I was born in Gümüşhane, which, like many cities in Anatolia, is located in a region that bears the traces of many cultures. The town got its name from the mine in the “old city,” which produced the silver used in Ottoman coins. When I was a child, the “old city” looked like a ghost town. It was hard to imagine that its streets were once filled with the sounds of Armenian tinsmiths swinging their hammers and Greek shopkeepers opening up their stores. Aided by the boundless imaginations of childhood, we played on the deserted streets, reveling in the “ghostly” haunts left to us by a once vibrant community. Of all our games, the most thrilling one was to throw stones at the old churches, most of which were in ruins and left abandoned to their fates. The stone that hit and broke the last stained glass window of one such church was launched from my own hand. I was nine years old.

On a July night in 1993, as I was listening to the news on television, I heard that a mob of people had surrounded the Madımak Hotel in Sivas, where a number of artists and intellectuals had arrived to participate in the “Pir Sultan Abdal* Festival.” Before the night was over, 37 people had been burned to death by the mob. Each name that the news anchor read, in a clear voice detached from all emotion, left a deep mark in my soul. I was 26 years old.

Looking back, these are the two most significant experiences that led me to spend a considerable part of my life on Ebru, a project of wary beginnings and a dubious future, as well as the deep passion that compelled me to complete it.

I have always been curious about the personal histories of the people that I photograph. Portraiture can document individual and social experiences, and beckon its viewers to ponder the subjects’ stories. It is the people behind the images that have propelled me to travel to different places, meet people living in a variety of social conditions, tell their stories through my photographs, and give their life histories longevity, if not permanence. This was another motivation in pursuing Ebru.

“Portraits from Turkey” have been the subject of many good photography projects. Therefore, I knew Ebru would not be an easy task to undertake. I wanted to tell a different story than the ones that had already been told—a story in which the images, when put together, would constitute the sentences and paragraphs. The answer to my search—my creative path— was given to me by the subjects I photographed at the beginning of my journey. This story would be about the current colors of Turkey—together with the lost hues, and those that are being added. This testimony could only be uncovered and brought forth in these images through the participation of its subjects, who shared their daily lives with the photographer. I wanted to tell a story that would be about “today,” yet would also reflect the sorrows of yesterday and the hopes for tomorrow.

*Pir Sultan Abdal (1480–1550): legendary Alevi poet.

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The photographs in this book reflect a diversity that is rooted in different cultural identities, while underlying the common thread of our humanity. I wanted Ebru to emphasize what sounds so simple and obvious when put into words: these photographs (with one exception) are human portraits—they are the portraits of people who laugh when happy, who cry over the loss of a loved one, who fall in love, who work, hope, worry and dream… And the one photograph that is not a portrait (it is a child’s grave) reminds us that these portraits are of people who, sooner or later, will submit to their (our) own mortality.

There is another element in these images, one that is perhaps not so apparent. In a world based upon ethnic, religious, and “racial” discrimination, a single word defining cultural identity can be the harbinger of great conflict. As in so many parts of the world, the recent and distant histories of these lands contain periods that have purged us of all the shared characteristics (our humanity) that make us alike; times in which difference has been employed to spark not interest and curiosity, but violence. The stories reflected in the photographs thus convey not only our similarities and co-existence, but also these types of experiences.

Ebru strives to tell the story of the people of Turkey while telling the story of my own personal journey. In every shot is the driving force of the people who looked directly into my camera—and me—as if to say, “We exist, and we are here.” In every image there also exists all that I have seen, heard, and experienced throughout this journey—not as a photographer, but as a human being. It was inevitable that what affected me would be reflected in my photography. At times, I felt the anger that arose from a feeling of certain and irreversible loss, or the pain inflicted upon people just because they were different, or the feeling of “homelessness” that I observed in some groups. At other times, I felt deep respect that was evoked by the will to survive, which I witnessed in every village and every town. Sometimes, I was driven by the thought that I might be pursuing a myth. And from time to time, I was deeply moved by the profound joy that the beauty of diversity cast upon my soul.

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While I documented the interactions that naturally take place between photographer and subject, I did my utmost to reflect what actually and truly is. It was important not to have anything “staged,” and for the photographs to reflect the elements that existed in daily life. As I struggled to select around 300 photographs from approximately 15,000 that I had taken during the five years of fieldwork for Ebru, I often reminisced about the fulfillment that I felt while taking each and every one of them. I also realized that the richness of the “ebru” lay in the details, and its beauty was in the totality of its parts. Each day, each minute of this quest, changed and enriched me.

The journey, for me, was a dream. And I consider myself extremely fortunate to have had the opportunity to make my dream come true. If my photographs reflect the profound love and respect that I feel for the people of my country, and convey the beauty of diversity within so much affliction, sorrow, and pain, then I shall believe that I have captured the “ebru” that I saw in people’s daily lives—an “ebru” so very unique in all its colorful splendor—and I shall deem my venture a success.