All posts tagged Turkey

  • Fear in Istanbul

    Istanbul is a city where I’m always on my guard. The hellish traffic and pedestrian-unfriendly roads, the leering men (in certain neighbourhoods), the jacked-up tourist prices, and the pickpockets and beggars have made their mark on my daily behaviours. In Canada, I can walk aimlessly; in Istanbul, I walk with purpose and don’t look around so as to look neither vulnerable nor approachable. In Canada, I look both ways before crossing; in Istanbul, my head rocks back and forth like a metronome before and during my road crossing. Right left – oh there’s a car, I’ll just stop here for a second in the middle of the road – good, he’s gone, okay now should I let this line of 20 cars go or should I stare them all down and dare them to run me over?

    In Canada, I don’t watch my purse as it swings next to my hip; in Istanbul, I even hug it to my chest if I’m in a crowded place. As for men, I prefer to stay outside of tourist neighbourhoods so that people will tend to assume I am Turkish or not have the linguistic skills to approach me.

    You get the picture.

    The funny thing about this is that, although I am more guarded in Istanbul than I am elsewhere and have been a victim of many of the dangers of Istanbul (including pickpocketing, groping, rude too-persistent flirting, and many a near-miss traffic accident) I rarely feel personal fear. I feel annoyance, anger, fatigue, and self-righteous indignation on a regular basis. I even feel fear regarding the political situation in Turkey, and the eventual fate of the entire country and a few friends in positions of opposition to the most excellent president. Personalized fear about my own safety, however, is something I’ve rarely felt.

    This time, things are different. Over the past year, Turkey has been the victim of seven terrorist attacks, two of which have occurred in Istanbul. And while I’ve written before about the importance of not allowing yourself to feel afraid when these things happen; that they’re statistically very unlikely to happen to you and so on, the truth is that I am more affected by my knowledge that they happen than I’d care to admit.

    After the second attack on Istanbul two months ago, I started to have anxiety attacks while still in Canada. In a crowded bar thought, “The death toll would be huge if there were an attack right now” and be unable to be present with the people in front of me. In the subway, I would keep an eye on seemingly abandoned baggage as tightness mounted in my chest, at one point even leaving to take the next train. And after my initial excitement at riding the new Azur train in Montreal dissipated, the first thing I thought was, “That open design would make the death toll of a bomb a lot higher.”

    The anxiety attacks became less frequent as my most recent arrival in Istanbul approached, I guess because it had been some time since the most recent terrorist attack. So I was unprepared for my arrival.

    It started with the loud bangs. Istanbul is a busy city that produces many loud bangs. There are lots of things that can bang: trunks of cars, fire crackers, celebratory gunshots after a soccer game, garbage trucks, etc. Instead of immediately jumping to the conclusion that it was one of the many innocuous things that can go bang every time something goes bang, it always takes me a moment to shake off the conviction that it was a bomb.

    A few days after my arrival I had to take the T1 tram to Kabataş. This is the tram that goes through Sultanahmet, where the first bomb in January went off. My first trip was uneventful, but as I approached Sultanahmet on my second trip, I noticed a young man to the left of me carrying a large suitcase. There was nothing about this man that indicated any danger. He looked to be Turkish. He was wearing a pair of sunglasses and had absurdly well-coiffed hair (absurd by Canadian standards; well within the standard of “normal” by Turkish ones.) I started to feel my chest tighten. As we continued along the route towards Sultanahmet, it tightened further. I felt a strong urge to get off the tram, but knew that if I did I would be not only late to my appointment, but would have capitulated to my fear.

    I stayed on the tram but elbowed my way to the other end of the car in the hopes that, if the bag did blow up, I might stand a chance of being among the injured instead of the dead.

    When I arrived at my destination, I could barely breathe. It took a half hour for the chest tightness to dissipate, and I was dogged by soul-sucking post-anxiety-attack fatigue. Later, I took the tram back the other way; the only incident was an American couple fighting awkwardly in the tram, assuming (I guess) that nobody around them spoke English. “I feel like you’re not respecting my friends right now.”—I know you feel that way, but I don’t want to stay up until 2 a.m.–“Yes, but I feel disrespected and ashamed, that’s how I feel.”

    When I came to the next morning, I began to think about the anxiety attack again. Before leaving, many of my friends expressed concern about the possibility of terrorist attacks, and I reassured them (truthfully) that the chances of anything happening were low and that if I did manage to be killed at any point, it was most likely to be death by dolmus. Of course, I told them, living in Istanbul comes with risks; anybody who wants, or is forced, to live here can’t allow him or herself to think about it too much, both because it is a useless exercise and because the relative risk is very low.

    Still, it’s hard to hold myself to this ideal. I do succumb to fits of anxiety. So what to say? Touché, terrorists? You’re assholes, but you know how to do the job.

  • Hallowe’en, Turkey, and the (Urban) Legend of the Golden Arm

    My second-grade teacher Mr. Moore was a short man in his fifties who tied his ties, which he wore every day without fail, so tightly that his neck protruded redly over his shirt collar. He drew his ‘1’s so that they resembled typography instead of lowercase ‘L’s and taught us about alphabetical order, the weather, and how heart disease and stroke worked. In one lesson, I remember him explaining that the reason humans have a will to live is because they have a soul. A second later, he admitted that he wouldn’t be able to answer any questions about the souls of plants even though they were alive, too. I was fascinated.

    Mr. Moore worked in a school where about half of the children wouldn’t graduate from high school and where only one in ten attended university (and three out of the four kids from my year who went to university left the community before they turned 14.) And yet, in the midst of all the difficulties he surely met as an educator in such a situation, he still managed to spark the philosophically sophisticated question of whether plants have souls or any motivation to stay alive in my seven-year-old mind. I loved Mr. Moore when I was seven and I still have a lot of respect for the kind of teacher he was, a man who educated well despite the incredible difficulties most of his students faced.

