“All the Loves in the World” or Normalizing to Expose One's Intimate/Mahrem Life

I have never associated marriage with romance, not even as a girl-child, but always believed in love. In fact, some of my college friends used to analyze me that I was probably in love with the concept of love itself since I came back with romantic stories after each summer. As a student of literature, I was exposed to some of the best expressions of love ever documented in different genres, and I feel enriched by, and remain proud of that.

When I fell in love with a Vermonter in the heart of Istanbul in 1999, my first response was to flee. I was only 25 and life was just beginning. I wouldn’t let the illusions of love ruin it. There were also some major complications. The Turkish society’s utmost pressure on guarding one’s mahrem (privacy) prevents me from going into details here.

I turned 45 last December. In retrospect, I am glad that despite the fact that I literally fled the country thanks to a prestigious graduate grant in women’s studies by the German Government, he followed me. I shake my head now to the immature woman who rehearsed farewell speeches more than once. He listened patiently, and told me that our love was too precious to quit due to fears of commitment. Instead, he quit his academic position, packed his suitcase and bicycle before taking the plane to Kassel roughly one month after my departure. He was 33, a nomad in heart and soul, a good lover with a fit body and writing skills, plus a degree in English Literature. He too was familiar with the best expressions of love and romance in English.

My first visit to the U.S. was to meet his family and celebrate a white Christmas. I still joke that Scott took advantage of my first jetlag when he pulled in at a mysterious parking lot in a small town Vermont whose name I fail to remember after 20 years. I assumed the building we began walking towards was a small museum, and I was confused when he asked me if I had my passport. I nodded. Better to carry it 24/7 in this wild country whose images I acquired only from the movies and literature, and those didn’t assure me of much safety or comfort. Who knows what could happen in the middle of nowhere in Vermont during a Christmas break? The answer was… Well, one could end up getting married!

I cannot recall whether I was asked for my hand in any traditional manner. Surely, that would have been already a big turnoff. I vaguely remember that he told me getting married this way would be less scary for me since the time between the proposal and “I do” part was about 10 minutes. I wouldn’t be in my right mind to give it a second thought. Or any thought for that matter. I later learned that Scott checked the state-specific requirements and VT was indeed among the quickest road to tie the knot and competes with Vegas! Otherwise he would have chosen NYC where his oldest friend was living. We went there for the New Year’s Eve.

I had no intentions of getting married only after one year of dating, and five months of cohabitation. Did I mention that I was jetlag? By that time, my parents stopped talking to me for transgressing the rules of the society although our cohabitation took place in Germany. My brother was our only liaison and wasn’t sure what to do about this tension over the cohabitation issue. He was only 20, and never judged me or asked questions about my love. After several cohabitations and partners, he has managed to remain single up until now. Coolest Turkish brother ever! He too is Sagittarius like Scott and I, so blame astrological signs if you like.

Once we got married and settled into the reality of it, that is, a piece of paper with names and signatures announcing us ‘married’, my panic subsided. We were very much in love and the best would be to deny the marriage thing (I thought) which doesn’t make sense now since they are not closely related to each other in the first place. We had no plans of settling in anywhere soon. After my parents and the society were off our shoulders due to the marriage license from Vermont, we moved to Turkey: I went to grad school in Ankara, he rented a place in Alanya and began to run a bike shop. We lived apart except holidays until we moved to Toronto for my PhD studies in 2002. Thus, marriage didn’t and doesn’t necessarily mean cohabitation. It took us some time to get a wedding ring, and I lost two in 20 years.

All these came back to me on a Sunday in July 2019 after touring the Borusan Contemporary Art Collection (its spectacular claret red building is known as the Haunted Mansion) in Istanbul. I was so moved by some of the pieces, particularly the new forms of experiencing TurgutUyar, one of the most important representatives of Modern Turkish poetry, that I needed time alone at the museum café after my young friend left. Almost all tables offered some breathtaking scenery of the sea and the ferries crossing the Bosporus but I had my eye on a particular spot for my afternoon coffee.

The waiter was talkative and flirtatious when he told me that the table was reserved by a guy who was about to pop the question to his girlfriend. He sure was going to have fun with the scene so why didn’t I join the audience? I shook my head that told him that this must have been a new trend of the Facebook or Instagram people who no longer care about mahrem. The waiter agreed and made faces about the couple’s friends right across the street. They were ready with a “Please say yes!” banner and would be cheering and taking pictures during this performance. I wondered if any of them knew about the exhibition inside entitled “Söylenir ve yarım kalır bütün aşklaryeryüzünde/All the loves in the world are uttered and unfinished” or Turgut Uyar. The museum manual in my sweaty hands explained the choice for these famous lines: “In our day, the rapidly changing economic, political and social developments have a profound impact on the creation processes of artworks.”

I thought “on the processes of loveworks too!” I feel sort of proud with the fact that “in our day” I have refused to become part of these so called developments and would be embarrassed if not angry to see myself on FB or Instagram after a marriage proposal. My questioning will continue as my own (old) friends and (former) students keep becoming part of these processes of “romantic love” constructions and its links to the institution of marriage. Somewhere along our socialization as humans, some ridiculous expectations and performances are created and marketed in such powerful ways that many people cannot dare to step out of them. Doesn’t honesty feel blocked as the couples are trying to keep up with these changes as they face the risk of estrangement while performing and wasting their savings on the processes? Behind their back, a waiter and an academic may be teasing them as we did on that Sunday, and I am sure we were not the only ones. However, we are too polite to say anything “at-yer-face” style.

After all these years and traveling, I am still the only person in my circle of friends and family who got married secretly and without giving it much thought. The irony of the Haunted Mansion's hosting Turgut Uyar's striking and long-lasting love poetry inside and the couple who was to show us a trendy-marriage-proposal outside led me to share another irony: As an anti-marriage person, I experienced one of the longest and strongest relations in my circle. There were no performances, lies or small games from the very beginning, and those things are real energy-suckers in any relationship even if they may appear to be fun at first. We were/are lucky to have met early in life. I cannot deny the star alignments or God’s favoring me over other women in love. But denying the impact of women and gender studies, volumes of studying women’s literature and feminist theories since I was 14 would simply mean ingratitude to dozens of bold and liberated female souls across time and space. They all made me who I am today.

I didn’t wait for the proposal scene on that Sunday afternoon. I am more interested in the journey itself, not its baby steps or showbiz. If only I could, my words to the woman who was put into the role of uttering ‘aye or nay’ would be: Be aware of the romantic love’s mystification of power dynamics in life. There is (almost!) nothing wrong with the marriage itself as long as both partners are in tune with each other’s sensibilities rather than the society’s or media’s prompting them to act in “proper” or trendy ways.

Oh, and the talkative waiter? He told me that he was single and in no rush to get married:) 

“Had Enough to Get Your Head Explode?”[i] Don’t Worry, the System Got a Green Fix for You!

