Of Atatürk, Obama and navigating U.S. politics as a couple post 9-11

Posted on September 7, 2011 by lizcameron

Ataturk and Obama in tapestry format, taken by me in the Gaziantep, Turkey bedestan last summer

So, having spent a great deal of time remembering how I “dreamed of a burqini” my first summer in Turkey while obsessing over my own body image challenges, cross-cultural marriage is, of course, about a lot more than this.  As a professor of social policy, I would be remiss not to mention something about how the political becomes personal in my Turkish-American marital life.  So, let me take you to Gaziantep, Turkey, where M. and I visited last year, in order to introduce the topic of the day – navigating U.S. politics as one Turkish-American couple.  While Gaziantep is a left-wing city in the southern-central part of Turkey near the Syrian border, it is most famous for the regions copper mines and pistachios – not to mention the famous imam çağdaş lokantasi, I will leave talk of the culinary wonders of this place for another time.

Rising early to avoid as much of the intense heat of southern Turkey as possible, we ambled through Gaziantep’s lovely bedestan, admiring old copper bowls, antique ceramics, dusty kilim rugs and a range of thick, silk fabrics.  Catching the headlines from the International Herald Tribune, I read with interest that President Obama was once-again stumping on the benefits of the stimulus package and what was dubbed “the recovery summer.”  Talk of the U.S. faded in an out with talk of current Turkish politics…and I reflected on how easy it felt, to be here in Turkey, away from the U.S., not worrying about Sarah Palin, et alia.  M., on the other hand, would spend much of the morning pouring over all of the newspapers – as he does not buy one – he buys all of them – the left wing one, the centrist one, the right wing one, etc., in order to get the full picture.  His reading is often punctuated by phrases of frustration, and calling me over to explain to me the latest political upset, or concern he has with something that has gone on.  While he loves visiting Turkey, I am sure he would not say it is easy to be here in Turkey, away from the U.S., not worrying about Sarah Palin, et alia.

Child with old copper bowl in Gaziantep - thanks to babazar's re-use photostream af Flikr

Navigating politics in cross-cultural relationships can take the form of challenges in the areas of religion, cultural practices, approaches to life, table manners or what to wear – but it can also relate to actual politics and the ways that each member of the relationship experiences the current goings-on.  Perhaps I am thinking about this as the anniversary of 9-11 is coming up, and in many ways, it is the aftermath of 9-11 that has shaped the political realities in which M. and I live here in the States and in Turkey. I am going to address the general socio-political realities of living in the U.S. as a person from a Middle Eastern country AND current Presidential politics as they both impact our lives.

So, on living in the socio-political environment in the present-day U.S. Although M. is by no means a practicing Muslim and often jokes that I know more about Islam than he does, it is often assumed he is Muslim, given his Turkish nationality.  Of course, his nüfus card (Turkish national identity card) states that he is a Sun’ni Muslim as are the majority of Turks, but this is another story.  As I have written about here in months past, assumptions stemming from thinking can sometimes be a bit of a downer and/or eye-opener for me.  Luckily, we don’t have to deal with TOO much ethnic profiling post 9-11, unlike many, many others.  M. does not appear (to me or many others) to “look Muslim.”  He has short hair, no beard,  tattoos and usually wears very informal, non-religious-looking clothes (if you ask me).  While he has been stopped and searched on several occasions in the most liberal of places here in the Boston area, we have not had to deal with any big problems.   Most troubling, perhaps, was the assertion that “voting is only for citizens” that we heard from staff at our local fire station where we went to change our voter registration after moving.  They said this upon hearing M.’s heavy accent.  To my great delight (but not M.’s), the woman who took our complaint in city hall was in full hijab (modest Islamic dress in this case including a veil around her hair).  As 9-11 approaches this Sunday, I am hopeful that M. will not be bothered – and indeed that nobody will.  I hope that the early stupidities leading to, for example, the horrible beatings of Sikhs in Texas, for example, will not be repeated in some sort of remembrance-induced patriotic zealotry.

