Tour To Turkey - July 2007

The End/A New Beginning

2007-08-11T13:52:00.000-07:00

This is important: please check out http://www.24hoursfordarfur.org/ and learn more about Darfur, maybe make a video, or support the effort to end the genocide there.

I'm back home in California enjoying my family and garden once again! I managed to bring back a bottle of Cappadocian wine for George, but not without being stopped multiple times by airport security. I left Ohio in a thunderstorm, as you can see in this first photo. But at 35,000 feet above Indiana the sky became splendid. And as I approached the West Coast the scenery became even more interesting; you could see all those mountain ridges; they looked like one of those fake plastic three-dimensional maps.
Then the massive mountains became even clearer; I kept thinking about Lewis and Clark as they explored. By the time we approached Salt Lake City, Utah, the sun began to set, and after a long lay-over it was too dark to take pictures out the plane window. I'm happy to be home, especially because while in Ohio I realized that I felt a bit melancholic, which is expected after such an intense time abroad. But then as Yuko and I drove around, it occurred to me that it was the same sort of melancholy I felt among the ruins in Turkey, the same kind that Orhan Pamuk describes in his memoir, Istanbul: Memories and the City. In Turkey, Pamuk writes, it's easy to feel hürzün, because the physical remains of decay and destruction are clearly visible everywhere; broken remnants of grandeur loom. In central Ohio there's the same kind of permeating low-grade sadness, because, I think, you're surrounded by so many old houses, the majority disheveled, and beautiful yet abandoned brick buildings that had once been used for all sorts of industry--so much seems to be in need of repair; so much seems to be at its sunset. And in the summer heat and humidity, as in the bitter cold and snow of winder, the streets are deserted; everyone seems esconced in their airconditioned corners of the world. Of course, like in Turkey, if you look closely, if you delve beneath the surface, you'll see much newness, excitement and pulsating change everywhere too (just look at some of my favorite pictures), but because of the overwhelming decay it's easy to feel melancholy, hürzün.

Orhan Pamuk explains that there are two different Muslim traditions that help to define and clarify hürzün: one derives from the Koran and likens hürzün to deep spiritual loss (such as the one the Prophet Muhammad experienced the year he lost both his wife Hatice and his uncle Ebu Talip), and to agony and grief at having invested too much in the transitory material things that can and will be lost.

The other tradition is rooted in Sufi mysticism: it likens hürzün with the gnawing awareness of our inadequacies, of how, for example, we can never fully understand or be close enough to God. Symbiotically, though, if we don’t experience hürzün we feel empty and derisory. Pamuk writes that in Sufism it is “the failure to experience hürzün” that leads you to feel it; you suffer because you haven’t suffered enough. He writes that it is by following this logic that Islamic culture has come to hold hürzün in “high esteen.”
Hürzün is produced by living in and with decomposing fragments—by living in and with the ruins that constantly and concretely remind you that once there was a great Ottoman Empire, and that perhaps such grandeur can never again be reconstructed. Hürzün in Turkey, Pamuk says, has evolved into a cultural concept that equates to an attuned awareness of worldly failure, listlessness and spiritual suffering and that it is often associated not just with the loss or death of a loved one, but also with other spiritual afflictions like anger, love, rancor, defeat and groundless fear. So... the symbiosis in that concept is surely worth further consideration, don't you think?
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In the Muslim writing tradition travelers keep a Rihla, a journal that documents a trip taken precisely to learn (as in the Hajj, or pilgrimage to Mecca)--to learn about yourself, about a country, another culture, its people, habits, quirks, sorrows and delights; in other words, to learn by entering and immersing yourself in that new setting, which, of course, if done right, requires that you dispel preconceived notions. That kind of stripping of yourself is very difficult, but surely beneficial. I started to learn to step out of my own tiny box a very long time ago, when my family emigrated (and when, perhaps consequently, I began to yearn to travel) and then when I started to read travel narratives like those by Ibn Battuta. Ibn Battuta started traveling in the year 1325 when he was 20. His aim was to partake of the Hajj, as all Muslims do, if they can. And the purpose of the Hajj is not just to pay homage; it is also to seek knowledge, to learn and then DO something worthy with that newly gathered information. But the Hajj to Mecca wasn't enough for Ibn Battuta; he continued to wander for about 29 years through 75,000 miles and visited what was then the Muslim World, Dar al-Islam, through (what today would be considered) 44 modern countries (e.g., Turkey, Morocco, India, China). And through it all he kept a Rihla, which today allows us to understand him, and the people and places he met and visited. Without his Rihla, we'd have a more limited view of him and that world such a long time ago. (There are many books about Ibn Battuta; a good starting one is The Adventures of Ibn Battuta, a Muslim Traveler of the 14th Century by Ross E. Dunn.)
Today the connotation of the word "rihla" is different than it was when Ibn Battuta traveled. Back then, the word was more directly linked to the Prophet Muhammad's traditional injunction to "seek knowledge," which legitimated the need to travel beyond doing the Hajj, and probably fed wanderlust. That injunction gave rise, in the Islamic middle ages, to the concept of al-rihla fi talab al-'ilm, travel in search of knowledge. Then, in Islamic North Africa in the 12th to 14th centuries, as paper became increasingly available, educated men began to write and distribute their first-hand descriptions of their pilgrimages to holy cities and beyond. Such an account was called a rihla, or "travelogue" (which was both a memoir and most definitely a work of spiritual devotion), and it combined the writer's observations and responses to the Hajj with geographical and cultural information about the places and people he met along the way. (And I say "he" because in the Middle Ages very few women traveled and wrote about their experiences.) Today, Rihla is most often directly equated with "travel journal."
******
I won't catalogue what I've learned, since that'd take pages and pages, besides, I need time to truly reflect and understand before I can describe those lessons. But, I can say for sure that I am changed, changed because I have learned about myself and about others. And that change is good, good because it produces valuable insights about how to continue to navigate my life in productive and engaging ways.
I've enjoyed keeping this blog. It provides a fun record of the highlights of my adventures during summer 2007. That's important to me; I'm an archivist (since, I believe, that too is the essence of history and of what, consequently, constitutes individual and collective identity). I'm used to writing compulsively in my journal, but this blog has required different skills from me. It's caused me to exercise different writing muscles. Simply, writing specifically for you (and for those readers I don't know personally who might happen upon this blog) has required that I think directly about my audience. That is more about omission than it is about inclusion, more about what I leave out than what I choose to reveal to you.

Thank you for reading my blog, for being curious and interested in my adventure. I hope that you walk away with some thing, some idea, some feeling--however tiny--that will grow in you and maybe even provide you joy, gratification and impetus to live a fuller life.

Americana: Ohio

2007-08-09T07:09:00.001-07:00

Hello from Ohio where I'm spending time with Yuko! I was ready to leave Turkey, but I must admit that it was indeed a little sad to depart. I'm glad to be back in the States, though. This is my second to last blog posting; when I get to California I will compose a final reflection on this summer's learning experiences. In the meantime, I thought I'd share more "Americana," since that's how this blog begins; I thought you'd like to see a couple of the things I've seen these past few days here in Ohio, starting with a beautiful thistle that we encountered on the way to the farmer's market near Yuko's house. Doesn't it look just like the one in Turkey? I photographed it on a cloudy rainy day (it's been pouring pouring every afternoon!), so the color is not as vibrant as the one in Turkey. And then there are all these beautiful red berries blooming everywhere.
*****
The other day, Yuko and I went to see the memorial near her office at Kent State University. No matter how many times I visit, it's a moving site, but now, given what's going on in Iraq and Afghanistan, and given the lack of true activism in the States, this memorial is particularly relevant. Aside from the four marked actual spaces where the students where shot dead, a short distance up the hill there are four granite casket-like sculptures (reminiscent of the Vietnam Memorial in DC), and an Ohio Historical Society plaque with these words:

May 4, 1970
In 1968, Richard Nixon won the presidency partly based on a promise to end the Vietnam War. Though the war seemed to be winding down, on April 30, 1970, Nixon announced the invasion of Cambodia, triggering protests across college campuses. On Friday, May 1, an anti-war rally was held on the Commons at Kent State University. Protestors called for another rally to be held on Monday, May 4. Disturbances in downtown Kent that night caused city officials to ask Governor James Rhodes to send the Ohio National Guard to maintain order. Troops put on alert Saturday afternoon were called to campus Saturday evening after an ROTC building was set on fire. Sunday morning in a press conference that was broadcast to the troops on campus, Rhodes vowed to "eradicate the problem" of protests at Kent State. On May 4, 1970, Kent State students protested on the Commons against the invasion of Cambodia and the presence of the Ohio National Guard called to campus to quell demonstrations. Guardsmen advanced, driving students past Taylor Hall. A small group of protesters taunted the Guard from the Prentice Hall parking lot. The Guard marched back to the Pagoda, where members of Company A, 145th Infantry, and Troop G, 107th Armored Cavalry, turned and fired 67 shots during thirteen seconds. Four students were killed--Allison Krause, Jeffrey Miller, Sandra Scheuer, and William Schroeder. Nine students were wounded--Alan Canfora, John Cleary, Thomas Grace, Dean Kahler, Joseph Lewish, D. Scott MacKenzie, James Russell, Robert Stamps, and Douglas Wrentmore. Those shot were 20 to 245 yards from the Guard. The Report of the President's Commission on Campus Unrest concluded that the shootings were "unnecessary, unwarranted, and inexcusable."

I will add that none of the Guard who shot the students were prosecuted or penalized in any way whatsoever.

