The Threshold

Just as I was pondering how to give myself the kick in the ass I need to get blogging again, I stumbled across this idea of A Year With Myself. Well, sez I, there’s the kick I need. So the plan is to participate while also getting on with the other things I’m planning.

The way I see it the threshold is a little like the frost on the flowers, it can be deadly and paralysing but with a little patience it can melt away to nothing, leaving you wondering what the barrier was in the first place.

So here I am at the threshold.

Am I between the bars as Patti Digh says, most definitely. It is a fact of life for any expat that we are between many things. That aspects of ourselves are split and reflected and refracted by our dual (or more) hybridity. It can be unsettling and I’ve allowed it to take over in the last while. This has been a result of the passage of many anniversaries in the last few months, a decade in Turkey, of marriage, birthdays of growing children, changes in the lives of those I care about. It’s led me to passivity, thinking, thinking but not doing. Now is the time for action.

But first I need to be where I am, as Jen Louden says I should be. I need to acknowledge my many facets, rejoice in them and begin again. That also means acknowledging my imperfections and the many things I can’t control. It means saying no to fear and excuses and just doing it.

Somehow the gently learning approach that CA Kobu and the Year with Myself advocates seems to meet headlong with the brashness of terribleminds, but instead of a collision there is a melding. I need to be tough with myself this year, to be honest; I also need to be gentle and forgiving.

Here’s to 2012 being a productive year!

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Storms

It’s been a busy few weeks so here’s a few snippets to enjoy while I play catch-up, both courtesy of the Guardian in the last week.

Robert Curzon, traveller and diplomat, hit rough seas as he tried to sail to Lemnos through the Dardanelles as excepted from his book ‘Visits to the Monasteries in the Levant’ (1849) in Weatherwatch. It’s appropriate for the windstorm we’re experiencing at the moment, though thankfully it’s blown away any clouds and leaving a bright blue sky. I wonder if where the bay he mentioned might be, further up the straits or here near Guzelyali, where there is a wide bay?

Keeping with the literary theme, Poem of the Week featured ‘Hero and Leander’ by Christopher Marlowe. Hero was a young priestess from the Temple of Venus in Sestos, north of Eceabat on the European side of the Hellespont (see map), while Leander was a young man from Abydos, on the Asian side near present-day Canakkale.  They meet, fall in love and Hero lights a lamp in her tower to guide Leander’s nightly swim across the straits. Once again a storm rises one winter night, blowing out the lamp and leaving Leander to the mercy of the straits. Hero on learning of his drowning throws herself from the tower. Marlowe’s telling is strong and imaginative, the sensuality in the Guardian extract is palpable.

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Finally, a plan…

There has long been talk about constructing a museum near the site of Troy, something that is sorely needed. There are very few artifacts to be seen at the site, and only a few in Canakkale Archeology Museum (which few tours visit), which leaves some of the most interesting things out of view of the visitor.

The Skaian Gate by Catherine Yiğit

There also needs to be an attempt made to explain the importance of the site, both archeologically and in terms of global culture; a framework so that visitors can see past the piles of stones and visualise just how important this site is. A good guide helps, of course, but space is needed for those of us who want to learn at our own pace.

My solution is simple, we get the Irish OPW, famed for building interpretative centres in the 80′s and 90′s, in to do the job. You’ll get a brand new centre, museum, audio-visual room, bookshop/souvenir shop and the always necessary restaurant. The souvenirs will be tasteful, not the cheap tat available at the moment. You may even consider giving them as presents. The bookshop will be full of information not just about Troy, but about the local area and other sites in Turkey.  The atmosphere will be friendly and helpful and the staff with be knowledgeable.

You may claim I’m looking for too much.

But the OPW built dozens of the things around Ireland, including the Ceide Fields visitor centre. The Ceide Fields are the earliest known evidence of farming in Ireland, a field system on the north coast of Mayo in the west of Ireland. There is a slight drawback to visiting them. They are covered in bog, marked out with bamboo poles.

It doesn’t sound exciting, now does it?

But if you’re ever in the area I encourage you to visit because the centre there explains the importance of the site, puts it in context and leaves you racing out to see the bamboo poles. There’s also spectacular cliffs across the road, and a great view from the top of the centre.

This is how it should be done…

So you can imagine that I’m happy to hear that a plan has been selected for a museum near the entrance gate at Troy. The plan was selected from a competition and the winning entry is by a team led by Selcuk Baz, picked by a selection of archeologists, town planners, Ministry of Tourism officials, and architects (among others).