Moving on to the navigation of presidential politics in present-day U.S., let me preface all of this by saying that M. is a better citizen than I – following every single tiny local election, making sure to get out an meet every single candidate in person to make sure he knows who he is voting for and why.  He takes part in all of this with pride and a sense of commitment that is inspiring to me.  Perhaps it is for this reason that when I am faced with others’ ignorant assumptions of his non-citizenship, or the idea that he married me to become a citizen (which is not the case, he has been a citizen for years) that it hurts so much.

Always interested in politics – and more importantly true participation in the political process as a normal, everyday citizen, M. seems to me to be reacting against the fact that this was less possible in Turkey. Let me say here that Turkey is by no means a dictatorship (another stupid question I get a lot, along with “when will the Arab spring reach Turkey?” though it is not an Arab state), although I know that there are worries in the Turkish press and elsewhere that Prime Minister Erdoğan sometimes appears to be heading in this direction (click here for The New York Time’s carefully worded analysis on this matter).  In any case, it is clear that M. relishes the possibility of being truly involved and still speaks with pride about lobbying a state Congressman in person via a Move On visit recently.

These days, however, M. and I are having an increasing number of conversations about President Obama.  In the last election, we supported him fully with our time and our money spent to get him to the White House.  As a social worker with some community organizing experience, I was thrilled to see him take his thoughtful approach to the process of change through a long campaign to victory.  I still believe in him and very much admire his principles – although I am deeply saddened on two fronts – his stance on the Patriot Act and his recent seemingly anti-environmentalist moves. And I really don’t know what to do about this.  My left wing friends will say that I am way behind the curve, that they ditched Obama a long time ago, but somehow, I have not been able to let go.  While I consider many issues beyond my personal realities when voting, I am feeling somewhat swayed this year, given the Patriot Act re-up.

M., however, has completely moved away from supporting President Obama – hurt in large part by his signature on the renewal of the Patriot Act earlier this year which has major implications for civil liberties.  Let me reiterate, M. is not a practicing Muslim, is not a “terrorist” and does not sympathize with “terrorists” it is more the principle of the matter.  Often fearful that he will be targeted as a result of his nation of birth, M. worries when he receives unsolicited mail from Muslim organizations or gets stopped and searched in the airport.  So, for our household, the decisions we face with respect to the upcoming Presidential elections – and the debates M. and I will have about who we will each vote for -will relate to this issue first and foremost.  Most of all, he is dismayed when people react to his statement that he will not vote for President Obama again by asking “will you vote for Palin (or now Perry or Bachman, etc.)?”

When we first met, M. took great pains to explain to me about the origins of modern Turkey – and specifically the reforms put in place by Mustafa Kemal Atatürk.  He still often explains to people new to Turkey about the fact that Turkish women’s suffrage was granted before that of Switzerland, for example.  He also speaks with a respectful criticism – saying that while many reforms propelled Turkey forward in many positive ways – the means taken in the early years of the modern Turkish state were somewhat dictatorial at times. While the at-times over-the-top focus on Turkishness and national pride appears to me to have led Turkey into trouble, to say the least, respect for Mustafa Kemal is palpable.  This is how I felt about President Obama before and at his election – palpably proud, deeply moved.  Therefore, when we visited Gaziantep last year, I was not at all surprised to see the tapestry version of President Obama secured in a position of honor, below Mustafa Kemal, surrounded by garlands of dried kabak and biber (squash and peppers).  “Obama!” cried the shopkeeper as he heard my English, “Atatürk  and Obama yes!”

Now, in September of 2011, as thoughts about the Patriot Act, whether M. will be searched this weekend during our travels, and sadness over 9-11 swirl around my head, I cannot help but wonder whether one year later, President Obama still occupies the same position of honor in the Gaziantep bedestan – or for that matter, whether he will win my vote.

