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By SUSAN TAYLOR MARTIN, Times Senior CorrespondentTurks have long lived in Germany. But their lack of assimilation may ultimately thwart their homeland's EU plans.
BERLIN - For all of his 15 years, Ali Bagleci has lived in Germany. He speaks German, holds German citizenship, has many German friends.
Yet as he leaves the playing field on this crisp fall day, his red soccer jersey bears a star and crescent - the symbol of Turkey.
"I'm a good Turkish boy, and I'm proud of it," he says.
In the traditional culture from which he came, some might consider Ayhan Surucu a good Turkish boy, too. When his sister left her husband and began dating other men, the 19-year-old Surucu did the only thing he thought could redeem the family's honor - he shot her to death.
"I could not accept her moral behavior," he told the German court where he is on trial for murder.
Bagleci and Surucu are among the nearly 3-million people of Turkish origin living in Germany. Although more than a third were born here, many still consider themselves more Turkish than German. And, for better or worse, many cling to symbols and customs of their Muslim homeland.
Germany has long struggled with how to deal with its immigrant population, the largest of any in Europe. But the debate has sharpened with Turkey's bid to join the European Union and the growing restiveness of young Muslims in France, Britain, the Netherlands and this, a predominantly Christian country tarnished by notions of Aryan superiority.
Although Turkey's EU membership is at least 10 years distant, many Europeans already worry that they will be flooded with poor, unskilled Muslims, including some with extreme views. Germany's new chancellor, Angela Merkel, has said that inviting Turkey to join "was a mistake." Up to 75 percent of Germans agree.
With formal talks on Turkey's EU bid now under way, both supporters and opponents of membership are taking a close look at the degree to which Germany's Turkish residents have adapted. It's not a very encouraging picture.
German Turks "don't love this country," says Safter Cinar of the Turkish Union in Berlin-Brandenburg. "This is what German officials caused - if after 40 years they're still using the term "foreigners,' that is why people feel this way. If you don't accept us, we don't accept you."
Others think there's blame on both sides.
"Many immigrants didn't try to integrate here," say Gert Monheim, a filmmaker who has chronicled Turkish life. "They shut the door and behind the door is Istanbul or East Anatolia."
A half-century after they began arriving as "temporary" guest workers, Turks have permanently settled in Berlin and other big cities. Most are law-abiding, thousands have their own businesses and some have risen to prominent positions in government.
Yet fewer than a third of German Turks hold German citizenship. Even well-educated Turks are pressed for work; the jobless rate for those of Turkish origin is at least 40 percent compared to 11 percent for the country as a whole.
And there are signs the young are becoming more religious. It's a trend that worries those who would like to see them better blended into the mainstream.
"Twenty years ago you wouldn't have had women asking for prayer facilities at work or being interested in going to Koranic schools," says Nazire Karaman, a manager at Akarsu, a government institute for immigrant women.
"They see they are not accepted in society, so they have no choice but to go back to their origins and their communities."
"They are too different'
As Berlin's u-bahn rattles through the Kreutzberg section of town, residents have another name for the subway: the Orient Express.
This is the area known as Little Istanbul. Twenty minutes from the Brandenburg Gate, as many people speak Turkish as German.
Men linger over tea at Taksim Cafe, named for a major square in Istanbul. Newsstands sell Hurriyet, a popular Turkish newspaper. For those who can afford to travel, Turkish Airlines has several offices. For those who can't, call centers urge: "Talk Turkey - 5.8 cents for 5 minutes!"
When Hannelore Kleeman began teaching 34 years ago, almost none of her students were Turkish. Now she is principal of an elementary school and 90 percent of the kids are of Turkish origin.
Many of the girls wear head scarves. They go home to mothers who speak little German and struggle to help their children with homework written in an alien language.
Although it can be frustrating to teach them, Kleeman appreciates the diversity the Turkish students have brought to her school, and to all of Germany. Not everyone feels the same.
"The girls are allowed to wear scarves, but the teachers don't like it," Kleeman says. "They think, we (Germans) are a special culture, and when people come here they ought to adapt."
It's an attitude that has dogged Turks since they began migrating to West Germany in the 1950s to help rebuild the war-battered country. Most in the first big wave, from 1961 to 1967, were from Istanbul and other cities in the more advanced, western part of Turkey. Along with factory workers came teachers and engineers.
Concerned that so many of its well-educated citizens were leaving, Turkey reached an agreement with the West German government that future workers come from less-developed areas. Between 1967 and 1973, migration was mainly from poor, religiously conservative eastern Turkey.
"You will meet some Turks who will say that because of people from rural areas, our image was negatively affected," says Cinar of the Turkish Union. "In parts of Turkey, entire villages came to Germany, rented a house and lived in some kind of feudal culture."
