Tag Archives: Karagöz and Hacivat

Puppet laryngitis: On stories, (Turkish) soldiers and writing: Part II

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An image of an Ottoman-era military band – many of the male Karagoz puppets served in a military band of this nature before retiring to work as puppets in the Sultan

 

In honor of Veteran’s Day in the U.S., and in honor of my sore rotator cuff, today’s post is a reprise of a previous one, about one of the former soldiers in my present day life. Seni seviyorum canım!

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Yesterday, the puppets were going a bit stir-crazy as it was cold out and as they had laryngitis this week (to varying degrees). Therefore, they cannot talk much – but they can make themselves known nonetheless – mostly by jumping on the keyboard and taking my Internet browser to all sorts of places OTHER than where I need to be – namely in the realm of preparing my classes for the Spring 2012 semester of teaching.

After they basically strong-armed me into posting about the role of childhood fairy-tales in the onset of the presence of the puppets in my life, the moved on to getting me to write about soldiers and stories – and yesterday – this resulted in a post about the generations before me in my family, and specifically about the stories of the soldiers in those generations. Today, however, I have decided to write about the role of my own beloved M.’s time in the Turkish military vis-a-vis storytelling. As I mentioned yesterday, M. escaped his experience alive despite all odds at one point, with many hysterical and some chilling stories to tell about his life as an art student turned lieutenant during his required service.

Soldiers, as I mentioned yesterday always seem to be the best storytellers. They have seen a lot about human nature even when it does not involve combat, I would argue. I know now, after reflecting upon it, that I learned a lot from the older soldiers in my lineage – both things that were spoken and unspoken. I even learned a lot the one time my Pop and I were flying to Kenya, in front of a set of mercenaries heading for the Central African Republic to do God-knows-what. Amidst their alcohol-driven hilarity and baravado in ribald storytelling of their own, my Pop attempted to maintain my honor, explaining that “soldiers behave like this sometimes, Liz, when they have seen a lot of terrible things go on.”At the time, I was a too-cool-for-school social worker in the Bronx, without much worry for the cursing and scandalous talk that sounded all-too like the talk in the arraignments courtroom in the Criminal Court. I scoffed at his caring a little bit inside (e.g. “I’m tough, I can handle it”) but secretly wondered what Pop had seen himself that might have been difficult, or whether he was just a student of human nature during his military years.

However, the current “was-a-soldier” in my life has also taught me a lot about the power of stories and the joy of stories in living and reflecting upon life as we go about it. My M., though, he is a raconteur originale when it comes to stories about the Turkish army. Of course, despite my feminist roots and leanings, I would be remiss if I did not admit that the romance (in the true sense of the word) of some of his stories did play a wee role in the wooing of me early on. I loved hearing about the impossible assignments he was given (account for all 30,000 maps in the map room), the staggeringly funny mis-placement of a free-thinking art student as a batallion leader told to go search for Kurdish rebels in mountains (I’ll leave him to tell that one) or the time his batallion was woken up at night and deposited in the wilderness with the order to “come home” – but couldn’t figure out where they were or what to do – so were picked up in the same spot 24 hours later (I’ll leave him to tell you about how moss grows on all sides of the tree – not just the north side). There were also quieter stories about the uniquely peaceful time he spent on leave looking for sea treasures near Hatay (Antakya) at the officer’s vacation spot – or even the horribly, gut-wrenchingly sad reality of not being allowed a visit home during his mother’s last weeks of life (Perihan Hanım, my fairy godmother for this relationship, is sighing, as she tried her mightiest to beat the powers of the Turkish military on this, but was not successful, which tells me she was around with M. way before me, hmmmm). These stories, and many more, slide off of his tongue as he gesticulates wildly to illustrate the goings on – his voice rising and rising louder and louder to emphasize a point or softer and softer in difficult moments. Stories make the world go round, indeed.

So, from M., I have learned the power of sharing military stories with whomever (male person) he meets as we range around Turkey. Never an elongated tea-drinking session goes by without discussions of where each man did their military service and the funny -and not so funny- things seen there. From watching these, and other interactions between men (as an outside who does not comprehend much Turkish yet), I can see the importance of extended conversation – and the stories woven in -can often have in any interaction. It is some sort of community-building exercise, I sometimes think, as well as a way to establish personage in a country where until 1923 or so, last names were not used. Perhaps this sort of sharing is a marker of sorts, a way of placing people in space and time – well, males, that is.

It is also from M. that I have learned the art of using my body and voice in storytelling – whereas in the past it was just my arms and hands putting down what my mind created. I still can’t tell a story without closing my eyes as I envision the words on the page. In any case, I raise my glass tonight in honor of the soldier sitting in the other room, and to the fact that he is alive here, safe and sound, in our home, sharing the making of stories with me, on this cross-cultural road trip called our marriage – in and out of the blogosphere! The puppets are raising their glasses of sugary lemon-tea as well….“Şerefe!” they are crying out “to your honor, M. Bey!”

