Turkey – Clara Hsu

Lantern Rhapsody

The magic of light encased, hanging down from the ceiling, or swinging on a long stick, flickering. The glimmer inside a paper fish’s belly, yellow star fruit, hairy rambutan. When I was small I pulled a little white curly crepe rabbit with four wooden wheels. A candle was lit inside, held by a thin wire. My sister and I walked up and down the length of the short corridor at home. She with a butterfly of transparent wings. We were the keepers of light, short legs toddling, gleeful and drooling, a kind of mythical youngling along with the shadows that cast on the walls and ceiling.

In Turkey there are congested galaxies. In Morocco you have to rub the painted glass three times (to clean away the dirt) before the genie appears. He has grown big and slightly stooped since the last time we met but he’s the same one, I’m sure of it.

Photo credit: Shutterstock

By A Pondering Pond

Evening. Walking up a steep flight of steps, I found myself looking down at the old city of Mardin (Turkey). Behind me was an immense building structure made of stones. An iron gate was left open at an entrance—an invitation—and I entered its courtyard. A large pond was in the middle, fed by a fountain at the far end of a wall. The trickling water sound lured me and I was able to enjoy a moment of solitude before a guard caught my presence, stepped out of the shadow. We couldn’t speak to each other, but he led me to Mehmet Bayram, a young man who was working on the computer in a room, and he spoke a little English.

“Come back tomorrow and meet my uncle. He will be happy to tell you about this place.”

I had inadvertently wandered into the Zinciriye Medresesi. Built in 1385, it was now used as a school for Kurdish, Aramaic and Arabic language studies. The uncle, Yıldırım, worked at the school and spoke seven languages.

“Do you know the significance of water in a building?” He asked, but eager to give me the answer. “There are three. First, it is a natural sound barrier, like the one that you see, separating one classroom from another. Second, it is soothing to the nerves. Third, if you want to tell a secret, best to do it next to a waterfall so no one may eavesdrop on you.”

Mehmet showed me a photo of himself taken at the pond. The subject and its reflection—which is real and which is illusion?

Chemically Challenged

If someone said to me when I was young: “Nosebleed is caused by a chemical imbalance in your body .” I might have appreciated chemistry as a subject more. Instead, studying symbols and formulas bored me. Now that I’m at an age when the body starts breaking down, I realize it is all chemistry and I have to become my own chemist in order to keep myself healthy.

A cup of coffee a day seems a mild indulgence. But that cup of coffee proved detrimental when I started experiencing palpitations. Why did it turn on me at midlife? I stopped drinking coffee entirely but whenever I smelled the rich aroma my nose would twitch like a mouse’s.

Maybe it is stress, and stress causes the body to react chemically. Vacationing in Turkey recently, I had the espresso-like Turkish coffee and their “American” Nescafe almost every day. Palpitation was a thought in my mind but it never happened. What does it say about this body of fluid? Maybe it was the combination with the nargile (water pipe) that balanced my yin and yang!

Dance Of The Galliformes

Early morning. Rain was just beginning to come down. I saw them, in their magnificent feathered coats, standing in front of a still closed business office as if waiting to get in. This was El Sobrante, suburb, a shopping center parking lot. We came here to drop off our cats at the Vet. We didn’t expect to see a performance of the most magical kind.

“What are they?” Dore asked in a whisper. Blue eye-shadowed and scarlet faced, their long necks gracefully curved, their blue-black wings gently stretched as they stepped delicately and silently.

“Wild turkeys.” I whispered back.

Beyond the parking lot was a stretch of woods. A low wall stood between them. After several rounds of whirling on the concrete “stage” they began to climb the wall. Some made a leap and got on to the top easily. Some needed help, and we could hear soft cries of the birds as they encouraged and heaved their mates up and over.

When at last the dancers left, Dore looked at me. His eyes were glazed and his face emotional.

“I’ll never eat another turkey in my life.” He said.

Stone Bridge and Castle Ruin

The water ran shallow, winding idyllically down the canyon. It was difficult to imagine this area of Hansankeyf would be flooded in the next three years—project dam. Two gigantic stumps, remnants of an ancient bridge, stood at a distance upstream. I walked down to the edge of the water and stood next to the Tigris River.

Residents of the area drew water from the river using rubber hoses. Chickens ran about and children picked up whatever in the sand and played with them. Some boys came over to us, exuberant in their hellos. “Bon bon, bon bon,” they cried. Oh their teeth were black like old men’s.

A castle ruin sat atop the hill. At the summit was a cemetery of dried winter grass and weathered tombstones. A mosque stood at a distance. They would witness the disappearance of the present landscape, hundreds of cave dwellings, the villages, and the construction of the dam. The saga of new replacing old in brisk pace—by men instead of nature.

Photos by Dore Steinberg.

The Steps Of Mardin

We walked, under the nearly full moon, down the ancient stone steps. The old city of Mardin was vibrant with small shops selling vegetables, soaps, clothing and sundries. The sound of rolling metal shutters followed us. It was early evening. The shops were closing, and with them, out went the lights. But the moon was high and the sky was clear. A minaret was shining like a bejeweled tower. Here and there a glow from someone’s window guided us. For centuries people continued to live in these stone-cut dwellings and cats scaled the walls like flying ninjas.

Mardin was a city overlooking the plains of Mesopotamia. Built on the side of the mountain, the city had one narrow main street. In recent years, it was “discovered” and is becoming a tourist spot.