 An ironic title? Well, maybe, so let me begin by revealing my affinity with Jeff Gibbs' sense of humor throughout the documentary. In Planet of the Humans (POH henceforth), he reveals much more than I do here, together with Ozzie Zehner and other experts including the bold Vandana Shiva in regard to green energies in the U.S.

I feel related to Jeff Gibbs not only by a shared sense of humor while facing serious matters, but also through a sense of love and respect for trees. As a non-native speaker of English, the term tree-hugger is anything but derogatory to me.  It sounds so loving  and something to be proud of so I too am a tree-hugger. Yet, I also learned thanks to this documentary that some cute-sounding-words can serve as a veil to cover the evil (e.g., woodchip).

I am a writer whose academic background is in literature and women studies; therefore, when it comes to viewing and reviewing POH, I am just a lay person with a trust and sympathy toward the name Michael Moore since 2004 (as a legal alien from Turkey at the time, I was one of the victims of post-9/11 during  my naturalization process but it’s another story).

This introduction is also to say that I have no conflict of interest to declare, although receiving a documentary as a gift from the team on the 50^th Anniversary of the Earth Day through YouTube was special. POH is a collective gift that I want to share with others by forwarding the link and by my writing.

POH begins with some history including a footage that says clean and green energy was the talk of the town in 1970 already! The document pays tribute to the early green movements, initiatives, and activists in the U.S. before revealing the duplicities of the recent events (mimicking flower power era) in Vermont and elsewhere. Even the Earth Day events can be funded by the companies which have been destroying forests, mountains, and indigenous people’s habitats. Short and basic questions are posed by Gibbs to expose the hypocrisies that the respondents are being complicit to. The audience can clearly see the shrugs, the expressions or the averted eyes (hopefully with some embarrassment!) of the organizers, the technicians or the salespeople while acknowledging the truth and facing lies. While some big and familiar names (CEOs, NGO leaders, and politicians) claim confidently that their facilities run on 100% renewable energy (solar, wind or biomass) you/the audience are shocked by how people are being fed lies all along while making decisions of consumption or attending an event. A cheerful male voice of the ads ‘informs’ that solar panels are made of sand while a scholar (Ozzie Zehner) is showing HQ quartz and coal pieces that the panels are made of (by being melted!)

As a professor of literature, I have been very conscious of the power of narratives. One part of me may feel and act like Doña Quixote at times but in fact, I remain suspicious of what I am being fed through words and images. Knowledge making and distribution mechanisms are suspects so I keep rolling my eyes and shaking my head throughout the documentary but the other half in me whispers: “It has always been like this around the world, not just America, not just now.” Probably I am not be the only one feeling fragmented and cheated, but I do welcome other narratives besides POH as well. That is why I have read several (some were quite harsh) criticism and attacks against the film already, and nevertheless, decided to add my share to the debates.

While keeping on breeding and consuming at the same time and at this pace today, it is futile and irresponsible to expect a miracle emerging out of a lab in the Bay Area. My image of a savior is far from elephant poop, crocodile fat, or sea moss; rather, it is a self-restraint, altruistic human being with a strong will.

A tongue-twister when I was learning English was “How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” My dislike with Bill McKibben has grown as he talked of the “incredibly beautiful” woodchip’s use as if he was giving a salad recipe: “We can toss it in there if we can chip it down to the right size.”  I began repeating an alternative twister to divert my anger from a person to a thing/money: “How many bills would a woodchip chuck if a woodchip could chuck bills?” It worked, I am pretty calm as I am typing this review.

Although POH is mainly criticizing a narrative that is constructed and sold in the U.S., I think it can still capture a wider audience. The non-American viewer may not know 350 and Sierra Club’s “beyond coal” campaign but the whole game is still very intriguing, and unfortunately can be applied to their own countries under different names and brands.  “The System” in my  title refers to the monstrous capitalism and the blood for feeding it is drawn across the whole planet (also see the documentary Anthropocene: The Human Epoch) so everyone needs to be super aware! We can no longer afford the time or money on lies thinking that we are acting “green” while shopping! POH’s message is clear: There is no such thing. Cut the population growth and consumption, and just stop there before reaching out to your credit card.

Gibbs begins and ends POH with a question, and poses more in between. I want to add mine to the list:  Why can’t we just buy less and instead reuse things, and move less in 4-wheeled-vehicles and instead move more on two legs or leg-powered-vehicles? Fly less? Adopt or foster children instead of making them?[ii] Why can’t we train our willpower be a better version of ourselves?(now that it is the fasting month/Ramadan for millions, why can’t consider practicing different versions of fasting?)

I consider POH as an engaging lecture since I learned a lot about the intricate connections among the environmentalist groups, companies, and politicians. We can include POH in our syllabus regardless of the country we are teaching, it falls right under environmental or ecological humanities. I also got informed on the science and terminology behind all these debates: How biomass plants can serve as euphemism for a solid-waste incinerator like in Michigan or how the super(!) green Tesla Gigafactory in fact pollutes the desert with radioactive waste disposal and is still hooked up to the city grid like the Apple in North Carolina. All these striking examples will affect the young minds who aspire to be the next Elon Musk or Steve Jobs in any developing country. The documentary clearly shows that it is high time to look for and look up to other role models who are more honest and earth-friendly, even tree-huggers!

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[i] From the documentary.

[ii] I completely disagree with Leah C. Stokes who thinks that POH's “pushing population control is completely disrespectful of women’s reproductive autonomy” although I also realized that the number of  the white male experts featured exceeds the women in the film. It is a big risk to take as three white men (the team) to point fingers at overpopulation (but of course they are risk takers or else they would be no such film) but as a naturalized non-white, non-privileged woman, I have advocated the very same idea for years. In fact, if I could, I would have passed a law for prospective  parents (of any sexual orientation or race) to take a test before they make babies, similar to a driver’s license.  https://www.vox.com/2020/4/28/21238597/michael-moore-planet-of-the-humans-climate-change

Surreal Times_Part II

(...)

Soon we are surrounded with many others from the neighboring tents, “which channel is it?” is the first question we get. Before the camera rolls, Jonathan takes out a small mirror out of his pocket and combs his hair. The expressive/animated woman says in Turkish “You’ve become very handsome, maşallah,” and laughs. She makes others around her laugh as well. We shoot the same scene three or four times (I repeat the same translations) before we continue our hunt in the heavy mud. We witness a fight in one of the waiting lines, I overhear the accusation of someone shouting at another that he was in the same line before and thus getting the same aid twice. The moment they see the cameras and western-looking guys, a man hushes the crowd: “Let’s not embarrass ourselves in front of the foreigners, ayıp.” But it is too late, this time Michael took the shots without permission of any sort. It was an authentic fight scene.

