Urfa, Mardin ve Dostlar / Urfa, Mardin and Close Friends

           

Bir turna olsam yollara vursam                         I wish I were a crane, hitting the roads
Uçabilsem kendi semalarıma                            I wish I could fly to my own skies
Bir seher vakti sılaya varsam                            I wish to arrive home at some dawn
Selam versem ah sıradağlarıma                       Oh, how I wish to greet my own chain of mountains (Sertab Erener, Lal)

 

Granted that it is quite unusual and challenging: Santa Fe, San Francisco, Istanbul, Kibris, Urfa, Mardin in 13 days. Maybe I was a migratory bird in my previous life.

I do enjoy the surreality of the move and the decisions taken on the road. Currently, there are challenges and some instability in my life but thanks to the support of close friends all over the world, they are not alarming or dreadful. I have hardly ever felt such big gratitude in my life. 

Mid-December: Impressions from Gaziantep Intercity Bus Station (Otogar):

In Turkey, there are ceremonies for sending young men off to compulsory military duty and welcoming them back. One can witness these ceremonies at the otogars (Bus Terminals) and they can be quite irritating if you do not know what is going on. I guess even when you know what is going on (in my case, I knew it). You can be mesmerized by the rhythm of the deafening sounds of the drums and shrill pipe (zurna), mannerism of the musicians, the people who are dancing, the foreign language or the sounds made by the dancers and the darkness (dark eyes, dark skin, dark hair, pretty “exotic”!) How outstanding the lack of women is! Easy to say which sex is setting up the rules of public performances. And why it has to be that loud, I wonder. One of my favorite Turkish writers speculated as such: In the land of centuries-long wars and struggles, one needs to scream in the Middle East and she includes Turkey in it. If you cannot scream loud enough, you are ignored, discarded or dead. Not only in one’s own language (among family and friends) but also when they go abroad. The Middle East shouts, screams and they need to be loud in order to survive. It is etched into one’s subconscious. You cannot help it even if you live in the West for decades (I am thinking of a colleague who is originally from Jerusalem and I am not going to name him). Same story with mourning rituals. If you don’t faint, pull your hair (literally!) or cry buckets, then you are not upset enough. 

My experience with the public buses in San Francisco continues in the southeastern Anatolia. I am very close to the Syrian border and I hear more Kurdish and Arabic than Turkish in the buses. In comparison to San Francisco: The smells of the people and the language they speak changed, but not the poverty, not the informality and/or the indifference. The facial features changed radically too. Maybe the type of hüzün/gloomy expression or tristesse on their faces change as well? I am not so sure about it though I accept that the deep wrinkled faces of people, mostly long-term chain smokers are almost the characteristics of this region.

I am not going to apologize if some of you are smelling some orientalism in the above-written passages. Sometimes listing or sharing simple observations can be misjudged as orientalism. After having spent years in academia analyzing orientalism and its various forms (be it hidden, overt, internalized, American, French, or whatever), I have come to the conclusion now that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. 

My time in Urfa was short, too short indeed. However, a genuine conversation with a good friend was enough for me to make some near-future-career decisions. She and her husband (an officer) reported that the problems caused by the Syrian refugee flow and the lack of organization on the part of the government are only getting worse and will continue in directions that we are yet to predict. One of the worst and the most visible consequences is prostitution. Even in the so-called family or well-respected neighborhoods, there are flats with many women living together and the rest is not difficult to guess. The local families would complain and call the police until the flat is emptied and the women are taken somewhere else to be pimped. Cheap drugs such as bonzai are another very common, widespread problem among the refugee camps. There are many other scandalous stories which I am not going to narrate here but to say the least, they were very disappointing and makes one question the human nature and what kind of evil things it can be capable of. 