I don’t know what the new plan looks like but if you’re in Ankara between now and June 6th the top entries are on show in the Ataturk Cultural Centre. There’ll be a colloquium held on the 6th of June at 6pm.

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Where in the world…

I have a confession to make – I love maps. They are such wonderful, infomative things that I can spend hours searching over them, learning them, knowing them. They help make sense of the world.

Some maps are worrying such as this one by Freedom House, showing how low Turkey is on the world scale of press freedom. With a rating of Partly Free, Turkey is on a par with Mongolia, India and Nigeria. Add that to talk of censoring internet access even further and we could end up rated with China, Libya or Syria if we aren’t careful.

Maps can be personal, giving insight into our place in the world, mapping our imagination.

This is my map. It looks plain and clear at the moment, but that’s not a true representation of reality. Maps are notoriously deceptive, they allow us to pick and choose what to depict, what to share.

I live just south of Çanakkale on this map and I’m hoping to take you along as I fill this map in with memories and history and pictures and life.

Troy is highlighted because much as some people want to think the town of Çanakkale is the attraction here, it’s not. Troy was the first place of pilgrimage for three millenia of travellers and it continues to be so. Gallipolli has joined that pilgrimage route in the last hundred years.

Most travellers pass through, possibly breaking their journey in Çanakkale, more often driving on to Istanbul or Izmir. I can’t say I blame them, there are many things to see here, but most of them need a car to get to and are small sites with little information supplied, not suitable for busloads of snap-happy tourists.

But just because they are hidden, shrouded by the amnesia of history, does not diminish their importance. People who came before have left their traces too, hidden footprints that require effort to find.

So here’s to Hidden Footprints and opening our eyes to really see the place we live in.

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United in Fear

I had never heard of Gabrielle Giffords until her name appeared below a breaking news headline on Saturday 8th January. I didn’t know she was a member of the US congress, what party she represented, whether she was liked, good at her job, or known nationally within the States.

But I was shocked by the images, people crying, chaos,panic, paramedics rushing towards helicopters.

Six people died, one only a child, fourteen injured, while Giffords still fights in a hospital bed.

A lone gunman and lethal intent changed the lives of many.

In the ten days since I have seen something I recognised – fear. With fear comes blame, a natural human reaction that often masks our fear so well we never have to acknowledge it. Blame is the great distraction and has been very busy, even in this case where the gunman is known and under arrest. Blame the opposition party, another candidates tactics, the right-wing media, the mental health system, blame the sheriff’s office, blame. And blame sometimes makes change happen and lets us feel a little better. We can see a result of our anger and relax, thinking we have lessened our vulnerability.

In the ten years since I lived in the US many, many things have changed. The ‘Other’ has been demonized, whether a mild-mannered, dark-skinned young man or someone wearing clothes that signify their religious beliefs or someone who thinks differently. These obvious targets have been easy to spot and easy to alienate to isolate their differences.

But this time someone like the boy next door pulled the trigger. Disturbed, yes, with a history of erratic behaviour and problems, but someone you’d walk by in the supermarket without a glance. Someone not initially recognizable as a threat. That is what we fear most, the unknowable violence that may exist in the heart and mind of anyone in our environment. And ironically fear is what unites all who pursue and demean those different to themselves.

Before we can deal with our fear, we need to accept our vulnerability.

We need to acknowledge that our blame should not light on easy or obvious scapegoats and that it is a distraction from hard and complicated issues, and processes that need to change. We need to acknowledge that fearing the unknown and the different narrows our views and our minds. There is no easy solution to prevent tragedies like this from happening again, but one thing is certain we cannot let fear overwhelm our desire to live.

We cannot let it prevent us from standing up for what we believe, from doing good for others, from letting ourselves be seen.

A HYBRID AMBASSADORS blog-ring project.
 

You met our multinational Dialogue 2010 cultural innovators last spring in a roundtable discussion of hybrid life at expat+HAREM and followed their reactions to a polarizing book promotion. In this round they offer their thoughts on the recent shooting incident in Tucson, Arizona.

Add your voice to the conversation. Join the discussi online prescription drugs on on Twitter using #HybridAmbassadors.

