Why Did I Write The Geography of Truth? – Searching for Meaning Through Places

When I was writing The Geography of Truth, there was no passport on my desk and no list of flights in front of me.

I had no plan to “travel” and no intention of becoming any kind of “guidebook”.

This book was written from within an age where maps keep multiplying but our sense of direction is disappearing.

The more the world expanded on the screens, the smaller the world inside me felt.

At some point I realised this:

The problem was not that the world was big; the problem was that meaning was shrinking.

And I decided to trace this shrinking meaning across the surface of the earth.

It did not begin with an idea, but with a crack...

The Geography of Truth was never a “great idea”.

It was never built as a marketing sentence.

First, a sentence broke inside me:

“We look at so many places, but do we really know where we belong?”

While daily life was flowing by – phone notifications, headlines, images of war, disasters, crises…

The whole world was rushing past my eyes, but only one question stayed with me:

“Where is the bond between this earth and truth hidden?”

For me, a “spiritual journey” was no longer a technique, a method or the name of some self-help package.

The real question was this:

As long as I saw the earth only as a map, could I ever build a real connection with the truth inside me?

The Geography of Truth was born out of exactly that inner crack.

If you look closely, the earth is not just a map, it is a memory...

After a while, cities stopped talking to me in terms of “population, economy, tourism”.

They started whispering from somewhere else.

I began to sense that every land carries its own memory.

That every city stands in humanity’s subconscious like a sentence, that every river flows like a question asked for centuries but never fully answered, that every mountain becomes a concept asking us about direction.

While writing this book, I began to read the earth not as a “list of places” but as an atlas of memory.

That is why The Geography of Truth is neither travel writing nor a classic history book.

This book uses place as an excuse to look into the emptiness inside a human being.

Because the real inner journey sometimes begins without changing locations at all, only by changing the way you look.

Maps multiplied, but the sense of direction was lost...

Today we all carry maps in our pockets.

We live in a state of humanity that cannot walk through a city without GPS, yet does not know the way back to its own heart.

One day I realised this:

We keep talking about travelling to every corner of the world, but rarely ask where we are actually heading.

Our planes are faster, but our hearts are more tired.

Our roads are wider, but our souls are more confined.

We say “The world is small”, yet the distance between us and the truth has never felt this vast.

I wrote The Geography of Truth not for “those who want to see the world”, but for “those who no longer feel they belong anywhere”.

Because a real search for meaning does not tear a person away from geography; it starts by rebuilding their relationship with the earth.

This was the question I tried to ask in the book:

“When your bond with the earth is cut, can you really protect your bond with truth?”

My intention was to search for truth through places...

I can say in one sentence what I tried to do in The Geography of Truth:

I tried to read places as mirrors of the states inside a human being.

Looking at Mesopotamia, I thought not only of a civilisation, but of the first questions ever asked, the first denials, the first acts of surrender.

Writing about Jerusalem, I spoke of the prayers trapped between the stones, the fractured sense of justice, the throbbing of a wound that never fully heals.

I saw Mecca and Medina not just as centres of worship, but as places where the heart learns its qibla.

When I wrote about cities of exile, I followed the invisible feeling of exile that so many of us carry today.

For me, this was of course a spiritual journey; but not a spirituality chasing “high experiences”, exotic and polished.

On the contrary, it was a very concrete, very earthly, very human journey.

As I walked through the streets of a city, I wanted to walk through myself at the same time.

The Geography of Truth became the book of that double movement:

A walk with one foot on the earth and the other in the inner world.

Who did I think I was writing this book for, and to whom did it return?

At first I thought I was writing this book for readers who love the earth and history.

For that curious gaze that studies maps, watches documentaries, and enjoys reading about civilisations.

But as I kept writing, I realised the book was constantly turning towards someone else:

To the one whose room is messy but whose mind is even messier.

To those who look at maps and secretly wonder, “If I left, would I finally feel better?” but return from every place with themselves again.

To those whose need “to belong somewhere” keeps growing inside, yet they cannot name it.

Looking back today, I see that I wrote The Geography of Truth mostly for the person who wants to begin an inner journey but does not know where to start.

For everyone searching for an “inner direction” before they ever plan a trip.

What did The Geography of Truth change in my life?

Writing this book took some things from me.

Some of my comfort zones, some of my firm judgements, some of the places where I held on confidently saying “I know this”.

Because while writing, I had to face both the disturbing questions of the modern world and my own understanding of faith and surrender.

In return it left other things with me:

The habit of looking at the earth more carefully.

The ability to read place as a language of feeling and faith.

The heavy but real consolation of the sentence “No place is neutral.”

Now when I see a ruined city in the news, I no longer see only “war”; I also feel the unfinished prayers, the severed bonds and the weight of the responsibility we carry towards the present.

The Geography of Truth became, for me, an attempt to reconnect with the earth in a faith-filled way.

The Geography of Truth is not a book of the cliché “Travel the world, find yourself.”

Nor is it a book of despair that sighs, “Maps are beautiful, life is hard.”

This work is the imperfect, cracked but sincere record of trying to see the earth as a mirror of truth.

If you too carry within you a search for meaning, a longing for an inner journey, this book may not hand you a compass. But it may whisper this:

“Look at the earth again. Perhaps the geography of truth is closer than you think.”