Tag Archives: Khadijah

On the 4th day of Christmas: Meet Celebi, the modernist

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Celebi in his favorite shades of chartreuse and sunshine yellow - ever the modern lover

Yesterday, we met Khadijah, and today, we meet the puppet man to whom she is betrothed – Celebi (the c sounds like a j, so it is “jeh-leh-bee”). Celebi is a modern man. He likes modern clothes, modern thoughts – and modern love. He used to be known for being a womanizer – but his heart has settled on Khadijah – a non-traditional choice about which he receives a significant amount of flack from family, friends and community members alike. He doesn’t care a whit. Now, that’s in my own puppet world, the puppet world in my head.

According to my main source Ermin Senyer, the traditional Celebi “is presented in a sympathetic light. He is not caricatured and ridiculed as are so many of the other characters. Usually he is a dandified young man whose love for a courtesan or a girl of good family motivates the action, and provides the plays with plots. We notice he has the ability to charm the opposite sex. Firstly, a zampara, a gallant and a elegant dandy, he is also young, rich and a spend-thrift, who assumes a careful and rather self-conscious elegance of dress and, in the type of stock-role he plays, runs after women, being a well-versed but flighty youth. He speaks with an educated Istanbul accent, pouring out his Arabic and other learned phrases. He is dressed in European style. He wears a pince-nez, he carries a cane and sports patent leather shoes. He wears a clerical style frock-coat, which in cut, hue and the shape of the collar, resembles precisely the -stambouline- , so named from its origin in Istanbul.”

And here is Celebi in his second favorite outfit, the stripey one

Celebi is the puppet who leads my eye to the modern design of the Bauhaus movement, the Eames chairs, and the simple, elegant lines of the Gropius House, in Lincoln, Massachusetts. Celebi likes Mahler symphonies (he kind of drives me nuts with that – I can’t take it) and reads Foucault as if it is going out of style. He is constantly “deconstructing” his surroundings, his thoughts, his neighbor’s thoughts – it goes on and on. He gets rather perserverative at times. He is the puppet who eggs me on when I am in hyper-analytical-academic mode, having a discussion with my ivory tower townies or writing a paper. He pushes me to be smarter, to read more and to write more.

He also, however, pushes me to remember the important things in life – that none of the thinking, reading or writing is good unless you have found true love. He is always reminding me to spend MORE time with M. and to be a better partner. He thinks, M. is also a modern man, and while some might call him a kılıbık when he does “women’s work” (such as laundry or cleaning or some such), Celebi is cheering him on the loudest of all the puppets.

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On the 3rd day of Christmas: Meet Khadijah, a worker from Egypt

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Do you see Khadijah? She is in back, tending to the women in the Sultan's harem (Thanks to http://www.turkishculture.blogspot.com for the image)

Today we meet Khadijah, the Karagöz shadow puppet who represents the far-flung citizens of the Ottoman Empire – in this case – puppets from Egypt.  Khadijah was a Black African woman raised in Egypt, but was captured during a battle, and brought to work at the Sultan’s palace in Bursa as a non-voluntary migrant worker (this is how she likes to frame it, vs. as a “slave,” and it is her choice how she categorizes herself, after all).  Now, in the blog post header, I say “worker” but I do want to acknowledge that this is really just revisionist history.

She got back at everyone, though, she drank from the fountain of youth when nobody was looking – as did the other Karagöz puppets in my head once they befriended her.  I am learning as she whispers into my ear tonight – and therefore this explains why she served the Sultans again and again over the centuries.  You can see that the clothes she is pictured in here in the image to the left are quite modern – not what would have been worn when the Sultan’s residence was still in Bursa, back in the early days of the Ottoman Empire.

I just asked Khadijah why nobody noticed that she never aged – why nobody suspected that she had sipped from the fountain of  youth – and she looked at me with all the attitude of a homegirl from the South Bronx where I used to work – “Girl! Are you serious? Come ON! I mean, I’m a Black woman! And a servant!  Do you REALLY think they are gonna notice me? Really? Lady, you gotta get your head screwed on straight and start seein’ the world for what it REALLY is – and was even back then!”  (Insert teeth-sucking sound in disgust now).  OK, I get the point.  Point well taken, Khadijah.  After years and years of serving the ladies, Khadijah finally obtained a place in the chorus of dancing ladies…but she really has more responsibility than that, as she truly knows the ropes of life backwards and forwards.  She is a regular visitor and commentator in my life.

