by Alev Scott
The berber is basically a social club in another guise; for most regular customers, it is not so much the shave they go for but the camaraderie. It is a time-honoured, gently macho ritual: Turkish men like to groom themselves, but they like to do so in the company of other men: tea is consumed, politics discussed, wives complained about. It is another example of the wonderful Turkish appetite for sharing life with peers, a kind of unassuming assertion of the right to be sociable, a quiet stand against the individualism of our times.
Much of what is now, to the Western eye, old-fashioned, is for a Turk timeless, because it is rooted in a sense of community that is here to stay in the teeth of encroaching modernisation. Neighbourhoods in the middle of Istanbul still have a village-like feel; I remember being woken by the hoarse cry of a street seller on my first morning in Istanbul: ‘Sarımsakçı geldi, sarımsakçı geeeldiiii!’ (‘The garlic seller has arrived!’) I had no idea what was being said at the time. A young man was slowly pushing a hand cart through the street, full of garlic as advertised, and interested old biddies were poking their heads out of windows above. Regular customers started lowering coins in baskets from fourth storeys, while the more sceptical waddled down in their brightly coloured şalvar (baggy trousers) to examine the cloves at closer range. A similar scene greets the arrival of the cucumber seller or the hurdacı (rag-and-bone man), who gathers unwanted old knick-knacks from anyone decluttering their home.
Some hawkers have hijacked technology in disturbing ways. I was alarmed one day to hear what I thought must be the police addressing someone – potential terrorists? – through one of those megaphones that, to a Londoner at least, mean serious trouble. Looking anxiously through my window, I saw in the street below a beaten-up van, decrepit megaphone perched precariously on its roof, colourful blankets piled in the back and inside a very portly old codger speaking incoherently through the handset: ‘Blankets fifteen lira only, yes sisters, fifteen lira, don’t miss them!’ Another unexpected arrival was that of the deterjancı (detergent seller), his truck piled high with unmarked bottles of Cif and Domestos decanted cheaply from wholesale containers.
Supermarkets are a relatively recent craze in Turkey, challenging a very strong culture of specialised something-sellers in the street, or the regular, ubiquitous farmers’ markets. For the average Turk, there is no suspicion or stigma associated with buying from an unlicensed, rickety cart, as there would probably be in London. For me, the change from Tesco Metro cashier to bellowing garlic farmer in the middle of the city was a glorious introduction to a more free-spirited, and indeed free-marketed, way of life. The culture of street selling encourages an atmosphere of community beyond anything else. The supermarket is synonymous with anonymity – packaged goods bagged by a bored, callow youth with no interest in who you are or whether you will come again. The garlic seller’s livelihood depends on his product and enthusiasm and repartee. He comes to you. He comes to the neighbourhood like the Pied Piper and unites Turkish housewives in the constant chore and joy that is preparing food for a large family.
Turkey is a wonderful mixture of opportunism and trust. One of my favourite domestic sights is heavily laden washing lines stretched from the windows of one house to those of its counterpart across the street – neighbours sharing and airing their laundry with not a blush on either side, an admirable arrangement of mutual convenience. There is a very blurred line between a Turkish family homestead and its surroundings; emotions, raised voices and curiosity spill over from beyond its walls in a way that you just do not experience in England or other chilly European societies. One’s home is decidedly not a private space but a box at the opera of suburbia, both viewing point and exhibit. It is an open door. Some expats find the lack of privacy here irritating, but it is an indelible instinct of the Turkish psyche to share, and in place of solitude you receive untiring kindness, (unsolicited) advice and the support of as many burly matriarchs as you could wish for. That this goes for the middle of Istanbul or Ankara as much as it does for a rural town speaks for itself.
