Just as I was feeling really low, I found out there was an American teacher living in our housing complex. I went to visit her.
“Hi, I’m Lisa. I heard about you so I thought I’d visit,” I said, standing nervously on the doorstep.
“Hey, come on in,” she said. Much taller than me and rather overweight, Susan had white blonde hair and pallid skin. In her soft American accent she showed me into an apartment the same size as ours, painted a pale blue with carpets to match. “Sorry about the mess, I haven’t really had time to do anything yet.”
“When did you get here?” I asked.
“Two days before teaching started.”
“Wow, that must have been hard.”
“Yeah. I was really tired from the flight and then wham, straight into teaching!” She came from Spokane in the US, and had completed her Masters a few years ago. Since then, she’d been employed on a contract basis in various colleges and also taught composition writing in a prison.
“What was it like teaching prisoners? God, the idea sounds pretty freaky!” I said.
“It wasn’t too bad. There were guards there and most of the guys were really pleased to be doing something. It meant they’d at least come out with a college degree. Although my supervisor did tell me before I started to not wear anything particularly tactile, you know, like mohair or something. The men didn’t get much contact with women.” The conversation switched to our respective departments and then about the difficulties we’d experienced in the weeks since we’d arrived.
“Do you know what the story is with the hot water?” Susan asked.
“Well, we were told it was meant to be on from six till nine in the morning and then 6 till midnight. But since we’ve been here it hasn’t been that regular.”
“Oh man, I was really pissed! I have to teach class at eight o’clock in the morning and this morning there wasn’t any hot water,” she replied.
“You know that guy called Mustapha? The one who’s the caretaker?” I asked her.
“Yep. I Do. I asked him about the water and all he does is nod at me, smile and then wander off. A few mornings this week, really early, I’ve seen him running down the courtyard around seven or so. I think maybe, he’s going to turn the water on, you know, in that building down the end.” She was referring to the little concrete box structure, with a door, just outside the boundary of the apartments, which had stairs inside leading down under the ground. It was surrounded by concrete poles strung with barbed wire for security, but the barbed wire didn’t go all the way round.
“Yeah, well, with him in charge I’m not surprised the water isn’t hot”, I said. “Our shower’s been leaking and he won’t fix it. When we complained he turned up the next day with his arm in a sling and a plastic bag full of medicines. Now we call him Dr Do Little. Did you know he gets his apartment rent free in exchange for maintenance? It’s unbelievable!”
Through Susan, we met two more foreigners, Jason and Yuki. That first time I met them, they’d popped in to invite her to a party to celebrate the end of their first year in Kayseri. Another American, Jason spoke with a soft Texan drawl. Blonde and slight, he had met Yuki, a Japanese teacher, when they were both working in southern Thailand. After four years there, they came to Kayseri. They told us there were about 40 foreign teachers at the university, spread over three different locations, two on campus, and one a few suburbs away in upper Talas. Many came from Russia and the Turkic Republics, so there wasn’t a common language. Who you met was largely determined by what language you shared. Two days later at their apartment, which was just the same as ours only with a different colour scheme, we met two Korean teachers, who brought homemade sushi with them, a Turkish post-graduate student called Necit, and our next-door neighbour James, a teacher of Chinese on an exchange program.
“So, how’re you guys getting on?” asked Jason, after we were all settled on couches and chairs just like ours.
“Hmm, the teaching’s OK ...” said Kim.
“But we’ve been feeling a bit lonely lately,” I added.
“Yeah, it sure is hard to meet people here,” Jason said. “You know, we got here last October and it was a really hard winter. Man, we didn’t meet anyone for five months!”
“There’s something a bit strange about Bılım Sitesi . . .” I began.
“At night,” Susan added, “you can’t see anything. Those lights!” Electricity was expensive in Turkey, so lights never had the full quota of bulbs in them and they were always really low wattage.
“I know,” said Kim, “you have to wait until someone is about five feet away from you before you can see if you know them!”
“I’m really glad there are people working on the amphitheatre now”, I said. “It makes me feel safer, because you know the lights along the path don’t work.”
“Have you heard the guy singing?” Susan asked. I had, and went on to tell her how in Istanbul I’d been serenaded by a security guard standing outside a building down the street from our apartment, every time I walked past him.
“I think he’s hoping to be discovered, like Tatlises was”, added Kim. Seeing their blank looks he continued. “You know, Tatlises, the famous Kurdish singer. Apparently he was singing to the herd of goats he was minding and next thing he was a major star.”
I tried to get to know a little about James, but his English wasn’t good, and neither of us had enough Turkish to hold a conversation. Yuki told me that he’d been here five months through an arrangement between the Chinese and Turkish governments. Susan added that he still hadn’t got his contract yet.
“But I get my stipend. 500,000 TL, it is enough,” James insisted, nervously pushing up his oversized glasses that were forever slipping down his nose.
“James,” Susan said sternly, “That’s not the point! It’s the principle. They promised you more money, and you should get it.” As we, along with Susan, were currently surviving on the same amount, and all of us were battling to get our contracts, we agreed.
Throughout the night Yuki said very little. She was small and petite and rarely sat down. Her English was good but her manner reminded me of Japanese women I’d met on my brief visit there. She kept an eye on people’s drinks, topping up their glasses as needed, and darting around the room to empty ashtrays and refill bowls of snacks. She mainly chatted to the Korean teachers in Turkish, and my feeble attempts to join in, although welcome, didn’t get me very far.
Turning to Jason I asked, “So, do you work in the Literature department as well?”
“No, I don’t have a contract. After teaching in Thailand I wanted a break. I do some private teaching so that I can afford to pay for materials. I’m a sculptor.”
“Oh, that’s really good. How do you manage to stay here though? Do you have a resident permit through Yuki?”
“No. We’re not married see, and unless we’re married I can’t get a permit. We could get married, it’d be cheaper, but it’s pretty hypocritical to do that.”
“So you have to leave the country every three months then?”
“Yeah, I usually go across to Greece. It’s a bit of a drag and the money part is annoying, but it’s nice to have a change.” Americans pay US$25 for a three month visa, so Jason had to pay that four times a year. On top of the cost of leaving the country it added up. Even though you could go overland to Greece, he opted to take a boat across to one of the Greek islands. The port taxes in both countries were really high, but the compensation was spending time in a different, holiday environment, and eating all the food you couldn’t get in Turkey.
Although it wasn’t yet midnight, we all had to be up early to teach. We tried to leave but Jason, the only one of us without a set schedule kept insisting we stay. Finally, at about one o’clock we went home. The next day, the effects of the alcohol were obvious, but the social contact more than made up for the slight weariness I felt.
The following week we had a great time with our students, which sort of made up for our disappointment over problems with money and our living conditions. The students really seemed to like us, and one of Kim’s classes showed their sentiments by placing a plate of biscuits on his classroom table before he arrived. They all laughed when he tried to share the five biscuits with the class of 24 students. In one of my reading classes the boys, rather than the girls, frequently ask me about my clothes and jewellery. Sometimes this was to try to distract me from the work we should be doing, but it was mainly teenage adoration. At times it’s disconcerting, as I have a few young men who just sit and gaze at me non-stop in the classroom. I am greeted by “You are beautiful teacher” and frequently told, “I love you teacher”, by young men whose acne hasn’t cleared. Many of them still don’t shave and are in the process of developing their adult voices. Kim has a cluster of pretty young girls desperately in love with him. As he pointed out, it’s hard to keep from laughing when your admirers turn bright red and stammer uncontrollably when called on to answer the simplest of questions.
