist, in my designer + writer + treasure hunter chosen life. But that term, a combination of craft and activism, includes my political side. Since the shooting in Tucson on January 9th, my focus has been riveted by coverage and commentary in our rapidly moving Media 2.0 world. I’ve marveled at the sheer wave of evaluation, some of it brilliant, some haunting. It’s a watershed moment for communication, to relearn how we process the aftermath of tragedy. I wish I could say I was surprised that yet another crazed guy with an easily purchased gun went after one of our nation’s leaders, but as a child, I remember when Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy were assassinated. In Los Angeles, I lived around the corner from where the Manson Gang had murdered a couple; more than two decades later, I shuddered to think of them each time I walked by. What I was doing when I heard of John Lennon’s death is still vivid in my mind. While foremost in my memory because of the sensationalism that surrounded the deaths of these cultural icons, not so famous people are killed in the streets of this country daily.
Whenever I come back to the US after months in Turkey, I’m overwhelmed with how polarized the US has become, while Turkey seems to be slowly more open to discussing differences and conflict. Yet young men gun down leaders in that country as well; there is always talk of conspiracy, of larger groups behind a lone shooter. As a child of the Vietnam War, I can’t recall a unified time, an era when atrocities did not happen. The truth to the lyrics to Lennon’s Imagine becomes increasingly clear as I grow older; MLK’s entreaty for his children to be judged “by the content of their character” becomes all the more poignant.
The death of a nine-year-old girl with an interest in politics and an unnerving connection to September 11, 2001 is a wakeup call to our culture. Given the day she was born, she’d be more aware of history than most children her age. Is her death more tragic because she was born that particular day? Of course not. But out of 365, what are the odds that this child, “a Face of Hope”, would have been born on that exact day of national sorrow? There are no coincidences. The Universe cannot possibly scream any louder at us to stop this madness of hatred and vitriol. Osama bin Laden could not have planned our demise more diabolically: we are proving capable of destroying ourselves from the inside. So, will we? This past week has been a rollercoaster of emotion. Anger at thinly veiled calls to action: people with influence who place target marks on a map of the US, tweeting followers that ‘reloading’ is how to solve a problem, then claiming not to be advocating violence. Words are tools, just like guns are. Yes, their effect may not be quite so immediate or deadly. But the “sticks and stones…” taunts of childhood have become the schoolyard of our political discourse. We as a nation have to grow up. Phrases in common usage now – “pulling the trigger” when making a decision, “locked and loaded” when ready to do something – reflect a culture in which violent talk is taken for granted. Nothing which alludes to violence should ever be used so nonchalantly. True, Sarah never pulled the trigger; neither did Charlie Manson. The cult of personality so easily fosters fringe elements. In our worship of celebrity, we give far too much focus to the margins – to the outrageous, the sensational, the obscenely wealthy – to whatever gets the most ratings, the most ‘hits’. Even that term has a violent tinge.
‘Most’ Americans are not aligned with these margins, any more than ‘most’ Muslims are terrorists. Many can’t distinguish between Fascist Mein Kampf of the far right and The Communist Manifesto of the far left. When we’ve been raised as consumers, not citizens, little wonder it’s so easy to confuse. What’s missing from our polarized society is education, compassion and the pursuit of common ground. But maybe that’s where social media can help. The internet may foster a freedom to speak to virtual strangers in ways that heal, “to sharpen our instincts for empathy“. You may say I’m a dreamer, but a brief convo I had with a friend of a friend on Facebook brought the power of such a forum home to me, in the hope that two people with opposing views can have a civil exchange of ideas, even now. She, a gun owner, was adamant that the Tucson shooter was “acting of his own free will”. I countered that “if we all acted of our own free will” we’d have anarchy, not democracy. Her “Free will is the capacity of rational people to choose a course of action from various alternatives” to my “But he was not rational. Something is fundamentally wrong when it was easier for a person with mental health issues to legally buy a gun than to be treated for obvious psychiatric problems.”