More thoughts on this subject from my fellow hybrid ambassadors:
Tara Lutman Agacayak’s Enough
Catherine Bayar’s We the People
Elmira Bayraslı’s The Irresponsible Country
Sezin Koehler’s The Culture of Violence


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Baking up Christmas

The smell of pudding, that rich combination of fruit and sugars, pervades the house. I am home again, watching my mother becoming increasingly frustrated attempting to cover the pudding with greaseproof paper and tinfoil. The string with not go right, will not tie tight enough.

My first Christmas in Turkey in 2001, my first away from home, my first as a married woman, I cooked rice pudding.

My husband regarded the sticky mass with barely disguised wonder, comparing it to the milky rice pudding known to Turks as sutlaç. He ate it though, warned by my red-rimmed eyes that any comment could bring back the tears.

The next year we travelled to Dublin. Twelve hours later than planned, transferring through Paris instead of London we made it to my parent’s house. All food provided by my mother, helped by my sister.

The following year we celebrated my daughter’s first month of life with Christmas. In a haze of feeding and changing, I relied on my mother’s package to supply Christmas – pudding, mince, custard.

Christmas 2004 we were heading for Dublin again, this time delayed by a bomb scare in Charles de Gaulle. We arrived a mere six hours late on Christmas Eve.

Since the arrival of our son the following November we have not returned to Ireland for Christmas.

Each year I add to my Christmas repertoire. One year trifle, custard made with my mother-in-law’s rough ground cornflour; the next Christmas cake, with dried sour cherries turning the cake pink; then mincemeat, over reliant on apples. A turkey roasted but lacking the pork sausage meat in the stuffing.

Some things I make myself instead of waiting anxiously for a parcel from Ireland. Each year the recipes are honed and altered to what I can find around. Almonds are ground in the blender after being blanched to remove their skins. Dried apricots substitute for glace cherries. Candied peel is made from orange and lemon rinds. Fresh ginger is replaced by ground after a cake that was virtually medicinal in its bitterness. Dried figs are never a good idea in a cake.

The one thing that still escapes me is icing the cake. The almond icing is good, the royal icing smooth, but any hint of decorating beyond that ends with bizarre blobs of coloured icing that would look like a Dali painting if they were a little more artful.

This year I’ve attempted a pudding for the first time.

The smell is right, the colour is right. And the taste is perfect.

What special effort do you make to capture the spirit of Christmas?

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School Days

One thing I wasn’t going to do when I started blogging was talk about my children, I was not. My time online was going to be my time for me: no kids, no housework, no responsibilities.

I’m breaking that rule today. Having spent the summer constantly in the company of my children, the last month of which also included Baba aka the Handyman, we have been wrenched apart.

It started with the Handyman’s return to work, leaving the three of us together for a short week. Here’s where I should describe all the wonderful games, inventive crafts and exciting excursions we went on, but alas there are none. We talked and watched television and had a picnic in the garden and waited for Baba to bring home icecream. That was about it, for a whole week.

Then there was the Brown-eyed Girl’s first foray into the world of primary school. Initially it involved hanging around the playground waiting, then assembly into classes, then some brown-eyed tears. These abated as she was called up as a representative of her class to receive flowers. As she is attending a brand new school everyone was a little confused and excited. I met her for lunch to help her negotiate the canteen (crowded by high-school kids on a temporary basis). This has continued so last week was a panic of up early for the first time in ages, dragging Little Boy Blue with me on the bus, getting food for two picky eaters, protecting Little Boy Blue from the affections of high-school girls (something I didn’t think I’d have to worry about at age 4), picking up from school, hanging round Baba’s office,  getting dinner in a rush, getting them to bed and starting all over again. Needless to say by the weekend we were all wrecked.

This week has been Little Boy Blue’s initiation into a brand new preschool. It’s the first time that he’s been anywhere on his own without a big sister looking out for him. He settled in ok, a bit of clingyness before the toys took his interest. He seems to be enjoying it and waved Baba off at the door without a second look today. So this week in addition to the daily rush we also have a second pick-up time to add to the confusion.

Amidst all this I flit from school to preschool to office (all close together) and back again, feeling a little like a butterfly in a thunderstorm, not sure where I am, what I have to do and where I’m going next.

I think of my own first days in primary school and wonder did my mother feel the same intake of breath looking at a stream of uniformed children, which one is mine? I wonder did she feel that thread of connection pull tight against the stretch, resist the inevitable moving out, away, that seeing my children as the independent individuals they are requires. I wonder did she acknowledge that we would cope without her calmly or was there a frisson of rebellion before acceptance.

