I’ve just got back from a holiday in Istanbul. It is, under any circumstances, a marvelously exotic place: a city in two continents, home of the Hagia Sophia, a modern city borne out of an ancient civilization and, arguably, the birthplace of bellydance. Add to that the fact that I visited during Ramadan, with the fabulous street parties at night and general atmosphere of joy and celebration, and it certainly made for an exciting time. But what I found most interesting was the experience of being a woman in such a dichotomous place.

Istanbul is heavily influenced by Western society, yet is in a country with a 99% Muslim population (albeit to varying degrees of practice). It seems appropriate, then, that a city which cannot seem to decide what continent it is in also contains such a varied population, which is most evident among women. A cursory glance at an average street will reveal various women in full burkhas (some with just eyes showing, others with noses and chins as well), headscarves coupled with a reasonably conservative outfit, and also strappy tops and short summer dresses. Within the same city are the LA-wannabe chicks of the ultra-modern Istiklar Caddesi and the veiled, enigmatic women of the more religious Eyup.

I have seen several women in burkhas – in Britain and Egypt as well as Turkey – and they never fail to create a sense of uneasiness in me. Not, as you might imagine, through any kind of Islamophobia but rather because I always wonder what they think of me. Do they look at my bare knees or the top that is unsuccessful in hiding my cleavage and think me a slut? Do they resent my freedom or worse, do they pity me for the apparently inevitable consequences of my heathen ways in the afterlife? Perhaps this is the case for some, but I was surprised by the friendliness of these women, no matter how I was dressed; a few stared and perhaps even glared, but most smiled as they passed me and my boyfriend holding hands in the park. It seems that, for many, the act of covering up to whatever extent really is a free choice and not necessarily a prescription for all.

I also found my own assumptions challenged by the men that I saw with the burkha-clad women because they were, for the most part, seemingly nice, affectionate boyfriends and husbands. I always imagined that only a certain type of man would force – or allow, if you look at it the other way – his wife to wear such a garment. My boyfriend, certainly, is far too much of a feminist to let me wear one without a fight and a lecture about my complete equality, and so I assumed that these men must be absolute monsters. Yet they were generally normal, decent, modern men who did not appear to exert any oppressive power over their wives.

The clash of Islam and secularism, east and west, does lead to hypocrisy, however. Street vendors would generally call out to me, figuring that I, as a woman, would have more of a desire to buy things – yet they would automatically look to my boyfriend to give them the money*. Waiters would shake his hand as we were about to depart the restaurant but not mine out of reservation when it comes to bodily contact with someone else’s woman – and yet I had my backside groped no less than three times by elusive scoundrels who grabbed the opportunity (literally) while squeezing past me before slipping away through the crowd**. The same men would no doubt be horrified, however, at the public leering and wolfwhistles that I get on a not-embarrassingly frequent basis from builders in Britain.

Istanbul is, then, a city on the turn, with Islamic values of chastity and modesty battling against Western values of freedom and individuality when it comes to sex (in both senses of the word). It was encapsulated in a wonderfully surreal sight I saw whilst sitting in a park in Yedikule: a man walking along with his arm around a woman in a burkha. It will be interesting to see what develops.

* A not altogether incorrect strategy, as it turned out, since he did carry all the money, but that was only because I flat-out refused to wear a bumbag. (Fannypack for my American readers)

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