Tag Archives: Bodrum

Death in America, Death in Turkey: The Karagöz puppets work on cultural awareness

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A few Ottoman Turkish gravestones in Urfa (photo by Liz Cameron)

Once nestled into every imaginable nook and cranny of the space in and around our airplane seats, the Karagöz puppet troupe breathed a sigh of relief at making it through the security lines unscathed and relatively un-bothered, all things considered.Karagöz puppets, you see, have their own version of scanners, in which their bring-to-life dowels must be removed before boarding the metal giants known as airplanes.Karagöz himself had settled in to the top of the seat in front of me – needling the young boy in front of me so much that he began kicking the back of his chair frantically, nearly giving me a bruise as big as a hydroponic grape leaf as I tried to right my lanky self from stowing my bag under the seat.Annoyed at Karagöz as well as the boy, but determined to support the already mortified young parents in front of me, I let it out inside my mind. “Really, a sigh of relief? You think you have it bad?” I snapped at them as I adjusted my long legs into the small space, “you are a puppet figment of my imagination, don’t you realize that I just made up an EASY passage through security for puppets? Didn’t you see what we had to go through?” The little chorus of dancing ladies saw my hot-and-bothered-ness and in the absence of a tea cooking implement, just began to jump up and down on my shoulders in a chain-reaction unison in order to massage the grump out of me.And it was into this moment, that M. leaned his head on my shoulder, told me he loved me, and explained that he would like to know what to expect in the weeks to come with my Father in hospice.”What,” he said carefully and respectfully, “exactly is hospice? And what do I need to do? And what should I expect? And…what happens after the end?”Pleased at his questions, and surprised by an uncharacteristically gentle approach to posing what can be interpreted as difficult or challenging statements, I kissed him and began to explain a bit about what I know about death in America, the hospice care movement, religious services in the Unitarian Universalist tradition and the tradition of cremating vs. embalming a body.

Holding my hand carefully as he listened to me, M. was calm and thoughtful as he took it in. The puppets, however, were looking on in increasing horror as I got to the cremation part of the explanation – and nearly fell out of their cornice-like squirrel spots when I got to the firy end.

“You mean,” Hacivad Bey said carefully, speaking for the troupe, “you BURN the body?”

“Well, my dear friend Hacivad,” Yehuda Rebbe chided, “it is not as bad as the purity-seeking Zoroastrians, who wash the body with unconsecrated bull’s urine before leaving the body to be eaten by scavenger animals. A poetic ashes-to-ashes like notion to be sure, but not for the faint of heart. I suppose I would take cremation.”

Clucking like the chicken-maiden she is, Kenne, the Queen Puppet of Ladylike Behavior and Manners Maven (her title changes, apparently, to suit the specifics of the occasion) slipped out from the airline safety card manual, and pronounced the following – “Use this, ignorant puppets, as a moment in which you can heighten your inter-cultural awareness, and perhaps gain some key knowledge about the etiquette of death-time management to support M’lady and Sir in the weeks to come!”

Giggling at Kenne, I simultaneously realized that I didn’t know much about death in Turkey, other than burial and mourning happens very fast, I asked the same questions of M. “How, canım, does this all go down in Turkiye?”

“Well,” M. began, rubbing his hands together as if to warm up for a long story, “although this is technically a secular country – which as you know I do not totally agree with – death rituals are mandated. The body must be washed by a gender-matched person and treated in a Muslim-run morgue right away, I think they face the head to Mecca, tie the big toes together and rest the arms on the side of the body. Remember when we visited that village outside of Afrodesias on the way to Bodrum a few years ago – and the man there insisted on giving us that death herb? That is the herb that is used to wash the body.”

An odd trio – we were gifted one cucumber and an herb used to wash dead bodies by a man at a gas station near Afrodesias one day – I added the items to my solo pine cone and contemplated them for the rest of the drive into Bodrum… (photo by Liz Cameron)

Stuck on my memory of that odd interaction – and how I considered the herb afterwards on our dashboard all afternoon (it was placed next to the cucumber the man also gave us, and a large pine cone I picked up for my mother’s collection) – my brow was furrowed. I was particularly interested in the mandated end-of-life Mecca direction positioning and wondered what happened to the religious minorities in Turkey upon death. Instead of asking, I listened on.

