Alien Lands

 

Seeing as I am roughly half way through my residency in Turkey, I feel that now is a proper time to discharge many of the reflective thoughts that have been floating around my head recently. Being abroad is a strange experience. It takes place both up close, spontaneously unfolding right in front of your eyes, and from afar, solidifying slowly in the back of your head. You assume the limbotic identity of both a participant and an observer, struggling to embrace the society you are surrounded by while simultaneously asserting the culture you brought with you.

Fortunately, Turkey does not lend itself well to this dichotomy. The inescapably affable nature of many Turkish people and their communities creates an environment of constant invitation so conducive to eating, drinking, and talking, that I feel a tinge of guilt when not participating in some combination of the three. The subtle beauty of Istanbul's sun stained mosques and cramped streets do nothing to remedy this ever swelling desire to explore, and though the city's sprawl carries on in all directions in a seemingly infinite stretch of terracotta, stone, and cats, it has a way of wrapping you in the warmest bear hug you have ever received, reassuring you that you are exactly where you need to be.

But it is imperative to remember where this perspective is coming from. As impartial as we would like to be, our preconceived notions of any foreign country hinder our ability to experience their communities in a truly unadulterated way. This obstacle is not only present when traveling in other nations: even when traveling between states in America it is hard to shake off the stereotypes that are associated with different regions and their people. When these prejudices are inevitably challenged and you are forced to confront the unexpected, it can lead to a brief, yet potent, feeling of isolation.

It is usually under these circumstances that I retreat to my enclave of fellow American expatriates. By no means would I suggest that these friends are anything but some of the brightest and most genial people I have met on this trip, but there is an indefensible peculiarity about surrounding yourself with your own ilk during an experience that is supposedly motivated by a lust for the unknown. Seeking out the familiar in a new environment is completely natural and healthy, but a reliance on the comfort of the known can easily devolve into apathy, keeping you from going out and absorbing the greater world around you.

The quiet struggle of the abroad experience is between finding a home within a foreign community and continually thrusting yourself beyond what you have already become acquainted with. This push and pull plays out both externally, in the host society in which you are a guest, and internally, as you strive to get the most out of your brief time overseas, and the caution that accompanies this realization is why I now find myself both inspired and reserved.

This dualistic relationship can perhaps best be explained through my recent trip to Cappadocia: a region of Central Anatolia with a topographical personality similar to something out of a Dr. Seuss book. The landscape, with its elaborately carved cliff-face fortresses and towering natural stone obelisks, was wholly alien to me. After a few days, however, the small town in which I was staying had become an oasis of familiarity surrounded by the extraordinary terrain. This affinity was most likely the result the hospitality of the town's inhabitants as well as the high concentration of tourists that were staying there, which lead me to ponder a seemingly appropriate question: was the "authentic" Cappadocia experience to be found in the tourist hub of Göreme, or was it out amongst the strange pillars and labyrinthine canyons of the countryside?

Ultimately I realized that the question was irrelevant. Trying to find some sort of authenticity in any experience implies that there is a wrong way and a right way to go about it, that there are rules by which the experience is governed, and, most damaging of all, that there is a possibility of failure. You cannot fail going abroad. Your experienced is measured by no standards except your own, so if you "fail" it is your own doing. Everybody who makes the decision to uproot and place themselves, physically and culturally, into a different society does it for their own unique reasons. I will admit, sometimes upon hearing those reasons I am forced to bite my tongue, but in the end, you are the final judge of what you gained on these brief trips. Just get out of the house every once in a while.

Osmanlı: The Original Pluralists

Seeing as my legs are beginning to buckle under the weight of impending midterms, I figured I would keep this week's post rather short and post something more substantial over the course of the coming week.

We Americans have a tendency to pride ourselves on a shared sense of plurality. This exists in various dimensions in the the United States, be it our cornucopia of dinner options or beer brands or television shows about "Real Housewives", but I like to think, among all else, we have the most self regard for the diversity of cultural identities that exists among the American people. Let me be clear, I do not ascribe to the belief that the United States is a veritable patchwork of peoples who live side by side in some off kilter utopia. American history is primarily the tale of our collective struggle to extend our shared concept of freedom to every person who calls our country home, and we still have tremendous difficulty in doing so, despite our many advances.

Being American encompasses different things to different people, but the fact that we all adopt that common title is what melds us together as a national unit. Immigration is such an integral part of our history that many people can rightfully claim their American identity regardless of where they or their parent emigrated from. The common thread, however, is the recognition, not of an American sense of Nativism, but of the reality that we are a demographic mess composed of the children of every opportunist, reject, inventor, refugee, wealth seeker, slave, and autodidact who settled on our land for one reason or another.

