Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Tavla

It's known as backgammon in the States, and only as a relatively obscure game taking a backseat to more famous titles like 'Sorry,' or 'Parcheesi.' But in Turkey, or at least Bilecik, 'Tavla,' as it's known, is a powerful social medium. The cafe at least provides a forum for talented tavla players to flex their fingers and a game - I've discovered - is part luck and a big part skill. I'm still a fledgling in the tavla arena, and to my surprise, I haven't improved a lick. I'm still unaccustomed to the various strategies employed by some of my students. Students, in fact, who have exceptionally difficult times speaking English can find a way to communicate vindictively and quite effectively with a good 'ole tavla routing leaving me blistered and wincing at the thought of another round.

I've been so effectively beaten that tavla is being put on the back shelf for the time being. That is, until I'm asked to inadvertently provide entertainment and a boost of the ego to the most timid and unassuming of my students, sitting in the dim light of my favorite cafe.

See you all soon!

Monday, April 25, 2011

April 25th

I don't want to let go of this experience - of the exposure to new thoughts and perspectives, and of the trail of self-exploration I've been hacking my way through. It's seemed so rich - so full - in part because it's marked the entry of my post-undergrad life. Turkey, to me, is more than just an unique experience teaching abroad. It is also my first apartment, my first salary, my first days entirely independent and free of personalities I've grown accustomed to. Though I've been on the other side of the classroom, teaching English and US culture to hundreds of Turkish students, I've felt myself more a student of life than ever before. Anxiety-ridden dreams, now, are about returning to the States and not having the independence I've savored - the time to myself to ponder, drink chai, read, and live in the present. I long to continue to notice the trees, to appreciate a beautiful landscape, to be able to lose myself in moments of fullness and gratitude.

Turkey has expanded my mind more than I ever could have imagined. Through my time spent with students, colleagues, and townspeople, I've acquired an understanding of others' perspectives more than I thought I would. I see in Turkey the trappings of youth and insecurity that characterize America too. Waves of bigotry, hatred, misunderstanding in the name of nationalism hold many people captive, and with great capacity, overtake people's ability to view peace with openness or even favorability. A more disturbing product of this blinding influence has played itself out in the Turkish town of Kars, as a giant sculpture known as the Monument to Humanity was arranged to be torn down. Demolition of the monument meant to promote Turkish-Armenian friendship began yesterday - the annual day devoted to remembrance of the Armenian Genocide. The act is heartbreaking not only in its actualization, given what the monument stands for, but in the notion that the work of the artist is meaningless. The decision to tear the monument down tears at the heartstrings of those who understand that artists provide value beyond intellectual enterprise. The magnitude of the monument, an 18-stories tall on the top of a hill, represents a devastating contradiction to the lies sold to Turkish society by a nationalist school curriculum. Its size is meant to be offensive to the prevailing social notion, as citizens are forced to grapple with the uncomfortable, perhaps disturbingly ironic meaning of a Turkish-Armenian friendship statue. Artists speak directly to, and evolve the consciousness, of a society. Art of this nature dispelled and trod upon is cancerous and heart breaking to witness.

I've had the privilege to mull over such topics. While I've picked up few, if any, academic articles, my intellectual curiosity has been quenched in other ways. More importantly, I've stirred and cultivated a sense of the world beyond the walls of intelligence, it seems. I can't say I've experienced a "spiritual rebirth." That would be weird. If anything, I believe Turkey has influenced my priorities. I don't imagine growing apart from what I've learned here. If anything, my journey this year has been a substantial stepping-stone towards where I plan to be in the future - at peace with myself and my commitment to understanding the world, especially that which is not mine.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

April 21st

I've found a renewed interest walking around town, past the feline pilgrimage sites, the old, dilapidated buildings, the stands of fresh produce, and the now-familiar streets. My renewed interest is a product of a keen awareness that this experience will forever remain in my memory banks. I want to realize it, to live it to its fullest in the moment. I want to suck the sap dry of my time time here, and although I know it's impossible, the goal is a good one. For the pat week or so, however, the weather has been an dark mix of greys, blues, and off-whites relentlessly pushing out the sun and leaving Bilecik in a cold, damp, stoic state. Weather has a way of beating you down - and then keeping you there. But alas, today the sun poked through the ceiling of vast grey and hung around for awhile. In fact, I think it's supposed to stay nice for a few days.

This is a good thing because I've finally got a few more visitors making the journey to Bilecik. Fulbrighters, this time from Nevsehir, are staying and we plan to visit nearby points of interest - namely Eskisehir and Bursa. In Eskisehir, on one of way lazy weekends staying in the region, I finally found a neighborhood a had heard of for quite awhile. Beyond the main drive, where the cafe's, the malls, and the canal lie, there is a neighborhood of renovated Ottoman houses, painted in beautiful colors, lining cobblestone streets. I was pleased to find it, and more pleased to have had the opportunity to walk around, snap some photos, and locate a small little restaurant with delicious Turkish cuisine (what else would it have, right?). The owners were particularly friendly and spoke to me in Turkish. I nodded my head, desperately hoping it was an appropriate response to whatever it was they spoke of.

