It is an affliction that leads me to experience reality on so many different levels that my mind gets hopelessly muddled. Other symptoms include wild surges of hope followed by periods of despair. One of the many realities I inhabit, my favorite one in fact, is right on my doorstep. In this friendly neighborhood, the locals have long accepted that this yabancı is now part of the furniture and have shown me nothing but kindness. This reality is peopled by friendly and familiar characters. The old plumber sitting in front of his shop, always gives me a kind of military salute when I walk by; the Roma lady who sells flowers on the street corner is an old acquaintance: she and I bonded 18 years ago when we were pregnant at the same time; and the nice man from the electronics shop showed no sign of impatience the other day when I brought my laptop cable to be repaired for the third time in so many months. He had to go all the way to Karaköy to buy the right replacement plug, but only wanted to charge me YTL 3.
Then there is the Turkey depicted in the headlines of local newspapers, which often triggers my affliction. It is responsible for the permanent knot I have felt in my stomach for the past few weeks. Many people manage to live happy lives without ever following the news, but sadly I also suffer from a media addiction, which only exacerbates my Multiple Country Disorder. And in my line of business, it is usually considered necessary to read the local press on a regular basis.
There is also the wealthy, glitzy Turkey, avidly consuming the luxury goods expensively displayed in shopping malls like Kanyon, where even the McDonald’s outlet manages to look like a fancy restaurant. This is the reality promoted by PR companies, the rapidly developing Turkey that is attracting foreign investors and fuelling economic growth.
Another reality is the poverty in rural areas, particularly in the Southeast. It was very visible in the heart of winter last year when, stranded because of snow storms that prevented airplanes from landing, I ended up spending a couple of weeks in Diyarbakir. In the narrow alleys of the old city, few of the children had adequate clothing for the freezing weather conditions and many were barefoot in plastic slippers, despite the bitter cold.
The Ankara reality is yet another world: it is one of large boulevards, monolithic public buildings and official communiqués. The language spoken there is usually measured and controlled, except when used by politicians to launch attacks against each other, and it is not always understood in the rest of the country.
Side by side, there is also the inspiring empathy and compassion that sends tens of thousands to the streets to show solidarity after a senseless political murder, and the narrow world view that allows law enforcement officers to pose proudly for souvenir photos with the killer.
Perhaps it’s not surprising that I sometimes find it hard to reconcile these diverse realities. Experts I’ve consulted about my condition are divided. Some say my affliction is due to my deep attachment to Turkey. It is quite benign and could be relieved by mood enhancers, which would allow me to take some distance. In time, they assure me, the symptoms will disappear and the various realities merge. Other specialists believe my condition is a form of addiction that needs to be addressed. The only cure, they advise me, would be to go “cold turkey”.
