12 Hours: A Moving Portrait, Syllabus Week

Savage and I went aerial from campus the other day -- sunset has it's own reading list for our eternal semester, and this assignment feels straight forward: watch ("dude"s and "oh baby!"s hopefully excused)



When space feels hard to come by (most of the time), the Bosphorus, and now tower, call. The river feels integral to the city's identity in a way that I'm happy not quite placing my finger on; it's good enough to just sit and watch old fisherman cast their metal weights with longs rods, gaze into distance, or laugh with one another and share cigarettes. If you watch long enough, there's even the off-hand chance that the breeze will blow fresh, clean air into your lungs.

It's easier to catch such drifts from the top of the hill, where I returned the morning after our little kletter for round two... (Sorry for the shakes)



I just met some gung-ho Turkish fellas who told me that it's good fun to climb all the way to the top and shake the entire tower. Don't worry Mom, that's a metaphor. Well, kind of; I mean, a country boy gotta breathe somehow.

Offsides; what about it?

I now live in a world where Futbal (er, soccer?) definitely sits alongside politics as a terribly flammable subject; the religious similarities are eery as well – ritual (chants), devotion (without a jersey, I stand aside, shunned, an outcast), fervency (the ‘seats’ act as boosters, and no one sits – ever), and extremism (this happened at the match the night after). And while Turkish fans aren’t quite as obsessed and compulsive as this, they're damn close. All that being said, when local teams Fenerbahçe and S.B. Elazigspor were set to square off this weekend, I figured it would easily fit under the category of ‘cultural experience.’ A few beers with the fellas and we hit the ferry for the Asian side where the match was to be held. Game on.

In the states, quite honestly, we suck at cheering for sports (American football might be the exception). Maybe the booze starts having the adverse effect by halftime, or maybe we’re not organized enough – either way, we don’t have fans who, I shit you not, don’t watch a single moment of the game in order to stand as hype men for different sections. My man in H18 belted out song after song from an endless bag, all while standing on a the concrete wall keeping him from falling into oblivion, and using the head of another man (voluntary or not, I wasn’t able to deduce) for a support for the entire match. It must have worked – I stood in complete awe at the sea of pumping arms, as droves of deafening cheer galloped around the stadium. To boot, whereas we might use whistles for applause, they use them here whenever they’re royally ticked off at something (referees, etc), and with thousands of people going shrill at once, the entire stadiums sounds like a hissing nest.

Despite the relative enthusiasm (the fans maintained their ne plus ultra decibel level until the very end), the match was hardly a thriller – home team Fenerbahçe went up two nill in the first ten minutes, and ultimately schooled S.B. 4-0. When the outcome became rather obvious, the crowd began to engage in a little ‘Futbal 101’ (as one friend put it): fighting. With each other, that is. Out of nowhere, men from my right, incensed and with rage in their eyes, began streaming toward the section to our left, pushing over one another in order to whip their fists and throw shouts into the expanse between the section on the left. We were informed the fight was political, and I only managed to snag a few seconds being urged to lower my camera phone…

While riot police kept the halftime bathroom melee in check, it was still nothing short of bizarre to witness fans who were in complete cheerleader sync (for the same team) with one another at one moment be viciously at each others throats the next. The incident stands as a testament to the current political climate – all it takes is a few of the wrong words to trip mayhem’s hair trigger, igniting genuine anger. And yet, considering that the next night’s match (Besiktas vs. Galatasaray, see link at top) ended early due to fans rushing the field and straight up brawling with one another, my previously looming ‘cultural experience’ feels rather quaint and tame after all.

Baby Steps

When informing others that I was headed to Istanbul to study for my last semester, I received a couple of uneasy reactions from the current event buffs – “yikes,” “be safe (awkward smile),” and “you know what’s happened, don’t you?”

