Dicle Kogacioglu's Soul Meets the Persona of Adalet Budak: 10th Year

https://gazetesu.sabanciuniv.edu/toplum-ve-bilim/turkiyede-cinsiyet-kulturleri-dicle-kogacioglu-kitabi

http://bianet.org/bianet/toplumsal-cinsiyet/214134-turkiye-de-cinsiyet-kulturleri-dicle-kogacioglu-kitabi-nin-tanitim-toplantisi-yapildi

Picking up Colorful Pens Instead of Sexy Panties in Thailand and Elsewhere

Exactly two years ago (April 2017), I saw an "International Liaison position" posted by FreedomStory.org on idealist.org a website where I check out jobs. After devouring FreedomStory.org stories for 1,5 hrs, I wrote to the generic email address and introduced myself, although I ended up not applying for the position. I signed up for their newsletter because as a practitioner of women’s life writing for years, I couldn’t help but wonder about the founding mothers and sisters behind the scenes and other stories. At the era of social media, I can’t decide how or whether people in charge at NGOs will respond to my eagerness to listen to their stories face to face. I received a reply and was invited to the office. With her glowing energy and transparency, Rachel Goble was very welcoming (so was her dog!)

I can’t think of a better time to embrace the phenomenon of ethical storytelling that Rachel gave birth to. I repress my awkward urge to thank Trump for the intensive trouble that he has been causing with his ‘stories’, inspiring me and others to challenge the current climate of ignorance or indifference more than ever. “The fake news,” an easy accusatory label, calls for an inquiry of “ethical storytelling”. Below are my favorite lines from http://ethicalstorytelling.com but please visit the website to read it in its entirety:

*Great stories not only inspire but educate.

*People’s stories are more than emotion-generating machines.

*Stories are not just for donors or for branding, they shape our humanity and our world.

Girl-children of Thailand, especially in certain parts of the country, remain vulnerable to slave-like living, which ranges from sex-slavery to sweatshop and fishing vessel work. The Freedom Story NGO responds to this reality by providing scholarships to children and help their families so that they are not lured into the sex-trade. Mentorship and sustainability of the prevention model that Freedom Story has appropriated since 2007 are the main reasons which caught my attention in the first place. Admiration followed.

When the founder Rachel Goble learned about child sexual exploitation in Thailand, she made a documentary The Sold Project, which involved interviewing sex workers, exposing its causes: poverty, lack of education and options. Rachel responded by providing a scholarship to an at-risk student Cat, and The Freedom Story was born. While the content and Cat’s story remain very moving, I highly recommend to pay close attention to the producer’s sensitivity on keeping Cat’s voice in the foreground and sticking to the pledge of ethical story telling (http://ethicalstorytelling.com/pledge/)

The Freedom Story’s model is exemplary and has the potential to be applied in other regions of the world. One advantage the team seemed to have the support of the locals and the safety of the work environment in Thailand. This may not be true in some areas of the Middle East (I have Syria, Turkey and Cyprus in mind due to my background)and will thus pose different challenges. Nevertheless, the core of the project lies in the prevention, which -I want to assume- renders relative safety and support in most parts of the globe.

Rachel is enthusiastic about her work and willing to share her experiences in the US and worldwide. I wouldn’t hesitate to spread the word on the Freedom Story to wherever I travel, especially after meeting her in person and witnessing the combination of story-telling and humanitarian work in a mindful and ethical way. Thank you to the whole team, each and every one for the transformative/life-changing work that you do!

A series of stunning serendipities define my life so far; thus, meeting Rachel Goble and the timing of Ethical Storytelling webinar came as no surprise as I was transforming my interviews with Syrian women refugees into stories for a book of life writing. I was more than grateful about it.

Pleasantly United by 'Things' That are in+on Me / A Call for Second-Hand/Recycled Consumption

Somewhere in Northern Europe, the colorful and warm café sharply contrasts with the gray and sulky sky. By the time I laid down the bright orange cloth bag (printed in white ‘WISC, Santa Fe, NM’) and took out Alberto Manguel’s book Five Cities in Turkey, purchased in Istanbul, the source of my life-generator dawned on me and begged me to be written. I could visualize the essay about the things that I carry with me and on me w/out ever intending to possess them. Why bother owning? I took off my long claret winter coat with a hood, which found me in a second hand shop in Athens last Christmas. My sailor beret has the same color but it winked at me in Amsterdam at a shop called klein berlijn (small Berlin!)

