Muğla: Between Two Names
Ancient Muğla/Mobolla/Ancient Carian was Greek—
stones whispered in Carian tones,
temples faced the sun
before the call to prayer was ever heard.
Now, Muğla is Turkish.
Not just by flag,
but by blood that tills the land,
by lullabies sung in tea gardens,
by roots that won’t leave
no matter how the wind changes.
But still,
they don’t speak of Muğla.
Not in their newsreels,
not in their patriotic songs.
As if a place with too much memory
is too dangerous to praise.
They show you beaches,
but not the silence.
They sell you resorts,
but never tell you
how many ghosts walk here
quietly, in between the modern roads.
Was it too Greek to fit the Turkish myth?
Too Turkish now to mourn the Greek past?
Muğla stands between names—
never confused,
only ignored.
And Istanbul is not the place
to study Greek heritage—
no matter how many conferences
echo through its halls.
The ruins are not there.
The voices aren’t there.
Muğla is.
But I see it.
And I hear what they won’t say.
Because Muğla is a place
that doesn’t scream for attention.
It breathes,
layered and loyal,
carrying centuries
that no empire
can simplify.