How Do I Handle that Question?

"Why does this only happen in America, Mac?"

This is the question I have spent the last 24 hours responding to. I first caught wind of the shooting in Newtown, CT yesterday evening before the horrifying death toll was revealed. Several hours later, at my friend's house, I checked my Facebook feed and found it riddled with bible verses, messages of comfort and messages of sheer outrage. I placed my alcoholic beverage on the table and a stiffness settled in. I braced the wall and began praying to myself while my 10 Italian, Spanish and Dutch friends continued their drunken conversation. Apparently I looked out of it and a friend called me out. The room turned and I revealed the terrible shooting developments. 20 children dead...

There have been several times in Turkey where I have been called upon to speak on behalf of the calamities of my country. I immediately hesitate because trying to explain certain aspects of America to Europeans often leaves me wondering why these aspects exist in the first place. The holiday of Thanksgiving, for example. But the hardest question I have faced regards gun violence. And if Columbine, D.C., Virginia Tech, and Aurora were not gruesome enough, this massacre of twenty elementary school children is a new low for America.

But as for my answer? It is not a question I easily dismiss. I know people ask questions like these because they legitimately want answers or they earnestly want my opinion. Lack of gun control is the cop out, political excuse. What is comes down to is that anyone who wants badly enough to take innocent lives, can do so. Overly easy access to guns is not the sole problem, in my opinion.  In Switzerland, as a Dutch friend revealed, everyone has a gun in their house for protective measures. So why do these acts seem to "only happen in America?"

As humans, we mostly deal with the same issues in life. Money, love, jobs, family. All people in all countries deal with these. Only a handful snap as a result of one or many and inflict direct damage on others. But one who commits a shooting in a public place is making a public statement. They may seek the attention received from the act or a desire to go out with a bang in a world where it seems like nobody appreciates them. Adam Lanza killed his mother, then proceeded to the elementary school where she taught to make the statement public, to extend the damage infliction farther into the world. Although the motive is unclear, I find myself largely unsatisfied with the current theory  of "a dispute with his mother." We have moved into an age where, for whatever reason, this psychopathic behavior is no longer kept between the two parties, but extends into the larger sphere where innocent lives pay the price.

But one cannot justify psycopathic behavior. The individual is a psychopath precisely because his actions are irrational. But why does America seem to have an abundance of psycopaths? Surely it isn't just the violent video games in which these individuals lose their grasp on reality and act out in a fashion that mimics these games. These games are available all over the world. Perhaps it could be the increased stress, competition or expectations placed on people. As we become part of the system and we find our roles in the giant machine of society, we lose some of our humanness and, as Karl Marx writes, become alienated from our work, from each other and from ourselves. Could this unjustifiable behavior be the result of an industrialized, capitalized society pushing people so incessantly that they pop? Perhaps it is the individualism in America. With a preference toward the individual, are we becoming so narcissistic that we have lost the importance of using the people in our lives to deal with our stresses?

Again I am not trying to explain or justify this behavior. I just want to share what it is like to have to defend a country that, to many over here, seems to be losing control.

I don't recall the last time a news story affected me this much. When I awoke this morning and watched the CBS News story, the extent of the tragedy settled in. I wept for the parents who suffered the loss of a child. I wept for the community of Newtown. I wept for America. I wept for humanity, as we are capable of such love but also capable of such terror. I wept when I realized how little we can do to stop events like this from happening.  Sometimes all we can do is remain grounded in our faith and hope. We must find strength through the collective realization that we are powerless over events like this. And most importantly, we must send our love and prayers to the people that need it most right now.

A Day in the Life

The following short screenplay depicts a day in the life of a local shop owner in Istanbul. It is a combination of my observations and my postulation. Enjoy! 

Open: 6:00 AM. A dark room, two floors above a gradually bustling street. Alarm clock sounds. Outside light pours in  through a small crack between blinds.

Mustafa: (Arising from his sturdy slumber)

Another day.  Oh boy, that felt like a 10 minute nap. Damn the cat snuck in again last night. (Stares absentmindedly at the hole in the windowsill, evidence of clawing at his previous inadequate patch job). Well first things first. Have to keep the critters out.