Another day, Yuko and I went to the world's largest Amish community in Holmes County in the middle of Ohio, mainly the towns called Millersburg, Berlin, and Walnut Creek. There we enjoyed the beautiful pastoral scenery, drove by many farms with corn and soy beans growing lushly, ate a hearty homemade lunch, shopped for hand-made quilts and furniture, and actually drove after one of the many buggies that clip-clop along at snail's pace while cars zoom by them. Once we caught up with the unsuspecting buggy, I got out of the car to ask if I could take a picture. The only "driver," a woman, said sure--as long as I left her out of it. I did; the picture is above.
Of the 267,000 acres in Holmes County, 172,000 are farmed. What amazes me (and the reason I ran after buggies so I could capture their image) is the fact that since the 1900s the Amish community has fought so hard to stay the same and still be relevant. That's a huge challenge! But they've managed to retain their values, lifestyle and identity and yet remain economically viable; most no longer farm and have opted to become furniture manufacturers.
And... having just returned from Turkey, a Muslim country where very few women cover their heads, and living in the States where stereotypes about Muslim women's scarves are wild and rampant, it's fascinating to me to walk among Amish women. They never cut their hair, and typically wear it in a braid or a bun on the back of their heads. Like the Jewish Orthodox women I have met in Brooklyn and in the Catskills of New York, Amish women must always conceal their hair with a small white cap called a "Covering." An Amish woman can never be seen outside her home without her Covering.
The Amish in the United States are direct descendents of a 16th century European religious sect called Anabaptists. They challenged the reforms made by Martin Luther during the Protestant Reformation, mainly rejecting baptism early in infancy and favoring baptism in adulthood once able to make a conscious decision to be Christian. They were one of the first groups to insist on separating church and state. One of their first leaders was the Dutch Anabaptist Menno Simons (who lived between 1496 and 1561), and that is why the community also became known as Mennonite. When their religion began to be persecuted, the the Amish/Mennonites fled to Switzerland and other remote parts of Europe. In the 1600s a large sub-group led by Jakob Ammann broke from the larger Swiss community, because they disagreed over the strict enforcement of Meidung (which means shunning, that is, excommunicating members who don't follow rules), the practice of foot washing and the wearing of particular dress. That group that broke away is the group that then fled to the United States and settled mostly in Ohio.

The first sizeable group of Amish arrived in America around 1730 and settled near Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. They also settled throughout twenty-four other states, in Canada and in Central America, but about 80% located in Pennsylvania, Ohio and Indiana. The greatest concentration of Amish people is in Holmes and adjoining counties in northeast Ohio. Next in size is a group of Amish people in Elkhart and surrounding counties in northeastern Indiana. Then comes the Amish settlement in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.

Today, the Amish population in the United States is more than 150,000 and it is still growing; they have large families, seven children on average. Up until the early 1900s the Amish were no different from others, but in an effort to follow their founder, Jacob Amman, they began to resist change. To me, the Amish are indeed fascinating because they're clearly a reminder of how Americans used to be, and of how "minorities" can be successful--albeit marginal--components in American society.

I will end this blog entry on a happy note by showing you my dear friend's watercolors. Yuko shares my need to learn and my wanderlust; those are two of the many reasons we've been close friends for over 20 years. In this first watercolor she's depicted Dragor in Denmark, which she visited just last year. And in the second watercolor she's shown Fredericksberg Park in Copenhagen.

Cappadocia

2007-07-31T13:52:00.000-07:00

I started this entry almost a week ago, but I did not finish it because I've been traveling through Cappadocia and was staying at a hotel without wi-fi. I want to share these pictures with you, so I'll write little and simply post them.
During the first part of the week I was in Göreme, a town not far from Ortahisar. Göreme is bigger and a bit more touristy. It seems to be a backpacker's haven. During the two nights I was there the hotel was packed with several groups of Spanish trekkers. I stayed in a Cave Hotel, that is, a structure that had been originally carved out of one of the soft rock hills that dot this area, like the dwellings that early Christians carved for themselves in order to flee invading Arabs. I visited one such cave city and the Open Air Museum. In the immediate area of these two towns alone there are over 100 churches; the one at the Open Air Museum has gorgeous frescos (better preserved, of course, because they're in caves).
The Fortress in Ortahisar: This is what I saw from my cave room. It's an impressive huge rock rising out of a rubbled-filled valley with radiating winding roads. The carved dwellings in each of the visible openings have been long abandoned; today you can climb the Fortress up a series of long stairs and from the top you can see a panoramic view of the town of Ortahisar and beyond. In the center of the village there are many coffee houses; once a week there's a local produce market that is very colorful.
All of Cappadocia is extremely beautiful and surreal. The rock formations and colors are indeed uniquely exquisite. Above you see two of the Three Beauties (called "chimney" or "mushroom" rocks), the iconic symbol of Turkey that appears in the 50 lira bill. Together, the three represent a family. The smaller of the three, the one you can't see clearly in this picture, is the child.

These next several pictures are from the Outdoor Museum and surrounding area. I find it joyful to see that in a very parched land colorful flowers still grow. (Well, because this is volcanic rock the area is in fact very fecund: fruit threes and vineyards are plentiful.) I will write more later.

My last day in Istanbul

2007-07-30T14:38:00.000-07:00

I spent most of it on a ferry going up and down the Bosphorus once again. In this photo journal I give you a glimpse of what I saw.
This is the map that IDO, the company that owns the ferry, gives out.
I walked from my hotel to the Eminönü ferry pier (see the bottom of the map), a bustling place!
Off I went on the churning water.

Houses (called yalis) from the 19th century are particularly beautiful because of all the gingerbread embellishments. Some of them are in uninhabitable condition. The European side of the Bosphorus, especially, is lined with palaces and modern houses. On both sides you can also see tiny beaches, makeshift sunbathing spots, ancient ruins and mosques. Two major bridges expand across the water. Of course, there are swimmers and numerous ships and sailboats everywhere.

The last ferry stop is at Rumeli, near the mouth of the Black Sea, then it turns around.

Each of the ferry stops has an architecturally and historically interesting building.

There are many images that I did not photograph but that are still very vivid in my mind, for instance:

On the roof terrace of the Sultan Hill Hotel, between the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sofia. Twilight. Only the calls to prayer can be heard, not in unison, but as if in a methodically choreographed sensual dance to call and response rhythms. The Sea of Marmara shimmering and its warm winds caressing me.

Driving around trendy Ortokoy. Midday in the worst of a gripping heat wave, trudging ever so slowly in thick traffic, but talking happily with a colleague in the comfort of her airconditioned car. Sudden silence. Out the window... a middle aged woman, dirty, wild hair, languid eyes staring in our direction, her bare breasts hanging, hanging long toward her belly.

The park in Uskudar. I am seated on a bench eating a simit. A man, his wife and their baby sit on the edge encircling a glorious fountain. The sound of splashing water synchronizes with the laughter of children. The wife picks up her baby, takes off his booties, lifts him way up high, then lets his toes touch the water's surface. He giggles. His father laughs boldy, the lines around his eyes gathering upward as his large hand extends to caress his baby's head. His wife smiles.

Walking back from the pier at Eminönü. Noisy. Congested. End of a long hot day. My feet are heavy. I am hungry. Ahead, up against the wall, there is a small brown bundle inside some sort of semi-clear green plastic. It moves. I'm startled aside. A young blackened face peers out and wimpers. I walk faster but in a block I am compelled to return to buy a simit and a bottle of water, which I offer to him, but he simply weakly shakes his head. Much much later, I eat the simit.

On Kennedy Boulevard, far from Sultan Hammet. I don't realize I've dropped my small package; when I do, I turn and see a woman, her head scarf blowing as she walks briskly toward me. "Thank you" isn't enough. Without thinking, I place my right hand over my heart and lower my eyes. Without thinking, she places her right hand over her heart and lowers her eyes.

At the entrance of the mosque in Bursa. An old man, wearing an uncomfortably smelly and worn caftan sits at the entrance, his hand extended, three fingers missing. His shriveled face contorted, deeply sunken eye lids revealing he has no eyes.

Mall / Food / Universities

2007-07-29T22:23:00.001-07:00

Today I left the usual tourist spots and took the subway to Cevahir Shopping Center, the world’s second largest mall located in Şişli, an affluent neighborhood. (The largest mall in the world is in West Edmonton, Canada; the third largest is the Mall of America in the States.) American architect Munoru Yamasaki designed Cevahir in 1987; it opened on October 15, 2005. I read that on November 14, 2006 St. Martin’s, the Kuwait Investment Authority (KIA), and Pradera Asset Management bought the mall for about $750 million. I don’t frequent malls often, but today I spent several hours exploring it. I especially liked Koç Taş, which is a comparatively more aesthetically organized sort of upscale Home Depot. (Well… maybe two hundred years from now someone will think of this mall as today’s Blue Mosque… not!) It’s like walking through Pentagon Mall near DC, or the Valley Fair Mall in Silicon Valley: the architecture, the set up, the stores, the food… they’re all the same (globalization indeed!), except that there’s a bit more glitter at Cevahir. The ceilings are way higher, there’s a lot of marble, steel and glass everywhere, and the floors are shinier; even the columns are shiny.
Oh yes, and the glass ceiling is a huge clock, the largest of its kind in the world; you can see the 12 in the picture below. (I couldn’t take too many pictures because a policeman told me it’s forbidden; and yes, as you enter, like in every museum or public building, here in Istanbul and at home in California, you go through a metal detector and your bags are x-rayed.) Like the bazaar, merchandise is grouped together (all shoes in one area, all home goods in another, etc.), and it was packed (think consumerism at its peak), but the mall is clearly orderly, clean, well-lit and very chichi. I walked all seven floors, which are connected by escalators, stairs and a glass elevator.
Two of the floors are dedicated just to food (including the perennial McD’s, Burger King and KFC), the top one for more formal restaurants. In a china store called Portland I ogled an exquisite porcelain $500 vase; and in Koç Taş I marveled at how anybody would take (what I imagine is way too much) time to arrange light bulbs so artistically. There’s a huge IMAX theater showing films from everywhere, but I decided to go out into the city and explore.

The metro ride was easy: everything’s labeled in both Turkish and English; the trains are super modern, fast, clean and the stations are decorated with murals (usually depicting life around the Bosphorus) done in new generation tiles from Iznik.

Şişli is one of the 32 districts of Istanbul on the European side. In the 17th century there were only graveyards there; in the 18th, vineyards and gardens were planted, but in the 19th, with the expansion of Istanbul, many immigrants and non-Muslims began to settle there. In 1913, after the first electric tram was installed, even more people moved in and many apartment buildings were built in the 1920s. After that modernization, Şişli became one of the most elite neighborhoods where the upper class and wealthy foreigners lived.

Today it continues to be a bustling religiously mixed and prosperous commercial and residential part of Istanbul where you can find many Muslim mosques, Christian churches and Jewish synagogues. The Jewish presence in this area is interesting: there’s the Şişli Beth Israel Synagogue at Efe Sokak No. 4, which is a very modern building and is supposed to be the center of the Jewish community.

I think I walked by the Italian Jewish Cemetery, but since it was closed and since I didn’t see the monumental Baroque gate the guidebook describes, I’m not exactly sure. It was founded to serve about 400 Jewish families who arrived from Crimea during 1854 and 1855 and it’s still active, though like many cemeteries in Istanbul, it’s not easily accessible. It used to be that cemeteries in Istanbul were located right in the middle of neighborhoods, but with modernization they were relocated outside the city, and thus are now barely seen. I liken that to moving Woodlawn Cemetery (in place since 1863) and its 300,000 graves (some of illustrious people like Herman Melville, Irving Belin, Fiorello LaGuardia and Otto Preminger), out of the north Bronx. What a loss that would be for that Bronx neighborhood! There are supposed to be many famous Istanbullus of the 19th century buried at the Italian Jewish Cemetery, and the tombstones are supposedly inscribed in Italian, English, French, German, Russian and Latin.