By the time, my latte arrived, I was having a ball with the list and how much it tells about myself. My reading glasses are newish with a purplish frame, the bright tone that I used to envy on my favorite female professor’s eyes 20+ years ago. Oya Başak would take them out of her purse and scream: “Mickey Mouse glasses!” My decorative bookmark was sent by an Australian nun from Holy Meteora, near the town of Kalambaka in Greece. After meeting her at a monastery where she spent decades on the path of Jesus, I wrote her a letter, and gave my temporary address in Victoria University, Canada. She told me that the only way to communicate was letter-writing. In my dark rectangular mail box, her light brown envelope sat next to another one of the same size which was shipped from Bodrum, Turkey. The signed book arrived also from the Aegean coast, only the other side. They looked pretty darn close to each other on the map from Canada.

I take a sip and continue with further inventory of my things: My t-shirt is from Berkeley. It’s bright yellow, printed on the front is a big smiley with a baseball cap, exposing the location: California, Berkeley in black letters. I wear it to feel its energy. I slept in it last night but who can know or would care about it in this café? My sweater is from Salvation Army in Victoria, my navy-skinny jeans were dirt cheap too, purchased from the same street but in a different store. My only accessories are a watch and pendant. I have no idea from where I originally purchased the watch, but the straps are relatively new so I remember. I got them in San Francisco on the Pride Day of 2017, June 26^th to be specific! I reluctantly agreed on the beige color because the store lacked the navy-blue, but I got used to them. I wonder what my friend is doing right now but I am pretty sure that she is in SF.

My pendant is enchanted as its maker assured me: Flora picked the nut-size ornamental pomegranate from Northern Cyprus and transformed it into a pendant for me as a gift. Crossing paths with her in Istanbul was magical since she is a nomad herself with no strings attached. Thus, on my neck, I carry a real pomegranate whose value is to me more than any diamond can have. Diamonds don’t feature in holy books or fairy tales unlike pomegranates.  My baby-pomegranate has no polish or other human intervention. This spiritual daughter of mine knows me well. People can’t figure her out, they try to tone down her enthusiasm and dreams. Are they unconsciously bothered by even hearing them? Ignore them Flora, dream big; true, you’re bound to be minority on this planet but you’re stronger inside and you might as well enjoy it. You’re young and a magnet for miracles, again, too much for laypeople. Missing one’s potential must be painful to face in your presence so ‘you go girl,’ most whispers (behind) or warnings deserve to be overlooked. Thanks for sharing my passion for used clothes and caring about the planet. I hope we collaborate more in future and make this a better world.

 OWRI: A New Organization in An Old City

 

I will always remember the stunning background painted by the silvery sea and the sky, and feel the breeze of that coffee break. The severity in the content matter of the two Arab women activists’ conversation contrasted with the striking serenity of Oslo: The marina, snowflakes, scents of coffee and the sea...

March 07th 2019: As I’m taking a seat at the Oslo Nobel Peace Center for a talk “Women’s Voices Changing the Middle East” organized by Oslo Women’s Rights Initiative, I could hear my heart’s pounding: 1. It is my first time in Oslo, a city that has been on top of my list for a while. 2. I am invited as part of an international women’s rights group, 3. I run into an old classmate, Meltem whose new residency happens to be in Oslo due to the political situation in Turkey, 4. The vibe and the history of the Nobel Peace Center.  I feel a whirl of emotions, almost dizzy, when Asma, one of the organizers, waves at me, we run to each other, and give a big hug. Her few words of Turkish melt my heart, taking me back to Istanbul where we met, her volunteer assistance as a translator from Arabic to English for my interviews with Syrian women and to our coffee klatches. Her Norwegian partner must be somewhere around, proudly watching his wife playing the hostess in his city of origin. My head spins! It is in the same space that I get to see old friends whose lives changed dramatically only in a few years. Myself included!

 

The three women keynote speakers of this opening event are from Yemen, Syria, and Iran, and they will be part of our 2-day workshop beginning tomorrow morning. Saudi, Jordanian, Libyan, and Bahraini  participants are also attending. I took a seat next to Meltem. In fact, we are all sitting in the middle of one of the exhibition halls in the center. That is why the chairs are light, foldable and uncomfortable. The walls have black&white photography, each marking a moment in the history of suffering and oppression in a different geography on the planet.  Enlarged shots as if they want to be seen and heard (do they?). The viewer is to be shamed, not them.

March 08th 2019: I step into the breakfast hall of our fancy hotel facing the water. This too is an exhibition hall albeit of a different kind. Of the high-quality Nordic organic breakfast menu prepared by sustainable and locally sourced ingredients. I doubt any participant can afford having even one breakfast here were it not for the workshop. I complete a mini-tour of the “exhibition” savoring an initial feast for the eyes and the nose before taking anything on my plate. I spot an empty chair where some of the participants are already seated and engaged in a lively conversation. “There she is!” says the woman with dark wavy hair at shoulder-length behind her glasses. “We were wondering about you!”

Astutely noticing my confused expression, she explains: “Last evening at the reception, we thought you were Nadia Murad, the Nobel Peace Winner of 2018. We almost rushed to you but then got into a debate whether it was indeed her or not before a major gaffe occurs!” I smile, “Oo… Wow! Really?”

