Friday, October 31, 2008

The rain in Spain...

Tonight I sank to a new linguistic nadir while cruising the aisles in the local Carrefour supermarket.

Browsing for mayonnaise, I accidentally de-shelved a jar of the stuff. Splat.

The Turkish verb for spill wasn't forthcoming and when I finally ran into a staff member, I managed to mumble something about squeezing the mayonnaise jar onto the floor. Except, I didn't mutter squeeze.

Let's just say that by inserting an open vowel in place of the required closed one (or was it the other way around), I informed the rather pallid-looking Carrefour employee that I had actually made love, albeit in a very coarse way, to the unfortunate mayonnaise. The bit about on the floor came out fine. Lucky me.

It kind of reminds me when, freshly arrived in this city, I politely cautioned an elderly woman to shut your damn mouth when she innocently questioned me about a lump of nasty looking cheese.

In fact, keslan, as I was made aware of not no long after, is rarely used for please wait a moment (while I locate my friend who can speak Turkish). In fact, it shouldn't be used at all.

Another reason that after three years, I ought consider enrolling in formal language classes.

The verb for spill in Turkish is dökmek. Now I remember.

Thursday, October 30, 2008

Good news

It's often too easy to be dragged down into a state of depression and hopelessness after reading the headlines in Turkey.

As an expat, it occasionally seems better to remain unconcerned with events that happen in and around Turkey. Though after three years I've built relationships here, and since I still choose to call Istanbul home, it's getting harder to remain impartial to all the ups and downs in the region.

The Ergenekon affair, a supposedly anti-secular government, controversial decisions made by the country's Constitutional Court that promise action from the more nationalistic parties, the tiresome headscarf issue that diverts attention and resources from Turkey's more pressing woes, the supposed creep of Islam into the Education sector the never-ending pointless and murderous actions of the PKK... It requires ample time to stay abreast of the news here.

And if I were Turkish I'd be prone to feel rather depressed.

So when I read today that a group of Armenian and Turkish academics were meeting in Yerevan with the goal of moving towards reconciliation, it felt like people were taking a step in the right direction.

Academics grasp mantle of peace

The shared history of the Turks and Armenians is a long one, with many bitter memories since the unclear events of 1915. It's a story that it difficult to unravel as rhetoric from both sides makes it almost impossible for the outsider to grasp any point of view that if free from bias or prejudice.

Any move that will bring about some form of mutual understanding will be welcomed by moderates in both countries and beyond. I hope the discussions will be used to better inform the peoples of both nations. It will be a sign of great political maturity if the two nations can finally work towards peace.

Friday, October 17, 2008

Conspiracy (groan...) Numero Uno


One of the saddest things about growing up is having to enter the real world, a place inhabited by ruthless, power-hungry politicians, belligerent war-mongers, fanatics of all creeds and people who think fashion is an acceptable conversation topic in polite society.

I've realised that, yet again, I've let the real world slip quietly past and have of late not been keeping abreast of the political and social turmoil that appears to be tearing Turkey apart. Or of the people who threaten to do it.
It's time for me to introduce, in order for me to understand, The Ergenekon Case.

Since Turkey can appear at times to be a highly confused and confusing nation, this might take a lot of my time and what remains of my patience. However, my hope is that by understanding the Ergenekon case I might finally comprehend what's really goes on in the world of grown-up people. Hell, I might even find it interesting - for according to the media the saga contains every imaginable element needed for even the most tedious, unintelligible and perplexing TV series.

OK. We need a touch of history here. Ergenekon, the stuff of legend, is an inaccessible locale in the Altay mountains of Central Asia, birthplace of the Turkic peoples. Think Romulus and Remus, substitute a grey wolf, and you're on the right track.

In today's environment Ergenekon is the name of the deep state operating within Turkey, containing members of the judiciary, military, business world and the all-too-spooky mafia, who essentially think that ultra-nationalism is the way forward and whose current goal is to topple the incumbent government. Very, very secretly.

I don't believe in conspiracies because, quite frankly, I haven't got the time. And they all sound so freakin' childish.
Ergenekon is perhaps the largest and most complex conspiracy I've ever encountered, making JFK and Marilyn look like a more uneventful episode of the OC.