So yeah, I also want to tell you a little bit about the delicious food I've been eating. I'll be upfront: I've eaten one too many Turkish Delights and Baklava--and a whole lot of simits (think of New York size soft pretzels with toasted sesame seeds--yum!). Simits are so easy to eat on the run. They're sold in bakeries (along with a lot of other kinds of breads), in Simit Salons (along with coffee and chai, sort of like at Noah's Bagels), from carts and even trays on top of men's heads. They're 50 kurus (that's about forty cents) and for me they're a meal (not balanced eating... I know).

I've enjoyed the typical Turkish breakfast (though I'm totally ready for my usual oatmeal), which consists of several kinds of olives, raw tasty tomatoes and cucumbers, a few kinds of white cheeses, breads, jams, yogurt (did you know that Turkey introduced yogurt to the world?) and chai (strong tea) or coffee.

I won't try it, but everywhere you go you can also buy corn (imported from the States?) either boiled or roasted. There are carts in every nook and crany. And of course, there's pizza everywhere too. I’m not the best person to discuss all the delicacies available here (since I’m vegetarian and definitely not a "foodie"), but I can tell you about what I’ve smelled and seen while others eat. I’ll start with what you can find at restaurant row under the Galata Bridge. I walked through it today again, just to see what it’s like on a Sunday. It was packed with people eating fresh “fish between bread.” That’s what that place is famous for: (fried, sautéed, broiled, and in a few other ways) fish placed between two (sometimes more) pieces of either flat bread, baguettes, or fancy (like whole wheat with nuts) bread. If you want, they’ll put cilantro, onions, tomatoes, lettuce, pepper, and sauce. It looks and smells delicious, but I'm leary because I see all those people fishing off the Galata Bridge and I know about all those tankers that spill oil into the Bosphorus, and all the cars that have accidentally fallen in (not to mention the bodies in the cars), all the garbage thrown in by cruise ships, ferries, people...yikes!

People seem to eat a lot of roasted lamb--with rice, in stews, in sandwiches, in fancy restaurants and on the streets. Pierced huge chuncks can be seen at stalls and carts everywhere (imagine what our Health Department would say about that). The vendor (99 percent of the time a man) pulls out a looong blade and slices pieces according to how much you order. Then, depending on your preference, he puts the pieces over rice, in a sauce or in a huge baguette sandwich. You wash that down with Coke or Pepsi. Borek is everywhere too. They're the Turkish version of a spring meat roll. As a main meal it can be served with a shepherd's salad (chopped cilantro, parsley, tomatoes, onions, vinegar and olive oil), or on the run it too can go in between bread.

I've also had a lot of chai--both the Turkish version (which is just tea, mostly apple flavor with tons of added sugar and served in a pretty tulip-shaped glass--I skip the sugar) and the chai latte made with soy from Starbucks. Other than the Cappadocian white wine (did you know that wine has been produced for millenia in Turkey? Right now there are about 50 operating wineries in different regions; the most famous ones are Okuzgozu, Bogazkere, Narince and Kalecik Karasi), I also tried Raki. A tiny sip was enough for me. Raki is a traditional Turkish drink made from grapes and raisins and flavored with pungent anise. Usually you dilute it with water and it turns a milky color. But even diluted it is way too strong.

****
A couple of days ago, I met my colleague from the Interior Design Department at WVC, Çiğdem (she's Turkish and is here on vacation), and we visited Kadir Has University where we talked with the Department Chair of Architecture/Interior Design about a possible faculty and student exchange program between the schools. The university is in a beautifully re-designed old building located in Cibali overlooking Haliç (the Golden Horn); from 1884 until 1995 when it was abandoned, it used to a tobacco warehouse and factory until 1998 when it was renovated and then opened as a school in January 2002. Kadir Hasoglu, the business man who established the university, died just two days ago at age 89.
Like so many of these new private universities in Turkey, the “mission of Kadir Has Univeristy is to help the public and private sectors prepare for EU accession.” Çiğdem spoke with representatives at the other universities that have Interior Design programs that we're considering. They include Bahçeşehir University located in Beşiktaş overlooking the Bosphorus (which was founded in 1998 by Bahçeşehir Uğur Educational Institutions), and Bilkent University in Ankara, which was founded in 1984 by Ihsan Dogramaci.

I'm really fascinated by the surge of private for profit universities in the 1990s (for example, Koç University that was established by Vehbi Koç Foundation in 1993; I posted pictures in a previous entry). They are all modeled after American universities, all the teaching is done in English, and they all seem to have very explicit political and economic aims. I started reading a 2006 dissertation (titled Histories, Institutional Regimes and Educational Organizations: The Case of Turkish Higher Education by Zeynep Erden who says that in the 1980s Turkey experienced a great deal of Americanization and economic development, and when the government eased control of education and laws were changed to allow individuals and foundations to set up private universities, they "were seen as a force that would bring competition in the higher education field. Hence, in addition to the control of the state, now it was time for market forces to increase the variety of services as well as to increase the quality of education due to expected competition among higher education organizations" (60).

(No, I don't have too much time of my hands, it's just that the issue is really interesting. After all, these institutions are training the future political and economic leaders of Turkey, especially since 9/11 when it became so difficult, particularly for Muslims, to study in the States. That's a lot of power for those universities.)

Coffee/Loti

2007-07-26T14:46:00.000-07:00

The Yale Institute is over; everyone is gone; Greta, our Yale Institute leader, has gone on to Syria. I’m very tired. Today I tried to rest, especially because it’s been unbearably hot and you can’t walk for long before feeling dizzy, despite drinking bottles and bottles of water. I had been considering going on to Bucharest, but I saw on BBC World that over 500 people have died there this week because of the extreme heat. Budapest and Sofia are no better. There are raging fires in Greece (while monsoons drench northern India), so I looked into the Mediterranean coast in Turkey and was told by a travel agent that it’s equally hot and uncomfortable. Thus, I’m going up in altitude to Cappadocia where it’s cooler than Istanbul and there’s less pollution and even more history. I’ve been assured by the travel agent that there’s wireless in my cave hotel, so I aim to continue this blog. As I write this, a 6.9 earthquake has rocked Indonesia. Over two million Iraqi refugees have overwhelmed Syria; the US has agreed to take 7,000 of them. The new sensation on youtube.com is a 4-minute video of 1,500+ inmates dancing to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” in the Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center in the Philippines. In Harare, Zimbabwe, as the country prepares for a weeklong demonstration against the government, thousands of protesters have been brutally beaten and imprisoned. India has agreed to buy nuclear technology from the US. Twenty-two Koreans are still in captivity in Afghanistan; one has been killed by the Taliban, their 42-year-old Christian minister, whose body was dumped in the dessert. Bulgaria makes the news again: Europeans are horrified that impoverished families willingly sell their children to shady individuals who traffic them to affluent parents who bypass legal adoption processes. And, Istanbullus continue to seem surprised by the outcome of Sunday’s election. (I’ve updated my blog entry on politics; check it out.)

The heat seems inconsequential. If only Lady Mary Wortley Montague (a Brit who traveled through Turkey and lived in Istanbul in the early 1700s) could be here now. I was just reading a letter she wrote in 1763: “The climate is delightful in the extremest degree. I am now sitting, this present four of January, with the windows open, enjoying the warm shine of the sun, while you are freezing over a sad sea-coal fire; and my chamber set out with carnations, roses, and jonquils, fresh from my garden.”

The news is absurd, depleting; I’ve no words to describe what it does to the soul. Better to get lost, for just a little time, in Turkish history, beauty and culture—coffee, for instance. (Alright, twist my arm, I admit that I’ve been hanging around coffee houses.) I did not know that Turkey introduced cafés to the world. Yes, the very “cradle of civilizations” that has the remnants of 13 successive societies (Hittites, Assyrians, Phyrigians, Urartians, Lycians, Lydians, Ionians, Persians, Macedonians, Romans, Byzantines, Seliuks and Ottomans) spanning 10,000 years also gave birth to neighborhood cafés! (And you thought it was Starbucks? Sorry, their first store opened in Seattle’s Pike Place public market in 1971, and yes, it was innovative in that it sold fresh-roasted whole bean coffee.) Okay, the coffee plant grew naturally in Ethiopia, but the Turks were the first to adopt it as a common drink, often adding spices such as clove, cinnamon, cardamom and anise to the brew.

Prior to 1000 AD, members of the Galla tribe in Ethiopia were energizing themselves by using ground coffee beans mixed with animal fat (eeeeeeuuu!). Then at about 1000 AD, Arab traders brought coffee back to their homelands and began to boil the beans. By 1453 coffee was being used in Ottoman Constantinople. (At that time, Turkish law allowed a woman to divorce her husband if he failed to provide her with her daily quota of coffee.) The world's first coffee shop, Kiva Han, opened in Istanbul in 1475. (The first coffee house in Italy opened much later in 1645; in England in 1652; in Paris in 1672.) By 1600 coffee had been introduced to the West by Italian traders. By 1607 Captain John smith who founded Jamestown in Virginia had brought coffee to North America. By 1668 in New York coffee had become a breakfast staple. By 1920 prohibition had boosted the sales of coffee so that by 1940 the US imported 70 percent of the world’s coffee crop.

My favorite place to drink coffee is the Pierre Loti Café at the top of the hill in Eyüp Cemetery. From there, you can see the Golden Horn, which was settled in the 7th century BC and historically has been described as the world’s greatest natural harbor. You can see the whole city, and the Galata Bridge that was built in 1992 to replace the (now rebuilt) pontoon bridge (also called the Galata Bridge) located further away. You can distinguish the rebuilt pontoon because the lower level is packed with restaurants; on top, men line the sides where they spend hours fishing. Galata Tower, the most recognizable feature of the Golden Horn, looms nearby. I took the elevator up the 196 feet high open balcony for another magnificent view (despite the haze of pollution) of the city. I like the Loti Café because it’s decorated in 19th century furniture (even the waiters wear period clothes), because the views are exquisite, and mostly because of the romance and literary history.

