HOME SWEET HOME
8.4.2013
I had thought I was done with swimming in Dalyan, at least, after we returned from the Koycegiz Lake, yesterday. But then, after my nap, seeing that my brother was still asleep, I hadn’t been able to resist the urge to swim around 7:30 pm one more time. Once I got out, then, I had thought, "OK, I am really done now, as soon as we get up tomorrow morning, we will get on the road." With that thought, I had rinsed and hung my swimming suit to dry, put away my beach shawl and goggles. I hadn’t thought of how addictive Dalyan might be, dragging you into it just one more time, and one more, and one… This morning, I woke up, my brother still asleep. With the first step out the door, that transformation set in with no warning. As if I had just arrived in Dalyan and had not had any taste of it, yet, as if the last three days with all their enjoyments had not taken place at all.
The little bend where I swam multiple times during our stay in Kano Hotel
I feel the same urge again, as if I am a Caretta caretta larva, as if my instincts whisper in my ear, to my muscles “move toward the water, find it, become one with it, in it... and in no time, I am back into my swimming suit, heading toward the southern end of the bend. I swim for about half an hour, again making a big circle in the safety of the bend, away from the boat traffic in the middle of the river. In another half an hour, I observe a tense expression on Mariana’s face, who also swam after I did. Mariana is one of my Dutch fellow residents at the hotel and she is looking and pointing at something on the water. A layer of engine oil on the surface of the until-now--the-perfectly pure and clean water is what she is pointing at. It isn't hard to find out what the problem is: looking around we all see that the little manual boat docked in front of one of the restaurants, two “doors” down had sunk! I feel bad for the river but also for my Dutch friends, since they seemed to enjoy the river so much and this unfortunate event perhaps would be the end of that enjoyment for at least some time.
Our Dutch friends as we are waiting for the river patrol to clear Kaya's boat
I exchange contact information with the Dutch team, with whom we spent a lovely afternoon on the river and Koycegiz Lake yesterday. It is quite possible we may encounter them in Izmir when Frank and Lillian stay at their house in Urla. Once we say our good-byes to everybody at the hotel, we head toward Ortaca back to my ice-cream place: I have to have another cup of that ice cream with gum flavor, who knows when I will return again. And sure enough the wife of the owner is there this time. On a Sunday, in Turkey, towns are usually empty, not because everybody goes to church, keeping in mind, this is mainly a Muslim country. However there is another religion in Turkey along the coastal line: The beaches… Literally, towns are almost evacuated from late Friday evening on through Saturday to return late on Sunday evening, even night. Thus, the ice cream place, being located 15-20 kms away from any beach is empty, with no customers. When I tell her what brings us to their shop (summarizing her my 1-month locum tenant position in town some 20 years ago and never having tasted ice cream with gum flavor, better than theirs), she gets excited and hangs out with us as we savor our ice cream. I learn much more from her and understand better why her husband was somewhat distant two days ago.
First of all, her attire is clear indication that they are devout Muslims, if not politically fundamentalists. My attire on the other hand, a dress with no sleeves the first time, and shorts and a tank top (worse yet in the eyes of a devout Muslim), the second time give me all the answers about why he wasn't as excited as his wife was to see a customer from 20 years before. Poor man, he might have been dealing with the “devil trying to get into him through me!” Anyway, she tells us they were from a village of Denizli, another province to the east of Mugla. Due to lack of jobs, he had moved his family to Ortaca more than 20 years ago, so they had just moved to Ortaca when I had rotated to the hospital in town as a young pediatrician. They bought a small ice cream, part of the negotiations for the sale of which was that the seller’s obligation to teach the buyer how to make ice cream! He had no idea and skills on what he was getting himself into, that I call entrepreneurship...
After several batches of destroyed ice cream, they perfected it and the entire family consisting of 2 daughters and 2 sons started working in the shop along with the parents. Apparently, the daughters and one son married and moved away from Ortaca. The son becoming a police officer in Istanbul made me wonder whether he was one of those gassing and plastic bulleting the protesters in Gezi Park and Taksim, in June. I can't ask, though, fearing what I may hear. After a while, they had made enough money, they bought half of the current, very elegant patisserie, and they have been renting the other half for some time from a different owner, who is unwilling to sell it. They also convinced the one son left in Ortaca to learn the skill set and take over the shop, who is the main chef in the store right now. I tell my brother, this is a story you hear all the time in the USA, it looks like there are such success stories in Turkey, too. Roma Ice cream place is the name. Anybody, who goes to the southwest coast of Turkey must stop in Ortaca and try the gum-ice cream at Roma ice cream place.
