Tomorrow is two weeks since I had my tympanoplasty - fancy word for "snagging cartilage from the flappy triangular bit at the front of your ear and using it to patch up the humongous hole in your ear drum" - and I definitely can't say I'm back to normal yet. The pain is pretty much gone, but the energy hasn't come back yet. Getting off the pain meds helped a lot, but then when I attempted to do a few normal things around the house, I wound up right back in bed where I started. Slowly, slowly...
It was a super long and complicated process, trying to sort out if I would have my surgery (the need for which had been hanging over my head for years) at home or here, and in the end I was super happy to be able to get it done here. ("Here" being Istanbul.) Besides the fact that it meant I didn't have to leave the country - and essentially, my life - for an extended period of time, it also served to really bond me in with my "second home" even more deeply. A friend here who had her babies in another Central Asian country told me that the experience made her feel so much more rooted there, more settled knowing that her country could take care of her. I felt the same way - like this was some sort of milestone in "cultural adaptation." I was super pleased with the hospital and my doctor, and everything was over and above what I'd expected. It was nice to feel like, apart from a couple of really technical conversations, I could function in the hospital in Turkish....albeit more slowly when I was coming out of the anesthetic! (Plus, I've learned all sorts of new vocab words, like "narcotics," "discharged" and "anesthesiologist.") Feels good to know that I can get what I need here, and that "home" isn't the only place I can survive. Kinda like how when I first moved here, I had a Walmart list a mile long every time a friend was coming to visit, but now I've figured out how to make what I like with what we have here, and the list is down to a chunk of staple items. (Maybe one day we'll get proper brown sugar and non-waxy chocolate chips here - that'll save heaps of suitcase space!)
Being "the patient" in this culture was a new experience for me. A huge value here is community, and it is unheard of to leave someone alone when they are sick. Leading up to the surgery, I was a little anxious about this, cuz I wasn't sure if I'd be able to rest. Turns out I was pretty grateful to have my Turkish mom and dad by my side in the recovery room. (Mom even had to feed me cuz with the IV in, I couldn't hold my spoon!) It was probably good for me to have to let go of some of my "western independence" and let them take care of me. In the days that followed, I wasn't always fond of being babied or told what I should or shouldn't do, but it wasn't a battle I was up for fighting, so I left it alone. Not drinking cold water and staying out of the wind never killed anyone. :) I was grateful that most of the days I stayed with them, everyone was working, so I had some good alone time and peace and quiet - definitely good for my sensitive ears.
I survived the looong bus ride home (no planes for 2 months cuz of the pressure) and was super happy to get back to my own room and my own bed. Not to mention getting away from the cigarette smoke! I hadn't realized how much I needed to speak English and get all sorts of random stories out of my system, so the first night, my roommate got an earful! The first day back, I realized I was going to have to prepare myself for all sorts of visitors, even if I didn't feel up for it. Whereas in our culture, it is normal to leave someone alone and let them rest while they are recovering, here it is shameful not to come visit and keep the person company. We quickly discovered that keeping friends and neighbours away was gonna be impossible, cuz it would kill them not to be able to come say a "Gecmis olsun" - "May it pass quickly." Thankfully my roomie is a great buffer - she laid down the law and told incoming well wishers that I was super tired, so they couldn't stay long, that no sickies were allowed in (risk of infection) and above all, no being funny- besides the fact that it hurt to laugh, a good joke is not worth blowing stitches! They probably think it is horrible that I'm left in my room all day while not feeling well, but I am grateful for the space. Still, it has been really sweet to have people come over and Gecmis Olsun me - and I've even scored some nice soup, muffins, milk, cookies and plastic flowers out of the deal!
The part that has amused me the most is that, since I have to rest, the serving of the tea is now up to my roommate. It is customary for the youngest girl in the house (me) to serve the guests, so being the auntie, she pretty much never has to do it. But now that I get to lie around when the guests come calling, she gets the pleasure. We've got quite an array of tea-drinking styles amongst our neighbours - some light, some dark, some with lemon. Some drink it with sugar cubes held in their mouths, others spoon the sugar into their cups - it's a lot to remember, and keeping those tiny glasses full definitely keeps you on your toes. I am thoroughly sitting down while she has to keep her eyes scanning the room for empty cups. :)
So, here's to new experiences and to feeling like this land is that much more my home.