Only a few more weeks left of class. I'm deliberating as to what I'll do after. Something fun, something adventurous, something bold. I'll keep you posted.

Much love.


Tuesday, April 12, 2011

April 12th

Every moment is a gem. I'm trying to keep that in perspective as my experience wanes and a new beginning in the States inches closer. This semester, in particular, has been light. My days haven't been molded by routine as they were last semester, especially as the weather blooms and the students become more relaxed. One week of mid-terms actually turned into two to three weeks of classes sans students, for example.

At this point, I'm not complaining. I'm enjoying an easier atmosphere, quite different from what I've been accustomed to. This feeling could also be the result of alternate teaching hours. I have busy days juxtaposed with simple days, and I have only one three-hour class this semester as opposed to the three I had last semester. Class prep time has therefore diminished. As the weather turns, I've also found more impetus and ability to run, and it's become somewhat of a ritual.

I wake up, throw on shorts, wind-pants, and a t-shirt, and make my way across town, to where there's a soccer stadium towards the top of a steep hill, in the center of a pleasant middle-class neighborhood. The stadium has a track enclosing the soccer field, and that's where I run. The circular path ain't much fun. I see the same scenery every two minutes, but it's a peaceful area frequented by few. I end the workout with pull-ups and chin-ups on a nearby stationary structure, moreso to spend a few extra moments in the sun than anything else, before trudging back home passed the simit vendor with the winter cap and the hoarse voice.

I do this often, and my legs are tired of it. Today I took a day off, and not because my legs were sore, but because it was cold. The weather here remains a mystery. It teases and taunts with warmth and sun before raining down cold and dark. Last Saturday, for example, I was pelted with hail.

This prolonged hiatus from busyness, caffeine-addiction, and late night paper-writing has done me good. I feel rested, revived, and I'll hopefully carry this on for awhile in the States. I wonder what it is about US culture that turns us into zombies? We're busy, yea, but we're also obsessed with being busy. It's totally an image thing. Being miserable validates us. We never take time to ponder the peculiarities of every-day life. I like to ponder the way cigarette smoke seductively and carelessly dances about, tumbling into itself. I spent a few minutes today wondering why my mouth felt chalky after eating spinach. I hope this childlike fascination with things, which has re-emerged in Turkey, doesn't leave anytime soon.

I'll write again soon, maybe.

Saturday, April 9, 2011

Between Bilecik and Bursa

While a number of Fulbrighters met up in Antalya - a beautiful resort area in the south - I decided to hang back and hold onto the final glimpses of Bilecik and its surrounding area. I'm not sure how much opportunity I'll have to day-trip to Eskisehir, and to Bursa, where I ventured today. One thing I'll miss upon return is the scenic, winding drive between Bilecik and Bursa. The verdant, bucolic landscape reminds me of images of Ireland, and as you near Bursa, snow-capped peaks emerge to dominate the landscape, severing thoughts of Ireland but remaining undoubtedly beautiful and majestic in its own way. I love the ride, particularly because it provides endless spectacle, and I seem to notice new sights every time the bus tears dangerously around the winding, cliff-hanging roads.

Antalya can wait. It can wait four weeks. I'll be there then for an end-of-the-year celebration, soaking in the sun on a beautiful beach somewhere and doing my best not to devastate my skin. Sunscreen, please. Between then and now, I've got plans. Istanbul, another Bursa trip with a good friend, and perhaps an Ankara trip are in the planning stages. While I know I'll miss Bilecik tenderly, I simply can't be here alone for an extended period of time or else I find myself counting dust particles a the nose of dozing dog, or something. It's a cruel paradox.

As many of you may have imagined, the 'Koran Burning' episode made its way to Turkish media sources. For those of you not quite up to speed on the while situation, "pastor" Terry Jones of Florida decided to go through with his planned Koran burning. The event was immediately denounced by President Hamid Karzai of Afghanistan, enflaming the rage of Afghani townspeople. Several mullahs incited action and when all was said and done, at least 12 UN employees had been murdered.

The rage, the insensitivity, the blindness, the antithetical manifestation of core religious values is depraved, though deserves to be examined. Everyone in this situation is to blame, obviously. From Mr. Jones's rash decision to burn a holy text, to Karzai's zealous denouncement, to the murderous mullahs provocation, to the murders themselves, jeopardizing the already fragile web of humanity in Afghanistan. Admit that after a campaign to rid the country of the Taliban and of al-Qaeda, which tragically resulted in the deaths of thousands of innocents, a residue of senseless violence settles and festers. To see a country torn to pieces destroys, beyond measure, a comprehension of humanity, of goodness, of love. So does an event such as the one we're addressing surprise anyone? It shouldn't, for that would mean we're underestimating the obliterative nature of war. We're failing to understand the grotesque reality out of convenience. If we knew - if we had any modicum of awareness - of what it means to live in a village pummeled by bombs and riddled with gunfire, we may wrap our head around how little it must have taken to spark fury in the hearts of regular townspeople. What happened shouldn't surprise us.