The bus ride between Urfa and Mardin takes 2.5 hours. My friend whom I have not seen for 7 years greeted me wholeheartedly and we began chatting as if we departed yesterday. I stay at Ipekyolu Guest house run by Ipekyolu Women's Cooperative in order to support Women and Children Centres. It is a stone-made, 300 years old guesthouse. The only problem so far is the cold weather. It is off-season and also not many people have been around after the Kobani events in the first week of October. Whomever I talked to complained about the lack of tourists.  Well, come with some layers since there is no central heating but only air-conditioning. I asked for an electric heater (UFO) and also for electric-blanket to feel the coming nights more comfortable. The breakfast was very nice (with French fries, unusual for a typical Turkish breakfast) and after I was done, I was told to help myself in the kitchen and take as many glasses of Turkish tea as I want. They had no milk or yogurt though which I bought myself and stored in their fridge. The two ladies who are running the place told me that I should act as if I were in my own house (kendi evinmiş gibi).

The same statement was made more than once by my friend who insisted that I stay with her. But I wanted to have my own space which I value and miss like crazy. She, a dedicated academic and an independent woman, above all fully understands and respects that. I am on my way to have dinner with her in ten minutes. Like my friend in Urfa, she too has big brown ceylan/gazelle eyes. Unfortunately, just like my friend in Urfa, she too warns me about coming to this region for a living and engage in any activity (be it academia or NGO work) and explains her reasons in detail. I respect them both and I am going to listen to them. People on the surface are friendly and respectful: “you are more than welcome and enjoy yourself fully”. BUT do not try to scratch the surface or else you will find some sullen faces and some secrets which are not ready to be shared, not if you are there only for a few days. Just mind your own business, do not ask certain questions.  Fine, fair enough. That is why I like Lars von Trier! For scratching the surface…

Can we claim that some of us working under certain circumstances deserve more praises than the others working or teaching in the West, such as Finland or Santa Cruz? Would it be fair? Aren’t they also dealing with their own baggage and history? But there is the safety issue, everyday safety issue… If there is a civil war going on just next you and you have to face the ones who escape from it on everyday basis, how can you teach? Deborah Britzman, one of the unforgettable professors at York University actually works on these questions: Speculations on qualities of difficult knowledge in teaching and learning. 

More on Orientalism: Sabancı Museum of Mardin is a must-see including Dilek Sabanci Art Gallery. In the main floor you learn about Mardin, its history, different cultures, religions, handicraft, food etc. The recorded short greetings from all over the world (mostly the US, Canada and Sweden) to the visitors of the Museum by the immigrants from Mardin was the highlight for me. In the Art Gallery, my heart beat even faster because of the two exhibitions:  An Orientalist in Mardin: Marius Bauer. He was a Dutch painter (1867-1932). He has dozens of sketches, a few oil paintings, water colors and letters. And then "Photographs of the East as viewed from the West" exhibition. I have to confess that after being exposed to so many pictures of Turkey taken by the Orientalists and listening to the story of Aziyade and the life story of Pierre Loti, I am now spending less time studying the pictures in the exhibition than focusing on how the exhibition is designed and the language that is being used to make the exhibition attractive. 

Good night gazelle-eyed. You make the stone houses you live begin to talk ("dile getirmek" like in fairy tales). Not sure from where your fascination with the stones originates. First Cappadocia, then Mardin… Creating paradises from rubble. What I know for sure is that you are such a unique soul and I am so happy that you are my friend.

Rain, Wind, Ocean: Santa Cruz

One of the pullovers designed to advertise Santa Cruz in a surfers store said it: wind in the air, salt in my hair. I almost fell for it. It associates a pleasant feeling that I can hardly give up: Ocean or the sea-induced happiness. The sticky-salty-pretty-feeling.

The rain in the area was relentless, almost made me give up the long-desired, long-postponed trip to Santa Cruz. People kept telling me that I’d love it and why not? Someone told: Oh, imagine Berkeley by the ocean. Well, I did and I know how rich the combinations of quality-life can get only better.

Granted that I am willingly romanticizing here. I know two people who are teaching and studying there and their daily schedules are so full that they can hardly go outside of the department let alone enjoying the Pacific Avenue, which is full of quirky, local, alternative shops and restaurants.

