Tag Archives: cross-cultural

Writing about fear: Sarai Sierra in Istanbul (Part 1)

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Rest in Peace Sarai Sierra (Image from ABC News)

Rest in Peace Sarai Sierra (Image from ABC News)

Hello dear readers. Well, I’m ashamed to say that I’ve  been on another silent and unexpected sojourn away from blogging, mostly due to the continued keşmekeş related to my in-process epiphany about the purpose of this blog – and the memoir it is attached to.

My epiphany has been inspired, in part, by my participation in the wonderful worldwide, online writing group called #38Write.  This past month, we wrote on the topic “I eat fear.”  As I am using my participation in #38Write to foster writing related to my memoir on my Turkish-American marital road trip, I of course had to address the topic of fear in that context.

And so, in looking for a topic to write about related to my marriage, I decided to push myself to write about something I am embarrassed about. This writing topic has been so very unexpected for me – my own fear about solo excursions around Istanbul when not on Bozcaada.  The truth is, this fear has evolved in the 9 years I have been together with my husband.  The other embarrassing truth is that this fear has grown, in fact, from the parallel fears of my husband, my brother-in-law and my father about me, going out, alone, in Istanbul. What is especially odd to me is that my Turkish and American families are totally secular, open-minded and liberal gender-wise, all things considered.  Writing this, I cringe at when I think of the smart cadre of American women e-acquaintances married to Turks that might catch wind of this (Justine Ickes over at Culture Every Day, Catharine Bayar over at Bazaar Bayar, the inimitable women of Global Niche – Tara Aacayak and Anastasia Ashman and others).

It is worth it to note that I am blushing as I write this – it sounds ridiculous to my ears, as an experienced traveler and an independent-minded feminist, that I would be afraid to go out on the street alone even with some significant street smarts.

–Am I not the person who dodged my Soviet Intourist guide at age 16 to walk the 1984 streets of Tbilisi, Georgia unencumbered?

–Am I not the person who did home visits to my criminal defendant clients alone in some unsavory sections of the Bronx?

–Am I not the person who took a significant jaunt away from family in Corsica, speaking barely any French?

–Am I not the person who has been traveling to not-your-average destinations since I was a young teen?

Mercy, what the hell has happened to my independence – or is it some sort of common sense evolution?  Yes, I am all those Liz Camerons I listed above, but I am still afraid to go around Istanbul on my own. 

So, OK, I am afraid to go around Istanbul on my own, but what does this have to do with my memoir-writing epiphany? Well, it relates to my over-zealous effort to balance the negative dominant society imagery about Turkish men, violence against women in the Middle East and the general notion of safety for Americans in Turkey.  I wanted to allay and balance people’s worst fears about my husband, his birth country and my safety in Istanbul.  And part of this related to the pain of seeing my husband (who does not fit the typical macho Turkish male stereotype) and his birth country stereotyped by some dear friends in this regard.  And while this remains true, what I have come to see is that my overbearing attempt to dispel some stereotypes about Turks led me to realize that I wasn’t accepting of what can be the worst of Turkey or, for that matter, any culture. It can, of course, happen anywhere. And, I’ll have to deal with the stereotypes that emerge from such incidents no matter what.

So this has been in the back of my mind as I have been musing on how to proceed with my memoir – but of course, the death of Sarai Sierra (an American woman traveling in Istanbul) – has brought it boiling over, right to the front burner of my mental stove.  Ms. Sierra was a young photographer, wife and mother from Staten Island, New York, who had disappeared on the day she was to return from her trip.  As I understand it, it was her first trip outside of the United States, a trip Ms. Sierra was to take with a friend who had to cancel at the last minute – so she went anyway.  I wouldn’t have thought to do differently as a young woman who HAD done a significant amount of travel around the world.  The English language news in Turkey is quick and correct, to point out that this sort of incident is rare when it comes to foreign women in Turkey, although of course, violence against Turkish women is not, as Hurriyet Daily News wrote about or Amnesty International addressed, for example.  But the facts remain, Ms. Sierra, a women doing solo travel has been killed in the city that my husband, brother-in-law and father were so afraid for me to traverse on a day trip.

