Three Cups of Tea: Building Schools for Peace

I just finished reading "Three Cups of Tea" by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin. My mind is reeling with the determination of this man, Mortenson, and by Relin's wonderful story-telling abilities. The story is basically this:

Mortenson, obsessed with mountain climbing fails at an attempt to top this big mountain in Pakistan, K2.

Image courtesy Central Asia Institute
K2, the world's second highest mountain. Pakistan.

There's bad weather, he gets separated from his companion, almost dies, takes a wrong turn and ends up in a little village, Korphe. The title of the book, "Three Cups of Tea" has a different meaning from what I expected when I started reading it. I thought that in Arabic circles, a guest was given a cup of tea on arrival, a second when negotiations were half-way finished and a third when it was time to go. In this context, the third cup of tea means that you are now family.

Image courtesy Central Asia Institute
Azerha with her children in Korphe Village. Pakistan.

The people of Korphe help Mortenson get his strength back and when he is well again, this big American guy who sticks out like a sore thumb now has a new family in this remote Pakistani village. Mortenson had a mission when he was climbing K2. His sister Christa, who had been ill as a child and suffered from epileptic seizures as an adult, had died of a massive seizure on her 23rd birthday. Mortenson loved his sister and pursued a career in nursing with the hopes of finding a cure for her. When he climbed K2, he had a necklace of Christa's in his pocket wrapped in a Tibetan prayer flag which he was going to plant on the summit in memory of her. Instead, after ending up lost in Korphe, he decided to build a school in her memory. This is how it happened:

"Often during his time in Korphe, Mortenson felt the presence of his little sister Christa, especially when he was with Korphe's children. "Everything about their life was a struggle," Mortenson says. "They reminded me of the way Christa had to fight for the simplest things. And also the way she had of just persevering, no matter what life threw at her." He decided he wanted to do something for them. Perhaps, when he got to Islamabad, he'd use the last of his money to buy textbooks to send to their school, or supplies.
Lying by the hearth before bed, Mortenson told Haji Ali [village elder who became Mortenson's mentor] he wanted to visit Korphe's school. Mortenson saw a cloud pass across the old man's craggy face, but persisted. Finally, the headman agreed to take Mortenson first thing the following morning.
... The view was exquisite, with the ice giants of the upper Baltoro razored into the blue far above Korphe's gray rock walls. But Mortenson wasn't admiring the scenery. He was appalled to see eight-two children, seventy-eight boys, and the four girls who had the pluck to join them, kneeling on the frosty ground, in the open. Haji Ali, avoiding Mortenson's eyes, said that the village had no school, and the Pakistani government didn't provide a teacher. A teacher cost the equivalent of one dollar a day, he explained, which was more than the village could afford. So they shared a teacher with the neighboring village of Munjang, and he taught in Korphe three days a week. The rest of the time, the children were left alone to practice the lessons he left behind." [pages 31, 32]

Instead of just getting some supplies as a thank you and tribute, Mortenson goes back to the United States, determined to bring back enough money to build these kids a school. He suffers all kinds of deprivation, comes back, buys the supplies, makes it back to this remote area, and the village rejoices. The men carry the lumber up on their backs where trucks are inaccessible:

Image courtesy Central Asia Institute
Porters carry roof beams 18 miles to Korphe School. Pakistan.

After all this hard work, Haji Ali tells Mortenson that this is all wonderful but that first they need to build a bridge (they had been using a box on a pulley system to get from one side of a pass to another) and that they needed clean water as so many kids were dying from lack of good water. Mortenson realized that in order to study, these children would first need to survive their first years. So, he goes back, suffers some more, makes all kinds of mistakes and blunders into his first large donation that makes it possible to build this first school. By then, he is hooked and this becomes his life's mission.

The Central Asia Institute was then formed although for the first years, it was Mortenson's dogged determination that represents the U.S. side of the operation. On the Pakistani side, grass roots leaders were invited by him and they helped him make the needed connections to open new schools all over this desperately poor region.

The common denominator in the building of these schools is that the village leaders want the schools for their kids, including for their girls. They beg, plead, line up, demand, cry, and pool all their resources together to make dreams become reality. This is not an American coming in and saying, "Get your kids educated!" This is about communities already starving for places, materials, tools, who have their own raw materials, their children, as central to their hopes and dreams. So, over time and much hard work, it starts to happen. Children who were learning outside, begin having their own schools.