Despite feeling more confident about my teaching, I was still having enormous trouble teaching my C classes. The kids had 25 hours of English a week, and for many of them it was an uphill battle. I had my two worst performing C speaking classes on Friday afternoon, and nice as the students were, they were sick to death of English by then. There was no set pattern as to what I was meant to teach them, so this Friday I decided to try something a little different. As I entered the class the students called out,
“Hello my teacher.”
“Hello class, how are you today?”
“Good. It is Friday. Tired. Hungry,” came the various responses.
“Ok, today we are going to practice prepositions. Can any one tell me what a preposition is?” I asked. Looking around the classrooms I ignored Mehmet, who always had the answers and tried again.
“Serhan, can you tell me a preposition word?” Serhan smiled at me and leant towards his friend. “Serhan,” I said, mock sternly, “if you always ask your friend, what will you do when your friend is not with you?” His friend Deniz quickly translated into Turkish. Serhan laughed and called out the word “at.” I wrote the word on the board and managed to coax more prepositions out of the class. “Alright, now we are going to practise the words.” This time, I used Mehmet’s enthusiasm and confidence in order to demonstrate what I wanted them to do. “Mehmet, can you come here please. Now, please sit on the desk.” He looked at me in surprise, but did as I asked. “Class, what is Mehmet doing?” After a pause, Fatma called out, “He sit on desk.”
“Yes,” I said, “He is sitting on the desk. Now Fatma, please sit on your desk.” Fatma obeyed and soon I had students sitting under my desk, standing behind the door, in front of the door and outside the door. I held my breath for that one as I was afraid Gurhan might wander off, but he was having too much fun and wanted to come back in. The last action I requested of Hasan. “Hasan, please sit in the windowsill.” He was a big boy, not that bright but very popular for his football skills. With a bit of persuasion he lumbered over to the window and put his finger on the sill, looking back at me for confirmation. The class yelled out encouragement, and I cast a look at the brighter students to stop them from helping. Finally he said, “I cannot sit in the windowsill. Maybe I sit on the windowsill, but it is too small.” Everyone broke out into loud happy laughter.
I was really pleased with the way the class turned out and tried it with my next class as well. Unfortunately I still hadn’t found a way around the students’ habit of always helping one another. This was as innocuous as whispering in their friend’s ear when asked a question, to letting another student look at their answers in the weekly pop quiz. They didn’t see anything wrong with it because they were just helping each other. The classroom was a reflection of Turkish society, where community was more important than the individual. It also meant that when one student was upset or sick the mood of the whole class changed to suit.
We were still living on our stipends so were pleased when Halil arranged for us to meet some doctors from the hospital with a view to teaching them privately. It was strictly against the rules, but everyone, including Halil, did it. The afternoon we met I dressed carefully in a knee length skirt and top which covered me almost to the neck. Waiting for us were two men dressed in suits.
“Kim, Lisa, this is Cemali Bey and this is Hulusi Bey. They are endocrinology doctors at the hospital.” We shook hands and talked generally about Turkey and specifically about Kayseri. Then we got down to business.
“Kim,” said Cemali, “we are eight doctors, wanting English classes. The others are my colleagues but there is also our professor Farih Bey. We would like one two hour class a week.” We’d already asked Alison’s advice on private teaching, and she’d regaled us with stories of how unreliable the doctors could be, and warned us how fiercely they’d bargain. Well prepared we negotiated an hourly rate, set whether they all turned up or not, as well as insisting that cancellations of less than 24 hours would have to be paid for. It was agreed that I would teach a group on Thursday and Kim would take another on Tuesdays, beginning the next week. Cemali wanted to be in my group, and after watching him eying my legs and chest the hour we were with them, I decided I’d wear trousers.
After they left we pressed Halil Bey about our contracts again, and told him about the hot water problems. As it is we’re lucky if we can shower every day, do the washing up and Kim can manage to shave. Susan and I have taken to visiting each other as soon as we know the water is hot. We can’t ring each other because the phones haven’t been fixed yet. We make do by running out into the night to knock on each others doors with the message “Water’s hot”. Then we bolt into the bathroom and shower before trying to wash the dishes as fast as we can before the supply runs out.
Halil said, “Alright, I can’t refund the . . . alright . . . air fares to you now . . . alright . . . because . . . alright . . . we don’t know . . . alright . . . anyone in Ankara. Your hot water problem . . . alright . . . I can ask about . . . alright . . . let me talk to the General Secretary . . . The telephone, they are renewing the lines, alright. When this is done alright, they will work. Alright. . . we will see if we . . . alright . . . can solve your problem. Alright?” After wading through Halil’s speech, what could we say other than ‘alright’? Despite the sympathy Halil Bey exuded, meetings with him left both Kim and I on the verge of committing homicide. He is a really nice guy, but he has all the strength of a wet paper-bag when it comes to tackling our problems.
The difficulty of contacting our parents was a real worry. The nearest public phone was a kilometre away, and the only free time we had to ring Australia was at night. With winter approaching, and the promise of snow to come, we didn’t see how we’d manage. I could always email Dad, but access to the one computer available to the 40 or so teachers was limited. To use the computer I had to walk down three flights of stairs from my office to Mr Fixit’s office, find him or someone else with access to the key cupboard, and then sign for the key. Then it was back up to the second floor to the computer room. Half the time the key wasn’t in the cupboard so it was another trek up the stairs to find the last person who had it. If I was lucky they were in their office but more often than not they had gone out, taking the key with them. Judging by the icons that had been desk topped, the main reason I could never find the key to the computer room was because the men used the computer to visit porn sites. Then, even if I located the key first go, access was either painfully slow or non-existent. The university shared servers with another university in Ankara and the connections were overused and limited. There was an internet café 20 minutes walk away from campus, which I could use, but it was filled with noisy primary school boys playing computer games. As with making phone calls, come winter, there would be too much snow to easily walk there.
Later that week, we saw a different side to Halil. Kim had been invited to come to a football match between the school’s teachers and those of another department. Birol came and picked us up in his trusty Murat, and drove across the Talas road to an indoor playing field on the other side of the military land. Kim had been invited to stand in as a substitute, but hadn’t really expected to have to play. However, he was quickly on the field after another teacher was injured. I wasn’t paying attention, so I didn’t see him being hit square in the family jewels by a misplaced shot. I was the only woman in the audience, and when he dropped unconscious to the ground, no one would tell me what happened.
Halil Bey was like a demon on the field. A slight man under his enormous suits, he looked faintly ridiculous in his long shorts, which came to a few inches below his knees. They flapped furiously as he chased and challenged the opposition for the ball, well after the others had given up. He always liked to give the impression he was tough, and while he failed at this elsewhere, on the football field he was. Afterwards I laughed so hard I was nearly in tears when Kim told me that in the change rooms, Halil Bey stripped off his shorts to reveal baggy, white underpants, the same length as his shorts.