In any case, you first met Khadijah back in 2004, when I was flying to Istanbul for the first time with M., to meet his family.  She is also a woman in a cross-cultural marriage-  well – she’s not married yet – he’s saving for her trousseau, which will be all in red, her favorite color (when she isn’t wearing yellow).   The he in question is Celebi, who thinks he is the Sultan of the puppets sometimes – but is really a forward-thinking man of the modern era – rejecting much of what stands as acceptable in the modern day.  Khadijah loves him with all her heart – and they face the world strong in a Black-White relationship that challenges social norms in any era.

Other than drinking from the fountain of youth, which, of course, you only need do once in your life, Khadijah loves rosewater lemonade.  She makes it ever summer, and sometimes sneaks in a little bit of mint from the garden.  She is a fabulous cook – who wouldn’t be after centuries of practice and technique development?  None of her dishes EVER burn, nothing tastes overly salted, overly herby or overly spicy.  She knows just what M. likes to eat and tries to guide my hands with her heart – but sometimes the messages get lost along the way.  She is a stallwart friend, positive (yet sassy), and will defend me to the end.  She encourages me to stand up for myself when I am being taken advantage of  and always looks for the quiet yet diplomatic route to get things done behind the scenes.

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Hacivad and Khadijah channel Orhan Veli Kanik…on navigating deep-seated difference

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The American half:

It is a deep-blue afternoon,
the air still in the late summer heat
that is not oppressive.
Finding the spot on the porch
with the second-most hot sunlight,
My copper-colored dog has taken
the most sunny spot.
I stare out into the blue through the hemlock tree,
thinking about right and wrong.
I know I am right. I was raised this way,
He can't see it my way!

The Turkish half:

It is a deep-blue afternoon,
the air still in the late summer heat
that is not oppressive.
Finding the coolest spot in the house
with the most breeze,
My copper colored-dog is walking in between
this cool place and the hot one outside.
I stare out into the blue through the grey-screened window,
thinking about right and wrong.
I know I am right.
I was raised this way.
She can't see it my way!

The shadow puppet troupe:

Hacivad sighs and brushes the coleus leaves out of his way
as he exits the flower pot.
What is a shadow puppet doing in a flower pot anyway,
that wax paper is not impervious to water.
Maybe this couple needs water, cool or hot.
Maybe that will help, to show the middle way.
What is the argument of the day?
Flavor of the month? Doesn't matter.
It is always the same ending.
You must, just must, respect what or how the other person feels!
This leads to greater knowing.
They don't want to hear me yet.
Too steamed up from the pressure cooker
of marriage and transplantation.
No matter what one is in a transplanted place.



Khadijah appears
from inside the water urn
on the table and emerges,
unscathed, dry as a bone...
...carrying a swirl of water
that forms itself into a
crystal ball of sorts,
minus any detritus.
Looking into the ball - she
beckons Hacivad to come over
her way for a chat.

"This is the answer you must
give them...help them to stumble
across this poem - it is from
the future when
our Ottoman sultans are but a memory
in the history books - can you imagine that?"

Considering the wavering words of the
futuristic poem carefully,
stroking his beard the whole time,
Hacivad concurs and turns towards the window sill,
where as usual, the rest of the troupe is resting as if
on an Ottoman divan.  Communicating telepathically,
the troupe begins the descent to the floor,
and the trek up to the study.
Working together,
they march out into the hall,
up the deep walnut-colored stairs,
and into the mango-colored study.
Gradually creating a cheerleader-friendly
tower of their own-bodies,
Hacivad ascends to the top shelf
- locates the tome of Turkish poetry in translation,
and with a few pushes and shoves, pulls and grunts,
hurls it to the floor...three of the puppet ladies commence
turning the pages until they find the right poem,
the rest of the team fans Hacivad and company,
who by now are sweating with the heat of their labor...

They conveniently leave the following page open...
and she will find it later, after leaving the porch and
hurumphing up to her study to ignore her beloved.
It appears to be about class conflict.
It appears to be about cats!
It appears...to link to a different thing than is written here.
It appears to be about me.
It is about just the basic fact of being different,
being wired different.
Something about it, this poem from an oddly fallen book,
will make sense to her, and it is time to make the peace yet again.

TAIL SONG

We can´t come together, our ways are different
You´re a butcher´s cat, I´m an alley cat
Your food comes in a tin bowl
Mine is in the lion´s mouth
You dream of love, I of a bone

But your way isn´t easy either, brother
It´s no easy job
To lick the man´s hand every damn day

Orhan Veli KanikTranslated by Bernard Lewis (1982)
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