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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!

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.

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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