Nesfe Jahan, pt 57

A two hour ride to Cize, Turkey. A stone’s throw from the Syrian border. The driver interrupts me brusquely when I try some Turkish words. He really doesn’t like Turkish. Instead, he calls his daughter who speaks passable English. When I get her on the line, she is laughing hard. She tells me her mothers says I’m very handsome. Her mother is wearing a hijab in the Cizre style, where the mouthpiece is not black, but an eerie translucent white, showing only silhouettes of the facial features.

Picture taken in the burial museum, Budapest.