This is part of a longer essay which will be part of my next collection of essays.
In many
traditional Mediterranean and Middle Eastern
cultures women are responsible for ensuring the honour of the family. Men’s
passions are uncontrollable and wild, and all women are Eve, the temptress with
the apple. He cannot help but succumb so a man is never held responsible for
his sexual behaviour. The guilt is attributed the same way whether the partners
are married to other people, not married to anyone, or even if the act is
non-consensual. If a man and a woman are left alone in a room together, he
won’t be able to help himself but the sin will belong to the woman alone.
Using the same
line of reasoning, dancing, which brings men and women together and shows off
the curves of the woman, is also considered suspect. Like many things in Turkey
however, the rules of conduct are not that simple. One the one hand, dancing as
a part of folk tradition is highly valued in Turkey, and being a good dancer is
much admired. In more traditional parts of the country like Cappadocia,
kına gecesi, the Turkish equivalent
of a woman’s hen night, are used to showcase the allure and value of young
women of marriageable age. At these nights only women attend, so those wishing
to find a husband give it their all. They sway and preen and energetically
thrust their hips from side-to-side and move their breasts provocatively in
front of eagle-eyed potential mother-in-laws. Each move is assessed and judged
to determine how supple they are, how well their body is equipped to procreate through
the sex act and whether their hips are suitable for child-bearing.
On the other
hand, these same movements make what we in the West call ‘belly dancing’ a
scandalous past-time for a good Turkish girl. It is known locally as oriental
dance, and I go to a class with my Turkish girlfriend Selin every week. We go
because it’s fun and good for our figures, but Selin’s grandmother doesn’t
understand this. She is scandalised that her granddaughter would do such a
thing. When Selin reminds her that I go too, her grandmother dismissively replies
that it is not the same. What she means is because I am a foreigner, a yabancı, the question of morality
doesn’t apply. This is the complete opposite of the way Fatma in Göreme thought
about my behaviour, but then she lived in a small village where everyone knew
everyone, unlike in a city where you have a degree of anonymity. More
significantly, it points to the fact that being a yabancı woman means you always live with contradictions. At times
you are required to be more upstanding than the most moral of Turkish woman
simply because you are foreign. At other times you are forgiven any
indiscretions just because you are foreign. Living in Turkey is full of such ironies.
It is also ironic that the oriental style of
dance is perceived as provocative and dangerously sensual by both Turks and
Westerners. Just as being an actress was once equated with being a prostitute
in the West, being a belly dancer in Turkey is considered no better than
being a whore by some people. Older Turks strongly disapprove of oriental dance
because it has connotations of wild abandonment, promise and seduction. These
very connotations are what make the eyes of Western men glaze over with lust at
the idea of scantily clad women offering themselves in a highly charged and
sexual manner.
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If you liked this excerpt and you would like to know more about life in Istanbul and Turkey, you can buy a copy of my book directly from me in Istanbul for 30tl. Simply email me at pipkim.morrow@gmail.com and we can arrange to meet. If you aren't living in Istanbul you can buy a copy online by clicking on
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