Field Work_Gaziantep Notes

After a smooth flight from Istanbul to Gaziantep, I took the shuttle to the city center, then a taxi whose driver was very grumpy to say the least, and boldly criticized the president and the sinking economy. After checking in to a room on the 4th floor, I looked out of the window to the piles of gray concrete buildings without any patch of green in sight. I felt cold, and realized that the A/C in the room was not working so I called to report the problem and went down to wait for Zizi. She moved to Gaziantep for work after a short episode in Istanbul and her detailed story can be found in Syrian Women Refugees. In January, she turned 40. 

Zizi was a bit late to the hotel but cheerful to see me after two years. In the back seat, her 11 year-old daughter Selin scanned me with her large and curious light blue eyes. I already knew a lot about her due to writing her mother’s life story for my book, but she probably didn’t know that. She could easily pass as a Scandinavian girl with her platinum blond hair and pale skin yet her Syrian ID and Turkish residency permit belie this impression quickly. She is only allowed to live in Gaziantep and needs permission to travel across cities even within Turkey. 

Selin has almost no recollection of Syria and speaks fluent Turkish. Her mother enjoys our quick bonding, and I know she is very proud of her two daughters. First, we go to a cafe that is run by Turks and Syrians. We can skip small talk since Zizi shared a lot with me already even after the book was out. There was a time she cut our communication off and today, she tells me why: “You reminded me of things that I was trying hard to forget. We Syrians want to begin a new life but it is almost impossible. I’ve been attending a therapy group in Istanbul, organized and funded by the Swedish Consulate, and it’s doing me good.” She shows me a picture of a Nordic-looking woman whose face radiates “like an angel,” in her words. I took her name since I may need her advice on vicarious trauma, a common issue experienced by hearing accounts of traumatic experiences.

The Eskici Cafe was huge,  lively with young men and women, and next to a kindergarten. Smoking bothered me a lot but since Zizi herself was a smoker, I didn’t say anything. It was also a shisha (water-pipe) place and restaurant. Over our coffee chat during which Selin intervened from time to time, Zizi mentioned her new job, how she could no longer suppress the urge to go back to NGO work, and this time, it involved more direct interaction with real people. Then she asked me whether I’ve heard of the movie “for Sama” and I said yes. I even shared that the trailer triggered something in me, and caught me off guard only a few days ago so I decided to postpone watching the documentary. “well…” she says, “the director is a very good friend of mine,” and shows me the pictures taken when she drove them to the airport for their flight to London last month, where Waad and her family now live, and that is where they flew to Hollywood for the Oscar Ceremony as “for Sama” was among the Best Documentary nominees. Zizi was proud with her friend, and told me how modest Waad remains, and sees the whole thing as an ‘opportunity’ to create more awareness with what has been going on in Syria.

Then, Zizi showed me the dress that Waad wore for the Oscars, a sharp and elegant political statement. As Zizi translated the Arabic script on the dress into English for me, her large green-blue eyes got teary but she was able to hold them. We simultaneously glanced at Selin who seemed oblivious to our conversation, fully immersed in her smartphone. Syrian children are used to their parents talking about ‘the situation’, and switching from a massacre story to the kind of crepe or waffle to choose on the menu (as we did!) in multiple languages. Syria is a vague motherland (‘vatan’ is a shared word in Turkish and Arabic) and Turkey is the concrete one that they go to school and socialize. Selin gives a big hug to the Turkish manager of the cafe who greets her by name, and they joke back and forth in Turkish. I order coffee with cardamom (kahwat al-hail) and because of my bad pronunciation it sounds like ‘coffee with hell’! Selin looks very confused, we all begin to laugh, and I can already tell that it will become an insider joke in coming years.