Then I took the risk of getting personal. Yes, I know that FB gives too many details of our lives away, but I saw that she lived near Tucson. When I asked, she revealed that she’d been within two miles of the shooting that morning, that she was a recently arrived military wife from a very different part of the country. Aha – how could I not have empathy for someone far from home, so close to a scary situation? Perhaps President Obama’s somber appeal to the ‘better angels of our nature’ did lift the majority of us to consider this tragedy from a higher perspective, as did a president from an earlier divisive time. “…how we treat one another is entirely up to us.” “But at a time when our discourse has become so sharply polarized – at a time when we are far too eager to lay the blame for all that ails the world at the feet of those who think differently than we do – it’s important for us to pause for a moment and make sure that we are talking with each other in a way that heals, not a way that wounds.” It’s unfortunate reality that our empathetic encounter may not change our perspectives for long. We look for a “…speedy “closure,” followed by a return to business as usual, followed by national amnesia.”
When Muslims in Egypt are protecting Coptic Christians from attacks, saying “We either live together, or we die together,” and Tunisians have overthrown a dictator to put themselves on the rocky road to democracy, we Americans need to step back from the brink and consider the enormity of what we have to lose. Yes, I do think more carefully about what I post about Turkish issues on public forums than I do about American ones. I’d like to have the freedom of responsible dialogue regarding both my countries without the fear of being threatened or worse. We must “align our values with our actions”, if we are to deserve this great experiment called democracy, to honor our ability to speak freely and not use it to bash each other. “Government is not the enemy. It is our reflection” a wise commenter by the name of Martin Nyberg said somewhere in that deluge of words I read this week. We are a long way from forming that more perfect union, but We the People have to keep talking…“in a way that heals, not a way that wounds.” 
A HYBRID AMBASSADORS blog-ring project.
Tara Lutman Agacayak’s Enough
 Ouravatar is a detail from a suzani, hand embroidered silk and cotton textiles traditionallybegun at the birth of a daughter for her dowry. A suzani’s circular motifsrepresent Gardens of Eden, reminders of an abundant life here in an earthly paradise.
These circles imply connection, the arcs of bridges spanning divides andeven cultures. Colorful rainbows leading to brighter futures, eternal curves encompassingthe hands-on-hips symbol of strong women, as stitched in Turkic handcrafts for millennia. In 2011, we’ll take the energy of this sustaining form into creating a culture in whichgirls and women, from Turkey, but also from around our globe, draw from thestrength and beauty of these cultural arts and remake them to empowerthemselves, their families and their communities.
It’s now 2011 in Turkey, where Abit is, and still 2010 in California, where I am. We’re temporarily bridging years for these 10 hours, but I’m eager to get back to being our creative, craftivist force for bridging cultures.
Wishing everyone a Happy New Year, wherever you may be!
 It took a random trip back to Istanbul in 1998 for me to recognize that I could create any kind of life I wanted. I didn’t have to follow the American Dream to‘success’: the corporate high salary job, a big house, the nice car with the hefty lease. I was living a good life in Los Angeles, but one that felt directionless and shallow. I was in a multi-cultural city, but it did not reflect me.