The sign said "Dead End." Still, the crooked alleyway held the promise of proudly decaying wooden houses and equally decrepit teyzes knitting on their front stoops, so we ignored the sign and ventured on to see what we could see.
A few photographs later, a group of ragamuffins who had previously been amusing themselves by wrestling in the dirt descended upon us with what I ought to have recognized as a mischevious gleam in their eyes.
"This way, abla! There is an exit just through this gate!"
They pointed to a large metal gate that led to a block of apartments. Figuring there must be some little pathway beyond the houses too small for a car to pass through, we ventured on... only to hear the slam of the door behind us, accompanied by shrieks of delight. Laughing eyes peered through the slats of the door as they congratulated themselves on trapping what I can only assume were the most recent in a long succession of gullible foreign prisoners.
Thinking we'd humour them, we walked on a bit, discovered that we were, indeed, stuck, and then returned to try to wrestle the gate open. They put up a good fight, but eventually gave up on holding us captive and let me win, dissolving on the ground in a heap of giggles. I decided it would be better to make friends with these urchins than to get mad at them (wouldn't want them to follow us back and throw eggs at our window or something!) so I started snapping pictures. They were more than happy to ham it up for the camera. (I just now realized that the little guy in the blue jacket is giving me the Turkish equivalent of the finger! Not so innocent, these ones.)
As we walked away, I called back to them, "Do you do this to all the tourists?"
With great pride came the answer, "We try!"
There's this fun little section at the heart of Kadıköy called the Fishermen's Market - a few lively blocks crammed full of colourful produce stands, pastry shops, pickle shops, dried fruit and nut shops, Turkish coffee shops, breakfast-stuff shops and, yes, fresh fish. When I'm up in Istanbul, I look for any excuse to go buy something there - a kilo of dates, some dried cranberries (which have, thank heaven, finally made their debut on the Turkish scene), some Turk Kahvesi to take home as a present. And even when I don't need anything, I'll go out of my way to take a stroll down this crowded back street, just to drink in the ambience. (Plus, it's impossible to get out of there without scoring some free samples!)
I wish I could bottle up the smells, the sounds, the flavours for you.....here's a visual sampling....
Mmm, dolma! Stuffed eggplant, stuffed tomatoes, cabbage wraps....
Pickled everything.
These grape leaves are used to make sarma - tight little rolls filled with rice and spices.
I always feel like a real "Istanbullu" after having run to catch a ferry. There is something so exhilarating about hearing that "last call" fog horn sound, racing across the plaza to the ferry building and swiping your Akbil (transit pass), then making a mad dash for the docks. Some days it's just not your day and you make it to the doors only to have them slammed shut in your face. But then there are those glorious days (I had two last week) when you just barely slide through the doors and leap onto the ferry just as the ropes are being undone and the gangplanks lifted. Out of breath and feeling supremely victorious, you congratulate yourself and then make your way upstairs to find a seat.
No matter how cold it is, I nearly always prefer to sit outside where all the action is. There is nothing like the scent of the sea and the feeling of the wind whipping past, watching century upon century of history glide by as you make our way across to The Other Side. ("The Other Side," you must know, is a real and true place. Whether you are in Asian or European Istanbul, the opposite shore is simply referred to as "The Other Side." It's kind of like how they refer to leaving the country. Whether I’m heading on a quick visa run or clear across the globe to Canada, my friends will always say I'm heading "to the outside of the country" - but it's used more in the sense of an actual destination (interchangeable with, say, Germany) and less in terms of "everything outside Turkey's borders." This little language nuance has always amused me.)
(Is it legal to use parentheses inside of an already parenthetical statement? Cuz I just did.)
Anyways, enough digression. Back to the ferry. A must on these 20 minute "intercontinental crossings" is a hot cup of tea - 50 cents from the man who comes around selling them on his tray. (That's another thing that makes me feel like a local – having the correct change ready when he comes around instead of having to ask the price.) On cold winter days, they offer something even better than tea – sahlep. Sahlep, made from crushed orchids, is a creamy, cinnamony bit of heaven in a glass – the perfect companion on a chilly journey. You wrap your freezing fingers around that little cup of glory and inhale its steamy goodness, sighing a sigh of gratitude for this culture which revolves almost singularly around the presence of hot drinks.
