Hassan’s Wedding Celebration
Tears of Joy, Tears of Sorrow
Story and Photos by Rosie Cohan
I called Hassan on his 29th birthday in 2015 and he had a surprise for me. “My family has arranged a match for me. I can’t wait for you to meet Fatma.” proclaimed Hassan. “You must come to our wedding celebration!”
Tears of joy streaked my cheeks. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
I had met Hassan in Sultanahmet Square in Istanbul, fifteen years before his wedding day. He approached me and softly asked, “Madame, do you speak English? Would you practice English with me?”
The fourteen-year-old had slicked-back hair, flashing hazel eyes and a somewhat oversized nose, which had been broken in a soccer game. He was all legs and had a bright smile. Something about him seemed different from the streetwise touts who offer you tea to get you to visit their rug shops. There was innocence in his voice and sweetness in his shy manner.
He told me he began studying English in school. “But, we don’t speak in class, I learn to speak from tourists”. He then proceeded to say hello in English, Japanese, German, Italian, Spanish, and French. Having just received my certificate to teach English as a second language, I thought it would be good practice for me and for him. So I said he could accompany me for a few minutes and we would speak English.
Just then the call to prayer sounded and his smile clouded over. “I am sorry; I must go pray. Can we meet again?” I was impressed he wanted to go to the mosque when the soulful call of the Muezzin sounded. I told him I would be at the Hagia Sophia, the church by Justinian in the 6th century, turned into a mosque by the Ottomans, then a museum (and most recently turned back into a mosque).
I entered the rose-colored Byzantine building with its towering dome and minarets, to be awed by 104 huge marble pillars, many transported from the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus and twin marble vases from Pergamon pay homage to its Greek and Roman heritage. The ornate mihrab pointing worshippers toward Mecca, the tulip-shaped lamps suspended from the ceiling, as well as the gold Islamic calligraphy, are all Ottoman. In addition to the ornamented bronze doors, some say there is even a door carved from the wood of Noah’s ark. Men on scaffolding were uncovering and restoring some of the mosaics of Jesus and Mary in the Greek Orthodox iconic style. For about a thousand years Hagia Sophia was the largest cathedral in the world before it became a mosque.
When I exited, Hassan was sitting on the steps. I felt obligated to let him accompany me for a little while. We walked and talked using sign language to supplement his broken English. He would point to things and I would tell him the English word, and then he taught me the Turkish word. He was an excellent guide escorting me around the Old City. Most people around the square knew him and would smile, wave, and shout hello to him. I could tell he was well liked and I could understand why. He had a quick wit and radiated a fun spirit.
Of course, my tour ended outside his brother’s carpet shop. He introduced me, and his brothers invited me to sit on a square embroidered, tribal rug to share a delicious eggplant stew with them. They thanked me for practicing English with their little brother. They had high hopes for him to go to university someday. They invited me to stop by if I ever needed anything. As I left, I was surprised they didn’t even try to sell me a rug.
For the remainder of my time in Istanbul, I met Hassan often for tea and we practiced English. For fifteen years of almost annual visits to Turkey, I continued these lessons with Hassan. He grew into an intelligent and determined young man. I helped pay for English lessons back in Van, his hometown in Eastern Turkey. I had him come to visit me in California. Over the years, I became his “American mom” and he my “Kurdish son”.
Hassan accomplished his goal of graduating university and became a National English Tour Guide. He said our first meeting in Istanbul inspired this. He also was studying for a Master’s Degree to teach English.
On one of my trips to Turkey, I stayed with his family in Van, a Turkish-Kurdish city forty kilometers from the Iranian border. Even though they spoke no English, his mother and sisters became my dear friends. We picked fruit from the apple, cherry, fig, and plum trees in the orchard and vegetables from their garden. We cooked meals together. On the hot afternoons, we sat in the garden drinking tea, while a peep of chickens paraded around us. We kept trying to communicate and laughed a lot. When my basic Turkish and our pantomime failed us, Hassan’s mother would summon him to translate for us. The three sisters took turns giving me hand-knit socks and scarves they had made. They lovingly dressed me in their traditional embroidered dresses, like a Kurdish Barbie Doll. By the end of that trip, they considered me part of the family.
When I arrived in Van on a steamy day in July 2015 for the three-day wedding celebration. Mustafa, Hassan’s eldest brother greeted me at the airport. “The family is waiting for you.”