The next night I held my first lesson with the doctors. We were meeting at the hospital, and when I got to the main entrance I was stopped by a security guard. There was a crowd of people trying to get in, and I wasn’t sure how I’d fare. Nervously I stammered.
“Merhaba, ben yabancı oğretmen Bu akşam dokuz kat’ta ben Ingilizce ders alıyorum.” He could probably tell I was foreign but at the word teacher he let me through and directed me to the lifts. Up on the ninth floor Hulusi was hovering in the corridor. We shook hands and exchanged greetings. After asking after each other’s health he led me through a number of doors at breakneck speed before ushering me into a doctor’s lounge.
“I am sorry Lisa, but Farıh Bey, he is our professor, he is still working and Cemali Bey must stay with him. Deniz Bey, you will meet him, he is with them too. Would you like some tea”
“Thank you, that would be lovely.” I noted that just as when I first met him in Halil Bey’s office Hulusi was wearing a suit and tie. As a concession to being off duty he took off his coat and went to find some cups. I was happy to see they had found a whiteboard for me to use, and thought to buy some markers. When Hulusi came back and we waited for the kettle to boil, I asked him about the people waiting outside the entrance.
“They are visitors. They want to see their relatives.”
“Isn’t it a bit late for them to visit?”
“Yes,” said Hulusi, “But they hope if they stay and ask many times the guard will let them in.”
“And will he?”
“No. They know if they do they will cause many problems.” I waited for him to say more, but as he didn’t I asked,
“So Hulusi, what kind of doctor are you?”
“I am endocrinologist.” On seeing my questioning look he continued. “You know, we look after people with diabetes. In Turkey many people have diabetes. It is a big problem.”
“Aah”, I said, “Too much baklava.” Hulusi and I were still laughing when Cemali joined us. As I stood in greeting he came and shook my hand saying,
“Lisa, welcome. Are you well? Sorry I am late. Farıh Bey is my professor and I want to become an associate professor. We are writing a paper and must finish this week. It is very important that I publish many papers.”
“That’s alright Cemali. Why do you have to publish many papers?”
“In Turkey you need to publish many papers so that you can be allowed to sit an exam. Once you pass this exam your peers decide if you can become an associate professor.”
“And is it important to become a professor one day?” I asked.
“If you are like Cemali” chipped in Hulusi, “It is important. He wants to become rich and have a private hospital like Farıh Bey.”
Even though Hulusi was older than Cemali, he treated Cemali like a respected older brother. I guessed, correctly as it turned out, it was because Cemali was a bit higher up the chain than Hulusi. When we were joined by Farıh Bey trailing a frazzled looking Deniz, Cemali jumped to attention and made the introductions. Once we were all seated I began the lesson by directing my questions to Farih Bey.
“Now, Farih Bey, I know from Hulusi and Cemali that you are all endocrinologists. I also know you speak English for your work but have trouble speaking English when you aren’t talking about medicine. When do you speak English informally?”
Farih Bey cleared his throat and began to talk. “We attend medical conferences overseas therefore there are many social times for example we are sitting in a bar drinking alcohol such it is good when we talk about medicine because we know all the words but when we want to talk about non-medical things in this case we don’t know the words consequently we can listen sometimes and answer questions however we cannot ask questions on the other hand we do not understand the answers when we can ask questions ...”
He went on in this vein for some time, giving me an opportunity to study him and the interaction between the other doctors. He was tall for a Turk, with wild light brown hair and slightly protruding eyes, which, combined with his enthusiastic hand gestures, made him look a bit like a person you’d avoid on the street. However, his high status was confirmed by the immaculate suit he wore, and highly polished shoes. I looked and saw they all had well polished shoes and was surprised. Despite the innumerable shoe shine men and boys in Turkey, Kayseri was covered in dust and I could never keep my shoes that clean.
Cemali with his plump dark skinned round face, and Deniz with paler skin and square features were paying close attention to Farih Bey. Hulusi managed to appear interested while intermittently closing his eyes. Worrying that I might follow suit I managed to interrupt Farih Bey and join his train of thought.
“So what you really need is small talk.”
They all seriously repeated the words ‘small talk’ and wrote them down in their note books. I began to ask questions and elicited enough topics to develop a course based around everyday, casual conversation. While they had a good grasp of English, the devil is in the detail, so they might be able to say the food in Turkey is delicious, but be unable to give listeners any clues as to what exactly makes it so. The topics they wanted to cover included home and family, culture and food, and how medicine is practised in Turkey. It seemed promising. Once the lesson concluded Cemali and Hulusi fought over who was to drive me home. Cemali won.
Towards the end of October, a cocktail reception was held to celebrate the beginning of the university term. It was a bit late given that the term started the previous month, but it was a chance to meet new people and we hoped to have a chat with our colleagues away from class. We went with Susan, Jason and Yuki, who quickly disappeared to talk to the people they knew. Only two teachers from our department attended. According to Servit, the husband of Donna, another American teaching at our school, most of the teachers from our department stayed away in accordance with Halil Bey’s views. Halil was a nationalist, he said, which in present terms meant he was anti-secular and against drinking and displays of immodesty. Therefore the length of his shorts was deliberate, as was the moustache. To keep in with him, without necessarily sharing his politics, teachers didn’t attend any university functions unless Halil did. They also made a big show of attending mosque services on Fridays. I didn’t like to ask how this form of nationalism fitted Atatürk’s vision, so I kept quiet. I’d always thought Atatürk best represented Turkish nationalism, wanting to put Turkey on the modern world stage without losing its identity. Halil’s old-fashioned notions, in particular his regular attendance at the mosque, seemed at odds with this.
The main focus of the night, apart from talking and drinking, was food. A long table was set out in the middle of the room, and at some secret signal everyone descended on it like a plague of locusts. Plates were crammed with stuffed capsicums, sucuk, pastırma, the Turkish version of pastrami, grilled liver, white cheese, green salad, yaprak sarma, and anything else that could fit. I contented myself with a modest serving, and then was amazed to learn that the selection was only the mezze, or entrée. Again, at another signal I missed, there was a stampede to another window, where plates piled high with döner and rice were snapped up.
A great majority of the guests were staff from the various medical faculties attached to the hospital on campus. A doctor we met, called Selçuk, told us that it was built on the site of the first hospital in the world to treat psychiatric patients with music therapy instead of burning them. The original hospital dated back to 1200 AD. Another doctor, also called Selçuk, introduced us to one of the musicians playing there, and told us the man’s brother wrote a song for the Eurovision Song contest two years ago. Although we’d only just met him that night, the first Selçuk promised to take us skiing on Mt. Erciyes during winter. He also invited us to his summerhouse in Trabzon, on the Black Sea coast. In future, in order to be clear about whom we were speaking, we decided to call him Selçuk III, as there were already two others at our school.
It was really interesting to see another side of life in Kayseri. Casually asking questions about the people around us, I learnt that generally, those who attended these sorts of receptions were more secular. Alcohol was abundant, and I have really never seen people drink so much, so quickly, and still remain coherent and standing.
