And if my thought-dreams could be seen They'd probably put my head in a guillotine But it's alright Ma, it's life, and life only.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Sunday, November 18, 2012
The Young Turks
The old windmill stands unused and overlooks the windless
waters of Foça. The town is silent on a Sunday and from the top of the hill
where the windmill sits, the sounds of the call to prayer waft over the still
water through the afternoon haze. A
soccer game is starting nearby. The
field is clear from atop the hill and the players scuttle about like crabs
along the shore, tiny from this vantage point.
There are some youths loitering near the windmill,
aimless. They smoke cigarettes to make
themselves feel older, more in charge of their own destinies, confident that
they will never die. The posture with
each other and slap each other into their places in the pecking order of
Turkish masculinity, a loud and confident type of movement that is unapologetic
and unafraid.
Recently in my class a student had to memorize a 5 line poem
and he chose “We Real Cool.” He found it
on the website I gave them, one of the few who followed instructions. I asked him why he liked it, and he said that
it reminded him of the older boys he knows.
But when he recited the poem, it became clear to me that the ironies
were lost on him. “We die soon,” he
said, with a huge smile.
The Turkish kids by the windmill overlooking the bay of the
town of Foça wish to escape this little fishing village where their headscarf
wearing mothers and grandmothers coax gelatinous squid out of the water near
the dock each night for their dinners, defeated squid that turn angry colors
and discharge inky blackness that mingles with the emptiness of the small town,
no lights on, nothing doing. They are
inhaling something inside a bag, breathing deeply in and out, their faces
melting into expressionless puddles staring at the ground. Empty bottles of sealant and glue lie there
sticky in the sand at the base of large sandstone boulders that sit as
witnesses.
The soccer game is starting, and the first notes of the
Turkish national anthem float out into the air across the boulders. Its plodding dirge copulates with something inside
the boys and they stand quickly erect and form a line. One stands at attention with a salute, but
they all stand silent and face the noise.
The bags and the glue and the cigarettes, broken bottles and tossed
rocks sit silently on the ground. The last
note sits plaintively and seems to hang in the haze of afternoon.
I climb off my stony perch and march past the truculent gang
of boys. They stare at the girls that I
am with and then address me, the man of the group, as is customary. They say “where from?” and I tell them
America. But I walk past and pretend
that I have somewhere to go. “Problem?”
he says.
“problem YOK! Memnun Oldum.” Nice to meet you. And then I
motion to his bag and say “Afiyet Olsun.” This is not really appropriate as it
basically means “enjoy your food” or “Bon appetite” but it is something I say
when I’m leaving a place where I have to speak Turkish—often a restaurant or a
place where people are eating. This
comment seems to shame him or anger him or something and he tails me for about
20 steps, then watches me go and turns away.
I don’t look back. These kids
make me think of school, which is something I don’t want to do on a Sunday.
The trail snakes down the hill next to a big tin cutout of
Mustafa Kemal Ataturk trudging uphill wearing his World War I uniform, his
shoulders burdened by many obligations, a definite weight which is seen in his
posture. He is younger in this picture,
which I see often, then in the photos you see in offices and in private
homes—an image of the elder statesman conducting the duties of office. There is an old cannon that rests beside a
big pile of horse manure. The date reads
1857-- engraved on the weathered steel.
It points out toward Greece, toward the island of Lesbos, which is not
quite visible in the distance.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)