    One fine October 31st in the 1990s, all the children came to school extra excited, for it was the day of Hallowe’en. Mr. Moore dressed up for the holiday in his signature fashion, with a tie that sported a large plastic Frankenstein head, tied predictably too tight. After teaching us how to spell Hallowe’en (with an apostrophe between the two ‘e’s, a habit I have never been able to shake even as standard usage has evolved to favour the other spelling), we sat on mats around Mr. Moore’s imposing wooden chair for story-time, a time of day usually reserved for the reading-aloud of timeless children’s classics such as Dav Pilkey’s Captain Underpants. Except – except that this wasn’t any ordinary story-time. This time, Mr. Moore held no paperback within his fingers. I held my breath.

    He began, “Once upon a time, there lived a woman with a golden arm.” I’ve forgotten the exact details of his telling, but I remember that the golden-armed woman eventually died. Realizing (rather logically, I must admit) that a dead person has little use for an arm made of solid gold, a thief nicked the priceless prosthesis from the woman’s corpse.

    The woman of the erstwhile golden arm did not agree that she had little use for a golden arm and came back to haunt the thief. Mr. Moore held us tight to our mats as he recounted how the woman’s ghost approached the robber’s home as she let out unearthly moans. “Where is my golden arm” Mr. Moore cried spookily as we stared at him wide-eyed. “Where is my golden arm?”

    BOO!

    We all jumped. The story didn’t continue and we never found out what happened to the thief or the armless ghost, but that wasn’t the point. We were good and terrified.

    Nearly twenty years later, I googled “golden arm” to see what would happen. I learned that Mr. Moore hadn’t made the story up, as I’d assumed. The story is a folk legend dating back at least two-hundred years and present in a number of different countries and cultures.

    Why was I googling this? Because I heard another morbid story about a golden arm of sorts, this time from Turkey and probably of more recent, although equally unknown, provenance.

    A few months ago, I was talking to a Turkish friend who was telling me that he’d gone to visit his mother and sister. “Did you talk about anything interesting?” I asked.

    “Yeah,” he said. “They were telling me that they went back to our hometown recently and saw a woman who was wearing bangles from her wrist to her elbow! Just to show that she had money, can you imagine? She was lucky she lived in small-town Turkey. If you tried something like that in Istanbul, somebody might cut off your arm to steal the gold!”

    Turkey is home to many jewelry stores that look exactly like this one, in and outside of tourist areas.

    Turkey is home to many jewelry stores that look exactly like this one, in and outside of tourist areas, and wearing gold bangles is definitely a ‘thing.’

    I’ve witnessed both ostentatious displays of wealth in Turkey and theft in Istanbul, so I didn’t really think much of the story besides, “That woman should consider a more diversified and less ostentatious investment portfolio.” And, embarrassingly, I allowed myself to believe that people in Istanbul had gotten their arms cut off for gold bangles.

    Two or three months later, I had another conversation with a different Turkish friend, this time about an equally morbid event – the 1999 earthquake in Izmit, a small city near Istanbul. “It was awful,” he said, “There were literally corpses everywhere. I still remember how it smelled. And I heard this story – I don’t know if it’s true, I mean, I believe it’s true – that there was a woman trapped under a building wearing an armful of gold bangles. And as she was calling, “help, help, help me get out from under this building” a man came by and cut her arm off for the gold bangles and then just left her there, trapped under the building.”

    We both paused to contemplate the horror of such a story.

    “Wait a second,” he said. “That doesn’t make sense.”

    “Yeah,” I said. “If she were trapped, they could have just taken the bangles. No arm cutting-off necessary.”

    “Also,” he said, “Turkish people are kind of nosy. Probably somebody would have come round and told him, ‘you’re an idiot! Don’t you realize that you can just take off the bangles in much less time than it takes you to saw off an arm?!’”

    “I mean,” I said, “even if you had a saw that could cut quickly like a chain saw or a skill saw, those tools are pretty cumbersome and usually need to be plugged in anyway. Guns are a more practical persuasive tactic if theft is your game . . . and the person is likely to make a lot less noise whether or not you shoot them.

    (Also, gunshots in Turkey are not necessarily the result of violence, and can just as easily go off in the joyful aftermath of a soccer match that your favourite team has won. If you hear a gunshot in Turkey, Turkish people will tell you not to look out the window because people have died from injuries due to stray celebration-bullets. Shooting a gun might actually make people less likely to investigate what you’re doing.)

    A day later, I googled every combination of Turkish and English words I could think of to try to find any reputable news article about anybody having their arm sawed off for gold bangles. I could not find anything. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

    I would love to be able to date this legend but, like the legend of the golden arm, I am afraid that the genesis of this story may be lost in the – insert ghostly sound effects here – mists of tiiii-iii—iiiime.

    photo by:
  • Public Transport Marketing has Failed Montreal and Istanbul Alike

    A lot of travel writing engages fairly safe themes such as “underneath our different exterior, we’re all basically the same,” “I connected with locals so deeply even though I only met them for a few hours or days,” and “look at this beautiful nature and how cheap the booze is. You too can live such a glamorous life, and set yourself apart from the rest of the sheep in wherever the hell it is that you even live. Yay.”

    None of these themes generally reflect my travel experiences, but today one of them does. “Underneath our different exterior,” I thought to myself as I bashed out this piece “we’re more similar than we realize.”

    “How?” you might ask, perhaps envisioning something slightly orientalist and condescending, a written navel-gazey contemplation on the fact that me and people whose reality of life I will never truly understand share the common experience of having to prepare food (or something).

    Nope. It’s – tada! – about how public transport marketing portrayals can fail to live up to reality across oceans, cultures, and time.