The next day I was feeling a bit worse for wear, when one of the students in my reading class asked me how I had enjoyed the evening’s function.
“It was very enjoyable Gurkhan. I met some nice people and ate too much food,” I laughed. “How did you know I was there, anyway?”
“My friend Ali. He is your student in C7. He makes, takes, plays photographs.”
“Takes photographs,” I gently corrected.
“Thank you. He takes photographs for the university. He saw you.”
While we’d been talking the rest of the class had started to buzz with little knots of conversation. I was about to turn to our textbook when Hikmet, who always wore the same coat, piped up and asked,
“Did you drink wine, teacher?”
“Yes I did Hikmet.”
“Wine is bad teacher,” said big Hasan, his friend. I countered with,
“Have you drunk wine Hasan?”
“No teacher, wine is bad. I do not drink” Another student called out, “Not true, not true. You drink”. He then turned to me and said “Teacher, Hasan drinks!” with equal measures of censure and wondering admiration.
“Have you drunk, maybe rakı, Hasan?” I teased. At this the class cracked up and Hasan went a very bright red.
“Does Hasan like to drink rakı class?”
Serdar, an older boy, confirmed what the rest of the students were saying in Turkish. “Yes teacher, Hasan drinks rakı. He likes it too much.”
Hasan began to protest that he wasn’t a bad person for drinking rakı. I helped him out by asking, “Am I a bad person?” The class were vigorous in my defence. “I drink wine and I am not a bad person. You know this. So Hasan is correct. It isn’t bad to drink alcohol, just not too much,” I said with a smile.
At the end of the lesson I set some homework due the next Monday. Along with the usual moans and groans about having to study outside school hours, one of the students said that we wouldn’t be having lessons then. Knowing how sharp the students were, I wondered if they sensed I was a bit tired from the night before and were trying to take advantage of that. They went to extraordinary lengths to get out of having homework, so I wanted to know if they were telling the truth. I told them to have the work ready for Wednesday and went in search of a reliable source of information.
“Hi Sevgi, how are you?” I asked, standing at the door of her office.
“I am fine, Lisa, please, come in,” she replied. It was the first time we had done more than say hello in passing. “Would you like some tea?” she asked, before offering coffee when I hesitated.
“A coffee would be lovely. I don’t drink a lot of tea, even in Australia.”
“You normally drink tea with milk there, don’t you?”
“Yes, we do. I like Turkish tea, but if I drink too much, it turns my teeth brown.”
“Yes,” she acknowledge, “I have the same problem. Also I only like to drink tea if I eat a cake or something, and that makes me too fat.”
Feeling at ease we both laughed and I asked my question. “Yes,” answered Sevgi, and then asked “You know Tuesday is a holiday?” At my nod she continued, “Today the government declared Monday a holiday as well.” Tuesday, the 29th of October is the anniversary of the day Turkey was declared a republic in 1923 and is always a public holiday, but I didn’t know about Monday.
“Sevgi, when . . ., when did you find out? When my students told me I didn’t know if I should believe them.” It turned out everyone had expected the Monday to be a holiday. Apparently it is usual for this to happen without much prior notice. It was a bit disappointing because it meant everyone had already made plans to go away, so we’d have to spend the weekend in Kayseri, alone. If we’d know in advance, we could have made arrangements. As it was, we’d be lucky to get bus tickets to Göreme, as all the buses would be booked up by homesick students visiting their families.
Dispirited at the news, I trudged over to the hospital. When I got to the ninth floor Cemali was waiting for me. We sat chatting on one of the couches until Hulusi joined us fifteen minutes later. Assuming I could start the lesson I was taken aback when they told me they wanted to cancel and not pay. It turned out that the day before, Deniz’s wife’s surgery had burnt down. Deniz was helping her sort things out and wouldn’t be coming tonight. Neither would Farih Bey because he was away at a congress. I stood my ground over our agreement. They could have given me twenty four hours notice but they didn’t. I left not knowing whether they’d pay me the next week or even agree to continue with our lessons. Right then I didn’t care, because if they didn’t pay me I wasn’t going to continue, and I made that clear.
The weather that weekend was awful, so we spent most of our time at home. It rained on Republic Day, so we watched the Kayseri celebrations on television. The officials looking really miserable, standing in the cold, dripping with rain, as a commemorative wreath was laid to the accompaniment of a band. It was a far cry from the celebrations we watched six years previously, in Kaş. Then, the small harbour area was the focus of parades, re-enactments of historical events and synchronised marching by school children. We sat at the edge of the square and watched as all the symbols of modernity rolled past, the fire trucks, the police cars and vans, the council bulldozers and trucks. All were washed and polished until they shone. A tier of seats was set up for officials and their families to view the display, and I remember wondering what Atatürk would have thought. Women sat on one side and men on the other, and nearly every woman was wearing a headscarf.
Kaş is a small village on the Mediterranean coast, and has become a mecca for disenchanted Istanbulis and other city dwellers seeking a more relaxed life away from the dirt and frantic pace of bigger cities. Set right by the water, steep, almost forbidding mountains restrict the growth of the town. As you look back up the tortuously winding road that provides access, you can see the sleeping giant formed by the rocks in the mountainside. Although the town has grown in the 12 years since I first went there, it is still a mix of holiday village and artists’ colony. The mix was evident the night of the Republic Day celebrations. The many restaurants serving the tourist trade had set up tables in the town square, and by the time we got there at about eight, they were packed. There were foreigners from the boats moored in the harbour, others from the package hotels on the eastern side, and Turkish tourists from the cheaper pensions to the west, where we stayed.
Music played continuously and the square was a sea of undulating bodies stepping back and forth to the rhythm of Turkish music. Behind the tables two men played the davul and the ney. The drum beat of the davul, accompanied by the thin, reedy wail of the ney makes an irresistible sound that drew many foreigners on to their feet to attempt the traditional dances. Two women, possibly German or Dutch, wanted to dance, but this style of music is reserved for men. Convincing them to return to their seats, a young Turkish man who may have been their guide, used great tact. While much is done to accommodate the desires of foreigners, there are certain traditions that do not change.
The night ended with a display of fireworks, set off just in front of where we were sitting. Our focus was more on the little boys, determined to get near the rockets, and the handlers equally determined efforts to keep them away. The display went off without any injuries, despite the boys’ best attempts.
It was in Kaş, too, we discovered that Burcu did have a boyfriend. Back in summer, she and Ebru spent one night in Olympos before joining us in Kaş. They were not impressed by the treehouse accommodation, claiming that the huts had no mosquito nets, no glass in the windows and inefficient locks. Over dinner the first night, she told us that Bora, her boyfriend, was coming at the end of the week. As a cover, she’d told her parents she was spending the whole two weeks with Ebru. She had met Bora in Bodrum the previous summer. Now he was based in Istanbul doing his 18 months military service. She was pretty sure he was the man she wanted to marry, but needed to spend time with him to be absolutely certain.
