My Turkish Ramazan

The first time I experienced Ramazan in Turkey was in Istanbul. It was November 2000 and I was living in Erenköy, a leafy suburb on the Asian side of the city. At that time there were no natural gas connections so the air was thick with coal smoke from apartment heating systems, darkness fell around 5pm and it was cold. Even though I had travelled a lot in Turkey before, this was the first time I had lived there for any length of time. As a result I wasn’t really aware of the particulars of the fasting month. All I knew was that people didn’t eat or drink anything in daylight hours and the meal held to break the fast was called iftar.

I can still remember the way the normally courteous customers in the upmarket supermarkets I frequented on Bağdat Caddesi were overcome with what I came to call iftar rage. Having been up early to make breakfast, then fasted throughout the day, hungry housewives would menacingly patrol the aisles in search of the perfect ingredients for the much anticipated evening meal. They were tired, they were irritable and they were determined to get home as quickly as possible. Woe betide the ignorant foreigner who came between one of these trolley wielding woman and the check out desk. Once I accidentally bumped a woman standing in the queue in front of me with my trolley and was subjected to a scathing rendition of complaints. As she raged at me at the top of her voice everyone turned and stared. Apologising profusely I looked at the floor wishing I could just sink into it.

Crossing roads, always life-threatening in Turkey, became even more so. Frantic drivers sped home for the first longed for meal of the day, or in many cases their first cigarette since before dawn. One day, after waiting in the cold with about 200 other passengers for over an hour, I learnt to organise my outings around iftar time. It was essential to plan to get home either well ahead of the meal time or well after it. If you didn’t, you’d end up watching every taxi, bus and dolmuş driver breaking the fast as you stood and shivered in the cold until they finished eating. 

Nonetheless it was a joyous time too, when people shared what they had, be it a lot or very little. One night I was crossing the Bosphorus by ferry, basking in the warmth of the onboard heaters and looking forward to a good meal. An old village woman, dressed in a pair of traditional baggy pants called şalvar, numerous bulky cardigans and a hand edged scarf over her freshly washed hair, was sitting opposite me. Everyone was weary, slumping with eyes half closed but she was bright eyed and eager to know the time. Each time she asked, ‘Is it iftar yet?’, no one complained. Instead they happily checked their watches again and told her to wait. As soon as the minute hand clicked into place she opened the black bag she’d been clutching to her chest and brought out a loaf of Ramazan pide. This special round bread is only baked during Ramazan but she readily offered it around. No one accepted a piece but they all thanked her sincerely and smiled as she ate her simple meal of bread and dates.

I was living in Kayseri in central Turkey for my next Ramazan. I was working at a government university and living on campus. It was 2002, and winter once again. The cold made me permanently hungry so food was of paramount importance. Knowing most of my colleagues and students would fast, I took a sandwich with me to work on the first day. Used to the warm and hearty meals served at the personnel yemekhane I hoped it would suffice, along with a hot drink from the tea room. This was run by a woman with a penchant for washing the crockery in so much bleach that the smell permeated the taste of the tea, and an annoying habit of rearranging everything on your desk when she cleaned it, no matter what you told her. Nonetheless she was loudly cheerful and friendly so I was upset to learn the tea room was closed for the month. Not only would I not have tea, she wouldn’t earn as much money. I made do with guiltily ordering weak Nescafe from the school canteen which surprised me by remaining open. Kayseri was a very conservative town and few people wanted to be seen to be eating. 

Going into town on the first day of fasting I noted one or two restaurants bravely advertising lunchtime specials. By day three they had posted notices in their windows saying they would only be open for the evening meal. The supermarket where we gamely bought our alcohol had removed every bottle of wine, beer and rakı and replaced them with Ramazan packages. These are large cardboard boxes containing household staples necessary for the iftar meal, including rice, lentils and sugar. People often buy these as gifts for less well off relatives and neighbours. The contents are boldly listed on the side, complete with illustrations, which is vastly different to the way alcohol was furtively sold. If I bought a couple of bottles of wine they were always placed in an opaque black plastic bag, rather than a white see-through one. I know the intention was to protect my honour but it made me laugh because people could still hear the bottles clinking.