Social differences definitely exist here, and snobbery is neither politically incorrect nor outdated, but at crucial moments it simply melts away. This, too, is part of a shared humanity which is hard to express but so obvious in action. A friend of mine moved here from America and for the first months of her residency took care to avoid the alarming-looking tramp who passed his time swigging beer outside her door and occasionally asking for a lira. One day, Gill arrived outside her house with an antiques dealer who had carried an Ottoman sideboard home for her. He asked for his tip, and had no change for the hundred-lira note which was the only money she had on her. Gill was starting to panic when Musa the tramp piped up from his recumbent position on the step below them. ‘Don’t worry, lady – here’s a tenner. Pay me back whenever.’ Gill was understandably both touched and a little embarrassed by this, and from thenceforth exchanged pleasantries and further lira with Musa the tramp, who referred to himself as kapıcı (doorman) of her building, and was indeed quite effective at keeping everyone at bay.
There are surprisingly few tramps in Turkey. I think this is because of the very strong ethos of family support, and in the absence of family, the Islamic culture of charity, which means that the local mosque often takes care of struggling members of the community. This does not happen when the problem is drink or drugs, hence the presence of tramps swilling beer. My favourite local personalities are the crazy buskers with no talent, for example the dancing Michael Jackson impersonator with the permanent streak of paint in his hair and a gaping hole in his trouser seat, moonwalking in everyone’s way on the busiest Beyoğlu streets. More respectable is the man who looks quite smart from afar, in a shabby suit and slicked-back hair, who sings in the distinctively warbling style of Ferdi Tayfur, Turkey’s moustachioed answer to Tom Jones in his seventies heyday. This gentleman politely but relentlessly serenades couples dining outside restaurants until he is paid to go away either by his intended audience or the desperate restaurant manager.
A much more cohesive and significant presence in the margins of Turkish society is the çingene (gypsy) population. There are more than two million Roma here, which is not counting the gypsies from Dom and Lom backgrounds in the Middle East and the Caucasus who have wandered over to Turkey. To me and, I think, to most people, they are something of a mystery – classed sometimes as an ethnicity, sometimes as a marginal social group, they are maligned and misunderstood as a stereotype. Where do they come from, why are they so attached to their nomadic lifestyles, and why is it primarily the women who work (at least in the Middle East)? In Turkey as in most Middle-Eastern countries, gypsies beg. But in Turkey, they also have a commercial integration into the community, even if they have no political voice. The first thing most visitors see in the centre of Istanbul is Taksim Square, which is bordered on two sides by flower stalls run by gypsy ladies wearing bright scarves and baggy şalvar trousers. In some neighbourhoods they sit on street corners peeling figs or shelling walnuts, and in others they do odd jobs like cleaning the copper pots most traditional Turkish households still use in their kitchens. They very rarely work for an employer, even off the books – they are their own bosses. One gypsy man I talked to had accumulated enough money through the odd jobs of his family that he could afford to buy a car, in which they all slept every night, and in which, crucially, they could travel. It would seem that, even with the potential to buy into a middle-class lifestyle, gypsies prize their autonomy and independence of movement above anything else.
I understood a lot about Turkish compassion by observing the street life of Istanbul. One of the things that struck me most forcibly was the absolutely natural and welcome presence of stray dogs and cats in the street. When it comes to sheer number and collective charisma, the hordes of dogs and cats win hands down. A constantly shifting but permanent diaspora, they constitute perhaps the one minority population which has survived and even flourished through the political upheavals of Istanbul’s past. They
tend to keep to a particular district like loyal residents, and are considerably more treasured than their human counterparts.
It is one of the most charming paradoxes of Turkey that a nation of Muslims who are told from an early age that animals are dirty and to be avoided are real pushovers for a cute or diseased stray in the street. Essentially, it is a testament to the natural warmth and kindness of the people that animals here are constantly cared for, fed, watered and even vaccinated courtesy of locals and indeed state vets. Having a pet is still a fairly new concept, strictly for the emerging middle and upper classes. Most Turks would not dream of keeping a filthy dog in the house but will go out of their way to drop off a bit of meat to the aged Alsatian on the corner, provide him with a bowl of clean water and generally keep an eye on him. One of my favourite photographs from the height of the Gezi protests was a weeping Labrador being tended to by protesters in gas masks who were tenderly spraying alkaline solutions into the dog’s eyes to neutralise the effects of tear gas. At the medical tent that was set up in Gezi Park, a young veterinary student treated stray dogs and cats while her medical student colleagues treated their human owners.