Image courtesy Central Asia Institute
Girls study at an outdoor school in an Afghan refugee camp. Pakistan.

Image courtesy Central Asia Institute
Eighty-one boys attend school
in an abandoned truck trailer in Chiltan Village. Afghanistan.

Image courtesy Central Asia Institute
Patika schoolgirls study outside after the 2005 earthquake in Azad Kashmir. Pakistan.

Image courtesy Central Asia Institute
Lalander School. Afghanistan.

Mortenson's failed climb to K2's summit was in 1993. By the time 9/11 happened, he had already an established network of support in Pakistan. He has never tried to impose American or Christian ideology on these people. Instead, they use Pakistani curriculum along with extras like health and nutrition. Study of the Koran, of local folklore, of Urdu and other languages are also included. Mortenson's job is to insure that schools remain in good condition, that teachers are paid and that basic services the community needs are addressed. The goal is that eventually, these schools will become self-sufficient.

After 9/11 Arab monies also recognized the region as ripe for indoctrination. Overnight, Saudi money began building fundamentalist madrassa schools. Mortenson realized that his schools now served another purpose. They ensured a balanced education that would help children become reasonable adults. Thus, the subtitle, "One Man's Mission to Promote Peace... One School at a Time." As the region became more volatile, Mortenson's life was endangered by fundamentalist opposition in Pakistan as well as anti-Muslim sentiment in the United States. Finally, a couple of reporters reached wide audiences in a couple of stories of how these schools help relations between the United States and Pakistan, between Christians and Muslims. More money came in and Mortenson was able to fulfill another dream: to build similar schools in Afghanistan. The guy went by himself into wild territory that was heavily mined in Afghanistan and put his life in the hands of a local tribal leader. With machine guns pointed at himself, Mortenson explained who he was, that he wanted to build schools in the region and could they use his services? A local translator spoke excellent English and when they realized that he was Dr. Greg, a feast was ordered (with lots of tea) and work in Afghanistan began.

Image courtesy Central Asia Institute
Greg Mortenson with Gultori schoolchildren. Pakistan.

As I read this book, I identified with much of Greg Mortenson's philosophy and approach to life. We are both children of the 4th World, kids who grew up in another country and who have no real nationalistic ties. He was a Lutheran missionary kid in Tanzania and I was a Lutheran "mk" in Brazil. Growing up overseas, many of us naturally gravitate towards professions that have international or humanitarian dimensions. But, I don't have his stamina and determination. I don't like to be cold, am scared of heights, terrified of guns, and would never, never, never, be able to do what he does. But, I can and do rejoice in this man's gift to humanity, to all these kids, and to the contribution he makes to global understanding.

The highlight of the book, for me, was when one of his earlier female students completes her education in Korphe's school and walks into a meeting of a group of elders who are sitting with Mortenson and demands that she get a scholarship to complete her education off the mountain. She later comes back to continue to work with the village. Mortenson stresses the importance of educating girls and the village elders not only agree with him, but chuckle at this girl's spunk and welcome her leadership roles.

This blog is about fiber related issues. So how does this story fit in with that? Well, one of the things Mortenson realizes as he is building this school is that the village women also need a place to meet and money to get started in cottage industry production. All of the schools have an area where the local women can meet, sew and he has procured sewing machines for them. I read an article a long time ago about the connections local craft economies have with education, farming and production. Nature's cycles dictate when people can plant and harvest and in the winter, craft production is a natural filler and income generator when crops don't need tending.

On a broader level, everything we do is connected. Those of us who can't climb mountains can promote peace, understanding, conservation and other good things by the life styles we choose. We can enable others to practice their craft skills. We can develop our own. I find it tragic how people fight so hard for basic needs such as education, housing, health care, and the opportunity to have meaningful work and then once there is affluence, these basics lose relevance. We all have children in our communities who are neglected. We all have mountains to climb. And, we all have cups of tea that can be given out to our still unknown family.

Image courtesy Central Asia Institute
Greg Mortenson with Khanday schoolchildren. Pakistan.