And then there's the on-board entertainment. Sometimes it's a mobile salesman who busts out his lemon juicers or paring knives or whatever he's selling and wows the crowd with his demonstration of their magical powers. But much more faithfully, and far more engaging, are the flocks of seagulls that follow each vessel back and forth across the waters, waiting for the morsels of simit (a sesame seed pastry) that passengers toss up in the air into their hungry mouths. (The birds' mouths, not their own - though that would be entertaining, too!) These seagulls possess an amazing amount of endurance and skill, and rarely do you see a bird turn back from exhaustion or a stray chunk of bread fall into the sea. The art of Simit Tossing is a rite of passage for all Istanbullus, one clumsily attempted in childhood and perfected with age, and it is guaranteed to brighten even the greyest of Istanbul days.
When the boat has left Uskudar's Maiden Tower in its wake and the Yeni Camii and the fishermen on the Galata Bridge have come into view, it is time to make your way downstairs and join the throng waiting to disembark. Another distinguishing mark of a true Istanbullu is the ability to leap from the ferry to the dock before the walkways have been lowered and the ropes tied. Great fun.
I once heard a story of a little girl who, as the ferry was docking, slipped and fell into the space between the boat and the dock. A moment later, a man was beside her in the freezing water, and soon the girl and her rescuer were pulled safely to the shore. The girl’s parents hugged her with relief, and the man was surrounded by an admiring crowd. "Bravo!" they cried. "You were so brave to jump into that icy water and save her!"
He put his hands up to silence them, and someone called out, "Shh, let our hero speak!"
When the crowd grew quiet, the man looked around and said, "What I want to know is, who pushed me?"
I was up in Istanbul this past week spending time with my Turkish family, and on the way up, I flew Turkish Airlines. Now, their prices are often the steepest as far as domestic tickets go, but on the plus side, you are always guaranteed food. And it's free. (A rarity these days.) I was pretty impressed that I got a sandwich, cake and coffee on a 9 AM flight. No little bags of peanuts here, folks.
However, when I looked closely at the cake, I had to laugh. The label described it as "Homemade Cherry Cake." Really? I can just picture little Ayse Teyze pulling a pan out of the oven in her tiny kitchen, wiping the sweat from her brow and yelling, "Fatma, get in here and help me! I have to get these to the airport in time for the red-eye to Frankfurt!"
A few tempting options on a menu I recently perused...
Diet Relish Salad
Chick Sinitzel
Cheedar Cheese
Bake Lamp Cage
Vegetables and Embers.
I could make a killing as a proofreader.
On Boxing Day (the day after Christmas, for all you Americans), after a delightful day of White Elephant gifts and Cranium and many, many cookies, we arrived home to a surprise on our doorstep: a six foot tall pine tree. No card, no note - just a tree. Rather puzzled (and intrigued), and so as not to offend the sender (who may well have been peering out from behind a nearby curtain) we brought it inside. And died laughing. We figured it may have been a gift from a thoughtful friend who knew that "westerners decorate trees" but didn't realize that Christmas was, in fact, already over. Just in case the giver were to pay a visit, we dutifully snagged some decorations from our "real" tree, spruced up the newcomer and gave it a prominent spot in our living room. A few days later, we came to learn that our chop-happy gardener (seriously, the man's idea of pruning is hacking all things green down to the size of a stick) had been cutting down some trees that week and, remembering that last year my roommate had asked him for "a few boughs of greenery to decorate the banister," he decided to go all out and give us what turned out to be an extremely long branch. He may not be the best horticulturist, but he has a heart of gold. :)
Apparently the custom of putting up "New Years trees" has really caught on in Turkey in the last few years. In fact, towards the end of December, you'll see shop windows and shopping malls decked to the hilt much as you would see at home. (See post below for more background.) I even saw on the news just after Christmas that the Department of Forestry was reporting a rise in people stealing trees from government land to take home and decorate. :) It seems that, through films mostly, much of the commercial Christmas hype has made its way into the nation with all the glitz and none of the meaning. (Hmm, however did that happen?) There's no such thing as Jesus' birthday here, so all the festivities centre around the start of the New Year. There is a good bit of confusion over why we foreigners celebrate New Years "a week early," so we are forever explaining that there are, in fact, two holidays that same week, and that the first and more important one is what all the fuss is about.
Sad as the lack of knowledge of "the true meaning of Christmas" is to me (both here and in my home country), I have to admit, it was rather comforting to walk down the street and see Santa hats on the mannequins and fake snow in the windows. :)
Little known fact - St. Nicholas actually lived out his days in Demre, just down the coast from Antalya. He was known for his miracles and his generosity to the poor. Nowadays, Father Christmas is becoming an increasingly well-known figure in Turkey, though not in relation to the holiday you'd first suspect....