(Fixes windowsill, then makes his way to the shower, singing loudly in a classical Turkish baritone. Steps out of the shower and addresses his audience, butt naked.)

 Thanks for joining me on my routine today. It’s nice to have a little something to change up the usual rhythm. Let me throw some clothes on and I’ll show you the ropes!

First things first, I must give thanks to Allah through a morning prayer ritual. My routine is a combination of techniques my father and grandfather taught me. But I have incorporated some of my own as well. I won’t go into too much detail here, but basically the prayer routine is a series of kneels, prostrations and postures that honor the one, true God. Through them I become thankful, clear minded and can go through my day with purpose and strength.

(Proceeds to perform rituals. A peaceful calm overtakes the room, the man has found himself.)

(He soon after leads us downstairs)

Purpose… it is what gives my life meaning. From an early age I knew my purpose would be to take ownership of my father’s Doner restaurant with my brother Can. We have run the store together for the last 13 years and I am happy knowing I am carrying on the hard work of my father. My brother lives three blocks away and will be here in 10 minutes to help me prepare the food for the day. My cousin Bugra will also arrive soon, with a fresh batch of vegetables.

(Over the course of the next two hours, the three prepare the food for the day, then command their posts behind the counter)

Ah my friends, this is the part that really matters. There are thousands of little shops just like ours in Istanbul. But where we separate ourselves is through greeting people and spreading cheer in a city that needs to smile more. So everyday my brother and I stand behind the counter and smile at people. It’s amazing how much a smile can do! Our father taught us early on that kindness is the glue that holds relationships together. Our goal is to serve our customers well with the best Doner in Istanbul, but also to get to know them personally. We want to be friends with our customers! And through that, we hope they will come back for more!

Ahh here comes some Koc university students. How can I tell? Well that’s easy. This huge kid with the long hair and big nose…. Obviously not Turkish… they can be our best customers when they realize how cheap our food is  (He gives a sly wink.) 

(To the students): My friends! How are you? Good to see you again. (The students smile at the two men… but eventually pass them by)

Oh well, no matter. One of them eats here often. I’m sure the big one will be back soon. He must eat a lot! (Another wink)

My brother Can and I are best friends. Our father made it clear at a young age that we would take over the shop. So instead of being competitive like most brothers, we learned to work together at a young age. And now it helps us run the family business well. Can is responsible for the money in the business and I, the food. He keeps stock of how much we are selling and how much we make everyday. I prepare the food for each customer and work my magic smile to make them happy! One second…  (To customers) Hosgeldinez! Evet… Evet.. Tomam. Bir Tavuklu Doner, kanki.Nasilsin?

(He embarks on his endless quest to build rapport with his customers, engaging in stimulated dialogue throughout the entire food preparation process. It is clear that his hands have grown so used to the preparations, they work independently of his mind, which he can dedicate fully to the conversation at hand.)  Hadi Gurusuruz! Gule Gule!

How do I stay happy with my work, you ask? Hmmm I guess it is the duty I have to it. I find my happiness through hard work. Everyone around me works hard as well, so it is easy to do once you get the hang of it. I think we each grow by working hard, and if Allah wills it, I will be successful. Also, I get to stare at these fun people all day! What’s not to love!

(He points out a hobbling old man, relying almost entirely on his cane. His glasses have slid all the way down his face so that drool has collected on the lenses. But he seems so preoccupied with walking that he hardly notices.) Allah bless him!

Things

I've never been much a fan of using the word "things." Perhaps it was my eighth grade theater teacher, Slotnick-Lastrico, who carved it upon the largest epitaph of his notorious "Word Graveyard." "Things" along with "like" and "good" were strictly prohibited in his classroom. With the myriad descriptive words available in our vocabularies, "things" just seemed a cop out. But how does one go about describing a change in one's character to others? Moreover, how can we point to specific people, objects and cultures that change us? Change is a holistic process, it does not happen one step at a time. Although I still have a deep distaste for the t-word, I find it fitting for circumstances like now, in which I know I am changing but I know not specifically the cause of this change.

