Tag Archives: Turkey

Uç kadından biri: One billion Karagöz puppets rising!

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One billion rising on V-day! (Image from UNLV.EDU)

One billion rising on V-day! (Image from UNLV.EDU)

One billion rising. I’ve seen a plethora of these three words over the past weeks, and so have the Karagöz puppets (when they sneak on my iPhone or iPad at night when I’m sleeping).

“What billion things, pray tell,” Hacivad Bey leaned in to ask me, “are rising?”

“Balloons?” Safiye Rakkase suggested, hopefully, “pink ones, for Valentine’s day?”

“Yeast bubbles for sourdough bread?” Mercan Bey questioned, his hands full as he was making his new favorite New World bread by hand for the afternoon meal.

“Colorful kites on a breezy day?” Esma, the hippie puppet added in, a glint in her eye at the prospect of it.

“Well no, puppet friends,” I said with concern in my voice, and a serious tone. “This ‘one billion rising’ is a movement that is centered around women on Valentine’s day, which of course, on the face of it, is a day about love –“

“AND COMMERCIALISM!” Karagöz screeched as he swang into the conversation on our chandelier. “DON’T FORGET ABOUT THE MARKET ECONOMY TAKING ADVANTAGE OF THAT THIN OLD THING CALLED LOVE.”

“Well of course, yes, Karagöz,” I sighed, “I was getting to that. But actually, even WORSE than commercialism is the reality of violence against women. The number one billion was chosen, as I understand it, because one in three women will be beaten or raped in her life.”

A collective sigh and hush washed across the puppet troupe standing before me on the dining room table. All of the puppets started looking in different directions, becoming, for example, fascinated in the backs of their hands or their shoelaces.

In the silence of the puppets’ discomfort and consideration, I thought about how violence against women has touched my life. In addition to studying this matter as an academic, I have worked with men accused of committing acts of violence against women, have organized a “Rape Free Zone” to raise awareness of date rape on University campuses (re: both men and women) and have also been a survivor of violent acts committed by men on more than one occasion. The topic of violence against women is one that has, unfortunately, been a central theme in my life whether I like it or not, whether it has been for good or naught. It is also a topic that M. and I speak of openly – and one that he decries, educated by his own Anne (Mother, in Turkish) to “not be a macho, no matter what! And don’t hit women!” I won’t even get into the assumption that some of my well-meaning friends have intimated re: my Turkish husband’s predilection for “culturally normative”violence.

My thoughts were interrupted by Yedhuda Rebbe, who had stepped forth in the silence, head high as a stallion silent and strong in preparation for a race. “Yes,” he announced loudly, “violence against women.”

Silence abounded in the dining room. I waited to see where Yehuda Rebbe was going with this. His voice would hold sway over mine, to be sure, in teaching the puppets.

“I am a man, and over the many centuries I have lived as a member of this phantasmagorical, body-inhabiting Karagöz puppet troupe, I have seen a lot of it in the Sultan’s palaces – and beyond.” A shuffling and whispering commenced amongst the puppets. I tried to retreat into ‘fly on the wall’ status.

“Now, puppet friends, we have lived through much together as a group since our birth in the 1300s back in Bursa, Turkey. And none of you can deny that violence against women has been observed – but also that the tolerance for this is shifting. We see this when we sneak onto M’lady’s smartphone and iPad to learn about the modern world..this is wrong and this shall not be tolerated. We cannot ignore this anymore.”

Raising her fist in solidarity with Yehuda Rebbe, Esma the hippie puppet voiced her support for his sentiments as if her heart had melted into her voice like the snow coming down from the Uludaĝ mountains in the spring rivers.

Zenne, the puppet known as the ultimate nervous Nellie like a bowl of jelly made her way to the front of the crowd, sidling up to Esma – who placed a protective and supportive arm around her. “I may be silent much of the time, and nervous, but I have read of this matter, violence against human women. And I want to take this opportunity to share this information from what M’lady says is a well-done study from the United Nations with you.” (An article about which you can find here – with Turkey featured).

In the old world of the Sultan’s palace, we did not document such incidents, and indeed we likely accepted violence as between a man and a woman – or just a non issue. In today’s Turkey – the remnants of the Ottoman Empire in which we were born – this is as much of a problem as it is here in our new adopted country here with M’lady.” Shivering a bit, she drew strength as the puppets moved their camel-skin hands forward one by one, shoulder to shoulder until all of that puppet love and energy manifested on Zenne’s shoulder

“Here,” she said, her voice shaking, “is what we know about violence against women in Turkey…39% of women report suffering intentional physical violence by a man at some time in their lives. And that’s just physical violence – violence can take other forms.”

“And here,” she said a bit more strongly now, “is what we know about the United States…22% of women report suffering intentional physical violence by a man at some time in their lives”

There were some dejected looks, some crying and some weeping. But before I knew it, the entire Karagöz puppet troupe was rising, floating, gathering hands together and swirling messages of hope and reality to the other Karagoz puppets all around the world – and other tribes of puppets in the United States and beyond (such as, for example, the Sultan of Nutcrackers and his collection down in Provincetown) – and across all of the many the oceans and lands between our dining room and Türkiye. May some of that good energy infuse in all the right places.

Violence against women is a universal phenomenon…you can learn more by clicking this link.

And to learn more about what is happening re: One Billion Rising in Turkey – you can check out a recent article in Today’s Zaman, one of the English-language paper in Turkey.

But most of all, please focus on love today, in all of its shapes and forms.

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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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