Noticing that I took it as a compliment, she continues: “You know, it was probably the angle from where we were sitting and staring at you, and the lights were dimmed too.” They were indeed, I recall, before hesitantly mumbling a “thank you” for the lack of a better phrase before my first coffee. Responding to mistaken identity has always been a bit awkward for me but I am kind of used to it (Charlotte Gainsbourg!) by now.  “However, after looking at you from a distance and speculating, we decided that you couldn’t be Nadia because you smiled many times. She, on the other hand, never smiled, when we witnessed her talk last year and hung out with her a little afterwards. Not even once.” There is a brief pause.

 March 09th 2019: I got a text in the morning about a late-start to the day so I could take my time during breakfast. I perched on a quiet corner this time, and soon shared it with an Iranian journalist who currently resides in London. Exploring some common vocabulary of Azeri-Turkish and mine, even the titles of folk songs are enough to lighten my morning although she tells me of an activist male friend who abruptly cut communication, which left her sleepless. Almost casually, she told me that she was arrested after  a signature campaign in 2007, and sentenced to prison. She continued to write women’s stories regardless, in fact, her time in prison gave her the time and the opportunity for more narratives. Similar stories of exiles and/or detainment are no longer uncommon in Turkey. Indeed, this distinct group is made up of self or forced exiles, and all of us got broken by the history, the conflicts, the current or past practices of the various governments of our country of origin. I wonder if anyone of us could provide a permanent address.

Our discussions from the day before continue at the workshop space. The building has that cool plain and spacious Nordic style that I love. Some tensions emerge as they do in almost all feminist gatherings that I remember attending. Erasing stereotypes is hard, and also because several of the participants are overworked and dragging baggage from their point of arrival, the tensions can flare more easily. Funding is also always a problem for their work. We have many ‘free-lance’ women in the group, several single mothers too. I was not even hungry when the Syrian-inspired lunch was announced. Too much leftover from yesterday. Okay, the food is bonding in most settings but it is no longer working for me. I go out for a walk instead. The cold fresh air gives me a quick fix to the tensions and stories from the MENA region.

We end the day with an open list of possible near-future commitments and contributions. I work with the story-telling sub-group, and defend my case and belief in documenting experiences of women, preferably with a thematic focus. Someone suggests sexual assault narratives for the Oslo Women’s Rights Initiative, I hesitate. Next day, especially after observing tension and too much emotional food/sugar consumption during the sessions, I suggest a project on collecting stories on women’s well-being, the ancient recipes and advice, which are common-knowledge and therefore not considered documented. No woman in our group had this type of diet as they grew up.

The days are followed by dinners outside at local places except the first night (March 07th) where we had a fancy dinner at the hotel. We were indeed a loud and colorful group. I was seated next to a Norwegian historian who seemed to be interested in my book and refugee work. She complained about ‘navel gazing’ among Norwegian feminists when it came to women’s issues on the scale of urgent global matters. When she mentioned her three teenage daughters in passing, we were very surprised as she looked young. Jasmine (Yemen) and Asma joined our conversation which made the Norwegian (former) academic quiet except for the questions. Jasmine happened to be the only participant with a hijab, and was very aware of the fact. After complimenting the waiter who asked her whether she’d like to have wine, she mentioned some of the common stereotypes of the hijabi women whenever she travels to the West. She has perfectly shaped eyebrows, professional-looking full makeup and was dressed sharp. In fact, it wasn’t only due to her being a plenary speaker on that event opening night since she kept the same appearance for our remaining time, and received the nickname ‘diva’). I also remember her talking about sex-related topics comfortably, which made the free-lance historian laugh many times, especially after some wine. I bet the performance was meant to shake her up in the first place.

The following evening, we had pizza at a cozy place called Villa Paradiso Frogner. Some of us -myself included- attended the Women’s March in the city center before dinner, and took some pictures without understanding any words that have been said or banners that people held. I enjoyed talking to the Saudi participant who was the youngest among us, and her experiences with food in Sweden. Let’s call her Suad. Her efficient English made the conversation flow but there was something else about her, which made me want to comfort her “it’s going to be okay, no need to keep your guard so close”. It is already hard to be a teenager but much harder to be away from family and friends by choice and live in hiding in Sweden (she never told us the name of the city or any other information due to strict anonymity concerns).