    Have a look at these YouTube videos. The first is 1970s commercial for the subway system in Montreal. The dancers sing “It’s nice in the subway. Everybody’s feeling gay and sunshiney. Our subway is the most beautiful in the world. It’s nice in the subway (and in the subway’s little brother – the bus). Long live the subway!”

    Some Montrealers took issue with this propagandistic picture of the public transit system, and create a parody entitled “Il fait chaud dans le métro” – It’s too hot in the subway – a tribute to the famously high temperatures of the Montreal underground.  The heavily paraphrased lyrics of this song? “It’s too hot in the subway. Everybody’s sweating from head to toes. The price of the monthly pass is as high as the temperature. Our subway’s going to be the hottest in the world for 50 years. It’s even hot in the flipping winter!”

    1970s Montreal marketers tried to present an idealized version of the subway in a bid to solicit more passengers. 40 years later and thousands of kilometers away, the directors of the IETT, the Istanbul public transport system, would do much the same with similar results.

    The IETT commercial is even more laughable than the Montreal one. While riding the Montreal metro is indeed a bit warm, being forced to ride the IETT might actually have inspired a 21st century Dante to write a sequel to the Inferno.*

    Have a look at the real commercial. The key words spoken by the slightly hypnotic voice are “safe, secure, comfortable, fast, good quality etc.” The IETT is not really any of these things (although I’m still thankful that it exists.)

    Then have a look at this parody, a remarkably faithful representation of what it’s really like to ride public transport in Istanbul. The only thing the comedian missed was the experience of being groped and not being able to move or slap the hand away because it’s too packed, that moment when you finally get a seat only to have somebody very elderly enter the bus at the next stop, or the second you suddenly realize that your hand is on a 55 year old man’s crotch, and has been there for three minutes (true story.) Oh, and what it feels like to miss your stop because it’s even more packed than in the parody and you can’t push through the people to get off.

    The takeaway of all this? If you visit either Montreal or Istanbul, slap on a few extra layers of deodorant and if in Istanbul, pay attention to the placement of your hands.

    *Just imagine, The Divine Quadrilogy Part II: Constantinople

  • 4 Sexy Foods Around the World

    Let’s face it. Nobody reads my blog for the hard-hitting political analysis and creative use of words. Like most travel blog audiences, they read it for the pretty pictures! The clickbaity lists! The bits where it seems like you, too, might one day go on a perfect vacation and look at a mountain or sea or something while simultaneously saving the world. And everybody is salivating in anticipation of the release of my upcoming e-book, “How to feel cool like me and also make money.”

    The other most important rule of travel blogging is this: sex sells. Sure, thoughtful reflections on the difficulties of travelling are very well and good, but if I want anybody but my Mom to read them I should probably post a few artistic-looking pictures of me in a bikini and talk about how enlightened I’ve become since I started travelling. And also be actually funny.

    Since I am not of the bikini-pics online persuasion, however, I have decided to only sell the other 95% of myself to the man by writing an article about sex and food. That way I’ll touch on most of the basic Maslowian needs, maybe get a few clicks from people googling pervy stuff, and then feel better about myself because I measure my self-worth in website clicks and Facebook shares.

    Ready?

    Here goes.

    1. In Avcılar, Turkey, Try the Yogurt

    IMG_20151123_200133738 IMG_20151123_200149006

    The yogurt aisle in a Turkish supermarket is the place to get your freak on.

    Just kidding.

    The yogurt aisle is one of my favourite parts of Turkey because I love yogurt and because I love how serious Turkish people are about their yogurt. Serious enough to devote half an aisle to various brands of plain yogurt and the remainder to fruit yogurt and yogurt-derived products like Ayran – a salty yogurt based drink.

    No other Turkish food rivals the place reserved for yogurt in your average supermarket, not even cigarettes.

    Oh. I promised sexy food you say? Well, for your information, yogurt has been known to prevent yeast infections and since sex without a yeast infection is ultimately sexier than sex with a yeast infection, I maintain that yogurt is a sexier food than people give it credit for. Still, if you aren’t satisfied with the sexiness-level of yogurt, have a look below.

    2. In Sochi, Savour some Fried Labia

    labia

    So you’ve made it to Sochi, site of a now run-down Olympic stadium and an expensive place from which to see the Black Sea. You’re out on the waterfront – basically the only thing to see in Sochi – wondering where you can get the hottest vittles in town.

    Fear not! You have but to choose the local delicacy, the fried labia. You can order these puppies for a smooth 400 Rubles or 8 Canadian dollars. I would write the value in American dollars too, but that would just remind me that my grocery bill is 15% higher than it used to be. The stain on the menu only proves the incredible popularity of this dish. Don’t miss out!

    Your culinary identification just doesn’t permit you to fully enjoy the experience of tasting labia? Fortunately, most people who aren’t into labia will be into the next item on my list.

    3. It’s Getting Hot in Alaçatı, Turkey! Finish Off Your Day with a Jizzscicle

    jizz popsicle

    Labia might not be your thing, but fortunately most people who aren’t into them don’t mind a little jizz. Capitalizing on Alaçatı’s blisteringly hot weather, the impressive virility of young Turkish men (and the difficulty they have finding Turkish women to consume their product) and the fact that about 50% of people are into that kind of stuff, one enterprising Alaçatı entrepreneur created the ultimate throat cooling snack. Bet you can’t have just one!

    If you have made it this far into the article, you are probably not a total prude, but you might be. You might be one of those people who reads to the end of some hypersexualized thing because you enjoy feeling indignant, because you want to criticize me afterwards, or just because you can’t take your eyes off the trainwreck that is my sense of humour.

    Well anyway. If labia and jizz cramp your style, and if it’s all you can do to admit that genitalia exist, you don’t have to worry. Turkish people can be prudish too, and it isn’t always considered a bad thing. Sometimes people just don’t want to acknowledge the difficult-to-ignore fact that most organisms have a vagina, a penis, or a butt (in various combinations.)