Some locals devote themselves entirely to caring for the city’s legions of flea-bitten waifs. Once, when leaving my house, I was startled by the sight of an elderly gentleman in a tattered overcoat standing motionless in the middle of the road, arms outstretched like an urban scarecrow. With no obvious cause, it looked like he was holding up the traffic in a personal protest of some kind until I noticed, below most onlookers’ eyeline, a small kitten cavorting under the wheels of the nearest car. The aged cat lover did not budge until this animal was safely on the pavement, by which time several irate taxi drivers were leaning out of their windows and shouting at him. Unmoved, he settled down with the kitten and a bag of food he removed from an inside coat pocket, and I realised that this extraordinary person was the mysterious local Cat Man who left bowls of food and water and well-fed kittens in his wake. A few months later I saw him asleep on the steps of a local mosque, surrounded by his dependants. Considering the price of vet-bought dry food, I wonder how this man affords his mission of mercy. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the vet gave him knockdown rates, knowing the destination of these bags of food. That is one of the wonderful aspects of the Turkish community – ruthless in business, they band together for a common cause like cat charity.
Strays create unnecessary fuss in Istanbul considering how happily integrated they are. The municipalities want to round them up, rather as they did in 1910, when all the strays were deported to an island off the mainland of Istanbul and ended up eating each other. Animal rights enthusiasts want to round them up and put them in care homes. In fact, the status quo is just fine – they are independent, self-respecting agents of the streets who are fed and cared for: an ideal arrangement. They belong to everyone, and no one.
The care of strays is one of the instances in Turkish society where collective instinct is directly at odds with official practice. If any of the ministers voting for the bill to round up strays were to encounter a capering puppy on the street, I bet fifty lira he would give it a pat on the head or at least a kind word. But he would go ahead and vote to evict strays anyway, because policy is policy. Burası Turkiye – ‘This is Turkey.’
3
Social Growing Pains
‘This is Turkey’: I have heard this so many times as an explanation for inexplicable Turkish norms. It takes some time to get used to the way things are done here, partly because traditional customs have an unexpected way of cropping up in a society which is modernising with lopsided enthusiasm. Turkey is still a very young country making its way in the world. The struggles it is going through at the moment bring to mind the predicaments of an adolescent who is simultaneously self-confident and insecure. Turkey is coming of age.
Mass migration, urbanisation and a growing awareness of human rights in the past fifty years have changed the social, economic and physical landscapes of Turkey, but it is the social landscape that is the most difficult to navigate. For a fairly relaxed Brit, Turkish etiquette has been intimidating because it is so complex, so imbued with history, and cannot really be taught; instead, it must be second-guessed like an erratic maiden aunt. I only realised this after I learned enough of the language to notice the subtleties of the ways people interact. I wince to think of the mistakes I must have made early on, the teas I should have accepted, the praise I should have lavished: clumsy blunderings through the pitfalls of Turkish convention. Paradoxically, underneath the filigree of social niceties is a steel core of uncomplicated good will and warmth. Turks have a humble and humbling generosity, especially towards guests, which cuts through the elaborate tradition with which they often cage their interaction.
The idiosyncrasies of Turkish conversation are endless: specific modes of address, the polite use of passive and impersonal verbs, phrases for everyday interactions – what you say to someone working, someone eating, someone whose food you have just consumed, someone ill, someone with a family member newly deceased or betrothed. ‘Congratulations’ will not suffice for good news, nor ‘Sorry to hear that’ for bad. You must tailor your words to the occasion, in age-old format, or risk causing grave offence. You must also be wise to traditional practices. I once offered to pay for a freshly fried doughnut (lokma) handed to me by a kind man on a street corner in Selçuk, noticing too late the surrounding mill of people and remembering that the public distribution of this particular sweet is traditional on the part of a recently bereaved Turkish family. The money in my hand seemed suddenly sordid as I fumbled for the correct words of condolence for this grieving man.
