Nice to meet you, Istanbul

Part 2 (Part 1 is here)

(📷Carolina Acosta-Alzuru)

Terror

None of my family members or friends mention the words “danger” or “terrorism.” I guess they are thinking: “well, she’s already there and alone, so why mention that?” To be honest, I feel very safe. Here, people are not afraid of going out at night. It is totally different from my native Caracas; therefore, I only think about danger when I receive the emails from the US Consulate recommending to avoid this or that area because there may be a protest. I make a mental note and obey. But regarding terrorism I go by the Mexican saying: “cuando te toca, ni que te quites y cuando no te toca, ni que te pongas” (when it’s your turn, it doesn’t matter if you move out and when it isn’t your turn, it doesn’t matter if you move in).

Last Sunday I went to Taksim. When I stepped out of the Metro I saw a lot of police with antiriot equipment and automatic weapons, and I remembered the latest email from the Consulate, three days before, warning us to avoid that zone. Well done, Carolina! You forgot something important! But people were strolling on the famous avenue Istiklal Caddesi and everything looked normal to me. Therefore, I did what I had intended there and returned to where I was living feeling something close to relief.

Because we think that danger is in the streets; but nightmares and terror do not have a fixed location.

I decided to take a shower. I live alone in a student dorm in a suite designed for four students. The shower is in a very small room, separate from the rest of the bathroom. I went in and locked the door. I always feel like I need to “protect” myself when I am alone. I suppose that urge comes from my catholic education or maybe from Hitchcock’s famous film Psycho.

When I tried to open the door after I showered, the deadbolt did not work and the door would not open. I tried again and ended up with the latch in my hand while the other half of the mechanism fell on the other side of the door. I inserted my finger in the hole the bolt left in the door and felt only wood. I was trapped in a 3x3 ft space without a window, without my phone, without my eyeglasses, without anything! WITHOUT ANYTHING!

I panicked. My throat and my mind started working independently. While the first one emitted a desperate Hail Mary, the second did a hasty inventory of the situation:

· Nobody knows I’m here. Nobody will try to find me

· Guillermo is 24 hours away from arriving

· There’s no ventilation

· I do have water

· I’m claustrophobic

· (Forget that, Carolina)

· I AM claustrophobic

· Nobody knows I’m here. Nobody will try to find me. Nobody knows I’m here. Nobody will try to find me. Nobody knows I’m here. Nobody will try to find me…

Frustrated and terrified, I hit the door with my fist and it made a loud sound, similar to a drum. I understood I had to make noise and shout. I had to ask for help. Yes, I, the person who rarely asks for help and tries to solve everything on her own, had to yell for help. Period.

So, I started banging the door with both fists. I wanted to kill that damned door. The noise was thunderous, somebody had to listen. I started yelling in English and Turkish:

(BANG, BANG, BANG)

— PLEASE HELP ME!!

— I’M STUCK IN THE SHOWER ROOM. THE DOOR LOCK DOESN’T OPEN

— I’M IN SUITE TWO, FIRST FLOOR

— HELP, PLEASE!!

(BANG, BANG, BANG)

— İMDAT! İMDAT!

— İMDAT, LÜTFEN!

(BANG, BANG, BANG)

I do not know how long I banged that door and yelled my throat out. It felt like an eternity, of course. Suddenly I heard voices in Turkish and, (a miracle!), someone opened the door. And in this culture that can be so modest regarding what a woman can show of her body to a man, there I was in front of two unknown men wrapped only in a towel.

— Çok çok teşekkürler! (Many, many thanks!)

They apologized to me in Turkish and left immediately. I looked at myself in the mirror, my face was the color of beet juice and I was drenched in sweat. I showered again, put my pajamas on and sat in the couch while I recovered the usual numbers of my vital signs. I also asked myself if I had ever lived through a more distressing moment. Well, no.

I walk the streets of Istanbul as if I had lived here my whole life. I navigate language and culture differences without anxiety. I do not think of terrorists, ISIS, nor that Syria is next door. I am never afraid. But in the shower room I knew the terror of absolute isolation. The real confinement.

Black and Blue

June 23, 6 a.m., I open my eyes and turn on my cell phone. In the family chat there are terrible news. The SEBIN, the Venezuelan government’s intelligence police, has detained Roberto Picón without a warrant. In Caracas it is 11 p.m. of the night before. We are all in shock. Roberto is my cousin Elizabeth’s spouse and she is like a sister to me. We grew up like sisters, and we consider and love each other that way. Hence, Roberto is my brother-in-law.