Classes finished at 3.15pm but the students’ ability to concentrate usually ended well before then. Darkness fell at 4.30pm and the closer we got to the last bell, the more they thought about food. One day in particular they were madly overexcited because we were all going to the home of one of the students for an iftar meal. He was in my reading class, and unfortunately, on the day in question the text we were studying was all about the nutritional value of broccoli. When I told them how much I loved broccoli and that it was now available at a supermarket in town, they didn’t care. They begged me to change the topic, but conscious of the pop quiz coming up the following week, I made them finish the chapter. It was all I could do to keep them seated and as soon as the bell went we all raced out the door and piled into the waiting minibus. The boy lived in a suburb on the outskirts of town. As the name of the suburb meant ‘White Palace’ in English I was looking forward to seeing it. Sadly it turned out to be a disappointing misnomer. Like many Turkish towns and cities it consisted of large breezeblock apartment buildings, with few trees, gardens or other attempts at beautification.

However, looks in Turkey can be deceiving. Once inside the building we were warmly greeted by his smiling mother, two aunts and three sisters. They were sorry to tell me his father couldn’t be with us. He was a truck driver and on his way to Germany. The aunts, who lived on the same floor, slipped away after giving us a quick greeting. They had been cooking all day in readiness for our arrival and there were still some things to put on the table. While we waited for them to come back the sisters found slippers for all twenty six of us. As a teacher and a foreigner too, I was the honoured guest so I was given the best pair, white high heeled sandals that in no way matched my all black outfit. We were then ushered into a huge salon, the Turkish name for the combined dining and loungeroom usual in most homes. The three piece lounge suite that would normally take centre place had been pushed against the walls, and I also counted 18 individual upright chairs. This was clearly a house that saw a lot of visitors. The empty space had been filled with mismatched tables set out in long lines. The surfaces were simply groaning with food, and I couldn’t imagine we could need any more. Nonetheless when the aunts returned, along with two neighbouring women from downstairs who had also cooked for the occasion, they were bearing enormous plates of rice, pasta and salad.

As soon as it was time everyone slowly ate a date, and then silently and methodically worked their way through a bowl of lentil soup, a bowl of mantı (small envelopes of pastry filled with mince), a large piece of layered pastry called börek, then a plate filled with rice, köfte (meatballs) and salad. No one rushed their food and if I hadn’t known they had been fasting all day, nothing in their behaviour would have suggested it. Once the main course was finished, and only after I had been asked and had given my permission, did the students who smoked, light a cigarette. I still smoked back then and there was quite a competition to get me to choose one from the many packets held out to me. After a reasonable pause we were plied with plates of baklava and endless cups of Turkish tea.

Knowing I would be expected to eat a lot I had skipped lunch. Still, it was a struggle to get through the sweets but I managed. Just as I was silently congratulating myself and surreptitiously trying to ease the bulge in my stomach, another plate appeared in front of me. This one was piled high with fruit, including a large mandarin, a huge apple, one orange, and strangely enough, a cucumber. I was about to object when I noticed everyone else was just making a token attempt at eating the fruit. After swallowing a small piece of apple I somehow managed to crawl to the place I was shown on the couch. I didn’t move until it was time to go, some seven hours later. Cucumbers after dessert, and really long visits weren’t unusual in Kayseri during Ramazan. I went to quite a few iftar meals while I lived there and after arriving at 4pm, the night more often than not finished with me putting on the offered pyjamas and sleeping on the spare fold out bed, bought for that purpose.

In contrast, Istanbul is modern and diverse, so some people fast while others don’t. I’m not sure of the numbers but looking back over the years it does seem that less people fast now, particularly when Ramazan falls in the hot summer months. Regardless of whether you fast or not, Ramazan in Istanbul is still a special occasion. People spend time together in whatever way best suits them, they remember what they have and are grateful for it, local councils provide free meals for the poor, and Sultanahmet and Eyüp take on different complexions.