Entrance to Gaziantep's bedestan

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Of peştemal, patlican and the perfect Turkish junk food (with home-style recipe)

Posted on September 6, 2011 by lizcameron

After saying goodbye to Z. after my first-ever great morning at cement beach, M. and I walked up the hill, now expert at pre-stretching our legs in order to elude shin splints.  Upon entering the house, Kalinka was upon us, unleashing a stream of Turkish over M.’s way – the only word of which I understood was “peştemal.”  A peştemal is a Turkish-style towel, often woven in lovely, simple hues in the Bodrum area.  M.’s sister-in-law referred to it as “Bodrum cloth.” Apparently, M.’s niece was missing her favorite peştemal and a new one needed to be purchased immediately, or all hell would break loose.  M. explained that we needed to drive his sister-in-law over to the village bazaar immediately, although it was already late in the day “for the good stuff.”  It was the last of our days on the Bodrum penninsula – and we hadn’t been to the bazaar yet, so this was welcome news. Kalinka (the Moldovan maid who saves my life every time she smiles) warns us that we had better high-tail it over there, and we hop to it, salty hair from swimming and all.  While we are waiting for sister-in-law, Kalinka hoots and hollars in Turkish before saying to me in Russian, our shared broken language, “more fun than house!”

I am excited to shop for some peştemal.  Now that I am done with my burqini fantasy, it’s all about the cotton beach wrap – peştemal – to feel more modest along cement beach in the gated compound regardless of the machine gun-toting guards, for my last afternoon there, that is!  M. and his sister-in-law are conversing with great hilarity about something else – something called “patlican” (“pahtleejhahn” skinny, Chinese-style eggplant in U.S. parlance or aubergine to the Brits).  I hear kuçuk (small) and buyuk (big) and peals of laughter along with this word.  “What ever are you talking about?” I ask M. wishing that my flair for language would finally make its appearance with respect to Turkish.  Hacivad made his presence known just then, with a simple clearing of the throat “So, you are thinking so far, no luck, in the country 3 weeks and counting, must be patient. Remember, Rumi says “patience is the companion of wisdom.”

“Aubergine, um, eggplant,” M. explained a broad smile still inhabiting his face, “patlican is eggplant – and you can’t get better than the Turkish one, I can’t find it in the States.  We are going to make patlican salatası.”  Let me move from potato salad – to safer territory, roasted garlicky eggplant.  This territory is a bit safer and we had nothing to navigate here, as there was no American equivalent for me to get pissy about vis-a-vis my mayonnaise mania.  🙂  By the way, I must admit, I am embarrassed to look back at myself then – so convinced that I was open to new things!  I had so much to learn, and am old enough to know that I have too much more to learn than I can realize.  At least I am more open to that reality now.  Wouldn’t trade middle age for anything.  And yes, it is just potato salad and mayonnaise we are talking about, but sometimes the tough stuff comes out in sheep’s clothing, I suppose.

Old-fashioned hues of three Bodrum peştemal

In any case, back to the bazaar, as we meandered through informal rows underneath the white canvas tent on the bazaar grounds, M. bounded up to me happily, saying that he had found not only the perfect peştemal, but also the perfect patlican seeds.  “This is excellent!” M. said, hands waving akimbo, “finally the seeds – I can never find the right eggplant back in the U.S.!”

“Hmm,” Karagöz noted, “p-items, items beginning with the lovely letter P! P into the sea! P all over me!  P, it’s free!”  Kenne pulled him off of his impromptu stage with a hooked cane, shushing him along the way.  He reeled in giggles despite the cane.  Oblivious to the presence of a very goofy Karagöz and horrified Kenne, M. began to explain his eggplant-cooking process. “We have to cook it on the coals (on the mangal or BBQ) to make it smoky, until it explodes and you mash it with garlic – then you can try my version of Turkish junk food.”  Now there’s a concept, I thought, Turkish junk food other than the Turkish-flavored crisps from Lay’s, for example.  “OK, sounds good to me – but junk food, I don’t know about that characterization.”  Armed with patlican and peştemal galore, we snaked through the streets at breakneck pace, feeling glad to be in the sturdy steel-tank that is a Volvo station wagon.