On the way to Izmir, we can't help buying another basket of fresh figs, sold by local roadside vendors, one third of which finds its way to our tummies before we arrive in Kusadasi, where our family summer house is located in an authentic village, Sogucak. As excited as I was about being and living in Dalyan and enjoying thoroughly, its holiday pleasantries, I am now as excited about homecoming, going back to my mother, who must have been counting the days to my arrival for at least a month now. It becomes another sweet reunion. Every time I come back home, my mother, who is disabled after a car accident of 2002 gives me a big hug with shaking hands and arms and plants kisses on my face numerous times, way more than the two kisses, one on each cheek, the traditional Turkish way. Once she's had enough of me, I hold her tremulous body (one of her residual neurological sequels) in my arms and rock her like an infant as we sit side by side on her couch. She likes it and gets a bit teary with excitement.
My mother and her attendant Firuza from Uzbekistan
Firuza, her new attendant from Uzbekistan, is a brand new uplifting addition to our family. She is a beautiful, crisp Uzbek woman, almost out of an Uzbeki airline magazine. Her face is but one big, warm, genuine smile. It is clear she's been curious about the big sister of this family, and soon, she feels comfortable enough to call me "Abla", big sister, as my brother calls me in Turkish. Firuza is fasting, since it is Ramadan in the Muslim world nowadays. My brother was, too, who ended up becoming "seferi" (who travels in Turkish/Arabic) along with his sister. I am willing to take the responsibility of the sin! According to "my dear beloved God", as my taxi driver in couple of days will call God, fasting duty is waived for those who travel, rather postponed to after Ramadan. He will have to fast as many days as he missed after Ramadan.
When Ramadan falls into summer months, it is a misery and to me a significant health risk. From dawn to dusk, 16-17 hours of no food, no liquid, as my brother puts it, "your body feels like on-fire" pointing to his skin. What better description of dehydration... Fasting during winter months is no big deal, 8-10 hours of fasting is nothing compared to summer fasting. Mehmet tells me that his sweet and clever wife Kezban used to do her catch-up fasting, (when she used to fast, she is not any more) during the winter months. This is how Turks play with Islam, and that's how "religious" my family is after all, which I adore.
Firuza says she hasn't missed a day, yet. I get confused since my mother would miss several days due to her period, each Ramadan. She had explained it to me with "When you are 'dirty', you can't worship God", dirty referring to menstruation. That was the first teaching I had received about God being disgusted with women and their "dirty" days. That's how Islam makes women feel disgusted with themselves, too. Men are also encouraged to be disgusted with their women during the time of menstruation by being forbidden to “approach your women” when they are “dirty”. I was confused as an adolescent with all this “dirty” business: I had thought God made us all, the way he wanted us to be. Why did God feel disgusted with something He gave to women? Why did God punish women like that? These questions would be answered in my mind in my 20s when I started learning more about not only Islam, but also other organized religions. I was astonished to discover that all monotheistic religions agreed upon women being weak, their physiological processes being dirty or disgusting, and the need for and duty designated to men to tame, control, and package it as “protecting” women.
My mother rading her book as she is resting after her shower
The mother I am holding in my arms right now, physically and cognitively reduced in some ways to a toddler's capacities, was a soft-spoken, mellow, but very strong woman. What I learned from her and other strong females of my family would force me to become an ever-inquisitive woman, which characteristic, then, wouldn't let me give in to all this unbelievable, unacceptable, and, to me, un-Godly patriarchal hierarchy. Firuza, barely 30 years old, only 2 years older than my daughter already has 3 children! My jaw drops upon hearing her oldest, Ayse is 13 years old. Firuza became a mother for the first time at age 17, just like my mother. My mother's children arrived at ages 16,17, and 23, Firuza's at ages 17, 19, and 26. I wonder if this makes my mom empathize with Firuza more than other helpers she has had for the last 10 years of her disability. It fills my heart with affection toward both of them, since it looks like Firuza conquered my mother with her charm, innocence, and dedication to her.
