ANKARA, Turkey — I am sitting on a bench in the chilly winter sunlight with a fellow teacher at Bilkent University, where I teach English conversation skills. Around us, the treeless steppes of Anatolia are blanketed in snow. A student walks by, her head wrapped in a scarf of purple silk. My friend, her own head exposed to the wind, takes a drag on her Winston.

"Freedom is a dangerous word," she says. "Today it is headscarves. Tomorrow it is having four wives. The ultimate aim is an Islamic Republic."

In talking with Turkish people about the headscarf issue, the word "freedom"— özgürlük in Turkish — always comes up. Feb. 22, President Gül signed into law a constitutional amendment that would allow the scarf on university campuses. Since then, the question of whether this amendment will make Turkey more or less free has haunted the nation.

Supporters claim that, in its refusal to discriminate against women who wear the scarf, the new law is a step toward a more liberal democracy. Indeed, the language of the amendment echoes this sentiment: "No one shall be deprived of the right to higher education because of their apparel."

But there is widespread fear among Turkey's secular elite that this is not a step forward, but a step back. Many see this as yet more evidence of a secret plan already under way to turn Turkey into a place like Iran.

For some, this vision of Turkey is such a nightmare that it can seem to verge on paranoia. They imagine a Turkey where alcohol is banned, where people are stoned for not fasting during Ramadan, and where a woman is not free to wear a scarf as she chooses, but where she is required to cover herself completely.

Sitting in her office later on, my fellow teacher shivers visibly. "I remember Iran before the revolution, and they were like us once," she says. "That's actually my greatest fear."

This fear has now found its greatest expression in a lawsuit brought by the chief prosecutor against Turkey's ruling political party. Stated briefly, the suit claims that the AK Party and its leaders are attempting to dismantle the cherished secularism established by Ataturk, the founder of the Turkish Republic. The chief prosecutor proposes the eviction of several of Turkey's most prominent leaders from politics — including Prime Minister Tayyip Erdogan and President Abdullah Gul. At the center of the controversy is the headscarf.

What's gone mostly unnoticed by the Western media is the fact that, despite a constitutional amendment, at the moment, headscarves in Turkey are still not allowed into university classrooms. Though at first the law was legally in effect, various confusing and probably deliberate bureaucratic procedures have since blocked its institution.

But for the first three weeks, universities were required to allow covered girls to enter. Thus, on Feb. 26, my fellow teachers and I watched as the security guards stood aside and girls in headscarves were allowed to sit before us.

Headscarves allowed

Ezgi and Fatma — not their real names — are two of my students who cover their heads. Both 18 and both from Istanbul, the two are studying political science at Bilkent. The girls say they were nervous at first, but that they were surprised to find the change at Bilkent remarkably smooth. From the first day they were allowed in, the security guards normally stationed at the door with the specific purpose of barring their way just smiled at them.

"I walked into class, and everyone was shocked to see me like this," Fatma describes, gesturing toward her scarf, a blue plaid design that matches her bright blue WNBA sweatshirt. We are lounging in my apartment and the girls are on their way to play basketball. "But I just said, Hey, good morning everyone,' and then everything was back to normal."

I am surprised to hear this. Though Bilkent hasn't seen the same angry protests as other universities, there are, nevertheless, a number of students who identify with the fear of Turkey becoming an Islamic Republic. They are not afraid to voice their opinions. "Turkey is a great country," one boy told me in class. "But there are some people who want to make it bad."

There's a strange paradox that exists in Turkey. Though 99 percent of Turkey identifies itself as Muslim, and 60 percent of Turkish women wear the scarf, there is, nevertheless, a stigma for being too religious. In my classes of four or five students, where the only aim is to practice speaking English, the topic of politics inevitably arises (though my job description actually prescribes that I avoid all political discussion). Asked their opinion on the new headscarf law, students will either vigorously condemn it or remain quiet.

My students who I know support the new law, even those who don't wear the scarf, feel pressure to be silent.

My friend Elif Örgü is a graduate student at Bilkent, studying archaeology. Though she herself chooses not to wear the scarf, both her mother and her sister do, and she considers herself very religious. She describes the pressure in Turkey to remain silent about one's religious beliefs as being rooted in the nation's history. Each time even a mildly Islamist party has risen to power, either the military has staged a coup or the party has been ousted from power — all in the name of protecting the secularism established by Atatürk.

"Religious people are so quiet in this country because they don't want to be labeled as conservative," she says. "Because whenever you express your religious beliefs in this country, you are punished. Think about all the military coups in Turkey. I don't discuss my religious beliefs with anyone else."

Ezgi and Fatma acknowledge this pressure as well. Sipping a cup of rose tea, Ezgi describes how she fears that, were she to discuss her belief in God, she would be misunderstood as a "fanatic."

"I think the best thing," she says softly, "is to be quiet."

However, given a chance to express their opinions, both girls insist that they too want Turkey to remain "free."

"It's just a lifestyle choice," Fatma says. "I want to be a good Muslim and so I wear this. But I have no politics, and I serve no ideological system."

Ezgi agrees. "I can't understand why people think that when you put on the scarf, your mind is closed. It's not."

As much as the girls insist upon the relative ease with which Bilkent at first adjusted to the new law, there have still been instances that have made them uncomfortable. Ezgi describes a group of boys who, seeing her with the scarf, jokingly threatened to beat her up after class. I am horrified when I hear this, but the girls are laughing. "They can't do anything," Ezgi reassures me.

I ask Elif about the girls' casual reaction to being threatened, and she tells me that religiously conservative people in Turkey are just used to this. "They have been living with this all their lives," she says.

Again forced to remove scarf

A few weeks after our tea party, I meet Ezgi in her dorm room to talk about how, on March 19, she was again forced to remove her scarf in class. We sit on her bed in a pile of rumpled, lime-green sheets. Her dark, thick curly hair is pulled back loosely at her neck.

Ezgi says the sudden return to the ban passed similarly without comment from other students. She was grateful for this, as she had worried that students would tease her. Being forced to remove her scarf yet again was emotionally wrenching enough.

"It was very difficult," she says sadly, looking away. Referring partly to the politicians, partly to the world at large, she adds: "They are playing with us. They think this is a game, but it isn't."

Despite a constitutional amendment, Ezgi is pessimistic about ever again being allowed into class with her scarf. "I have lost my faith," she says, and she isn't talking about her religion. "Turkey is not ready. We are not ready."

— Anna Levett grew up in Ojai, attended Nordhoff High School, and graduated last year from the University of Pennsylvania. This year she taught at Bilkent University in Turkey.