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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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Eggs and Ottoman music: On cultural responsivity gone wrong in one Turkish American marital moment

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Syrian music band from Ottoman Aleppo, mid 18t...

Syrian music band from Ottoman Aleppo, mid 18th century (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Today, I really have to laugh at myself, along with Karagöz who is, of course, really howling at me (he tells me, “M’lady, I’m laughing WITH you, not at you.” Yeah right, Karagöz, I know you and your ways. Sigh. But in any case, maybe I am just too hyper-critical of myself this morning, but sometimes I think I may just try too hard in my work to be a culturally competent Turkish-American partner/wife.

I am reminded of when my sister and Italian brother-in-law, who were visiting Istanbul to see us, made fun of me for trying to get him to pronounce “Topkapı Palace” (pronounced “Top-kah-puh” forget even going to Sarayı (“sah-ray-yuh”), the Turkish word for it) vs. “Topkapeeeeee Palace.” I think language is important, and how you use it shows respect and allows for cross-cultural understanding even on minute levels. I also get riled up about tourists who don’t make an effort to pronounce things correctly, am I alone on that? Kenne, the Queen of Manners Puppet and Maven of the Maintenance of Etiquette and Ladylike Behavior, gives me a nod of approval at that.

Now, as you may recall, yesterday, I reflected on our annual Christmas tree argument, and how it was not, as a matter of fact, rooted in cultural and religious differences, but rather environmental and gendered ones. Karagöz in particular was the puppet yelling loudest about my need to “take it easy” on the cultural competence analytical thinking front. Well, never to be outdone (“or just DONE,” Karagöz snarks,) I did it again this morning. But this morning, the issue was not cultural competence – it was the effort towards the new hip phrase in my field – cultural responsivity. You can read more about this new term in my evolving page on the topic, but basically, I think this one is better than the latter.

Kenne, well known to be the self-imposed Queen of Manners, Etiquette and the Maintenance of Ladylike Behavior, and who re-arranges her title on at least a thrice-daily basis, sat atop a stove observation post this morning, making sure that I cooked the eggs properly.

So, as I cooked a special breakfast this morning, before M. headed off to his art studio, I overheard M. howling like a laughing lunatic over something on the Internet, I presumed. I figured it was just the latest Turkish futbol-related joke or scandal. Meanwhile, in order to honor something I know M. loves, I found the “Turkish classical music” station on Pandora. M. is often distraught that the Arabesque trend in Turkish music, and engages in a lot of recherché du temps perdu on this matter.

Thus the effort to feed him some classical Turkish favorites along with his egg whites. Of course, I have no idea if what Pandora considers classical Turkish music is indeed what it purports itself to be. Nonetheless, Kenne, the Queen of Manners Puppet and Maven of the Maintenance of Etiquette and Ladylike Behavior, gave me a nod of approval from her observation tower on top of the stove (I was not cooking eggs the Turkish way, she was telling me, and I was ignoring her with glee).

Staggering in the kitchen on the way to set the table, M. appeared before me in a teary fit of giggles. Pausing, M. pressed the giggle-pause button as he gave me a quizzical look. “What music this is? Why this, I don’t know, Arabic music maybe, canım? Sighing, as I nested my spatula before turning his way, I in a rather maudlin voice proclaimed “ I thought you loved Turkish classical music? I thought it would remind you of happy times at home?” “I am not sure this is Turkish classical music, canım,” he said gently, squinting into the iPhone to see the artist’s name. “Do you like it?” I questioned, with an overbright and hopeful look on my face. Ever blunt, M., the calls-it-as-he-sees-it type, just indicated “no, not really,” before quickly returning to the subject of his mirth.

SIlently, I remembered how my first attempt to bring Turkish music to our home included a CD of what I did not know he hated – Arabseque style. Zooks, thwarted again. I should know better, I thought, I see my students make dumb mistakes like this all the time. Not the end of the world, but…then tuned in to M.’s question to me “Now let me tell you – do you know of this, who’s on first, what’s on second thing, canım?” M.’s giggling and laughing continued, as the tinny sound of a ney slithered along in the background, replete with the little chorus of dancing lady puppets swooning on the chair below the phone – one of their rare appearances out of their self-built harem in my purse (other than the early morning çay delivery service they provide my slow-to-awaken mind).

“It is Abbott and this Costello who made this first time? Jerry Seinfeld re-does it – and I must watch it again.” After making a quick study at table setting – I heard the laughter continue with the recently remade version of the classic comic sketch including Martin Short, Jimmy Fallon and Jerry Seinfeld, among others. “Next time,” the academic over-thinker in me thought, “I’d better do more research on which aspect of Ottoman classical music M. likes. This was a cultural responsivity fail.”