A friend asked me if I wanted to travel with her to Turkey and Greece. I immediately said yes, since I rarely turned down a chance to do my favorite thing – travel. Istanbul had been my favorite place to work, the business trips I’d made there several years before. The Turks I’d worked with had quite unlike the Japanese, the Chinese, the Indians, the Italians and other nationalities whose offices and factories I’d done business with as a clothing designer.  My agent and his employees in Istanbul went out of their way to make sure I saw their city, whirling me through Sultanahmet, along the Bosphorus, taking me to the latest hot restaurants and nightclubs. I didn’t realize that the agent’s wife Asli was one of Turkey’s top fashion designers at the time, until we were followed around one night by paparazzi and appeared in the local gossip pages the next morning. I was suddenly the ‘famous American designer’ gracing Turkey with my presence. One afternoon, Asli took me to Pandeli in the Spice Market for lunch. But not until I’d visited the vast closet in her home with the Bosphorus view, donning heels, flowing silk, and a fur coat, since it was late November. Clearly my casual American work clothes had not met with her chic Istanbul standards. Cinderella stories like that never happened to me in the US, even in the fashion business.  With great memories of that amazing city that reminded me so much of a far more colorful and infinitely more social San Francisco, we planned our trip to Turkey and Greece. But just before we were about to leave,my friend went cold on Turkey. She was afraid to travel the Western Turkish route I’d mapped out, though perhaps Istanbul might be safe enough for her to see before we left for Athens. We agreed tomeet on a certain date at the Empress Zoe Hotel in Sultanahmet, near the Hagia Sophia and the Topkapi Palace. Once on the road, I was happy to be on my own. I’ve lost friendships with people who were fine at home but could not handle the daily stresses of travel. I’m most alive when I don’t know what’s around the corner, or where a fork in my path will take me. Traveling with someone who wanted to plan every move would have been agony. Turkey solo was a challenge. I’ve never talked to more strangers in my life! By the time I got to the small Aegean town of Selcuk, next to the Greco-Roman ruins of Ephesus, I was talked out. I’d over-shopped too, and was cursing myself for lugging an over stuffed duffel bag as I struggled up a small lane from the bus station after a bus ride from Pamukkale. Why do Americans think they can see half of Turkey in 1 week’s time? I’d barely scratched the surface in three.  I’ll save the rest of the story for my book. But that day in Selcuk, I met my husband Abit, who has called Selcuk home since the age of 13, though he’s also lived for 10 years in Istanbul and in Belgium for 3. If I’d turned down another street, we never may have met. I might have returned to California, settled back into my life. The life that was comfortable, but didn’t quite feel like mine. I did ultimately meet up with my friend at the Empress Zoe Hotel, that trip in 1998. As kismet would have it, the narrow wooden building on Kutlugun Sokak, Auspicious Day Street, where Abit and I lived and had our textile shop last summer – is right next door. 
 Until I moved toTurkey in 1999, I didn’t fully realize that a person could have more than one home, more than one country, more than one culture. That we don’t have to choose. Having a personal connection to multiple cultures is the best way we’ll learn to get along with each other on this planet. Living in Istanbul, we all know the cliche about this city and the country of Turkey being a bridge between East and West. For the year of 2010, to celebrate Istanbul’s status as a European Capital of Culture, there’ve been big banners on the Galata Bridge in Turkish and English proclaiming that Istanbul is “building bridges between the cultures.” I’m working to bridge cultures creatively, a passion that I’ve long had, but which has only recently come fully into focus. And largely thanks to that ambiguous, magical catalyst called Istanbul. The bridge metaphor makes sense to me. But I also like how my friend Tara Agacayak talked about the indefinable Turkey in her post on Turquoise Poppy: The cliché about Turkey is that it is east and it is west. It is old and new. It is modern and ancient. Europe and Asia. Religious and secular. The juxtapositions are numerous but they demonstrate something. They show that a place can be both, it just depends on where you choose to draw the line. She goes on to write that line is imaginary – we can draw it anywhere we chose. And in 2010, I chose to draw it in Istanbul, where all my passions intersect. I can create a life that combines them all: creativity, culture, fiber arts,language, community and of course, love. The tagline on Tara’s blog is Bloom Where You’re Planted. I’m a late bloomer because it wasn’t until I moved to Turkey in 1999 that I really challenged myself well across all lines, proved to myself that being a hybrid of multiple cultures can only make me stronger. Let me tell you how I got here. I grew up in a California beach town, Santa Barbara, before it was overrun with celebrities from Hollywood. It was a lovely environment, with whitewashed, red-tiled buildings that were required by code to reflect the Moorish, Islamic decorative architecture of Andalusian Spain. But the residents were a little homogenous, a mostly white population, though at least 30% of the residents were of Mexican ancestry. I identified with that Hispanic culture, never thinking it was a separate culture from my own.