Our own eggplant-grilling moment

On the way home, M. talked nonstop about his various favorite eggplant dishes.  We became so hungry that we stopped for a snack.  An unassuming place by the roadside, with no other customers.  While this did not bode well to me, M. is blessed with the nose for the best places to eat – anywhere in the world – and I had already in our short months together learned to understand this.  M. knew the ancient-looking owner – who sits at the front table molding köfte (“keufteh” spiced meat balls) by hand in the shade of a white pine tree. Although the place was empty, I had faith that M.’s food judgement was still working.

Sitting there, we tried not only mashed eggplant with garlic, but also what M referred to as “my favorite version of Turkish junk food.” Essentially, it is slices (think potato French fry shape) of eggplant, grilled, along with yeşil biber (“yesheel beebehr” long skinny light green color peppers) that have been grilled until they are wilty. These are then dredged in strained sheep’s milk yogurt (cow’s yogurt would be fine too) that has been blended with fresh garlic (vs. dry) that I find often has a different and more pungent and almost fruitier taste. We spent an hour or so just talking eggplant with the waiters and chefs…with me writing down words as I understood them, once M. was up-to-here with the translating.

That night at dinner, M. referred to this visit to the little lokanta as
“research on Turkish junk food.”  Since then, we have done a lot of “research” all over Turkey on this form of Turkish cuisine – as in “two plates of patlican salatası, please!”

Once at home for the evening with M.’s brother, we prepared the mangal on the terrace at the top of the house, which is situated on a hill.  We savored the
wood smoke that comes from the special charcoal they use here – real wood (that in 2011, is all the Whole Foods rage). Here is the home-style recipe for what we did that night – and many other nights in the years since…

Homestyle Patlican Salatası

Step 1:  Place the eggplants on the grill – as pictured – or directly on the coals if you prefer.  Once they are white with heat, wait for them to explode – sort of like a sausage bursting a seam.

Step 2: After getting them blackened and soft with a split seam, so to speak, extract the soft, oozy interior, mashing the strands of eggplantness with a fork while mixing in extra virgin olive oil, crushed (vs. chopped) raw garlic to taste – we use a whole bulb, but we are garlic fanatics), fresh lemon juice and salt.

Step 3:  Try not to eat the entire deliciousness at one setting with a spoon.

Note:  People often add in roasted peppers, parsley and tomato to this salad as well – but we like it straight up.  Patlican salatası rules! Delicious…and never possible, to date, to re-create quite as well Stateside!

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Finally, a kindred spirit amidst the swim parade

Posted on September 4, 2011 by lizcameron

Although the moon shone with sprightly sparkles on the sea, I did not wake up and worry about the next day. My invisible burqini was bringing me some well-needed peace. After throwing my burqini street theatre idea under the proverbial bad-yet-sexy-while-it-lasted-idea-take-the-high-road bus after receiving the magic, invisible burqini from Kenne, Khadijah and the little ladies, I descended to cement beach the next day with renewed resolve and a slightly improved body image self-rating. Kenne took the left shoulder, holding on to my ear as if she were the figurehead of a ship in the 1800s – with Khadijah her mirror image on my right shoulder. Karagöz and Hacivad were nowhere to be seen. Even the chorus of dancing ladies had taken it upon themselves to emerge from my purse for the occasion, draped on the straps of my purse like seagulls on the rope netting of a clipper ship. All the ladies stood proud, tall and lovely, with nary a word between them. They were just focused on drinking up the sun. It was, after all, our last day on cement beach.

M. and I planned to leave the next day in order to wend our way up the coast to Bozcaada, where we would visit M.’s aunt, the reigning matriarch of the family. We had already spent the majority of the morning finalizing our travel plans, with our next stops in Selcuk and Şirince, Ayvalık, and Assos/Behramkale along the way. We had discovered the first edition of what was then a new thing – the guide to small hotels in Turkey – the Kuçuk Oteler Kitabi. Happy with the idea of breaking free from the machine-gun-toting guards, Cuban cigar smoking generals, judges and businessmen and, of course, the ladies of the swim parade on cement beach, I plopped myself down on the usual tanning chair. As usual, I placed myself next to M.’s sister-in-law, and commenced polite chit-chat for as appropriately long as possible before moving to my textbook on Turkish politics. I was relishing the notion of my invisible burqini, of not caring about all the feminine gaze around me and most importantly about the idea of being able to act like myself again, not double-thinking everything, or worrying about how I looked. I wouldn’t miss M.’s sister in law’s checks of my labels (“Oh, not a designer, I see, and a size large?”). I also wouldn’t miss having a sore tummy from holding in my stomach muscles quite so constantly in the waking hours.