An incredibly adventurous semester yes, but also one of constant introspection. As I experience new cultures (I have Turkish, Italian, Dutch, German, Canadian, Albanian, Greek, and Spanish friends here)  I feel parts of me rearranging, morphing, stretching like a glob of human Play Dough. Sections of the form are torn off, analyzed in relation to the larger structure and reattached as necessary. Stripped bare before the seas of change, I have immersed myself in the refreshing waters. Rejuvenation.

There is both solace and fear in the realization that humans are relative creatures. We adapt to fit our surroundings. We all act differently around different types of people- our behavior around our parents differs from our behavior with friends. The beauty of life lies in this change and growth. But the fear stems from the fleeting nature of identity. As we continue to change ourselves in relation to our environment, are we just forms of matter collecting experience? Or is there some constant at work that changes parts of us in relation to a core?

This semester has taught me that this comes down to a choice deep within us to preserve those fundamental beliefs that make us who we are. Through cultural empathy, open-mindedness and inquiry, we can better understand differences. But as I try on new hats, I realize I have only one head. Some fit and some don't, and this is because my head is only one size.  When I see or feel change, I notice it in relation to something.  As the surface feelings swirl about, the anchor of my being remains grounded, banishing its formally fleeting tendencies.  I have yet to discern exactly what this something is but it comprises my most intimate, personal identity.

Through this semester I have come to conclusions about a few fundamental convictions. As I accommodate the scads of emotions in my innkeeper of a brain, these convictions seek permanent residence. To name a few- the necessity of relationships, the importance of establishing purpose, the value of humor, and the power of expression. As the waters of emotion funnel their way through, these aforementioned few have secured themselves in my net of identity. As the convictions harden, the being carries weight. Man becomes grounded, true to himself and shamelessly represents his experiences and virtues in a world that increasingly encourages lightness and indifference.

A Cheap Provocation

I had just finished catching up with a friend over a light lunch when the cacophony commenced. Taken aback, I whirled around, completely flabbergasted at the sight before me.

The typically brown-tinted dining common had turned red. Not on account of bloodshed, though with passion akin to it. Obstructing tables and chairs were hastily cast aside as the vibrant flags danced amidst the bodies. Men and women alike forcefully shouted their national anthem; more an exhibit of pride than a display of vocal prowess. The first legitimate protest I had beheld since my arrival in Turkey. My inner reporter sprung to attention: I needed to get to the bottom of it.

I quickly spotted one of my Turksih kankis (term equivalent to "bro" in Turkish) and pelted him with questions. Through his insights and others that I questioned throughout the day, I came to understand the basic reason for the protest along with the realization of how deep the conflict truly is.

As mentioned in previous posts, there is a large-scale, intense conflict between the Turkish republic and the militant group known as the PKK (Kurdistan Workers' Party). The latter, whose goal is the foundation of an independent Kurdish state in Turkey, has been deemed a "terrorist" organization by the United States, The European Union and NATO. The conception of the party, along with the roots of the conflict trace back to the late 1970s. But the cause of the protests and current conflict are in regard to the imprisonment of Abdullah Ocalan, the party leader, along with educational and judicial restrictions on Kurdish language usage. For the last 66 days, imprisoned supporters of the PKK have been on hunger strike, ingesting only water, tea, sugar and salt. This Kurdish protest finally ended the other day as Oclan sent a letter from his cell urging the protestors to cease.

At Koc University, the protest took a different form. The ironic venue choice of the cafeteria coupled with the passionate outbursts of cheers, placed a completely different light on the nationalist's protest form.  Many students joined in with the camaraderie, seeing this as an opportunity to display their patriotism and anti-terrorism stance. But as I watched, I could not help but notice the seemingly artificial jubilation as they clapped to the speaker's calls for nationalistic recognition. Were these students entirely convinced of their reason for being here? For protesting? Or were they merely swept along by the alluring tides of collective purpose?