“There is always a service at the mosque, usually within three days. The body is dressed in white…After the service, the imams come to your house afterwards to loudly-intone the mevlit prayers. You know about the İrmik Helvası.”

Reaching a crossroads in our conversation, M. stopped, perhaps pondering his words a bit, or clearing his mind. “You know, he said firmly, “I do not want this. I want to be cremated and spread in the ocean…so let’s hope I don’t die in Turkiye!” With this we had a good laugh as the puppets giggled out of some nervous attempt to engage in respectful behavior, even Karagöz. I think, however, that Karagöz was just pretty excited to hear M. utter this utterly oppositional request!

 
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Karagöz puppets in Pansyland: M’lady and the puppets review Perking the Pansies: Jack and Liam Move to Turkey

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Cover of Perking the Pansies: Jack and Liam Move to Turkey (image thanks to Jack Scott and Summertime Publishing)

Earlier this month, I wrote about Elif Şafak, the Turkish author who in her brilliant talk on the politics of fiction also addressed the importance of sharing and feeling stories in ways that allow for the crossing of cultures and true connection. And it is in this spirit that I feel Jack Scott has written his new book, Perking the Pansies: Jack and Liam Move to Turkey. By sharing his experiences, Jack treats us to a window into an unexpected world – warts and wonders alike.

As a fellow chronicler of the navigation of relationships in Turkish and other settings, I was particularly interested in understanding how Jack and Liam worked as a couple to both adjust to and enjoy their new surround…and the book did not disappoint. Let it be known that by “surround,” I am referring to the fact that Jack and Liam are English men who have moved to Turkey – in the face of potential homophobia even in artistic Bodrum, the “Bohemian oasis” in Turkey.

But let me start at the beginning, as I was starting to meander around what Jack calls Pansyland and what Elif Şafak might refer to as another circle for exploration and wall-breaking. When I first stumbled upon Perking the pansies, the uproarious and ribald blog kept by Jack about his life with husband Liam in Bodrum, Turkey, I knew I had found a gem. Enthralled by his rat-a-tat-tat speed of witticism and truly lovely snark, I became one of his many devoted readers.

As a new blogger focused on writing about my Turkish-American cross-cultural marriage, I always found myself inspired by Jack’s observations – not to mention his dogged blogging. Although he does not know it, Jack has in many ways inspired me to keep going on my own project…and to be brave about saying what I see, speaking about how I feel and thinking on what it may and may not mean in life. When I first read Jack’s sample chapters and realized a book was on the way – I knew something wonderful this way was coming…and was thrilled at the prospect of adding something more interesting to my bedside table than the stack of dry, academic tomes I read for work on a daily basis.

As I read Jack’s book late into the first night I got my hands on the book, the puppets reading avidly along on my shoulders, I found streaks of my own experiences in Bodrum and other parts of Turkey – but with a wonderful new lens. Having spent time in Bodrum with a range of Turkish characters that I wish I had Jack’s skill to categorize so hysterically, I have also had the opportunity to observe the various expats Jack so perfectly categorizes with his wicked wit. In the book, Jack brings to life the VOMITs (Victims of Men in Turkey), the Bodrum Belles, the Semigreys, the Emiköys (expats living in ‘real’ Turkish villages) and the like. Through these archetypes, I could relate to Jack’s story in my own way – and in many ways this brought me some measure of peace by seeing that my interpretations of life in Bodrum were not out there on the gangplank, alone and wrong at their worst. I found that they were also sparkling at their best due to Jack’s portrayals. What is perhaps best about the characters in the book is what Jack models – that we all need to make fun of ourselves at times – and of the ridiculous around us – and while Jack does this brilliantly – this is not his only feat.

Having now read through the book twice, each time read non-stop, cover to cover, alternately laughing and crying, I am still struck by the engaging verve and jauntiness with which Jack writes. As a professor of statistics, I have yet to calculate the odds of (as Jack puts it) “two openly gay, recently ‘married’ middle aged, middle class men escaping the liberal sanctuary of anonymous London to relocate to a Muslim country” but for once, I am happy (no, thrilled) to put down my academic mantle and just enjoy Jack’s infectious verve, as my Granny would say! Speaking of infectious verve, this book is filled with fabulous Britishisms. Jack’s book has kept me busy explaining Cockney rhyming slang and the like to M. – not to mention the puppets that inhabit my head, especially that wicked trickster Karagöz who cannot stop adding “innit” (isn’t it) to the end of his sentences now, as in “Lor’ luv a duck! this book is right funny, innit?” or “Awright geeezzaa! you are an’ all uptight trouble and strife, Kenne, run up those apples and pears and leave me ter read dis book in peace, innit?”