Before we go in the taxi that was hired for the day, Jonathan approaches an old and dark man and asks: “Do you speak German?” He nods and they begin chatting in German. The old man is very calm, thankful, and submitted to God’s will.  I can still hear his last words in response to Jonathan’s words of appreciation and goodbye: Mach nichts (you are welcome). I can’t help my curiosity and ask him once in the car: “How did you know?” Jonathan shrugs, “maybe intuition, maybe because of the Turks I met in Germany, I have developed a feeling about a certain type.” I am still very impressed, what a good observer!

Another man in the crowd approaches and asks me: “How is Zeytinburnu?[i] Is there much damage?” I learn that he lost everything here, and the only other property he has was a flat in Zeytinburnu. He couldn’t get hold of the contractor so he wants to learn the situation from me!

We return to the “base” where the buses and other media channels are parked for montage and other technical stuff. Sara notices me wandering rather aimlessly while waiting for the next stop and suggests that I go inside a big bus a bit further away before I get fully soaked. “That bus belongs to us too.” Good idea, I rush to the bus while thinking that people act very conflicted over wearing masks. I notice the very picky BBC team are not wearing them, I also observe that a few other European channels’ staff don’t have any face masks. I decide not to wear one either. I greet the guy in the big bus before finding a seat where I can rest a little. He has a heavy accent and looks like a Turkish guy. He says he is a freelance cameraman from Israel, and hands me some old newspapers to clean the mud under my shoes. A very blond guy (platinum-blond!) turns out to be a Turk named Haluk, and translating some reports about illegal housing in the area into English. The Israeli man’s name is Boaz, sounds  unusual but nice, I actually don’t know how to spell it. I tell him that I am thinking of living on a kibbutz[ii] once all this is over. I want to leave Turkey for some time and experiment a communal living on a farm, explore the holy lands before grad school. I get out of the bus, wishing for something to feel useful and keep me busy. At that moment, Sara comes and asks whether I would like to visit one of the newly setup hospitals with the two other team members. Of course, says I!

We first stop by the Canadian Military hospital which originally is a stadium. It is almost 9 pm now and soon it will be dark. I realize that there is no need for a translator since the guard at the gate is Canadian and there are no patients inside yet. It is raining very hard. They tell me to stay in the taxi and lend my raincoat to Jonathan. The driver and I began a conversation. He lost his house so they are staying in a tent but life goes on and he likes to work and bring some cash back to the tent. Suddenly, we are surrounded by hundreds of mosquitos in swarms. A bug-repellent was the last thing in my mind when I left home very early in the morning. I get a bit nervous but there is nothing we can do about it. Then, they leave as fast as they arrived, very weird these post-earthquake creatures…

I decide to go out and soak myself into the beauty of the surroundings. Tranquility and breathtaking scenery calm me down.  So quiet. Right across me is a huge, empty amusement park. A large iron gate has the sign which says: Sporcu girişi/Entry for sportspeople. A Canadian soldier is guarding it now. There is a giant willow tree behind which the sun must soon be about to set, based on the first gray, then purplish dark pink-orange tones of all kinds. It is one of those very memorable moments. I fail to get around the willow tree because of the amount of mud. I am aware of a unique presence; yet, I feel like a commonly agreed but vulnerable reality is lost. A military vehicle approaches the gate and after an exchange of a few words in English, it passes through. If only I could ignore the collapsed buildings not far from where I am, I can get convinced easily that I am enjoying a movie set visit whose staff is very busy preparing the final stage before the shoot. First time in my life, I see heavy-built blond women soldiers in uniforms. They wander around the stadium, probably fulfilling their guard duty.

A few bold locals approach the gate, waving at the Canadian soldier whose merhaba was well pronounced but met with their “hello, hello!”s nevertheless. He drops the trash bags and returns to his spot. Alan comes back to the gate, apologizes that they left me in the car all that time, not realizing that the rain stopped a while ago: “Would you like to take a look at what is going on inside the makeshift hospital?” I eagerly walk in with him, literally dazzled with the brightness of the lights inside the moment I step in. The very same stadium at nights of soccer games must exude a similar feeling before the audience’s admission, except that there are dozens of soldiers around now, working on setting huge tents, installing more lights and many stoves for the communal meals in the coming days. I climb up to the stairs in the tribunes to enjoy a full view of the place. I see Boaz, Alan, and Jonathan in the middle of the green playground still filming. I am impressed by the extent of technology for this particular occasion. From where do all these huge water-purification systems, electricity grids, sewage disposal pipes and generators come? Even imagining the military’s transportation network beats me. All the jeeps around have Canadian plate numbers so does it mean that they brought their vehicles too or just install the plates here?

A soldier comes to chat, asks whether I work for the BBC as well. I tell him only for the day, and I work as a translator. He is friendly and sounds genuinely interested in the wellbeing of my family and how I have been feeling since the earthquake. In return, I ask him how he feels about visiting a country like Turkey under these circumstances and “for work” whereas the ideal would be to explore the ancient sites and especially the West coast for a holiday. “Sakarya, believe me, doesn’t make our top 10 list,” I joke. Another soldier comes close but with a flashlight to check each and every screw of the setups including the old tribune that was already there when they arrived. Some time later, another soldier comes and checks them again, to make sure. I admire the meticulousness and the professionalism that I see all over. They probably don’t let illegal housing and thus won’t have the blood of thousands of dead and injured bodies on their hands in case of a big earthquake in Canada.

The trio bring another man in uniform under the BBC spotlights, probably the highest rank possible, and interview him too. After this final shooting is completed, we thank everyone and finally leave the premises. We have been treated really kindly which I attribute to the prestigious name of the media channel. Having a BBC ID card allows one through many official doors as I witnessed today ranging from Sakarya Deputy governor’s office

The taxi driver hands in a receipt of 80 dollars. Alan hands him a 100 dollar bill and tells him to keep it. I can never forget the driver’s face. He asks me a couple of times so that there is no misunderstanding or mistranslation. I say it is okay, and yes, 20 dollar is your tip for the day. I feel sorry and awkward about this, that the gap between Turkish Lira and the USD is not something that the dollar-owner and earner cares much about. It is always the other way around.

We are back at “the base” in Adapazarı, everyone is asking each other “so... how was your day?” all in tired but more or less satisfied tones. The final editing of the news is done and it is ready to be aired for the 9 pm news, London time, of course. The sound engineer who was the first person I met this morning checks with me “so... what do you think? How are you feeling?” to which I answer: “I feel very tired but it was exciting and unforgettable.” In fact, I am very hungry and in need of sleep. Yesterday, Sara told me on the phone that I should be at home by the sunset. I call home at 10 pm and tell my parents that soon we’ll hit the road to Istanbul. The drivers keep complaining too. I try to fall asleep at the back of one of the empty buses. The fragments of the day pass through my mind, my eyes, my heart… I am in that half-awake half-asleep zone and I decide to be fully awake. The whole team gets together to watch their work, what’s been aired on the screen in a clear excitement. I could almost hear the invisible thoughts running in the air: We did it, we made it on time! We had images of the sea of mud, crying women, running children who piss inside their tent, the deputy gov. who failed to present the right papers, and more… Yes, all these we have cut, pasted, recreated a reality to your taste, and here we go. Hey, the world, stay tuned!