If you believe the incessant press, the state within the state has operated more or less as a group of untouchables at the highest levels of national government for quite a long time. And I guess it would have to, since bringing down a democratically elected government requires large quantities of money, influence, time and manpower. And plenty of will.

The storm had already been brewing for quite some time when in July 2007 a house in Ümraniye, known to me only because Istanbul's first IKEA opened there, was found loaded with all manner of ammunition. In a nation where 3000 people die by gunfire each year, I can imagine even a cursory inspection of my neighbourhood would unearth more. We could start with the imam across the way - he's been looking particularly and evasive shifty of late.

Anyway, The Turkish National Intelligence Organisation confirmed that it's been aware of the Ergenekon group since 2002 and the case is now being conducted by the Istanbul Court of Assize for Organised Crimes and Terror Crimes. Almost 86 people have been charged with conspiracy to overthrow the State. That is a lot of people for me to remember, especially when 1 in 10 Turks are called Mehmet and the rest, Ahmet. It's difficult to distinguish everyone.

The sheer number of people involved make it almost impossible for the foreigner to follow. The length of the indictment runs to over 2500 pages. Quite frankly, do you have the time for this? An interesting comparison was made with the Nuremberg Trials, whose indictment totalled 70 pages. But then, Microsoft Word has made all of us rather more verbose and probably less loquacious. When was the last time you read a 2500-page document? War and Peace? Proust? Let's face it, no-one reads articles or novels of that length unless you want to appear as a pretentious wanker by confounding others with facts you're not all that clear about yourself.
Hence the role of today's lawyer.

Anyway, the trial began on Thursday 16 October. I'm going try to get myself up-to-date, so I can keep you, the reader, in touch with the latest adult-like going-ons in this wonderful world of ours.
And on a personal level, notwithstanding the outcome of the case, some of these people should be indicted solely for their outrageously unacceptable moustaches.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

The moral of the story is...


It was a cold, dark and stormy night.

After returning to the neighbourhood from English lessons I was too late for the corner shop and even too late for the other corner shop. I was ravenous.

The cats were catered for as there was plenty of the outrageously expensive food I buy for them. They ate contentedly while I systematically probed the refrigerator for something to sate my hunger. Nada. Equally, the kitchen shelves, while hardly bare, promised only dried pulses, farfalle pasta, a sad motley assortment of Asian condiments and a tin of green beans that has maintained its current position for two years.
And then I spotted it. Thank you Damon, ex-flatmate and procurer of fine German food stuffs. Lyoner canned meat from die Schwarzwald. Over the years I've learned that the Teutonic peoples manufacture all manner of excellent product. Cars, whitegoods and a lot of wurst.
The tin winked and gleamed and flirted with me. Greedily I snatched it. Within an immeasurably short space of time I'd defeated the ring-pull and was devouring the can's contents. In between mouthfuls the phone beckoned.

Naturally, I left the can long enough for my cat to wander onto the scene. Whilst I chatted with someone I can't remember about something no doubt of little significance, Kebap savoured the finest Bavarian fare in the town. He wasn't even hungry. And he didn't even bother with a spoon.

Still gabbling, I returned to the kitchen and resigned myself to sharing the wurst. I kind of spoil my cat. In turns we both ate from the same spoon, since if I was going to catch something unpleasant from my cat it would've happened long ago. Besides, I already scratch more that he does.

And, in our quest to get as much of the quality German victuals down our respective gullets we failed to notice our elderly neighbours looking down on us from the opposite balcony.

As I looked up at their horrified expression, the best I could stammer was '...but it's not cat food'.

Well done me.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Komşularım

An image that has nothing to do with the blog entry. Though the balcony is relevant to the story, the cat is not.

As a teenager I well remember my younger sister laying on the living room floor, head propped upon elbows, watching the sitcom that would launch lots of people with dubious talent into the world of cinema, television and, principally, English pantomime. Neighbours. And what a show it was. Classy stuff.

Although I too lived an Australian suburban existence, I never remember the six marriages, eight deaths and fourteen divorces happening on Knightsbridge Avenue, Valley View, as they undoubtedly occurred each season on Ramsey Street. However, I do remember bubble skirts, ugly knitwear and Kylie Minogue before botox and her ever increasingly bizarre buffed forehead. Yep, I'm that old.

