Ankara, a city of contrasts
This morning in my favourite café, two ladies walked in. They ordered a coffee at the counter and sat on the small terrace outside, waiting to be served. Nothing extraordinary except that they were wearing a full niqab with their face covered, of the type seen mainly in Gulf countries. This is a rare occurrence in this part of Ankara, known as Çankaya (pronounce Tchankaya) where residents are staunch defenders of the secular Republic established by Ataturk a century ago. They do not show religious signs, they drink wine, and they dislike the President for his attempt to give Islam a stronger role in public institutions. They express their secularity by displaying portraits of Ataturk everywhere, in restaurants, business offices, shopping malls, local associations, etc… When we moved into our new flat, the landlord gave us a bottle of wine as a welcome gesture, with the coded message that he is a Republican.
My favourite café is too off-beat to display political signs. It is an artists’ haunt with original paintings on the wall, literary books on the shelves, and eclectic objects used for decoration. The owner, who likes alternative fashion and vintage clothing, is taking pleasure in changing outfit style, ranging from vintage ethnic skirts with Doc Martens to dungarees. Here, the displacement feeling is down to zero. I could be in Prague, Warsaw, or London; the menu is similar with cappuccinos and cakes and the vibe not so different. The place attracts local artists and writers, friends of the owner, who come here to have lunch with her. They bring food and beer which they drink in disguise in a coffee mug. With the foam, it looks like a cappuccino.
At the table next to mine, the same customer is there every morning in front of his computer (it makes the two of us). He seems well acquainted with the owner. He helps himself behind the counter, changes the playlist and minds the café when she needs to pop out. At 12.30 pm sharp, he puts on his coat and leaves without taking his computer or his bag. Ten minutes later, he is back with a 10-year-old boy. They sit at his table; he carries on with his work while the boy eats a sandwich. When she’s not busy, the owner sits with them and talks to the boy. The same happens the following day and the day after. Not grasping a word of the conversation, I figured out that he is the owner’s husband and the boy, their son. Of course, it was a complete fabrication on my part stemming from my inability to speak the language, as I found out the day I conversed with an English-speaking regular. She told me that the man in question is a local journalist, unrelated to the owner, and he is there because his son attends the nearby Russian school. He works in the café until it is time to collect him.
On the opposite spectrum of Çankaya is the district of Ulus, built when the Republic was created in 1923 and Ankara chosen for the new capital. It is the traditional centre of the city where the first parliament building, the modernist train station, one of the oldest mosque and hamam are located.
Wanting to break with the power of Istanbul and the domination of Ottoman rulers, Ataturk chose a central location in Anatolia to represent modern Turkey and better connect the more remote Eastern and southern parts of the country. At the time, Ankara was a small town of no more than 30,000 souls, but with an ancient history. Known as Ancyra under the Roman Empire, it used to be the capital of the Galatia province, as testifies the small archaeological site containing Roman ruins. It is nothing compared to Roman remains elsewhere, however, its importance is linked to the presence of the engraved testament of Augustus, the Res Gestae Divi Augusti, a precious legacy for archaeologists and historians, which recounts the many endeavours of emperor Augustus, the first emperor of the second millennium.
Locally, Ulus is better known for its vibrant local culture, with the food market being the main attraction. I come here in search of cultural authenticity and change of scenery. The many cheese sellers gently invite visitors to taste their produce, the spices and herbs stalls give a unique scent, while grilled fish sandwiches are prepared on the spot on a makeshift charcoal fire.
Artisan goldsmiths and silversmiths line the bigger avenue, along with sparkling wedding dress stores and small shops selling counterfeit Nike and Adidas trainers. The women seen in the street wear the salvar, the traditional baggy pants which narrow at the ankles, and cover their head with a colour scarf, the way they still do in rural areas. It is a world apart from Westernised Çankaya, and its tower buildings and upmarket shopping malls. The two districts are linked by a wide avenue of a few kilometres long named Ataturk Boulevard, but going from one to the other is like going to a different city. A city divided by geography, demographics, religion, and social class. “Have you been to Ulus?” local people ask me when I say that I’ve just arrived, making me believe that it is indeed a different place.
