Istanbul: Never Again

 Is there anywhere in the world that you’ve visited and sworn never to return after a terrible experience there? For me that “anywhere” is Istanbul, where I’ve had a dreadful time on each of my three visits to the city. They all add up to much unhappiness and a suspicion that providence could never welcome me there. I reached that conclusion back in 1984, on my first trip to Turkey, after which I resolved never to return, but as fate would have it, I found myself back in Istanbul again… twice, and each of those occasions confirmed for me that Istanbul was not for me; it was a city that seemed to welcome me with only negative karma.

I made my first trip to Istanbul shortly after finishing university. That year I’d got a summer job teaching English in Bournemouth to international students. One of my favourite students, D, was from Turkey and she invited me and a friend, C, to visit her in Istanbul. Accepting that invitation was the first significant mistake of many I made that year and, indeed, thereafter. While I was planning the trip, R, my boyfriend, was also planning his holiday. He wanted to go to Barcelona to visit one of his students there, so we agreed that we should each take advantage of our respective invitations to travel. What I didn’t know was that this student had her eye on R and that she would eventually become his wife in a marriage that has lasted over forty years.

I’d seen Alan Parker’s film Midnight Express, so when I arrived, the extensive military presence in the airport in Istanbul made me a little apprehensive. This was because I had taken the time to acquaint myself with some general knowledge about the military coup and the situation in Turkey. From the moment we drove into Istanbul it became clear that law and order prevailed, so I made my mind up to be respectful whenever and wherever because I did not want to risk ending up in prison, as the young American in the film had done. Anyway, C and I were collected at the airport by my (former) student D and her father, who was dressed in military fatigues. This confused me a little because back in Bournemouth D had told me that her father was a doctor; she must have seen the puzzled look on my face because she was quick to clarify that her father was a military doctor.

It had been decided that due to the extreme heat, it would be better to drive us out to the family holiday home on the coast of the Sea of Marmara, about an hour’s drive from Istanbul. Out in the countryside the military presence was much reduced, I noticed, although army vehicles were apparent on the main roads leading to and from Istanbul. At roadblocks, C and I were quite disconcerted to see uniformed men saluting D’s father, who was in the driver’s seat. That afternoon both of us felt a bit agitated by what we had seen so far. We were young working class punk rockers used to struggling to make ends meet, so we felt quite incongruous. Neither of us had anything at all in common with these people who were hosting us.

The shock was further compounded when we reached the luxury holiday apartment owned by D’s parents. We were ushered in to meet the family while someone (a servant, as it turned out) took care of our luggage. In the general confusion about who was who, I embraced one of the servants believing that she was D’s sister. She wasn’t. Red-faced, I backed away and allowed myself to be steered in the direction of the real (older) sister, who came forward and embraced me warmly. Mum came to say hello and then we all – minus the servants of course - sat down to dinner. C and I were vegetarians and we announced this just before the fish was served. That was the family’s first encounter with non-meat eaters. And for us, it was our first encounter with Muslim etiquette in relation to food… and there was a lot more to be learned.

The following day was spent on the nearby beach where D and her sister were keen to tell us more about their country and culture. Both sisters were lawyers and the brother was at medical school, hoping to follow his father’s footsteps into the army. Doctors and lawyers… it quickly became clear that C and I were out of our depth and this was becoming ever more apparent as the conversation developed. Neither of us came from upper or indeed middle-class families. Inevitably, politics came to the fore, but I managed to keep both sisters’ focus on Turkish politics and religion. To test the waters, I mentioned the coup and the elder sister’s boyfriend asserted that it had been a blessing that the military intervened and dispatched the left-wing scum and trades unions who were destroying the country. Surprisingly, they had no praise for the clerics and orthodox Muslims who – they affirmed - wanted to take Turkey back into the stone age. What they said was very interesting and by the end of the afternoon, C and I had learned a lot while the sisters had – thankfully - learned nothing from us. After dinner, we all toasted to the success of our holiday in Turkey with red wine. D explained that orthodox Muslims do not drink alcohol at all, but this family regarded themselves as progressive Muslims, which is why the women in the family did not wear hijabs or burkas. Those kinds of clothes were generally worn by working class women, usually from the east of Turkey, not by educated, wealthy independent women, such as them.

We had been told that the following day would be a day of sacrifice, a very important day in the Muslim calendar. Just before dawn the family had driven to a nearby farm to collect their part of the sacrifice, which was why C and I were the only ones at the breakfast table. As we ate our delicious meal we couldn’t turn our heads away from a scene that was unfolding in the right field in front of us. A man was dragging a sheep toward a nearby tree while the creature was struggling and protesting in vain. Out came the knife and the bleating turned to gurgling while blood gushed over the fleece, the butcher himself and the surrounding grass. All this happened so quickly that we barely had a moment to react. As it was, we grabbed our coffee, left the remainder of the food, and raced inside with the smell of blood still in our nostrils. It was a baptism by fire that we were completely unprepared for.