Turkey has retained a sense of community in which everyone is involved in everyone else’s affairs, their good news and their bad, and this is formalised in language – people communicate, on all levels. The village-like interdependency of Turkish society has remained despite the huge urbanisation of the last few decades, and has thrived with technology like mobile phones and Skype. The average Turk speaks to their family several times a day and will know the details of their ex-neighbour’s second divorce settlement or a distant cousin’s circumcision ceremony via an impressive network of gossip intelligence. I soon noticed that Turks communicate not only with their closest circles but also with complete strangers much more readily than Europeans, at least in informal situations.
In Turkey, if you have even a brief exchange with someone working – at a desk, hauling concrete, cooking – you wish him or her well as you leave: Kolay gelsin, which literally means ‘May it come easily.’ I have become so used to saying this that when I visit England I have to stop my impulse to translate the phrase into English. Approximations are always clumsy: ‘Take it easy’ sounds American and slightly patronising to an English ear. ‘Good luck’ is portentous and uncalled for. In fact, the expression itself is uncalled for in England because there is no expectation that a stranger will take any interest in your activities, or vice versa. In Turkey, recognition of others is natural, even if it is just in the form of an offhand, oft-repeated expression. Kolay gelsin is a simple sign of solidarity which transcends social class, promising nothing while radiating good will. Turks have a lovely way of saying goodbye to someone: Güle güle, which literally means ‘[Go] laughing’.
There are plenty of other phrases like this: Geçmiş olsun – ‘May it pass’ – is what you say to someone who is ill or generally having a tough time. ‘Get well soon’ is the less frequently repeated and more specifically medical equivalent in English, but it doesn’t cover the pan-sympathetic sense of the Turkish, which can refer to someone’s financial troubles or just a bad hair day. It is such a simple phrase, little more than a voiced smile, but equally cheering.
I am certainly not saying that Turkey is a socialist country, or particularly socially progressive, but it does have this indelible, shared humanity which persists despite – or perhaps because of – the upheavals of its troubled past and present. I can sense a s
imilar atmosphere in descriptions of Britain during the world wars, when people united in fear and unaccustomed hardship. That was temporary. In the relatively emergency-free society of today’s Britain, everyone minds their own business, even if this is belied by the cowardly anonymity of a Facebook profile.
The downside of the importance Turks place on social expression is the huge capacity to get it wrong and cause offence. Turks are notoriously sensitive. If the offender is a bumbling foreigner on uncertain ground, he or she is benignly forgiven, but less fortunate are offenders in the international political arena. In August 2012 the Turkish media and main opposition party responded with hysteria to a photograph published by the White House of President Obama holding a baseball bat while talking on the phone to Prime Minister Erdoğan about the Syrian crisis. The photo was deemed highly offensive, the baseball bat simultaneously incomprehensible and aggressive. The White House press secretary’s excuses of the importance of baseball season fell on sceptical ears and the power balance between Obama and Erdoğan was construed as darkly as possible.
If Turks are easily offended, so too are newcomers to Turkey who are unused to the particular rhythm and nuances of Turkish conversation. There are several characteristic expressions and signs that, if one is not informed, range from the bewildering to the downright offensive. For a start, in place of ‘No’, there is a dismissive lift of the head or eyebrows, often accompanied by a sharp click of the tongue. This indescribably rude-looking and -sounding gesture seems to imply complete disdain, as though the person in question cannot even be bothered to open their mouth to answer you. It is almost as common as actually saying ‘No’ and not in fact rude at all. Nestled amongst various Italian-style hand wavings, emphatic pinched fingers and so on, my absolute favourite Turkish gesture is the deliberate, double, palm-to-palm hand wipe, to denote something complete or finished. For example, ‘I never saw him again,’ or ‘She spent all his money!’ would be accompanied by this gesture to add gravitas and irrevocability.