Above all I have the desire to instill my children with knowledge, with respect for school and teachers and learning, with a will to do their best, try their hardest and enjoy themselves. Nothing unusual in that, but with recent revelations about the examination and education system in Turkey, it is more important than ever and harder to do.

How do I best shepard them out into the educational marathon, when I know the system doesn’t work well, and there are wolves manipulating it for their own ends?

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Special-ism

Announcing HYBRID AMBASSADORS: a blog-ring project of Dialogue2010

You met our multinational cultural innovators this spring in a roundtable discussion of hybrid life at expat+HAREM. Now in these interconnected blog posts some of them share reactions to a recent polarizing book promotion at the writing network SheWrites. Join the discussion on Twitter using #HybridAmbassadors or #Dialogue2010

I am special. I really am.

I’m from a small country. That makes me special, there are only so many of us out there.

This small country has still made a large impact on several nations in this world; generations of immigrants have sired children eager to get in touch with the ‘auld sod’. These immigrants, while special, were not always welcomed for it.

Ireland has known more than it’s fair share of division. Beliefs running deeper than blood sometimes; political, religious, ideological. The wounds are still barely covered by a paper-thin skin.

I live in a country that has not experienced a flood of Irish immigrants, though a trickle of holiday makers arrive every year. That I live permanently makes me special.

Turkey has known it’s fair share of division. Ethnicity and religion again the cause of strife. This is a gaping wound, still bleeding profusely.

That I married into a rich and varied culture at a global crossing point, makes me special.

Surviving the culture clash this inevitably involves leaves me living as a hybrid, a foot in several worlds. That I can accommodate several points of view makes me special.

Yet I am part of lots of groups.

Group me with Irish, with Turkish, with expats, with writers, with mothers, with entrepreneurs, with women, with family, with friends. Group me with inspiring, uplifting people with whom I can have a meaningful dialogue.

Do not group me purely for skin-deep reasons.

Do not perpetuate those stereotypes you claim to despise.

Do not make the mistake that nameless, faceless commercial interests do. Do not alienate me by grouping me for superficial reasons.

Do not demean our uniqueness by whitewashing our differences with broad labels.

More thoughts on this subject from my fellow HYBRID AMBASSADORS:

Sezin Koehler’s Whites Only?

Rose Deniz’s Voice Lessons from a Hybrid Ambassador

Anastasia Ashman’s Great White People Book Club

Tara Lutman Agacayak’s Circles

Catherine Bayar’s Thicker Skin

Jocelyn Eikenburg’s The Problem with “Chinese Food”

Judith van Praag’s We Write History Today

Elmira Bayraslı’s The Color of Writing

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Being a perfectionist

Being the procrastinator that I am, I also like to think of myself as a perfectionist. The logic is simple – I expect to do a terrific job, spend a tremendous amount to time waiting for the optimum moment when the stars collide and inspiration hits with a physical force. That never quite happens. Instead I wait and collect and gather and wait some more and generally at the very limit of my deadline I get the words out.

This works well enough for short articles and blog pieces but it doesn’t work with book-length works, as I discovered to my cost on my last (unfinished) project.

The Brown-eyed Girl played at the beach, picking up stones and putting them in water in her bucket. Then she walked thigh-deep into the water and gently dropped every ‘fish’ back into the sea.

Each fish sank, rigid, stiff, unyielding.

I hereby give myself permission not to do a perfect job. I just have to jump right in. I have to be flexible, adaptable, buoyant.

Here’s to swimming, not sinking…

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Still Learning

Vişne (sour cherries)

A few weeks ago Tara at Turquoise Poppy wrote about things she’s learned since coming to Turkey. As imitation is the sincerest form of flattery I’ve made my own list.

- Living within walking distance of a beach in a hot climate is a terrific and wonderful thing.

- Communication doesn’t require language

- But language is very important to me.

- Cooking a meal from scratch from whatever is in the kitchen is a skill everyone should have (the art is in making said meal taste great!)

- Children require more thoughtful care/diplomatic skills/peacekeeping than babies.

- Marriage is the start of a relationship.

- Little girls like pink, no matter how much you discourage them.

- Trees grow slowly, especially if planted when very young saplings.

- Home-grown vegetables do taste better.

- Someone has always been there before, though they may be forgotten by history.

- Connections made through the internet are as real and important as friends in the same physical space.

What have you learned lately?

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Categories: Being Turkish | 5 Comments