When we reappeared, what remained of the sheep had been hoisted up and was hanging from a branch of the tree under which the animal had been slaughtered. To avoid further distress, we sat indoors, well away from the back window. When the family arrived that is where they found us: resolutely looking out of the front windows of their home onto the lawn. Before we had time to ask any questions about the sheep, mother came in with a huge transparent plastic sack and dumped it on the table in front of us. Steam was rising from the contents while D explained that some families choose to butcher a sheep – and she pointed to the carcass now hanging from the tree at the back – while other families group together and between them they have a cow sacrificed. This is what our family have opted for, she explained with a smile.

This was probably the moment when our friendship with D and her family took a serious hit and nobody could be blamed for it. It was a clash of cultures: We were two left-wing vegetarians and our beliefs and values did not contrast favourably with a wealthy right-wing family in a Muslim country. If anyone should be blamed, it was me. If I had done a little research these difficulties could have been avoided. Just as C and I were considering how we could get away from “the family” before something more serious happene. C began to have a nervous breakdown caused by the trauma of losing her brother to suicide the previous year. She withdrew to her room and would not talk to anyone, not even me.

I told D and her sister that C was suffering from migraine to buy me some time to plan an escape. The best I could come up with was a lie about us wanting to explore Istanbul. D kindly offered to go with us because she believed it was unsafe for two female tourists to explore the city on their own. Nothing would persuade her to allow us to travel to Istanbul on our own. When the four of us boarded the bus the following day, D and her sister, gave us instructions not to sit next to any man on board. Knowing what I know now about Islamic culture, this makes complete sense, but back in 1984, it absolutely confounded us, adding more anxiety to C’s already fragile state. We followed their instructions but made silent vows to “escape” at the earliest opportunity.

Once we arrived in Istanbul, we decided to go to Turkish Airlines and close the date of our return ticket so that we had a date for returning to the UK. This entailed the start of another phase of our nightmare. We were told that no seats were free on any flights leaving Istanbul soon for London… apparently. C was in despair at this point and it required the intervention of D’s sister’s boyfriend and a sizeable sum of money, aka a bribe, to find seats on a UK-bound flight within the time frame we had requested. In other words, asap!

What had we been thinking of? Requesting an open return on our flights was a bad idea. For C, it meant that there was no date she could cling to that offered an end to her nightmare. For me, I needed a date to escape. I’d seen enough of poverty, bribery and poor infrastructure, as well as leering local men. If this was a shock, then what awaited us in the east of Turkey was, according to D, much worse. How could we have even contemplated travelling alone with tickets that had no return date? The culture shock was severe and we couldn’t find any solace in D or her sister because they belonged to a family which, for us, was part of the problem. Wealth and opulence did not sit easily with poverty and despair.

With four days to wait before we could board our flight home, it was decided that a return to the summer house* was the wisest option because most of the country was closed for the Islamic festival. C reluctantly agreed, even though she hated what we had come to call the SH*. That afternoon we boarded the bus to return to a place we now loathed and had hoped never to set eyes on again. It was a matter of just marking time now, keeping our focus on the departure day. But then there was trouble, serious trouble.

The following morning, I thought I’d take my Walkman to the beach with me. I removed it from my rucksack and began searching for my Joan Armatrading tape; but it wasn’t there with my other tapes. Neither was my Bob Dylan tape, although the others were still in the side pocket, where I’d left them. C and I searched our bedroom and I checked the lounge in case the tape was there. I wondered whether D knew of its whereabouts, but when I asked her, I saw a dark cloud come over her expression. “We have to search the servants’ rooms, but not right now,” she replied. I still didn’t get what she was insinuating and was puzzled, puzzled as to why a poor servant would want to listen to music in a language she couldn’t follow.

But she does understand English, D’s sister maintained. “Don’t worry because we have a plan. This afternoon I’ll send her to the village for fruit and vegetables. That will take some time, time enough to root through her room and find out if she has stolen the tapes.” The plan worked. As soon as the girl had gone shopping in the village, D, her sister and their mother invaded her room with vigour, rooting through everything. The Joan Armatrading tape was found, but there was no sign of Bob Dylan’s music. While the search was ongoing, I was mortified, rueful that I’d ever mentioned the loss to the family. Bob Dylan, I thought, would have been thoroughly delighted that his music appealed to a poor Turkish servant girl, a girl that was given the sack when she arrived back from the village.

I can’t remember much about the return journey, except that I felt profoundly grateful to reach England again. Both C and I must have been stunned by our experience because we sat on the train leaving London in silence. When we were approaching her station she looked at me for a few seconds and then said, “I never want to see you again, Karen. Never again.” And that was that…

 

*Summer House