Category Archives: Gendered moments

Taş gibi: Of language mis-steps, traffic jams and hot Turkish women

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Taş means stone in Turkish (Image from www.resimler.co)

Taş means stone in Turkish (Image from http://www.resimler.co)

“Taş gibi.”  I heard this phrase a lot while two young Turkish American men were living in our house.  I never could quite get the context, as their voices would lower to decibels my old ears couldn’t decipher well.  This usually took place as these young men were checking out their possible future dates on Facebook, for example.

During these episodes, Kenne, the Queen of Manners and Maintenance of Ladylike Behavior would “hurumph!” her way out of the room – dragging her handmaiden Zenne (the nervous Nellie like a bowl of quivering jelly) out of the room at breakneck pace.  It reminded me of the goat-bleating sound of horror my grandmother made when I was in the unfortunate position of explaining to her the OTHER purpose for dental dams back in the days when I did HIV/AIDS prevention work with women.  I will not elaborate further.

But in any case, back to the term taş gibi.  I had learned early on that taş referred to “stone” and I remembered this as I knew someone with Taş in their last name.  It  had also been early on in my time with M. that I learned the term buz gibi,  which when translated directly means “as cold as ice.”  So, as I sat at the dining room table with these young men, I finally put it together – something is like stone.  “Horrible,” I though sadly, “that they are referring to these young women as being like stone – they should give them a chance – maybe they are just shy!” I never shared these views as I didn’t want to interfere with the brotherly good time that was going on at the table.  Boys will be boys and all – they got enough feminist propaganda from me anyway, I thought.  As I was thinking this to myself, pretty much the ENTIRE puppet troupe was cackling and howling, slapping their knees and falling all over themselves with a case of the contagious giggles.

Istanbul's Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge in traffic (Image from Today's Zaman)

Istanbul’s Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge in traffic (Image from Today’s Zaman)

After months and months of watchful attempts for moments in which the use of my newly understood phrase did not appear – I found my moment.  Gülay was very kindly going out of her way to give us a ride.  There we were, sitting in the thick, stalled Istanbul traffic, trying to get onto the Fatih Sultan Mehmet bridge (a.k.a. the “second bridge”) to cross the Bosphorus on the way to Sabiha Gökçen Havaalanı for our trip to Dalyan to visit the Archers of Okçular for the first time.  We were stuck, nothing was moving, minutes and minutes had gone by and the three young men and my husband in the back of the car had entirely demolished the sesame-covered simit that Gülay had bought from the vendor out of the window.  Feeling very proud of myself – I gestured around at the traffic with my right hand, and said with beaming pride “Taş gibi!”

Silence hit the car – and I began to blush.  I thought, perhaps my accent is bad, although M. tells me that it is not as do others, so, I said it again “Taş gibi! No?”.  Gülay looked at me with a sidelong glance.  “What is it you are trying to say?” she asked calmly, always gentle with me as she is (and for which I am grateful).

I explained through the blushing “the traffic….it’s, well, it’s stuck – you know – like stone!”  At this point the entire human and puppet population of the car began to guffaw as if there was no tomorrow. I didn’t know what to do with my face or hands – I knew that the horrible truth would be out in moments but that I just had to wait.

“Taş gibi!” Gülay giggled, “M. you need to explain this term to your wife.”  Before M. could get there – one of Gülay‘s sons snorted out an explanation “it means a hot chick – you know – not super skinny – but with some meat on her bones – a real lady – not a thinspiration type!”

Here is what we are talking about:

This is what taş gibi is all about! (Image from galeri.uludagsozluk.com)

This is what taş gibi is all about! (Image from galeri.uludagsozluk.com)

Finally, I had the freedom to laugh along with them.  And all agreed that indeed, the traffic could be described as Taş gibi as well!

Uç kadından biri: One billion Karagöz puppets rising!

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One billion rising on V-day! (Image from UNLV.EDU)

One billion rising on V-day! (Image from UNLV.EDU)

One billion rising. I’ve seen a plethora of these three words over the past weeks, and so have the Karagöz puppets (when they sneak on my iPhone or iPad at night when I’m sleeping).

“What billion things, pray tell,” Hacivad Bey leaned in to ask me, “are rising?”

“Balloons?” Safiye Rakkase suggested, hopefully, “pink ones, for Valentine’s day?”

“Yeast bubbles for sourdough bread?” Mercan Bey questioned, his hands full as he was making his new favorite New World bread by hand for the afternoon meal.

“Colorful kites on a breezy day?” Esma, the hippie puppet added in, a glint in her eye at the prospect of it.

“Well no, puppet friends,” I said with concern in my voice, and a serious tone. “This ‘one billion rising’ is a movement that is centered around women on Valentine’s day, which of course, on the face of it, is a day about love –“

“AND COMMERCIALISM!” Karagöz screeched as he swang into the conversation on our chandelier. “DON’T FORGET ABOUT THE MARKET ECONOMY TAKING ADVANTAGE OF THAT THIN OLD THING CALLED LOVE.”

