Joy has to explain to her neighbors that even though I’m traveling alone, I’m not a prostitute and not here to mess around with men.

Dave and Joy live in a third floor apartment with many spacious rooms opening off a wide hallway. Exceptionally large for an apartment, but in this part of Turkey extended families live together and it is impossible to find anything small. Word is out in the neighborhood that Joy has a cousin visiting from Canada, and numerous children have been sent to the door bearing plates of food and invitations to tea.

“Weren’t your father and mother angry with you for leaving home?” one 18-year old girl asks me.

We sit cross-legged on cushions on the floor with our tea; she wears an ankle-length plaid skirt, striped sweater, and large floral headscarf covering long black hair. Her face is animated as she stares from me to Joy, our interpreter.

I say that no, my parents weren’t angry, and she tells me if she left the house by herself her father and mother would be very angry. If she talked to a boy they would also be angry—do I talk to boys? Yes, I talk to boys. At her wide eyes Joy hurries to explain that in the west relationships are more open.

She wants to know what would happen if I liked a boy—would my mother and father be angry? No…not necessarily. Am I engaged? No. Is there a man in my life? No. Is this difficult, or is it easy? I’m not sure how to respond to this one—but no, it’s not especially difficult having no man in my life.

She says she is not engaged, but by the time she’s 20 she’ll probably be married.

“Do you want to marry?” I ask. She shakes her head. No, marriage is not good, but she will have to marry anyway. It is hard being a woman, it’s not fair, boys can go wherever they want and do whatever they want, but she can’t do anything.

She wonders if I have a job, and if I’ll return to it when I’m back in Canada. I think of pointing to a book and explaining that I want to write...maybe go to school...maybe work a different job—but how do I put this into words to a girl with no options, who can’t even leave the house by herself? I finally say simply that I have a job, and she tells me I am lucky my father lets me work.

I’m feeling like a restricted Muslim girl myself, as I can’t so much as venture alone to the male-enclave internet café next door. This city--near the Syrian border, said to be the birthplace of Abraham and possible site of the Garden of Eden--is most conservative of the places I’ve visited.