We spent the evening at the Karmer cafe, ran by a women cooperative. A group of young men were playing music—guitar, baglama and a tambourine. They sang, song after song, with laughter and lots of smoking in between. I was moved to write, listening to their music. Time was forgotten. When I finally looked up, it was close to midnight. The music was still going. But when I started to put my coat on, they stopped. Maybe we were each other’s muse. I wouldn’t know for sure.

Photos by Dore Steinberg

The Dengbej of Diyarbakır

Daylight was quickly fading at 3:30 in the afternoon. I hurried, trying to catch up with Dore and Musefa, a Kurd we met at the courtyard of the famous Olu Camii Mosque in Diyarbakır. When we told Musefa we wanted to go to the Dengbej house, he gladly took the lead.

“We have to be quick.” Musefa kept looking at his watch. “The Dengbejs have been singing since morning and they may not stay at the house for very long.” We trod down one alley after another, cobble-stoned streets and high walls on both sides . Soon I lost sight of the men’s back. A young woman appeared beside me. “Dengbej?” She smiled. I nodded. She walked with me to the next corner and pointed to her left.

The Dengbej house was a traditional building with a courtyard. A few old men were leaving as we entered. Musefa spoke to them and they greeted us with a dignified nod, and walked back with us into a room lined with chairs. The Dengbejs sat down. One began to sing.

He was telling a story in verse. Along with his recitative, his high tenor voice often dwelled on a pulsated note, and each verse ended with an abrupt sigh. He was Pavarotti in a command performance. In his hand was a string of prayer beads he fingered as he sang. When he finished he shook our hands and left.

Another old man began to sing. His voice was low and husky and his pulsating notes were more tremulous. As he sang there was a twinkle in his eye and his facial expressions were that of ironic resignation. I found myself laughing despite the fact that I didn’t understand a word. Musefa later explained that it was a story of unrequited love.

After the performances we went outside. A few of the Dengbejs were still hanging out at the courtyard. One of them came up to me.

“Chine?”

“Evet.”

He started talking to Musefa excitedly. I heard the word “helicopter” several times. When he finished he wanted Musefa to translate.

“He said the English word “helicopter” came from the Kurdish language. “Heli” is bird…”

Their oral tradition has few to pass on. The Dengbejs come together daily to pass time, singing to each other. They will carry their music to their graves. But perhaps the Dengbejs will ride a helicopter to heaven, where all the angels may gather for a feast of song-story.

Photos by Dore Steinberg

The Cutting Of Animals

Early in the morning the courtyard of our hotel in Urfa was filled with men. They sat in white plastic chairs that were arranged along the side of the walls, waiting quietly. When the women came in in their finery they brought a flurry of excitement, ushering two young boys in princely costumes (white suits with golden embroidery, crowns, capes and scepters). Dore and I witnessed all this while having yogurt, cucumber, tomato and bread in the breakfast room. We watched the congregation slowly moved downstairs into a large room, which the night before we had music and dance with the local musicians. It seemed very early to have another party, but this was the last day of Kurban Bayrami, a religious holiday commemorating Abraham’s intention of sacrificing his only son to God. The gathering might have something to do with it.

The sounds of drumming, singing and women ululating seeped into our room as we prepared to leave. Just as we were checking out of the hotel the congregation emerged from the room. A woman threw something like a fire cracker into the air and it exploded into a shower of colored paper petals. The young boys walked out. To my puzzlement, they were wearing long semi-translucent tunics over their jackets, but their pants were gone.

“What was the celebration?” Dore asked the receptionist. He did not speak English but went promptly to his laptop and typed something in Turkish. Using Google translation, we realized it was a circumcision ceremony.

“How old are the boys?” We asked.

“Eight and twelve.” The receptionist said.

The boys were ushered into manhood fully conscious. I thought about it a lot.

Photo by Dore Steinberg

Walking Down The Heart

Loaded with sugar, Istiklal, the wide boulevard that leads to Taksim (the heart) swells to its fullest in the evening. Invisible currents push backs and feet and the crowd is a river that runs in all directions. Eddying into drums and baglama and a didjeridu, street music pulsates with the brightly lit shops selling everything from electronics, baklavas to the latest fashion. Here are Burger king, Gap and Starbucks. Here, Pizza Hut butts head with the Turkish equivilant ‘pide’. Here, women in high heels and stylish clothes do the cat walk that rivals New York and Paris. Only the Greek embassy in the middle of the boulevard is stoicly barricaded, refusing to participate in its liveliness.

At Taksim the crowd is drained into and poured out of the metro and buses. Always, there is a political demonstration of some sort. On May Day, one can get an extra dose of tear gas. But I’m here in November, meeting my friend Peter at the tram station. He finds me, a little breathless after a half hour struggle upstream. We dive back into Istiklal to find that little hole in the wall in one of its capillaries, where a quiet evening of dinner is promised.

Midyat Joy

The town of Midyat is dead. All businesses are closed after 7:30 in the evening except shops selling baklavas and cakes, and certain dreary looking grocery shops with miserable looking vegetables. Few people walk on the streets. One lone kebap stand at a street corner has two customers. The man rolls up bits of grilled meat in a piece of bread and the boy takes off down an alley. We follow him and come upon an internet cafe.

That’s what we need—Email. Facebook. Google–life’s necessities.

Inside the smoke-filled room, men and boys sit in small cubicles barking at each other, drinking tea, playing video games. A large sign on the wall with red letters and a big cross over a cigarette. No smoking…something something 1000 lira fine, something something…5000 lira fine. Oh the joy of breaking the law that nobody believes in!

This is the hub in a conservative Turkish town. This is nightlife for the youths, to connect with the rest of the world.

I sit down in a cubicle and start typing.