I'm reposting this article from CNN - it gives some good insight into what "Christmas" looks like in this predominantly Muslim, but increasingly western-looking nation. Definitely going to check the movie out sometime this week, too. Should be the perfect compliment to "It's a Wonderful Life" and "The Grinch...."
ISTANBUL, Turkey (CNN) -- It may be the first modern Christmas movie ever made for audiences in Turkey, a mostly Muslim country that does not celebrate Christmas.
"Neseli Hayat" or "A Cheerful Life" is the story of a down-on-his-luck, working class Turk who is hired to work as a mall Santa.
The trouble is he doesn't really know who Santa Claus is, and needs some very basic lessons.
In one scene, a manager drills the main character, Riza and several other hired Santas on how to give Saint Nick's hearty bellow, "ho-ho-ho."
In another segment, a bearded, costumed Riza enters a waiting room and extends the traditional Muslim greeting "A salam aleyekum" to four other mall Santas, who answer back without looking up "aleyekum salam."
Video: Muslim Turks celebrate Christmas
But Riza then spends much of the film, embarrassed and hiding his job and costume at a posh Istanbul mall glittering with holiday decorations, from his wife and family in a shanty neighborhood where one would be hard pressed to find a single piece of tinsel.
The writer, director and actor who played Riza, Yilmaz Erdogan, says his character is a metaphorical bridge between two worlds in Turkey: wealthier, upper class Turks who live a "Western" lifestyle and have adopted the trappings of Christmas to celebrate the new year, and poorer Turks who have emigrated from the Anatolian heartland to the big city and are more familiar with traditionally "Middle Eastern" customs.
"Riza is the man who is in the middle of these two groups," Erdogan said.
He spoke to CNN at the Istanbul premiere of his film, which debuted in a shopping mall cinema decorated with Christmas trees and female hostesses wearing tight black dresses and Santa hats.
Erdogan agreed it was an unusual decision to focus a Turkish film on Santa Claus, which Turks often refer to as "Noel Baba" [Father Christmas].
"It is a symbol that we all love. Any person who sees him will smile," Erdogan said.
"We don't have a religious relationship with [Christmas]. We have a relationship based on a date, based on modern times. A significant group of us love this Western date and we celebrate it with the ones that we love," he added.
This month, one could easily mistake the shopping malls and commercial districts of Istanbul for any Western, Christian city. Stores and hotels are bursting with Christmas trees, lights and ornaments. Only the sound of Christmas carols is perhaps missing.
And the Yuletide pageantry is not only confined to shopping destinations of the wealthy.
Christmas kitsch is also on display in labyrinthine, working class street bazaars built in the shadow of centuries' old Ottoman minarettes. Amid stalls selling everything from middle eastern baklava sweets to hunting rifles, shopkeepers also sell animated, life-size Santa dolls and giant inflated Frosty the Snowman figures.
"Its been busy these days," said shopkeeper Saime Elkatmis, who wore a woman's Muslim headscarf as she sold plastic wreaths and glowing stars to passing customers.
"Within the last two or three years, people are a lot more interested in New Year holiday, from all the sectors of society," she added.
Next door, Tuna Alkan, a member of Istanbul's tiny Jewish community, was helping her husband Joshua sell plastic Christmas trees to mostly Muslim customers.
Alkan said Turks usually refer to the trees as "New Year's trees."
"It's a good symbol, it's a happy symbol," Alkan said. "Why wouldn't we use it?"
Part of the enthusiasm for Western holiday pageantry stems from economics. Turkish merchants have clearly embraced Christmas colors, to generate consumer excitement and help drive up sales.
"A Cheerful Life" creator Yilmaz Erdogan agrees that Santa is a symbol of capitalism.
"This is capitalism and Riza is a victim," Erdogan said. In the film, Riza resorts to working as a mall Santa after an economic crisis drives his restaurant bankrupt, and after he plunges himself and his friends in debt by falling for a pyramid scam.
But in the end, with the help of the Santa suit and some very strong Turkish family values, Riza succeeds in saving the day.
The split identity between east and west is often a source of social and political tension in Turkey. This gentle, Turkish Christmas movie shows Turks they can have a foot in both worlds and still enjoy the holidays.
