Losing A Pen - Hrant Dink

My father had given me a blue ballpoint pen when I graduated from college. I kept it, guarded it, carried it for 15 years. I rarely used it. I treated it gently out of fear that something might happen to it. I only used it when signing important papers - my mortgage, a contract, an acceptance letter for a new job.

Last week I lost my pen - possibly at an airport. Just like that, it fell out of my bag. It disappeared on me. I am waiting for it to come back, but in the back of my mind I know the pen lived only 15 years for me.

The word pen is also used to describe journalists in Turkish--which carries the emotional, mystical aspects common to many Eastern languages. And last week Turkey also lost a pen. Hrant Dink, a Turkish journalist, a prominent member of the Armenian community, a thinker, a humanist, a father, a husband. He was shot in the middle of Sisli, a busy hub of Istanbul. In the middle of the traffic, in the middle of the hustle and bustle, in the middle of an unfinished discussion about what truly constitutes the Turkish national identity.

The night I learned about Hrant Dink's murder, I had just arrived from the airport. Busy with everyday thoughts, I had sat at dinner and flipped through the channels to see if I could find some music program. I was trying to think of what might have happened to my pen, whether I should tell my dad, whether I could ever replace it. Then I saw the headlines, followed by images of Dink's feet, facing up. His body faced down. I guessed it right. He was shot from the back. Cowards, I thought...for not being able to face him, for not being able to hear and respect his thoughts, for fearing his pen. Are they so insecure in their national identity that they can feel threatened by one man who said he was as Turkish as he was Armenian. Dink was Anatolian, he was from this country, whatever his religion might be. Wasn't Anatolia the crossroads of civilizations? Wasn't Dink a part of their history?

I waited more than a week to write about this atrocity. I was upset. I was scared. I thought of calling my dad and telling him not to use his first name in public. They would not know the difference. Something that doesn't sound "Turkish enough," might get him into trouble.

I saw pictures of Dink's daughter, bursting in pain. I missed my father. I called him. I told him about the pen. He said I would find it. He had a good feeling about it. I asked him about Dink and where it happened. "A few blocks from my old office," he confirmed. I told him my thoughts about using his name publicly. He laughed it off. "Nothing will happen," he said.

Maybe so. I read that neither the president, nor the prime minister attended Dink's funeral. Did they not feel safe? Did they not want to make a statement? Nothing will change if the powers to be do not respond beyond polished statements sent to the media.

Thousands of people took over the streets and walked in support though. They wished Dink's pen would write more, whether they read his column or not, whether they agreed with him or not.

The Landslide

I changed my seat on the non-smoking section of Starbucks for the third time, as my friend went downstairs to get us some coffee. When in Istanbul, we preferred to meet in this joint rather than a more authentic place because every other corner was covered with a cloud of cigarette smoke. That's istanbul, that's how it smells. Poor neighborhoods, rich neighborhoods - they smell like cigarette smoke with dashes of onion, garlic, sweat and sometimes a mild string of lemon cologne. Though the Starbucks on the posh Nisbetiye Avenue was filled with hip smokers draped in grunge outfits, imported jeans and accompanied by the latest laptops.

We had first met in Philadelhia, while in school. He was getting a masters' in engineering and I was studying communicagtions. He seemed like an out of the box thinker, someone who methodically thinks through every angle and asks all sorts of questions. It was tiring to think along with him sometimes, but I found him quite entertaining. So we remained friends through jobs, cities and other life events. This time we were in an America-branded coffee shop with Near Eastern clientele choosing late over Turkish grind. We sat across from each other on large armchairs but leaned over the table to hear each others' stories. Mine was quick: potential to change jobs, love interests, death of a grandparent, aging parents, aging self..."But never mind me, how are you?" I asked.

He danced around with short stories about his projects, his home improvement troubles and his film-making adventures. when I asked if he was continuing his travels to his father's city, he revealed his real job back in Turkey. Between contractors, family members, lawyers, real estate specialists, city officials and half-way records of their properties, he was sorting through a series of land disputes. The small consultancy, the plans to import goods to Turkey were all true but duty to the family was above all else. He told me how he was worried about his father and we both agreed that there could not be a better condidate but him to help sort out the mess.