The week the four of us spent together was glorious, and Kim and I were really happy Burcu had found Bora. Unlike many Turkish men, he allowed her to remain an individual, rather than changing her to his image. We usually went our own way by day and met up on the terrace of our pension at night, and the two of them just glowed. Their week together wasn’t just about sex, it was about sharing the minutiae of life that can destroy a relationship. We knew that Burcu’s parents would never understand, so we edited our photos when we saw them.
After Republic day, the main topic of conversation among the students was the upcoming elections. They were very excited as it was the first time many of them were eligible to vote, and they took the matter very seriously. It was unclear just who would win, but Ecevit, the current prime minister, was definitely finished. He was in poor health and at over 60 years old, nearly dead as far as our teenage students were concerned. Turkey has a confusing multi-party system and every other day some party leader came to Kayseri to exhort their support. There were posters up everywhere advertising rallies in Cumhuriyet Meydan or one of the many indoor sports arenas. Many times I had to walk for miles to get the bus back from town, because the council kept closing off the main streets for one rally or another.
Nearly all the parties have three letter acronym names, like CHP, DYP, DHP, MHP, and I can never remember what they stand for, let alone know the party line. What I did know was that one party leader would either be jailed for acting against the constitution by heading a party that claims Islam as its political guide, or he would be allowed to run for prime minister. Another politician bought airtime through the three TV stations his family owned. The current government regularly punished him by shutting down his TV stations for up to five days. As the channel broadcasts football’s Champions League, it’s unlikely to win the current government any support. Despite this, the party leader was still allowed to run for office. A former prime minister is running again on the promise that if her party is elected, every Turkish citizen will get two keys, one for their own home, and one for their own car. Her previous stay in office was cut short by stories of Mafia connections and a mysterious Mercedes with lots of cash in the boot.
What became clear in discussions with the students is that the process of democracy is not that well developed. One day, out of curiosity, I asked my students who they thought would win.
“Teacher, they are all bad. It doesn’t matter who wins.”
“But don’t you want to choose? Isn’t it important to vote?”
“Yes, but we can’t vote.”
I was puzzled, because the week before they were telling me how necessary it was to vote and that they all wanted to. So I asked, “Why can’t you vote?” The response was, “Because we’re not there”. Trying to discuss politics with pre-intermediate English language students mightn’t have been the greatest idea but it was the first topic they had been really interested in. In order to tease out the answers I asked the most obvious questions, as simply as I could.
“Aren’t you old enough to vote?”
Many hands were raised and many voices called out, “Yes, I am.”
“Aren’t you registered to vote?” This brought blank looks so I tried again. “In my country, you must go to an office. You must give your name, before the election. Then you can vote. Haven’t you done this?”
“Yes teacher, I have.” As it seemed that most of them were old enough to vote and most of them were registered I was at a loss as to the reason for their insistence that they couldn’t vote. After further consultation amongst the students in Turkish, one boy was appointed spokesperson and slowly explained their problem. As he used the English he best understood, I wrote the English words he was talking about on the board.
“When you go to the office, it is in your memleket.”
“OK, when you go to register, it is in your birth place.”
“Yes, when you register, it is in your birth place,” repeated Ferhat.
“So you have all done this,” I confirmed.
“Yes teacher,” they chorused. Ferhat continued, “When you elect, election, seçim…” He gave up and looked at me for help so I wrote the word ‘vote’ on the board.
“Yes, yes, when you vote, you be in birthplace!”
Wanting to check what I understood, I said, “You mean, when the election comes, you must be in your birthplace, the place where you are registered, to vote?” The students were deafening in their affirmation, elated that I had understood them.
I was amazed by what they had told me. Most teenagers who go to university do so at an institution away from their hometowns. Working people go where there are jobs so I figured a huge number of people must be stationed away from home and thus excluded from voting. It’s obligatory to vote and you’re fined if you don’t, yet from what the students told me, there seems to be no absentee voting system. From following domestic news I also know that some people, particularly Kurds, but also people from remote villages in the East and South East parts of Turkey, don’t even show up on the census. Their parents don’t always register their births, and when the time comes to take the boys off for military service, an underage young brother might be presented as the person being sought. So who knows how accurate the election roles are and whether the outcome of the election really represents the will of the people.
Being a Thursday, I had five lessons to give in total, and then I had my private class with the doctors. The two afternoon reading classes could either be very good or very bad, which made for an even longer day. Pleased with the morning classes, I went with Elif, who I’d met during the speaking exams, to the yemekhane. We went to the larger dining room away from the student lunch places. At the door we gave our numbers to the man at the front desk for the charge to be deducted from our monthly salary. Each meal only cost about a dollar twenty and was usually pretty good. Once we got into the main room we looked for someone we knew at the crowded tables.
“Look,” said Elif, “There are seats with Fevziye and Perihan. We will join them.” As we wended through the crowded tables we exchanged greetings with people we knew and wished them “Afiyet olsun”, the Turkish for bon apetite.
As soon as we were seated the waiter brought around a large soup tureen and ladled out generous portions of lentil soup. Each table had a water jug and glasses and Perihan immediately filled two glasses for us while Fevziye pushed across the bread basket.
“No bread for me thanks,” I said, “I’m allergic to it”.
“I also will not have bread,” said Elif, “It is fattening.”
“You know Lisa, before, Elif was very fat. Oh she was so big!” laughed Perihan. I looked at Elif, who exuded a languid sensuality, with her slim hips and graceful arms. I didn’t believe she could ever have been fat.
“Yes, it was true. You know my husband Ramazan works on big cruise ships. He is away a lot and I get lonely. So I ate and I ate and I was so fat!” confirmed Elif. I smiled politely and hoped no one would comment on my weight. Even though the women here thought nothing of telling you that you had put on a few kilos I found it difficult to handle. It just seemed so rude, although I know their comments are meant to show their interest in you. I tried to engage Fevziye in chat but she was young and unmarried and had little to say.
After finishing our soup the next course appeared. It was a simple meal of köfte, rice and salad, but very fresh and tasty. Perihan asked,
“So Lisa, how do you like the food?”
“It’s very nice. The meat is very good.”
Perihan agreed and then rattled off the name of the university supplier. “You must be careful when you buy this kıyma, aahh, mince meat, you know. Some of the butchers add anything they like, it is very bad. Only buy where you can watch them and see what meat they use.” Other than commenting on the food there was little conversation. We all had to get back for the last two lessons and wanted to have a tea or coffee before starting. Although the dining hall provided a three course meal they didn’t serve hot drinks so we jumped into Elif’s car and went back to school.
My first afternoon class went quite well, so I was in a good mood when I said good afternoon to my last class of the day, B8. I looked at scruffy little Mehmet, Burak, Galıp, big Mehmet and Nuri and asked,
“Boys, where are your books?”
“Teacher, on the weekend I went to my hometown. It was wonderful. I forgot my book at my mother’s house,” said Nuri. Galıp’s story was similar, except he said he had left his textbook at his friend’s house. He had been studying it there, or so he said. The others all claimed forgetfulness as a reason with the exception of Burak.
“I didn’t bring my book because I don’t like learning English.”