Most tourists go to Sultanahmet to experience the ‘real ‘Turkey but it is a foreign place to me. Although it has beautiful and historical mosques and palaces it feels like a Disney version of Turkey catering to Western expectations of some imaginary and mystical east. The one time I don’t feel like this is during Ramazan, when Sultanahmet once again belongs to the Turks. The open area that was the ancient Hippodrome is filled with picnic tables, stalls selling döner kebab and other foods, and there is a nightly fete. Well before dark, hundreds of families secure their place, sitting patiently with bottles of water set out in readiness, packets of dates from Saudi Arabia and their meals in front of them, waiting for iftar to begin. Those who miss out on a table sit formally on the ground on the carpets and rugs they have brought along, just in case. There is an air of expectancy and excitement, repeated in the queues of chattering people waiting patiently for a table at one of the many restaurants that more usually feed Western tourists. Large groups of girls and women demurely clad in headscarves and pardesu, the long coats they favour, use Ramazan as a time to sightsee in their own city and to catch up with friends. Tourists used to casually picking a restaurant at the last minute are stunned by the length of the queues and appear strangely out of place. After dinner everybody strolls through the many displays of Turkish handicrafts. You can watch felt being made, silver wire being turned, exquisite works of calligraphy being created, and buy hand beaten copper coffee pots, leather shepherd shoes and delicate lace work items. For those with any room left there are sweet treats such as fairy floss, helva, and goat’s milk icecream to indulge in.

Along the Golden Horn over in Eyüp, Ramazan also has its own character. In the last few decades Eyüp has become associated with women in head-to-toe black çarşaf, extremes of religion and an intolerance of difference. Yet during the fasting month it is an almost magical place, with hundreds of people visiting its famous mosque of the same name. Each night the surrounding square and first courtyard are alive with people coming to pray before and after an iftar spent with family and friends. The inner courtyard is still home to two large plane trees growing on a platform where the Girding of the Sword of Osman ceremony would take place to mark the inauguration of a new sultan. The tradition dates back to the time of Mehmet the Conqueror. The faithful will also visit the tombs and shrines associated with the mosque.

It is an enchanted month where normal routines are suspended and plans postponed until ‘after Bayram’, after the holiday to mark the end of the fasting month. Most people stay out late, for different reasons, but always with the people who are important to them. Some families camp out all night on picnic rugs, hoping to catch the early morning breezes blowing off the Bosphorus. Others spend the night driving dodgem cars in nearby Feshane. Last year there was a funfair where you could eat even more icecream and fairy floss, experience 3D cinema in a van, shoot at targets using modified guns, or throw darts and win a soft toy. On Kadir Gecesi, the night it is said your prayers will be answered, people stay up all night, performing the Muslim form of prayer called namaz or reading the Koran. Mosques the breadth of the city have twinkling fairy lights and banners strung up between the minarets. The banners on them used to read ‘Bayramı Kutlu Olsun’ in modern Turkish and now they say ‘Bayramı Mubarek Olsun’, harking back to earlier times. Whatever the language, the year or the place, the message and the meaning of Ramazan remains unchanged.

Turkish Delight – A Mouthful of Dreams

When I was at high school I studied history. Learning dates wasn’t something I was any good at and while I didn’t actually fail, it was a struggle. The facts and figures the teacher wrote on the board lacked colour and excitement and nothing ever stayed in my memory. Living in Istanbul however, it’s almost impossible not to learn about history. History is woven into everyday life and most of the things I see and do are imbued with the past so it’s easy to learn. Here the past is vibrantly alive.

One of my favourite things about Turkey is the food, especially the sweets. I have sampled them all, the milk puddings, the chocolates and the cakes, but I absolutely adore Turkish Delight. Known locally as lokum, it is a sweet made from starch, sugar and assorted flavourings. The name is derived from the Arabic rahat’ül hülküm, literally meaning ‘comfort of the throat’. I don’t buy this comfort from just any shop though. Years ago I asked my Turkish friends for their recommendations, and they all said I should go to Ali Muhiddin Hacı Bekir. I have been enjoying their lokum for years now, but I only recently took the time to research their history. Although I discovered a few romantic tales involving sultans, jealous women in the harem, and the hardworking sweetmakers tasked with creating something to stop them fighting, it is widely believed the sweet we know today was invented in Turkey back in the 18^th century by Mr Bekir himself.

