Scenes from Istanbul Life IV: Family, Bananas

Scenes from Istanbul Life III: Work Break

Scenes from Istanbul Life II: Fathers and Sons, Fishing

Scenes from Istanbul Life I: Boys and Bikes

My Neighborhood

Leaving my building, descending its once-elegant wide marble staircase, I head to the street, and am greeted by the scores of cats that inhabit the neighborhood, and who sleep who-knows-where but who feed off of the informally-created piles of trash that spring up around the streets for want of trash cans. At this early hour, 7:30 in the morning - really quite early for Istanbul, as most everything opens at 9:00 am (also the hour my classes start, but they are far away) - there are surely more of these cats on the street than people (which at this hour translates mostly to men), and this is why I am able to take the picture of the corner building. During the rest of the day, and well until 10:00 or 11:00 at night, there is invariably a woman or child peering out one of the building's windows, and as I've come to feel like I am, for now, part of the neighborhood, I wouldn't have taken the shot at any other time.

In fact, there were many times that, walking through the area in the afternoons after coming back from Turkish classes, I saw the neighborhood kids, sitting around, taking turns riding a kid's bike, throwing whatever they got their hands on to throw back and forth, dodging the cars that barely fit on the narrow, hilly streets, as if through the lens of my camera. But I never actually took the pictures - I was slowly feeling my way into developing a relationship with the neighborhood children, and didn't want to disrupt that or upset anyone, as I've heard that at least some of the older women are truly averse to having their pictures taken.

Anyway, I found that befriending the children was notably easier than developing any kind of relationship with the older folks in the neighborhood (which lies right between an old Genoese tower and an Ottoman canon factory). The residents of the area are largely from Siirt, just north of the Turkish border with Syria and Iraq, and in addition to Turkish are split between between those who speak Arabic and those who speak Kurdish at home. The older generations, who grew up there, are as a rule, traditional. The women cover their heads with scarves and don't seem to go far from home; within the neighborhood I see them generally in front of their houses or on their balconies. As most of what they need can be had on the same street where they live - men come by with either trucks or pushcarts selling gas for the home, vegetables and bread, which the women sometimes buy on the streets, sometimes by lowering money into buckets from their windows - I wonder at times whether or not they do ever find the occassion to go very far.

That said, this is not an Islamist neighborhood, which also exist in other parts of Istanbul. In those areas, one can notice in the dress of the men as well that they are religious - as they usually wear small woven skull caps, have short, trimmed hair and a long though trimmed beard. In these neighborhoods, which I have walked through in long sleeves during midday so as not to offend anyone, one sees many women in full black garb with only part of their faces showing. My neighborhood is not like this. (I don't wear long sleeves in my neighborhood. This is in part simply due to the fact that it is home for me right now, and it is all I can do to get through the days already covered with a layer of sweat by 8:30 am, but also, and more importantly, because I don't get the sense that I am terribly disrupting anything or upsetting anyone by doing so. I am also not the only foreigner in the neighborhood; I have two French friends who live nearby).

In Tophane, my neighborhood, the families are simply traditional, but one can also see these traditions changing a bit with the younger generations. I don't see young girls, even those who have hit puberty (a time some say is the marker for when a head-scarf should be worn), covering their heads, except as they are preparing to go to the mosque on holidays. They dress in t-shirts and long pants and are always out playing on the streets. It is with girls of all ages and the youngest of boys that I first started developing relationships - walking home in the evenings I smile and say hello or good evening, and they seem to get a real kick out of it at times. When older people aren't around, they even approach me occasionally, and ask me if I am Turkish or a foreigner, or sometimes they just cut right to the thick of it and ask me in a sweet accent where I'm from, in English.

Somehow, one day, about two weeks ago, passing by the neighborhood crew who already recognized me as a regular in those parts, I decided to ask them if they wanted me to take a picture of them - maybe I already had my camera out in preparation for something else, I can't quite remember what prompted the question, but nonetheless I asked. I was met with a spontaneous "Evet, evet, evet" (yes, that is, in Turkish). They all ran to get into the picture, and then began the scuffling - someone wanted a picture alone, someone else only with her sister, other kids tried to ruin the shot by jumping into the frame.