In my infinite ignorance, I assumed that this sense of plurality was something that was unique to the United States. I found, however, that to many Turks, the essence of Turkishness can be derived from a similar mode of thinking. The Ottoman empire (to which the Republic of Turkey is seen as a successor to) was so vast and incorporated so many different populations that it is virtually impossible to truly identify which Turks originally came from what ethnic  lineage. Turkic, Balkan, Greek, Armenian, Arab, Jewish, and a plethora of other peoples intermingled in relative peace throughout a state that stretched from Budapest to Yemen.

Historically speaking, an Ottoman was someone who followed Osman, the 14th century founder of the Ottoman Empire. Prior affiliation, be it ethnic or religious, was irrelevant, as long as your Ottoman identity came first. The Turkish people have adapted this ideology to their modern state: If you identify as a Turk, you are pretty much a Turk. There may be a slight degree of fine print to peruse in regards to this statement, but, for the most part, you can count yourself Turkish. The vast majority of Turks I know see this claim to the right of Turkishness as the main source of authority when it comes to their own national identity, regardless of where their ancestors originated from.

Similar circumstances tend to breed similar ideas, and it is both humbling and fascinating to see a such an important piece of my own national identity shared in a nation so far from my own.

Anyways, back to studying...

Why Study History?

I have received some flack for choosing to study History. The common argument against such a decision holds that a history degree lacks the practicality and applicability of, for example, a computer science or engineering degree. This statement is indisputable, especially in today's economic climate, but it misses the larger point of what it means to examine and decipher our collective past. Few, if any other, fields of study can teach us to think critically, examine data, compromise effectively, be a good boyfriend, write eloquently, cook, wade through ludicrous political rhetoric, and, most importantly, dispel ignorance.

I spent the better of part of last week traveling through the western and central regions of Turkey, a land that epitomizes Mr. Faulkner's idea that the past is not even past. Back home, history is, like so many other things, compartmentalized, often quarantined to museums and national monuments and treated as an intellectual pursuit that is unrelated to our every day lives. In Anatolia, what came before is integrated into society in such an intense way that the chronological line becomes blurred. So blurred, in fact, that it is difficult to tell where a Byzantine Era, stone carved home ends and an Australian themed bar dubbed "Fatboy" begins.

Such a blatant physical connection to the past is rather refreshing to someone who studies history. Even back at school in Washington, DC, quite possibly the most historically conscious city in America, there is a definitive line between historic space and everything else. This unrecognized division between the historical and the mundane has the potential to coat us in a film of simplicity that keeps us from both appreciating the limitless narrative around us, and solving the major problems of that narrative. There is a reason why there are no high-rises downtown, there is a reason District residents do not have equal representation in Congress, and there is a reason the demographic map of DC looks like this.

While the dispersion of historical knowledge can be a powerful tool of education, the wrongful manipulation of such information can be devastating, not just to for academic reasons, but because it breeds a misinformed public. There are few states in the world who are not guilty of executing historical revisionism as a means of emboldening a national narrative. This crime is becoming more and more frequent in the United States as American politicians try and twist historical fact to their own design in order to garner support for their policy decisions. 

Such action can only be combated by striving to stay historically informed. In fact, there are a host of other reasons to regularly pursue the innate human desire to understand the past. You will find yourself in a position where you can win bets, decry liars, and inform your voting decisions. You may learn why Indian food is so spicy, why the U.S. does not love Cuba, or how to avoid civil wars. If you are lucky, you may even develop robust investigative skills, the ability to analyze a plethora of documents and data, and an understanding of why people act the way they do. One day employers will recognize the inexhaustible merit that comes with studying History and I hope, for my own sake, that day comes sooner rather than later.

Half the News That's Fit to Print

Censorship is a touchy subject in Istanbul. Turkey has a history of press restriction, either through direct legal action or occupational expulsion, dating back to their war of independence in the 1920s. These practices have only become more prevalent as public anti-establishment demonstrations continue to agitate the government. The underlying motivation for these policies, especially in recent years, is to protect the Turkish authorities from any form of criticism, making it effectively impossible for journalists to do their jobs.

Before arriving in Turkey, I made an attempt to educate myself about the country's current journalistic climate, mainly because of personal interest and a desire to avoid confrontation with unsavory Istanbul police officers. Despite these efforts, the idea of a society where what is put on television, in a newspaper, or on the internet is dictated by a government committee still seemed wholly foreign to me, perhaps because I was coming from a place where Rachel Maddow, Breaking Bad, and The 700 Club all have relatively equal footing when it comes to viewer access.