In 1777 he came from the Araç district of Kastamonu in the Black Sea region to Istanbul. Called hacı because he had already made a pilgrimage to Mecca, Ali Muhiddin Hacı Bekir opened a small sweet shop in Bahçekapı, near the New Mosque in Eminonu, where he started making and selling lokum, the best known being the one flavoured with rose water. He also made boiled lollies and candied fruit. Due to the original nature of the sweets and the care with which they were made, Hacı Bekir won the approval of the people and the Ottoman Sultans, and was awarded the role of confectioner to the Ottoman Palace. At around the same time an Englishman visiting Istanbul so liked these ‘mouthfuls of delight’ that he took some back home with him and introduced it as Turkish Delight to his circle of friends. In the 19^th century the Hacı Bekir company participated in many international fairs, introducing this very traditional Turkish sweet to the world and winning numerous gold and silver medals along the way.

There are several Hacı Bekir shops in Istanbul but I go to the one in Kadıköy, my local shopping area. When I peer into the panelled bow shaped front windows at plates of their famous Turkish Delight and their less well-known but equally wonderful badem ezme, made from ground almond meal in assorted flavours, my mouth starts to water. As I step through the wood and glass front doors into an interior I suspect has changed little since its inception in the 1930s, I start to smile. 

Darting around the shop is a little boy pointing excitedly at the displays, begging his parents to buy one of everything. Slowly but surely he is drawn to an old wooden cabinet full of colourful sweets. As he delightedly presses his face up against the sparklingly clean glass his parent give consideration to choosing a box for their selections. There are gift boxes neatly stacked on shelves on either side of the shop. Giving sweets as gifts, be it chocolates or lokum, has a very important role in Turkish culture and sweets accompany everything from birth through to death. Sugar almonds are still given to those viewing newborns for the first time while lokum is served on the 40^th and 52^nd days after a death. On the first anniversary of the loss lokum is served once again in a ceremony called a mevlit. In the shop the boy’s mother lingers over the square padded boxes covered in luxurious swathes of velvet while the father favours the more austere round wooden boxes stamped with the logo designed to celebrate the forming of the Turkish Republic.

Next to them stand an old man and his wife, patiently waiting to buy a paper twist of akide, or Turkish boiled lollies. In front of them is a row of tall glass jars, topped with conical lids made of thin sheets of brass or copper. The sweets inside them look exotic and expensive and indeed in the past boiled lollies were highly valued due to the exorbitant price of sugar, and the difficulty in making them due to its lack of consistency. Although refined sugar means the consistency is better, the process of making akide is still difficult and finicky. The faces of these customers are lined and wrinkled, yet I can see the small children they once were, as they pause and consider their choices. What flavour should they have - the rose or the cinnamon, the chocolate or the mint? It is a solemn ritual accompanied by gentle arguments and happy endings. It is obvious that for this couple the value of the akide lies as much in the memories they bring, as in the taste. The word akide also means confession of faith and the lollies were used as a pledge of loyalty in Ottoman times. The Janissary, the royal guard of the ruling sultan, was paid every three months. If they were happy with their salary they would present a gift of mouthwatering akide to the high court officials as a sign of their fidelity to the sultan. What they would do if they were unhappy is another story.

Walking across the wavy black and white tile pattern floor to the back of the shop, I am transported to an earlier, gentler era. As I sit and dreamily wait for my Turkish coffee and the two different flavours of lokum I finally decided on, I gaze at the people around me. Opposite me a woman sits alone drinking sherbet. Şerbet sekeri is also known as logusa in Turkish and is used to describe a woman who has recently given birth. Traditionally a sherbert drink was made the day after the birth for the new mother to take advantage of its health benefits.  Now şerbet sekeri is better known as a refreshing summer drink, and the woman opposite is enjoying it along with two pieces of rose-petal flavour Turkish Delight. At the table next to her a couple sits in companionable silence. He sips a tea while his wife slowly spoons up icecream from an old-fashioned soda glass. I notice she doesn’t offer him any and he doesn’t ask. At another table three women laugh and chat over a mixed plate of candied fruit, lokum and badem ezme. The walls around us are quite plain, simply decorated with framed award certificates won at international food expositions in France at the end of the 20^th century and prints of the different logos Hacı Bekir have used over time. It seems fitting that the décor of the shop remains suspended in history. What was important back in 1777 is still important today. We come for the lokum, this simple concoction of sugar, starch and flavour, for its exquisite taste and the meanings each of us associates with it. Whether we grew up in Turkey or somewhere else, one small piece of Turkish Delight fills both the mouth and the heart with dreams.