“Well you all know the rules, so you all must leave the classroom. I will mark you absent for this lesson.” They grumbled at this but all got up quickly to go, except for Burak. He scowled at me and made no move to leave. I again told him to leave the classroom and he made his way slowly out of the room, muttering under his breath. Almost every week I had to send at least one student out, either for turning up late or for not bringing their books. A lot of the time they didn’t bring their books claiming they were too heavy, which made me laugh. They only had two textbooks for the whole course.
After an early meal I raced over to hospital to meet the doctors. They had agreed to pay for the cancellation and to pay me a month in advance, at the set rate, no matter who turned up. Farih Bey was absent again due to work, so I sat down with Cemali, Hulusi and Deniz. I had asked them to pretend they were running in the elections and to prepare notes with which to give a semi impromptu speech. They had all written out everything they wanted to say, even though that wasn’t the idea. Nonetheless they’d done some good work, and we were all really relaxed. Whenever their professor wasn’t present the three laughed and teased one another so we were able to have proper conversations, which is what they really wanted. Drawing from what I’d learnt about them when they talked about their home towns, I asked Cemali about his background.
“Yes, he is from Malatya,” said Hulusi.
“Oh yes Malatya, where the apricots are grown. I’ve been there”, I commented.
“Yes, Malatya, that is my home town. See, that is why I have dark skin,” said Cemali.
“I read in the paper that many of the people who live there will vote the way their ağa tells them to. Is this true?” I asked Cemali.
“Yes,” he said. You see the tribes, you call them, I think, they each work for an ağa. What is this word in English?”
“Agha.”
“Thank you. Agha. The agha owns all the land and his people work on that land. He owns the shops so he takes the money he pays them. If they want to work for him they vote for the person he chooses.”
“Really, even now in Turkey?” I asked.
“Yes Lisa, it is true. Turkey is like two countries. One side, the west is more like Europe, the other, it is backwards. Here we are in the middle.” Cemali started laughing as he added, “Deniz does not know this, he is from Istanbul.”
Deniz worked in Kayseri while his wife, also a doctor, lived with her parents in Istanbul. She couldn’t find a job with her husband, so he went to see her and their baby son every month. Hulusi was originally from Samsun on the Black Sea Coast. He married locally but still went to see his family during the two religious holidays each year, and every summer.
“Yes Lisa”, said Cemali, “Turkey is like many different countries”.
“If Kayseri were a country, what would you tell me about it?” I asked.
“It is famous for sucuk, you know, the spicy sausage, pastirma, the meat, and well ...”, Deniz faltered so I teased, “And what are the people famous for Deniz?”
“The people, well, you know, they bargain, they like money. They like things.”
“Yes”, Hulusi giggled, and then said something in Turkish. Seeing that I didn’t understand Cemali translated for me.
“If you borrow from a Kayseri person and you ask when will he bring it back he will say, when the snow melts on Mount Erciyes”. At this we all cracked up, well knowing that even in the fiercest of summers there is always a cap of snow left on the mountain. At the end of the class I arranged for one of them to pick me up starting the next week, as it was getting too dark for me to walk alone across the campus.
In the same week in early November, we got our phone connected, a new government with a very Muslim flavour was elected and Ramazan began. To get the phone connected, we waited six weeks for the whole university system to be upgraded and then visited the on campus telephone exchange. We personally witnessed our internal university line being plugged in by the head technician, before staying for a friendly chat and a cup of tea. Mr Fixit, Ibrahim, from our department, accompanied us there. Then, once he had received the name of a contact in Turkish Telecom from Halil, he took us to their grungy office in an inner suburb of Kayseri.
At the office everyone was really helpful and friendly. However, although we had our resident permits, they couldn’t connect our phone without seeing our passports. We explained that you couldn’t get the resident permits without having passports, and them being translated, notarised and photocopied, but it was still no go. So we stayed for tea, had a tour of the facilities and arranged to return the next day. I went on my own. Kim and I had already decided the process was complicated enough without registering the phone in his name. As it is, he repeatedly has to smile at the jokes levelled at him after people realise that he really is called Kim, which in Turkish means ‘who’.
When I arrived the Telecom director greeted me apologetically. He wanted, but couldn’t offer me tea, because it was the first day of Ramazan and no food or liquid could be consumed in daylight hours. As we chatted he instructed a younger man to find a phone number for me. Although the billing system is on computer, he flipped through a tatty-looking green ledger full of people’s names and telephone numbers written in by hand, and found a number with the owner’s name crossed out. Then he wrote my name down and proudly announced that our line was now working. As we also needed an internet connection, the director personally escorted me the two blocks to the internet office. When I got home later that afternoon we marvelled at our first dial tone and the next day sent our first email from home.
The weather on the Saturday of the election was fine and clear so Kim and I decided to go for a walk down one of the many boulevards leading off the main square. I don’t know the name of most of the main roads, but walking helps establish the important landmarks by which to identify places. We passed a series of early 20th buildings, a public theatre, an army office, and a local school being used as a polling booth. There were no party faithful handing out forms, just a notice telling people to have their identity cards ready. People who had already voted were spilling down the stairs. All of them had dye on their little finger, to show they’d cast their vote. The dye looked really odd and for weeks after the election, everyone’s hand looked like they had slammed their finger in a car door.
Suddenly we heard a piercing voice call out “Kim!”, and we, along with most of the pedestrians whirled around. Coming towards us was Mr Fixit from school. After the obligatory greetings he asked us where we were going.
“Biz geziyoruz”, I replied, adding that the nice weather made us want to go for a wander. He invited us back to his apartment so we followed him through a maze of streets that brought us out on the road behind the one leading to the Otogar. His apartment block was shabby with peeling paint and damp stains down the stairwell. Inside the apartment was the same, but obviously clean and cared for. He introduced us to his wife, eight year old daughter Duygu and oversized four year old boy called Arda.
While we sat on the lounge and made small talk about Kayseri, the weather and the school, Arda kept up a rampage that would last for hours. Ibrahim didn’t say, but we guessed he had some behavioural problems. Ibrahim’s wife, whom he hadn’t introduced by name, brought out plates of homemade dolma, fresh bread, olives and salad. Ibrahim ate with us, but his wife and Duygu were fasting.
Ibrahim joked with us about the difficulties of Ramazan, and also explained why the students are so reluctant to be sent from the classroom. We assumed they’d be happy to have free time given their complaints about doing lessons, but it turns out they automatically fail if they miss more than 15% of the classes. Even if they’re sick and have a doctor’s certificate, they’re still marked absent. When I asked why, he indicated that doctor’s certificates can be bought, and many students have the right connections. He himself was our connections man, because after so long at the university he knew almost everyone worth knowing. He told us how he hoped his daughter Duygu would get into university. He wouldn’t have the money to send her to a dershane for extra coaching when she got to high school, so by helping people he might make the connections necessary to help her get a university place.
We spent the next few hours going through her English books and finally left about 4pm. It was very cold and like our apartment, the heating wasn’t due to be turned on for another few weeks. We took our leave and made our way home where we ate dinner and watched television wrapped in multiple layers and blankets, fending off the cold.