(Stay tuned for On stories, soldiers and writing: Part III, tomorrow – where I will talk about my students who are or were soldiers, and how I have learned from their storytelling…)

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Hacivad Bey ponders a reader’s pained comment: On Christians and Muslims; Tears and corpses

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Today, we (me, M. and the Karagoz puppets) are nowhere near Tulum, Mexico – such are the vagaries of time-lapse blog travel.  Rather, I am home sick, with more blankets piled on top of me than there were mattresses under the Princess and the Pea in the classic children’s tale.

Why, you might ask, would I dare to divert you from the warm climes of Mexico and the Caribbean Sea over to a New England sickbed?

Well, you’ll have to thank Hacivad Bey for that, our learned Sufi elder, who awoke me this morning with the sad news that there was a person in pain out there in the world – a person who‘ left this comment on a post of mine about Recep Güven’s forward-looking commentary on Turkish-Kurdish relations which mentioned the need to cry for all who die – including terrorists – his was a humanitarian vision.  My comment-leaver said just this: “Do you christians weep for the muslim freedom fighters you kill?” (Please note, the lack of capitalization is verbatim, from the person making the comment).

Hacivad Bey woke me up early, of course, as he knows that my goal with this blog is to crack open the challenges of cross-cultural co-existence in whichever manner makes sense at the moment – or doesn’t make sense – as it often goes in cross-cultural encounters. And here, he told me, was an opportunity.

Now, dear reader, what you need to know is that the aftermath of these comments from Mr. Recep Güven have spurred a number of opinion essays in the English-language Turkish news (not to mention the Turkish language news!) – such as this one on “crying for the terrorists.”   The author to which the hyperlink takes you reminds us of how Islam calls for bodies to be handled…and how this relates to the inflammatory comments:

“In Islamic law, the corpse of a human being is deemed deserving of respect, regardless of who this person was when he or she was alive. Believers have a duty to respect the dead body and they must bury it properly, in no way harming or insulting it. What the police chief said was not much different from this injunction. At least, a similar logic could be applied.”

Well of course, I agree with this.  But here I am, just sitting with the peaceful Hacivad Bey who is just letting me take in the comment.  I was not surprised, nor was I angry, but rather just determined to write a good and passionate response that would hopefully foster some decent dialogue.  Hacivad Bey just said to me “it is not likely – listen to the pain in this person’s heart! It is evident in their tone.  It is likely hopeless to respond.  But some of the best movements in our world are just so.”

Esma, the hippie puppet, piped in upon hearing this “with all due respect, Hacivad Bey, I really think we must always try to forge connections, understanding and respect – don’t urge us away from it!”  Hacivad Bey sighed heavily, thinking how much the enthusiasm of youth is ever-present in Esma.

So, there we sat, me and Hacivad Bey, as the little chorus of dancing lady puppets delivered the morning çay and cold medicine.  After that, they pretty much left me alone, pooled together on the dining room table, to watch the live-streaming news on CNN Turk.  They are interested in what will happen to their homeland – and are concerned to see that some feel there is a 50%-50% chance of Turkey going to war with Syria.  You can read more about that at the blog Ottomans and Zionists, here. They also just like to count all of what they feel are both pompous and unnecessary nationalistic comments on the various news sites that refer to Turkish fighter jets as “the Turkish eagles of freedom” and the like.  Ever the agent provocateur, Karagoz suggests that these commentators like to envision eagles as they are “a bit like a primped up chicken on steroids.”

Regardless of the at-times-over-the-top nationalistic tone on the current goings-on in Turkey re: Syria or re: the “Kurdish problem,” as it is often called, this Turkish-American home is feeling the weight of the lack of clarity on what is happening – and what will happen.  Bombarded by well-meaning friends and family, many have asked whether “M.’s family are near the war,” (no war yet, we respond), have asked us to explain what is going on – or have asked M. if he will “go back and join the army.”  It has been, as Downeast Mainers say at times, “wearing” (as in something that wares you down).

But these questions are not as “wearing” to us as the ever-present reality of the ways in which the U.S. has created such misunderstanding and hatred over so many years…it isn’t a one way-street, of course, but I want to own up to our part.  So, after a day of thinking about the best way to respond to my angry comment-leaver, I just decided to do a quick response from the heart – and while it likely sounds pedantic, stupidly naive or any other adjective you care to assign it – I don’t care, it’s from my heart – and it’s my blog, after all.  I do hope that my comment-leaver writes back – and maybe some dialogue can occur.

Here is what I wrote:

Thank you for commenting on my blog.

First things first – while the tone of your comment suggests to me the great pain in your heart – yes, yes as a matter of fact, I do cry for all who die in these awful conflicts which I do not support. I see human beings first, beyond religious or ethnic or national identification. If you read my blog, you would see that this is the entire point of what I am doing – please read – please engage with me here – I welcome any comment you care to make if you are really open to true dialogue.