I had to laugh at my attempt to be culturally responsive – to offer something of M.’s culture that I have learned that he loves – and M.’s absolute disinterest as he embraced an iconic American classic and its remake. The infamous Kenne, Queen of Manners, et alia, snapped me to attention so I would not burn the frittata – while simultaneously praising me for doing what a good American wife of a Turkish man should do, namely, in her words “make him feel at home!”

Zenne, the nervous nellie puppet, quivering with anxiety like a bowl of fresh quince jelly at her somewhat feminist assertion this morning…

And then something curious happened, Kenne’s handmaiden, Zenne, the nervous Nellie puppet who regularly jiggles with anxiety like a bowl of quince jelly, evidenced a new lead, saying “perhaps ‘home’ means many things in between and among Turkey and America? Maybe you don’t need to make such an effort to be culturally responsive – I mean – he isn’t asking for that at all!”

As she spoke, I saw that this little lady puppet was shaking, eyes down, afraid her mistress would overhear her blasphemy – it was the closest to a feminist statement that this traditionalist ruled by the ultimate traditionalist had ever uttered. I gave her a big hug (well as big a hug as you can give a tiny imaginary puppet) an changed Pandora over to the Flamenco station. That music reminds me of my Granny (Anane) and Mom (Anne) always listened to while ironing – go figure. And, true to form, Safiye Rakkase, the vainglorious dancing puppet is, after all, sashaying around the room with her castanuellas in hand!

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Turkish women and their hair: A visit to the guzelik salonu

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This is me no more - I am going back to silver, much to the chagrin of Safiye Rakkas, the vainglorious dancing girl and Kenne, the Queen of Manners and Maintenance of Ladylike Behavior. The little chorus of dancing girls are in Switzerland and Karagöz is dancing a jig at my (for Turkey) oppositional move.

This is me no more – I am going back to silver, much to the chagrin of Safiye Rakkas, the vainglorious dancing girl and Kenne, the Queen of Manners and Maintenance of Ladylike Behavior. The little chorus of dancing girls are in Switzerland and Karagöz is dancing a jig at my (for Turkey) oppositional move.

We Karagöz puppets take over while m’lady rest. She a right mess! Don’t tell her we say. We sneak jumpy jumpy iPhone toy, find her drafts from summer. She too perfectionist. We hit “publish” while she sleep, We blame Karagöz trickster – it work every time!

————
Today, our beloved dog went for a visit to the canine guzelik salonu for a nail trim – he won’t let us get anywhere near them.

And it made me think – it’s been a while since I have made my own visit to a human guzelik salonu, a.k.a. beauty salon.

That’s because I am growing out my silver hair, as the most empowered women I know refer to it. No more hair dye. Just me as is.

Safiye Rakkase, the vainglorious dancing girl puppet sniffs and turns her head in an exaggerated angle as she haughtily exits the house. Kenne, much to her horror, stands, straightens her crisp, linen apron, and follows her out the door.

As the Queen of Manners and Maintenance of Ladylike Behavior, Kenne is somewhat mortified to actually *agree* with a dancing girl, of all things, but “principles,” she pronounces with perfect diction and a balanced dictionary on her head, “are principles.”

It wasn’t always this way, you know, the dying of my locks. Aside from a teenaged dalliance with the infamous manic panic dyes in all shades of the rainbow, it has been me and my early silver strands.

And then I went to Istanbul with M.

And his family was horrified.

Just.

Horrified.

It would not be an exaggeration to say that they turned their heads back and forth, up and down, much like my dog trying to sniff a mouse out of a hole, wondering what on earth that grey hair was doing on my head.

“In Turkey, Liz,” they would say in succinct and serious sentences, “we dye our hair.”

I heard this refrain over, and over again each day. I even heard it from M.’s elderly aunt, who herself is silver-headed. Go figure. Sometimes there was a variation along the lines of “you are too young to let your hair go.” No stranger to bucking tradition when it came to my hair, I paid it no heed during that first year’s visit, nor the second, but the third, that’s when I broke down. Not that I broke down on the idea of moving away from my silver gilding, if you will, but rather I got so sick of the familial protest that I let them have their way with my hair.

$300 later, I walked out of the snooty salon with my sister-in-law, raven haired once more. Five years on, I have done endless battle with the hairdressers in the States – begging to grow out my silver – and each time being convinced that a non-permanent dye would “blend it in.” Although there are plenty of silver-haired foxettes out there, it seems the hairdressers just can’t get the idea that we WANT our silver.

Thankfully, Billie Jean, my hair savior right here in Provincetown, “got” me right away, and I am back on the path to grey – with all of those layers of dyed locks shorn in favor of what one friend called “middle-aged short.” We’ll see how this goes down in Turkey, but for now, Karagöz is dancing his oppositional dance, and Hacivad Bey is smiling too.