But beyond the hilarity of the language which hurtles the story along at breakneck pace, there is a lot here. Let’s take the pure fact that this book documents the everyday realities of two gay men on a true adventure unlike one we hear about everyday in this globalized, adventure-is-constant-seeming world. Having watched friends and colleagues endlessly worry about, strategize around and bravely address the often merciless ravages of homophobia in American society (and particularly in American academe where one might perhaps least expect it), I loved reading about the forthright living of life out loud that Jack and Liam are doing in a most unexpected place. I am reminded of the poignant party scene where Jack and Liam show their wedding video – and melt all of the hearts in the room. Despite the challenges of living in a cold and drippy wintry expat village from, at times, hell, this was an illuminating and of course, heartwarming, moment. As Jack puts it, “at times I think we’re floundering around like idiots, but now and then I think we’re making a real difference.” I couldn’t agree more with the latter point.

Beyond the power of presence and the bravery of being out in Turkey – the wonder of Perking the Pansies is also in its stories. It is through the stories of the lovely Üzgün (and his eventual murder) and sweet baby Adalet (and her eventual adoption) that we get a sense of more of the depth of Jack and Liam’s experience in Turkey as expats – both in terms of the challenges of living life as out gay men – and of the joys of friendship and relationship in the face of navigating a new and sometimes truly confusing culture. It is, after all, through our relationships with different people that we find the truth that perhaps all expats seek, I would argue. And as Jack narrates the couple’s first year in Turkey, we can see the truth of their good and life-changing decision emerging. It leaves me wanting to hear more about what unfolds, and what is under the veil of these characters over time. Where will all of this lead Jack and Liam? Well, I am sure we will see. Let’s hope they don’t abscond for Bulgaria anytime soon.

As for the puppets, they are over by the Christmas tree, cheering mightily about the book – and riding our dog around the apartment as if he was an elephant during the Raj in India while they wait for their individual turn to read the book. Karagöz is leading the cheer – “give me a P” he screams – to which the puppets tumbled themselves up into the shape of a P (much to the chagrin of the dog). Esma continues on – “give me an A” she cried – so excited that jasmine blooms started shooting out of her ears (which only happens when she is in a state of true bliss). Tiryaki, the opium addict who usually nods his way through the day, in a rare moment of energy on an opium-free day calls out “yeah, man, give me an N, you know for nargile, like on the cover of the book, to smoke from.” Bebe Ruhi, the questioner with Dwarfism, not wanting to be left out, and always wanting to find an opportune moment for a question, said “yes, and give me an S, for so many stories to ask more about.” Since nobody is home to think I am crazy for talking to my imaginary puppet friends (um, are they?), I jump up and join the crew – “give me a Y” I yell happily, ” it’s PANSY time!”

QUOTES FROM THE PUPPETS ON PERKING THE PANSIES: All of the puppets are so excited about this book – but they are sharing one copy – so far – only five have read the book cover to cover on their own – and here is what they have to say…

Karagöz the irreverent puppet who loves to create chaos and is not very learned says: “I love the brash and real style that Jack embodies in his writing. I’m a simpleton, not much for books, but this one made me want to read a lot more! I love that Jack and Liam are out, loud and proud.”

Hacivad Bey the learned Sufi has this to say “Rumi teaches us to love – and to be lovers of the world. Jack opens his heart in this writing – and writes about the search for meaning in life through this new adventure. I applaud his work in this arena. As the Mevlana himself used to say, he never thought he was a poet until he met Shams of Tabriz, and then it flowed out of him. Looks like Jack has found his muse.”

Zenne, the nervous nellie, is transfixed, and has this to say about the book “Well, I was quite nervous to read the book, I worried, what if I don’t like it? I really want to like it. But I loved it – and it made me see that even if there is fear about doing something brave – like moving to a new country as a gay couple – that fear can be overcome in the face of fun, adventure and community-building. Where’s the Valium – I want adventure!”