I took pictures of them in front of the gate of the Crimean Church (built by the English in 1856 after they helped the Ottomans win the Crimean War against Russia) and in a dark passageway under one of the buildings. At the other end of the passage way I saw the shadows and heard the voices of other children, but when I asked them who those kids were, whether we should invite them over to join in the pictures, the oldest girl in the group responded. "Never mind them, they are a different group, and we don't talk to them." That was the end of that, I figured, and probed no further.

During the photo session, I got to talking to the kids, learned their names and their ages. I made them guess my age. Their estimates ranged between 20 and 25. One girl, to get her bearings in the game, asked if I was married (it would be hard for them to guess my real age, almost 27, with a negative answer). I took a number of shots and promised to get them developed and bring copies to them the following week.

Two days later, walking by the same corner, I saw the same kids sitting around, but as the street opened up, I saw the oldest girl, Beshire, in a long pink dress with synthetic flowers placed evenly amongst her freshly-curled hair. What was the occassion, I asked. She told me that she was getting married in two hours. I remembered that she had told me that she was 14. I wondered what the wedding at 14 would entail. Would they begin to live as husband and wife? Where would they live? I didn't actually ask her anything about it, but she had questions for me: Did I have my camera on me? (I didn't). Could we make an appointment to take pictures of her all dressed up? (We did - I went home for the camera).

A few days later, I brought developed pictures to the neighborhood, and handed them to Beshire. I figured that she would distribute copies appropriately, yet the next day as I walked down the hill I met with the plaintive looks of the neighborhood boys who complained that they had gotten too few, or none, from the batch. I promised more pictures.

As for Beshire's wedding, it's hard for me to notice any changes. I've never seen her husband and I'm not sure if he lives with her family now or quite how it's done, but she is clearly still living in the same home as she did before. Anyway, not much time has passed since the ceremony - the henna from the wedding is still stained on her hands. When I walked by today I hung out with the kids for awhile, and Beshire told me that her mom wanted me to come to her house. It seems that I had graduated to forging relationships with the older people now as well.

Beshire's mother was sweet and gave me two kisses on the cheek as I entered, as is the custom here (especially, in traditional arrangements, men-to-men and women-to-women). She too, although she didn't say it, was eager to have her picture taken. She told this to me in so many words by showing me a picture of her other daughter's wedding, which she didn't like of herself, she explained. She was dressed in a black head scarf and was knitting something for a new toddler in the family. But when we began taking pictures she went into the other room in search of a white scarf for reasons that still elude me. Beshire told her older sister and sister-in-law to put on their head scarves, since the pictures were going to be sent back to the "village" (Siirt), but they didn't want to. The mother asked me if I wanted anything to eat, and ended up bringing in stuffed green peppers and grape leaves, as well as Ayran (a thin yoghurt drink) and Turkish coffee with milk (since when is Turkish coffee served with milk!?!?!) Deciding it would be wisest not to begin to explain the simplest truth (that I am lactose-intolerant), or even an easier-to-translate version of it (I have allergies to milk?), I drank the milky coffee and figured I'd just suffer the consequences later (although here I am, many hours later, writing comfortably and uninterrupted from a cafe table ...)

She invited me to come back any time. Whenever I was bored I could come over, she explained, and she would feed me. Also, she had me know that I could feel entirely comfortable at her house, as there were no men there (she used a Turkish form which belittles things from near repetition: I wouldn't find any "erkek, merkek" in her house is what she actually said, a form which translated into the Yiddish-inspired English would come out as "men, schmen"). How old was I, she asked. I'm old, I explained (because I knew what the next question would be). When would I get married (it came). Soon, I assured her, soon, maybe next year. I'm not actually sure she would've have understood if I explained to her a different truth, which is that I was nearly 27 and had no clear plans of marriage.