Second, I do not imagine it is fair that you lump me in with other Christians – and I am barely one of those having seen what the Christian churches can perpetrate in the name of the Bible. Unlike the stereotypes that many people have about Americans, I am aware- well aware of what has been perpetrated against Muslims worldwide by the U.S. and/or people who are Christian or use the Christian moniker for centuries. This does not represent the Christianity I know or was raised in. Please know that “we” are not all the same. We do not all hold the same views. We do not all support the idiotic and oppressive political maneuvering and warmongering that goes on.

I implore you to engage in productive discussion with me – let’s move beyond the pain and hatred – life is too short – the ills perpetrated by our leaders are too great – let’s re connect as humans. It may sound trite or blithe – but I mean it.

With respect,

Liz

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The Karagöz puppets reflect on the culture shock of seclusion

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And here we are, chilling out in our hotel room, looking out at the Carribbean Sea from the Tulum playa…only I can see the band of Karagoz puppets hanging upside down, like bats, from the top of the doorway. That is how my puppets sleep, when they do. (photo by Liz Cameron)

We awoke in Tulum, Mexico, after our long trip and long stop at La Carretta in Miami, for too much delicious Cuban food.

And soon enough, there we were, in the hotel, bellies full of good Mexican breakfast, and it was quiet – save for the sound of crashing waves – make that the sound of *constantly* crashing waves – just outside of the door of our hotel room. And yet the Karagoz puppets were sound asleep, hanging upside-down like bats, as per usual, on the top of our doorway.

It’s too bad that you can’t see them in this silhouette of our feet – but of course – those puppets are (sort of) imaginary after all. (If you have no earthly idea what I am on about, read here).

And so there we were, me, my beloved M., and a whole troupe of Karagoz shadow puppets who were sleeping like bats before waking to confusion, in Tulum, Mexico. They had briefly become aware at dawn – when it looked like this out of the window (see photo below) and then had lapsed into sleep again.

Tomatillo sauce, tortilla chips, fried eggs and crema…heaven. (From Simply recipes, at this link).

M., who was looking happy and relaxed, not to exclude his ear-to-ear grin after a delicious and very spicy breakfast of chilaquiles (click here for link to recipe), turned to me and asked the following: “how do you like it here?”

Pausing to look around me, all I could hear were the puppets for a moment or two.

“It’s – so quiet!” Esma the hippie puppet remarked, sighing with contentment as she entered the lotus position for meditation before doing some hot yoga.

“The sand, it’s so soft!” cried the little chorus of dancing ladies, who were already lounging in the powdery soft remains of an ancient coral reef.

Tulum playa (photo by Liz Cameron)

“It’s – quite loud, these waves! But quite dramatically soothing” Hacivad Bey the learned Sufi elder noted quietly as he made yet another mental note about the joy of duality in everyday life.

“It’s the perfect place to read!” announced Yehuda Rebbe, the wise and learned man, already breaking out his Kindle to choose the book of the hour.

All we heard from Karagoz himself was something along the lines of “It’s perfect for swinging in the trees!” as he disappeared into the palm fronds for at least 24 hours.

“It’s quite interesting,” Mercan Bey, our resident spice trader from the Arabian peninsula reported upon returning from the Cabanas Tulum Hotel kitchen, “they use a lot of different spices here – and what is this, how do you say, ‘cilantro?’ It looks to me like fresh coriander.”

“It’s – tough to be without the internet!” declared the Write-a-matrix, cracking her workaholic whip for good measure. Hacıyatmaz just kept rocking’ and rollin’ upon hearing this comment from his nemesis – and proceeded to roll right over her, where he stayed for the whole trip, and where she almost immediately stopped protesting. It was the quietest puppet battle yet amongst my mental gang of puppet characters. I let it peter out and just listened to those waves.

Safiye Rakkase, the vainglorious dancing puppet, was ignoring it all, plugged in, instead, to the world of the iPod and Turkish pop music.

I did not hear, but saw Tiryaki, the resident addict puppet, slink off in the direction of the pot smoke on our neighbor’s terrace to see if he could score anything to smoke since he was low on the Opium stash (I heard him mutter that he “had to go through the TSA, man, can’t risk it,”). Kenne, the Queen of Manners and Ladylike Behavior (or some such, I started to forget in my Mexican mellowness) and her handmaiden, Zenne, who is a nervous Nellie, like a bowl of jelly, looked on in disgust after Tiryaki – reminding me how glad they are that I gave up the green stuff back in 1987. It didn’t even qualify as a puppet battle, I thought to myself.

After listening to all of those puppets, I just reflected on the calm that had descended since seeing the sunrise that morning, and I breathed deep and felt the calm as I turned to M. and told him – “it’s heaven here. “Thank you – you are one in a million to bring us here!”

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