    Translation: Durdu: Pregnant women shouldn't go out in the street because nobody will be able to think anything but 'How did she get pregnant?' Hanimi: I just wanted you to know that your mother wasn't the virgin Mary. She also had sex. Durdu: Don't cast aspersions on my mother!

    Translation: Durdu: Pregnant women shouldn’t go out in the street because nobody will be able to think anything but ‘How did she get pregnant?’
    Hanimi: I just wanted you to know that your mother wasn’t the virgin Mary. She also had sex.
    Durdu: Don’t cast aspersions on my mother!  This guy is probably a troll, but unfortunately there are factions within Turkish society with shockingly similar views.

    4. In Kocamustafaşa, Shut Your Eyes to the Existence of Genitalia at the Butcher Shop.

    IMG_20151124_165457100

    One of the most clever ways you can pretend that they don’t exist is by stuffing a fake rose or perhaps a piece of lettuce in the orifice of any dead animal that you might be tempted to eat. (Unfortunately, Turkish butchers don’t seem to be up on their Western Judeo-Christian tropes, so they have missed out on the potential hilarity of using a fig leaf.) That way, nobody will ever notice that anything untoward might ever have gone on there. Definitely not. You can eat your meat without worrying that sexuality will rear its ugly head and remind you of its existence.

    Bon appetit!

  • #Sultanahmet

    Sultanahmet, a week before the attacks.

    Sultanahmet, a week before the attacks.

    There has been another terrorist attack in Istanbul, this time in the hyper-touristic area of Sultanahmet, site of the Hagia Sophia. So far ten are confirmed dead, 15 wounded. We don’t yet have reliable data about the identities of the victims, but it seems to be split between tourists and Turks.

    I was there in Sultahahmet, taking pictures in the snow, not more than a week ago. I could say, “It could easily have been me,” but I won’t because that’s facile and also . . . that’s the point of terrorism.

    The main differences between terrorism and war is that terrorism is waged with the intention to cultuvate fear, not casualties. I don’t wish to sound blasé. My heart goes out to the victims and their familites.

    But.

    We have to maintain some perspective.

    Turkey has a population of 75 million. In the past year, less than 200 people have been killed in terrorist attacks. That is 0.0002 percent of the population. On the other hand, 10,000 people die in traffic accidents every year in Turkey, according to the World Health Organization. That’s a whopping 0.01 percent of the population. If you are a tourist in Istanbul, your chances of dying at the hands of a drunk and unscrupulous dolmuş driver far outnumber the likelihood of death-by-terrorist-attack.

    The same is true in France. Deaths by bombing, despite the brutal Paris attacks, is still statistically very low.

    Why am I saying this? For a few reasons.

    The first reason is that these attacks have the potential to cripple the Turkish economy. This year, Turkey has already lost many of its Russian tourists – one of the largest tourist groups that used to come to Turkey. The Turkish economy is hugely dependent on tourism. And the Turkish economy is not an abstract thing. The Turkish economy is people feeding their families.

    The second reason is about values. People who live in fear act in fear. They make stupid decisions because they won’t look behind the curtain and face . . . statistics. In the case of both Turkey and France, this could mean voting for a government that promises security at the price of human rights or even at the price of other human lives. Furthermore, these governments will likely not even deliver the promised security. Judging from today’s events, the Turkish ruling party certainly hasn’t, despite winning a parliamentary majority in November.

    In fact, each time there is a terrorist attack, the AKP (the Turkish ruling party) imposes a broadcast ban on the Turkish people, leading me and many others to wonder what they are hiding. Are they afraid people will say that their government response to terrorism is ineffectual? Or that people will accuse them on capitalizing on it for their own political goals? Or that they will be reminded that they sold arms to ISIS? Do they just want to make people more afraid by restricting their knowledge?

    I don’t have clear answers to these questions but I do know what I would tell anybody engaging the issue of terrorism.

    Don’t be afraid. Terror is the point of the attacks, and the best way to fight terrorists is to not give them what they want.

    Me? I’m going back to Turkey in the summer, and the worst part of my trip will probably be the quality of the food on Air Canada.

  • Gollum and Erdogan. Erdogan and Gollum.

    If you follow Turkish politics at all, you may have heard that a rather fantastical case is going through the Turkish courts right now. This is the trial of a Turkish doctor, one Bilgin Çiftçi, who is being tried on the charges of “insulting the president” for posting these absolutely heinous photographs on facebook.

    Sourced this blown-up version from news.com.au, who sourced it from twitter. All the versions I could find in Turkish newspapers were very small.

    Sourced this blown-up version from news.com.au, who sourced it from twitter. The non-blown up photo is also available in many Turkish newspapers.

    As you can see, these photographs compare his eminence, Turkish President Erdogan, to the power-hungry, corrupted, swamp-dwelling, broken English-speaking Lord of the Rings character, Gollum.

    There is no resemblance. Like, at all. We all know Erdogan doesn’t live in a swamp, but in a glorious palace that cost loads of money, all of which he definitely deserved.

    ANKARA, TURKEY - OCTOBER 28 2014: A general view of Turkey's new Presidential Palace. (Photo by Volkan Furuncu/Anadolu Agency/Getty Images) Source: Huffington Post

    ANKARA, TURKEY – OCTOBER 28 2014: A general view of Turkey’s new Presidential Palace. (Photo by Volkan Furuncu/Anadolu Agency/Getty Images) Source: Huffington Post

    Ah well. Dr. Çiftçi has already been fired, and rightly so. Now the only thing left for the court to determine is whether his, frankly scandalous, conduct should land him in jail for two years.

    Of course, if Turkish courts are about anything, they’re about due procedure and making sure that everybody gets a fair trial, so instead of jumping the gun and just throwing that low-life Facebook-sharer in prison, the judge admitted that he hadn’t seen the Lord of the Rings movies and ordered a panel of, erm, Gollum experts in order to determine whether Gollum is a good guy or a bad guy.