The ocean is quite mesmerizing by itself although the beach seemed deserted by people except some homeless-looking guys. To tell the difference between the surfers and the homeless in some very specific cases can be challenging. Some people love Rasta and baggy style. Sticky hair, baggy clothes, loud and reckless manner in speech.

I took a long walk by the ocean at around 2.30 pm, spotted only two surfers in the water.  I had spotted more swimmers in the Bay during my break at Ghirardelli store, the one with the view. Maybe it was the heavy rain, which whole California was longing for. Nobody but the tourists complained and when they did, I heard mild objections more than once: please, we were so desperate for the rain. We have been going through the worst drought in hundreds of years.

It is not fair to describe UCSC in this entry. I only took a ring-bus tour and focused on the beautiful forest, the tall redwood trees more than the buildings or the ambiance of the campus with people. The students are students, they all looked very young and busy with their own lives. I am a ghost in these trips I take, maybe with the exception of the homeless, every single person is busy and following her/his life schedule in the best possible ways. How many times in my lifetime do I get to act like this ghost and simply observe people, take notes and pictures of things (ranging from bumper stickers to fall leaves in colors)? Unless I become a full-time writer, I cannot enjoy that. The traveling ghost has to die soon and the person with a bunch of responsibilities and with an unending to-do list surfaces again and join the majority. Then, you die. Crush, boom, bang... Lucia’s stepmother always said: I rest when I die. She never took a break. Marriage, kids, jobs, housework, farm work.... She is dead now. I hope she is enjoying her rest wherever she is.

The ocean, the real ocean, reminds me of the circle of death and life more than the Mediterranean. Maybe it is the dramatic tide or maybe it is surfers who are willingly putting their lives at risk against the giant waves. The slipperiness of oceans, not being able to touch the ground has something to do with it too. 

The ride back to San Francisco was still rainy but so green and thrilling. The thrill was because my dear-friend/driver drove recklessly, it felt like surfing on the slippery asphalt, zigzagging between the different sizes of vehicles. She was late to her meeting in San Francisco and she only had three hours of sleep the night before. She skipped lunch for sure, you could tell in the way she gobbled the energy bar from her backpack. There is a theory that some drivers take their rage on other issues from the wheel by transforming into a traffic monster. My friend is not one of them. She was only and purely angry. She turned the radio's volume up to listen to the news on Ferguson-triggered protests around the country. She attended many protests and had many friends who are either harassed and beaten by the police or got sick because of the generously sprayed tear-gas. She is frustrated and even has been thinking of quitting the city from time to time. But she cannot. She is one of the most politically committed people I have ever met and will risk her own health and life before she gives up living in San Francisco. She is also upset that the major mainstream media (such as San Francisco Chronicle) is hardly reflecting the extent of the protests. Sounds familiar to my Turkish ears? Can her emotions be related to a feeling of belonging together with the love of a city? Public protests can be curious phenomena.  During the Gezi events in Istanbul, the protesters were fighting for a city in the manner that you would fight to save a lover.  There were reports of visitors or tourists being part of it too, and getting a big kick out of it. BUT were they truly committed or just excited and wanted to be a part of the collective excitement? Maybe that is something that I can relate to and speculate further. I attended meetings of anti-eviction movement led by her, I witnessed people’s frustrations, even carried a banner in a demonstration at Golden Gate Panhandle chanting "stop the flip" among other catchy phrases.

The thoughts slip and surf. Even in Santa Cruz, while walking on a beautiful deserted beach, you cannot stop your thoughts surf clumsily. Fortunately, I know the secret to keep sane: it is all about the balance! Both salt and wind in my hair made me look like a witch but I am not going to wash it until I land Istanbul. 30 more hours.

attributed to R. L. Stevenson…

That a person is a success who has lived well,
laughed often, and loved much;
who has gained the respect of intelligent
men & women, and the love of children;
who has filled his/her niche and accomplished his/her task;
who looked for the best in others and gave the best she had.”