Fusion Happens

My new sitepal features a little something for meditation and inspiration...Click on the play button to hear "Pensando en Ti," a collaboration of Maria Toledo, Jose Luis Monton and Hossam Ramzy.

Us vs. Them

I had thought long and hard about what it meant to be assimilated when writing my college thesis. Working on a sociological study on Turkish Jews' phases of development, I was trying to figure out what had happened to me, to my family and what might happen to those in the community who choose to stay in Turkey. One of the conclusions of the study was that there were two facets of assimilation: the individual saw himself/herself as part of the larger community; while the larger community saw the individual as part of itself. In my individual case, I saw myself as part of Turkish society while some saw me as a guest of 500 plus years, from a foreign background. The whole didn't accept the individual, while the individual held onto the red flag with crescent and star (and still does.)

I had long forgotten about the random comments I would hear about being Jewish in a largely Muslim country and already dismissed those who had called me "kafir" to my face from my memory. (Kafir is a deragotary term, meaning faithless for lack of a better translation.) Yet, I had a rude awakening this morning. Perusing through postings in my highschool's graduates discussion group, I noticed an entry titled "antisemtisim - enough!" There had been heated discussions about the war between Israel and Lebanon and the variances in Turkish public sentiment towards the conflict. The arguement had somehow twisted into a test of Turkish Jews' allegiance to the Turkish state. Anger and frustration flared from postings written by Jewish and Muslim Turkish members. One Jewish graduate currently living in Israel presented his adopted country as a civilized place trying to defend its borders and the civilization therein. He got accused of being too ethnocentric. Another one living in Istanbul literally cursed out the situation and claimed he had friends who were just ready to take off and leave Turkey behind. The cut-throat response to all this brouhaha came from a '70s graduate: "If you so want to leave, the border is this way!" he summoned in nothing less than a cocky voice.

I plunged in, identifying myself as a secular, modern-thinking Jew who is also a Turkish citizen. I condemned those who thought in terms of us vs. them. I told Mr. Border Patrol to re-read the constitution's amendments on equality of religion and ethnicity. I told all readers if they so wish, they can get a copy of my undergrad thesis. A handful of people contacted me, asking for it. Among the first were a thoughtful '68 graduate who now lives in LA (who is Muslim) and the Jewish graduate settled in Israel.

I am sure (I hope!) there were others who were also bothered by the tone and direction of the discussion. Maybe some shrugged it off as highschool bs or armchair politics. How about simply tasteless?

Living abroad for 14 years, I often get the question if I am ever to go back. How can I go back to this? Could the same discussion take place in the US? Can you imagine certain interest groups asking 15th generation Americans to take a hike to the other side of the border?

The reality is that I will never belong. I will be a naturalized US citizen someday. People will hear a tint of an accent and stuggle to pronounce my name. They will ask me its origin. I will say, "I am Turkish." Meanwhile, somewhere over in Turkey, some pompous fanatic will beat his chest and say "if they loved it so much, they would have stayed." Yup, I am part of them.

Early Flight

I twisted in bed until 3:30AM last night, worried that we would not wake up by 3:45AM. Then the light in the den came on. I called out for my brother, asking if he were awake. (Who turned on the light? Magic hands?) No response. I got up to see what he was up to. Standing in the middle of the kitchen with a face begging to get back to sleep, he said "There is a big bug in the middle of your kitchen. I don't want to do anything to stain the carpet." I saw the crawling visitor from the corner of my eye as I ran back to my room and screamed "Get rid of it! Screw the carpet!!" He complained that I was making him late for the car, but still reached for his shoe and banged it on the water bug. After folding a kitchen towel four folds and leaning down to pick up his work, he stopped for a moment. "It's still wiggling. I think it's alive." I didn't dare diagnose. I pleaded that he finish it off. He complained under his breath as he finally picked up the mess and slowly moved to the trash bin, wishing he were dreaming instead.

What was I going to do without him? And more importantly, how was he going to do it all on his own? He was to fly off to Montreal in a few hours and find his way around to his temporary apartment. Would he be able to find a decent place on his own? He had never picked anything more than a gift before. (That's not true, he managed many clients at work. That's decent experience. He can identify a clean place with a doorman.) What if he gets lonely? He doesn't really know anyone in the city. (OK, this is the dude who used to have two birthday parties a year. One for summer, one for winter friends. You think he has a problem socializing?) Did he enjoy his birthday dinner? (He pulled desert on top of all-you-can-eat sushi. I think so.)

"OK, I am going to start bringing my suitcases down," he told me as I laid on the couch I had just folded back. I so wished to open it for him again tonight. But the sheets were already in the laundry bag. Too late. He needs to go. I heard him speed down the wooden stairs, plunking one bag after another on the floor. His 6'4" frame appeared again to grab his carry on. "Do you have your passport?" I asked. "Yes," he patted the front pocket of his bag. "Tickets?" Of course, he rolled his eyes. I needed to go down my list to make sure he would make it there and back: "Keys? You have keys to my apartment? The ones with the keychain I got you?" He reached into his pocket and jingled them. "Hear them?"

I kissed him on both cheeks, rubbed his back. He told me to go back to sleep and closed the door behind him. I ran to the window. The car was there. The driver was walking towards the stoop to grab the luggage. My brother got in the car, but I couldn't see him wave because of the tree in front of the window. They sped off as if JFK was a fleeting balloon.

I got back in bed, my heart pulpitating a thousand miles an hour. I waited for sleep until 5:30 AM. I sprung out of the bed, running to the ringing phone. "Hey, I just wanted to make sure you could wake up in time for work. I am at the gate, don't worry about me," he said. "Goodie," I said. I wished him a safe trip. "I'll be fine," I lied. "Gotta run," he said and took off to his new life.

Blast from The Past

Practical jokes would pop up without warning, bizarre nicknames and lewd comments would fly like bullets whenever my brother and I were in the same room. I would seemingly get mad, but secretly crack up at his well-crafted insults. My parents would watch us go back and forth, in despair. "When are you two going to grow up?" they would lament. Ignoring their anguish, we'd continue commenting full speed about which one of us was more intelligent, ridiculous, or annoying. He'd test how bad his socks smelled pushing them up my nose, pour salt in my coffee while I looked elsewhere and pretend to have mono when I asked him to do the smallest thing for me.

His recent stay at my apartment proved that our relationship took a different turn. We watched a couple of movies together, went out several times to restaurants, met up with his friends and had a pretty decent time. I told him to please try to be neat, he said he would consider. He said he was getting hungry, we cooked a meal together. He fell asleep on the couch, I made his bed. I dropped off the laundry, he picked it up. After 25 years of tic-tac-toe, we were finally in sync but also very boring.

I offered him a guest spot on my "sitepal." After some mild resistence, three recordings mixed with giggles and one cell phone ring disrupting our childish fun, we loaded up what you see on the upper-right hand side this week. Of course, the phrase he's trying to teach my visitors is slang and offensive, but it's still comforting to hear that he hasn't lost his edge.

Sunday Politics

I took Nadush to the Petit Cafe behind my house. We found a nook between the display oranges and lemons. We ordered the same salad and started catching up after not seeing each other for couple of months. Between her young baby, my work and travel, life had gotten ahead of us. I knew that her younger brother had made it back to France from Lebanon. Her parents and an older sibling and his family were still there though. I asked how they were doing. She rolled her eyes in a way that showed both helplessness and acceptance of the way things are. She told me about her uncle's near escape from death, the hospitals shutting down and the collapsed bridges. I listened with empathy, wondering if she realized I had family in the Israeli army.

With each interruptions from the waiter, asking how we were doing we switched topics and felt better and better. We left for the park.

While lying under the sun, conversation was about the ephemeral: beauty tips, suburban living, friends and pet dramas. I was amazed how she could distract herself with life in New York. When I was younger, I would read about beauty contests taking place in the midst of Yugoslavian civil war. Miss Sarajevo, first runner up, second runner up ... Lying on our mats, focusing solely on our tans, we were just as removed from reality. Was this the strength of survivors? Did people shift their minds to small, inconsequential events to numb their pain and shake away their worries?

I told her about the New York Times magazine story I read about the Israeli mother who draws a parallel between the number of people dying on both sides of the border and her little son's quest to learn to count. She looked down with a bitter smile, chose not to speak. She yanked some grass and tossed it to the side. She had lived through it and she was going through it again. I was, at best, producing armchair politics.

We rolled up when the clouds came over our bright sun. Walking down the main street, we pointed each other brownstones we liked and exchanged fantasies about living in multi-million homes. Before she got in her car, we goofed about how many times to kiss on the cheek. We decided to upgrade from both cheeks to three kisses. Why not? It's warmer, nicer that way.

Summertime - Not Exactly Gershwin Style

I am sitting at the cross-section of my two powerful fans and Pinguino AC. The heat is more bearable today. I started waiting for my brother's arrival. Seems like I am always waiting for him. To be born, to show up, to get it going...Five more days and he'll be in the States. He'll plant himself in the middle of my apartment, cook his favorite fish dishes while I am at work and air out the place in mild panic so I do not complain.

Then he'll move onto a new country he has never been before. Mainly following his head and the family's advice. Not sure if his heart is fully in it. But he'll make Montreal his own, until he finds his next home.