**NOTE: Several of the photos below are pretty graphic. If you are squeamish about blood, don't scroll down past the text! (And if you are sensitive about the treatment of animals, please understand the cultural context within which these were taken.)
I arrived back to Turkey just in time for a good load of festivities as American Thanksgiving and Kurban Bayrami (The Muslim Sacrifice Festival) were a day apart this year. This prompted some amusing conversations as we explained the traditional Thanksgiving meal - I'm sure many of our neighbours now think we "sacrifice a turkey" in the same way they would sacrifice a cow. :) (Incidentally, some of our neighbours recently decided that a rooster would be a suitable pet for their three-year-old, so now we have a rooster that terrorizes our otherwise quiet complex, crowing at all hours of the night and assaulting dogs and children at will. Seriously, the thing is a beast. We'd been hoping someone would get creative with their sacrifice this year and offer up the offending bird, but alas, it still roams free.)
Kurban Bayrami has its roots in the Quranic story of when God told the Prophet Abraham to sacrifice his son Ishmael, and then at the last minute provided a ram to die in his place. Every year, Muslims around the world (at least all who are financially able and who consider it their religious duty) sacrifice a cow, sheep or goat to commemorate Hazreti Ibrahim's willingness to give up his son. If you dig down a few layers, you'll find that this tradition is also perpetuated by the underlying belief that in order for Allah to forgive man's sins, their must be the shedding of blood. (This, of course, opens the door for many good conversations with our neighbours.)
In order to present a less barbaric face to the Western World (ie the EU and whatever tourists may happen to be roaming the city's streets) it is illegal to kill the animals in your own garden, so after they've been tied up and moo-ing or baa-ing all night, people drive their animals to the designated sacrifice areas (ie somewhere out of town, the neighbourhood carwash or an empty covered bazaar) where either they themselves or, more often, actual butchers will perform the ritual sacrifice. Sometimes, if they aren't too well off, several families will chip in together to buy an animal. The whole thing has an air of community and festivity about it, even despite all the gore. Prayers are offered, then the animal is tied up and swiftly killed, often with a loud reaction from the other animal-spectators who know their turn is coming. Following the removal of the hide and the draining of the blood, it is usually the women (who must have remarkably strong stomachs) who set to work at cutting up the meat and dividing it into portions - a third to be eaten by the family, a third to be shared with friend and relatives, and a third to be given to the poor.
I was pretty impressed with how the whole operation goes like clockwork. You've got a guy with a clipboard collecting the fees for the butchers, the guys who chant the prayers, the guys with the knives who do the dirty work, the guys with rubber boots and hoses who clean up the blood, and the guys in the "Deri Toplama Ekibi" truck ("Skin/Hide Collection Squad") cleaning up the remains. And by afternoon, the whole place has cleared out and you'd never know anything had gone down.
On the morning of the sacrifice, one of my roommates and I set off in search of the action. We found it a few kilometres up the road where there it seemed every field or open space had become the scene for the slaughter. It seemed that heaps of "city people" had come out to the village to make their sacrifices, cuz what are normally quiet-ish streets turned into a village-wide traffic jam. It was interesting, too, to see how many not-covered women had come out our way, too. It was obvious who was and wasn't from around there!
We made the rounds to observe, talk to people and get some photos. I've only ever experienced the Sacrifice Festival in Istanbul, and I found people down here were much more willing to chat and have their pictures taken. (Meaning no one was really concerned about whether or not I was a reporter or threatened to break my camera if I didn't leave...unlike last year....) We played the good students of culture that we are and asked a lot of questions about the meaning behind the tradition. What really comes across is the pride in carrying out an age-old ritual, and the sense of unity that comes from knowing that people all over the Muslim world are all doing the same, as well as joy in being able to share and celebrate with family and friends.
Following the sacrifice is a four-day holiday where there is much visiting of loved-ones, kissing of elderly hands, and sharing in tasty meals. We got in on some good barbecue action with some of our neighbours, and I must say, I am grateful to the cow who gave his life and became those kebaps!
Seeing it all up close really brings to life the OT requirement of animal sacrifice and the grave reality of the need for blood to cleanse us from sin and shame. It makes the gift of the final sacrifice that much sweeter, and the desire to share that glorious, freeing news with my loved ones here that much more urgent.
Here are some photos from the day:
Death row
Somber spectators
I wish I could've captured this old teyze just a few seconds earlier, lugging that big heavy cow head around and laughing the cutest laugh!
Post-sacrifice grill-out with the neighbours
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