This evening I attended a student forum, held as a response to the protests. Here I found about 80 calm and collected students throwing thoughts back and forth. The consensus of these students, was that today's protest lacked form and coherence. Many students felt that the protestors had no specific aim for the obtrusive and, according to one girl "threatening," nationalism. Although many found the demonstration (which are few and far between at Koc) refreshing, they could not help but criticize it for its amorphous state. According to those at the forum, many students just wanted an excuse to show their Turkish pride and hatred of the terrorists. But as one Kurdish student raised his voice due to his unease of the term 'terrorist' associated widely with Kurds, there was an obvious collective belief that everyone should be able to speak their mind, as long as they have a stance before doing so.

Although my understanding of the Kurdish conflict is minimal, I could not help but feel rejuvenated by these students. They exhibited a legitimate desire for purpose, change and justice. I realized that in America, save for one lockout in high school, I had never experienced a serious demonstration conducted by my peers. Does our nation not care as much? Do we have it 'all good?' Regardless of whether you personally believe that American youth are indifferent or non-comital, there is one extremely important take-away from all of this. Each of us needs to stand for something. If we do not have an established stance on beliefs, politics, ethics, equality, etc. we will never know when the time will come to raise our voices against tyranny. We will sit there and observe change as it happens outside of us, realizing that we played no role in its development. In order to make a difference, we must make a stand. If someone walked up to you on the street and asked, "What do you stand for?" would you be able to answer them?

Protest Footage from School Today

Needs

Traveling alone for twelve days with only a small backpack and a tight budget forces one to think of human needs in a new way. Once the mindset is formed not to travel for the sake of a vacation but to immerse oneself in new cultures and really try to understand the people, there is a feeling of legitimate purpose outside of oneself. The journey no longer revolves around enjoying oneself through luxuries and security. It becomes an eye-opening, heart-wrenching glimpse into a new form of existence.

Humans only have a few needs-food, water, shelter, sleep. Everything else, although we attempt to justify it as a need, are wants and desires. As I literally had no travel plan after the flight to Athens, I simply had to prioritize my needs. First order of business was always food and water. And shelter followed close behind. Such freedom is unprecedented. And I loved every minute of it.

But trying to understand how others live is never easy. The best we can do is try to get out of our own little worlds and live in theirs. During my travels I was exposed to some radically different lifestyles- men spending the entire day fishing, knowing they cannot return home to their families empty-handed because this means empty stomachs. Families of five forced to accost ATM users in order to have money to eat. Strangers sleeping bundled up next to each other in parks, bonded solely by their mutual vagrancy. I looked upon these individuals with sympathy and feelings of personal guilt. Should I spend my time helping them? Are they just a product of a flawed system or are they mentally/physically incapable of work? Is it my place to intervene?

These questions and others restlessly rattled around the cage of my brain, knowing that true freedom cannot be felt as long as these troubles lie in such close proximity. But while my heart went out to them, I knew I could not be their savior. So I carried on.

"Traveling restores your faith in humanity." That's what my mom told me tonight. And I could not agree more. Although I encountered some of the aforementioned troubling sights, my experience was also chalked full of compassionate natives more than willing to assist a struggling American. I met people from all over the world, each doing their part to get by despite the strains of life. When you see people working unbelievably hard just to get by each day, it fills one with a newfound respect. And when you meet people who are able to squeeze kindness, compassion and humor into a world largely occupied by grief and suffering, there is an genuine admiration that cannot be expressed verbally. It is a truly beautiful thing and a realization that I will hold dear for the coming years.

Greece, Bulgaria, Romania in 12 Days

Parthenon

A Greek friend I made who spent years working in a NJ subway, but lofty medical expenses forced him to return to Greece

A true Greek salad and J&B on the rocks in honor of Patrick Bateman

Greek girls I met in Thessaloniki 

Awesome umbrella street art in Sofia, Bulgaria

Asked her for directions on the metro to a local mountain and she ended up driving me all the way up the mountain!