It turns out that the café is named for one of its customers, Pierre Loti (his real name is Julien Marie Viaud Rochefort), who was a prolific and romantic travel writer, and who had great affinity with what we now call the Middle East. Loti once admitted that he felt he had a “half-Arab soul.” He also said, when he was a child, “I will wander all the world over and return, a grey-haired man, to the home of my father to muse on the strange and beautiful things I have seen.”
Loti was a midshipman in the French navy and thus traveled widely. He first visited Istanbul in 1876, immersed himself in Turkish life, lived in a house in Eyüp and fell in love with a married Turkish woman, Aziyadé, who dared to sneak out of her husband’s harem to spend time with Loti. Loti had to leave in 1877, and years later when he returned to Istanbul he found that Aziyadé had died. Overwhelmed with sadness, he sat at the café that now bears his name and he mourned. Eventually, after turning his memories into a semi-autobiographical love story titled Aziyadé, he took her tombstone back to his house in Rochefort, France, where it can still be seen.
I leave for Cappadocia on the 31st; I’m sorry I’ll miss seeing Konya. I'll leave you with more wise literary words written by Turkish painter, writer, journalist, sculptor and cineast, Abidine Dino (1913-1993) who wrote:

Every summer Turks placidly watch foreign migration flowing into their country, those same Turks who had at one time practiced an admittedly more belligerent form of migration. But the old motive is still there: a delight in seeing the world. Today the verb “see” is gaining ground: one learns to see, one is able to see, one occasionally loses all hope of seeing. We try to see in paintings, photography, films and television, with the eyes of others and with our own. Nothing is ever totally satisfying. I still remember one morning in 1953 at Vallauris, where Picasso said, with a note of sadness: “A man sees only once or twice in a lifetime.” It is true, but also shattering. How does one approach this Turkey? Should you forget about seeing and instead, taste grilled swordfish or Bosphorus strawberries? Or the contraband alcohol known as bogma “stangler” or lamb grilled over vine shoots? To glimpse Turkey would it be better to prance dead drunk to the beat of an enormous drum on the roofs of a village in round dances of another era? Or is the answer to sit at the bow of a Bosphorus boat under the finger of light piercing a snow storm at night? Perhaps one could guide a plough behind a bony ox or suffocate from dust on a road while jeeps race by.

Maritine crossroads / Bazaar

2007-07-24T09:07:00.000-07:00

Pierre Loti's description of the traffic on the Bosphorous:
I watch the coming and going on the strait, which during the day tends to become the world's most heavily traveled corridor. At its center, farther out, huge ships steam past one another, forever communicating between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean. Closer in, there are the caiques, vessels of every kind, the little paint-daubed sailboats that, on breezy afternoons, hurl themselves mindelessly against the quay of the house, sometimes demolishing its fragile marble balustrade.

Turkey is bounded by the Black Sea to the north, the Aegean Sea to the west and the Mediterranean Sea to the south; that's 5,176 miles of coastline. That explains, partly, why the geographical area has seen the birth of 13 very significant civilizations. The link between the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara—the Bosphorus—has been, and continues to be, a key factor in the development of this area. The Bosphorus is still Turkey’s major maritime route, the main medium for transportation and exchange, and the most direct route for connecting the Black Sea to the Mediterranean Sea.

It fascinates me to see the myriad kinds of activities this strait hosts. Two days ago, when it was sweltering hot, I walked along the European edge from Eminönû, past the Ortaköy Bridge (one of the two that connect the European and Asian sides of Istanbul) to slightly beyond trendy Ortaköy, which put me right about in the middle of the Bosphorus. The edge is lined with numerous ferry piers that are indeed indispensable transportation for thousands of Istanbullus transferring back and forth across the continents, and especially during summer weekends, to the nine Princes’ Islands. The ferries, first imported from England in 1854, are generally named after neighborhoods: Rumeli, Trakya, Göksu, Beylerbeyi, Tophane and Besiktas.

Shipping and cruise lines dot the edges. Fishing is a national pastime and a main industry. The shipbuilding market volume now nears $10 billion. And of course, transporting oil has taken on even more significance after the break-up of the former Soviet Union; over 7,400 tankers carry more than 125 million tons of oil through the Bosphorus. In addition to all that activity, at any time of the day you can see people rowing, sailing, swimming, sitting… (I should note, too, that the environmental harm has increased exponentially. For example, on 13 March 1994 the Cyprian tanker Nassia and the freighter Shipbroker collided into a huge fire that killed 29 crewmen; the spilled crude patched miles of water and washed onto the shore to affect everything.)

Trade results in… bazaars! Bazaars are festive, magical, intriguing, beguiling—and a source of frustration to someone like me who doesn’t like to bargain. In Turkey’s bazaars, as in most bazaars in the Middle East, the initial quoted price is simply a place to start haggling. You can expect to pay 30 to 50 percent less—if you can maneuver the exchange and unspoken rules of respect and protocol. For example, I sat in a jeweler’s store in the Grand Bazaar while he offered chai and made conversation about the elections, the States, world news—all sorts of topics discussed in multiple languages. He was very courteous and solicitous.

My only role was to be genuinely interested in buying the gorgeous gold earrings I’d stopped to look at; somehow, vendors can actually tell if you’re truly interested and they leave you alone if you’re not. It is understood that if I wasn’t really interested I would not go into his store, drink his tea and waste his time; once I entered his store we were bound by a common agreement to exchange goods.

I was very tempted to buy the earrings, but felt increasingly uncomfortable as in between the topics of conversation, we discussed (what seemed to me to be) and exorbitant price that he was apparently very reluctant to decrease. I couldn’t keep increasing my initial offer because, really, I didn’t know how much the earrings are actually worth. Some people enjoy that sort of exchange and even get a huge kick out of walking away with a cheap price. I don’t feel triumphant in that, especially if I have to haggle with a woman who may seem so very financially poor in comparison to me. Haggling evokes way too many mixed feelings in me; so, needless to say, I left sans the earrings.

In the Middle East, bazaars are always located next to a mosque, since that kind of trade is what supported the establishment and growth of the mosque and in turn what provided the vendors with a place to pray, sleep (since most mosques also have caravanserais, bed and breakfast sorts of lodging), and store their merchandise. (There’s a growing body of scholarship on this topic; perhaps later I will provide titles of recent books and articles.) The Grand Bazaar, built at the command of Fatih Mehmet after the conquest, is one of the most famous markets in the world and is right near my hotel. It is a city within a city that consists of 75 acres of alleyways and a vast network of covered streets and buildings. At the center are domed buildings, called the Old Bedestan (warehouse), where stores with the most valuable merchandise are located.

When you enter the Grand Bazaar, the place looks like a bewildering maze, but soon you realize that there’s an orderly grid like arrangement. Shopkeepers are clustered together according to the kinds of good or services they provide. There is a street of jewelers, leather workers, silk fabrics and other textiles, food, sweets, rugs… anything and everything you can imagine. The stores are owned and operated by individuals, but the municipality of Istanbul owns some of the buildings.

In the mid-19th century, Théophile Gautier wrote of the Grand Bazaar: “There are jewelers whose gemstones are put away in safes or in glass cases placed beyond the reach of thieves. In these dark boutiques, rather like cobbler’s workshops, riches of the most incredible sort abound.”

"This is us!"

2007-07-22T10:40:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Leah cried. A sweet 70 year old conservative Orthodox Jewish educator let the tears soak her face: "This is us. It's us!" We were on the women's side of the Eyüp Sultan Mosque, originally built in 1458, now the holiest Muslim shrine in Istanbul, just feet away from the tomb of Eyüp Ensari, a companion and standard-bearer of the Prophet Mohammed killed during the Arab siege of Constantinople in 670, and feet away from the street of tombs and Mausoleum of Eyüp, where many illustrious Muslims have been interred since the mid 1400s. Leah, finding it difficult to sit on the floor, looked for a place to lean and "compose" herself while a group of us surrounded her. We wanted to know if she was alright. She said: "This is us, just like us when we go to synagogue. The sounds, the rituals--they are us." Later, Leah assured us that she was okay, that she'd been overwhelmed by the realization that the practices in a mosque and synagogue, that Islam and Judaism, are so very similar. She was overcome. I will always remember Leah's aged face, tears flowing freely, wise words barely audible: "This is us!"

These Muslim boys in their festive dress played in the courtyard of the Eyüp Sultan Mosque while awaiting their circumsicion ceremony. The day is a holiday for the family (like it is for Christians when they Baptize their babies, or for Catholics when their children receive the sacraments of First Communion and Confirmation, and like it is for Jews during Bris rite and Bar Mitzvah; all of these events symbolize admission into the community of believers). Later, while walking around town, I saw this store that sells all of the clothes that boys need for that special day.

Today, we visited the Museum of Turkish Jews located (in a building restored by Jews in the late 1800s) in Galata, where, starting with those who were deported from Spain in 1492, Jews have made a thriving neighborhood. There I learned that the presence of Jews in Turkey predates the arrival of Sephardim from Spain; in fact, the historian Josephus Flavius told Aristotle that he "met Jewish people with whom he had an exchange of views during his trip across Asia Minor." Ancient synagogue ruins have been found that date back to 220 BC.
Turkey has always welcome Jews: early in the 14th century Karaites came from Europe and settled in Edirne; Jews expelled from Hungary in 1376, from France in September 1394, and from Sicily and Salonika early in the 15th century found refuge in Turkey. A most interesting display shows an original letter written by Albert Einstein to the President of the Cabinet of Ministers of the Turkish Republic on September 10, 1933. He writes:

Your Excellency,

As Honorary President of the World Union "OZE" I beg to apply to Your Excellency to allow forty professors and doctors from Germany to continue their scientific and medical work in Turkey. The above mentioned cannot practice further in Germany on account of the laws governing there now. The majority of these men possess vast experience, knowledge and scientific merits and could prove very useful when settling in a new country.

Out of a great number of applicants our Union has chosen forty experienced specialists and prominent scholars, and is herewith applying to Your Excellency to permit these men to settle and practice in your country. These scientists are willing to work for a year without any remuneration in any of your institutions, according to the orders of your Government.

In supporting this application, I take the liberty to express my hope, that in granting this request your Government will not only perform an act of high humanity, but will also bring profit to your own country.

I have the honour to be,
Your Excellency's obedient servant

After the Jewish migration to Israel, the community diminished and today it is estimated at around 25,000. The vast majority live in Istanbul; about 2,500 live in Izmir and other smaller groups are dispersed throughout the country. Sephardim make up 96% of the community, and Ashkenazim account for most of the rest; there are about 100 Karaites. In Istanbul, there are 18 synagogues in active use.

