Nice to meet you, Istanbul

Part 1

(📷Carolina Acosta-Alzuru)

For anything we say about the city’s essence says more about our own lives and our own states of mind. The city has no center other than ourselves. ~ Orhan Pamuk

My eyes are filled with blue, my arms are tanned and my step is light. My brain goes over what should be the next two hours: the day’s topic, the slides I prepared and the learning objectives I want to accomplish with my students. I arrive to the university’s entrance, show my ID and the guard smiles at me:

— Günaydın, profesör (Good morning, professor)

— Günaydın

I start walking down towards the campus with my eyes fixed on the Bosphorus. I cannot think anymore, I am only gratitude.

İstanbul’dayım (I am in Istanbul).

Nice to meet you, Istanbul

The first time I went to Istanbul my goal was to place a check by it in my bucket list. It was the summer of 2009, I was teaching in Oxford and decided to go with my daughter María Teresa. We were there for less than 72 hours, but we were very efficient with our limited time. We visited seven of the city’s “Top Ten” places — the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia, the Topkapi Palace, the Golden Horn, the Grand Bazaar, the Spice Bazaar and the Çemberlitas Hamam. We even went on the Bosphorus Cruise under a relentless sun that bothered us very little as we navigated past the European and Asian shores of the only city in the world that is in two continents, and that is both East and West. We returned to Oxford fascinated with a metropolis unlike any other we had visited before. We thought it was magical.

On July 2011, I visited Istanbul a second time when I attended an academic conference to present my research on telenovelas. This time I prepared for the city as carefully as I did for my presentation. I read about it and walked it as much as I could. I observed political protests in Taksim without understanding the posters and chants, but feeling the familiar scent of the search for justice that reminds me of my suffering native country: Venezuela. Early one morning, when there were very few tourists, I went to the top of the Galata Tower and spent an hour taking in the immensity and variety of Istanbul; also, its blue. I thought that meant I now knew the city.

When do we stop being tourists?

When do we make a city ours?

When does a city own us?

When does it learn our name?

Six years later I landed for the third time in Istanbul for a week of interviews and observations related to my academic research. It was then that I really started getting close to this incredible city. Or maybe that process had started in my computer screen when my research moved its focus from Latin American telenovelas to Turkish dramas.

The Turkish Invasion

In 2004, Turkey earned only $10,000 from overseas sales of TV shows. In 2016, earnings reached $350 millions. Turkish dramas — dizis — are melodramatic series with very high production values and a level of dramatic intensity that can surprise even someone like me who has been studying melodramas for 20 years. Dizis are, like José Ignacio Cabrujas used to say about telenovelas, “shows of feelings.” Both genres are products of commercial television. Their success is measured in terms of audience metrics. Like telenovelas, dizis are — paradoxically — massively consumed and also massively deprecated. It is always interesting to see that the number of people who look down at melodramas, but also consume them on a regular basis, is significant. We are not always coherent. Also, telenovelas’ and dizis’ discursive and emotional hooks are quite powerful. I have yet to meet the person who is really immune to them.

But there are also important differences between both genres. Among them, the use of slow motion and music in dizis as intensifiers of feelings and builders of the dramatic crescendo, the much higher weight Turkish producers give to locations in the ratio location/studio, the absence of a guaranteed happy ending and the limitations to show intimacy among the characters due to media content regulations in Turkey. But the most evident difference is that telenovela episodes are 40–45 minutes long (without commercials) and broadcast daily, while dizi episodes can be as long as 150 minutes (again, without commercials) and their broadcast schedule is weekly. Dizi episodes are later segmented for international sales.

Turkish dramas started invading the programming grids of Arab countries in 2007. From there they spread to other regions — the Middle East, North Africa, the Balkans, Eastern Europe and some Asian countries. Little by little they displaced telenovelas in these territories’ screens.

Back then, I agreed with other scholars that this substitution could be explained through theories of geographic and cultural proximity. But, when in 2014 “Turkish telenovelas,” as they are called in Latin America, began colonizing Chile, Peru, Uruguay and Argentina’s primetime, I decided that I had to pay attention to dizis.

I did not find a lot of academic literature about them. Almost all of it was written by Turkish authors or scholars from countries geographically close to Turkey. I understood that this genre, a close relative of telenovelas, warranted more attention. Hence, after watching some dizis and reading everything I could, I chose a case study — Kara Para Aşk — which at the time of this writing, is the dizi that has been sold in most countries, and I went to Istanbul to interview its producer, writers, director, main actors and distributors.

I faced the challenge of having to use an interpreter for the first time in my research. I learned a lot about dizis that week. I was amazed at the size and strength of the sector that produces and broadcasts these dramas: each week there are 30–35 dizis on primetime. I was also surprised at the aggressive competition among Turkish broadcasters. It is a local market unlike any I had studied before. Telenovelas’ domestic markets tend to have two main competitors, but in Turkey every night at least seven broadcaster battle for the ratings. The majority of them do not produce the dramas they broadcast because in Turkey there is a significant number of production companies. When a dizi’s first episodes do not garner acceptable ratings, the show is taken off the air without hesitation. After all, there are several other dramas waiting and ready to be broadcast. That week I realized that as much as I had learned, I was only scratching the surface of dizis. I had to go deeper. There was an unexplored research reef waiting for me.

