[EXPAT VOICE] A Turkish Winter’s Tale

It turns out I’m the only one who thinks this weekly day of quietness is common sense or even natural, because “burası Türkiye” (this is Turkey). My neighborhood consists of simple but hard-working people. No doctors, lawyers, university teachers or industrialists, but the likes of road workers, teachers, shopkeepers and salespeople concerned about making a day’s living. Ever since I was a little I have wondered about the patronizing attitude Turks show towards others, be they neighbors or co-workers, when they find themselves in a higher position in the hierarchy. “Ezmek” (belittling) others just because you can seems to be rooted in Turkish genes.

However, to this very day, there’s another thing I always admired: the kindness of Turkish people. Keeping this in mind, I rushed out of bed and off to the construction site where heavy drilling had already started -- on Sunday at 9:18 a.m. Surely the foreman would understand that everyone, even the simple people living in this neighborhood, could do with a day of quietness. Outside a neighbor was getting rid of his garbage. Seeing me walking towards the construction site, he stops me and promises his help: “hemen halledicem” (I’ll take care of it right away). I forgot about Turkish etiquette: women don’t talk to construction workers. The friendly neighbor is pleased to tell me they’ll stop working until 10 o’clock. “What about the rest of the day?” I ask naively. He is sorry to say the construction will continue.

Something snaps. I’ve been in Turkey for four weeks. I call it a holiday. I’ve had to spend every day of these four weeks outdoors, since the drilling sounded as if it was literally inside my flat -- which is not even next door, “lucky” me. I’ve accepted being treated like trash long enough; this behavior is far beyond “cultural difference,” it is outright disrespect and humiliation for no reason at all, other than “because we can.” The neighbor watches me in disbelief as I rush off to the foreman and ask him to stop working for the day, which he obviously laughs away. I keep my calm, ask him for his name and permit, for I’m sure Turkey is a civilized country that grants permits and I am very curious to see if the permit says construction is allowed to continue on Sundays. The foreman gives it to me with full force: “Who the heck are you? We know all about you Europeans; you come here and think you’re hot shots… I have permission to work. Continue working!” he orders the workers. So much for silence until 10 o’clock.

The way European Turks such as me are perceived is humiliating, I know that and I accept that. I’m too arrogant to argue with brainless people -- someday I will get off that high horse, but not today. Today I remain convinced that Turkey is a civilized country, and I refuse to believe that these punks are allowed to harass the neighborhood on Sunday without seeing a permit. The bakkal lady shakes her head: “Artık Türkiye değişti, şikayet etmek cezalandırılıyor, dört cezası var” (Turkey has changed now. Complaints are punished; there are four penalties for it).

I look at the poor bakkal lady, “What do you mean ‘Şikayet etmek yasak’?!” (It’s illegal to complain). Who let this woman believe that if you complain, there will be four (!) punishments?! If I was in the outback of Turkey, I might believe such a conversation took place. But this is Kuşadası, close to İzmir, as European as Turkey could ever get. The construction continues -- it’s 9:28 a.m.; the neighborhood remains silent. It is Sunday after all. But I am awake and off to the police. Here I start with the magic words I know will get any Turk to be even friendlier: “Benim ismim [My name is] Ebru Umar, I apologize, my Turkish is not very good, but I have a complaint and I may not be able to explain it clearly because I don’t know the right words.”

Three uniformed men are instantly in a helping mood. “Yardımcı olalım” (Let’s help you). “Am I correct in assuming that Turkey has regulations for heavy construction, like working hours and the limitation of noise?” Three gentlemen nod. “I’d like to press charges against the contractor in my neighborhood.” Now it gets serious, the three men hesitate. “That might be difficult.” They start a monologue that ends with “burası Türkiye.” I better get used to it, “burası Türkiye,” they repeat. Being born and raised in Europe, I won’t take nonsense like “burası Türkiye.” Permits. Regulations. Sunday’s rest -- “or whatever day it is Allah grants his followers peace and quiet.” “Besides,” I continue not knowing what I’m about to start: “Everyone hides behind ‘burası Türkiye,’ the key phrase for ‘where’s the rüşvet?’ [bribe] I insist that someone with authority, someone with a uniform, someone like you, tell these people to stop working. NOW.”

Their answer takes me aback for a moment: “Can I offer you some tea?” Turks, like Brits, think tea can solve all problems. Cultural differences, I think, and accept the tea with a smile. “I think the Zabıta [municipal police] are in charge here,” one of them states. “Surely it must be forbidden to work on Sunday?” asks the head of the police. He’s turned down by another uniformed man: “She’ll have to go to the municipality.” “She will go to the municipality tomorrow. On MONDAY, when there is actually someone working, I’ll see the mayor at the municipality if I have to,” I sneer. “On SUNDAY I expect you to show authority.” I’m a funny little lady in training gear, hair hurriedly tied back and glasses -- not your average Turkish lady. However, the intonation and conviction of equality and lack of fear of authority is obvious. And so the Zabıta has no other option but to join me at the construction site. On the way over they tell me I should talk to the kaymakam (district governor); he has more authority than the mayor. I had looked at some houses opposite the kaymakam’s apartment but decided not to buy in that area. Too remote. Too quiet. Sounds wonderful.

By now, 10 men have gathered at the construction side. The foreman looks at me, Eurotrash, being accompanied by three members of the Zabıta. Then the unexpected happens. People living in apartments next to the construction site, are hanging over their balconies. “You’re animals,” shouts a woman. “Working 16 hours a day, seven days a week; you have no respect for us at all.” Suddenly one of the Zabıta gets angry: “These people are right, I passed by this morning and there you were, making noise on Sunday.” The Zabıta orders the machines to be pulled off the site. The construction is over. No one has the right to “ezmek” hard-working naïve and ignorant people. They too have the right to a weekly day’s rest; even if they are Turks.