The people had chosen overwhelmingly for the AK Party to lead the country, and at our next lesson the doctors told me that ‘ak’ was an older word for the colour white, and used to symbolise a fresh, pure start. The Prime Minister elect was Abdullah Gül, a Kayseri boy, but everybody knew he would be replaced by Tayıp Erdoğan in a few months. This was the party with ties to Refah, the outlawed political party with overt ties to Islam. Erdoğan had a case pending in which he was charged with reading poetry critical of the regime, but he was expected to be cleared. Especially as once a person was elected to parliament they couldn’t be tried for former crimes. The AK Party’s stronghold was in the conservative rural areas, and in the shanty towns of bigger cities. They’d done a lot of work there, providing care for mothers and babies, and given assistance with food and housing. The city dwellers, particularly the Istanbulis, were horrified when they got in. I don’t know yet what kind of governance they’ll provide, but as they don’t exactly warm to the American government, and as it looks like America will invade Iraq, that can’t be a bad thing. At least the phone is connected, which has greatly eased our feeling of isolation, and made our parents worry less. No matter how many times we tell people how far we were from the border with Iraq, the news from America has made everyone overly fearful.
Even though things were looking up, we still had to get through Ramazan. Fasting is a personal statement, to acknowledge those who always have very little, and as a sacrifice to show faith. Unlike in Istanbul, in Kayseri there is enormous social pressure to participate, or to at least appear as if you are. A few restaurants gamely stayed open for lunch on the first few days, and then closed. At Migros, the shelves normally holding alcohol were replaced by hampers of food for people to buy and give to the poor. Not everyone can fast, such as new mothers and menstruating women, because they are considered unclean in a spiritual sense. Others should not fast, such as the very young and the ill, the elderly and travellers, as it can be detrimental to their health. Despite this you often heard sad stories of people ignoring their doctors’ warnings and dying as a consequence. The school canteen was closed, and with no one to give us a lift to the dining halls we brought in sandwiches. We ate these out of our desk drawers, slamming them shut whenever someone wanted to come in.
Sevgi invited us to her home to celebrate the iftar meal with her family. Iftar is the meal that breaks the day’s fasting, and the time it occurs is determined by the setting of the sun. For those who could read, the newspapers advertised the times everyday, and the McDonalds in town had the full set of times printed on the back of the fliers advertising their special Ramazan meals. For the illiterate, every television channel shows the firing of the cannons across the Bosphorus in Istanbul, and the call can be heard from every mosque. On trips into town I had seen poorer Kayserians queuing up outside the mosque down from Almer, or outside the council run marquee, waiting to receive a free meal.
On the day we went to her home, iftar fell at 4.37pm. Sevgi lives in Gültepe, or Rose Hill, but the area is flat as a pancake and there isn’t a hill or a rose in sight. It’s an area of town where the older one-storey houses are being razed to make way for apartment blocks. So far there is still some open space, filled with bleak parks that will one day be quite pretty, provided the plants in the gardens get a chance to grow above all the construction rubble and dust floating around. The afternoon we arrived it was deserted as everyone waited for the call from the mosque.
To get there we caught a bus into the outskirts of the city centre, to the Talas bus stop. From there we could either walk to her house in about 15 minutes, or wait for one of the dolmuş’ to take us. We opted for the latter and bitterly regretted it as the bus wasn’t heated and by the time we left we were frozen through. Had we walked we would have arrived by the time the dolmuş left.
Our driver was a young man, and judging by the décor he either had a loving mother or a new young wife. There was a handmade fringed edging around the roof vent, and bunches of plastic flowers tied to either corner of the windscreen. A carpet mat sat on the dashboard, along with a box of tissues in a crocheted cover, the driver’s mobile phone and a money box. The dolmuş was an older model with the front axle set higher than the back, making the whole vehicle slope upwards. He drove like a maniac, jamming his foot abruptly on the accelerator so that we lurched uncomfortably along. Every time we stopped everyone was flung to the front of the bus. Apart from a few tongue clicks, however, no one complained.
Spotting the mosque across from her building Sevgi had told us to look out for, we alighted and made our way to her block. There are three apartment blocks in her ‘city’, as these complexes are called, and we walked up the red carpet and called the lift. Once on the fifth floor we rang her bell. We waited, then rang again. There was no answer so I called her on the mobile.
“Hi Lisa, how are you?”
“Good Sevgi. Um, Sevgi’ we are outside your house and have rung the bell.”
“Oh, I didn’t hear it. Look, I’m coming to the door.” A brief silence followed and then, “Lisa I am looking out my door. I cannot see you.”
”Oh, we are on the fifth floor. Is that right?”
“No, no, come downstairs. I am on the fourth floor.” We walk down one flight and still there is no Sevgi. Before we could decide what to do she rang again and asked where we were.
“On the fourth floor,” I said.
“Are you in B Blok?,” Sevgi asked with a laugh.
We headed back outside and walked over to B Blok, the next one along. On the fourth floor Sevgi was waiting at the door and greeted us warmly. Hiding behind her was her four year old daughter Saba, while her eight year son Yusuf Burak was in the second sitting room watching television. As I took off my shoes and coat, I discovered that the tulumba we brought for sweets has leaked honey syrup all over my coat.
“Oh dear, Lisa.! Look, come into the kitchen. I’ll boil some water to wash it off.”
“That’s not necessary Sevgi. Hot water from the tap will be fine.”
“Today is Thursday. We get hot water here on Monday, Wednesday and Friday so you see, I must boil the hot water for you.”
“Really! You don’t get hot water every day?”
“No”, said Sevgi, “This isn’t a lux, how do you say . . . “
“Luxury” I chipped in.
“Yes, that’s right, this isn’t a luxury apartment. Still, it is better than in some apartments where they do not get hot water more than once a week.”
Esat, Sevgi’s husband was sitting at the table, eyeing the food. As he rose to greet us he said something to Sevgi. Laughing she turned and told us Esat wanted to eat so we had to hurry up and sit down.
“But Sevgi” I pointed out, “it’s not time yet”.
Esat understands more English than he can speak, and at my comment he launched into a lengthy explanation of iftar etiquette. Sevgi translated and it turned out that it’s not necessary to be exactly on time, as it doesn’t undermine the meaning of the fast. We started to eat and tried to make conversation with the children. They were a little shy of us at first but once they saw that we ate the same food as them and could speak a bit of Turkish they started to warm to us. Over dinner Esat asked us lots of questions about life and politics in Australia, and told us a lot about Turkey. After dinner, and about five cups of tea, we made a move to leave. Even though it was only half past eight we’d already been there about four hours and we didn’t want to over stay our welcome.
“Do you have another appointment to go to?” asked Sevgi.
“Um, no, but, well it’s getting late and well maybe you have things you need to do? What about Yusuf Burak, doesn’t he have school tomorrow”, I said falteringly.
