Aida Zabidi
We had time to kill after our hike at Pasabag and had wandered over the the side the local bus was supposed to stop at and had popped into his shop to get a cold drink.

He had gestured over at a nearby couch after seeing us stand in the sun for awhile, telling us that we could sit there while waiting, and had eventually sauntered over to have a chat.

"I have two sons," he said. "I want more but I wait long time."

"Surely that's good no? Two sons? Some people have none." 

"Two sons, not good. Three, four children - good." 

It seemed like Turkish people place a lot of importance in large families, but despite the seemingly negative expression, he didn't seem too outwardly bothered by the actual fact that he only had two sons.

"Three is good. Two, they fight all the time," he laughed as he put his fists in the air. "My oldest is Mehmet."

"There are a lot of Mehmets in Turkey, not so many Muhammad's," I interrupted, which I had found immensely interesting for some reason. 

"It is the same meaning, but Muhammad is the Prophet you know? Not everyone can be as good as the Prophet, and if we are just normal people we are bound to do mistakes, bad things. And if you do bad things and your name is Muhammad, people will talk negatively of you, and the name is besmirched. The name, it has honour - but not everyone has honour."


Conversations like these are the exact reason why I love traveling.

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