He is one the most honest and democratic men I know. A Venezuelan engineer who is not a politician, but who is one of the electoral experts of the opposition. His illegal detention is a fierce blow from the Maduro regime. Dealing with this injustice is like swallowing glass shards. Angst and pain dominate my family. We must keep going with our obligations even with this open wound. We must support Elizabeth and her children. We must accompany Roberto with our letters and prayers.

We must fight for justice in the country of injustice.

The days go by and, in spite of my classes and research, I cannot stop thinking about Roberto. I hold on to his spiritual strength. I know he has something inside of him that is both beautiful and solid that nobody can touch or take away from him.

I am told that he is in a decent cell at infamous El Helicoide prison. I am told that his lawyers are doing their job. I am told that the regime has ordered a military tribunal to judge him, a civilian. I am told that it has been many days since he was allowed visitors. They now tell me that he has been punished and is now held in a filthy bathroom. A close friend that knows a lot about these things sends me a voice note: “Carolina, in the SEBIN you pay for everything. You even pay for the soap to shower, but if you pay your screwed because they will leave you there paying for everything.” That dark night I cannot sleep. The next morning, I am still seeing black.

A seagull stands on my windowsill and squeals. I get my handbag and go to the place where the bird came from: the Bosphorus. I need its blue, it is the only antidote against darkness.

The Grand Bazaar

— ¿Español? English? Come in, we have good prices!

The first two times I went to the Grand Bazaar I had identical experiences. Sellers would listen to our conversation and would call us and follow us speaking our language. I hated that. I must also acknowledge that the place instantly overwhelmed me. It is a huge noisy labyrinth of hallways packed with stands, stores, merchandise, sellers and buyers. (According to Wikipedia it has more than 4,000 stands). I went those two times to the Bazaar thinking that I would have fun and I left somewhat horrified after buying just two items that I did not really wanted, nor needed.

To be honest, shopping is not my cup of tea. It has never been. I live in the United States and avoid going to the mall. For years I have been buying almost everything online. In fact, when I go to Caracas, there is a recurrent dialogue (that is now a joke) with my friends:

— Carolina, of what you’re wearing today, what did you buy in the Internet?

— Everything, even the earrings.

(Laughter)

To this picture I must add that in the Grand Bazaar you must haggle, (unless you are willing to pay two or three times the real value of the merchandise you are acquiring), and I hate haggling. For all these reasons, this place, one of Istanbul’s “Top 10,” does not work for me.

However, one Friday afternoon I decided to go. “How can I not go if I’m living here?” “You must overcome this ridiculous phobia, Carolina.” “There isn’t a better place to buy gifts.” While I argued with myself, I decided to take with me a list of what I needed. Maybe that would help me have a better experience:

· A scarf for me

· And since I will be looking for scarves, one for each of my nieces

· Something I need: a mug for my morning coffee

So, I went to the Grand Bazaar as if I was going to the grocery store around the corner to buy a pack of napkins and one pound of tomatoes. I walked determinedly only looking for scarves and mugs. There were thousands, of course. From a certain distance, I looked at them with a clinical eye until something would catch my attention, and then I would approach the stand assuming haggling as my new grammar and posture.

This time, my first alone in the Bazaar, none of the sellers tried to guess my native language. The only thing I heard from all of them as I walked by was buyurun (come in). None of them insisted or followed me. I thought that maybe someone had recommended being less aggressive. But everything was crystal clear when I started the first haggling process in my very limited Turkish:

— Ne kadar? (How much?)

— Yüz lira. (100 liras)

— Hayır, otuz lira. (No, 30 liras)

— (Impossible to understand short speech)

— Türkçem iyi değil. Tekrar eder misiniz? Daha yavaş lütfen. (My Turkish isn’t good. Can you repeat? Slower, please.)

— YOU AREN’T TURKISH?

No, I’m not.

Where are you from?

Venezuela.

Venezuela! Ah! You look Turkish. Are you sure you aren’t Turkish?

Others had mentioned it before: I look Turkish. So, I continued walking protected by my apparent Turkish identity. In half an hour I had purchased all the items in my brief list. I had only walked about 5% of the Bazaar. As I moved towards the closest exit, I saw a stand that was selling Turkish tea sets. I wanted one, but was not ready yet to buy it. I looked and a salesman approached me:

— Buyurun!