These schools need continued support. Please visit the Central Asia Institutes's website and if you have children or work with children, see if their Pennies for Peace program is something you can start in your area. If you would like to purchase a copy of the book, use this link and 7% of the sales proceeds will go directly to help support the schools: http://www.threecupsoftea.com/

Three Cups of Tea: Building Schools for Peace

Turkish Textile Arts in Transition: A Brotherhood of Carpet Sellers

by Catherine Salter Bayar
Catherine is a regular contributor to Fiber Focus.
Click on her name to see all of her posts on one page.

The Carpet Merchant, Jean-Léon Gérôme

The occupants of the cavernous room, with walls of hewn stone punctuated by arabesque carved doorways and filled with a soft light from above, are rapt with attention. Three men in flowing robes and large turbans watch while a barefoot carpet seller with a long beard works his best sales techniques on a fourth potential buyer, while the second, white-bearded carpet seller gauges the reaction of the group. The two sellers – one perhaps Persian, the other Afghan - gesture as they point out the unique qualities of a vast Heriz carpet, hanging from a balcony above the room and enormous in scale, even in the huge space. Other Persian and Turkish carpets are strewn around the floor behind the men in rejected heaps. Around the periphery of the room, several young men and boys watch and await instructions from the carpet sellers; the most attentive assistant is an African, perhaps a slave. A woman veiled in blue brazenly peeks from the corner doorway, ready to completely cover her face if the buyers, one of whom is a European wearing a dashing red coat, happen to glance her way. The question “Will the visitors buy?” tangibly pervades the scene.

It’s possible that French artist Jean-Léon Gérôme accurately captured what a carpet shop was like more than 100 years ago, when he painted this Orientalist scene, The Carpet Merchant,while visiting the rug market in Cairo. The nostalgic setting this 1887 painting portrays, a mysterious market place full of colorful carpets from all along the Silk Road, with Egyptians, Turks, Persians and Europeans vying to purchase the best pieces, is still much what visitors to Turkey expect to find today.

Though there are a few places in Turkey that replicate this exotic environment, buying carpets to resell these days is not that experience, though this painting appears on countless carpet shop walls, even ours. Perhaps because we trade in weavings from the past, we’d like to recall those days, however romantically portrayed, in which such magnificent, authentic carpets were highly sought after by every visitor to our region.

Carpet district, Nurosmaniye near the Grand Bazaar, Istanbul

I’d never seen The Carpet Merchant before I moved to Turkey, though the idea of wading through deep piles of those vibrant rugs in alabaster rooms greatly appealed to my sensuous nature. At least I didn’t have to be that woman peering from the doorway, excluded from participating in the business proceedings. Or so I thought when Abit and I first started buying for our shop in the Western Turkish town of Selcuk in 1999. No novice to textile commerce worldwide, I was not surprised to find myself once again in a business completely dominated by men. Those in power in the carpet trade here, at least the traders with whom Abit, my husband, had developed the essential relationships, were very traditional, very powerful men with origins in Van, a region in Eastern Turkey, on the Iranian border.

These men were not the chic, European-educated business owners I worked with when I first visited Istanbul in the early 1990’s. Dealing with those men – whose offices and factories were almost completely run by extremely bright and well organized Turkish women – gave me a favorable impression of Turkey as a modern place to work. But I’d also shopped the Grand Bazaar and surrounding lanes on my own during my early trips enough to have discerned that carpet dealers were not cut from the same progressive cloth.

During our first season of purchasing in the Turkish carpet trade, I immediately realized that the exotic stroll through an ancient marketplace my romantic mind’s eye pictured had little basis in reality. Visits to the wholesalers we used when we first started our business were in the old quarters of Nuruosmaniye within the walls of Istanbul’s old city near the Grand Bazaar (with one palatial entrance to this enormous complex pictured above), or along the cramped narrow lanes of Kemeralti in Izmir. These districts have a certain seedy charm, with their greyed, unpainted wood exteriors concealing vast warehouses of colorful carpets within. And like the painting, the men we visited were eager to fill our shop with their wares, spending hours unfolding kilims and unrolling carpets to convince us that they had the finest rugs on offer. But other than our dealings also being among people from several ethnic groups – Kurds, Turkmen, Uzbeks, and me, the solo ethnic European - the resemblance to the painting ended there.