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[i] A district of Istanbul on the European side.

[ii] A collective community, traditionally based on agriculture. 

Surreal Times in 1999: A Post-Earthquake Story Part I

Dear Reader,

If you think that you are going through surreal times that you could never have imagined due to COVID-19, pause for a few minutes and see what you think of other surreal days back in time. The details are as new to me as they are to you since I have translated them from my diary. If I hadn’t written, hardly any memory of such a traumatic event would have stayed with me. I enjoyed translating it from Turkish into English as I realized how it helped me (and hopefully others will feel the same) to put things in perspective. 

The Izmit earthquake (also known as Marmara earthquake) occurred on 17 August 1999 at 03 a.m. local time in north-western Turkey. The shock had a moment magnitude of 7.6 and a maximum Mercalli intensity of IX (Violent). The event lasted for 37 seconds. Pretty darn long when you are woken up and shaken like that!

24 August 1999- Tuesday.  I woke up at 10 a.m. to the clean scent of my light blue sheets and pillow and I thought yesterday must have been a dream. It was so unreal and intense. Yeah, it was just a dream and sometimes - when they are very impactful and vivid - I tend to write my dreams so I decided to record this one as well. That’s all.

Then, I changed my mind. My favorite procrastination strategy was to pick a book randomly and begin to read a few pages. It was Tutunamayanlar by Oguz Atay ('The Disconnected') and the random page was: Mısra 11: Word and Loneliness. Okay, I am going to write this, but where to begin? With the phone call from Prof. Aysel Ekşi whose NGO I once volunteered for, or should I jump right into the morning, 8:15 to be specific where I knocked on the door of the Hilton Hotel room no. 757 in Elmadağ near Taksim? “Sorry, I arrived a bit early, I commute from the Asian side so…”, ‘Come in, no worries! Excuse our mess.” I look around. The huge suit room is indeed messy with piles of cables like spaghetti, coffee cups, empty candy and potato chips bags, newspapers…

A friendly bespectacled British man with a goatee is the only person in the room (or so I think). “Sara will be here in a minute, you can wait here,” he says. I thank him and ask whether he is a reporter. “I am an engineer, but that guy over there is a reporter,” pointing at someone in the corner. Tall, pale face with thin lips, an unhappy looking man, forces a smile: “Hi, I am James.” I ask both of them about the shots since I got a tetanus shot the day before when I signed up for volunteering as a translator on any earthquake damaged site.  They shake their heads: “There is nothing really against malaria, and we bring our own food and water”, pointing at the two boxes with Hilton stickers on.

Sara Beck shows up. She is young, hyper, blond, tall and skinny, generously providing me with tips and information, and is thus aware of my not knowing what to expect or how to behave in that setting while they are going to film and interview, and I will translate. After they finish their coffee, we go down and I meet the driver named Mustafa. We are all waiting for someone  called Jonathan Charles for some time already. Sara is full of praises for him, assuring me that he is a nice person to work with. Someone else introduces himself as the camera man (Michael) with a very subtle German accent. I mention my stay in Germany the year before, and make some small talk on the way to Adapazarı. Long after we cross the Boğaziçi Bridge, they suddenly decide to go back to Atatürk Airport, also on the European side where we started our journey from Hilton. What the heck, I wonder, and feel disappointed for lack of planning. Sara tells me that it is much better to follow a humanitarian aid convoy. It begins to rain again in the middle of August. As we are crossing the bridge, Michael mumbles into the blue-gray scenery and sighs: “Very beautiful place! It must be so nice to live here and witness this scene often. What a beauty…”

We have about 2 hours of drive (160 km) so we chat. They ask me many questions: What is the real population of Istanbul? Military coup d’états of the past decades, the importance of Atatürk today, politics in general etc. Michael and Jonathan arrived from Frankfurt this morning on the same flight, and I soon find out that almost everyone on the bus met this morning. They explain that the BBC has such a huge media network that when something happens anywhere around the world, the staff in that region is informed immediately and get together like they did in Hilton Hotel, and they begin working to cover that particular situation. Once the news is covered, each heads to their own direction to catch the next series of excitement. Radio reporter James who flew from Scotland tells me that it is pure coincidence that he ended up in Istanbul because the assigned staff’s wife just had a baby. He says that he is already the proud father of two kids, not knowing that I would never even consider dating people who lead such lives: “Hey, look at your daddy, just reporting live the latest earthquake zone!” I gag my imagination on the spot.

After we arrive in Adapazarı, my initial nervousness subsides. The buildings reduced to rubble and the despair on the locals’ faces are just like what I’d seen on the screen. Repeated heavy rains for the past days created a city of mud. People look desperate. More than one staff on the bus ask me why the city has two names and which one they should be using (I couldn’t tell but I guess Adapazarı, not Sakarya). Sara has no clue. In fact, she just flew from Russia. I know so because whenever she gets a call, she responds “hi, yeah, I am not in Russia… I am somewhere in Turkey…” and talks more about Russia than here. Stories from Turkey have to wait for the calls in her next destination. She is beautiful. She seems to be content with her image. I keep this mental picture of her eating some cold fried potatoes stuck together while listening to someone on the phone, nodding. She is easy to smile and friendly with everyone but also keeps a clear healthy distance. She looks so fresh and full of energy as if she just walked out of a beauty salon. I cannot get upset or ironic with her thinking that she will be back to her luxurious hotel room at the end of the day, can enjoy a nice shower or body lotions, perfumes even, put on her pajamas and crawl into a comfy bed unlike the people around us. She does a good job, enjoys being the bright program producer, modestly comments that “Ozlem, see the real face of BBC, our lives in mud and bus corners, don’t you think it’s pretty desperate looking?” (as the bespectacled British engineer’s comments).

Sara must have done with self-interrogations regarding her job, switching worlds between room-service calls to emergency calls in a flood.  She probably got used to it. The other Turkish interpreter who tells me that he worked for a private TV channel for three years is more critical than I am. He thinks the team members are acting so British that imagining their base in the U.K (unlike nomads) so much so that when he asked the time, one guy just told him the London time by mistake. However, he too appreciates their work discipline and professionalism. The permission before turning on the camera or taking a picture from each and every person and the style of asking questions (calm and polite) are worth mentioning and not very common in Turkish media.

My first task is to translate the conversation between the deputy governor of Sakarya and Sara Beck in an ugly concrete government building. The sleep-deprived dep-governor grants us his time and heavy smoke of his thick cigar.  Sara aims to learn what happened to the British aid which seemed evaporated or  distributed to the locals without the proper signatures and records. After looking at the list of items that Sara handed in, the man says they never received it. Everything is recorded at the Atatürk Airport when the aid passed through the customs, she says. She insists on getting a few names at least to track the aid further. He diverts fully and mentions the young volunteers who came to help from Ankara on their motorcycles. I keep on translating without facial expressions but I don’t have a poker face. Finally, we are told to inquire the state hospital authorities or village affairs unit.