In 1973, West Germany stopped recruiting workers. But instead of encouraging foreigners to go home when their contracts ended, the move prompted many to bring their families here. By the time East and West Germany reunited in 1990, the number of Turks and other immigrants had jumped to 4.5-million, more than 5 percent of the entire population.
For years, though, German politicians continued to deny the reality that theirs had become an immigrant nation. And, unlike in America or Britain, Turks continued to lead generally separate lives.
"In the States, a lot of Turks have nicknames like Fred - they've made a conscious effort to integrate and they're largely invisible," says David Cuthell, an expert on Turkey at Georgetown University.
"In Germany, you find much more hostility between the communities, so much so that the Turkish World Cup soccer team had four or five players who were actually German but chose to play on the Turkish national team."
Even German Turks who were born here struggle to fit in.
"I'm a German citizen, but sometimes it doesn't change anything," says Murat Bagci, a car mechanic wearing a Make My Day T-shirt. "A German sees black hair and black eyes and says, "You're a foreigner."'
Bagci, 25, once worked in a repair shop, but his German boss fired him because he was speaking Turkish to a customer "and he thought I was telling company secrets." For months he has been unemployed, living with his parents because he can't afford his own apartment.
Bagci has German friends and, at times, considers himself more German than Turkish. But the cultural gulf quickly becomes apparent.
German girls are attractive, but he would not want to marry one. "They are too different - I cannot adapt to their lifestyles and they cannot adapt to ours."
In a country that loves its beer, Bagci, a devout Muslim, doesn't drink - "So much comes out of the nose," he jokes. In a city where newspapers run photos of bare-breasted women, he is uncomfortable with the casual attitude toward sex.
Many of his Turkish friends feel the same way: "They say, as a man I can do what I want, but my wife has to live more traditionally."
For some German Turks, living "traditionally" means forced marriages, abayas and head scarves. It can mean a suffocating, sometimes dangerous existence.
Women of Turkish origin are often called the most disadvantaged group in German society. Almost 40 percent have been victims of domestic violence, compared to 25 percent of all German women.
Within just a few months, five Muslim women in Berlin were murdered by male relatives who thought they had brought shame to the family. But such "honor killings" drew little attention until last February's death of 23-year-old Hatun Surucu.
Surucu was only 15 when her family arranged her marriage to a cousin. Two years later, she divorced him, taking her young son with her. She shed her head scarf, studied electrical engineering and developed an active social life.
As he would later tell the court, her brother Ayhan said he tried to "talk sense" into her that bleak winter day.
"Hatun told me that she would go to bed with whoever she chose," he said. "That was too much for me, I pulled out the pistol and shot her."
Surucu, thin and bespectacled, was arrested along with his two older brothers; they deny they helped plan the killing. All three face life in prison.
The case may be extreme, but it reflects a troubling reality.
"A lot of things must come together for such things to happen, and the first thing is a very, very problematic view of women," says Dirk Halm of Germany's Center for Studies on Turkey.
"It doesn't justify murder, but this very questionable view of women is widespread."
Although they may not say so directly, both supporters and opponents of Turkey joining the European Union see such cases as an argument for their side.
To opponents, the imperious attitudes toward women show Turkey is far too different from Western Europe to ever adapt well.
But supporters note that Turkey is a secular country that already has stiffened penalties for honor killings and taken other steps to improve its human rights record. The prospect of EU membership will encourage it to continue, they say.
Karaman, the manager at the Akarsu institute for immigrant women, cites herself as an example of how German Turks - especially women - can succeed in a Western culture.
"Look at me - I'm not wearing a head scarf," she says, tossing her long chestnut hair. Born in a poor Kurdish area of eastern Turkey, she moved to Germany with her family as a child. She chose her own husband - a Turkish engineer - and attended night school after they were married to get her bachelor's degree.
At home, the couple speak German as well as Kurdish to their 5-year-old son. They are happy that he attends a school with a mixed student body, not one where he would be surrounded by others of Turkish origin.
The institute Karaman helps run has many services for immigrant women - counseling, job training, health advice. It reflects the government's awareness that yes, Germany truly is an immigrant nation today.
Still, she knows what average Germans think when they hear about honor killings. About the imams who tell young men in the mosque that they are superior to "dirty" Christians. About the parents who want to name their sons "Osama."
"This doesn't mean we don't like to speak about the problems which really exist in the Muslim community," Karaman says. "But in general, the media bring only negative stories about Muslims. The result is that a German who has not had contact with Muslims gets a very bad image."
--Susan Taylor Martin can be contacted at susan@sptimes.com