I'm always interested in the individual stories, in people's versions of their own realities, because, essentially, that's what truly constructs both single and collective identity and thus so very much else. At the Jewish Museum I also found a most moving testament by Melvin Fingerut. (Here's a picture of his passport.) He writes:

My paternal grandfather Joseph, who owned a sort of carriage factory in Rusia--before the Bolshevik Revolution--arrived in Philadelphia (USA) in 1913 and opened a grocery store in the Tolga district. My grandfather and some close cousins named Fingles, sent money to support the family while they were still in Russia. His wife, my grandmother Anna (46) and my father's siblings; my uncle Godel* (9), my aunts Malte* (11) and Rosa* (15), arrived from Southampton (UK), on December 18, 1923. As my father Nathan had had a bone surgery on his leg, the family did not think he would pass the health check at Ellis Island. He had a long, big and dark purple scar on his leg. They thought he would have to stay in Russia, for a while. Meanwhile, the family devised a plan to get him in Istanbul through Odessa. A bank account may have been established there for him or money sent to someone trusted. He was 19 and thus he could not enter the US on his father's papers. But he succeeded to get a Turkish Passport as a Russian Political Refugee, showing him as 17 years old. To escape the health check at Ellis Island, the family got him enough money to buy a ticket to go to Cherbourg through Marseilles and Paris, then to travel to New York on a First Class--as the First Class passengers by-passed the health checks upon arriving in New York. That's how my father Nathan Fingerut assured entry to US, as a minor under his father's papers. The Turkish passport saved his life and allowed me being ever born.
*Names changed upon arrival to USA: Godel = Gordon, Malte = Mae, Rosa = Rose

Talk about going to extremes in order to make it into the "land of opportunity"! The cycle continues...

For me, today ended with a walk up and down Istikâl Caddesi (street) in Taksim Square, the hub of activity in the modern Beyoglu area of Istanbul. (Well, the day's not quite ended; I am sitting up on the roof terrace of the hotel, overlooking the gorgeously lit Blue Mosque, listening to Sezen Aksu, the "Queen of Turkish pop," out of my laptop, writing and sipping delicious white Cappadocian wine.) Istikâl street was known as the Grande Rue de Pera, because it is lined with grandiose apartment buildings, gates, European embassies, and tucked in the background many churches that still serve the Christian community. I spent a long time inside the Church of Saint Anthony of Padua, Istanbul's largest Catholic church. Apparently, I had just missed Sunday mass, so I inspected the glorious stain glass windows and then found a corner from where I watched people.

Hamam / Politics

2007-07-20T14:29:00.000-07:00

Hamam
After a long day of touring mosques, churches and towns, I had a terrific Turkish bath! I went to Çemberlitas Hamam, which is quite historical since it was commissioned in 1584 by Nur Banu Sultan, the wife of Sultan Selim and the mother of Sultan Murat III, and it was built by Mimar Sinan, the same legendary Turkish architect who built the Blue Mosque. As usual in hamams, men and women are separated. Before entering the bath you're given a towel, a glove scrubber, rubber slippers and the keys to a locker. In the women's section there are 3 basic chambers: in the first you undress and relax; the second is a steam room in an expansive perforated dome (that looks like a lantern) held by intricately ornate collumns, and in the center floor a huge circular warm marble slab where you lie on your towel while you wait to be scrubbed. Radiating from the slab there are alternating receded fountains for rinsing and individual semi-private small fountain rooms that you can use to bathe yourself. After relaxing on the slab for about 20 minutes, a woman takes your glove scrubber and uses a bucket to pour warm water over your body. She lathers you with a sweetly fragrant body wash and scrubs the entire back of your body, then the front, then asks you to sit up so she can wash your hair. After 15 minutes or so, once she's peeled off the top layer of your skin (I'm not kidding), she walks you to the rinsing area. After rinsing, if you want, you can sit back on the slab, or you can go to the third chamber for a full body oil massage. Once you're done, you can relax with a freshly squeezed glass of orange juice. You feel soooooo clean and chilled and that night you can finally sleep profoundly.

Hamams have been around for centuries, since Byzantium when they first became institutions. In the 18th century, Jean Thévenot described one in his Voyae au Levant: "You enter by a large square room, about 20 feet long, with a very high ceiling. This room is lined with stone benches built against the surrounding wall. They are as wide as the wall, and half as high, and all are covered with matting."

William Makepeace Thackeray who wrote Vanity Fair (1847), described his experience in a hamam in his Notes of a Journey from Cornhill to Grand Cairo (1865): "The spacious hall has a large fountain in the midst, a painted gallery running round it; and many ropes stretched from one gallery to another, ornamented with profuse draperies of towels and blue cloths, for the use of the frequenters of the place. All around the room and the galleries were matted enclosures, fitted with numerous neat beds and cushions for reposing on, where lay a dozen of true believers smoking, or sleeping, or in the happy half-dozing state... The dark room was the tepidarium, a moist oozing arched den, with a light faintly streaming from an orifice in the domed ceiling... When you get into the Sudarium, or hot room, your first sensations only occur about half a minute after entrance, when you feel that you are choking. I found myself in that state, seated on a marble slab... I was in a narrow room of marble, with a vaulted roof, and a fountain or warm and cold water; the atmosphere was in a steam, the choking sensation went off, and I felt a sort of pleasure presently in a soft boiling simmer, which no doubt, potatoes feel when they are steaming."

Here's another prettily written description by British lawyer and correspondent of The Daily News Sir Edwin Pears, who lived in Turkey from 1873 to 1919 and is known for his publications describing Turkey, especially his Forty Years in Constantinople (published in 1915), and for his letters describing the Moslem atrocities committed in Bulgaria in 1876, which aroused popular demonstrations in England):

The sonority of the word contains all the sensuality of a purification rite. Haloed in mist that softens the harshness of reality, ghostly shilhouttes wander from room to room with the demeanor of penitents, then kneel at the base of marble fountains to rest near those horns of plenty atrickle with scalding water. Under beams of light issuing from occuli set into the cupolas or the spectral glimmer of neon tubes, bodies are kneaded, joints crack, thighs slap against wet marble, and spirits give up to long hours of moist languor.
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Politics

Addendum:
AKP won!
Turkey’s constitution prohibits mixing politics and religion; the country’s founder, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, decreed separation of mosque and state after World War I. Since the 1950s, although there’s been a multi-party system, conservative parties have dominated parliamentary politics. Today, 70% of the people in Turkey are under age 35, and they’re increasingly interested in politics. The AKP (Justice and Development Party), first elected in 2002, is moderately Islamist but economically liberal. On Sunday 22 July 2007, during Turkey’s 16th multi-party general election, AKP, the incumbent, was overwhelming victorious. Most people I talked with in the subsequent days seem very surprise but not really too upset. They are surprised because at the beginning of summer there were throngs out in the streets in Istanbul, Ankara and Izmir rallying in support of the secular movement, which is supported by the Turkish military. They fear Erdoğan/the AKP government’s conservative leanings. Those many demonstrations seemed to be an indication that the AKP would be voted out of power. But on Sunday 22 July 46% of the votes went to the AKP, which now gives them a definite mandate.
The demonstrations and the opposing parties’ stances seem paradoxical to me: yes, AKP is more conservative, but it has opened the country and improved the economy and private sector. During the five years the “islamists” have been in power (and have had the largest parliamentary majority in a generation) Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdoğan has not passed any laws that could be described as Islamist. For instance, he has not overturned the ban on wearing Islamic headscarves in any state institutions—including schools, universities and government offices. He’s liberalized restrictive laws on the property of Turkey’s religious minorities—Greeks, Armenians and Jews. And he has introduced sweeping reforms that scrapped legal restrictions on freedom of speech and granted Kurds more cultural rights. And just last year, because of all those reforms, Turkey opened formal negotiations to join the European Union. So, paradoxically, “Islamists” favor integrating Turkey into Europe and eliminating authoritarian laws that restrict freedom and religious observance, and "secularists" actually want a more nationalistic, isolationist Turkey with a politically powerful military.
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On Sunday the 22 Turkey is having national elections. Usually, at that time most people are traveling, off on vacations, gone to distant places, but that's not the case right now. Nearly everyone is in their respective hometowns, and if they're not, most are traveling there on Saturday so they can vote on Sunday. Politics in Turkey is a serious affair for people. Nearly everyone votes, maybe because it's one of the times when their voices truly makes a difference. The direct vote determines who takes control of parliament and thus what direction the country will follow. This coming election is rather contentious; it's the topic of conversation in the streets, cafes, among strangers, on TV, the radio, posters, in the bazaar, demonstrations, car caravans with loudspeakers, while waiting on lines at the bank, the post office, the supermarket. Everybody has an opinion and everybody seems compelled to express it. No one seems sure who exactly will win this election, but some say that the conservative AKP party will retain power, even though the military has warned against that (the Turkish constitution allows the military to take control of the government in dire situations).

This election, and politics in general, in Turkey is a nuanced affair; there's simply no way to make any of it black and white. For example, there are 5 major parties that seem to be having a visible impact in the current election, and each has various layers of complexity (especially for an American who's used to more fixed definitions of "democrat," "republican," "conservative" and "liberal"):

1) Justice and Development Party (AKP): founded in 2001, a liberal party that has been accused of upholding perhaps too extreme Islamist precepts, though it describes itself as pro-Western mainstream party with a conservative social agenda and a commitment to a market economy and European Union membership. The AKP rules today with 352 members.

2) The Republican People's Party (CHP) was created in 1923 by the founder of the Turkish Republic, Mustafa kemal Ataturk. It is the main opposition in the current AKP legislation. It bills itself as a social democrat party in the mould of European counterparts.

3) Young Party (GP) was founded by a young and controversial businessman, Cem Uzan, in 2002; it failed to pass the required 10 percent receipt of votes in 2002, but now it's back billing itself as nationalist, populist and anti-European Union membership.

4) National Movement Party (MHP) was founded in 1969 and is often described as ultra-nationalist because of its history of militancy and paramilitary activities with young people.

5) The Democrat Party (DP)is a new party that seems to be seeking to mend the rift between the True Path (DYP) and Motherland (ANAP) parties. The first DP party ruled from 1950 to 1960 when its leader was ousted in a coup.

So, look for news regarding the election this Sunday. The results should be in by Monday afternoon.

People just living their lives...

