Martyrs’ Parks—connections I had never felt the moral compulsion to look for while traveling in, say, the Native American blood lands of Colorado or the old plantation fields of the American South. Suddenly, though, it was all I could think about—that I never made the same inquiries into my own country as I did here in Turkey. I judged the Turks; every time I read of another massacre, another disgrace, I somehow brought it to bear on the collective character of the people I was meeting, as if that history had formed them. But then what of mine, and what of me? We drove into the