A Place to Rest My Head

When I arrived in Istanbul from Sarajevo the evening before my Turkish course was starting - very happy to have found a nice flat to rent after the previous two deals I had found fell through - I called a French friend of mine, who lives here, and who was meant to give me the key to my place. "A little problem arose," she explained to me in Turkish as I called from the payphone at the airport. "Why don't you just come over and I'll explain it to you," she continued.

The hitch was that the last renter had been living with a bathroom whose ceiling had developed a constant leak, which appeared to be coming somewhere from the plumbing in the flat above. Over a period of about four months, it had accrued a lovely layer of black mold (I'm hoping this isn't a terribly dangerous kind - anyone?). The ceiling was also flaking off in largish-sized chunks. Whether the renter had tried to do something about the mess and had left early out of exasperation, or had simply been negligent, I still do not understand to this day.

In the meantime, my friend, Noemi, told me that she had found a temporary solution; in other words, she had found me another place to stay. Two friends of hers were going on vacation, and would give me the keys to their place: It was a couple; Muslum, a Kurdish-Turkish guy who runs a bilingual printing press around here and his French wife, Clemence, who is writing her doctoral dissertation on the Kurdish language (which they speak together at home).

I ended up staying at their place even once they returned, waiting in vain for the landlord's cousin (who stood in for the landlord who is out of the country) to begin to resolve the moldy bathroom problem. They were very hospitable, and I ended up eating many a Turkish breakfast (consisting of bread, cucumber, tomato, "kaymak" (which I can only describe as a cross between whipped butter and plain cream), honey, watermelon and Turkish tea) with them. I must have stayed with them for upwards of a week, but I finally felt compelled to leave, although Muslum would act surprised when I said I needed to find somewhere else to stay. Anyway, my bed consisted of a small pillow-like mattress in their living room, and I didn't want to overstay my welcome any more than I had, despite what they said.

So I moved in to the moldy-bathroom place, which, despite its unfortunate state, is actually a really nice apartment. I waited either for good news from the landlord's cousin or other leads for places, but pretty much found neither. In the meantime, I became a vagrant showerer, showering alternately at various friends' places, since I did all I could to avoid my bathroom at all times, trying to use the bathrooms of my local haunts as much as possible.

The good part of the deal is that my friend's friend, from whom I was meant to sublet the place, told the landlord she would not pay rent until the problem was resolved, which has meant, in turn, that I am not paying rent either, and have thus far only had to cover the cost of utilities.

So, I finally adjusted to the situation, after many a tireless afternoon spent after classes, climbing Istanbul's various hills under a scalding sun, looking for a lead. I now have a great bathing system which I've set up in my kitchen, consisting of a plastic tub which would provide ample room to bathe a baby in, I'm sure, and a hot water kettle and plastic bucket. It works well enough for the time being. Of course, it's the world outside here that interests me most anyway. More about that soon.

En Route: Bosnia from the Train

Mostar, Hercegovina

On our way back to Sarajevo, we stopped for just half a day in the old Ottoman town of Mostar, in Hercegovina. Indira explained to me ahead of time that the town was very split, between the Bosnian Muslim population and the Croatians who had stuck out the war in the area and wanted to make their presence felt, despite the fact that, or perhaps more precisely because, the town had become part of what is now officially "Muslim" Bosnia-Hercegovina. Upon arriving there, the divisions weren't hard to notice: there was an enormous cross perched upon a large hill that overlooked the city, and a new, brightly-illuminated bell-fry, also topped by a cross, which competed with the minarets that otherwise dominated Mostar's skyline. I was suprirsed to learn that on one side of the city most places accept kuna, the Croatian currency (which worked out well enough for me as I had some left over from the trip to Dubrovnik).

However, as we made our way to the heart of the old city, which runs along the Neretva River, I was struck by the place. As the town was Ottoman for most of the centuries of its existence, it somehow gave me the feeling – more than any place I’ve ever been - of what it might have felt like to live in an Ottoman town in the Balkans, a world I spend much of my time trying to enter through newspapers and postcards, rather than on foot ... so that was quite a treat.

