Tuesday, May 24, 2011

May 24th

My time here has come full-circle. Hot, long days remind me of when I first arrived in Bilecik having no idea where this journey would lead me. Turns out, it lead me a few directions, from Istanbul to Adana, from Ayvalik to Antalya. It also allowed me to confront, in a deep and personal way, the particulars of my life that have caused frusteration. An opportunity to step aside, to live on my own for a year, cultivated a sense of self that won't be broken. Moreover, I've deeply valued my chance to connect with Turks - to put a face to the unfamiliar and the often misunderstood. I'm an American, yes, but more than that, I'm a teacher and a friend.

I know its been overstated, but my heart is overflowing with gratitude. I'm leaving Turkey in a few days, but Turkey will always be a whisper in the back of my head, compelling me to return. And return I will, not only the beautiful city of Istanbul, or to the sites and visions that spawned great civilizations, but to my hometown of Bilecik, pop. 48,000. Humble mosques in tiny villages, snow capped mountains, rolling fields and olive groves, the generosity of local vendors, and the blue of the sea have dug themselves into my conscience, where they will remain for the rest of my days. Turkey has both effortlessly and relentlessly taken hold of me.

But I'm not going back to a hapless existence in all-to-familiar America. I'm moving on with my life in DC for the next two years. I'll continue to study Turkish, and to study Turkey's layered and complex political culture. It's important that, beyond my face-to-face diplomatic presence in Bilecik, I contribute to peace and understanding between America and Turkey in other capacities too. My tenure as a Fulbrighter far from over. I am now able to offer up a rich portrait of a country so misunderstood by Americans. It's more than kebab and baklava, chief.

Last weekend, I took a trip with a few friends to the coastal town of Ayvalik. There I was, an American, sitting on a Turkish beach, a French family to my left, reading the Indian Rushdie's book on Nicaragua, The Jaguar Smile, listening to Rihanna blaring through nearby speakers, and sipping something from yet another country. The year has brought the world together for me, not only in the superficial way globalization has transformed sleepy Ayvalik beach into the UN, but mainly in the way intellectual connections minimize differences between people of (not so) different cultures and societies.

I'll go back to my flat now, and mill about in the living room for a bit before falling asleep. I'll cherish every moment of it too.

Friday, May 13, 2011

Restored Ottoman houses in Eskisehir

May 13th

I write to you on the official beginning of my summer vacation. I celebrated in the most honest way I could, sleeping in late, going for a run, listening to NPR, eventually getting breakfast (it was 2:00 by then), and relaxing at a favorite cafe surfing the web and reading as the sky outside changed from grey to dark grey. It is raining now, which isn't unusual in Bilecik. But because I've already touched upon the weather in previous posts, I need not go there. the weather is, however, one of the few things I can comment on in Turkish, so it's something I'm especially keen towards. You never know when that everyday conversation about weather can turn into a Turkish vocabulary lesson.

I plan on visiting Istanbul as early as tomorrow to relish in the urban magic for what may be one of my final chances to do so. The pages are running out on the Bilecik experience. Istanbul, however, is the most beautiful city in the world and the subject of countless chapters of books, and artist's images and compositions. It is the heart and soul of Turkey's past, present, and future, swiftly flying forward while keeping it's eyes fastened on the richness of its very own history.

I friend of mine, on a Watson Fellowship, has just settled down in Istanbul, on the next leg of her journey through 7 (?) countries. She's an artist, truly and completely, and I'm grateful for her exposure to such a lavish Well of inspiration.

Perhaps it's my own fault that I haven't tapped into the artistic consciousness of Turkey. I've grappled more so with the layers of identity, and the political push and pull of the government. In fact, my only exposure to Turkey's art movement were the articles and images I digested of the Monument to Humanity, representing friendship between the Turks and the Armenians in the eastern city on Kars. It's deconstruction so moved me that I acquired a sour taste concerning the governments lack of openness and compassion. It was an uncomfortable narrative to follow, especially in awareness of the strong undercurrent of guilt and shame bubbling up within the soul of a country manipulating history to fit what it wishes to have happened.

I watched a YouTube video last evening of Dr. King describing the difference between non-resistance and non-violent resistance. The provocative nature of non-violent resistance was intended to place great shame on the white population at the time. It effectively ripped the white conscience from its contentment, compelling it to stare strait into the eye of injustice; to confront its vile guilt. It reminded me of the monument, the necessity of art as a means by which to evolve not only on the basis of a singular event, but in terms of overall thought. Art does what academics fail to do in revealing not only the intellectual, but the wholly human side of things. The academic, the journalist, can report on the deaths of a thousand. The artist, however, can make you feel it. I regret the monuments destruction. I applaud its capacity to have done forced one step closer, an accurate view of the past and a hopeful image of tomorrow.