As I pulled my thoughts on my own fear, Sarai Sierra and solo travel in Istanbul together this morning, I re-initiated a discussion on the topic with my husband.  “Canım,” I began, “how does Sarai Sierra’s death impact your thoughts on me going around Istanbul by myself?  His (paraphrased) response: “Well, that Sarai Sierra case is odd – I think there was more going on than meets the eye – but it underscores what I know, that It’s not safe for you.  When I left Istanbul 20 years ago, you could walk around Beyoğlu with cash in your pocket – not show it – but not worry. Now it’s different – you are not safe for money, your body, anything.  Especially a woman who doesn’t know the city, really know it.  I just can’t risk that.”

My husband’s nonplussed, clear-as-a-bell response to my question mirrors his blasé attitude about this week’s bombing at the U.S. Embassy in Ankara – used to it, happens all the time, “it’s sad, but what do you want me to say?”  It is an accepted reality for him. The problem is, I just can’t sit with this.  I am so sad about Sarai Sierra’s death, but I don’t want it to represent Istanbul for women travelers.  Yet it further impacts my own fear – and that’s just not ok with me.  And so we are wrestling with this, what is there to do? How can I be me – and independent – and less fearful woman that I used to know?

So, in my first of two posts on writing about fear, here is a letter to my husband, part of my #38Write assignment, exploring how my fear came to be.  It’s certainly a major bump in this Turkish-American road trip that needs more work!

——–

Dear M.,

I am pretty sure you know that nowadays, I fear exploring Istanbul on my own.  I’m pretty sure you feel guilty about that, as you, in part, set this in motion.  Do you remember when I suggested a solo afternoon on Istiklal Caddesi[1]? Your voice melded with your elder brother’s Turkish protestations into a resounding “no.”  You drew me close, kissed me.  Narrating your promise to my father (who wasn’t your fan in any sense of the word, I know), you repeated, verbatim “I will take care of her, nothing will happen to her. How could I explain it if you got taken? You don’t know this city, what people can do.” Do you remember, that to avoid an argument in front of my potential brother-in-law, I acquiesced. “I’ll watch, learn,” I decided, “and do it next time.”  Slowly, however, over the years, your fear turned into mine, not only for my Father, but for you, and for me as well.

How odd, the emergence of this fear, after decades of my often-risky travel around the world.  Odd indeed, after navigating new transportation systems, languages and terrains unfazed by the usual glitches.  Particularly odd, this fear, as you kiddingly call me the “Navigatrix” – able to conjure a mental map comprised of little more than sun rays and spatial memory.  Indeed quite odd, given your bragging about my superior capabilities in circumnavigating the Kapalı Çarşı as compared to you.  Especially odd, as I come from a line of intrepid female trekkers, bravely venturing to unknown places for a taste of sights unexpected, the smell of the as-yet un-considered. And hypocritically odd, as I study “the dignity of everyday risk” for community-based people with disabilities.

Yet, here I am in Gülay’s apartment, our Istanbul home away from our island home, fearful of leaving alone.  Eyeing what’s beyond the window, glints of mythic horror reflect back.  As my lips touch the leaded glass, I taste grey-blue tension, fear thickening in my throat.  Fingertips on the window, I feel my blood coursing phobic, hypertense with images of the trafficked women I worked with in Brooklyn.  Toe tips to the glass now, my heels are flat on the marble. I’m frozen, a choppy Brancusi sculpture.  My fear is as complete, as perfect, as sterile vacuum tunnel with no aroma.  Intertwined now with all these male fears, my fear is a patriarchy-infused oddity I never expected.  Canım benim[2], how can we change this?

Love,

Liz

[1] Istiklal Caddesi is a famous shopping boulevard in central Istanbul

[2] Canım benim means “my dear” or “my darling”

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Christmas tree: On overworking cultural competence in a Turkish American marriage

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My great grandmother's mercury glass Santa ornament from circa 1899. (Dark and Stormy Image by Liz Cameron)

My great grandmother’s mercury glass Santa ornament from circa 1899. (Dark and Stormy Image by Liz Cameron)

As an academic social worker, I am trained to the gills on the need to encourage my students to work towards “cultural competence,” as they work with people from a range of cultures and sub-cultures. And of course, although I question the concept on a number of levels, there is a lot of good buried in it. And of course, I do my best to work on “cultural competence” with my Turkish husband – who I often feel is more American than Turkish. I am sure he would agree. You can weigh in, dear, if you like.