2007-07-18T14:42:00.001-07:00

What a view! It reminds me of San Francisco. I took this photo of the Bosphorus Bridge from a bathroom window at Bogazaci University, which, in fact, was called Robert College and is the oldest American college outside of the United States. Robert College was founded by Cyrus Hamlin (an educator, inventor, technician, architect and builder) and Christopher Rheinlander Robert (a well-known philanthropist and a wealthy merchant from New York) in 1863. In 1971 the Board of Trustees recommended that the Turkish government take over the college, and then it was renamed Bogazici University. All instruction is still completely in English. Look at this picture of one of the many buildings constructed out of blue limestone that was quarried right on the same plot of land where the 118 acres campus still stands.

So, it's been another fabulous day in gorgeous and stimulating Istanbul. I'm too tired to think right now, but I want to share a few pictures with you, and I want to give you a couple of vital stats--mainly because I know too many people (maybe not you!) in the US have such erroneous ideas about this (and any) Muslim city and country. Check out the basics:
--Official name: Republic of Turkey
--Turkey's political system is based on separation of powers.
--The government is a multi-party SECULAR parliamentary representative democratic republic, whereby the
--Prime Minister is the head of government.
--Executive power is exercised by the government.
--Legislative power is vested in both the government and the Grand National Assembly of Turkey.
--The Judiciary is independent of the executive and the legislature.
--The current constitution, called the Anayasa, was adopted on November 7, 1982 after a period of military rule; it privileges the principle of secularism.
--There are plans to revise the constitution.
--Population: 73,197,000
--Capital city: Ankara (3.4 million pop)
--Largest city: Istanbul (9.4 million pop)
--Language: Turkish
--Turkey is a member of the G20 (which brings together the 20 largest economies),
--and an associate member of the European Union.
--Turkey is NATO’s sole Muslim member, and therefore it is positioned as strategic partner in achieving peace in the Middle East.
--Turkey is located in the Eastern Mediterranean, on TWO continents--Europe and Asia.
--The European part of Turkey is called Thrace.
--The Asian part is called Anatolia or Asia Minor.
--Istanbul straddles both continents.
--The two continents are separated by a strait called Bosphorus.
--The Bosphorus joins the Black Sea with the Sea of Marmara; it has been an important trade route since ancient times.

Today we took the ferry up the Bosphorus to the mouth of the Black Sea. Both the European and Asian sides of the Bosphorus are packed with exquisite houses that have been standing there for over 100 years. Some have been lovingly renovated; others are still waiting. In his memoir, Istanbul: Memories and the City, Orhan Pamuk describes the Bosphorus he knew growing up in the 1950s to 1970s (until today):

For centuries, it was just a string of Greek fishing villages, but from the eighteenth century, when Ottoman worthies began building their summer homes... there arose an Ottoman culture that looked toward Istanbul to the exclusion of the rest of the world. The yalis--splendid waterside mansions built by the great Ottoman families during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries--came to be seen, in the twentieth, with the advent of the Republic and Turkish nationalism, as models of an absolete identity and architecture. But these yalis that we see photographed in Memories of the Bosphorus, reproduced in Melling's engravings, and echoed in the yalis of Sedad Hakki Eldem--these grand houses, with their narrow high windows, spacious eaves, bay windows, and narrow chimneys, are mere shadows of this destroyed culture.... To be traveling through the middle of a city as great, historic, and forlorn as Istanbul, and yet to feel the freedom of the open sea--that is the thrill of a trip along the Bosphorus. Pushed along by its strong currents, invigorated by the sea air that bears no trace of the dirt, smoke, and noise of the crowded city that surrounds it, the traveler begins to feel that, in spite of everything, this is still a place in which he can enjoy solitude and find freedom. This waterway that passes through the center of the city is not to be confused with the canals of Amsterdam or Venice or the rivers that divide Paris and Rome in two: Strong currents run through the Bosphorus, its surface is always ruffled by wind and waves, and its waters are deep and dark. If you have the current behind you, if you are following the itinerary of a city ferry, you will see apartment buildings and yalis, old ladies watching you from balconies as they sip their tea, the pergolas of coffeehouses perched by landings, children in their underwear entering the sea just where the sewers empty into it and sunning themselves on the concrete, men fishing from the banks, people lazing on their yachts, schoolchildren emptying out of school and walking along the shore, travelers gazing through bus windows out to the sea while stuck in traffic, cats sitting on wharfs waiting for fishermen, trees you hadn't realized were so tall, hidden villas and walled gardens you didn't even know existed, narrow alleyways rising up into the hills, tall apartment buildings looming in the background, and slowly, in the distance, Istanbul in all its confusion--its mosques, poor quarters, bridges, minarets, towers, gardens, and ever-multiplying high-rises. To travel along the Bosphorus, be it in a ferry, motor launch, or a rowboat, is to see the city house by house, neighborhood by neighborhood, and also from afar as a silhouette, an ever-mutating mirage. (48-52)

Right before dinner we went to Ortakoy, a part of Istanbul that is north of Sultanahmet where I'm staying. As usual, people where out and about in the cafes and along the water--talking, laughing, walking...

Mosques, churches, etc.

2007-07-17T14:35:00.000-07:00

Splendid day! We saw the Haghia Sophia, the supreme church of Byzantium, which was designed to be a mirror of the heavens and is often called "the church of holy wisdom"; it is 1,400 years old: it was built in 532 AD, became a mosque in 1453, and since 1935 it's been a museum and testament to glorious architecture and fine mosaic art. Like so many things in Turkey, the church is also a symbol of interculturalism and interconnectedness: the columns come from Egypt; the silver and gold from, among several other places, Delphi; the yellow marble is from Africa, and the gray, red and green marble from the nearby Marmara islands. It is the fourth largest cathedral in the world!

This mosaic shows Christ flanked by the Emperor Constantine IX and Empress Zoe.

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Addendum:
On Saturday the 21st we walked through impressive Kariye Mosque, which used to be Church of the Chora Monastery and is now beautifully restored so that you can see many of the original and finest Byzantine mosaics and frescoes anywhere in the world. The church dates from late 11th/early 12th century, when the area still looked quite rural (hence "Chora" and "Kariye" meaning country and village). It was commissioned by Maria Doukaina, the mother-in-law of the Byzantine emperor Alexios I Komnenos. It was damanged during the Latin occupation (1204-1261). After 1316 the Byzantine statesman and scholar, Theodore Metochites, provided the funds to have it extensively renovated and redecorated. He spent his last years as a monk and was buried in a funerary chapel that was added to the south side during renovation. This snipet of the Anastasisa fresco is located in the parecclesion (a place of burial). The frescoes in that area of the church were painted around 1320. The central figure, what you see in this photo, is Christ, the vanquisher of death, who is dragging Adam and Eve out of their tombs.
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The inside of the Haghia Sophia.
Today we also returned to tour the inside of the Blue Mosque. At the Blue Mosque there was an exhibit of manuscripts and art, among them some of Rumi's writing. Mawlānā Jalāl-ad-Dīn Muhammad Balkhi was a Persian Muslim poet and theologian who is known to most of us simply as Rūmī. In Persian his name is مولانا جلال الدین محمد رومی; in Turkish it is Mevlânâ Celâleddin Mehmed Rumi; and in Arabic it is جلال الدين الرومي; the shortened "Rūmī" is إبن الرومي. I love how his name looks in these different languages! His name literally means "Majesty of Religion": Jalal means "majesty" and Din means "religion." Rūmī means "the Roman." Rūmī was born in Balkh (which is in present-day Afghanistan) on September 30, 1207 and he died in Turkey on December 17, 1273. Talk about being a traveler! Plus, he was quite the multiculturist, since he wrote in Persian, Arabic and Turkish. The main theme of his works reflects his belief in "Tawhīd," which means "unity"--having seen and lived in diverse places, he must have had a profound understanding of that concept. (Once the Institute is over I might go see his tomb in Konya.) Here is one of my favorite of Rūmī's verses:

Love’s nationality is separate from all other religions,
The lover’s religion and nationality is the Beloved (God).
The lover’s cause is separate from all other causes
Love is the astrolabe of God’s mysteries.
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Addendum:
On Friday the 20th we went to a Sufi ceremony, a practice started by Rumi/the Mevlevi. The men who dance are commonly called whirling dervishes. They believe that concentration can be created by listening to contemplative music and dancing rhythmically. The Mevlevi ceremony starts when the musicians enter with their string instruments. The Sheikh follows, then the dervishes. All wear black robes and tall brown fez conical shape hats that symbolize the container said to hold the soul of Mohammed prior to his incarnation on earth. The Sheikh slowly walks to the red sheepskin and sits on it. The dervishes kneel around him.

As the singer begins a plaintive chant, the dervishes meditate. When the music begins the dervishes stand one by one and begin to more in a circle, bowing to each other, their arms folded across their breasts, as they pass the immobile Shiekh. The dervishes throw off their black cloaks, revealing white vests and robes; their right hands is upturned towards heaven to accept divine blessing, which passes through the heart and is transmitted to the world through the downward pointing left hand.

They look continually at the thumb of the downward had and begin to turn in a miniature representation of the planets and the starts whirling around the sun. While one foot remains firmly on the ground, the other crosses and propels him around and around. As they turn, they dervishes must remember never to step on an imaginary line which stretches outward from the Sheikh. That line symbolizes the equator and its central point is the Pole. They turn effortlessly and the watchers too become transfixed.
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Here is a snipet of the thousands of tiles that line the inside of the Blue Mosque.

We've arrived!

2007-07-16T13:12:00.001-07:00

Istanbul is fabulous! We've walked around the Sultanhamet area and settled into the Hotel Sultan Hill, which has a roof terrace from where you can see the Blue Mosque, Haghia Sophia (a remarkable 1,400 years old Byzantine architecture style church), the Hippodrome (a chariot-racing stadium that was built by the Romans in about 200 AD), and the Marmara Sea. I ran up during call to prayer, and the sights and sounds are simply magical. The Blue Mosque is called that because the interior is decorated with 21,043 blue Iznik tilework of 50 different designs. (Iznik was one of two major centers where exquisite painted and glazed pottery was made during the Ottoman period from the 15th to the 17th centuries.) The Blue Mosque was built by Mehmet Aga, the imperial architect; it was completed in 1616 and is still one of the most important religious buildings in the world. After sundown, we had dinner at a restaurant on the 6th floor of a hotel from where you can see the mosque's six minarets floodlit making it all seem like a dream.

All around our hotel there are lovely 19th century Ottoman houses that have been renovated, like this yellow one; some are still private homes, others are now hotels and stores. There are laws that forbid demolishing these wooden houses, but many have been destroyed by one of the frequent fires in the city. I'm a bit fried, and the internet connection is slow--plus, the directions for blogging are now in Turkish (I have to figure out how to get the screen in English)--so, I won't say much else right now. Enjoy these photos--no, we did not eat at McD's!