He used to laugh things off and look at them on the lighter side. This was new. This was foreign -- at least to me. Underneath his highly educated, big city, mature adult layers he was showing an unshakable fist. A logic that was far from the individualistic American self, which is concerned about relations between himself and the rest, he acted as part of a family, as a son. His duty was to his parents, his fatherlands and hence to himself. This is why he had packed his life in New York and moved to Turkey. This is why he scoffed away many jobs after the company that employed him in the States went under. This is why he spent hours downloading music, doing imprv before his return. As the only child, the only son and the only one truly capable of helping out his family, he knew he needed to go back and help claim their own. He once told me he resented the idea that his children might grow up not speaking their ancestors' language properly. Maybe so. Deep down, he knew he was needed back home. His own aspirations followed a course set by the family. He agreed and followed. (Makes me wonder whether I would feel as comfotable staying in New York, had it not been for my parents' selfless encouragement to seek a future outside the country.)

I listened to the elevator versions of his intricate land dealings for over an hour. Seeing that it was getting late, I asked if he could please walk me home. On the way back, we chit-chatted about everyday things. We hugged good-bye and he dived back into the narrow side street to hail a cab. As I made my way to our floor, I realized I was visiting but this was home to him. He was not going to let anyone shift the land under his feet.

I gently turned the key to open the apartment's door. I found my parents watching TV in the living room. "Did you feel the eathquake?" they asked. "No," I replied baffled. "4.2! It was a slight one. You may not have felt the land slide," said my dad calmly. He continued to flip through the satellite TV channels, mumbling that he was bored of hearing the same news he wanted to see what else was going on around the world.

We were far from the campus and this was no locust walk. I was visiting but this was home to him

I hope you left your personal space behind

No personal space - that's essentially the rule when you come home to Istanbul. My mom wakes me up. I take a while to open my eyes (10 minutes.) She cuddles and kisses me. I give in and get up. As I make my way to the bathroom, my dad rushes ahead of me and darts in saying he forgot to get some medicine from the cabinet. I start whining but he reassures me that it will be a nanosecond. I close the door and head to the shower. My brother knocks on the door. "How many minutes will you be?" "MANY!" I scream back. He says something in return but I cannot hear thanks to running water.

It never stops. When I am reading, when I am watching TV, when I am leaving the house: "What are you doing? Where are you going? Can I pass through here to go to the balcony?" We are a family of four in a four-bedroom apartment. On average, there are three people per room. Combinations change, the number may go up or down by one for a fifteen-minute interlude yet essentially we live as a crowd.

Wasn't this what I wanted? A bit warmth? Some interaction, with much more love and stronger feelings? Perhaps my mom was right. I've become too accustomed to living on my own. "You've become Americanized," she says. Who's to say no?

On The Edge of Bosphorous

I crossed the street in front of my grandfather's apartment building and hopped on the car's front street. We zoomed down the hill, rushing to the water. Unbelievable for Istanbul, there was no traffic. Soon we were in "Bebek" - the most curvacious, baby-like neighbourhood by the strait separating Europe from Asia.

While looking for a spot to park the car, I reversed my friend's interrogations about my life in the States and asked how she was doing. She said she could not find many people that suited her mindset -- forget about men, she added. I told her to sign up online and consider meeting expats or people who live abroad. She replied, saying she didn't want to leave far from her family again and she could not ask anyone to uproot themselves for her. I asked, "Why not?"

"Noone would come," she answered. "It's really bad here. The politics, the economy, social conflicts." Her words were in stark contrast to another friend with whom I had met the day before. He seemed quite content - recently promoted, eager to get his share of the growing finance sector, tracking clients even while having lunch. Depends on your point of view and social background, I guess.

"Right, I can imagine," I said. "You just became aware of this?" I could not believe that it was taking her so long to see the rise of fundamentalism, the emergence of a new middle class largely consisting of pious entrepreneurs, liquidating small businesses, folks retiring at 50 some, young adults working for peanuts...

As we hashed out current events, the water cut us off. We stopped by the curb to look at the amazing view - the boats, irregularly spread houses, the lights, green-black moss and the seagulls. We left the car keys with a valet and followed a narrow trail to a level below the street. After a small left turn, we came upon "Ashk Cafe," meaning love cafe. We passed through the smokers, hubbled around heat lamps and plunked on cushy divans by clean, white-framed windows.

Dusk settled slowly. Boats were passing by, lights coming on in fives and tens. The waiter brought our teas. We chatted and looked onto the Bosphorous from the last corner of Istanbul left to us.