Our next stop is one of the tent-cities as they are commonly referred to. Everything and everywhere is covered with mud. People made raincoats out of large trash bags and some of them tied plastic bags in a way that covers their summer shoes. Most kids have no shoes, just running around barefoot. There are many long lines around, each serving a different item such as soap, food, cigarette, and donated clothes. One woman who is sitting in front of a tent gestures, “Come over here, tape this so that the whole world can see the situation, I am not ashamed of this, the ones who put us through this should feel ashamed, not me!” We get closer and Jonathan is observing and listening carefully. She introduces two of the kids running around, one is ‘hers’ and the other one belongs to ‘her in-laws’ She says “I don’t care about myself but what do we do if these children get infections?” Her in-law comes and asks: “Where is the government? May God be pleased with the foreign aid we received from many countries but look at the tent-city that the government quartered us. Didn’t anyone consider rain by any chance?” One of the kids wants to have my pen, and his mom reproaches, “Abla is busy taking notes, don’t you see?” turns to me and apologizes: “They are playing all day long, so oblivious of what has happened”  She is very articulate indeed, manages to communicate with Jonathan when talking about the kids, their age, and which one belongs to who by using body language. I compliment her that I am not needed because she is very good at expressing herself.  

TO BE CONTINUED...

The Diary of A Wise Anarchist Gardener in Turkey: One Thousand and One Garden Tales_Binbir Bahçe Masalları

The setting for the fairy tale is the Gökova Gulf of the Aegean Sea between Bodrum and Datça Peninsulas in south-west Turkey, also known as Kerme or Cova Gulf. The protagonist is an outstanding woman in her sixties, originally from Istanbul, who quit the city life more than two decades ago, and has lived like a modern-time feminist Sisyphus by building a garden of her own. She started by purchasing a challenging piece of land with no power or water resources, and transformed it into a rich garden of liberty, carefully listening and talking to the nature, each and every plant, eventually becoming one with them. Feel free to romanticize it by imagining her as Turkish witch of wisdom with shamanistic roots although the author (which needs to be separated from the persona in the book) may not necessarily like it. Nevertheless, the book will take you to multiple journeys in time and place, and instruct from all directions, be it a reference to a book from the Ottoman Period to the Gezi Park protests.

Ceylan Orhun’s book is hard to categorize but the umbrella genre of “life writing” meets my expectations or anyone’s urge to classify it. It is also a delightful example of auto-ethnography of a gardener due to the author’s emphasis on (inter)cultural analysis and interpretation of her thoughts, inspirations, and experiences in relation to others in society. This relational existence comes with gems of knowledge. For instance, Orhun tracks the name and journey of the South African plant Strelitzia reginea to London’s Kew Botanical Gardens in the seventeenth century, and the reader finds out that Strelitz was the maiden name of British Queen Charlotte, the consort and the wife of George III. Among the gems of knowledge are the Ottoman gardening chronicles of bulb growers in the seventeenth century, Leonardo da Vinci's orangerie design, Voltaire’s famous political allegory in Candide’s final lines, "Cultivate your gardens, ...", the still-life star flower, Calla Lily (originally from the muddy slums of Nile River) featuring bold and proud in the works of avant-garde women artists such as Frida Kahlo and Georgia O'Keeffe. Hold on tight though, Orhun’s imagination in garden design flash-forwards the reader to a contemporary reference, Lars von Trier’s Dogville and its bare minimum film set. Hopefully, you are convinced by now that “relational existence with gems of knowledge” is more than my fancy words!

The healing powers of the nature and the concept of Unity (found in most religions whenever one digs into their mystical branches) stand out in the narrative as empowering elements. Orhun’s perseverance bonds with a constant gratitude for life. Her witnessing a native Californian plant blooming for the first time in her garden or watching the sunset on the patio with her dogs after a fierce storm remind us the serendipity and beauty that can be come upon in simplicity.

Based on the chapter structure, the book is composed in the form of a diary (each month marking a new chapter) but due to its impressive temporal and spatial journeys, the narrative offers the reader more than a gardener's diary or memoirs. With a touch of humor here and there (a Skype meeting with Aphrodite and Eros on Calla Lily!), it is also informative, and definitely not self-focused; hence, the auto-ethnography.

Binbir Bahçe Masalları should be translated into English to take its place next to its predecessors such as The Gardener's Year (1929) by Karel Capek and Green Thoughts - A Writer in the Garden (1981) by Eleanor Perenyi. Until then, feel free to drop a line or two, share your questions or experiences with Mother Nature, and she will respond at the earliest opportunity (herana.ceylan@gmail.com).

Nevertheless, I am very glad that the book filled a void in Turkish literature by its unique content and structure.

Book Reviews: Poetry from Santa Fe and Fragile Diversities in Antioch

The Turn That Tightens Jude Deason (2019)

In a world of speed and brevity where some presidents communicate via Twitter and don’t even bother with proper spelling, reviewing Deason’s poetry becomes challenging. One can easily spend a few hours discussing or teaching two poems alone. If you are the type of reader who assumes the detective role and trace a poet’s life from her/his creations, you’ve got a lot to cover here: Family stories across generations (grandchildren, husband, parents, siblings…) and naked feelings that accompany them, the cities, the ranch, the towns that Deason lived, moved in and out, traveled to and from. If you prefer the persona analysis rather than taking in the colorful details, purity, and brutality of some references to one’s life at their face value, you will have a different experience. Maybe, you will be less affected by the art of acuteness and honesty in the poems (“Honesty? You ask/Yes. Honesty.” p.45). Sign a “soul contract” (p.68) with the poet, and see where the paths will take you: To a Peggy Lee song, to Nebraska or the Disney World?

Deason doesn’t reveal her style in one particular way. There are long poems (one full page + 4-5 lines on the next) set in tones that might provide clues on her background ( “the woman who cleans our house”) or references to the Church and Christianity. There are also short poems, deceptively simple, nature-focused pieces (‘Bark Beetle’, ‘Mud’, ‘Morning’), which are as effective as the others. The collection reminds me of wild grapes in different colors and sizes picked from deep forests of JD’s universe, and each poem makes any reader wonder what is next in the book. I agree with Tom Crawford’s analysis that one gets the impression that “the poet is only marginally in charge” and the poems come at times shockingly “undressed and fearless”. But not always. I have also observed and enjoyed JD’s tongue-in-cheek playfulness in several poems where I can see the poet smiling: “Let’s see what they do with this one?” but it can be my imagination only.