At the Yale University Institute

2007-07-14T14:40:00.000-07:00

My mind is reeling from a week spent learning about selected cities in the Middle East--and there's so much else still to absorb! But before I forget, check out this organization, 24 Hours for Darfur, and read about the hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians who have been killed in Darfur, Sudan; you might also upload a video to the site, as well as contact your local senator and Congress person to urge them to take action to stop this genocide. The organization will be broadcasting all of the videos on 16 September during a 24 hour vigil that will be held in front of the United Nations building in New York City.

Well, this was indeed an intense week of learning, but there was quite a bit of fun too (as you can see in the picture of my hennaed hand). What stands out for me, above all else, is the history of Baghdad in Iraq. Yes, despite the barrage of visuals about the continuous destruction and death in Baghdad, by now most of us know that until just recently there were 7 million people in the city, and that it's the second largest city in the Arab world (Cairo, Egypt has 16 million people). Most of us don't know that it was a splendid well-planned city established on the west bank of the Tigris River in July of the year 762; however, archaeological evidence shows that the site had been occupied by various peoples long before the Arabs conquered the area in 637, before the arrival of Islam. It was designed as a circle with radiating rings (like Washington, DC or Paris, for example) and thus has always been called the "Round City" and the "City of Peace." Architects and workers from all over the world took four years to build the city, creating double brick walls, a deep moat, a third innermost wall ninety feet high, four main streets that ended in four gates, and a huge bazaar in the Basra (southern) gate; at the center of this circle was the Caliph's palace and the Great Mosque. My whirling mind won't allow me to fully describe to you the magnificence of old Baghdad...

From its very beginning, Baghdad was a center of commerce and learning where scientists, doctors, philosophers, scholars and writers produced great works and translated hundreds of texts that had been written in Greek, Persian and Syriac, where art, theater and music enriched citizens on a daily basis, where people flocked in order to start a new life! And, Christians, Jews, Muslims and other religions co-existed peacefully. Baghdad remained the largest and most electrifying city in the world until the 930s when Cordoba in Spain claimed that role. Yes, the city was sacked during a war in 1258, but it wasn't until April 2, 2003, when the United States bombed it, that the city experienced mass destruction.

I've been told that Hugh Kennedy's book does a good job of detailing Baghdad's history: When Baghdad Ruled the Muslim World: The Rise and Fall of Islam's Greatest Dynasty. Well, the internet cafe is about to close and I must return to the dorm to pack and get ready for our departure to Istanbul tomorrow morning. Thanks for reading.

Americana: New York City

2007-07-08T23:23:00.000-07:00

The last of July 4th celebrations: I am in Harrison, near my childhood turf, a universe away (really?) from the prairie…When I was growing up in the Bronx there were less than 10,000 Dominicans in New York. Now, there are (conservatively) over a million documented and undocumented migrants who often travel the corridor connecting the two islands. Manhattan and Santo Domingo are linked by a mere three and a half hour direct plane ride. Washington Heights is known as Dominican Heights, where all the streets beat and buzz with hip-swaying merengue, a bodega in every block and throngs of frenetic people out and about. Conversely, streets all over the DR are named Washington, Lincoln and Kennedy. Dominicans started arriving in New York during the mid-1960s, after President Johnson invaded the island and civil war broke everything. My father, Antonio, was among those early Dominican seekers of a better life. He wound his way, through the newly constructed John F. Kennedy airport, to the Bronx where the United States government had eased immigration laws because, among the many reasons, places like New York were in great need of low wage laborers willing to put in two and three shifts seven days a week almost all year round. The textile industry was faltering since, partly, the Puerto Ricans who had toiled in them since the 1940s were then far enough in the perennial cycle of assimilation to be able to choose other jobs.

For decades, he worked nearly twenty hours a day almost all year. Up until age 71 when he died, my father refused to let his atrophied body prevent him from being useful. From his wheel chair he routinely watered my garden and instructed me on how to care for my plants. Too many flowers, he’d say; grow something more valuable, things you can eat. You can’t survive on beauty alone. He inherited that kind of determination and practical attitude, I believe, from his father who left his beloved Galicia while Franco was ravaging Spain; he sought a better life on the Dominican Republic only to be consumed by the dictatorship of Trujillo. My father saw his father attempting in vain to eek a living, and when the United States worsened the situation, my father was among the first to leave the Dominican Republic. He saved all his pennies, and a short time after his arrival my mother and two siblings joined him in a third floor two bedroom sparsely furnished apartment overlooking East 178th Street. Although at a comparatively (with the Caribbean) diminished intensity, most mornings the sunshine sneaked into every corner of the apartment. We had a routine: Mamá also worked two shifts at the same textile factory on Third Avenue, but she was invariably up first, no later than 5 am, to make breakfast for all of us and the lunch and dinner she’d pack for Papá. He would get up and help her with whatever chores hadn’t been done. Then by 6 the three of us would be out of bed, eating, polishing our shoes, ironing, making the beds in our one bedroom, cleaning or doing the last of our homework. By 7 AM everyone was out of the apartment and on various buses.

I was in charge of bringing my siblings home safely from private school, and of making sure that they finished their school assignments and chores. Often, I also had to have dinner ready when Mamá arrived. Most nights we wouldn’t see Papá, but Mamá always left his dinner on the table and sometimes, at about one in the morning, we would hear her get up to eat with him. Our life was harried. Mamá bought groceries at the Puerto Rican owned bodega downstairs in the corner of our building, and on Saturday mornings, apartment cleaning day, she or I would load all our dirty clothes into a metal cart and walk to the Laundromat about two blocks away. Everyone else in the neighborhood was also there, mostly elderly Jewish, second generation Italian-American and Irish-American women, and a few Puerto Ricans and even fewer Cubans. There was one Spaniard single mother; we were the only Dominicans in the rapidly changing neighborhood. On Sundays we went to church and later in the day we walked to the park to meet friends, or we took the train to Lincoln Center, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, or the bus to Wave Hill. In the winter we went ice-skating in Central Park or Rockefeller Center; in the summers we went to Rye Amusement Park or to Orchard or Jones beaches. Our playground (and still one of my very favorite places in the entire world!), was the New York Botanical Garden, a 250-acre National Historic Landmark founded in 1891 inspired by England’s Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew.

On Saturday, Homero, Jennifer, Allison, Jeremiah and I drove around seeing Homero and my old haunts: the building where we had our first apartment in the United States (which now looks run down), the building where I first lived without my parents (which now has an ominous iron gate), and the last building I lived in before moving out of the Bronx (where we saw a Dominican flag hanging from a window). We also went to the Botanical Garden, a truly exquisite place, especially now that all of the major renovations are complete. As a child and young adult I experienced those 250 acres as an open and free expanse where we could run, roller skate, picnic and even ride our bikes. Now there’s an exorbitant entrance fee, signs everywhere requesting that you stay away from the lawn, and everything is pristinely sculpted and ordered. Nonetheless, it’s simply beautiful and worth the price, particularly the Enid A. Haupt Conservatory, where I spent years as a volunteer tour guide. The Conservatory first opened to the public in 1902 and it is still the largest Victorian-style glass house in the United States. I truly enjoy walking through the 11 different habitats, which allow you to experience ecosystems from around the world, and through the numerous gardens outside. One day at the Bronx Botanical Garden is just not enough!

I’m thinking… two seemingly distinct worlds: Miles City/New York City; two seemingly distinct immigrant experiences: John coming from Scotland/my father (and our family) coming from Dominican Republic… not profoundly different at all.

Americana: Montana

2007-07-06T10:56:00.000-07:00

July 4th/Independence week:
I’ve a few stops before Istanbul. I’m in Miles City, Montana until the 5th.

It takes longer to fly from Saratoga to Miles City than it does to Harrison all the way across the country, but that’s because there are no direct flights to this sparsely populated ranching town of barely over 8,000 people. Miles City was established as a military outpost (charged with controlling the remaining Native Americans) after the Battle of the Little Bighorm in 1876. That’s where George grew up, and where Scotty, his father, still lives. At age 90 Scotty continues to play tennis, ride his young horse, Scooter, and take good care of himself. Scotty’s spirit is indomitable—something he inherited, I believe, from his father, John, who left Scotland and wound his way, through Ellis Island, to Montana, where the United States government was giving away (seized) land (from Native Americans) to anyone willing to fare minus-50 and 100-plus weather. Well, stipulations required a little more than that: the Homestead Act of 1862 allowed a United States citizen to obtain title to 160 acres in Montana, if he or she lived on it for five years and made some type of improvement. (Montana became a state on November 8, 1869, after the discovery of gold.) The Expanded Homestead Act of February 19, 1909 increased the acreage to 320. To further encourage settlement and development, Congress granted more than 94 million acres to railroad companies.
Like many other Europeans, in 1910, when it was a lot easier to become a citizen of the United States, John rode the train from New York to Montana where he knew he could find a job sheepherding. And indeed for over two years he lived in and worked out of the sheep wagon that still sits at the ranch. John filed for 320 acres of land Scotty describes as “rough and hilly, unsuitable for farming and without much water” in the Little Porcupine area of southeastern Montana. There, John eeked out a living, built a log home, and in 1912 married Louisa, another Scottish immigrant, and started what would be a family of six children, each of the four boys named after a United States president. Scotty is their second-born; by the time he was 20 most of the early homesteaders had given up and moved on to greener pastures (California!), and by the time he started managing the ranch it had grown to a completely fenced 25 sections unit (that is, over 16,000 acres).
Early Tuesday morning, Scotty, George and I drove the 73 miles from Miles City—through Forsyth, the mostly gravel Little Porcupine Road, pass hundreds of massive cows and bulls, herds of sprite antelopes leaping over buttes, burrowing prairie dogs, tall foxtail grasses undulating in the occasional breeze, black-eyed Susans and the sweet fragrance of crushed thick sage bushes wafting up our truck—to the homestead. It’s an unassuming cabin, certainly not what most people in our society today would consider acceptable quarters for raising six kids, even now after renovation. But it’s a truly beautiful home, filled with the echoes of pain, happiness and the forging of courage, fortitude, integrity and deep love: three rooms about 10’ x 14’ each, a kitchen, bedroom and family room; the bathroom was added in the 1960s when plumbing and electricity arrived in the area. Scotty has written a memoir, I’m ‘a tellin’ you: Homesteading the Little Porcupine (now available at www.lulu.com), where he remembers his childhood there:
Before Dad owned a car he would make two or three trips to Forsyth during the year to purchase enough groceries for three or four months. Flour, sugar, and potatoes came in one hundred-pound sacks. Canned goods usually were in crated boxes for ease in transportation by team and wagon. Bacon came in big slabs, so you could slice your bacon according to the cook’s desires. Syrup came in a one-gallon tin can. Beans were also purchased by the one hundred pounds. I recall watching Mother and Dad sorting out the good beans for the household. The culls (broken beans) were re-sacked and fed to the sheep. Fresh fruit at the ranch was a rarity, although fresh apples, peaches, and pears were available in later years after the automobile replaced the horse and wagon trips to town. Dried fruits (such as apricots, apples, prunes) and crackers came in wooden boxes approximately ten inches wide by eighteen inches long by four inches deep in size. Canned milk used at the ranch and by the sheepherders was purchased by the case (24 cans per case).