“Well of course, yes, Karagöz,” I sighed, “I was getting to that. But actually, even WORSE than commercialism is the reality of violence against women. The number one billion was chosen, as I understand it, because one in three women will be beaten or raped in her life.”

A collective sigh and hush washed across the puppet troupe standing before me on the dining room table. All of the puppets started looking in different directions, becoming, for example, fascinated in the backs of their hands or their shoelaces.

In the silence of the puppets’ discomfort and consideration, I thought about how violence against women has touched my life. In addition to studying this matter as an academic, I have worked with men accused of committing acts of violence against women, have organized a “Rape Free Zone” to raise awareness of date rape on University campuses (re: both men and women) and have also been a survivor of violent acts committed by men on more than one occasion. The topic of violence against women is one that has, unfortunately, been a central theme in my life whether I like it or not, whether it has been for good or naught. It is also a topic that M. and I speak of openly – and one that he decries, educated by his own Anne (Mother, in Turkish) to “not be a macho, no matter what! And don’t hit women!” I won’t even get into the assumption that some of my well-meaning friends have intimated re: my Turkish husband’s predilection for “culturally normative”violence.

My thoughts were interrupted by Yedhuda Rebbe, who had stepped forth in the silence, head high as a stallion silent and strong in preparation for a race. “Yes,” he announced loudly, “violence against women.”

Silence abounded in the dining room. I waited to see where Yehuda Rebbe was going with this. His voice would hold sway over mine, to be sure, in teaching the puppets.

“I am a man, and over the many centuries I have lived as a member of this phantasmagorical, body-inhabiting Karagöz puppet troupe, I have seen a lot of it in the Sultan’s palaces – and beyond.” A shuffling and whispering commenced amongst the puppets. I tried to retreat into ‘fly on the wall’ status.

“Now, puppet friends, we have lived through much together as a group since our birth in the 1300s back in Bursa, Turkey. And none of you can deny that violence against women has been observed – but also that the tolerance for this is shifting. We see this when we sneak onto M’lady’s smartphone and iPad to learn about the modern world..this is wrong and this shall not be tolerated. We cannot ignore this anymore.”

Raising her fist in solidarity with Yehuda Rebbe, Esma the hippie puppet voiced her support for his sentiments as if her heart had melted into her voice like the snow coming down from the Uludaĝ mountains in the spring rivers.

Zenne, the puppet known as the ultimate nervous Nellie like a bowl of jelly made her way to the front of the crowd, sidling up to Esma – who placed a protective and supportive arm around her. “I may be silent much of the time, and nervous, but I have read of this matter, violence against human women. And I want to take this opportunity to share this information from what M’lady says is a well-done study from the United Nations with you.” (An article about which you can find here – with Turkey featured).

In the old world of the Sultan’s palace, we did not document such incidents, and indeed we likely accepted violence as between a man and a woman – or just a non issue. In today’s Turkey – the remnants of the Ottoman Empire in which we were born – this is as much of a problem as it is here in our new adopted country here with M’lady.” Shivering a bit, she drew strength as the puppets moved their camel-skin hands forward one by one, shoulder to shoulder until all of that puppet love and energy manifested on Zenne’s shoulder

“Here,” she said, her voice shaking, “is what we know about violence against women in Turkey…39% of women report suffering intentional physical violence by a man at some time in their lives. And that’s just physical violence – violence can take other forms.”

“And here,” she said a bit more strongly now, “is what we know about the United States…22% of women report suffering intentional physical violence by a man at some time in their lives”

There were some dejected looks, some crying and some weeping. But before I knew it, the entire Karagöz puppet troupe was rising, floating, gathering hands together and swirling messages of hope and reality to the other Karagoz puppets all around the world – and other tribes of puppets in the United States and beyond (such as, for example, the Sultan of Nutcrackers and his collection down in Provincetown) – and across all of the many the oceans and lands between our dining room and Türkiye. May some of that good energy infuse in all the right places.

Violence against women is a universal phenomenon…you can learn more by clicking this link.

And to learn more about what is happening re: One Billion Rising in Turkey – you can check out a recent article in Today’s Zaman, one of the English-language paper in Turkey.

But most of all, please focus on love today, in all of its shapes and forms.

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Writing about fear: An afternoon excursion in Nişantaşı (Part 2)

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Nişantaşı (Image by Isik5 at deviantart.com)

Nişantaşı (Image by Isik5 at deviantart.com)

Note to readers: This is the second in a series of posts about my writing on fear as part of the worldwide, place-passionate group of writers called #38Write. I chose to write about fear in the context of my Turkish-American marital roadtrip. Specifically, I am exposing and exploring my embarrassing fear of walking around by myself in Istanbul. You can read the seeds of how this came to be here.