A wild range of topics and fragments picked from the different stages of life (childhood to fiftieth anniversary plans), both mundane (DMV, a nursing home, or Uncle Chris) and exotic (Tulum, Kundalini energy or Omar in Havana) are harvested before pressed into poetry like grapes into wine. Mind the aftertaste of some darkness and bitterness of this very tasty wine though since JD herself rebels against the workings of her mind and memory (p.35).
Rich imageries allow the collection wide open for multiple interpretations and taking different paths, which appeal to my criteria of what good quality literature offers. Christian Fuenfhausen elegantly dressed the poems up by his beautiful cover design with its velvety texture and colors. 

An appetizer for the blog readers:

You Would Dive In (For Tom Crawford) 

A rabbit, a crow, a beautiful woman.

When one is one, it is believed 

it is not the other. 

Not so.

I will illustrate.

The rabbit, at the outdoor wedding reception,

panics/runs across the lawn

flees into the hotel swimming pool.

You leap from your chair

to fish it out.

You would dive in, if need be.

A crow calls from overhead,

lands on top of the post

in the parking lot of the coffee house,

and all you want to know is

what is that crow thinking about?

What?

A woman in a beautiful dress,

stands in the doorway to the restaurant 

blocking your entry/talking on her cell phone.

her hair is blacker than than black, her black dress

with flowers, you can't get past.

***

Refugee Encounters at the Turkish-Syrian Border: 

Antakya at the Crossroads by Şule Can (2019)

When an academic-researcher chooses not to hide her/his human side (emotions and personal reflections) in her `serious` publications, she wins my heart and mind rather quick and for long-term, like my colleague and friend Dr. Can. The pride and pleasure I feel in writing about a friend's work becomes unique in that I can visualize the person on the site, with her recorder and notebook, water bottle, all wrapped in compassion toward the respondents and all species. I can feel proud that a conscientious social scientist is at work and the academic world will soon become a more humane space once the book gets published. 

Refugee Encounters is more than an ethnographic research on the most recent encounters between Syrian refugees, Alawite citizens of Antakya, and the state agents. It analyzes ethnoreligious boundaries and includes displacement narratives of Syrian refugees from a humanistic angle. It holds up a critical mirror to the long-promoted image of Antakya/Antioch as the “cradle of civilizations” by extensively discussing its current daily situation in the context of politicized history, that is, post-2011. It demonstrates the complexity of vulnerable and ever-changing negotiations of ethnic and religious identity (“fragile diversities” in Can’s words), politics, and state along with the everyday oppression that refugees suffer from in their new own urban space(s). I highly recommend this book particularly due to its approachable language and length, and remain thankful to the author for enhancing my current knowledge and research in the area too.

Creating Bridges Between the Historical Divisions and Disciplines

Creating Bridges Between the Historical Divisions and Disciplines

Contemporary Encounters in Gender and Religion - European Perspectives

Gemzöe, Lena, Keinänen, Marja-Liisa, Maddrell, Avril (Eds.) © 2016

Ch. 14:  `Feminist Theology, Religious Studies and Gender Studies: Mutual Challenges`  

Elina  Vuola

My humble attainment from this chapter in a nutshell: I wasn’t aware of the tensions between religious studies and theology. The chapter also made me realize of my own narrow understanding of theology as more formal and closed, which -according to Vuila- is simply not true.

Secondly, I didn’t know that intersectionality was first proposed by a feminist theologian in the 1970s! That’s pretty impressive. The happy end: Gender Studies can be the key area or the bridge which can create links between anthropology (I’d say social sciences in general), theology and religious studies.  

Vuola argues that research on gender and religion often lacks in-depth interdisciplinarity. She finds this particularly conspicuous between theology, religious studies, and anthropology of religion and calls for ‘a self-critical re-evaluation of one’s own discipline and its specific history in relation to other fields’.

I wonder when we are going to pass this argument in academia and move on, it is 2020!

**

Vuola mentions a shared concern among scholars of religion and gender about a double blindness:

1. blindness to religion in gender studies, 2. gender blindness in religious studies, including theology.

However, from theology perspective, add yet another blindness at the core of the study of religion and gender, namely a form of blindness to theology. She also argues that another blind spot is that of lived religion in theology (my new focus of interest!), including feminist theology: ordinary women’s theological thoughts and interpretations have not occupied a central place in feminist theology. + a lack, -lesser extent- of significant dialogue between feminist theology and religious studies on gender.

The inside (theology)/outside(religious studies) question has been explored by many scholars, but here Vuola refers only to an insightful discussion by Kim Knott. Instead of a binary approach, Knott presents a continuum of perspectives by applying, from the social sciences, the model of participant/observer roles. Knott’s model is helpful because it emphasizes method instead of the individual scholar and her/his religious identity.

Wow! Intersectionality was present in feminist theology earlier than in other fields of gender studies, a fact that is not recognized in either secular feminist theory or feminist studies of religion.

1975:  Rosemary Ruether and other feminist theologians already stated that gender should always be analyzed in relation to class and race. Ruether used the term “interstructuring” rather than intersectionality.

Feminist theology as a concept is contested in itself: e.g: womanist or mujerista  theology (For them, “feminist” refers primarily to the experiences and struggles of white women).

Feminist theology can thus be recognized as part of the academic study of religion and as (women’s) religious agency.

*the study of lived religion and the theological ideas that are related to it should not be too arbitrarily separated. Otherwise, binaries are created again, no?

* another major criticism: Feminist theology is seldom the subject of actual academic research beyond theology. The omission may in some cases be related to the wider historiography of feminism as a primarily Western and secular phenomenon, which fails to acknowledge the central role of religion and religious communities for women’s movements around the world. It is important that gender scholars in religion do not repeat this narrowness of secular gender studies.

She calls for deeper interdisciplinarity: Scholarly interest in ideas as much as in practice.

As in gender studies, the blindness of development studies and international politics to religion— especially its emancipatory and empowering aspects—has been the product of the secular/religious division on the one hand, and the private/public division, on the other (324). At the same time, both in international development activities and in conflict resolution processes, religious leaders, communities and beliefs have played an important role at the grassroots level.

Gender studies in religion may form a privileged space for creating bridges between the historical divisions that have separated theology, anthropology and religious studies.

Can Islam Be a Source for Women’s Agency? How and Which Version of It?

Carolyn MoxleyRouse Engaged Surrender reminded me of Rania Kamlas’ article“Religion-based resistance strategies, politics of authenticity and professional women accountants” (2018) whose fieldwork took place in Syria, that is, my geographic area of interest. Kamlas introduces debates from Muslim feminism on resistance through egalitarian reinterpretation of the religious texts. These strategies go beyond the binaries (e.g., resistance vs. compliance) and probably some ambivalence may emerge as a result. Moxley Rouse also pointed out ambivalences in her book, allocating a whole section on ambivalence (178-180).