Those seven days not only modified my research path, they also changed the way I looked at Turkish culture and my gaze over Istanbul. I began to understand that us, Latin Americans, and Turks are not as different as I used to think. That we display our emotions without any embarrassment, experience heartbreak the same way, and deal with it similarly. And that Istanbul is not one city, but many.

It was also in that trip that I was invited to teach at one of the best universities in Turkey, Boğaziçi Üniversitesi. That is how in June 2017 I arrived to Istanbul for the fourth time to live in it for two months. Since then I have had the fortune of visiting the city three more times. We are now friends.

Istanbul is Not Your Average City

“This isn’t just your average _______”, I repeated I do not know how many times while I took my spouse Guillermo and my son Gustavo to the most emblematic places in Istanbul. The fact is that this is not your average city, nor is the Blue Mosque your average mosque, the Topkapi Palace your average palace and, certainly, the Bosphorus is not your average body of water, and so on. There is so much history here, so much to show and so much to learn.

Istanbul’s official population is around 15 million, but its inhabitants assure me that it is really 20 million. Its traffic can be hellish. Each neighborhood or district has a distinct personality. Their catalog and that of its skylines is both variable and endless. On the European side, for example, is historic Sultanahmet with its minarets and ancestral buildings. It was the center of the city during the byzantine and ottoman periods. Crossing the Galata Bridge is eclectic Beyoğlu with shops, art, night life and its coveted rooftops — restaurants and bars in which the most spirituous drink is the view of the Bosphorus. Nearby are the picturesque streets of the bohemian Cihangir, which contrasts with chic Nişantası, full of boutiques, and with the skyscrapers of the modern business districts of Levent and Maslak. On the banks of the Bosphorus there is a succession of vivacious neighborhoods. Among them is the delightful and expensive Bebek. In its closest hill, with an enviable view, is Boğaziçi, the university where I taught.

Istanbul’s Asian (Anatolian) side is also extensive and diverse. The general perception is that life there is less accelerated and more residential than on its European counterpart. But this depends on where you are. Among the many Asian side districts, I will point out Üsküdar, Kuzguncuk and Kadıköy. With a conservative atmosphere, Üsküdar has more than 150 mosques. Nearby is Kuzguncuk, which has been inhabited by Jews, Greeks, Armenians and Turks. In it, mosques, synagogues and Christian churches coexist; sometimes even in the same street. And facing Sultanhamet’s minarets across the Sea of Marmara, Kadıköy vibrates day and night.

The Bosphorus Strait separates the European and Asian sides of the city and communicates the Sea of Marmara and the Black Sea. It is 30 kilometers (19 miles) long. Its width varies from only 750 meters (2,460 ft) between the fortresses of Rumeli and Anadolu to 3,700 meters (12,140 ft) at the entrance to the Black Sea. Every day the sky’s color paints the Strait with different tones of blue and gray. On sunny days the Bosphorus turns turquoise and looking at it becomes indispensable. Its daybreaks and sunsets are epic. When the sun goes down, Strait and city dress themselves in pink, then orange and, finally, gold; before they make way for the night. The Bosphorus would not be what it is without Istanbul and Istanbul would not be the city it is without the Bophorus. The Strait is its main spectacle.

Like a multi-faceted actor, the Bosphorus plays a variety of roles. It is one of the factors that determines property value. The closer it is to the Bosphorus, the higher its price. And if it has a view of the Bosphorus, it will be also more expensive. The Strait is an important transportation channel. At the same time, it is a recreational place, where boats and yachts coexist with oil tankers. In the summer there are families swimming in its shores and every month of the year, regardless of the weather, fishermen are a constant presence on its bridges and banks. The Bosphorus is also a tourist attraction. It is bordered by boardwalks, piers, restaurants and palaces. Navigating it is an essential way of looking at the city. And, very important, the Bophorus is one of the main and most efficient transportation channels between the European and Asian sides. In this city the public transportation card — İstanbulkart — allows you to move by bus, metro, tram, funicular and ferry.

You see, Istanbul is not your average city and the Bosphorus is not your average body of water.

The language is not just any language either

— You know what? I’m going to be sad when I leave Istanbul.

— Really? I know it’s a fascinating city, but, don’t you feel a little strange there?

— Not at all. This may sound weird, but I feel right at home. There are many things about this culture that are totally familiar to me.

— People will say you lived there in a previous life, ha-ha-ha!

— Ha-ha-ha!

— Seriously, I’m surprised by what you’re saying, especially because of the language issue in your everyday life. How are you dealing with that?

— The language is very hard to learn and my Turkish is minimal. But people here are very nice and always willing to understand me and to make themselves understandable. That’s another reason why I feel at home here. You know that they say that being fluent in a language doesn’t mean you’re fluent in the culture. That is true, but here the inverse happens to me. I feel that I “speak” and understand the culture way better than the language. I am quite surprised at the sense of familiarity I feel in my daily life when the language is so complicated to learn.