In the last 24 hours or so, I have realized that my fear – which I already KNEW was not based in a statistical reality – was more about honoring a different family culture, my husband’s. i realized this thanks to the illuminating comments from two other women married to Turks whose American-based husbands have similar fears for their wives – despite liberal values, etc. Also, from another comment-leaver, I realize that my fear also probably relates to becoming middle aged. I grew up traveling and was generally probably too fearless in some instances (traveling every line if the Moscow subways solo, exploring the world at the end of each line – with rudimentary Russia at age 14? After ditching the Intourist guide?)

In any case, I am truly grateful for the generous, thoughtful & kind comment-leavers from my last post who analyzed along with me, invited me to go out with them and just generally helped me to get to the next step in analyzing this crazy fear.

I want to be clear that It wasn’t that I feared what happened to Sarai Sierra for Myself as much as it was that her death stirred up my thinking on the topic. To think that I was afraid to walk around the wealthy areas of Nişantaşı or Şişli – is laughable to me today (she says, blushing).

In any case, today’s post is the story of one day, about two years ago, when I finally ventured out of the Istanbul apartment on my own. While fear and anxiety are all over this essay – I feel myself beyond this now…and I think my husband is not too far behind on this!
—

Just the bare bones of the call to prayer trickle through the window. I wonder if my husband is hearing this, the afternoon ezan, while visiting a friend on Buyuk Ada – I’m not even sure there is a mosque there. Everyone else is at work, and I am wasting the day away inside my Istanbul apartment prison. I have the card key to the apartment. I can leave if I want to. The outside taxi cacophony chills my skin with its whirs and whizzes. I contemplate my self-imposed confinement. My fingers and toes touch the leaded window over the neighborhood; the coursing warmth of the city just at the bottom of the hill.

My fear’s zenith propels my turn away from the window, to the door. I’m going to do it. The formal clank of the leaden door behind me amputates some fear. Blood pounds hypertense in my ears. Sunshine softens my goosebumps. I target the mall below, across the boulevard. I’m in the mood for some buttery, cheese-filled börek, why not step out for some?

Stinging doubts swarm me as soon as the thought is out. My husband’s fear, my brother-in-law’s fear and my Father’s fear merged into the idea of me, walking alone, in Istanbul. “I’m an experienced traveler – why is this happening? What’s the matter with me?” But I am circumnavigating the curling stairs to the street. My throat constricts in exhaust-fume chilled garage. I swallow the thickening mucus of fear. Once outside, I squint in the golden warmth, locating my New York street-crossing skills while dodging cars.

Entering the mall, it’s a familiar drill. Place the bag on the magnetometer. Greet the attendant with “Iyi Günler.” Walk on. My heart rusts as the smiling, familiar attendant greets me with more than the usual pleasantries. This guard with the modern blue hijab recognizes me. Blushing, I muster “sorry, don’t understand!” She rubs my shoulder knowingly, waives me on with a smile. I feel comfort for a moment – the fear in my mind’s eye distracted. I am known here.

Stepping onto the speeding escalator, I accidentally brush against a middle-aged man, and feel my skin is still on red alert. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. He doesn’t seem to notice. I pose myself with the question – “what could happen in a shopping mall? Why am I worried about this?” I make sure my wedding ring is showing.

Cupping my lira in my pocket, I head for the börekci. I am so focused on practicing my order in mental loops, that I overshoot the entrance. Not wanting to look stupid, I walk around the block again for a second try. I try on an ‘I-belong-here’ swagger at entry. Grinning nervously, my Turkish is quickly answered in English. I slink to the farthest table. I spoon slow, deliberate portions of hot, buttery börek into my mouth. A few unadulterated moments of normalcy emerge from the noodles, maybe even some joy. Perhaps I should walk into Nişantaşı and sit in the park around the mosque? I begin to rationalize the idea, thinking “lots of women sit there with their kids. Isn’t the language of women and children universal? This is a modern city – this is not Tehran or Qatar. I don’t have to veil. I’m dressed more conservatively than my Turkish niece who left the house in a micro-mini this morning. I shouldn’t be fearful as a woman. I should just go out and walk around.”

As my plate cools, my worries begin to simmer again, “I should go home. This is enough. What if the building guard doesn’t recognize me? What if the key card to the apartment doesn’t work?” Oddly, my calm consumes these worries in one messy gulp. Warming to taking the long way home, I head out. My legs ache with shin splints as I negotiate the steep hill. Children are laughing and playing in the park – it’s just a block away. Traversing the park, I smile at the mothers and children, but I am unnoticed. All the park benches are filled, so I pretend to intentionally cross the street in an arc towards home. My brain is an odd mix of puffed up peacock and plummeting pigeon careening down the hill. My knees hurt from the angle of the street as I feel the comfort of the guard at my apartment block. He lets me pass. The key card works. The door closes me in again. I deflate, shivering in the cold air conditioning.

The clock tells me I was gone for about fifteen minutes.