Kamlas is a Palestinian Muslim Arab refugee born in Syria but lives in the U.K. so her 21 respondents in Damascus might have had an imagined Western audience/gaze while defending Islam. Reflexivity is also a main part of this article (59) and is encouraged by the author. She too saw that the Islamic version of patriarchy was responsible for majority of problems. Interpreting women’s narratives only through feminist and post-colonial perspectives were not enough to explain parts where women linked their profession to faith, and how Islam was a source of inspiration to their professional work. For example, “when I wake up in the morning and read the Quran, I feel so much energy that day. This spiritual dimension is very important to my work” (65). Kamlas’ self-reflexivity (or confession to use a more mundane word) becomes very significant when faith is a source of energy and empowerment according to the respondents.

Certainly, there is a need for Muslim women scholars to interpret religious texts differently and allow women’s presence in public space and leadership. However, I wonder if this is realized, can we -as their supporters and followers- provide these scholars a safe space where freedom of expression in any topic is considered a human right, and thus respected? I am thinking of the first female imam in Denmark, Sherin Kankan who feels relatively safer when she leads the communal prayers in Maryam Mosque of Copenhagen or states in a TedTalk in Germany that the female imams are known in China since 1820s. Although there are many challenges and moments of frustrations that Khankan has been experiencing, she still enjoys practicing and defending women’s rights in Denmark.

Taghreed Jamal Al-deen (2020) Australian Young Muslim Women’s Construction of Pious and Liberal Subjectivities, Journal of Intercultural Studies, 41:2, 197-212, DOI: 10.1080/07256868.2020.1724904

This paper draws on Fadil’s(2011) work of the unveiling practices of second-generation Belgian- Maghrebi Muslim women. It explores both practices and conceptualise them as techniques of the self. It challenges the understanding of unveiling as an act of resistance to an oppressive practice and/a sign of assimilation or a product of secular governmentality. It is a  bodily act that can be interpreted as a self-technique (in the Foucauldian sense) to articulate ‘a distinct subjectivity model that has turned dominant within modernity and it interrogates the mandatory nature of veiling within Orthodox Islam. It is a matter of problematising and questioning the mandatory nature of the practice of veiling in Islam according to their own assessment of religious texts.

Piety is not always at odds with the liberal ideals of feminism but demonstrates that Islam can be a source for women’s agency: Islam and feminism can interconnect in unexpected ways.

12 women between 19 and 24 years of age were recruited for this study. All were single and currently completing undergraduate courses, except the one in grad school. They were of diverse ethnic origins (Lebanese, Somali, Indian, Sri Lankan, Iraqi, Afghani, Pakistani and Turkish).  The voices of four of the participants appear because Jamal Al-deen says that they reflect the characteristics and aspirations of other women in her study. They stressed that their acquisition of  knowledge about Islam was largely through independent and private searching  for rather than following the perceived traditional and non-reflexive practices of Islam of their parents.

Their accounts led to a focus on the way their subjectivities embodied both Islamic and secular liberal values or, more specifically, the way subjectivities of religious feminine piety and secular and democratic liberalism are embodied and continually produced through practice of Islam.

Religion is not experienced here as a constraint, rather, as Saba Mahmood (2005) argues, it is a central aspect of many women’s subjectivities. These young women mobilized religion in support of critical discourses on social justice and human rights.

My conclusions: There is the spirit of Islam versus the traditional interpretations and rulings of  Islam!  There are also historical and geographical contexts and they can be used for or against the women’s roles in Islam. These call for a deep awareness in research and should prevent one jumping to any anti-Islamic conclusions. 

Another Revisit: Women Who Blow on Knots by Ece Temelkuran

This Time All the Heroes are Women

         This novel is the first of its kind. No author has written a road novel in Turkish whose four non-Western characters are women and whose story takes place in the Middle East and North Africa (MENA or ‘the wider Middle East’ as it is sometimes referred to). This is a novel written from a feminist perspective (my compliment as someone who has been analyzing women’s travel literature and different forms of life writings for years). However, I have doubts whether such a description negatively affects the book sales in Turkey since we do not have many feminist writers left. I felt like reaching an oasis in the desert of the contemporary literature market. Can a book about independent eccentric women who like to hang out on the roads of the non-Western geographies still sell?

         The major characters in the novel are extraordinary and deep. They are vulnerable inside, and as readers we have the privilege to know their ‘brokenness’ though they act tough in the story. The decision of hitting the road without a preplanned destination (except for some form of revenge plotted by Madam Lilla), the way they support each other, and sharing their most personal stories provide more than enough evidence to qualify the women as feminist characters. 

         The personal becomes the political and suddenly you realize that the political is mixed with the most private. For example, Maryam, who is a historian from Egypt, is doing something very revolutionary regarding her sexual life during the Tahrir Square protests. When she sums it up in one sentence at the beginning of the novel, Amira from Tunisia affirms Maryam’s story by saying “well-done, may your pleasure be great!” This response is a decisive stand against the status quo of sexual politics.  Plus, Maryam abandons her baby due to “some reasons.” In fact, she entrusts the baby to a female caretaker in whom she has full confidence (there is a subtle reference to Sounds of Bananas, Temelkuran’s first novel). Eventually, as the reader, you cannot categorize Maryam as the “monster mother,” a frequent label used by the Turkish media for women who dare to desert their babies.

         The title’s verbatim translation is Women Who Blow on Knots, with a poetic and mysterious resonance. However, it has a direct reference to the Surah al Falaq (Felak) in Quran. It refers to the women who are engaged in witchcraft, magic, secret plotting and seductive charm. I prefer the verb “breathe” to “blow” but the translator opted for the verb blow in English. The novel's subtitle in Turkish reads: “Çünkü bir erkek bir kadının nefesi kadar”, meaning, “because a man is only as much as a woman’s breath.” I assure you that these words will mean much more once you finish the book (I'm resisting spoilers here!) In certain geographies such as the wider Middle East (the road trip takes place) where oral traditions have been more powerful than written forms; one can literally breathe the words into people’s souls while making up stories.

         From the very beginning of the novel, these non-Western women drink frequently and in generous amounts for the reasons triggered by their own feelings, out of pleasure or sorrow, not to accompany or seduce a man. In the mornings, they make coffee or find a coffeehouse before they drive further. In that sense, these characters can be reverse reminiscent of free-spirited Dean Moriarty(s) in the novel On The Road. There is poetry and music, not jazz, but legendary female Arab singers like Asmahan, Warda and Fairouz along with Amy Winehouse. However, the free-spirited female characters are also kind of lost and give in to Madam Lilla, the most powerful and oldest woman in the novel, who has a plan to execute. The rest of the gang follow her, but not without reservations and they enjoy the ride.

         Keeping and enjoying one’s femininity is important in the story. Against the patriarchal, cultural and societal limitations, womanhood is highly valued (as much as the concept of sisterhood). There are many instances where the gender roles are reversed and this does not make the unusual female characters man-like (e.g., when a Bedouin turns out to be a woman). The story utilizes symbols of flowers such as jasmines and Judas flowers, and this is no Orientalist trick. Some wise women are hired by Madam Lilla to keep Judas trees alive and even bloom in the desert signaling sisterhood, solidarity and indeed femininity unspoiled by the harshness of a patriarchal system.  