Upon a first visit to a wholesaler, I might be completely ignored after the initial greeting, and sometimes even then. Just like my clothing industry visits to China and other countries in the Far East, I could not possibly be the person in charge of finances, so was of no importance, until the surprised men discovered otherwise. We drank endless glasses of tea while the men chain smoked cigarettes. Obviously, business dealings required constant supplies of nicotine, no matter what harm all that smoke may do to the fibers.

Abit (center in the photo above) and I would select the pieces we wanted. The men were clearly intrigued and sometimes quite mystified that Abit would consult me at all about what I liked. Though he had explained my textile background and ability to know quality when I saw it, the men were not at all convinced that I, a foreign woman, had any idea what I was doing. As the meetings went on though, sometimes for hours late into the night or even several meetings over days, the men grudgingly began to understand that I knew what I was doing. Not that this was stated, and in those early days my Turkish was not sufficient to know what they were saying. And the men were also speaking Kurdish in their negotiations, since that was most often the mother tongue to everyone in the room but me. Nonetheless, I understood the looks of admiration I eventually got from some of the dealers, and Abit was told more than once how lucky he was. I was sure however they were convinced Abit had caught a wealthy American fish and they were eager to reel in as much of our cash as they could.

In the early years of our business, the semi-annual visit to the wholesalers was still a treasure hunt, with dealers emptying never-ending black bags crammed with perfect suzanis, or leading us through rooms stacked to the high ceilings with old rugs from all over the Near East. Today, buying merchandise from these same dealers would be like going to Pasadena’s Sunday Rose Bowl flea market on a mission to find the genuine vintage handmade textile buried under heaps of machine-made odds and ends. In the decade since we started our business, wholesalers have become merchants of newly woven goods. In traditional Turkish patterns, yes, though they are imported from countries such as Pakistan, Nepal or China.

Interior, Grand Bazaar

Working with only a few main wholesalers, each specializing in different regions, therefore differing types of textiles, was logical for 1999. In the barter system used here, the more we bought, in “American cash dollars”, the phrase always used, the better the wholesale prices got. Ten years ago, that meant that we could buy a wonderful assortment of vintage rugs – those kilims and carpets woven decades before as dowry pieces with no concern for what a Westerner would buy, with nothing newly made, and all of it woven in Turkey or Central Asia – for amounts of money that seemed very reasonable to me. Now, in 2008, it would be impossible to buy the same goods for three times the price, if you could find them here at all.

Thankfully, we bought so much when prices were good that we have some of those original purchases in stock. Selcuk does not often get buyers who are looking for collectors’ pieces; frustrating for income but fine in the long run since these vintage rugs do not lose, but increase, in value if they are well taken care of. Investing in dowry kilims and carpets in the late 1990’s turned out to be a wise decision, since they are truly a vanishing market in Turkey. These days, we buy very few pieces, and only from trusted older men who scour the villages looking for rugs no one wants any longer. Like all things vintage, once these weavings are sold, we will be looking for a new business.

Our shop in Selcuk, with most of the carpets and kilims kept inside
these days to protect them from the hot summer sun.
The minaret behind to the left is the oldest in town, from the 14^th Century Seljuk Empire.
One stork is just visible on top – Selcuk’s high places host
enormous nests where the storks live from May to October.

Next post: Though a brotherhood of wholesalers and sellers control the carpet trade in Turkey, it is a sisterhood of weavers that is very much affected by this weaving art in transition.


Catherine Salter Bayar lives with her husband Abit in Selcuk, near Ephesus, Turkey, where they own a vintage textile shop and a water pipe & wine bar. Visit them at www.bazaarbayar.com or www.bazaarbayar.etsy.com.

Turkish Textile Arts in Transition: A Brotherhood of Carpet Sellers

Cicim Kilim Rugs: Pure Nomadic Art of Turkey

By Catherine Salter Bayar

My favorite kilims are often the most uncomplicated. In the context of Turkish hand-woven textiles however, simplicity is rarely a straightforward square-weave. Simple in this case? Starting with a rustic base of undyed goat hair in its varied natural colors – dark greys, creams, deep browns, and sometimes even beige shades that verge on mauve - then embellishing that base cloth with brightly colored wool yarns in a very simple geometric pattern in an overall repeat.