I remember reading Reza Abdoh for the first time in an Contemporary Drama class at Wheaton. I felt literally ill, nauseous reading his play. The gruesome imagery, over-the-top violence, perverse sexuality, and the grandiosity of it all prepared me to march into class the next day and vilify Abdoh's identity as an artist. All I really needed to alter my view of the drama, however, was a brief backstory of the artist. Iranian-born, gay, dead of AIDS at 32. His work was a giant F*CK YOU, compliments of the powerless and the voiceless. The visceral response emerged from reading his work was a projection of his very own reality - an image of the world I wasn't prepared to confront. I dismissed the genius of Abdoh because I couldn't, at the time, face the music. What does it mean for one's village to be bombed, to be imprisoned and under siege? Turkey, I feel, is dealing with the same thing, albeit with a frightening degree of intolerance. We can hope and pray for art to emerge as a powerful medium of intellectual and spiritual enlightenment amidst societies everywhere.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Oh yea... Antalya

I almost failed to mention Antalya - a coastal oasis of pure splendor whereupon a sizable group of Fulbrighters descended to a final group goodbye. Because I arrived late at night on a flight from Ankara, it wasn't until morning that I was able to catch a good view of the crisp greenish-blue ocean water, the jagged, looming mountains resigned to the background, and the vast shining sky. I half expected to walk strait into a green-screen by virtue of the too-perfect view, but the sea, the mountains, all of it, was real.

The Fulbright conglomerate stayed in an "all-inclusive" resort - a shameless push-back against the "native lifestyles" we've been leading for the last nine months. About 35 of us hung about the outdoor pool by day, even taking brief excursions to the ocean located across the street. At night, I was lucky enough to escape, with a good friend of mine, to a local cafe to reflect on our experiences and to avoid the brazen assemblage of middle-class Eastern Europeans that occupy such places.

It was a nice to realize just how similar our experiences had been, in terms of our own growth and how our attitudes and sensibilities have changed over time. The focus on a theme of connections and similarities between peoples and cultures has so far evolved my thinking in my capacity to see things for what they truly are. The sense of liberation stirred out of an absence of overpowering allegiances has allowed for a seemingly more objective approach to the world. This catalyst in my intellectual trajectory has felt nourishing and deeply personal, and I hope to maintain that sense in the presence of overwhelming and conflicting intellectual enterprise.

I got sunburned, but not too badly. Hours of fun on the water-slide (yea, you read that correctly), regardless of the layer upon layer of SPF, will get you if you're skin is near translucent-white, as mine was. It was one hell of a weekend, and I'm especially thankful to the colleagues who bit the bullet and organized the whole shabang. Kudos where they're due.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

May 10th

It's the final week of classes. I'm reviewing grammar tenses with the students and saying 'good-bye' to a wonderful group of students. I look back with a sense of gratitude and nostalgia - a slight pulling of the heart strings that came over me last night as I walked home from my final Monday class with a colleague and a friend of mine. In many ways, I've learned as much from the students as they've learned from my lessons and perhaps more. More than anything else, I hope my students have seen me as a person devoted to their well-being. Some of my students, I've heard through the grapevine, believe I've pushed them further than perhaps other English teachers. I wouldn't have it any other way. If anything, it's an indication that I want them to succeed. And while I'm not certain how much I've helped in terms of improving their ability to comprehend the English language, I am glad that I was able to project my passion and enthusiasm.

I'm ending each class with a 'thank you' and a promise: that I will go back home and tell friends and family about them. It's especially important, now, that we take steps to humanize those with whom we have yet to interact with. I hope I can project helpful information and reveal a very "human side" to the geographical and cultural boundaries separating Turkey and the US.

I'll spend the next few weeks flipping through my mental rolodex, dwelling on the significance of this year in terms of the difference I hope I've made (and have yet to make), and my own personal emotional, spiritual, and intellectual growth. I understand the frustrations I may have returning to the States, and there's no better time to prepare for that. This year has been transformative in a way I could have never expected. No longer do I feel occupied by allegiances I've maintained for years now. My existence is more free than that. My home is wherever I am, and wherever I find comfort and solace. It is the human experience above all else that encapsulates, warms, and protects me.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

May 4th

I've had a bit more time to reflect on the death of bin Laden and subsequent reactions from all over the country. A wave of positive reinforcement, and the continuous and tedious search and desire for bloody details promulgated by the media after bin Laden's death has left me feeling a bit empty, a bit upset, and quite ashamed. Many, it seems, have ignited in fervent, almost primal praise of the deed. Many have engaged in enthusiastic bellicosity and in-your-face nationalism. But I fear, that to many Muslim-Americans, and Muslims worldwide, the war cries of so many translate into something beyond the positive and rather benign recognition of the fall of an murderous individual. As a friend noted in a recent post to Facebook, chants of "F*** yea America!" sound much like chants of "F*** you Muslims!," especially given how powerful the ongoing wave of anti-Muslim sentiment has grown.