“Not at all, please stay. You are very welcome here, it is so good and interesting to talk to you. You know things and you are like us. Anyway, Yusuf Burak does not start school until the afternoon.” There aren’t enough school buildings in Turkey, so the kids either go to a morning session or an afternoon session. Even so, primary classes can have as many as 70 kids in them, and from what I’ve heard, discipline is the main theme of the day. Students who do all their work and curry favour with the teacher do the best, so those who can afford to, send their children to private schools. Sevgi and Esat chose not to as a matter of principle, but had many complaints about the rote learning and lack of creativity in Yusuf Burak’s lessons. He was only nine but often had four or more hours of homework a day, because his teacher, like most of them, was unable to get through all the work in class due to the numbers of students. If he was unable to complete it all he often cried sick the next day, not wanting to draw negative attention from the teacher, whom he loved very much. Many of my students had told me that when they asked the teacher outside lessons to explain something, they were told off for not paying attention in class. Yet the poor teachers often had to spend the whole lesson marking the homework from the day before so it was a vicious cycle.
The next day I went to thank Sevgi for her hospitality.
“We had a lovely time last night. And it was very kind of Esat to drive us home.” We had finally left about two in the morning, and Esat insisted on driving us back.
“That is alright Lisa. Next time when you come you can stay.”
“That would be nice. You know, I know Ramazan is an important time but my students are driving me crazy. They won’t do their homework and they complain all the time.”
“Yes. I am getting angry too, replied Sevgi. “It says in the Koran that if it really is a problem to fast during Ramazan, because of work or study or other reasons, people can catch up fast days throughout the following year. When I was pregnant with Saba it was Ramazan so I will fast later to make up the days.” Then in a very unforgiving tone that surprised me, she said, “I have told my students that they are not to complain at this time. You either do Ramazan silently and happily or you don’t do it at all. It is not a competition.”
“How do you keep your classes under control Sevgi?”
“In particular now, I believe in having an iron fist in a silk glove.”
“Yes”, I sighed unhappily. “It makes it difficult though.”
“I think Lisa, you are not happy. Is something wrong?” she asked with concern. I told her that we were worried because we still didn’t have our contracts. We’d repeatedly harangued Halil to ring Ankara about them, and there’d even been some discussion about someone driving to Ankara to put our case to a politician, if we could find someone who knew one. As the elections had neared we had almost given up hope, convinced that in the lead up, no administrative work would be done. We also feared that the confusion of settling on a new government might also preclude any work.
Two days later our contracts turned up, having taken a month for one missing one signature to be added. Since I’d spoken with Sevgi I was feeling more optimistic, so I didn’t lose my temper when I learnt of the unnecessary delay. To celebrate, we went to one of the two cinemas the following Sunday. Arriving early we skulked outside and smoked a clandestine cigarette, cupping them in our hands and guiltily exhaling when no one was looking. Normally we’d have a tea and smoke a cigarette inside, but although the candy bar was open, no one was partaking in anything. The movie was American and we listened to the sound track while trying to improve our Turkish by reading the subtitles. With twenty minutes left to go there was a blackout and the picture ground to a halt. We were in total darkness for a few minutes before we heard a generator start up. We continued watching, straining to hear the dialogue over the chug of the generator. Then normal power was restored and we were able to watch and listen to the rest of the movie.
Afterwards we went for a meal, taking our seats about fifteen minutes before the sun went down. We were freezing after sitting in the cinema for two hours, with its concrete floors and no heating. The restaurant also had none and we were desperate for a warming cup of tea. Nice as the staff were, they wouldn’t serve us anything, not even tea, until the prayer from the mosque began. Baulking at custom we lit cigarettes and looked at the people seated around us. Every table was full, and exactly at 4.30pm, when the call came, everyone started to eat. Even though they had been waiting a long time for this moment, no one rushed at the food. Everyone began by eating a date, and some honey from the comb. Soup followed and was slowly eaten, as were the main course and dessert.
Two weeks into Ramazan the students were showing the effects of the fast. They were unable to concentrate on anything by two o’clock, and everything they’d learnt they forgot. A student had been killed on campus when she stepped off the pavement into the path of an oncoming car. It happened about 20 minutes before the iftar meal was due and neither she nor the driver was paying attention. In my reading class, matters came to a head with Burak. We were working on dictionary use, and I’d won the battle to make them bring their dictionaries to class.
“But teacher,” said one of the boys, “The dictionaries are very heavy, I have to carry it from the dormitory to school and return it back.”
“Murat, you are a big strong man,” I teased, “I carry my books and dictionary up and down the stairs all week. Am I stronger than you?”
The class had agreed to bring one dictionary per four students, and as we were doing group work it suited me. Burak’s English was terrific, but he hated being at the Preparatory school and showed it by distracting the slower students every lesson. I’d already sent him out four times before for not bringing his book, or repeatedly talking while I was teaching and for general rudeness, and I was running out of options. This particular day, he was being impossible, egging on Galıp and Kazım to greater heights of distraction. Kazım was an odd boy, a bit of a loner with marked nervous habits which brought him to my attention quite a lot, but he was bright and well meaning. Galıp was a sweet natured 18 year old who would always have to work hard to achieve anything. He often admired my jewellery and one day told me, “My teacher I will tell my grandchildren about you. I will never forget you.” I had no doubt he was sincere, but I doubted he’d remember me for the English I’d taught him.
Today, however, the three of them refused to settle down, and were chatting away quite animatedly and loudly in Turkish. At first I tried to humour them by commenting on their conversation. They were quite surprised that I knew Turkish, but as I told them,
“I’m a teacher Kazım. Even when I am not looking at you I know you are not talking about your classwork.” At this Burak scowled and muttered an aside so I warned him to pay attention to his work. He refused. I told him I didn’t want to hear one more word from him. As I walked away I heard him say “Dictionary” and turned to see him grinning at me while holding out his hand to Galıp.
“Burak, leave the classroom now,” I said.
“Why teacher, what have I done?” I gave no further explanations and repeated,
“Burak, leave now.”
“No.”
Despite further requests he refused to leave. Although he had a wiry physique he had mastered the art of physical intimidation a few of the boys used, so quickly instructing the students to continue their work I went in search of a male teacher. Burak’s lack of respect for me was because I was a woman, but I wasn’t too proud to ask for help if I couldn’t make him do what I wanted. Birol came back with me and took Burak out of the classroom. The students’ reaction was immediate.
“Teacher, why did you send him out?”
“Teacher he will say sorry.”
“Teacher don’t be angry!”
I instructed them to continue with their work and they did so reluctantly, their resentment of me obvious. Even those students who didn’t like Burak’s constant attempts to derail the class sulked in his defence.
After the lesson Birol came and told me what he’d learnt. Burak studied English at high school, and was now enrolled to do medicine. This was his father’s choice, and rather than knuckling down or talking to his father, Burak had deliberately done badly in the English proficiency exam to buy himself some time. If I marked him absent he would be expelled. He was terrified of his father’s reaction and was angry with me for making this happen. At Birol’s request I agreed to speak to Burak and give him one more chance.
In our next class one of the students was trying to butter me up, and said,
“I love you teacher. I will work hard for you.”
Burak said, “I don’t love you teacher.”
I laughed in response and said “That doesn’t matter Burak. A good student will do well because their teacher doesn’t like them. It proves the teacher wrong.” He frowned in response and the rest of the students were quite startled. They’d never met a teacher who didn’t give their favourites higher marks before!
