6. Lights, Camera, Istanbul (Part 1)
An impromptu street scene on the steps of Istanbul’s Fatih Mosque. Photo by Alicia Michelle.
August 29th, 2014. 4:30 PM.
Curtain time.
The plane entered its descent over Istanbul, to an overture of screaming babies.
Upon the cabin crews’ request and in preparation for landing, those in possession of window seats lifted their window blinds.
The abyss had materialized into an expanse of shimmering turquoise. The Black Sea, dotted with cargo ships and yachts, and the choppy Bosporus straight, mixed and mingled between a rolling landscape tapestry of minarets and domes.
The wheels hit the tarmac. Then I realized. All the planning in the world couldn’t accommodate for the barriers in my mind.
I had arrived, without a hitch and, according to the airline pilots, ahead of schedule. The curtain for my debut in the big, wide world rose and there I stood backstage, trembling with stage fright as I studied directions signs at the disembarkment gate.
The audience, the world, awaited me. If I stepped into the spotlight, who in the big, wide world would see me? If I stepped onto the stage, would I even be seen at all?
The choice was mine. Stay hidden and stagnant behind the curtain? Or step onto the stage, where I’d be visible and vulnerable to any who saw me?
The Black Sea and the Bosporus Straight. Photo by Meriç Dağlı on Unsplash.
With freshly stamped passport and print-out map in-hand, I set out for Istanbul’s Sultanahmet neighborhood with a pocket full of Turkish lira and a fist full of pre-paid metro tokens.
Ataturk airport was located at the terminus of one of Istanbul’s six metro lines, making for an easy transit to Sultanahmet. The ride from the airport, however, took about 30 minutes, so I settled into a window seat at last. The stage’s backdrop unfolded before me and I saw.
Something was amiss in Turkey.
Turkish history spans across eons and empires. To recount it in full means writing a tome, one that is both literally and figuratively more Byzantine than this memoir. While it would behoove you to do your homework before visiting Turkey, you’ll get partial credit if you study one person: Mustafa Kemal Ataturk.
Airport name aside, visitors are likely to see a portrait of Ataturk, dapper in white tie and with eyebrows for days, before they see the Blue Mosque or the Bosporus Bridge. I certainly did; two sets of eyes watched me store my carryon bag in the airport’s lockers.
Mustafa Kemal Atatürk (unknown date).
Colloquially known as the “Father of Modern Turkey”, Ataturk was a statesman elected to office after the Ottoman Empire’s disintegration in 1922. With a fussy newborn Turkish Republic to raise, Atatürk nurtured a new, secular Turkish identity by implementing a series of radical social, economic, and political reforms throughout his tenure in office until his death in 1938. Of these reforms, replacing Ottoman Turkish script with Latin-based phonetics, women’s suffrage, and mandatory, free primary school education, are some of his most notable.
To know and understand Ataturk is to know and understand modern Turkey, as his reforms pushed Turkish society out from the shadows of the “backwards” East and into the limelight of the West. Throughout the mid-20th century, Turkey became its own iteration of the world’s golden child, a shining example of how, under the right tutelage, the East can relinquish its “savage” ways and join the cool kids at the Western democracy table.
Nearly a century after Ataturk’s death, Turkey had developed an identity crisis.
A year prior to my arrival, Turkey was rocked by the Gezi Park protests. What began as peaceful sit-ins against redevelopment in Istanbul, quickly boiled over into mass protests against everything the Turkish government had come to represent.
“What is really backwards and what is really forwards?” Turkey asked. “The East or the West?”
There was no way to tell, as a series of post-Ataturk coups throughout the 20th century, a diet dictatorship presidency under Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, and the Gezi Park protests had scrambled the country’s sense of direction.
The seamless rolling tapestry from the plane was actually an incohesive patchwork quilt, sewn together with fraying thread. Tradition, the East, encapsulated by temples of God and Ottoman-era housing fashioned from wood and stone, nestled next to modernity, the West, high-rise temples of capitalism and skyscrapers assembled from steel and glass.
Or perhaps my Western eyes interpreted the view incorrectly; modernity, and all the sensibilities it implied, threatened to engulf and destroy tradition as cranes and demolition machinery hunched over the skyline.
An example of Ottoman-era housing. Photo by Ahmet Sali on Unsplash
Intermixed with it all were hundreds, thousands…countless…refugees. Migrants of every age and gender, displaced by the war in neighboring Syria to the south. A segment of humanity whose involuntary residence in Turkey was seen as an occupation, stuck in a purgatory between modernity and tradition, living in tent cities along the highways and in the shade of bridges over the Bosporus.
What was a new world to some was an old world to others; Istanbul’s locals proceeded with their lives as if the wheel of history wasn’t turning rapidly beneath their feet. They moved with nonchalance. They spoke with nonchalance. The kind of nonchalance that was required to carry on while bearing witness to trauma.
The train’s passenger makeup shifted as we approached Sultanahmet. It didn’t take long for me to seek out familiarity, other Americans who existed in the same foreign space. Alas, the tale-tell markers of Americans abroad – baseball caps, confused faces, and loud voices – could not be found. An ocean of languages – Arabic, Amharic, Mandarin, Russian – surrounded me instead. This sea of nationalities, our differences united by the possession of bright, eager eyes, spilled off the train once the doors opened before Sultanahmet.