The other touching thing about our visit there was seeing – and standing on – the famous Mostar bridge, built by the Ottomans in the 16th-century and destroyed after fighting in the area in the '90's, which, Indira explained to me, had broken "every Bosnian’s heart," as it has come to be a symbol of their country. It is now standing again, after being rebuilt last year through a combination of loans from the World Bank and aid from Turkey and elsewhere, though much of the city is still noticeably in ruins, more so even than Sarajevo. (Because the Catholic-Muslim divide in the city actually exists in palpable form - each group is associated with one or the other side of the river - descriptions of the reconstruction project tell how its aims included actually and symbolically linking the two sides).

As the sun began to set, we sat by the bridge, right along the river, drinking Bosnians’ version of Turkish coffee (which, others claim, is in turn simply a second-rate version of the Arabic kind, though I like the Turkish kind well enough) and eating baklava, trying to bide our time until our bus came at 12:30 that night, which was heading back to Sarajevo, where I was slated to take a plane back to Istanbul the next morning. All of that, at least, went as planned. More later on Istanbul, my current home.

A Song for Tito

After talking for awhile with Indira, the two of us decided to head to the Dalmatian coast of Croatia the following day: I had originally planned to Croatia with Emily, where we were going to meet up with her husband and his family in Split. However, the people at the train station were reluctant to give us the money back for the tickets, and it was sad staying in Emily's now-empty place, so Indira and I simply exchanged the tickets and headed south, to Dubrovnik. We spent two days and a night there amongst Dubrovnik's beautiful aqua-colored Mediterranean sea and an impressively well preserved old city, fortress and walls. The perfect preservation of the town was all the more striking since Dubvronik was heavily bombed in '91-'92 by the Serbian and Montenegran armies of the former Yugoslavia. However, as the fortified town, of major touristic and historic importance for Croatia, has been completely redone, the most prominent visual reminder of the bombing is the simple fact that the red color of the new tiles on the rooftops does not match the older ones, made by a factory that has since shut down and whose exact method or source cannot be duplicated.

Overall, the city was picturesque, yet full of tourists, and it was hard for me to feel much of an emotional response to the place despite its beauty; the best memory I have of our time in the city, by far, comes from our first afternoon there.

Indira and I were sitting in a plaza by a bunch of local, middle-aged men who were sitting around with a guitar. Indira started humming the tunes of some of the traditional songs the men were singing, noting how ironic it was that her father sang and played those very songs on guitar as well. “They say we’re all so different,” she went on, “but look how we share the same songs.” The men saw Indira singing along, and quickly saw that I was trying to catch the moment in a video clip (which I’ll include if I can), smiled and invited us to join them. Finally, as we were leaving, although we were somewhat reluctant, we said we would sit down with them for a bit. Indira started singing songs along with them, and they tried a few times to accommodate me by struggling through the lyrics of songs like "American Pie," or Simon and Garfunkel's "The Boxer," not realizing how much more I enjoyed hearing their local Dalmatian music, which sounded much like Italian music to my uninitiated ears. (In fact, the way that the Dalmatians speak Croatian, perched as they are on the other side of the Adriatic from Italy, and due to the long-time Italian influence in the area, sounds like a Slavic language spoken with an Italian accent).

Before we left, some other local men approached, and those sitting around our table spontaneously burst into song. Indira turned to me to explain that the song was one that recalled the days of Tito nostalgically, an interesting tribute to the once multi-ethnic state he had run in the region.