Anyway, the point I'm making here is that my neighbourhood didn't really resemble Channel 7's interpretation, and Cihangir, Istanbul is a little further still from the mind-numbingly catatonic pall that hung over my early years growing up in a city that remains memorable only for murdering and dismembering pubescent boys. Oh, and it's pleasant wine growing region.

I survived Valley View, grew up in a house and now I live in an apartment, the latter something I swore I'd never do many eons ago. I thought people who inhabited apartments spoke with harsh Irish accents and practised domestic violence instead of playing board games. We threw dice and moves our checkers, they coughed blood and hacked up molars onto a checked vinyl kitchen floor. Apartments were for people who smelled of boiled cabbage and in which everyone over the age of three smoked copiously, soaking the whole depressing dwelling in a scent of Marlboro that permeated even the deepest recesses of the obligatorily stolen, torn, faux-leather furniture. I think I might've been prejudiced.

Australia is so full of space that you have no option than to grow up abnormal. 6 billion people on the planet (a slight increase from the estimated 3.5 around the year I was born), and yet at twilight on a Sunday evening in Valley View I was actually spooked if I saw anyone on the street. The fact that a predatory group of child murderers was frantically scouring my city for victims may have made a notable impression on my teenage vision of my very suburban upbringing. I was the perfect age to be drugged, raped, decorated in barbed-wire and placed into several shallow roadside graves. I'm sure I equated man-on-street-whose-face-I-know-not with 'Oh, this might be quite bad for me. Don't take eat those boiled sweets'.

In any case, I was never really at risk as I've always preferred savoury foods, and thus little chance of me being led astray with humbugs or lemon sherbets. You can't really imagine a killer pedophile enticing a would-be victim with hot chips, and yet such a scenario could have led to my downfall. I think I've digressed.

So, Valley View was as quiet as most of Cihangir is not. My part of the neighbourhood even has it's own name, Purtelaş. I'm sure there's a story behind that name just like there isn't one behind Valley View. It's not even situated in a valley. My building faces the mosque, within whose gardens sits a Little-House-on-the-Prairie type dwelling housing the imam and a ragged collection of children. The cemented courtyard in front of the mosque is their playground and football field, in which impromptu afternoon matches are held between the calls to prayer. A bunch of sly looking street urchins usually join in the game, often asking me to move my motorcycle from the cemetery wall, which I refuse to do because it's not my motorcycle. During game practice I'm normally enjoying my cup of tea on the balcony, chatting with cats and real people in equal measure. Below me lives the extraordinarily youthful Perihan Hanım, doyen of the cul-de-sac, de-facto administrator of the apartment building and tormentor of the man who sells fresh breads from a wooden pallet on top of his head.

'Fresh bread, fresh bread...'. 'Why are you screaming like that? I'm trying to watch (insert appalling Turkish day-time soap opera title)'.

'I've been coming here for twenty years, every day, selling these breads'.

'And I've been asking you the same thing every day for twenty years'.

You get the idea. I'm too scared to buy his bread, but Perihan Hanım likes me and says 'You're a good boy. Don't leave Istanbul.' So I'm also kinda afraid to leave the city too.

The neighbour with whom I share the second floor is a fabulously glamorous and elegant dame, owner of a local art-house cinema. She is immaculate. She speaks a broken but charming English and oozes style. Her hair wavers between maroon and vermilion, always perfect. She makes me drink coffee that prevents me from sleeping for 36 hours. I seem to quaff a lot of her liqueurs, and always leave drunk.

The building that faces opposite is a five storey affair, housing as many generations of the same family and their radically insane Golden Retriever. Nazlı Hamın is 82 and the best evidence you can have that travelling is the way to spend your life. She's tramped through thirty-five countries. You know; Libya, Uzbekistan, Georgia. Places that travel guide publishers rarely get around to covering even at this point in the century. She keeps an eye on my flowers and tells me if I need to water them, how my cat behaved when I was out this morning, and why I shouldn't wear short in windy weather. All very helpful advice.

It often happens that English-breakfast tea time coincides with Perihan's admonishments, Pervin's coffee break and Nazli's balcony-sweeping hour. And so we chat. And it's a simple thing like neighbourly conversation that makes this city unleavable.

Everybody needs good neighbours. And I have them. They even offer me sweets and candies which I accept. I fear nothing here.