Back in the US

I’m on a flight from Istanbul to New York. After landing in New York, I’ll take a small flight to Boston, and be home soon thereafter. I’m in a bizarre state of mind right now. I will miss Turkey deeply and I’ve determined I’ll be back. Not just once for a visit or a tour around the country, but to stay for a long period of time, to live once again among the mosques and the bucolic scenery. I plan on making Turkey somewhat of a second home.

I’ve learned a great deal, much of which has already been mentioned, and it’ll be interesting to learn more from my experience upon reflection. I remember returning from my semester abroad in Egypt and slowly witnessing how my experience there affected me back at home – how it slowly unraveled, forever altering, or giving consciousness to, my American reality.

For that, I am grateful. And having lived in Turkey for 9 months has allowed me to conceptualize the world in an entirely different way all over again, though more so than I thought possible. It is unimaginable to those who haven’t experienced life in another country just how connected humanity seems. It requires, I believe, more than a trip here or there to get a taste of it. It requires a prolonged stay and conscious openness.

I spent my final day in Turkey in Istanbul. I fortunately woke up early that day and had a good amount of hop around and see what I had wanted to see before leaving. I wandered through the chic neighborhoods of Bebek and Ortakoy, lined with cafes overlooking the Bosphorous. I even decided on a Bosphorous tour – essentially an hour boat ride with no real agenda. The tour boat just kind of drifts around for a while before returning to the dock, but it’s relaxing. I had coffee with a friend near the Yeni Camii, where fishermen populate the bridge over the Golden Horn. It's a busy place, with boats speeding in and out, and craft dealers begging the attention of wandering tourists. Dinner was at a swanky restaurant in Sultanahmet, where the famous Blue Mosque and the Aya Sofya solemnly stare each other down not a thousand feet from one another. The food was decent, but the view of the ocean was spectacular.

The evening was special. I went, with a few friends, to a nargile cafe in an ancient stone marketplace near Sultanahmet. We sat, chatted, took in the ambiance, and met a few others’ in the mostly crowded space we occupied. In true Istanbul fashion, we met a few people from Iran and ending up sharing their birthday cake. It was delicious and a nice, celebratory way to end my time. The mix of Persian, Turkish, and English swirled about the room like the smoke from our water pipes.

Back at the airport my friend and I shared the surreal experience of abruptly being tossed back into the US. A few observations through the lens of an American turned Turk turned American:

- Americans are a shabby bunch. Since when did sweatpants and shorts replace trousers, hmm? I felt like I was I was at a huge slumber party rather than JFK.

- Americans work hard… but they’re miserable (this is based on 5 of the 6 cashiers I saw).

- Americans drink comically huge beverages. Why order a glass of water when you can order a tub of cola for 25 cents more!?!?!

I’ve been back for a few days now. It’s an indescribable feeling, really. The first morning back, I struggled to order an iced coffee. I think I’ve become rather soft-spoken after 10 months in solitude. I tried coughing out the words only half-successfully.

It’s not as if things seem new to me again. Actually everything seems familiar, only undercut by a sense of weirdness. I may be feeling some residual anxiety about being back. Because I’m newly returned, my surroundings have adopted a foreignness despite their familiarity. It’s as if there’s something mildly “off,” and I have yet to determine the roots of that strangeness.

So I reckon it’ll take a little while to feel completely re-acclimated. I’m sad about not hearing the call to prayer anymore. Though by the end of my time in Turkey I had barely noticed it, I feel its absence.

My Fulbright experience will only grow on me. I will continue to miss what is no more. I will strive to hold onto the values of a society more devoted to community. The selflessness I received from colleagues and friends and students will forever remain appreciated and loved.

Lastly, I am most grateful for a new perspective – a more broad view of the world that will carry me far and compel me to pursue peace and equality in an effort to bridge the seemingly vast differences we choose to exploit amongst one another. That being said, my experience has given me faith in peace and in the propensity for humanity to grasp onto links, no matter how fine, that draw us closer together and give us a sense of our identities as members of a greater human family.

Outside of Chora Church, Istanbul.

June 1st

The God's are telling me to go. Either that, or I've gone off the deep end. Too much alone time? Too little English? Hormones? All of that. Not only was I the only American at the track today, but I was the only person wearing shorts. And if those two characteristics aren't strange enough for the covered elderly couples who monopolize Edebali Stadyum between the hours of 3 and 7, than the fact that I was running barefoot was.

In radical, hasty decisiveness, my roommate moved to an apartment sans electricity. Having just returned from a baklava and karisik kebab bender in Gaziantep, I needed a comfortable spot to be. I've serendipitously come full circle, now residing in the hotel I was kept for the first month or so when I first arrived. Only this time, it's me, not the University, paying the bill. The stress of having to deal with sudden homelessness, compounded with my final trip to the Rector's Office for a quick gesture of appreciation, and where I was subject to a not-so-subtle anti-semitic lecture/narcissistic diatribe, was a bit much. I checked into the hotel, flung my belongings on the ground, and reached for my running sneakers. But they weren't there. Though my roommate didn't care to move my luggage with the rest of the apartment, he still managed to take my running sneakers. But after a long day - one rife with homelessness and anti-semitism - I had to take it out on the track. Lack of sneakers wouldn't stop me. I slid on my running gear and... my slip-on boat shoes... and trudged up to the stadium. Yea, it was weird, but I needed to burn off the stress and excess baklava.

I'm once again living out of my suitcases. I'm about all packed up, which is a weird feeling. And tomorrow, I'll spend the day making the rounds, saying good-bye's and see-you-later's. Everyone I run into is asking if I'll be back next year. It's sad telling them I won't, but they're excited to hear that I'll continue learning Turkish and that, one day, inshallah, I'll be back.

Now is your opportunity to ask for things. I'll hopefully print out a number of my better photographs and perhaps use them for gifts when I get home, but if there's a certain something you're dying for, something sparked by a mysterious, Orientalist, fantasy you've had since your childhood, I can try to find that certain something in the marketplace. Things I can't take home: monkeys, swords, carpets of the flying variety (they take themselves home), those ridiculous Aladdin pants (out of principle).

This is 100th post. I'm bound to write one more, probably on the melancholy flight back to America when I'm finished watching 'Karate Kid' and 'Kung Fu Panda 2' on the tiny screens embedded in the headrests.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Kariye Kilisesi. Istanbul, Turkiye

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).