When Abit and I first started collecting vintage hand-woven ‘kilims’ (the Turkish name used for all types of flat-woven textiles, in contrast to carpets, ‘hali’ in Turkish, which are knotted) nine years ago for our shop in Selcuk, Turkey, this style immediately caught my eye with its naïve and playful simplicity. Called ‘cicim’ in Turkish, the word is pronounced ‘jijim’ and is sometimes spelled that way by non-Turkish speakers. Instead of weaving wool yarns together into solid colored blocks of geometric pattern, cicims employ embroidery to create their colorful raised geometric shapes.

The cicim weaver either brocaded the pattern into the goat hair warp and weft as she wove, or embroidered it in sections as the goat hair base was completed and still on the loom.

None of the cicims we’ve collected are less than perhaps 30 years old. In my 60-something mother-in-law’s generation, women throughout Anatolia and Eastern Turkey still lived a semi-nomadic lifestyle. Winters were spent in the villages, but summers the families went up into the mountains to take advantage of grazing their animals at higher and cooler altitudes.

Turkish weavers in years gone by had no choice other than to make everything for their homes. There were of course no big-box stores where a homemaker could outfit an entire house at once, like there are today here in modern Turkey. In fact, there were very few shops of any kind outside of large cities. If a woman needed coverings for the floors, cloths to be used for dining, cushions for sitting or containers to carry belongings from place to place, she had to know how to weave.

Because thicker goat hair yarn and large gauge colored wool were used, these pieces were woven fairly quickly, so were favored for all sorts of utilitarian purposes. Goat hair was plentiful, strong and coarse, and had the extra practical aspect of being more waterproof than wool based on a higher oil content. The cicim below was originally folded with sides stitched together to form a ‘donkey bag’, which was literally slung over the back of that hard-working farm animal.

Ends were left in plain-weave stripes, though in this case, the cream-colored goat hair was dyed a vibrant orange and red.

The ends of the cicim below are undyed. This yarn of this cicim is courtesy of those mauve-colored goats I mentioned before, along with their more typical grey cousins!

The goat hair warp yarns were sometimes braided or woven into a beautifully striped natural color twill trim, as seen in the two photos of the same cicim below.

Selvages (the vertical sides of a weaving) were usually bound in a whipstitch of contrasting yarns, as a means to reinforce the edges from fraying, to make the seams of a bag sturdier, as well as to add a decorative touch.

Some cicims were woven on narrow looms, about 12” -15” (30 – 40cm) wide, while others were made on large looms easily 6 – 8 feet (2 – 2.5 meters) wide. This opened bag has wonderful herringbone weave ends to accentuate the central raised triangular motifs representing mountains, and diamond shapes acting as protection for the family against the ‘evil eye’ jealousy of outsiders.

The central geometric theme can get more complex, depending on the skill and imagination of the weaver; or oversized, as in the approximately 7’ x 10’ piece below, which would have covered most all of the floor in a traditional Turkish village salon.

As in all Turkish kilims, symbols have meanings, and the desires of the weaver were spoken though her work. Below, tiny embroidered flowers for abundance outline the letter “S”. In Turkish, “I love you” is “Seni Seviyorum”, so that alliterative phrase was represented frequently in Turkish weavings by that letter.

Though the central ground of a cicim was usually one geometric pattern repeated throughout, there were typically contrasting borders in some form. These borders might be a simple single motif, or a combination of a few. Below, the starburst forms may represent the mountainous terrain, the daily passage of time in sunrise and sunset, or that protective diamond shape which can also mean abundance for the family home.

Below, a striped outline means a rippling stream of clean running water. To the left, the pale green triangle with connected spiral forms is the ‘hands on hips’ symbol of fertility. To the right, the hatchmarks in red (meaning abundance and love) and indigo blue (meaning protection) are the double protection of strong ‘wolves’ mouths’ and diamond ‘evil eyes’.

