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.