We drove to the family compound which had been in a rural area but now was filled with modest box-like cement houses. The larger parents’ house has a communal kitchen. There is a large courtyard closed off from the street by a high, sliding, solid forest green metal gate. Behind the main house and two smaller dwellings for family and guests was a large garden, abundant in vegetables, fruit trees and a rooster and chickens running free.
Hassan’s mother and sisters hugged and kissed me. His father waved; his strict Islamic beliefs wouldn’t allow physical contact with women other than his family. A gaggle of elf-like children wrapped themselves around my legs squealing, “Hala, Hala (Auntie). I felt like a celebrity, but more than that, I felt I belonged.
Hassan returned home after dark exhausted from delivering wedding invitations to the neighborhood. Showing traditional respect for elders, he kneeled, kissed my hand, and then we hugged. Worry was etched on his face.
“I am so happy to see you. Unfortunately, our wedding celebration will now be two days, not three. Tomorrow is a day of mourning for Kurds killed and wounded by ISIS suicide bombers in the town of Suruc on the Syrian border. The Turkish government didn’t stop ISIS from crossing into Turkey.”
I understood why this tragedy would be felt by all Kurds. As a tribal nation without a designated country of their own, Kurds are connected to one another by blood and a culture which knows no geographic borders.
The next day, Mustafa drove me to the busy downtown to buy a gold coin, the traditional wedding present. At dusk, heavily armed policemen poured out of long white vans. Whistles blew. People scattered. Confused and frightened, I was paralyzed. Mustafa quickly led me to the car explaining the PKK (the Kurdish para-military organization) had killed two Turkish policemen who were complicit in the bombing of Suruc.
“Today, Prime Minister Erdogan ended the peace treaty between the PKK and the Turkish government.” Mustafa suspected Erdogan used this incident as an excuse to punish Kurds whose political party won enough seats in Parliament to thwart Erdogan’s party’s majority and therefore, Erdogan’s unilateral control of the government. We retreated to the safety of the family compound, but I didn’t sleep well that night.
Early Saturday morning preparations for the weekend were in full swing. Hassan’s father, a retired chef, directed the roasting of 18 fleeced lambs rotating on spits suspended over crackling fires. Hassan’s uncles stirred cauldrons of rice with paddles resembling boat oars. The smell of chopped dill and mint permeated the kitchen as Hassan’s mother and sisters added them to pails of homemade yogurt. Hassan’s cousins hammered poles into the ground and attached a giant canopy to shield guests from the blaring sun.
Filling the patio, garden and adjacent streets, approximately 600 relatives and tribal members began arriving for the Henna Night celebration from all over Turkey. Hassan’s sisters and cousins served hundreds of glasses of cay, Turkish tea. Despite the heat, women wore shawls and long dresses decorated in beads and sequins that sparkled like gold, amethysts, sapphires, rubies, and lapiz. Rows of gold bracelets spiraled up their arms, and gold necklaces and belts shimmered in the light. Some wore black velvet headdresses covered with mini black pom-poms. Colorful scarves edged in coins framed radiant faces. Long tresses hung low on slender backs. Dark eyes outlined in black kohl were in contrast to eyeshadows in shades of green, blue and gold. Children in frilly party dresses and tiny three-piece suits, followed me around begging me to take their pictures with my telephone.
Animated in conversation, men of all ages sat in small groups. Many wore Western suits, while others had on the traditional short, khaki jackets, matching pants, white shirts and black or khaki cummerbunds. Some had spent time in Turkish jails for demonstrating against Turkish repression and looked older than their ages. One cousin arrived in camouflage battle garb directly from fighting ISIS in the Syrian mountains.
Mid-afternoon, the multitudes gravitated down the street to the open field and gathered under the large shade canopy. Soulful music began with the twang of a lute-like instrument called an oud, then other traditional instruments joined in. The crowd wrapped their pinkies around their neighbor’s and danced grapevine steps. Everyone was connected as one community in a long, winding line. As the pace of the music increased, feet picked up speed. Stepping on forgiving toes, I awkwardly joined in.
Fatma and Hassan arrived to lively music and clapping. Someone put a red, yellow and green Kurdish flag over their shoulders. They sat on red velvet throne-like chairs that matched Fatma’s red crinoline-framed gown adorned with sequins. As is tradition, Hassan gave Fatma a gift box, and then Fatma’s sisters lifted her veil. The couple led more dancing.