Istanbul: In the Sultan's City

(This story first appeared on the We Said Go Travel website as an entry in the writing competition, "Inspiration: A Place I Love" in 2013.)

Riding an Istanbul ferry as it slowly crosses the Bosphorus is like being suspended in time. While the journey is short, I am instantly taken back to my childhood, to endless days, freedom and adventure. I feel sadly nostalgic for the past but excited too because I feel I am travelling with early explorers to an unknown land. My journey begins from the safety of the European side of Istanbul but we are heading for Asia and the unknown lands beyond. Sitting on a narrow wooden bench seat running along the outside of the boat I hear foreign voices all around me. The faces are unfamiliar too, but now and then someone turns to me with a look that seems to say ‘It’s alright. You’re with us now’. I am slowly lulled into comfort by the sway of the ferry but before I can slip into a daydream a man appears, loudly calling out strange words. One by one the people to my left pull their legs back from where they have been resting on the side of the boat and I do the same. My heart beats faster as the man approaches but calms when I see he is only selling tea, coffee and orange juice. I buy nothing but others do, managing to drink two teas and smoke the same number of cigarettes in the ten minutes left of the journey.

Even now, living permanently in Istanbul, my heart still lifts when I see the minarets of the Haghia Sophia and the Blue Mosque come into view. They stand guard over Saray Burnu, the home of Topkapi Palace and innumerable sultans, scandals and sorrows. Although winter has come to the city, with creeping cold and grey skies, the outside benches are packed with Istanbul residents. They can’t smoke any more so they munch on simit, sour dough rings covered in sesame seeds much beloved by Turks young and old. It is a popular sport to throw stray crumbs into the air, and a signal for the local seagulls, huge ugly white birds with scowling red eyes, to swoop down from the sky and follow in line with the vessel. Teenage boys compete to see who has the better aim while the seagulls fly as close to us as possible to fight for a prize.

 

Boys on an Istanbul ferry, January 2011

These same birds roost in the tree behind my apartment and wake me every morning. Their cries and squawks of discontent are in response to the first call to prayer around five or six o’clock in the morning. I’m too lazy to get out of bed and look, but I like to imagine them moving in unison, a solemn, feathered version of A Chorus Line taking place just outside my window.

There are mosques everywhere in Istanbul, waking up the seagulls. My favourite was designed by Mimar Sinan in 1580 at the request of Şemsi Paşa, a vizier to three Ottoman sultans. The unofficial name of the mosque is Kuşkonmaz Camii, meaning the mosque on which birds do not land. Legend has it they don’t stand or build nests on the mosque out of respect, and I prefer this to the more mundane reason that the wind off the Bosphorus prevents them from landing. There is quite a history to this little place, and the gazi, the former soldier who shows us around tells me most of it. He demonstrates how the marble columns set on either side of the mihrab, or prayer niche, are used to test whether the building has been damaged after an earthquake. If they can’t be turned the foundations have moved. He confirms that the piece of cloth in a picture frame set high on the wall is from the Kaaba in Mecca. Its cloth cover is changed every year and pieces of the old one distributed as much revered gifts. He tells me much more about the mosque, but in the end I learn his history. Along with other young Turkish men he fought in Korea during the Cold War. I hadn’t known Turkey had taken part and I listen to his stories of horror and death with sadness in my heart. Yet he is happy to tell me, and regularly nudges me with an order to “Anlat!”, to translate what he is saying, so my friends can understand too. 

The courtyard of Şemsi Paşa Camii in Uskidar, April 2012

At last I farewell him and watch fondly as he joins his friends sitting in the courtyard. Like many old men in Turkey they spend all day passing judgment over the passing crowds and exchanging memories. Old as they are, when they all smile and wave me on my way, I can see the carefree boys they once were, and imagine them eating simit and feeding the seagulls flying over the Bosphorus, dreaming of their next big adventure.