When I went off to Los Angeles to study textile and clothing design, I got a taste of what it was really like to live in a multicultural city. My third job as a clothing designer in my mid-twenties launched me headfirst into global business travel, when the president of the company I’d just joined publicly fired the head designer at the first sales meeting I attended, then announced to me and the audience of maybe 100 that I’d be going to Hong Kong in the morning to head up the young menswear division. Working in the clothing industry was a great lesson in trial-by-fire living, a constant test to prove myself since I was only as good as the success of my latest collection. A designer must constantly reinvent herself, be able to turn trends into something that reflects her customer. Learning that the only thing constant is change truly prepared me for expat life, for living in a global world. 10years on, after living in Los Angeles, San Francisco and Portland Oregon, working in about 20 countries and traveling for pleasure to at least 25 more, I returned to UCLA to study interior design and architecture. These fields still allowed me to work with my three favorite design elements: color, texture and pattern. Those three elements form a universal language to me, whether you’re creating embroideries, mosaic tiles, carpets or stair railings. Understand the language they speak, and you can design almost anything.  But I also learned that just designing something was not enough. You had to know how to build it. The loveliest of environments could live in my head, but if I did not have the skills to make it real, it was only a dream. While I was successful in creating items and environments that suited the needs of my buyers and clients, I’d yet to create a life for myself outside of business that truly suited me. It took a random trip back to Istanbul in 1998 for me to realize that I could create any kind of life I wanted. A life whose seeds were planted in Turkey a decade ago. A life coming into full bloom in 2011. When it comes to squeezing your mission in life into a 3 minute video, it’s not the simplest thing. Especially since I’ve never done one before. But I have an urgent need to communicate a really big idea. An idea so big that it consumes my every waking moment, and often my dreams as well. So exciting that I am amazed that everyone else doesn’t already know about it, and I really want them to. Perhaps that’s slightly egocentric, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised to learn that, yes, there are a lot of people out there who do think like I do. The girl effect and the hundreds of wonderful words and images out there have been launched, and I happily stumbled into their midst.
It’s important to remember that change for the good can take time…but slowly, it will happen.
We will be useful. We will make a difference.
 This past winter, as I worked one more time in California to bridge the financial gap that always occurred each winter in Turkish tourism, with economies tightening and a decade that has seen wars, terrorism, earthquakes tossing in more than the occasional challenge to making a living, I decided to work with a life design coach. While I’ll always love finding and selling the vintage textiles of a former generation, I felt it was time to get back to expressing myself directly through making my own work, to clarify my focus. And I felt the need to involve and help other women, especially the strong women of our Kurdish family, who had great crafting skills but had been afforded little education. So if they worked outside the home, it was to do the back-breaking work of picking cotton or fruit.
 The galvanizing moment in my winter work to recreate myself one more time and to do something to help others came when Rose Deniz posted a story on her blog Love, Rose about a 16 year old Kurdish girl in Adiyaman named Medine Memi. Medine had been buried alive by her family. Her transgression? She talked to boys. The media was full of stories about backward Kurds, how Islam made them do it, and how Turkey could never become part of the EU.
One journalist, Mustafa Akyol of Hurriyet, explained such honor killings by pointing to the topography of the southeast “It is a very mountainous region, which is inhospitable to trade routes, railways and highways. Hence its inhabitants have lived almost isolated from the outside world for centuries and have remained largely untouched by modernity,” he said.
Though I agreed with him that Kurds have largely kept to their tribal ways that include many traditions that existed well before Islam, they are not as isolated as everyone makes them out to be. Kurds live all over the country and it’s only a small percentage that still thinks in these archaic ways.
 I commented at the time, “I’m in shock when I read of another so-called “honour” killing…there is nothing honorable about it. My heart breaks for this girl. As traditional as my Kurdish family is, I cannot fathom them condoning such barbaric behavior.”
And I can’t. But I know that education is the key to stopping such horrors, and education starts with the women of the family, so they can teach their children, boys and girls, how to behave as decent human beings. While taking on the problem of honor killings would be a huge undertaking, I knew that if my large family of uneducated women were sometimes having a tough time making ends meet in the sleepy but lovely town of Selcuk, what must life be like for similar women from the east who had moved to sprawling Istanbul?
