My missing mahalle

However, this seemingly simple saying expresses so much more. It means that this is simply the way things are done here, there is no way around your problem, the person saying this phrase cannot help correct the situation, or the person is at a loss to know how to get around the problem. It is a phrase that can bring on bouts of frustration, irritation and, yes, even anger in many expats. When you hear this phrase, you know you are in for an uphill battle.

Deciding it was time to be able to do some of my banking online, I went to my bank to inquire about the process. It was an easy procedure, I was assured by the banker who checked my accounts. I have been using the same bank for almost 10 years and have always had a comfortable balance and no problems with my accounts. Nodding as she handed me forms to fill out, it would be quick and painless and everything could be done in a very short amount of time so that I no longer had to come to the bank to pay bills or transfer money.

Relieved, I filled out the forms and handed them back, asking if there was anything else she needed. “Just a form from your muhtar saying you do reside in the neighborhood,” she said as she collected my forms and placed them in a file folder. “As soon as we have that, we can process your request and have everything set up for you. It's a standard form and the muhtar should be able to give you a copy today.”

İstanbul is divided into large neighborhoods, such as Üsküdar, that cover quite a wide area. Each neighborhood is divided further into smaller wards or quarters, called a mahalle. Each mahalle has an elected muhtar, much like a councilperson or representative for that particular small area that is part of the larger neighborhood. The muhtar keeps records of who resides in the neighborhood and can often help resolve minor problems affecting the area that arise.

We have lived in the same neighborhood for over 12 years, and have been in the same mahalle for the last few years. However, our particular mahalle had at one time been two separate, smaller mahalles, and only recently had been merged into one entity with a completely new name. Before the changeover occurred, residents had been assured that there would be no problems arising from the change in the mahalle name and that all records would be transferred efficiently.

As I walked to the local muhtar's office, I had visions of being able to quickly obtain the required form and return with it in hand to the bank before the close of the business day. I was sure that setting up my account so that I would be able to do business through Internet banking would be a quick and painless procedure. As I discovered, my plans were to be swiftly dashed once I set foot into the local muhtar's office.

After the preliminary greetings, a cup of tea was brought and we sat down to discuss what assistance I required from her. Nodding as I explained what I had been told at the bank, the muhtar assured me: “Oh, well then, that is very easy to give you. I know you have lived in our neighborhood for many years, so there should be no problem. Let me just check the computer records and you can be on your way with the form.”

Looking at my ID card, she quickly typed my name into her computer. Her brow furrowed as she retyped my name. “What is your address?” she asked me. I gave her my street address, where we had resided for more than a year. She continued typing, paused, shook her head, typed some more and waited. “Well, there seems to be a small problem,” she said, turning to face me. “Remember when the two small mahalles were merged to make one larger one? Well, it seems that the information for residents of your old mahalle somehow got lost when the change was made. Even though I know you have been living in this neighborhood for years, you are no longer in the system. I am sorry, but I cannot give you the form you need for the bank because your information does not exist. Unfortunately, this has happened to many other residents, too, and there is nothing I can do about it.”

Surprised, I asked how the records could be lost for an entire ward. After all, we had been reassured that the process of merging the two neighborhoods would not cause any problems. In addition, I wondered aloud, if it was discovered that information about the residents of an entire mahalle had been lost, why were we not all notified about this rather large glitch earlier? Shrugging apologetically, she sighed, turned away from her computer, looked at me and spoke the dreaded phrase, “Burası Türkiye.”

“You will have to go to the main office of the district to sort this out,” she told me. “There is nothing I can do here to help you.” I told her that I had done that more than 12 years ago when we first moved into the area. “Well, since they lost the records for your littler mahalle when they made the change, you will have to go back and redo all the paperwork. Make sure to take all your papers with you, including the ID card, the lease contract, bills in your name, to help move the process along quicker. That's the only thing you can do.” Imagining a day of filling out forms and wandering from office to office, I pointed out that surely the city had all that information and it could not be possible that the entire database of a mahalle had been erased. Again, she shrugged and replied, “Burası Türkiye.”

Sadly, I returned home and began to pull out any official document I had in our files as well as bills with our names on them. I did not relish the thought of having to go to the main offices and wait in what I knew could potentially be endless lines. However, in order to once again be listed as a resident of the neighborhood where I have lived for many years, it seemed I had no choice in the matter. “Yes,” I sighed as I headed out the door, files in hand, “Burası Türkiye.”