If you'd like to buy a copy of my book please click here Inside Out In Istanbul

Strange but true from Istanbul

There are many things I love about life in Istanbul, in particular the Turkish way people celebrate familiar special events - weddings, New Year's Eve or Ramazan - in their own truly unique style. 

And the winning fashion styles for weddings this summer are angora straight from the goat or ivory silk. Hmm, tough choice!

 

And if the decorations on your tree aren't enough over Christmas, pick up a tinsel wrapped turkey for your New Year's Eve festivities.

And if you don't have much time for your evening iftar meal during Ramazan, why not combine your main course with a sweet and have Pide Arasi Helva Doneri - Helva on a horizontal spit served between bread.

If you'd like to buy a copy of my book please click here Inside Out In Istanbul

Göreme – if you look you’ll find yourself

(This story first appeared on the We Said Go Travel website as part of the 2103 writing competition "Independence".)

When I arrived in Göreme for the first time, it was high summer. Nestled in the Anatolian heartland, Göreme was a traditional farming community like any other in Turkey except for its spectacular landscape. The arid countryside, already aged and yellowed over thousands of years, glared harshly under the heat of the day. My head spun with the swirls of red, orange and ochre reflected off the surreal cone shaped peribaca. These spiky pinnacles looked like carefully thought out sculptures but were actually the result of volcanic activity and time. The cooled molten lava had eroded under the weight of fierce winter snows and wind. What was left was softer stone called tufa, which has been painstakingly carved away by the villagers for centuries. They used the peribaca as homes, stables, churches and depots right up until the last quarter of the 20^th century. Now thousands of visitors are drawn to the region of Cappadocia every year, fascinated by the seeming impossibility of this imposing and solid geological reality whimsically known in English as ‘fairy chimneys’.

 

That first time, I lived in a small pension, helping out in exchange for room and board. It was the season of the Gulf War, and while tourists were scarce I was rarely alone. I spent my mornings visiting with the women and my afternoons visiting with the men. The rest of the time I stayed in the courtyard and learnt Turkish from the pension owner’s daughter.

When I visited with the women I sat inside their homes and knitted. I was a good village girl, learning the arts of the hearth. Sitting cross-legged on the floor I listened to my elders and helped out with the children who often solemnly circled us while chanting a simple Turkish song. The women didn’t judge me on my clothes or my job, but on how well I listened and how well I shared. We only had a mutual vocabulary of about thirty words, but with mime and hand gestures we managed to convey enough to decide we were friends. They liked to dress me up to look like them, in baggy legged şalvar pants, a saggy homemade cardigan and hand edged scarf over my hair. In turn I put their hair up in high ponytails and we often laughed until we fell over when we saw the results. Then everyone would pick up a spoon and eat from the same plate until we were full.

When I visited with the men we went riding. On horseback I was fierce and wild, galloping along narrow winding paths beside tilled fields and cantering back up through the twisting valleys to hunt for young apples and green walnuts. The mottled canopy of shade provided by the trees was a cool relief from the unremitting dry heat of the day, and I felt exhilarated. We’d always stop in a particular gorge, dismount and race to a wall of sheer white rock at the narrowest point. Then it was a battle to collect as many stones as possible and throw them at the walnuts hiding in the branches above. When I knew how to open the walnuts by cracking two of them in my hand I felt invincible. I was city born and bred, and it was such a joy to throw, stoop and slowly eat my fill. The men were more impatient and someone, usually one the youngest, would always jump up into the branches of the tree and sing and dance along their lengths to shake free more of the tasty harvest.

Back then I was a fairly solitary person, often shy and confused about who I was, so at times the constant company could be wearing. If I wasn’t with the men or with the women, and could shake free from the pension owner’ daughter, my favourite place to go was a ridge up behind the main street of the village. At certain times there was an absolute silence and a stillness to the landscape that stretched above the village paths and floated out to the horizon and beyond. This echoed inside me and I felt calm and safe.

 

Far away I could just make out a local woman, her donkey loaded with kindling, following a track down to her home. Behind her, in the glittering rolling hills and smudges of purple in the valleys I could see that autumn had come. The leaves shimmered barely red, barely silver. For me though, it was like spring because at that moment I realised I had a peace of mind and happiness I had never experienced before. I was free of self doubt and questioning and was just enjoying the moment. It was Göreme, with its unique land and people that let me understand I could be that good girl and that risk taker and still be at one with myself. I had found freedom.