Alas, it frightens me to hear of the sweeping trend of Islamophobia in the US and I hope my year in Turkey will spark some conversations that prevent any lack of tolerance towards Muslims, and more broadly, Islam. I read a powerful article by a friend of mine last night, and it reminded me just how blind and misinformed many people have become, and deliberately so it seems, out of a sense of fear. Jihad is not holy war, he reminds us. Moreover, there is no such thing as a "holy war." In fact, war cannot be labeled "holy" under any circumstance, even when religiously justified. In other words, stop listening to the pundits, or the extremists (including Mr. Jones and Mr. Glenn Beck and, yes, Mr. bin Laden).

The mind is always looking for ways to neatly categorize, and the political rhetoric surrounding Islam in essence defines it for a broad demographic of Americans. It will contribute to an even stronger wave of anti-Islamic sentiment. People listen to politicians, and its hugely irresponsible for them to address topics they know nothing about. An ignorant comment, in such a context, isn't harmless. It's as dangerous as the gun, or the bomb it provokes. That goes for both sides, as the news this week demonstrates.

Stay peaceful.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

It Takes More Than One to Make a Thing Go Right

Thank God for my Fulbright family. The truth of my friendship with many of them has been unraveling in a revealing way. At times, I don't know how I'd be doing without them, especially the few I've grown particularly close with. We all realize we're in this together, and our situations, despite differences in geographical placement, teaching hours, responsibilities, schedules, all overlap in broad similarities.

As was openly acknowledged at the mid-year Fulbright meeting in Ankara a few weeks back, this particular group has undergone particular strains not common to a typical "Fulbright experience." We were, as unfortunate as it sounds, the "guinea pigs" of an expanded program that chose to place grantees in remote towns and villages rather than cosmopolitan urban centers. Many of our deemed hosts had little idea we were even coming, as the communication jumble between Fulbright, YOK (Turkey's sorry excuse for a Education Commission), and the individual Universities became, well, jumbled. I think we all felt a little better at the end of our mid-year meeting, having had the opportunity to breathe fire into the faces of bureaucrats wearing naive smiles and oversized suits. I may sound bitter, but I'm not. Conversely, I'm grateful for such a unique experience. I've grown, absolutely, as a person in my ability to confront and navigate tough situations. Also, I've taken advantage of my solitude, confronting and exploring who I am and who I hope to be. I remain acutely aware of how I'm feeling most of the time.

Which brings me back to my Fulbright amigos. While solitude is nice, and while it can teach you things about yourself you never imagined, it walks sometimes dangerously close to loneliness. My frequent conversations and weekend trips to the homes of welcoming faces confronting the same experiences I am is refreshing and appreciated. While we hail from diverse backgrounds, we all have enough in common to laugh about.

In a few weeks, I'll be with most of them in a beautiful place on the southern coast of Turkey: Antalya. Look it up - the pictures are nice. At this point, despite a fairly lax schedule, I could use some beach time.

My students are improving. Quiz scores are up. Keep in touch. Miss you (yea, you).

Sunday, April 3, 2011

The view from my street.

A Stranger in Bilecik

I returned from Izmir today, and traversed tiredly to my favorite restaurant after dropping off my bags in the flat. Not long into meal, a foreigner stumbled in, found a seat, and began to graze. To my great surprise, he was a native English speaker from Australia. I learned this overhearing the Turkish waiter ask where he was from in broken, fragmented English. "Vare.. eh hey hey .. vare are you frohm?," he had asked. "Australia," the Australian replied.

I finished my dish, payed, and walked over to introduce myself. It's truly a novelty finding a native English speaker in Bilecik. I was shocked, and only then realized how fantastically bizarre it is for anyone in Bilecik to encounter me. I respect the townspeoples caution now, and realize the looks, perpetual wide-eyed stares, prolonged gazes in my direction are simply a natural reaction. After all, my reaction was quite similar. As I approached, I considered giving the gentleman a swift poke, just to see what would happen. "What will English-speaker man do?," I thought to myself. I refrained from doing so and instead struck up a little conversation about what had brought him to the area. Turns out, he's a business man looking to buy marble and stone. Bilecik is just the place for this. My route to school every day is littered with massive industrial factories producing granite, marble, porcelain, and aluminum. For his sake, I hope it's cheap but of high quality.

The gentleman also told me he'd been here 20 years ago on a backpacking trip. I was astonished and he laughed at my expression. He was reminded, he said, of just how "developing" Turkey is upon visiting Bilecik. Beyond the limits of cosmopolitan super-cities like Istanbul, Izmir, and Bursa, smaller towns still reflect a lifestyle without many of the modern amenities we in the US (and Australia) are so accustomed to. I told him I can't wait to come back after 20 years.

As weird as it was to run across a native English speaker, I was very happy to have met him. We talked a bit about yoga and solitude and Turkey. I admired his openness and his charm. He possessed a certain sense of self he claimed to have acquired through yoga. I'm acquiring that same sense in different ways, and I'm so grateful for that.