Casually walking the goats around the block

Dogs in Bucharest would bark and claw at the cars as they drove by

Orthodox ceremony celebrating St. Andrew

My Aussie friend Jordan enjoying his train ride to  Transylvania 

Brasov town square

Narrowest street in Europe

In Bran Castle

Bran Castle

A castle in Rasnov

The view atop the castle

Marvelous Fall colors

The Turkish Bath

My four adventurous American comrades and I made haste to keep up with the brisk Turkish gentlemen. When the idea surfaced in the hotel lobby over tea, these two natives took it upon themselves to lead us naive foreigners to the nearest Hamam. The usually spacious streets of Kars slowly accumulated bodies in search for an eventful Saturday night. A biting Fall breeze swept through the streets forcing me to button my warm flannel to the very top. With each stride, unsettling thoughts of the possibilities in store hung in a damp weight above our heads. Would we make fools of ourselves here? Do foreigners visit Turkish Baths? Will I contract some grizzly fungus due to unsanitary conditions? These collective thoughts bounced around as we continued to follow the Turks around each corner toward our possible demise.

The younger gentleman turned and gave a lopsided smile. He motioned toward a door and we entered an oddly florescent establishment. Two older men, one dressed in a kind cardigan and the other entirely naked save for the small towel wrapped about his midriff and groin, welcomed us enthusiastically. The men we came with negotiated a reasonable price of 100 TL for the five of us. They wished us luck and we quickly thanked them, our eyes revealing our blatant insecurity. The nearly naked man took our valuables, deposited them in a small drawer and gave the key to one of us. The other man beckoned us to the undressing rooms and we swiftly removed our armor. With but a small sequined cloth as protection, we made our way downstairs.

Immediately the air became humid as gentle slips of steam emerged from beneath the door. I pushed it open and we made our way into a large, steamy room plated in tile and dampness. Three impossibly hairy men gawked at us then snickered to themselves. Apparently our awkwardly draped cloths and incredulous expressions were a sight to behold. A gangly, mustachioed man lying on the center tile-spread had so much hair on his shoulders that I literally thought he was wearing shoulder pads. We made our way to our individual bathing rooms and hung our towels. Now entirely naked, I stared down at two metal sprockets and a small plastic cup. With no other option, I filled the cup with warm water and repeatedly drenched myself. After about 15 cup loads, I felt refreshed. I turned off the water and made my way back out to the main room to rendezvous at the center tile with the other Americans. An overly affable man took advantage of the opportunity to chat with some foreigners and the six of us made our way to the sauna. My skin's residual wetness quickly disappeared in this dimly lit heater- filled room. As we deployed our horrendous Turkish in an attempt to chat with the local, we laughed together. With the cleansing heat and fresh rinse, we finally started to feel comfortable.

Our new acquaintance told us the best was yet to come. Sure enough, we made our way from the sauna and beheld the Turkish massage. We sat on the center tile column engrossed at the sight of a man karate chopping the bejesus out of another soul. As we stared, another hairier-than-humanly-possible man emerged from the steam to offer us each a lemon zesty beverage. We thanked him and quenched our thirst. Finally the masseur beckoned his first American victim over. We jeered at Drew and he commenced his massage.

When it was my turn, I enthusiastically jumped on to the tile centerpiece and lay prostrate, completely vulnerable. Apparently my genitals slipped from the towel because the masseur laughed and tugged my soaking cloth farther down. He began the massage with a sandpaper-esque scrubber that removed all my dead skin. This being my first massage of this sort, I had quite a bit of flesh to part with. He then massaged out my kinks, cracking parts of my spine simply by pinching them. He repeatedly left his massage post to grab particular props, my favorite being the sack of soap that he shot all over my body, immersing me in a cloud of bubbles that got all up in my grill and nasal cavity. He sat me up and ran his  muscular fingers through my soaking locks with his less than satisfactory shampoo product. My eyes sealed shut at this point due to the excessive soap pervading my being, the man left me again. I heard his footsteps returning and my friends warned, "Brace yourself!" a tad too late. A wall of the coldest water imaginable struck my soapy face. I screamed like a little girl and every man in the Hamam squealed with laughter. I jokingly scolded the masseur and he made it up to me with a gentle splash of warm water. He inspected his handiwork and with a little smirk, remarked, "Bootiful!"

I rinsed myself, waited for the others to have their massage and we headed back upstairs. The nearly naked ned from the entrance greeted us with towels and wrapped us up like a pack of Sultans. We felt like new men. We had conquered the Turkish bath and lived to tell the tale. An air of accomplishment now embracing us, we offered the a rarely expected tip and made our way back into the cool night.