Free Last Train to Istanbul by Ayse Kulin Page B

be practiced without thought of race or color, with all its ceremonies carried out in mosques, churches, and synagogues. God was worshiped in these communities, and people reached out to him and found peace in their souls. Selva recalled the joy of Ramadan back home: the excitement of preparing the evening meals before breaking the fast; the special care not to miss prayers; the serenity of the older members of the household in their white headscarves before they prayed; the aura of mystery surrounding the muezzin’s call. All these were exciting. Yes, religion was a many-splendored thing; surely it should be part of life and not used to separate people. Couldn’t people from different religions love one another? Oh, dearest Father, she thought, is religion worth sacrificing your daughter? Is it worth rejecting your son-in-law, just because he prays in a synagogue?
    Selva could well remember the debates she’d had with her father on the subject. In those days, Fazıl Reşat Paşa had no idea of what was to come. He too enjoyed having philosophical discussions with his daughter—that clever girl who willingly read every book he suggested. Later, they discussed them in detail for hours on end. The paşa had often pointed out that the more people became interested in science, the pursuit of knowledge, and culture, theless importance they placed on religion. He often told his daughter that most bigots or fanatics came from poor, ignorant backgrounds. Even during the time when Selva was falling madly in love with Rafo, she had discussed these issues with her father in depth. Respect for other religions? Of course! It is one of the conditions of being contemporary.
    What about being enlightened by other religions?
    Why, after all, was Fazıl Reşat Paşa giving Selva books to read about Far Eastern religions? Wasn’t it because he wanted his daughter to understand not everybody was alike? There were those who didn’t think the same. It was up to her to draw her own conclusions.
    She had hoped to use her father’s own views to defend herself regarding Rafo. She would remind him of his every word. But, sadly, when he learned of the romance, he put up a brick wall, simply saying, “Over my dead body. You cannot marry him. I won’t give my permission.”
    At first Selva kept asking why. Even though her father was an open-minded person, he opposed a marriage that would go against his customs, his traditions. Dismayed, she soon found out that he had provided his daughters with a good education for his own reason. It wasn’t to broaden their horizons, but so they’d raise good Muslim grandchildren for him.
    Finally, she had to compromise. “Fine, if that’s the way it must be. I certainly won’t marry anyone else. Not one of Macit’s friends at the ministry or the son of some paşa. It will have to be Rafael or no one.”
    Rafo seemed resigned to his fate. He was more concerned about the problems they might encounter than Selva was herself. What would be the reaction of his friends and family? How would he provide for this girl who was used to nothing but the best? Those were responsibilities he would have to shoulder.
    Selva wrote to Rafo during the time she spent with her sister in Ankara—not love letters, but those of a friend. While she was there, Selva took the opportunity to observe those around her. Those in her sister’s circle were mostly people who had made good marriages. What she’d learned from this experience was that if people chose to marry partners from a similar background, they stood a better chance that the relationship would last after their early passion waned. Especially after their children were born.
    When she returned to Istanbul, Selva realized that none of the young men she’d been introduced to were of interest. She felt nothing for any of the young diplomats she had met through her brother-in-law. She wasn’t just being stubborn; she simply had nothing in common with these young men. In