Later, I joined the women escorting Fatma back to the house. Using a gold coin, Hassan’s mother dabbed dark green henna soaked in fermented tea onto the bride’s palms. We then smeared a circle of henna on ours. Customarily, Fatma’s relatives shrieked cries of mourning in this bittersweet ceremony. This was the last night Fatma would be living in their home, and marked her transition to married life within Hassan’s family.
Holding candles, we led Fatma back to the field in a procession. On stage, Hassan’s sisters sang and yelped in tribal calls as they presented their family’s gifts of gold belts and jewelry to Fatma, welcoming her to their family.
The next day, first the men ate first and then went alone to the wedding field. As a foreigner, I was allowed to attend the “gifting meeting”. The tribal leaders, the couple’s fathers and eldest brothers sat at a table in the center. As the heads of families offered their gifts of money and gold, an emcee announced the amount each family gave to the couple, calling the highest values first to raise the ante.
After the meeting, everyone joined the festivities. Most of the women were in the same jewel-colored dresses and gold jewelry as the day before. The men seemed to have just changed their shirts. Fatma, in a white Cinderella gown and handcrafted lace veil, entered with Hassan who was wearing a white shirt, blue tie and suit. His face reflected pride and exuded more than his usual joy. Applause, music and dancing erupted. Relatives threw brightly wrapped candies at the couple and into the crowd, while screaming children dived for them. Turkish delight, (squares of gelatinous candy with nuts and covered with powdered sugar) and tea were served. At a table decorated in a colorful embroidered cloth, a red-robed judge presided over the signing of the wedding contract. Guests lined up to congratulate the newlyweds.
Then as the setting sun turned the day into dusk, tears began to pour down my face. It had been an emotional day, but, that was not why I was crying. I was weeping from the clouds of tear gas my burning eyes, sneezing from the acrid smell in my nose and coughing from the smoke burning of my throat.
The deafening clatter of a helicopter that hovered overhead drowned out the band. I didn’t understand an announcement made in Kurdish. But more tear gas and water cannons assaulted the neighborhood. Men yelled. Children cried as their mothers screamed out their names.
Sightless and frightened, I reached out. One of Hassan’s cousins led me to the family compound. I heard the solid metal gate slide shut and the steel bar slammed into the latch, locking out the chaos.
Someone gave me a damp cloth for my eyes. Hassan was comforting Fatma. I approached. “Are you alright?”
“Yes. This is our life. Sometimes when police would see a Kurdish gathering at night, they attacked with tear gas, water cannons, and massive arrests to force us inside, even though we are Turkish citizens. Now that the ceasefire between the PKK and the government is over, this will happen more often.”
“How long will this go on?”
“Only Allah knows.”
Minutes later, we heard rapid gunfire, followed soon after with yelling and banging on the metal gate. Breathless, four cousins ran in. The helicopter had fired at them as they disassembled the canopy. Luckily, no one was hurt.
I sat in tears overcome by sadness for Hassan his family, his people. History has dealt cruelly with the Kurds, abandoned by allies, and oppressed throughout the Middle East.
The next morning, I visited Hassan and Fatma at their hotel. We didn’t mention the tear gas or bullets. I ordered ice cream sodas and toasted them. “May your life together be a new beginning filled with love and peace.”
They both responded, “Inshallah”, God willing.
Since the attempted coup in 2016 against Turkish President Erdogan, the oppression of Kurds in Eastern Turkey has gotten worse. In a recent phone call Hassan told me Turkish forces, looking for members of the PKK, bombed his uncle’s home in Harran. Suat, his eighteen-year-old cousin was arrested on a bus returning home from a wedding because he had attended a protest against repression the week before. He was sentenced to six years in prison for exercising his right to free speech. Hassan had heard rumors that some ethnic cleansing had occurred in Southeastern Turkey. He asked me why the world says nothing about these kind of incidents. I had no answer for him.
Hassan is unemployed. Tourism has died in Eastern Turkey because of the government’s war with the PKK, and now Covid. His life is waiting: waiting to work; waiting to start a family; waiting and hoping to have a normal life someday.
During a call in December 2019, angry and ashamed about the withdrawal of American troops from Syria, I apologized for our abandonment of our Kurdish partners with no warning. Through the phone, I heard banging on the green metal gate of the compound, and Fatma shouting for Hassan. Hassan had to hang up.
“Stay safe. Don’t lose hope.” I said quickly.
He replied with a Kurdish proverb, “Patience is bitter, but bears sweet fruit.”
May the sweet fruit ripen, and Hassan’s harvest soon begin.