Scotty goes on to describe life for his mother:

She never wasted anything. The flour sack became dishtowels after being washed and scrubbed to remove the printing. The washed sacks were also used for dishcloths. I always wondered how Mother could do a big washing for eight people and also coordinate the daily chores of three meals a day in addition to everything else she had to do… Washdays were probably the most intensive days, since of all the home chores, washing involved lots of preparation. The water for washing the clothes had to be carried up the hill from our water well. As we became older (age seven and eight), two or three of us boys were assigned the chore of carrying the water the day before washday. When we were younger we used one-gallon buckets, or sometimes two of us would coordinate by using a stick we passed through the handle of a large bucket. When mother was ready for washing, she would set up a ten-gallon tub of hot water and a washboard. That way she scrubbed the dirt off our clothes. A similar size tub was used to soak and rinse the clothes. A spare ten-gallon copper boiler sat on the stove with hot water to replenish whatever water she used. Once the clothes were washed and rinsed, they were put in wicker baskets and carried outside to be hung on the clothesline. Many a time I wondered how my mother kept a smile while enduring those arduous tasks, which she did without the aid of electricity, running water, and any of the other niceties of present day living… Dad also built a dugout cellar, which was used for storing Mother’s canned vegetables and the meat that was raised on the ranch, as well as the above-mentioned purchases that came from town. A small wood-coal heater was used in the cellar whenever needed to keep produce from freezing during the winter months. We usually had a good garden, so excess products that weren’t canned also were stored in the cellar. Cream, milk, and home-churned butter were stored in the cellar, as we had no such thing as a refrigerator until the icebox was purchased in the early 1920s. Of course, we never had running water in the house, so Mother had to contend with a wash-stand that was approximately eighteen inches wide by three feet long by two feet high. That was large enough to hold a washbasin for all of us to use, plus a bucket for water that had a dipper for filling the washbasin and for drinking.”
On Tuesday at the ranch, Scotty, George and I drove all around checking the cattle’s water holes, dallied about and rode Scooter. The next day, back in Miles City, everyone celebrated the 4th of July, Independence Day, with the annual town parade—cowboys in tall hats and hefty boots, bagpipers in tartan kilts, and of course caravans of cattle. Later in the evening, at 10 pm when the summer sun finally disappeared, there was homemade ice cream and lots of loud and brilliant fireworks. The last time we visited, in February when daylight is substantially shorter and your lungs hurt from just trying to breathe in the freezing air, George and I shared freshly made Dutch scones with our friends at trendy Café Utza off Main Street; we talked about how methamphetamine has become pervasive among adolescents and young adults in Miles City. Today 14% of the people live below the poverty line. Still, children play freely in their yards, best garden competitions take on fierce importance, and on hot summer evenings you can bring your lawn chair to the park and see a fine performance of Shakespeare’s The Tempest.

I've been reading...

2007-06-27T00:26:00.000-07:00

Though it was a bit hazy, from one of the many hills that forced us to dismount our bikes, you could see hundreds of sailboats,the San Francisco skyline and the San Rafael Bridge on the left. We had a glorious time: last Saturday, Homerina, George and I packed a picnic lunch and our bicycles and drove up to Tiburon where we boarded a ferry that took us into Ayala Cove on the north side of the largest island in San Francisco Bay. Angel Island is a national park where you can bike, hike, camp and learn--especially about a different kind of "nature." Yes, the pristine flora, fauna and terrain are exquisite, the vistas expansive and reminiscent of the Mediterranean Sea, but what's truly interesting about Angel Island is its history and what it reveals about human nature--particularly as I think about it on a day when our Senate voted to block President Bush's very controversial attempt at reforming immigration legislation.

Miwoks lived on Angel Island for thousands of peaceful years before the Spaniards and then the Mexicans colonized it. In 1839 General Vallejo, the Mexican governor of what was then called Alta California, gifted the island to Antonio Maria Osio, a military commandant, who used it as his personal cattle ranch. Osio lost the island, though, after the 1846 war that resulted in the United States taking California from Mexico; an American court decided that, given the increased need for national security, the island was strategically adequate for a military base--and then for an Immigration Station. Construction began in 1905 and by 1910 when the Station started operating it was known as the "Ellis Island of the West" and, more tellingly, as "The Guardian of the Western Gate." Its main function was to guard against the entrance of Chinese and other Asian immigrants--to be a detention center (much like, some would say, Guantanamo during the last few years).

That blatantly discriminatory policy had been legislated with the passing of the Chinese Exclusion Act in 1882. That set of laws not only restricted who would be accepted into the U.S but it consequently forced Asians (especially Chinese who had come to California looking for gold since 1848, if not before) to be relegated to taking menial low-paying jobs that no one else wanted. Thus, for instance, Chinese laborers laid almost all of the tracks for the Central Pacific Railroad--tracks that now also carry undocumented Mexican and Central Americans to their menial low-paying jobs as itinerant grape pickers, landscapers and day laborers who stand no closer than 25 feet away from Home Depot where they wait for a lot more than 8 hours a day. The Chinese Exclusion Act was repealed in 1943, but until the mid 1960s when immigration laws were rewritten, only 105 Chinese immigrants per year were allowed to enter the "land of the free."

So I've been reading...immigration in Turkey is equally multi-layered. For 200 years people from the Balkans and Central Asia arrived in Turkey hoping to start a new better life. Most interesting to me is the fact that in 1492 when the Spanish Inquisition expelled Sephardim Jews, around 100,000 sought refuge in Turkey. (During WWII another 100,000 Jews fled German-occupied Europe and lived in Turkey before many re-settled in Palestine.) But in the 1960s and 1970s Turks left their country in droves, specifically for Germany since at the time Germany had a great need for temporary unskilled "guest workers." Remittances sent back to Turkey by those migrants have tremendously impacted the growth of Turkey's economy. Today, masses of people from Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan and Somalia arrive, overwhelmingly in Istanbul, seeking asylum. But, immigration into Turkey is being curtailed, thus the number of transient and undocumented migrants is rising; emigration out of the country (a "brain drain") continues at a steady stream. With a population nearing 70 million (up from 13 million in the 1920s), and the pressure related to the country's desire to become a full member of the European Union, tension regarding immigration in and out of Turkey continues to increase. Many are demanding in depth reformation of immigration laws. Europe wants Turkey to align its practices with those of the EU. Turkey is at a crossroads: it has traditionally emphasized the need for a homogeneous national identity, but if it is to be part of the EU, it must change its laws to acknowledge ethnic and cultural diversity.

I won't go on and on, although it's quite amazing to see the clear parallels regarding immigration in the US and Turkey, and the ways "human nature" drives beliefs about who gets to be the outsider--and worse yet, how, consequently, legislation is made. Today, Thursday 28 June, on KQED's "Forum" Michael Krasny hosted a two hour special on immigration and what it means to be a citizen. Several callers, and one of the panelists, commented that it is a "pipe dream" to hope for global citizenship and the free flow of human beings any time soon. Sad.

Interconnections

2007-06-12T14:35:00.000-07:00

I’m trying to complete my very long “to do” list before departing, but I must admit that instead I’ve been out in the garden an inordinate amount of time—it’s easy to do that in the California sunshine where everything, no matter what you do, grows profusely. My lobelia and delphinium are resplendent; I revel in the intensity of their cobalt blue hues.

Like Jacques Majorelle who built an exquisite botanical garden in Marrakech, Morocco, I have always been obsessed with cobalt blue. (In my previous garden, grown before I visited Majorelle, every flower was solely blue!) Check out Jardin Majorelle, now completely restored.

Maybe I’m enigmaticallly pulled by the color because it reminds me of the intimate and loving times in my infancy when my parents and I shared sunset walks along the edge of the cobalt blue Caribbean Sea. Maybe I’m just one of the historical throngs who’s been drawn by its complexity and beauty. Right now there’s an exhibit at the City Museum and Art Gallery in Plymouth, UK called “Indigo: A Blue to Dye For.” There you learn that the oldest known indigo recipe was written in cuneiform on a Babylonian clay tablet; and of course, who is not moved by the Chinese’s and then the Dutch’s use of cobalt blue in porcelain, or by Utagawa Hiroshige’s sentimental depictions of Edo and Vincent Van Gogh’s emotional irises?

In any case, I started this entry because today Maryam reminded me of Loreena McKennitt’s music, and how it is a testament of our inevitable and yet often forgotten link across time and geographies. (She's more than a performer or singer; she's an ethnomusicologist. My favorite of her CDs is The Mask and Mirror, because it celebrates the still evident Celtic and Arab roots of Galicia, the northern part of Spain where my father is from.) As I prepare to cross several culturally (and politically) imagined boundaries, it’s good to remember our interconnectedness. Thus, I post McKennitt’s song, “The Gates of Istanbul.”

Introduction

2007-05-22T03:11:00.000-07:00

This coming July I will participate in an Intensive Summer Institute offered by Yale University's Council on Middle East Studies/PIER at the Macmillan Center. The institute, called "Metropolis: City Living from Timbuktu to Tashkent," begins at the Yale New Haven campus, goes on to New York and ends in Turkey where we will visit Ankara, Istanbul and several other cities. The main goal, particularly as I see it, is to gain an interdisciplinary understanding of how political events, history and culture impact the making of cities in the Middle East, and how, in turn, those cities shape social, political and economic dynamics. In the next few weeks, as I prepare for the Institute, I will be posting observations and reactions, and while traveling I will be sharing my impressions and many of the lessons I know I will learn. Stay tuned. This is going to be a fabulous adventure!

Welcome!

2007-05-21T16:24:00.000-07:00