Sarajevo Without Emily

Continuing with our walk, we passed the park, and the modern city center, heading further into the Austro-Hungarian section, built after the area came under Hapsburg rule beginning in 1878. My favorite part, not surprisingly, lay beyond that section, when the ornate European-style buildings give way to smaller, wooden structures with steep roofs, and to mosques; these are the old Ottoman buildings, many of which have been restored. In this part, local Bosnians mingle among tourists and international peacekeepers (now directed by an EU-led peacekeeping force, Eufor, which took over from the NATO-led mission in 2004), although the city looked quiet enough to me. However, as Emily explained to me, there is essentially no rule of law in the country, and after the Dayton Peace Accords (which Clinton helped to draft in '95) the country does not really have full autonomy (something the Bosnian flag - which not all Bosnians accept - reminds everyone of in a blatant way, bearing the yellow stars and blue backdrop which resemble the EU flag). There are still mines in the countryside, for example, and she warned me that if I was going to take any trips to neighboring villages, I should do so with a guide and someone who knew the landscape well. However, knowing all this still did not change the impression I got of a quiet city, where the ruins and scarred buildings faded into the backdrop of misty green hills or rows of multy-storied apartments, depending on where I found myself at a given moment.

After this initial initiation to the city, terrible news arrived: Emily learned that her father had died suddenly. It was awful: I was there with her when she found out, and it was unimaginably difficult, but we were both very grateful that I could at least be there with her. She was so far from home and had to take care of so many things in order to get back to the States as soon as possible, that I did what I could in that regard. So we packed up her life there (she decided to cut her trip short, as it was almost over anyway), changed her ticket for the next morning, and made sure everything was arranged for her dog to come with her. (Her husband had bought her a dog to keep her company while she was living in Sarajevo). Her friends from her year there began coming over once they heard, and we all sat around with her and helped her pack, listening to her and smoking (save the three Americans there, me, Emily and her friend Paul, who is a professor in the States). We stuffed her life in three suitcases, divided up the items she wasn't taking with her, and got her to the airport at 5:30 the next morning. Emily, amazing soul that she is, made sure before she left to remind me of the appointments she had made for me at local archives, assuring also that her friends there knew they were to take care of me.

They did, although from all the traveling, stress, lack of sleep, and probably a dose of bad luck, I got a really bad cold, and a cough which I am sure was compounded the thick cloud of cigarette smoke that you're bound to come under (supposedly, again according to Emily, something like 96% of Bosnians smoke). After a long nap, the following day I met two of her friends, sisters, Indira, 26, and Irfana, 21, at their place, and they cooked me Bosnian food and played some Bosnian music for me, some of which I managed to take with me before I left.

A Walking Tour through Sarajevo

The morning after I got into Istanbul, on June 15th, dropping my suitcase off at a friend's, I took off to Sarajevo. I was greeted at the small airport there, tucked at the base of a row of mountains, by rain and by my friend Emily, who pulled up in a taxi. She had been living there all this past year, doing her research on the city during World War II. In the taxi, on the way to her place, I learned that the entire city exists in a sort of long strip along the river, buffered by parrallel mountain ranges on either side. On our ride, the first buildings we passed were high-rises from Tito's time, many of which had been on the front lines during the most recent war, and which still bear the scars to show it.

We spent the first day or so just strolling around. In addition to the many bullet-ridden buildings that filled the city, I was particularly struck by Sarajevo's main public park, which seemed a poignant example of how this city, and its inhabitants, coexist with the memory of the recent war, to the point that its omnipresence appears to have been normalized: the park doubles as a cemetery, and - although it undoubtedly began as a historic cemetery, housing old-style Ottoman gravestones (vertical white tombs that seem to have turbans perched upon their heads) - added to these, along one of the main thouroughfares and amidst passers-by, young couples and old men playing over-sized chess games on the pavement, are new graves, from the recent fighting and the seige of the city, still too new to really match the grey tone and rough edges of the older tombstones behind them.

Trial note

Ok. So, I've been meaning to set one of these things up for some time now, namely, since before I left California, which was precisely one month ago today. I've been a bit slow, I know, and I apologize for not having been in touch with pretty much the lot of you, but I am hoping to get a rhythm established soon. I'm going to start slowly, but from the beginning, with my trip to Bosnia-Hercegovina in mid-June. In the meantime, though, let's just see if I can get this thing to work first ...