— The language sounds inextricable, but all unknown languages sound that way. Tell me why do you think it’s so difficult.

— Turkish is like a computer language: very regular, but with many rules. It has eight vowels and three more consonants than my native Spanish. Word order in a sentence doesn’t resemble at all that of the languages I know. Turkish functions by agglutinating suffixes. One word can be a complete sentence: yazabilirim = yaz (verb stem of to write) + abil (suffix that indicates ability) + ir (present tense) + im (personal suffix that indicates “I”). That is, yazabilirim means “I can write.” This language is musical. Rarely you will find two consecutive vowels. Therefore, when you add a suffix, you must add a consonant that acts like a buffer between the two vowels. To make matters more difficult, suffix vowels must harmonize with the last vowel of the word that they’re being attached to and consonants mutate sometimes when you add a suffix. Sounds difficult and complicated? Well, it is. Believe me, it’s VERY difficult.

— But I see that you’re learning it.

— I feel that I’ve learned a lot and, at the same time, I know very little. Learning a language is an endless task. But, Turkish is so complex that for the first time in my life I’m studying something that I know I won’t really learn. So, along with learning Turkish, I’m also learning determination and patience (especially with myself), and I’m enjoying it a lot. That’s a big lesson for this professor.

Beyond the stereotypes

In the beginning the ezan (call to prayer) would wake me up every day. The first ezan can happen as early as 4 a.m. I gradually got used to it until it would wake me up only occasionally. But when I listen to it, be day or night, I always make a pause in what I am doing. In films and videos about Turkey and other countries with Muslim majorities, it is already a cliché to utilize as an establishing shot the image of the dome and minarets of a mosque with the call to prayer as soundtrack. For me the ezan is not a cliché. The call moves me as it summons something that lies deep inside of me that is universal. It also reminds me of how little I know, and how much I still need to learn and understand. The call makes me think of the unavoidability of clichés, stereotypes and ignorance, and the damage they can do.

In Istanbul you can see in the same spot women that are completely covered by burqas, others who are dressed as uncovered as my U.S. students in summer, and every option in between these two extremes. In days of high temperatures, I observe the women who cover their heads with any of the possibilities that show their faces — hijabs, shaylas, khimars, al-amiras, chadors — and I do not see in them any traces of heat or sweat. They look flawless with their makeup in perfect condition, and I wonder what makes them immune to the heat and humidity while I am melting.

I stumble upon an image that surprises me and leaves me pensive: a group of four women dressed in burqas leave a store that only sells makeup. Little bags carrying the merchandise they bought fill their hands and arms. I feel a contradiction so strong that I realize that the problem is not that I do not understand, but that I do not really know anything. Because, how many friends like them do I have? Why am I assuming that they do not wear makeup? I think of myself as an “expert” on being a Venezuelan woman, an immigrant woman, a Latina in the United States, etc. I firmly believe in diversity as a principle and way of life; but the truth is that none of my Muslim friends cover their heads, much less wear a burqa. So, I know nothing; I really do not.

Turkey is not only between two continents and between East and West, it is also sitting astride between the secular and the religious. Especially now that Erdoğan is trying to erase the secularism of the republic founded by Atatürk in 1923. You can feel this tension in Istanbul, a city with more than 3,000 mosques that during the call to prayer turns into a choir of echoes of the ezan. But in this city, you might not be aware that you are in the middle of Ramadan, the ninth month in the Muslim calendar in which Muslims are supposed to fast from daybreak to sunset. Istanbul’s streets, restaurants and bars live a normal life during Ramadan. In the more conservative areas, like Eyüp, I have seen how people get together at sunset to break the fast. But I have also been in Happy Hours, with their consumption of alcohol and food, that began way before the sun sets.

Bayram marks the end of Ramadan in Turkey. In almost all of the rest of the Muslim world the holiday is known as Eid al-Fitr. Families get together, so Istanbul’s population swells significantly. Walking in the streets of Sultanahmet and Eminönü in these days is like trying to transit the streets of Delhi: it can take you ten minutes to advance 100 yards. I never saw Istanbul this crowded.

In Bayram you eat a lot, especially sweets. In fact, the full Turkish name for this holiday is Şeker Bayramı (Sugar Holiday). Grandparents have piles of candy for their grandchildren who do not eat sweets in a month, even though they are exempt from fasting. Ramadan is a lot like the Christian Lent. Actually, when you pay attention, there are many coincidences between Islam and Christianity. But people who only read, listen and look at the world’s radicals will never believe that. Fundamentalism is the cancer of our times and radicalization is its metastasis. They are distortions of the retina and of our beliefs that poison everything and have grave consequences.

Everybody should come to Istanbul. Everyone should allow him or herself to experience the freedom and clarity that occur when the scaffolding of what we think we know shakes, and stereotypes and biases shatter in front of our eyes.

Continues on Part 2

Carolina Acosta-Alzuru

Written by

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

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