Firuza's husband travels all over Asia and sells the goods he brings home, locally. Firuza's mother is responsible for caring for her children when Firuza works in Turkey to save enough money to buy a home upon her return. She shows me the pictures of her children. Such innocence on all three faces just like the one on Firuza's. I like her, and I am glad I bought a ring for her from an artist in Ortaca. She is ecstatic with her gift. She shows it to my mother with a big smile "Look mom, just like sultan Hurrem's". We all crack up...
Hurrem was one of the slave concubines, who was brought to Ottoman harem as a child. She initially became Suleiman the Magnificent's most favorite concubine using all her feminine charms, followed with rising to becoming his most favorite wife. Her influence on him led to many killings in the Ottoman palace. The soap opera "The magnificent century", in a way "enlightened" the Turkish society, and apparently, Turkic societies, as well, regarding the socio-cultural and political ins and outs of that era. However, how I interpret that soap from the perspective of discrimination and enslaving of ethnicities, women being used as property by men, women fighting with one another to be designated a more valuable property to the men exploiting them, and adding to the already prevailing chaos to rise up the steps of the ladder, serving the benefits of the ruling class, that is, men in an ugly societal organization, is totally different than that of the majority of the society.
Firuza had watched the soap from the perspective of Hurrem's jewelry, apparently. I feel for her, but feel sad and sorry for her and for us all, too. If she and millions like her cannot see beyond Hurrem's ring, how in the world will they be able to see the cultural bombardment from the elites of our societies, who are pouring all kinds of lies over us day in day out to rule us all, all the more easily, when they suck the best out of us and our societies? As my mind is busy with these questions, my brother brings down the dress they bought for my mother to wear at my niece's wedding in a few days, which is why I am in Izmir in the middle of the summer.
It may be a good opportunity to convince my mother to take a shower, which in her new cognitive level, is one of the tools she has been using to exert control over her body; resisting to take showers. Left to her devices, she never demands to take a shower, and when reminded, she invariably starts a big debate on how "I took one yesterday!" or "No, I don't need it now" or "I know when I need to take a shower" or "I know what I need better than you, do I tell you to take a shower?", which always makes us crack up since that is true, she doesn’t... But, we have created new tools, too. I always approach these arguments with "Of course, mom, you know what you need to do better than anybody. I am sure you'll make the right decision." That's how I had managed Zeynep when she was a little girl with her strong will. She would eventually arrive at the decision I would have liked her to. So does my mom.
My mother fresh and rested with my sisters in law, niece, and her friends after a shower
As I start chatting with my brother, I see her, with the corner of my eye, stand up and hear her "order" Firuza "bring my bathrobe down, I will take a shower" with a decisive voice. Valla, it worked one more time! Firuza is already on her flight upstairs pleased with the decision my mother made. Mehmet and I blink at each other while my mom walks toward the bathroom. I follow her, planting a kiss on her neck whispering in her ear "We may take a shower together, you know". She pretends to be snapping at me "Don't you have any shame?" but doesn't mind me closing the bathroom door behind the two of us and I can tell from past experience, despite all her resistance she will eventually enjoy our role reversal, me acting like her mother and she like my child. As she starts undressing, I do the same, which doesn't escape her. She protests "why are you undressing? I am the one to take a shower." I explain to her that I don't want my clothes get wet. She submits...
I start rubbing her back as I whisper to her to relax and that I will take care of everything. She listens. I know that she doesn't allow her helpers to give her help with her showers past rubbing her back. I know that I am the only one she trusts with the most intimate privacies of her body. The natural sponge loaded with soap travels throughout her body, cleansing every single pore, groove, and crevasse. I know she feels like she is reborn. Firuza comes in with her bathrobe and my dear baby-mother is now transferred to the safe hands of Firuza. By the time I get out of shower, she is already asleep, on her sofa, with her bathrobe still on, her face half covered with her head towel. The love I feel for her flows out of my eyes, turns into an invisible stream and embraces this tiny body, sleeping in peace and purity. I murmur to myself "You cleansed my body too many times mother, it is not too much if I do this for you couple of times a year."
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