— I’m just looking, I said in English, not trying my luck again with my primitive Turkish.

And I’m only selling.

We looked at each other and I replied:

— This is the most honest dialogue in the history of the Grand Bazaar.

I agree.

We laughed together.

And I left. When I was outside I felt like the person that is battling a phobia one step at a time and savors each small accomplishment as a triumph.

Ten days later I returned to the Grand Bazaar with Venezuelan actor Marisa Román, who was visiting me for a few days. I saw her navigate the place with enviable ease. Her charisma and beauty enchanted the sellers, (who, I must say, are mostly men). We bought a variety of teas and gifts, and I finally bought the Turkish tea set of my dreams at a price I was willing to pay.

At the entrance of a stand packed with bracelets, and while Marisa had an animated conversation with one of the salesmen, I looked around me. I was surrounded by unknown musical instruments, glass globes of diverse colors and designs that hang from the ancient roof, curtains delicately embroidered, cheap pottery whose beauty makes them valuable, and pashminas of all colors and textures.

The noise disappeared. I saw the beauty. I breathed deeply and smiled. I know I will return to the Grand Bazaar, even if I do not buy anything.

Déjà vu

— Venezuelan? I thought you were Turkish. How did you learn to buy in Turkish?

— I’m currently a professor at Boğaziçi and I’m living here this summer. But I apologize for my imperfect Turkish, it isn’t good at all.

— Ah… and in what department are your teaching?

— History. Well, my class is about the history of television.

— History… Do you know who was Atatürk?

— Yes, of course.

— Do you like the things that Atatürk did for this nation?

— In general, yes.

— We need another Atatürk. We must find another one like him because the president we have isn’t good, he’s going to devastate our republic as we know it.

Déjà vu.

We live in a time marked by a franchise of political leaders who personify a lethal mix for democracy: populism with authoritarianism. They polarize intentionally and divide to conquer. They cannot stand dissenters. They intimidate, repress, detain and torture. They colonize all branches of power turning them into simple rubber stampers of the executive’s actions. They produce a simulation of democracy by doing elections only when they can control them or be sure that the results will benefit them. They demonize the media, then proceed to intimidate and asphyxiate them, before taking total control of them. At that point, self-censorship becomes a survival mechanism and the population’s visual field is severely reduced, becoming incomplete.

The main objectives of these leaders are to attain absolute power and perpetuate themselves in it. Today the most notorious branches of this franchise are in Venezuela (Maduro), Nicaragua (Ortega), Philippines (Duterte), Egypt (Al-Sisi), Hungary (Orbán) and Turkey (Erdoğan). And it must be said that in the United States, Trump has taken control of the legislative branch, is actively working to do the same with the judicial branch, and his demonization of the media already has grave consequences.

In the streets of Istanbul, I encounter the political polarization every day. As a Venezuelan, I recognize its symptoms and consequences, and the crucial role that the economy plays. If it is generally okay, it anesthetizes the population politically. When it worsens, it can activate the people. The Turkish Lira (TL) has weakened significantly in the last year. It dropped from 3.50/$ in September 2017 to 4.70/$ in June 2018.

Erdoğan moves up elections from November 2019 to June 2018. (At the time of this writing, the TL has been on a freefall: 6.21/$).

Déjà vu.

In my research about dizis I see the fingerprints of the government. Sometimes they are obvious — plots that never touch politics, media outlets whose ownership changes, actors and directors who want to leave the country. But sometimes those marks are less evident: all broadcasters have in their programming grid a militaristic drama that replicates and never contradicts the government’s discourse. It is like an immunization shot to prevent the government from bothering them.

…to prevent the government from bothering the media. Venezuela, year 2005.

Déjà vu.

Clean as a Whistle

I enter the Kiliç Ali Paşa Hamamı (Turkish bath) already smiling. The receptionist also smiles as she welcomes me:

— Hoş geldiniz, Carolina Hanım! We’re happy to see you again. Belkis is ready for you.

Belkis and I hug. Even though she speaks almost no English and my Turkish is quite basic, we know each other well because I always go to the hamam when I am in Istanbul. If not, my trip would be incomplete.