 Rose wrote in her post about those Turkish women journalists and authors writing about Medine and honor killings that “there are female voices here that are not passive, but strong, and that their discourse must be acknowledged for contributing to building a safe place for women worldwide.”
 A safe place for women. How could I do that? I knew that every woman in my family knits or crochets. Designing knitwear is one of my favorite things to do. I knew we could share the language of craft, even if we barely spoke each other’s language, for although I speak Turkish, I don’t speak Kurdish. I could start a cottage business, and eventually work toward the goal of creating handmade products that benefits not just Kurdish women, but any woman who needs extra cash so perhaps her daughter can go to school, or her son does not have to carry around a scale for people to weigh themselves on the street.
 So this summer my husband and I moved to Istanbul’s Old City, to test our idea to launch a workshop to support these local unsung artisans: women who still weave, knit, and crochet in the traditions of timeless Turkish handcraft. While there are educated women reviving crafts as a hobby or a career here, I’m more concerned about those other women with fewer opportunities who’d like to earn money within a safe community of women. Our workshop will also give traveling women a chance to meet Turkish women through classes we’ll offer and craft tours we’ll host about yarns, knitting, making oya, traditional kece or patterned felt work – there are so many ideas here. We hope to engage hands to learn new skills and teach traditional ones, to spin yarns, clack needles and drink tea together.
This next decade of my life, I will be a creative force for bridging cultures. Starting next spring in Sultanahmet, we’ll share the common language of craft, tell stories about our cultures, educate against our prejudices, create beautiful new traditions. We’ll make a difference in each others’ lives.
And today, because the Universe always knows what I need, my Dialogue 2010 sisters Rose Deniz and Anastasia Ashman were there to motivate me and reinvigorate my purpose. A world of thanks to Tara Sophia Mohr for inspiring them.
And to my Kurdish sisters – may your children never experience the difficulties you have, but may they inherit your grace, beauty, compassion and love.
 After nearly 12 years in Turkeyand a lifetime of loving weavings and embroideries, I’m hardly an expertdespite a formal textile education. In a city like Istanbul,I’m surrounded by generations of rug merchants who could offer the equivalentof a PhD in techniques, styles and the various regions from which their warescome. While I’ve met a few visitors to our shop who have astounded me withtheir knowledge, most people know next to nothing. I play the role ofenthusiast, trying to open eyes to the beauty and history within each uniquepiece.
 Like this Shirazcarpet from Iran,for example. What attracts me most about this piece are the colors – a warm chocolatebrown combined with two vibrant shades of turquoise, instead of the usual deep red and blue. These hues areoffset by the rich indigo – a more typical color, though here it’s only used asa backdrop for the central field. Best is the strong acidic green used to highlightmost of the motifs, though a fairly rosy pink is less successful andfortunately not used much against the brown. This weaver was not tentativeabout departing from tradition in terms of colors, which seem quite modern tomy eye.  It’s logical that settled tribal weavers near Shiraz,this southwestern city of roses, poets and nightingales, would choose to createa lyrical garden full of floral, water and mountain motifs. These are arrangedin an abundant but formal manner for most of the design, though the flowers playfullyscatter at each end. The borders, like the tightly fitting triangular mosaicwork for which the city is renown, contain the gardens in a series of narrowand wide boundaries. The remnants of Persepolisand Darius the Great’s Palace are only 70 km away. I like to think the stylizedtrees of life recall the Lebanese cedar beams and those funny motifs floatingon the indigo ground are stylized animals, inspired by the palace’s two-headedanimal sculptures.
 Lastly, I’m attracted to the Turkish and Kurdish geometry ofthis piece, even though it’s single knotted in the Persian style, The center diamond-shaped lozenges,typical of the Shiraz style, have stylized crosses at their centers, symbolsthat have been used as far back as Catalhoyuk in Central Anatolia. This ancientmotif protects against evil by dividing it in four pieces. The outermost borderreminds me of the stylized bands of folk dancers that ring the outside of Kurdishkilims, heads and shoulders together, binding the community together withmovement and music.
What do you see inthis carpet?
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