The touristic ocean split into rivers, racing towards the Blue Mosque, whose faded, cobalt domes played peek-a-boo between the trees. Others collected into lakes, lingering in large groups in front of umbrella-wielding tour guides. And some, myself included, condensed into individual clouds, floating along until being drawn to something of interest.
I landed at the Grand Bazaar.
Visitors must pass under a stone gate, one emblazoned with the Ottoman Empire’s coat of arms, as they enter the Grand Bazaar.
Upon entry, visitors might draw comparisons to Orientalist imagery. Afterall, how could they not, when one’s eyes are dazzled by stalls stacked floor-to-ceiling with tasseled hamam towels and Aleppo soap, of dealers slinging powdered Turkish delight into customers’ mouths, of handlebar mustache-sporting fishmongers filleting the latest catch, and rainbow pyramids of Eastern spices.
The bazaar itself was decorated with modern Turkish flags, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t imagine myself as an explorer in an age long since passed, wandering the juncture of Europe and Asia in search of treasures to load onto my cargo ship.
The eyes are a primary tool for viewing the world, but in the Grand Bazaar’s case, the eyes get in the way. We interpret what we see, but interpretation is influenced by what we already know. What we already know can be problematic, and in my case, my ability to interpret Turkey was sullied by Orientalism’s lens. Seeing was luckily just one sense; were the others influenced by the same problematic forces?
Mounds of Turkish Delight at Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar. Photo by Alicia Michelle.
I felt.
From within.
Curiosity. Overwhelm. The urge to flee. The urge to linger.
From without.
Dense, unyielding ground underfoot. The crush of strangers’ bodies as we waded amongst the stalls. Their sweat. My sweat. Arm hair. Cotton clothing. Silk headscarves.
I felt how the walls beamed with self-assurance. Their tilework, illustrations of crimson Ottoman tulips, told a story to all who walked past. The Grand Bazaar was one of the modern world’s top tourist attractions, but in the Silk Road’s days, it was the ace up the Ottoman Empire’s sleeve.
Spices. Textiles. Trade routes. In the age of conquest and empires, dominion over resources meant dominion over history.
I smelled.
Tanned leather. Tangy saltwater musk. Saffron, paprika, and cardamom. Powdered sugar. Rose water. Pistachio. Pomegranate.
I heard.
English was rare in Georgia; I assumed it was rare in Turkey as well.
Imagine my surprise when spoken English rose from the crowd.
“Obama!” a man’s voice shouted.
Obama? Was he visiting the Grand Bazaar too? I let my eyes resume control - Obama was nowhere to be found.
“Beyonce!” called another.
Beyonce? Two celebrities visiting the Grand Bazaar on the same day! What were the odds?
“Hello!” echoed a third. “Beautiful lady! Fine teas from the Black Sea – by one get one free!”
Shopkeepers and souvenirs in the Grand Bazaar. Photo by Svetlana Gumerova on Unsplash.
Travel is glamorous, but don’t be fooled. Glamor is the superficial layer travel industry stakeholders want you to see, because glamor sells airline tickets and hotel rooms. Travel has many layers; dig deeper, beyond the glamor, and you’ll learn how travel also means being vulnerable.
Like Orientalism, vulnerability is a two-way mirror. The world is vulnerable, subject to the traveler’s interpretation, its appearance shaped by the traveler’s beliefs, personality, and subconscious fears. The traveler, just as so. Because while the traveler is free to interpret their surroundings, the surroundings are equally free to interpret the traveler.
Not even one day into my year-long journey, the world interpreted me. In the form of touts from the Grand Bazaar’s vendors.
Touts are solicitations, enabled by hypercompetitive sales environments and designed to grab a would-be customer’s attention. They can take any form, from harmless and annoying, to unnerving and aggressive. India, Egypt, and Morocco are three locales infamous within the travel community for their tout cultures, with Turkey following not far behind.
How peculiar, it was, when vendors sought my attention through the names of notable Black Americans. Did vendors call out these names because they interpreted all Black people through a lens of Black excellence? Or was I catching a first glimpse through Orientalism’s looking glass, where the East interpreted the West in equally insidious ways?
Istanbul certainly provided plenty of food for thought.
Food I refused to eat, for consuming it meant challenging subconscious beliefs I had about myself.
I believed I was invisible.
Because I was a Black woman.
Like Turkey’s societal powder keg, America’s gender and race relations powder keg exploded while I prepared for Georgia, in the form of Black Lives Matter and fourth-wave feminism. While long overdue, these movements focused on Black men and white women, leaving me to wonder if there was any space reserved for Black women.
Over and over, America made it clear.
There was no space for Black women.
Because you can’t make a space for someone who’s invisible.
Turkey, on the other hand, offered a rebuttal to America’s claim. I stepped onto the stage and the audience told me – they saw me. I was seen.
The devils we know are often what’s most comfortable, even if what’s most comfortable is bad for us. I wasn’t ready to be visible, so I ran. Towards the nearest exit. Away from any who saw me and away from the person I believed I’d become.
Podcast Notes
Track Info
Intro/Outro Music - Vchera by AL-90 - some rights reserved
Metro ride scene music - Çeçen Kizi by Seyyah - creative commons
Grand Bazaar scene music - Hicaz Zeybek by Seyyah - creative commons
Ataturk Quote
“If henceforward the women do not share in the social life of the nation, we shall never attain to our full development. We shall remain irremediably backward, incapable of treating on equal terms with the civilizations of the West.” Kinross, Ataturk, The Rebirth of a Nation, p. 343.