It is unequivocally true that US news outlets, and what seems like the greater part of the Republican Party, have engendered fierce animosity and hatred towards Muslims. Pundits and talking head warn of shari'a law as if they have any idea what it even means. Their ignorance is as dangerous as any terrorist, however, in it's capacity to be heard and believed by millions of people, and especially those people whose only understanding of Islam stems from a broader social text littered with coverage of the World Trade Center, burning and falling to the ground. A new anti-semitism has emerged too easily from the ashes of ground zero, and it's against this backdrop that the raucous nationalism projects itself as something more than a celebration of the fall of bin Laden. Images of Americans clamoring over one another, waving flags in ecstatic fashion, and bellowing "God Bless America," to me eerily mirror images fed to us of ecstatic Muslims in the Middle East, burning flags, and bellowing their own propaganda.

As such, any neo-Conservative, any American seeking to proudly assert the myth of "American exceptionalism," would be opposed to such a raucous celebration of bin Laden's death. Aren't we, as Americans, supposed to assume the moral high-ground? Aren't we, as Americans, above the tendency of our foes, to lose ourselves in moments of rage, violence, and revenge?

I am not suggesting that bin Laden's death wasn't to be received with a sense of relief and a restored sense of patriotism. Rather, I noticed the trappings of a vengeful country swept up in the moment. From my perspective, my my vantage point in Bilecik, Turkey, the celebration adopted an element of militancy and "us vs. them" fanaticism. It is natural to hope for, and to feel a sense of ease when justice is actualized. I honestly felt that way when the news flashed upon my computer screen. I felt relieved for those effected by bin Laden's insanity. I felt a sense of goodness, but in no way did I seek to assert a supremacy or invested pride in our countries ability to "get back" at the enemy. I sought not to understand the perverted details of his death. I've avoided the abundance of news stories attempting to find answers to questions that frankly shouldn't be raised. Exploring the details of bin Laden's gruesome demise turns his assassination into theatre - into a performance glorifying the very ideology he promoted - the ideology of violence, of destruction, and not of Islam. In this way, I imagine him smiling at us from afar - aware of his perverted influence and hoping our hatred towards one another will grow.

I pray, then, that the desperate voices in service of peace drown out the vengeful eruption of support for American militancy. Fighting hatred with hatred is nonsense, as so many of history's great leaders have proclaimed. I am glad that bin Laden is gone, but I refuse to bask in the projected glory of an act of violence, no matter how justified.

Monday, May 2, 2011

May 2nd

I delivered a most confusing, vexing, lesson tonight, leaving my students stunned, dazed, and looking for answers in a dark vortex of foreign language nonsense. It didn’t help that my poor students had just completed a mammoth exam – relentlessly long and complex – that left them with their mouths only slightly more ajar than their heavy eyelids. I hadn’t realized how confusing the Past Perfect could be until it was mine to present, and in a PowerPoint presentation with 50% fewer pictures of cats doing funny things no less. Of the strategies and routines I’ve developed in the process of becoming a better teacher, I’ve realized how essential it is to play to your audience. Cat-loving students, therefore, get cat visuals to help them remember comparatives and superlatives, the past continuous tense, and nightly routines. So long as the students are at least slightly entertained, they’ll absorb more information than otherwise. I also quiz weekly, which keeps them less happy but more studious. Cats and quizzes, when employed together, can work wonders on even the most unmotivated student.

Life outside of class has been plentiful, meaning my teaching hours have become increasingly scarce as the end of the year approaches. Pomp and circumstance, and the extra exams, have supplanted regular class time. Finding things to do hasn’t been too much of a challenge though. I’ve been running more often, especially now that Spring has unfurled and Bilecik is forever warm. I read a great deal at the Simit Sarayi establishment, new to Bilecik, with its outdoor seating arrangement and its delicious chai. I thank God for these warm afternoons, basking in an experience I understand to be as significant a part of my life as any. My presence has already, I know, dispelled certain ideas about Americans. I particularly find this true in light of my developed relationships to those living and working in town – the store and restaurant owners, the police wandering the streets, and the factory workers. People still stare at me. But it’s this tension, leaning up against the unknown, which compels the mind to reevaluate and to reconsider what’s been assumed.

My job in Turkey, beyond the teaching and the cultural lessons, is to exist as an American in Bilecik. What that means is different for different people, but so long as people can lay eyes on me, and understand that I laugh and think and smile and offer whatever humanity I can muster in a day, I am surprisingly similar in the most basic ways. I am part of this human family that, too often, and so easily, is torn and divided across senseless lines and my job is to uncloak this.

I bring this up in the wake of bin Laden’s death, and my own uncomfortable feelings rejoicing the death of an individual. I think back on the gravity of bin Laden’s career – the mass murder, the bastardization of a beautiful and complete religion, the exploitation and brainwashing of thousands – and I cannot help but find within myself a sense of ease. But immediately that sense of ease is disturbed not by the individual act of killing off a mass murderer, but the scope and ferocity of war and pain in our fragile world that bin Laden so represented. It is exactly what has allowed me to cherish his execution, and what has subverted my most passionate feelings of peace and love. It’s troubling and dark, and I’m most justified and bothered by my feelings.