These are just a few examples of cicims we’ve collected, with the undyed goat hair base weaving common to all the pieces here as the connecting feature. Some of these cicims are for sale on our etsy site: www.bazaarbayar.etsy.com with additional photos. More of my favorite cicim styles to come in future posts, to illustrate the enormous variety of kilims, within just one weaving style, that were woven here in generations past.

Catherine Salter Bayar lives with her husband Abit in Selcuk, near Ephesus, Turkey, where they own a vintage textile shop and a water pipe& wine bar. Visit them at www.bazaarbayar.com or www.bazaarbayar.etsy.com.

Cicim Kilim Rugs: Pure Nomadic Art of Turkey

A Shoe Fetish, Anyone?

Why is it that shoes capture our attention so completely? Hats, gloves, and other accessories also have their fan clubs, but shoes seem to beat the others in terms of a collective and historical obsession. Sure, they serve function in how we connect with earth: protecting from the elements, providing warmth, keeping our selves clean and enabling or preventing mobility. But, I think there is also something about the form itself that offers the maker and the wearer a challenging canvas to go beyond function into adornment. Shoes make or break an outfit. They define social status. They change how a person stands, walks or sits. Look at the shoes and a judgment is formed about the person. Adornment speaks of historical, cultural and personal statements of society.

Sioux quilled and beaded moccasins, circa 1900. (Cowan's Auctions Inc.)

My all-time favorite museum, The Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago, has a huge exhibit along one wall with hundreds of shoe samples from around the world, old and new. Their web description states:

"People everywhere face the common concern of how to cover and protect their feet. As you look around, you’ll notice that people have responded to this concern in countless (and often amazing) ways.

The kind of shoes a person might use depends on a combination of factors: what the environment is like, what kind of shoes his or her group traditionally wears, and what the shoemaker can create.

Imagine shedding your own shoes and standing in one of these pairs instead. Which ones would you choose? And what would it be like to look at life from that different point of view --even for just a moment?"

I carry mukluks from Afghanistan, one of my best sellers in my eBay store. I have several pairs and love wearing them during the cold, winter months.


Made by Afghan refugees out of recycled sweaters, the mukluks are more of a sock than a shoe or boot, but they come from a boot tradition, much like the felted boots of Tibet:

Tradtional Tibetan Felt Boots

These are examples of function needed for a cold climate offering comfort and protection. But, shoes have also been a source of pain and even death. Foot binding in China lasted over 1,000 years. Women bound their feet tightly, curling the toes under the feet and raising the arch of the foot. The smaller foot, the better. Lotus shoes, now highly collectible, encased these crippled foot remains. This pair is available on eBay for $345:

Chinese Lotus Shoes

I actually had a customer in my Chicago store who came looking for a pair of lotus shoes for her 90 year old mother who had bound feet. Shirley Two Feathers has an interesting article on her blog about foot binding. She doesn't know where she got this photo:

We may think of these customs as barbaric, but stiletto heels also cause severe tendon and back damage. The High Heel Shoe Museum has a bunch of sexy photos of women in stiletto shoes.

Most of the gorgeous, young models are sitting, kneeling, or laying down. Hmmm.... Wonder why? Could it be that they are NOT comfortable?!! One of my best friends when I was growing up in Brazil was Japanese. She and her sisters all tried to compensate for their height wearing these stilettos. Even back then, when we were young and flexible, they could not wear tennis shoes. They could run in those spikes, but not without.

Contemporary artists and designers continue to draw on traditional fabrics and needle work, as well as form, for inspiration for cool-looking shoes. Feltoman from Turkey sells beautiful suzani on felt boots on eBay. (There are flat soles available, too!)

Suzani boots, $115, Feltoman

The Natural Store uses vintage kimono fabric in their smart-looking pumps, $320 pounds.

Kimono covered shoes from The Natural Store, a fair trade outlet.

Diverso Studio on Etsy has a nice selection of mola shoes for $45.

Mola shoes from Diverso Studio on Etsy.

Shoe images are everywhere in art. They are painted, cast, quilted, silk screened, and framed. Travelers photograph them. Radical Sabbatical captured this happy photo in Morocco:

Moroccan slippers by Radical Sabbatical

Have a shoe fetish, anyone? Whether you do or not, walk gently on this good earth!

A Shoe Fetish, Anyone?