So, today, I am going to address how I am a slow learner, especially when it comes to cultural competence in the Turkish-American context. My slow learning is usually due to my ability to over-work and over-think things. I am, after all, trained to over-work and over-think everything – that’s my career as a researcher, teacher and academic community member.

I have mastered the basics of cultural competence in Turkish-American land – greetings, simple praise for food, identifying which futbol team my host/hostess is connected to in order to avoid loud Turkish debates, figuring out whether someone is too Kemalist or too pro-AK Partesi in a too out there way so we can be sure not to offend them in any way, or whether they are in the Armenian genocide denial camp. It can be a minefield out there, but mostly in the futbol arena (all I have to say about that is “Cim bom bom!”). What I have not mastered, I have come to realize, is when something is NOT about culture. Yesterday, I learned that in our marriage, the Christmas tree is NOT a cultural issue.

So, yesterday afternoon, we finally bought a Christmas tree. Until this year, I have thought our annual arguments about this item was some manifestation of our Turkish-American cultural and religious differences. Every year, I remind M. that Saint Nick (Santa) came from Turkey after all - so he should embrace that aspect of Anatolian culture given Santa’s relationship with trees – whether that began in Anatolia or somewhere in the Black Forest. And, I feel I have to remind him that the tree is a symbol of something hopeful, and it gives me something to meditate on as a process through the past year – and these past 44 years. And the glowing lights are calming. And sometimes the dog likes to sleep under there, which, yes, is pretty cute.

But this year, I realized that actually, our annual argument is not a battle rooted in cultural, nor religious elements. Rather, I started listening to M. and realized that for him, the thought of wasting a tree in a planet facing deforestation and global warming is abhorrent. And, of course, he complains about picking up tree needles in May. “Aha,” I thought with glee, “this is a battle in honor of all that is green and environmental.” So, I thought I would give thanks to M. for relenting on the green front – and figure out a way to offset this year’s environmental destruction next year.

However, Mercan Bey, the Arabian Spice Trader Puppet, was sitting on the shelf all afternoon, observing. He tried to convince me that he feels this year’s Christmas tree battle led me to realize that M.’s resistence to the tradition may also be a gender-based thing. “M’lady,” he comments softly, “I’ve been all over the world at this time of year, delivering various spices to this culture and that – and I see it as a gender thing.” I didn’t buy his argument – until the following happened:

Karagöz jumps in here “no patience, M’lady, you talk tooooo much, I’ll tell it for you, fast, while somersaulting!

And here’s his version of the story:

“Tree parked in front hall, abandoned. Snigger. M’lady roots around basement like a truffle pig searching for tee stand, lights and ornaments. Whoop! M’lady bats eyelashes at M., says ‘bring the poor thirsty tree?’”

Karagöz does somersault #1

Reluctant Turkish futbol watcher sighs, retrieves heavy bundle. M’lady and M. make mistake of collective effort to place tree in stand – pointless argument #1. Whee! M’lady snips reminder to M., something about ‘important part of my culture.’ Sigh! M. agrees, pointless argument #2 ensues.

Karagöz does somersault #2

M’lady sitting maudlin under tree, thinking of childhoods past, M. sitting maudlin by TV, thinking about global warming and the needles he’ll have to vacuum up and the futbol that he missed during pointless arguments #1 and #2. M’lady more maudlin thinking of her parents’ arguments about tree upping. Why these Americans so focused on trouble tree? Dratted dumbies!
Karagöz does somersault #3

M’lady thinking ‘Is this a cross-cultural issue or what? Maybe Mercan Bey is right.’ Why she so overthink it? Typical. Doorbell rings – blond angel lady arrives – a glowing light lady M’lady call “best friend.” Karagöz no have such one. All huggy-huggy, M’lady and M. ‘fess up about tree troubles. Glowing lady throw back her head with belly laugh, Karagöz like this, says ‘in my childhood home in Europe, as soon as decorating-the-tree-time came around, all the men beat it, post-haste, to the farm, leaving it to the ladies.’ All laugh, M’lady think secretly, “OK, Mercan Bey, you win,” as he winky wink at her, throw her some new cardamom seed varieties he found at the Indian store yesterday.

Karagöz, now dizzy from somersaulting, curls up by the dog, under the tree, and crashes into a deep slumber.