For me, there were two things that really solidified the fact that the publishing and broadcasting of information is a controlled effort in this part of the world. The first is the monotony with which printed media is presented in this city. Most news stands carry a plethora of different publications, yet the majority seem to resemble American tabloids in both appearance and content. I consulted with several Turkish friends on the matter and the majority endorsed my suspicions in regards to their quality of reporting.

The second, and certainly more poignant, observation has to do with the now infamous decision made by CNN Turk to air a documentary about penguins rather than cover the developing protests that were taking place in Taksim Square. The penguin has since been adopted by the protest movement as a symbol of disenchantment with and the rejection of an institution that has the potential to do good, but is instead subservient to a creeping authoritarian government. Maybe if the press restrictions were lifted or, at the very least, relaxed, dialogue could replace aggressive assembly as a means of expressing one's view.

I will admit, my gut reaction to the revelation that a free press was essentially nonexistent in this country was of the "that's messed up" variety. Having grown up in the United States, I relish the right to express myself in virtually any way and on any platform that I want to. It could be this near fetishization of free speech and a free press that caused my initial disgust with the Turkish government's press policies. The veritable cocoon of university students that has surrounded me since my arrival is, without a doubt, reinforcing this sentiment.

I suppose it is important to maintain perspective when faced with legal dissonance in regards to personal freedom abroad. As an American, I do not think it is really my place to criticize how this country's administration conducts itself. I also have only discussed the issue with a tiny sliver of Istanbul's population, all of whom seem to be of the same anti-Erdoğan ideology. Perhaps on a national level, these policies are welcomed because they protect the government from dissenting antagonism. After all, the assumption that freedom is a universal value can lead to distorted cultural understanding.

That is not to say that the Turkish people do not engage in constant debate over a whole host of issues; I myself have been involved in conversations ranging in topic from the value of Ataturk's language reforms to how mind boggling it is that we cannot buy alcohol after 10 PM. Dialogue certainly flourishes here, just not in as loud a forum as it does back home. I suppose the real challenge is understanding a relationship between the people and the authorities that differs from what I am use to. At least there's no Nancy Grace here...

A Yankee Abroad

Hello internet. It's been a while. I apologize for my recent lack of proper blog maintenance, but I have been fairly preoccupied with assimilating, to the best of my ability, into my current city of residence: Istanbul. Because of this, I will aim to steer my posts during the next three months away from topics in American politics and more towards musings that concern my displacement out of the United States and into a foreign land.

I hope that this will not mean that The Grappler will develop into another proverbial "travel blog", which, though at times are interesting and insightful, can be of a particularly sensational and narcissistic brood. Instead, I aspire to produce a collection of posts that explore what it means to be a traveler in an unknown place, a guest in another's home, and, perhaps most naturally, an American in Turkey.

During the past few days, I have at times found myself trying to both understand and deconstruct the pervasive, yet subtle, Orientalist predisposition that I believe many Americans (myself included) pick up from various indistinct channels back home in the United States. Though we are certainly further removed from the "East v. West" dichotomy than our forebears were, it is still difficult on occasion to break away from the feeling that we are simply observers, forcing ourselves into the citizenry of some exotic elsewhere.

And yet, this city has such a warmth to it, something that is reinforced by every "hoşgeldiniz!" that greets you whenever you enter a shop or a restaurant. Already, in my short time here, I have met some of the friendliest and life-loving individuals I have ever encountered, and they are often beyond eager to show me every facet of the city that they are so proud to be a member of. The pastel colored stucco and winding, illogical street plan of Istanbul reiterate the fact that this city was not carefully planned to maximize municipal efficiency, but rather grew organically as more and more people recognized this place as their home.

It is at times impossible to resist submission to this land's welcoming embrace and, to an extent, I do not believe that is necessarily a bad thing. A successful voyage in another country should envelope you in experience and make you feel like you are part of the population. It is, however, important to remember that we, as Americans, are still outsiders. I was not raised as a Turk, I would assume that I do not think like a Turk, and, as is evident whenever I open my mouth, I certainly do not speak like a Turk (no matter how hard I try).

Although acknowledging these differences is vital to understanding the experience of travel, dwelling on them would only serve to destroy what would otherwise be one of the most informative practices a human being can engage in. Physically being in another place materializes the world in a way that is impossible to do through reading articles or watching television. Furthermore, living somewhere that has been heavily featured on the news or in films has the potential to dispel many of the myths that these imperfect media ascribe to those lands. 

I have no doubt that my time spent in Istanbul will teach me a great deal about Turkey, the United States, and myself (there's your freebie travel blog cliche). Trying to deconstruct stereotypes about people, places, and experiences is an ambitious task, especially when we come from a country with a culture that is intent on telling us what the world is like according to our own proclivity. It seems to me, however, that all I can do right now is eat my kofte, down my Rakı, and let the balmy Turkish sun char my skin.