I know the bath routine and I enjoy it very much. At the hamam they bathe and scrub me like a baby with a kese — a glove made of a material that is like a sandpaper for epidermis. They also massage me while I am covered from head to toe with suds that smell like the purest form of the adjective “clean.” It is a deep cleansing of both body and soul, and a very high level of pampering.

I leave the hamam like a new person. So much so that I do not recognize my own skin because it is so soft and I am astonished with the serenity that possesses me for the next few hours.

In my suitcase, I carry back to the U.S. two pounds of hamam soap. I wish I could take the whole hamam with me.

Crossing

Everyone who goes to Istanbul does a Bosphorus cruise. Some are expensive (500–2000 TL), like the one I did the first time. But, I learned a while ago that there is a cruise that is only 15 TL that does the same route and has the same hour and a half duration than the expensive ones. It is so inexpensive that when I need a break from my research I get on it.

The Bosphorus helps me and accompanies me. Its blue heals and inspires me.

Today in the boat I look around me and I am certain that everyone is more of a tourist than I am. The majority is seeing Istanbul for the first time. In their eyes I see my own the first time I navigated the Strait with my daughter.

I am not that person anymore.

When do we stop being tourists?

When do we make a city ours?

When does a city own us?

When you recognize and can name the different districts and neighborhoods that the ship passes by.

When you can say that you have sat in the benches of the parks that you see from the boat and that you have entered the mosques and palaces that the other passengers are admiring from afar.

When you look at the Starbucks in Bebek (for me the best Starbucks in the world) from the Strait, and you do not ask yourself how would it be to prepare class there, because you and your laptop already know the answer.

When the seagulls that follow the ship stay suspended in the air and look at you in the eye, as if they know you.

When from the cruise you envy a window at the top of the hill where the Rumeli Fortress is and, immediately, realize that window was yours for a few days.

When you can say: “I lived there.”

I cross the Bosphorus alone, from sea to sea, from continent to continent. Actually, it is the Bosphorus that traverses me.

Onun adı Carolina (Her name is Carolina)

When does a city learn our name?

There is a table at Boğaziçi Üniversitesi that knows my name. On it we serve çay, theory, methods, analysis and findings. Around it eight Turkish scholars and I talk about dizis and telenovelas. It is a privilege. Enlightening hours that locate and orient us before we continue the complex embroidery of our research.

*

At the Tribeca Café in Yeniköy they know my name. It is the place where Arzu and I usually meet. She is the scholar who knows better the sector that produces and distributes dizis. But, above all, she is a great friend and one of the most precious gifts that Istanbul has given me.

*

I have breakfast with my Turkish students facing the Bosphorus. We talk about Venezuela and Turkey with the honesty that I established in my classroom. They feel safe with me and I am happy with them. We learn from each other. Their faces will be unforgettable for me. They know my name.

*

— Simit! Sıcak simit! Simit! Sıcak simit! (Simit! Hot simit! Simit! Hot simit!)

The voice comes from the street through the window of the Airbnb I rented. I look out and yell at the man who pushes the cart with his merchandise:

Lütfen bekleyin, geliyorum! (Wait, please! I’m coming!)

I run down the stairs to the street:

— Günaydın Carolina Hanım, buyurun. (Good morning, Ms. Carolina. Here you go!)

And he gives me a plain simit and a simit with olives. He knows my name. He also knows my favorite breakfast here.

*

Spring surrounds me. The trees are dressed in new green, the flowers spread like carpets. The temperature is perfect. It is May in Istanbul. I am in one of the many levels of the Yıldız Parkı in Beşiktaş. Nearby, a bride and a groom take photos on a picturesque bridge. Her wedding gown and hijab are light blue. Next to me a sweet melody flows from Tarık’s clarinet. He is my wonderful online Turkish teacher and a great human being. When I come to Istanbul, Tarık teaches me in the streets. It is such a luxury. Today he shares with me the gift of his music. The clarinet is his religion and his poetry. I close my eyes.

“I am listening to Istanbul, with my eyes closed;
At first there blows a gentle breeze
And the leaves on the trees
Softly flutter or sway;
Out there, far away,
The bells of water carriers incessantly ring;
I am listening to Istanbul, with my eyes closed.”
~Orhan Veli Kanık

I am listening to you, Istanbul. You are saying my name.

(This text was originally written in Spanish and published in Prodavinci).

Carolina Acosta-Alzuru

Written by

Professor at UGA. Venezuelan. Telenovelas and melodramatic serialized content are my objects of study.

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