    Seriously. Why spend tax-payer dollars on this? Just throw that guy in prison already!

    The panel will apparently be composed of “two academics, two behavioural scientists or psychologists and an expert on cinema and television productions.”

    This may actually derail the case against this doctor, as fortunately for him Tolkien tended to write characters with actual psychological depth. Gollum is one of these, and although he has already been corrupted by his desire for the ring throughout the books, many of the other “good” (and formerly good) characters including Bilbo, Frodo, and Saruman fall into the same trap. It is also Gollum, ultimately, who is responsible for destroying the ring as Frodo balks at the last second. Alright, he didn’t mean to. But can you really say that he was worse than Frodo, at the end?

    Anyway, we shall see what this ‘panel of experts’ will say. You can read more about this here, including some interesting details about freedom of the press in Turkey.

    Also, I don’t want this post to be in any way miscontrued. I would never insult Erdogan. President Erdogan definitely only closes newspapers and blocks webpages that tell lies about him. His quest for truth is truly a true service to society. All hail Tayyip. You’re the greatest. The end.

  • I Would Be Humiliated!

    I was back in Istanbul this week visiting some friends. One friend invited me to his family’s house for dinner, where I was asked an intriguing question.

    “What’s the most difficult thing about Turkey?”

    For a moment, I was at a loss for what to say, both because no Turkish person has ever asked me that and because there are a lot of things I find difficult in Turkey.

    I could have talked about some of the more global problems in Turkey – corruption, women’s rights, the huge political divisions, and so on. In the end, however, I answered that what was hardest day to day were my own personal encounters with culture shock. Not knowing how to behave, whether to wear slippers, what it means when somebody buys you things, what you can say about Turkish culture as a foreigner, and so on.

    So that’s what I said. “Well, there are a lot of things that are difficult about Turkey, but on a personal level it’s mostly just culture shock. For example, men always buy me meals here. In Canada, that would probably mean something romantic, but here the culture is different so I never know how to behave when it happens.

    Friend’s brother-in-law said, “Oh yeah. One time in university, I had a friend who was a girl. She was just a friend – we weren’t involved or anything. One day after class we went out for tea. I had enough money for one tea and one bus ticket home. But I paid for both the teas and because I didn’t have the money for the bus, I had to walk three hours to get home.”

    “Then another time, I had another female friend who I also wasn’t involved with. We went out often and I usually paid for the tea, but one day she paid for it. Later on, I asked a guy friend of mine how he would feel if a girl paid for his tea. He said, “I would be humiliated!”

    After hearing this story, friend allowed me to pay for a tea for him. If memory serves me correctly, it was the only thing he let me pay for. Also, note the composition of this photograph.

    After hearing this story, the friend who had invited me to dinner allowed me to pay for a tea for him. If memory serves me correctly, it was the only thing he let me pay for for the whole week. Also, note the composition of this photograph. The chipped nail polish, the messy tray in the background, the fact that it is clear that I took this with my cell-phone camera #thisisreallife #onlyreallyterriblemakeup #nophotoshop #Iwouldbeaterribletourismtravelblogger

  • Chicken Soup for the Lesbian Soul

    This post is about one particular area of culture shock that, no matter how much time I spend in Turkey and with Turkish people, I still find challenging.

    I’m not talking about lesbianism, which I will get to later. I am talking about hospitality culture, and particularly, about when Turkish people buy me stuff. It’s not that I have any problem with people being generous, or with hospitality, or with people being happy that I’m there. All of these things are lovely.

    What I find difficult about Turkish hospitality culture is that its rules are totally different from Canadian hospitality culture. It’s like learning a new language. Moreover, unlike actually learning a language, there are few Turkish culture teachers who have also spent a lot of time immersed in Canadian culture that can instruct me on the finer points of how to feel and behave when people (read, mostly men) offer to buy me stuff or just buy me stuff without allowing me the space to politely refuse. My cultural codes play constant interference in my head, and I always struggle with making the same assumptions about gifts in Turkey that I would make in Canada.

    Oh Canada / my home and native land / your cultural norms / the only ones I understand.

    Oh Canada / my home and native land / your cultural norms / are the ones I understaaaaaaaaand.

    Here’s an example: in Canada, if a man asks you out, there are tacit codes for about how much money he can spend on you before it becomes clear that you are very interested in him romantically. The last time I went on a date in Canada, I think I let him spend $10 on me. This is low, but it was a first date and I was entirely unsure about my own level of interest, so I didn’t want him to get any ideas.

    If, however, I had allowed him to spend $30 or $40 on me, I would practically have been obligated to give him a second date, and if it had been more, he probably would have expected me to sleep with him that night. I would be allowed to refuse, but it would be considered greedy to do something like that and we likely wouldn’t continue seeing each other.

    However, if I were interested but not ready or willing to have a physical relationship, I could keep the amount of money I allowed him to spend low, perhaps pay for the second date, and by the third date have a frank and honest conversation about our mutual expectations going forward.*

    In Turkey, the first time I went out with a guy, I made it very clear beforehand that I wasn’t romantically interested in anything because I was only there for two months, and he told me that he was living temporarily at his parents’ house because he was between jobs. From my perspective, considering the fact that he didn’t have a job, and because I didn’t want him to think that I was romantically interested, we should choose cheap places and both pay our own way, right? Wrong. He paid for everything, including a fair amount of alcohol (which, relative to the Turkish cost of living, is like liquid gold.) I felt quite badly about how much money it was, and I remember him saying to me, as I made noises of protestation, “you’re a guest in Turkey,” and then “it’s basically impossible to say no to things in Turkey.”

    He was right. I have now been in this situation countless times, and I usually can’t say no. Each time, I am very thankful for the generosity but I normally feel a bit guilty as well.