I had just tucked into a particularly good section of my book, when a lady plopped herself down on the tanning bed to my right. Greeting M.’s sister-in-law with respect and an open-hearted friendliness that did not seem at all akin to the gold-dripping wrists, honey-tanned bodies and perfectly coiffed hair of the skinny bitches around us, this lady stood apart. She was gorgeous, don’t get me wrong. Petite, tan and raven-haired with red highlights, she exuded a natural beauty – but what was most noticeable about her was her slight plumpness – just like me. “Hello, nice to meet you, çok memnum oldum,” she said, extending her hand warmly, “I hear you are visiting from America? How do you like Türkiye? What intrigues you about our country?” Curious about this new person so different from the other non-interested lady friends of M.’s sister-in-law, I hesitantly responded with a range of rather banal observations, but soon felt myself drawn out in conversation with a potentially kindred spirit.

Knowing that it would be prudent to ask about her children, as I had picked up on this as the vital bit of information to discuss with all women I met in Turkey since they asked ME the question, I planted the question out in the ether between us. Immediately, I regretted this. As a trained therapist and childless person myself, I realized that the infinitesimally quick grey cloud that shadowed her eyes was a dead give-away. “Oh,” she said, quietly, “um, I am not able to have children, but we are talking about adopting a child – and I have so many nieces and nephews.” Realizing that we were in the same boat, so to speak, the women, no-children-first boat, that is, I had to let her know that she was in “safe” territory. “Oh,” I said, putting on my hopefully-kindest smile and reaching out a hand to hers, “me too. I can’t have kids either, I know how it is.” Her smile spread across her face like a giant, spherical golden-hued firework across the deep, dark night sky. “Really,” she said, “I have not met someone else like this. Why can’t you have kids?” Needless to say, we launched into a drawn-out discussion of endometriosis and infertility challenges, and I even broached the topic of M.’s zero population growth political stance that had led to a vasectomy. “Surely,” she said, “this does not rule out adoption, though?” “No, it doesn’t, but as older people, we may feel we are too old to consider adoption – he is 10 years older than and I am also going to have to take care of my younger sister, who has a major disability.”

We moved from our discussion about children to sharing our histories of treatment with the same hormones (her for infertility and endometriosis, me for the control of endometriosis), we decried our collective weight gain from those hormone treatments, the inability to “lose” the tummy fat and the horrible mood swings we had endured on those awful medicines. Laughing hysterically at a range of stories about the latter, including the time that normally police-shy me got in a massive fight with a ticketing policeman, M.’s sister-in-law tried to join in the fun at first, but soon lost interest. Later, my new friend and I walked the swim parade forgetting that it was the swim parade, locked deep in laughter and connection. In the water, we compared our keloid-rich belly scars from numerous surgeries. It felt a little bit like junior high school again, finding a friend you could “click” with like this. Meanwhile, her husband and my boyfriend sat in the cigar smoking section with M.’s brother, wrapped up in discussions of the politics and economics of the day. Yes, it did feel a bit gendered.

As my new friend finished packing her bag to leave cement beach for lunch and a flight back to Istanbul, she embraced me deeply. “I am so glad to meet you, I am so glad,” she said “to not be alone.” No sooner had she said this, than M.’s sister-in-law approached, threading her arm around my new friend’s back “it’s such a shame, you see,” she tried to join in, “that Z. has not been able to have children, it is indeed a woman’s right. As it is your right, and would that M. hadn’t had that vasectomy! It is so selfish.” The bubble was slightly burst, the reality of our environment was back, but it didn’t seem to matter quite as much, we had made a connection. I never saw her again, but she reminded me that the domination of the skinny bitch morphed with the child-bearing/rearing factory that is Turkish womanhood does not reign totally supreme.

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