         The sense of humor that the author exhibits throughout the story not only blocks the Orientalism, but also makes fun of it. For example, early in the novel, there is a Turkish bath scene which takes place in Tunisia, and I believe that the scene is deliberately set up to dismantle an overused women-only public space in Orientalist literature. Amira insists that the Turkish journalist and the Egyptian academic join her in a Turkish bath although both express dislike and do not want to visit it (indeed, Turkish women rarely go to hammams). Aside from a few middle-aged British tourists who are “determined to enjoy this experience so that they can have a grasp of pleasures of the East” (56), there are some upper-class local girls who mingle French words in their chat. Their conduct becomes extremely irritating for Amira who happened to know them before she left the country: “What kind of attitudes do they have? As if they are coming from Switzerland or something!” (57)These girls’ alienation from their own culture and their condescending attitude represent a different form of Orientalism which has not been widely analyzed in literature. In fact, not only the characters but the non-Western authors themselves can act like these Tunisian women, an attitude which Temelkuran carefully and deliberately avoids. This is tricky because the journey for Amira, Maryam and the anonymous journalist/narrator begins after a sexy dance performance of Madam Lilla. They then raise a toast for the future dance school that she is going to sponsor for Amira. The scene has the potential to be an Orientalist one; yet, it is not.

         Another parody of Orientalism occurs in an episode where the narrator describes Libyan girls watching the movie Sex & the City 2 and crying. The narrator finds it “odd” that these girls were “watching the Arab women constructed by Hollywood” (181). In Chapter 12, where Maryam, Amira and the Turkish journalist are hosted by the Amazigh female militia leader in Libya, they perform some sort of a belly dance in their bedroom (and in not-very-fancy white night gowns!) Paradoxically, the dance that they mimic called khavagi is supposed to be a lascivious one, but the women are only mocking it, laughing very hard as the narrator says: “because there are no men around, we can parody being a woman and make fun of our bodies” (152). They decorate this silent dance (they don’t want to be caught in this absurd situation) with quotations from Albert Camus, the Myth of Sisyphus, to be specific.

         On the other hand, the book exposes some vulnerabilities of these strong female characters. Readers soon discover that the women are hiding some hurtful abandonment of a mother figure in their souls. This negligence of the mother does not necessarily have to be taken in the literal sense. Thus, the ones who act like tomboys do so because of its practicality or despair. In fact, this becomes even clearer in the conversations of the women when they meet a six-year old girl named Melika in one of the houses they stay. Her energy and straightforwardness remind the women of the inner strength and creativity almost all girls enjoy at that age: “How powerful we could have been as women if our spirits remained unbroken and unhurt” (220). These lines remind me of the poem Barbie Doll by Marge Piercy. Initially, the girl in Piercy’s poem was “healthy, tested intelligent, possessed strong arms and back/ abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity,” but then, as she was growing up “She went to and fro apologizing” and “She was advised to play coy/exhorted to come on hearty/exercise, diet, smile and wheedle/Her good nature wore out like a fan belt.” Unfortunately, the destructive socialization of girls’ souls and bodies seems to be active across cultures.

         If you are one of those women who would also agree to hit the road with Madam Lilla and can imagine yourself in the car with the characters on the roads to Egypt, Tunisia, Libya and Beirut, maybe you should consider Madam Lilla’s observation: “You are already thrown out of your worlds, there is no room for you in your country or family, what is more is that they are afraid of you” (134).  Instead of fighting with this, why not enjoy the pleasures of the adventure called life? Why not befriend restlessness and listen to the call of the roads? It can be too late when you regret your decision to settle down, be a good girl or mother or wife. Despite its fairy-tale tone at times, the novel is full of wonderful statements uttered by wise women and goddesses. One of the most valuable ones for me was: “Do not betray your daughter and have trust in your sister.” Even if they carry Arab blood (!)This exclamation point is intentional, and because the author is extremely sensitive towards hidden racism and is well-aware of Turkish Orientalism. She displays Turkish people’s stereotypes and prejudices against Arabs and their inability and ignorance about differentiate between Arab cultures. Temelkuran exposes all these not only affectionately but also humorously. 

         After dealing with analysis of feminist literary works produced in different time periods, I have come to the decision that “sisterhood narratives” should only be introduced into a contemporary women’s story in an unexaggerated tone. Temelkuran has achieved it. In her book, there are references to the “repressed and fragmented women” in ourselves when we choose to settle down in one place or get married etc. We also have letters from the goddess Dido (the first Queen of Carthage, modern-day Tunisia) whose significance I won’t reveal here. There are women criticizing the Arab Spring, or convincing a cleaning lady in a hotel corridor of her daughter’s ‘good’ intentions in demonstrating in Tahrir. Wonderfully inserted and realistic details of the Arab Spring, “behind the scenes”! Yet, the male readers are not excluded. On the contrary, they are invited to smile at the secondary male characters which are constructed as clumsy, naïve, macho and totally unaware of the dynamics of the women’s worlds. With the exception of one (named after the prophet Ayyub due to his patience in love and dedication), the men are more or less caricatures of what can be observed around us. That is why I claim that Temelkuran’s readers, regardless of their gender, will be quick to smile and shake their heads as they turn the pages.

         This novel reads like a road-movie so it is no wonder that Temelkuran reported in one of her interviews that she visualizes scenes in her novel as if it were a movie. However, this is no Thelma & Louise. After all, as Madam Lilla says: “The only way for us to have a voice is to write our own stories” and “not to surrender” so killing one’s self is not the solution (223). The only rebellious (but dead!) Western woman referred to in the novel is Amy Winehouse; the women listen to her songs as they cross the desert. 

Because of its strong and travelling female characters, the novel challenges many clichés of Orientalist literature. I have loved travelling as a woman and I claim to be a good solo traveler. However, I have grown tired of the questions posed by the people I met on the road (as if the liberty and the means of traveling without male company is under the monopoly of American or European women). Until Women Who Blow on Knots, I have not yet read a novel or travel-fiction in which the protagonists are exclusively from non-Western countries and with Muslim backgrounds. 

         Madam Lilla, Maryam, Amira and the Turkish journalist are non-stereotypical and indeed uniquely constructed characters. This could potentially be the element to be focused on by literary scholars, especially in terms of analyzing representations of non-Western/Muslim female characters in novels. How many more “oppressed and sexualized” images of women can be created? Aren’t we fed up with those representations around the world? Maybe it is time to question our own images? Are you, as a brunette with a curvy figure and “cute” accent, likely to give in to the stereotypes and lie about your belly dancing skills? I highly recommend the novel to my colleagues and friends around the world who are familiar with my area of research, and thus can no longer even joke about ‘exotic women’ of the Middle East! Maybe it is time to reclaim my sense of humor thanks to Ece Temelkuran.