    I also have trouble distinguishing between what is regular “you are a guest” gifts and what are “I like you romantically” gifts. In some ways, it doesn’t matter, because it is difficult to say no either way. Eventually I realized that the only way I can deal with this is to be clear about my expectations, be careful, and accept gifts graciously and thankfully. Then, if somebody turns out to have other intentions, I can politely tell them that I was telling the truth about what I was and wasn’t looking for.

    Easier said than done, however. I still find myself doing things to mitigate how guilty I feel about people buying me things. So, when a Turkish guy invited me out here in Georgia, I suggested we go to a place that I knew wasn’t that expensive so that I would feel better about him paying.

    Unfortunately, when we got there it was temporarily closed. He said, “Hey, I had sushi last night and it was really good. I’d be happy to have it again – do you want to?”

    In Canada sushi is not particularly expensive, so without really thinking about it, I said, “Sure, sushi sounds good.”

    Big mistake. When we got to the sushi place I looked at the menu only to realize that the sushi was approximately three times the price of Canadian sushi. So I said, “Oh, I didn’t realize it would be so expensive.”

    And he said, “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t invite you to an expensive place and expect you to pay.”

    Welp. Here we go again.

    I told him that he could order because I couldn’t even order food that expensive for myself, and he did the honours. The sushi came (it was the best sushi I have ever had) and he started making racist comments. I can’t even write them down because I don’t want to make my Turkish friends who read this blog angry.

    Shit.

    Finally, I said, “You know, I don’t agree with what you’re saying and I would prefer to talk about something else.” We changed the subject, tucked into the sushi, conversed, whatever. I already knew that me and this guy were not going to be friends, so I couldn’t act remotely flirtatious. Just politely friendly.

    Midway through the meal he said, “You know, you have a lesbian soul.”

    I said, “What?”

    He said, “I can tell you’re a lesbian.”

    I said, “I’m not a lesbian.”

    He said, “No, I promise you that you are. I have a lot of lesbian friends, and you act exactly like them.”

    I thought, “When you say “lesbian friends,” do you mean women who don’t find you attractive? Or are they actually lesbians?”

    I said, “well, I’m not a lesbian.”

    He said, “No, seriously, you are definitely a lesbian! If you want, tonight we will go out to the club and I will buy you a prostitute and you can try being with a woman. I guarantee you that if you are just with a woman once you will not want to go back to men.”

    This was preposterous. I made a face as if I were seriously considering it.

    He said, “See, you are not grossed out!”

    I said, “I’m afraid I might have to refuse your offer. I don’t like the idea of paying for sex. Also, I’m not a lesbian.”

    He said, “What’s the problem? You won’t be paying, I will be.”

    Did I feel bad when he paid for 40 American dollars’ worth of sushi for me? No, no I did not. Did I feel obligated to see him again? Also no!

    The ladies in Bend it like Beckham are as confused as I am.

    The ladies in Bend it like Beckham are as confused as I am. Although I am neither a lesbian nor a Pisces.

    On a side note, this is not the first time this has happened to me with Turkish men. The other three times, I politely refused a man’s offer to take me out only to have him ask, “what, are you a lesbian?” as though it were the only possible reason I could possibly refuse to spend time with such a stud.

    I always have to bite back the urge to say, “not usually, but your Mom is special.” In Canada, it would be a mild burn. In Turkey, it might get me beaten up.

    *The amounts differ depending on the relative income brackets of the two people going on a date, and there is a threshold where you cannot safely assume romantic intent, which is usually about the cost of one coffee or beer.

  • Going Viral or How I Try to Give Slippers the Slip

    I have a cold. I’ve had it for a little over a week. No need to be concerned – it’s a small thing, a little throat scratchiness and a bit of fatigue at the end of the day. Nothing major.

    How did I get this cold? A virus, obviously. But not according to everybody I seem to meet. For them, I have this cold because I am cold.

    This is actually an Ebola virus, not a cold. But it looks cool, doesn't it?

    This is actually an Ebola virus, not a cold. But it looks cool, doesn’t it?

    In Canada, I walk around in bare or sock feet all the time. In Turkey and the Caucasus, a mark of a good host is that they will give you slippers upon entering their house. These are often cheap plastic affairs of the wrong size, sometimes with a high heel, and I am more comfortable without them. Usually I accept them out of politeness, take them off at the earliest opportunity, and then forget to put them back on. At some point somebody usually notices.

    Host: Hey, you aren’t wearing any slippers! Did my mother not give you any?

    Me: Oh, ah, uh, yes, slippers. Well, you see, in Canada we don’t actually wear them. Not that much anyway. She did give me some, but I just forgot about them. It’s a small and insignificant cultural difference, but I really prefer not to wear them. No problem.

    Host: But, you are going to get cold.

    Me: No, I swear I’m not cold. I’m perfectly comfortable.

    Host: Yes, you are going to get cold, and then you are going to get a cold.

    Me: No, don’t worry, I won’t. I won’t get a virus from not wearing slippers.

    Host: You don’t get a cold from a virus, you get it from being cold. Here, I’ll go and get you some slippers.

    Me: I guess I’ll just get them myself.

    At the end of this conversation I feel like I am spitting on my hosts’ hospitality by not wanting to wear slippers; believing that their guest is doing something unhealthy in their home and not doing anything about it might make them feel as though they are a bad host or as though it is their fault that I have fallen ill, and I don’t particularly want them to feel that way.

    (Oddly, this concern does not extend to smoking, which has been known to cause far worse chronic and potentially lethal respiratory problems, but hey. Cancer, chemo, cold, chicken soup – they all start with ‘c’ so they can’t be much different.)

    Anyway, I also don’t want to create more work for my hosts by making them chase me around the house with my neglected pair of slippers. So usually I put on the damn slippers and then forget about them again, and then I do the same dance at every place I go to in the hopes that I will eventually be able to get away with my rebellious discalceatism.