Lesson of the day ends with M. having the last word – something recycled into Turklish from some of my Dad’s last words with me: “Take it little bit easy.” And Yavaş, yavaş,” or “slowly-by-slowly,” I’ll try.

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Weekly photo challenge: Delicate

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A delicate balance of stones – at a Buddhist meditation retreat center in rural New England (Image by LIz Cameron)

Yes, this is my Weekly Photo Challenge entry for “Delicate,” and yes, I am entering a photo of a stone wall.  Karagöz scoffs at the notion of a stone wall as delicate…but reconsiders.  Let me tell you the story of how he came to reconsider.

_______

This past weekend, I went to my first Buddhist meditation retreat – the retreat was named “Patience: Emptying the Ocean with a Teacup.”

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Meditation Hall at Barre Center for Buddhist Studies (Image by LIz Cameron)

And let me tell you, the Karagöz puppets in my head were anything but patient from the week before I went – to the time our car entered the long driveway through wintry woods.  You can read about that here.

Yet, as soon as we reached the Center, the the Karagöz puppets, well, they really started to get quiet. And I was surprised about that. Even Karagöz himself, with all of his oppositional, defiant and jokester ways, he had inhaled a dose of silence before I even started meditating.  I just stopped, and listened to the silence of my puppets. They were picking up on the vibe of the place, taking it all in.

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The loop of road, surrounded by stone walls, that taught me about patience and balance (Image by Liz Cameron)

As we went up to the meditation hall (pictured here), those puppets, they became even more calm as we sat in lotus style, and began to practice circular breathing before the teacher was to arrive.  I just worked on noticing only my breathing, just this moment now, nothing else, letting other thoughts be noticed only in their passing by – not counting and categorizing them.  Kenne, the Queen of Matters and Etiquette and Maintenance of Ladylike Behavior was the one who struggled most – not only was she documenting Buddhist meditation retreat etiquette in spades, but she really disapproved of the non-ladylike poses.  I just let her do her own thing…and she was silent after a time, but still taking notes for her new etiquette treatise.

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An homage to the Buddha, within a stone wall structure (Image by Liz Cameron)

Mostly, I was just amazed at myself, I could finally just focus on breathing.  I have always had trouble with that aspect of meditation, and for some reason this wild time in my life, I was finally able to let go and fall into the delicate balance of breathing and detached noticing of thoughts ambling by.  .

And so I learned tremendous amount about how to “practice” patience in different moments, in different ways – to balance patients as an antidote to anger or upset. And during one of our exercises on “walking meditation,” in which the goal is to just focus on how your feet touch the ground and how it feels in that moment, while breathing, I headed outside to see if I could tolerate meditation in a more stimulating place.  It was a chilly, grey day – and a slight breeze wrapped that chill around me.  I began to walk around the loop surrounded by beautiful old handmade stonewalls.

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I think even my Dad would not scoff at the use of mortar in this stone-balancing act of a dome to honor the Buddha as they only used it towards the top (Image by Liz Cameron)

Now, I grew up in New England, and I have seen a lot of stonewalls. My Father, a sturdy Yankee type, used to point out the best of those stone walls to me.  He would stop on a country road to look at a particularly exquisite, balanced wall, explaining to me the delicate process of collecting the stones (heaved up by the winter frost), saving them in a pile, and in the spring, deciding how each one fit together in the most balanced way, without using mortar, of course. He would scoff at the stonewalls in which mortar or cement was used to hold things together.  Sometimes we practiced making stonewalls, I think now, it must have been an exercise of learning how to be patient and calm – really a meditation – on the different shapes and weights of the stones and it struck me that here at this Buddhist retreat, these stone walls, it is really an example of a delicate strength.

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Looking at the world of the Barre Center for Buddhist Studies from the top of an ancient stone wall – with a world of lichens and mosses to contemplate (Image by Liz Cameron)

In an errant serious moment, Karagöz whispered “this delicacy of careful stone placement and rock positioning is all towards the goal of long term balance.” “Yes,” Karagöz, I said, “yes it is.” So, while you might not instantly associate a stone wall with something delicate, I ask you to consider the balance aspect of a true stonewall, made without mortar, and the skill of patience that building process infuses in you, that the makers of such things must engage in to be successful.

Related articles that show other people’s approaches to “Delicate” in the Weekly Photo Challenge: