A Vote of Silence

I could not vote in the last elections in Turkey. I approached the voter registrar's desk at the Ataturk International Airport with all my intention to raise my voice in the most democratic sense, but they told me I was registered at the elementary school near our old home and could not vote at the airport. I said "How come? I live abroad and we moved from that address." But there was not much they could do. My green card didn't work there. The city of Istanbul remembered me as a young girl who never left the neighborhood where she grew up.

I was fired up about it. I even mentioned what happened to the poor boy sitting next to me on the plane even though his sleepy eyes and slow droll made it clear to me that he was not as concerned. "It's just one vote..." he kept saying. I suspected he was going to vote for the ruling, Islamic party. "Maybe he is sure of his victory," I thought to myself with disdain and watched four movies in a row to distract myself.

On the election day, I went to Coney Island with G. We walked around the amusement park that will be demolished and rebuilt in the next few years. We hopped on the Wonder Wheel and went all the way to the top. Looking over the Atlantic, I didn't think of home. I was just happy to be upheld by a mass of steel bars...next to G. Everyday happiness, no politics and not much more thinking than what to order at Nathan's. While my parents and brother sided with the secularists several time zones away, I stayed on the beach...didn't tip in the ocean.

My dad was shocked at the results. Islamicist had won with an even greater share of the votes than before. I was not. I was far enough from the country to see that we were a minority in our way of thinking and living. "The intellectual elite no more," were crying the cabbies, the shop owners, the first generation Istanbulis.

G brought a New York Times article to dinner the other night. He thought I might be interested in reading an editorial, titled "Democracy Affirmed." The article applauded the Islamicist party's win and congratulated Turks for going through another election without a military intervention. "A true win for democracy," the author claimed, calling AK Party the most competent government in recent decades pointing to the economic progress of recent years. It should have called them the most adept at organizing grassroots movements and winning votes going door to door. (Maybe the socialist party would have benefited from the same tactics!)

I almost burst into fumes, when I read that the author opined "Muslim Democracy" could and would most surely be the future of Turkey. Who was this person? Who paid him? Did he live in the Upper East or Upper West? DC or Ankara? How did he know so little about Turkey to prophesize as such?

So I wrote down:

"To The Editor:I was disappointed by your non-discerning account ofthe latest Turkish elections. As a modern Turkishwoman, I do not regard the results a win for democracy. This is a dangerous case of mixing ofpolitics and religion.

The grand majority of Turkish population is Muslim andIslam is very much in our cultural fabric. However, civic institutions should not have apreference for faith. Legal and economic issues neednot be addressed from a religious platform. The essence of democracy allows for multiple views andlifestyles to co-habit. Meanwhile, the concept of‘Muslim Democracy’ suggests a particular religious preference will always be the guiding principle in the state’s decision making process.

Before avoiding a military intervention or securing foreign investments, the newly elected officials should assure those of us that didn’t vote for them(more than half the country) that Turkey will continueto rise as a strong, independent, secular force. "

But I didn't send it in... I thought of the unlikely scenario where my letter would get published and someone with a fundamentalist view would track me down to give me an answer. I thought of the other unlikely scenario where I would be accused of threatening the integrity of the State since the Islamic party I questioned was now part of the State.

I thanked G for his encouragement and shared my neurotic thinking. It was a bit embarassing to explain to a bold expressionist that I was choosing silence. But he did understand. He also thought of the Wonder Wheel. Neither one of us wanted the demolition to begin.

Serena

Lucy doesn't always get it right. She calls me Joanne sometimes. Almost every time I pay for the bellydance class at Serena's studios, she asks me how I spell my name and writes down that I paid.

I've been going there for the past six years...And many others are seasoned veterans. We meet every Tuesday at 7pm and dance for an hour with coin belts around the hips, bare feet and midriff, arms slightly bent at the elbow, chest up, stomach in, we dance...I think the lady who always dances with such passion is an accountant. I know Michelle has a son who waits for her outside the studio, watching something on his DVD player. Kim paints with her husband. Heline speaks French and Hebrew. I don't know Sahara's real name, that's what she goes by on stage. Doesn't matter. We come together every Tuesday and line up to dance.

Serena leads, Serena teaches. She is most passionate about the dance. She treats it with respect. She expects us to do the same. This is a form of art. The figure eight is the most graceful turn a woman's hips can make. Serena watches. Serena shows. She catches when the turns are not just right or when the head could tilt further back. She is a musician, a dancer, a poet, an artist. Serena tells a story to the beat of the dumbek and the wail of the oud. She treats each one of us as real performers. Otherwise, why would you be taking her workshop? She doesn't care what else you do. To her, you are there to honor a centuries old tradition and to learn. Following her, we leave the day behind and take our spots on stage. We move to some other place.

I thought Lucy had it wrong again when she said, "You have not heard what happened to Serena?" I said no, expecting to hear that maybe she was sick. Lucy looked down to the money envelope, wrote my name down and said "God...took her," shaking her tiny blonde bun and pursing her red lips.

I didn't cry right away. The class had started. Another teacher was leading. I grabbed a veil from under the closet and took my spot. I looked around. Kim seemed OK, but Sahara was a ghost. Her pink outfit was shouting love and life, but she was struggling not to sulk. We took turns to walk four beats and turn back to the right and then to the left. I don't think I did it right. Serena would not have let it slip...The teacher tried to keep the flow going. She just wanted to keep the class alive, I guess.

I knew it was true when I saw the dancer next time break into tears while waiting for her turn to do the routine. Lucy was right? How could it be?

I had had my last class with Serena and I did not know. She didn't either. Does she remember me now, wherever she is? I remember her...my body remembers her in each lift...in every pose...I promise I'll spot when I turn. I promise I'll practice my zills at home. I promise, I will smile when I perform. Lips parted...we parted...she parted...

90s Are Back!

My grandpa continues to amuse -- me for sure. Not my parents...they see him like a kid who needs to be under constant watch. To me, he's a fun friend, a confidant. He doesn't have the authority he had when he was running his business, telling my grandma to hurry up and bring him salt or snore through the night only to remain oblivious to complaints from the crowded household the next morning. He lost much of his sight now. He can't cook for himself. He needs to be taken to doctors. He alternates between my aunts' and our house over the weekends. He has help at home, but if you ask him, the woman's presence in his house is a natural result of my dad and my aunt's oppressive plan to control his life.

So he takes off! To break loose a bit. He jumps in the middle of the crazy Istanbul traffic. He calls the cabbies who slow down as he crosses the street his friends. He knows every single pot hole in his neighborhood. And despite being attacked by street dogs once, he still walks in the park everyday. He needs air. He needs movement. He needs to feel free.

He feels his best in Buyukada, the largest of the five Prince Islands near the Istanbul coastline where he has an apartment. Along with much of the population, he moves to his summer location in May. There, he is happiest. He says the trees are particularly lush this year, that's why he cannot see the sea from the terrace anymore. The city apparently fixed the roads. He listens to gossiping women at the club and tours the island between 7 and 8AM every morning.
He comes to his own in Buyukada. A 95 year old boy, who still has his eye on the highest branch. He is convinced he can climb it in one try.

That's why he didn't tell us about his first brain spasm. He knew well that my dad would ban his move to the island and he would be trapped in the city instead of splashing around at the beach. Then came the second one. Luckily for him, after he made it to the island where noone would or could drag him to a hospital. He shrugged this one off too. Apparently when someone is shy of a century, their zest for life becomes stronger than their fear of death.

So he plunged ahead and went for a swim in the middle of a heat wave. We learned only after the help called saying "Papa" had lost his speech again. Only this time, it didn't come back for a longer while. My dad's face got dark when he heard the news. The same darkness I had seen when he lost his mother. "This is bad ... this is really bad..." he kept repeating to himself, beating his leg with the back of his hand.

When grandpa's speech came back and his blood pressure leveled off, my dad fumed over the phone line "whathehellwashethinkingtakingadivelikethat?" "I just went for a little while, don't make a big deal out of it. It was early in the morning too, before the heat," I heard grandpa keep his ground. He may have been tired, but he was resolute. "What if something happened to you while in the sea?" my dad pressed on with rhetoricals. "I got my friends there, they would have come to my help," grandpa offered wisely referring to a group averaging around 85. "Unbelieavable, unbelievable!" my dad said, pursing his lips and handing the phone to me.

"Hey grandpa!"
"Hi Mimika!" he chuckled with joy upon hearing my voice.
"What happened? What did you do to yourself?"
"I didn't think this one through I must admit...but don't you worry about me. Have a wonderful trip back. And just so that you know, I have full confidence in you. Don't ever think what would grandpa say. If you have to make a decision there, I would be ok with it here..."

An avid listener of his grandchildren's love affairs, that was his code for saying I had his blessing, with whomever I chose -- should he not live long enough to see. We went through this ritual over the phone every six months or so.

"I'll call you once I settle in Brooklyn," I said, thankful for our silly conversation.

I called him the first day back, before immersing myself back into my US life. The live-in aid had to call him to phone. He was entertaining some guests. He thanked me for remembering to call him and indicated that he could not stay on the phone for long, because the guests had brought some cookies and other sweets. "It's all free, it's awesome," he added. He was himself again -- 90 or 5.