    When I finally did get a cold, I had another version of this conversation.

    Host: Didn’t my mother give you slippers? You must have gotten the cold from walking around on the cold floor.

    Me: No, it’s a virus. I’m sure of it. Canada is very cold and we don’t just all have a cold all the time. I’m definitely sure it’s a virus.

    Host: No . . . I’m sure. It’s because you’re cold.

    Me: Okay, fine, I’ll wear the slippers.

    I have given up on convincing people of the scientific impossibility of colds being related to actually being cold.* If the fact that I am from one of the coldest countries in the world, have lived in a city that was regularly -40 in the winter time, waited every day for the bus in said temperatures and did not perpetually have a cold does not convince them, I’m not sure what will.**

    *Obviously I can recognize that being extremely cold and having hypothermia will compromise your immune system and make you more susceptible to catching cold, but inside it is always above 17 degrees.

    **This anecdotal argument is actually a logical fallacy, but it is not only me. All Canadians do not spend from October to April with a cold. I am confident that these results could be backed up with science.

    photo by:
  • The Cult of Ataturk

    The first time I came to Turkey to live, I was living in Izmir. Life in Izmir was a constant barrage of Ataturk paraphernalia. People had decals of his signature on their back windshields, tattoos of it on their arms, and pictures of him everywhere – on the wall, on cell-phone cases, on their transit cards, key-chains, you name it. Reading a book about Ataturk in public got me many approving comments and people would stop walking to comment and show me their tattoos/keychains/cell phone cases, etc.

    Once, while at the beach in Cesme I saw a woman splayed out on the beach, blond hair seductively spread out on her towel. Her bathing-suit area was barely covered by a black bikini. She had Ataturk’s signature tattooed on her pelvic bone, angled towards her vulva like a Freudian exclamation point.

    This is an Izmir transit card. The writing says, "Oh Turkish youth, your first duty is to preserve and defend Turkish independence and the Turkish republic."

    This is an Izmir transit card. The writing says, “Oh Turkish youth, your first duty is to preserve and defend Turkish independence and the Turkish republic.”

    From other people, I heard about a fancy dress display in Izmir where the dress on the right was a big Turkish flag and the dress on the left had a giant decal of Ataturk’s face.

    Ataturk's face on a Turkish government building in Istanbul

    Ataturk’s face and signature on a Turkish government building in Istanbul. Izmir is the epicentre of the Ataturk fan base, but his cult extends into many other parts of Turkey.

    This was just my introduction to the Cult of Ataturk in Turkey. Izmir is the epicentre of this, but Ataturk’s popularity ranges far and wide among people of a few different political stripes. Although these people are predominantly secular or secular-ish, the range of their political beliefs can include everything from hoping for Turkey to become more aligned with European ideals (yea) to virulent Turkish nationalism (and it’s bastard child – hating Kurds and Armenians) (nay).

    “But I don’t know anything about Ataturk!” you say. Here is a crash course, because I am less here to talk about the history of Ataturk as I am to talk about his current legacy in Turkey. Mustafa Kemal Ataturk was a military leader who became the first president of Turkey in 1923 after securing military victory against the Allies. He is known for implementing a series of reforms in Turkey. This included changing the writing system of the Turkish language to the Latin alphabet and proposing new ethnically “Turkish” words to replace Arabic or Persian loan-words; secularization of the government and country including banning religious-based attire; and providing civil rights for women.

    Sounds okay, right?

    Ataturk also was a major figure in the Turkish nationalist movement, which gave Turkish people a great common identity but was less beneficial for some other groups living in the former Ottoman Empire, such as Greeks. Much of the “Turkification” of Turkey can be attributed to Ataturk’s efforts, and people who espouse his ideas int he present day are known as “Kemalists.”

    Let’s get back to the matter at hand. When I talk about “The Cult of Ataturk”, I’m not being hyperbolic. As one friend from Izmir explained to me,

    “Back when I was still a believer [in God], every time I imagined God he had Ataturk’s face. And it wasn’t just me. I’ve spoken to other friends about this and they’ve said the same thing.”

    I already believed her, so imagine how unsurprised I was when I had a similar conversation about a month later.

    “We, in Turkey, we need to go back to what it was like under Ataturk – not with any of this Kurdish people playing the victim stuff. When I was a kid, Ataturk was like GOD!

    Ataturk postcards I picked up in North Eastern Turkey

    Ataturk postcards I picked up in North-Eastern Turkey

    A few weeks before this, I had been to the Ataturk mausoleum in Ankara with another Turkish friend. This mausoleum is, no joke, like a Greek temple of the gods, all pillars, statues, polished stone, gardens, and carefully tended grandiosity. We got there late in the afternoon and weren’t able to go into the museum. My friend said, “too bad we couldn’t go into the museum. The last time I was there, and I could see all of Ataturk’s things and his books, I – I really felt something.”

    Ataturk Masoleum

    We got there right at closing time, and soldiers were shooing people out. I snapped this picture as a soldier stared daggers at me for not moving fast enough. Usually, this area is full of throngs of people.

    The other part of the “Cult” part of the “Cult of Ataturk” is most Turkish people’s unwillingness to criticize him or his legacy, even just a little bit. Another friend in Izmir told me,

    “Ataturk is such a huge figure in Turkey, and people treat him like he was beyond reproach. Even my friends are like this. For instance, I think Ataturk was mostly a good guy – but human. He did some good things, but he wasn’t perfect so he did some things that also weren’t that great. But I can’t even say that.”

    Another friend said,

    “Turkey in general is very conservative, but in Izmir there is another kind of conservatism – that is, Kemalism. People just aren’t critical and the devotion to Ataturk prevents people from seriously examining their attitudes.”

    If you don’t believe these people, allow me to show you several screenshots or comments from a blog post that called Ataturk a “benevolent dictator.” To me, this seems fair, as the word “dictator,” applies to anybody who was not democratically elected, no matter how good at governing they are . . . right?