If you'd like to buy a copy of my book please click here Inside Out In Istanbul

Gezi Park and Turkey 2013

If you want to understand what the recent protests in Turkey are about, please see my article in the ABC DRUM Media.

http://www.abc.net.au/unleashed/4731112.html

If you'd like to read more of my stories you can buy a copy of my book by clicking on Inside Out In Istanbul

Black Sea Dancers

One Saturday last summer I was on the phone chatting with my 94 year old auntie in Australia. She and I love to talk and can do so for hours but this time I was distracted. The sound of drumming was coming from outside my window. At first the noise was muffled and indistinct but by the time I hung up it was almost deafening. I was confused. Ramazan had finished the previous month so it couldn’t be that. Besides, the Ramazan drummers only came in the early hours of the morning to wake every one up for sahur, the meal before dawn. Now it was the middle of the day and I had no idea what was going on. I looked out the window and to my amazement saw two men spinning and whirling around in the middle of the street wearing long colourful skirts. They were accompanied by another two men beating time on large davul, traditional drums covered in goat skin. As the dancers wove in and out of a circle of onlookers the drummers swooped and bowed in time with the music.

 

Grabbing my camera I ran downstairs and joined Selim the waterman, Huseyin the tailor and Kamil our kapıcı, or doorman. They were watching the dancers in the company of the other kapıcı in our street, all of them smoking and chatting amongst themselves. When I eagerly asked about the skirt-wearing men, everyone was highly amused at how excited I was. Laughing kindly at my question Selim informed me they were from Sinop in the Black Sea region of Turkey and were here to help celebrate a wedding. Soon after the bride came out of the building two doors down from mine, a solid girl wrapped in metres of white satin, flanked by stout matrons in tight, shiny mother-of-the-bride cocktail dresses attended by young girls fluttering around them like butterflies in brightly coloured concoctions of tulle and lace.

Although now only associated with folk dancing and wedding celebrations, the tradition of male dancers, or köçek as they are called in Turkey, dates back to the seventeenth century. Originally sponsored by Ottoman sultans, pretty boys around the age of seven or eight were chosen from amongst the non-Muslim populations of the Turkish empire. They trained for around six years before beginning to perform as fully fledged köçek. Before long the art of the köçek moved from behind the protected walls of the Ottoman palaces out into meyhane, or drinking establishments, to reach a wider audience. At one time köçek were more popular than female dancers and were renowned for the sexual nature of their dancing. In fact they so incited male customers to fight for their favours that they were eventually outlawed in 1837.

The heavily stubbled faces and Turkish balcony stomachs of the dancers in my street were vastly different to the slender young boys of past centuries with locks of curly hair falling to their shoulders. The Sinop men, in their colourful multilayered skirts worn over black pants and white shirts were almost aggressively masculine with their solid dance steps and assertive manner, yet they shimmied their shoulders and clicked their castanets with a definite feminine grace. As I watched them twirl joyously around the bride the past and the present merged as they so often do in the suburbs of Istanbul.

If you want to read more of my stories you can buy a copy of my book by clicking on Inside Out In Istanbul

Who is "Inside Out In Istanbul?"

My name is Lisa Morrow and I first came to Turkey in 1990. I arrived in Turkey just as the Gulf War was starting and my three month stay in the small central Anatolian village of Göreme changed my life. I spent the following years moving between Australia and Turkey. In Australia I worked in publishing, accounts, as an English teacher and freelance proof reader. In Turkey I worked as an English teacher at universities in Istanbul and in Kayseri in central Anatolia. 

Over the course of more than 20 years I have come to know the Turkish culture and its people well. In particular I am fascinated with the way traditional culture, such as kına gecesi and hamam rituals, mix and re-form in this modern metropolis, creating a new form of culture that is as wonderful as it is at times strange to the foreign eye. I want to introduce the genuine and dynamic nature of Turkish culture and its people to the world, and go well beyond familiar and overused tourist stereotypes.

I now reside permanently in Istanbul. A sociologist and writer, I love the mix of old and new in Istanbul and have captured this in my collection of essays called Inside Out In Istanbul available in book and ebook form.