Clouds over Frankfurt

Sure, I knew a bit about the recent political upheaval, but there’s nothing quite like some generally reckless firsthand exploration. So, sitting in Taksim Square upon arrival (where the majority of protesting has been taking place – don’t worry Mom, I’m obviously still alive), I sipped on my first Turkish cay – black tea, spoonfuls of sugar pending – and began to wheel and deal with the glut of attention that generally vacuums toward a young male backpacker. After slapping backs with a teenager over mutual interests, fending off various vending hagglers, and sitting in bewilderment as two girls tugged on my beard and giggled (why this doesn’t happen at home?), I managed to prove my incredible knack for being completely logistically inept by getting lost as all get out on the way to meet my CouchSurfing host, Ridvan. Standard. The city fabric, punctuated by stained mosques and glittering skyscrapers, whizzed past whatever wrong by I had taken, only furthering my enthralled state.

After meeting with Ridvan, we walked along the Bosphours’ west bank (European), as the soft lights from the Asian side shimmered and danced toward us like some dream. I took a deep breath – Istanbul, the gateway to the Orient, is everything that everyone that’s actually been there has told me it is: amazing.

View of the Bosphorus from Bogazici University (my school)

The Black Sea

 People have been quick to talk about how the protests have affected their lives – there’s no shortage of opinion on that “short motherfu****” (Erdoğan, their Prime Minister/dictator). One kid I met shot a documentary of the protests, one spent two weeks in his tent while transporting food and garbage for the makeshift city that arose in Taksim Square, one’s girlfriend was in the hospital for ten days after being shot in the head with rubber bullets by the police, and even a few foreign exchange friends were tear gassed while heading to dinner in the area (wrong place wrong time). But other than the protests, the city feels safe – which, at close to 14 million people, and roughly the geographical size of Belgium, is hard to fathom. But as Ridvan pointed out, “the most dangerous people here are the police.” Despite the remarkable diversity – Turks, Kurds, Armenians, Greeks, Georgians, a diverse Jewish population, and now Syrians, call Istanbul home – all manage to live together in relative peace and solidarity (traffic disputes notwithstanding); Ridvan concluded: “we protect each other from the police.”

Clownin'

As in every city that I’ve been to, there are a fair share of hardened hands and distant gazes, but people here generally seem to have warm hearts, and treat each other with care and a sincere, traditional respect (old man enters bus, young man immediately gets out of seat, old man sits down; mentally handicapped girl enters bus, middle aged woman gets up and lets her sit down). In stride, there’s a distinct tenderness that I’ve encountered – each Turkish handshake has been like the soft crinkling eyes that accompany a smile of understanding. Their grip gently caresses rather than firmly clasping, which imparts an unexpectedly reassuring sense of vulnerability.

While ‘East meets West’ sounds cliché, it stands as mystifyingly true: the call to prayer and hip-hop music blast at the same time, burkas sit next to bare legs on the bus, and Mercedes and BMW’s blitz through the downright bedlam that is traffic (per most Asian cities). This cultural interplay makes for downright dizzying and enchanting times, and, even though I haven’t run the tourist gauntlet yet (from mosque-hopping to haggling for spices), a new friend silver-tongued it – “It’s magical here.”

Yet the tension between the modernity of urban youth and the piety of ages doesn’t feel out of place; so far, it hasn’t been too difficult to accept a place that either accepts itself or makes things work regardless. Or, as Michael Singer puts it, maybe “We define the entire scope of our outer experience based upon our inner problems.”

It all reminds me an interaction with a hostess on the flight here – I gave her a good ol’ fashioned smile (courtesy of Hermann genetics, patent pending); she smiled back, and said, “you look happy.” I confirmed her remark. After the flight, we exchanged goodbyes, and her final parting trailed faintly after me, as if from a distant place – “there goes the happy one…” I think of this connection while grasping the railing in a bus for support; looking down, I realize how tightly I am holding on, as if my hands could somehow control the vehicle as it jerks and leaps through the pulsing traffic. I let go. I’m better off with my feet planted firmly, standing free, and swaying in balance with this careening vessel, whatever path it may follow.