    According to these comments, wrong. Here is one where the person took it rather personally.

    Ataturk Comment 1

    Here is my favourite. Somehow, this ‘anonymous’ manages to hate Racists, Kurds, and Armenians all at the same time! I can only dream of one day reaching such impressive levels of hypocrisy!

    Ataturk Comment 2

    Of course, may of the comments on the site are quite reasonable, and you can read them for yourself. However, most of them are much more reactionary than the post deserves.

    The Problem with the Cult of Ataturk

    It bears saying that I fully support when people are fans of Ataturk because of the good things that he did. Even I think women’s rights and having a secular state are a good thing, and there is no doubt that many of Ataturk’s reforms were beneficial to Turkey in general.

    However, Ataturk is also a powerful symbol of the Turkish Nationalist movement, and I have something of a fraught relationship with the ideology of nationalism in general. At best, nationalist movements can gain rights for people who lack them. At worst, nationalism can create division or violence, particularly when people belonging to two (or more) previously not-so-clearly delineated groups begin to use a particular identity in order to make claims about how another group is a very bad thing, or when one clearly delineated group decides that another clearly delineated group should become exactly like them.

    To add to this, nationalism is difficult to define. In the Turkish case, does being proud of speaking Turkish count? Listening to Sezen Aksu? Eating breakfast for an hour every morning?

    When I write about nationalism in Turkey, I am not simply writing about appreciation for Turkish national culture and language, but rather about cultures of ‘us’ and ‘them,’ specifically regarding Turkish people and Kurdish people. A common attitude that I have observed among Turkish people is this: Traditional non-Turks that toe the line and act like Turks are fine, of course. Kurds, however, are not fine because (and I quote somebody I met) “Turkey has given them so much and then they complain.”

    (Again, it bears repeating before I continue that they are many fabulous wonderful Turkish people who are not like this at all, some of whom read my blog – guys, I don’t mean you!)

    But for those who do think this way, the argument goes like this. Turkey, in its benevolence, gave Kurdish people Turkish passports and the chance to be Turkish (wasn’t that nice of them?) Kurdish people don’t work hard enough and have way too many babies, so they’re poor. If they complain about the fact that they are poor, they are just ungrateful whiners. Some Kurdish people aren’t poor, so that must mean that Kurdish people in general could just be exactly like Turkish people if they would only pull their socks up and behave like proper Turkish people. This includes speaking Turkish, acting Turkish, and calling themselves – you guessed it – Turkish. Also, there are lots of poor Turkish people, which de facto means that things are definitely not worse for Kurds in general in Turkey because if Turkish people can also be poor, discrimination is obviously not a problem.

    What is especially frustrating is that many of the Turkish people I talk to don’t understand that their frustrations with Kurdish nationalism are a result of their own Turkish nationalist ideas. In the words of one friend,

    “I really hate Turkish nationalism.”

    Later,

    “I cannot even believe that Kurdish people want to take their government oaths in Kurdish.”

    If you aren’t a nationalist, why would it matter what language people took their oaths in???

    I am not particularly exaggerating the tone of this discourse. And while I think things get thornier when we talk about the PKK (the Kurdish rebel/terrorist army, depending on who you ask) because they actually engage in combat and I don’t think killing people is ever a good thing, some of the things that people say about Kurdish nationalism seem like non-issues to me. So Kurdish government officials want to take their oaths in Kurdish. If you’re not nationalist, it shouldn’t matter . . . right?

    None of this can actually be said to be Ataturk’s fault, as he’s been dead for nearly 100 years. Ataturk’s legacy, on the other hand, is a major contributor to this as Ataturk advocated for the Turkification of Turkey. And instead of allowing Turkish people to be critical of this “True Turks act Turkish” ideology, the cultish nature of Ataturk’s legacy means that people who express doubts about Ataturk’s ideology or legacy are likely to be lambasted in by similar comments to the ones found in the article I linked to earlier.

    Another problem is that Kemalism positions itself in opposition to strong religious factions in the country. One person said to me, “I don’t love nationalism, but I think it might be the only way to work against the conservative religious factions that are gaining power in Turkey right now.”

    The only way? It was astonishing to me, coming from a country whose national narrative is basically multiculturalism, that he didn’t envision a middle ground.

    Free Speech and the Cult of Ataturk

    “Insulting the Turkish Nation” and insulting Ataturk’s legacy are illegal under the Turkish penal code, punishable by up to three years in prison. YouTube has been banned several times in Turkey, allegedly because some people have insulted Ataturk in the comments. Nobody likes to be insulted, but what is this? Could this post be seen as insulting Ataturk’s legacy? As a Canadian, I am unlikely to be tried in a Turkish court, but could I be denied a visa for writing this kind of thing? I don’t know and I hope not.

    And here we are today!

    Today there are parliamentary elections in Turkey, and I have my fingers crossed into knots that Turkey will elect somebody good to parliament.

    These elections are taking place in order to try and correct a snafu that Turkey has been dealing with since the last parliamentary elections five months ago. During those elections, Erdogan’s party failed to secure a majority, which meant that they couldn’t form the government unless they were supported by another party. Everybody got very excited about the possibility of a coalition, but none of the parties were particularly willing to share the toys in the parliamentary sandbox. Because there was no government, a new series of elections are called.

    My hope is that, instead of people sinking further and further into their respective political corners, pointing fingers and screaming “You’re the bad guy! I’m the good guy!”, making it difficult to come to any sort of meaningful compromise or even form a parliament, Turkish people will elect good leaders today, leaders who will work together for some kind of unity within the country for Turkish, Kurdish, secular, and religious people alike. It’s a high hope, to be sure, but maybe not impossible.

    Polls have closed now, so I’m off to look at the news. Have a good day everybody!