Tiryaki, the opium addict cum surfer dude, has this to say: “Dude, these guys know how to have a good time – a rockin’ read I’d stay straight for.”

Esma, the little hippie puppet, has this to say “as a traveler and lover of life, I applaud what Jack and Liam have done – taken a stand for themselves, for their sanity, for their relationship. These men know what is important – and have fun along the way. They shared it with us, and this gives us inspiration on our own journey to truth through m’lady’s cross-cultural marriage. Here is cheers to the examined life!”

Bebe Ruhi, the incessant question-asker, only has this to say “what will happen next? I’m dying to know!”

Buy the book – an Amazon bestseller! Enjoy Pansyland!

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The golden shadow puppets lead me to Rumi’s words on letting go, and getting back

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I am awake in dreamland. I have been having a lot of anxiety dreams at night.  M. has had a few in Turkish as well, sometimes  he sounds as though he is cajoling, sometimes yelling, sometimes begging, sometimes just talking and laughing, all I can understand is “ben” (I) and “falan filan” (yadda yadda). We  keep waking eachother up with it all.  I fall asleep eventually, usually practicing the sounds of Turkish letters over and over in order to at least not waste time spent wide awake.  I know that I am really lying here, asleep in North America, but my mind takes me somewhere else as I just succumb to the dream.  I am going somewhere with golden light.  Is it the autumnal light of Bozcaada?  Is it the Ottoman Empire era?  Everything around me looks ancient and familiar yet unfamiliar.  I am unsettled by the sheer presence of the space in this dream. 

Hanging above me, I can see the illuminated faces of the lady shadow puppets, holding some sort of vigil around me.  I am in their teacup or their cocoa bowl, if Ottomans drank cocoa, maybe this is a French interpretation of Ottoman lady shadow puppets.  It is a dream after all.  Their faces, all waxy and opaque, are strangely large in the fisheye lens of my dream at the periphery.  Honey amber light surrounds me in my sleeping eye.  I stop worrying about my surroundings. 

My pupils are focused in on the photo set of my dream.  A stack of rich, opulent-feeling photos are placed neatly in a square, with equal spaces between them.  I can see myself picking them up, putting them down in other places, shifting them from here to there.  Somehow, I will “get this right.” My heart rate increases as I try to get just the right composition and I turn to myself and tell myself to wake myself up, to wake up M. next to me, to get the right advice on how to make a composition that is artful, graceful and functional. 

All of the images in the photos are ancient and golden.  Sheafs of wheat from the fields, stacks of coins tied with red ribbons (ready to be pinned on a traditional Turkish bride), oilskin-punctured lanterns bereft at the swath of diamond shapes cut across them, slithering tawny tones of silk that undulates from bolts of fabric caught in a moment in time, light of the afternoon sun behind a minaret and then a familiar hand, the hand of a family member, the one I have been so upset about recently. 

There is a photo of her hand and I can tell it is caught, mid-expression, in a moment of happiness and excited utterances.  I can tell by the dusky light and greenish grey flashed images behind that it was a photo that is not ancient, and not Ottoman-focused, like the rest of the images, but rather modern, with a timeless quality.  It is a photo that most people would think was a mistake, an enlarged image from an Instagram photo taken when the light was waning.  I pick up the photo, intent on placing it in just the right place.  I labor over this, for dream-hours.  Just as I place it in the perfect spot in my memory board-like space before me, the door slams open and a breeze blows this one picture down and away not to be found again.  The sense of dread shocks me taught and upright.  The little chorus of dancing ladies circle around me, guiding my tense and stuck hand to the picture of lanterns.  I pick it up and stare at it.  I guess I am looking for a way into the picture.  The longer I stare, the more I see through those diamond-shaped cutouts and soon, I catch a glimpse of that beloved hand once again, doing just fine, on some other side. 

I wake up to the pitter patter of Hacivad crawling up the nighttable to place himself, lotus-like, on my left shoulder.  As I wait for him to assume the position, I reflect that this is the oddest anxiety dream I have ever had.  He whispers to me the following words: “Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form. So says the Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi.  You may have lost your trust in the care of your family member, but it will come back in good ways.”

Leave it to the shadow puppets to start communicating with me in dreams again, it has been a long time since they showed up in a boat, just before I left the States for Turkey for the first time.  An insatiable yawn rising up, I thanked Hacivad and promptly drifted back to sleep.

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