Next to me was a Jordanian participant who was doing her PhD in American Literature in Debrecen, Hungary. Let’s call her Jordan. She is a poet, mostly quiet, an awkward sounding woman at times, which gives her a specific charm. She joked that she is the tallest woman in Jordan. During one of their smoking breaks, Jordan and Suad were chatting about believing in or denying a religion. I will always remember the scene, the breeze, and the view… The severity of the content matter contrasted with or maybe even completed the striking serenity of the Nordic capital: the marina, snowflakes, the scents of coffee and the sea... The two Arab women activists from two different countries talking about Islam, “denial is no solution,” one tells the other, how she found herself in a dark space after that period. Suad currently ‘enjoys’ the sharpness of being young and rebellious, not caring about or maybe not yet recognizing the traps of dichotomies in our thinking or education paradigms as humans trapped in societies.

Closing dinner took place at a private home of the Norwegian feminist Ingrid Stange who also sponsored the beautiful workshop location which was her NGO’s work space otherwise. Her husband was a journalist if I remember right, and both were very welcoming. Whoever made up the stereotype of cold Nordics, think twice or come to Oslo and meet the right kind of people! The generosity aside, I do remember feeling quite beat-up and fed-up with the intensity of the topics that we dealt with so I left earlier than most people in the group. Dark, cold, fresh… This trio works magic, brings me to my senses in a way that no food or drink can.

The organization was excellent and so was the Team! Some of the participants’ inability to follow the tight schedule left us all behind from time to time. The other issue was the common use of cell phones during the workshops, this simple distraction and its harmful effects. We all recognize that these smart and mobile gadgets are miracles in connecting the displaced to their families across the world. However, once its use turns into an obsession and disrupts the flow of the present time interaction or pushes the boundaries of respect, then Houston, we got a problem!

March 10th 2019:  Free at last! To cover the highlights of Oslo on my last day, I jumped into a red double-decker bus. The Vigeland Park was impressive and I could have spent more time by myself easily at the park. I even promised myself to include one biography of the sculptor Gustav Vigeland (1869-1943) in my reading list, but such promises stem from my hunger of reading and exploring fully, and are not realistic. I catch myself being drawn to the life stories of the artists and the authors, even more so than their products. “The person behind the work” obsession and curiosity, I guess. Most of the time, I am not at all disappointed though.

Holmenkollen Ski Museum and Tower was part of the tour, but too cold for me to hang out so I chose to have coffee with the tour guide and an American woman traveler in the Museum café. There is a certain comfort that a warm and safe bus offers to the stranger in a new place, almost like being in an adult stroller so you don’t have to worry about the directions or transferring from one spot to the other as you would in public transportation. It is resting, daydreaming, learning, and sightseeing all at once. As I am typing these lines, I am surprised at how most of the road scenes are revisiting me vividly. My takeaway Indian-Pakistani spicy dinner was way below the caliber of the previous nights but delicious.  I liked walking around the streets of Oslo, revisiting the Oslo Nobel Peace Center, hanging out at its gift shop even to gather myself before hitting the sidewalks again. I played with the idea of an island hopping tour too but again it was too cold, an excuse to come back. This trip felt like an introduction and hey, how about the world’s Number 1 scenic train ride to Bergen next time? I’d love to come back to Norway, preferably in mid-summer.

The Oslo Opera House (house for the Norwegian National Opera and Ballet) shows off with its cool design that it is definitely worth your time for a guided tour. On my next (!) trip, the Library will have been opened too. I have developed a fascination with modern public libraries especially after visiting the one in Seattle. Apparently, Oslo will rightly show off in 2020 for having one of Europe's most modern libraries.

The new main branch will contain not only an extensive book collection, but also a movie theatre, media workshops, gaming zones, lounges and a restaurant - among other things.  Big, open, accessible, transparent, smart and ‘fun’ buildings with lights and light colors (mostly white) which are also environmentally friendly. I wish the West-mimicking governments jump on the bandwagon with this type of trends, not with the war planes with the latest technology.

Architecturally, the common element of the Opera House is openness. Visitors who wander around the building can look through the big glass windows and catch a glimpse of activity in the scene painting room, sewing room, and/or hat and mask section. In this way, the Opera Building is accessible and offers the public an insight into its inner workings. On the way back, I proudly took a picture of the bestsellers on display at the Oslo Airport’s bookstore because Ece Temelkuran’s essay collection was among them. I shared the photo with her immediately and contributed to my mood positively, regardless of the book title How to Lose a Country since she managed to create something worthwhile in her exilic new life.

I wrote a postcard to someone special whose mother changed my whole life, whose mother was in fact a surrogate mother to me, not only a professor... I miss her deeply. I cannot remember the last time I actually wrote and mailed a postcard to anyone.

I am glad to be stripped of so-called homesickness by now (it has been a while indeed). It is not even a loss that I’ve been feeling and I do hope to get a fuller comprehension of this after reading Edward Said’s memoir Out of Place. Soon might come a time when I start thinking of a more settled life with a fixed address. Even Monica Bonvicini’s She Lies now lies in Oslo, making the fjord on the waterfront at the Opera House its permanent home.