Michael in Turkey

Tonight two Turkish men showed up at my door. They were dressed up, but from the shabiness of their clothing, and the five o-clock shadows that some Turks must start showing at noon, I could tell they were not from one of the higher classes (more on class systems another blog). What made them stand out, however, was that one had a laundry basket-sized drum strapped to his hip. They were asking for money, as payment for their Ramazan duties as drummers. Why drummers, you ask. Simple. During the month of Ramazan (or Ramadan), true Muslims fast during the daylight hours. People are notoriously cranky right before sunset, as their hunger wears on them. The drummers want to make sure you at least have a decent chance to make it through the day (and they obviously don't mind making some money), so they walk around the neighborhood drumming in the early hours before sunrise, waking all to make sure you have time for a good early breakfast.

My fellow teachers estimate that roughly 10% of our students are fasting for the month. For a country that's 99% or so Muslim, I am constantly forgetting I'm in a country that practices a religion that, for most Americans, is very foreign, and even threatening. In one brief month, I have gotten used to the call of the Esan, the old men with takkes (fine tight-knit caps), the women with headscarves, the occasional begger blessing passer-bys. But the one aspect of the Islamic religion I was well aware of was the mosque. Could I see inside one? Was that wrong? I pass within 15 yards of the door of my local mosque every day, yet always felt as if it were taboo to even walk into the little courtyard in front of the building.

Well, today I went into my first mosque, the Kocatepe Camii, one of the largest in the world. Mara and I were shopping downtown with a co-worker, Asli, and as we parked nearby, I asked about seeing the inside of one. She said there would be no problem going inside. Since this mosque is so large, many tourists seek it out (though there were only about 15 people in the entire mosque when we went in), so I didn't feel intimidated.

Once I got to the entrance, however, I did feel somewhat in awe. The ceiling is spectacularly vaulted, with colorful mosaics made of tile and paint. The entire place is carpeted, and one must remove your shoes before entering. Inside there is a large open area for prayer, five times a day. The second floor is for women (men and women don't normally pray side by side). I couldn't imagine it ever filling up, but Asli said that on most Fridays there is a crowd pushing right outside the door. If you look at the picture with Mara and me, you can see a narrow stairway, which I think points toward Mecca in every mosque. I also think it's where the Iman stands.

We didn't stay long, and I kept asking if it was ok to take pictures (I don't know why; I wouldn't think twice if someone entered a Catholic church to take pictures during the day). I think it's because I don't have a firm grasp of the religion. However, sometime soon I'm going to respectfully visit my neighborhood mosque.

I like to think of myself as someone who appreciates history, at least in some ways. I used to be a regular at auctions and antique shops, I enjoy a good walk to look at the architecture of a place, and I take some pride in the personal history of my hometown of Albany, New York.

Now here I am in Ankara, where remains have been found dating back to 1200 BC (again, that's 1200 BC!). Today, as part of a two-day Fulbright orientation meeting, I visited the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations, which had displays from the Palaeolithic age (100,000-10,000 BC!!). It makes me reevaluate my respect for Shaker furniture, etc. I've been to museums of this sort before, but always as an outside observer. The items I saw always came from someplace else, as well as some other time. Now I see objects that are from where I live, so that some of the antiques I used to marvel at, while still to be respected, just lost some of their "specialness."

On Wednesday morning, I tried out for the Turkish Superleague. I made it...sort of.

Göktürk and I got on the ice around 8:30 am. The lights were just coming up, and a heavy fog was settled near the playing surface, so everything felt surreal. As we circled the ice, stretching out and lifting the fog a bit, the environs of the rink became more clear - on one side a very steep bank of bleachers, on the other glass windows rising three stories, behind which a restaurant, a bar, and some offices were situated.

I skated nearly an hour (just the two of us), getting put through various drills. My slapshot is incredibly weak (weaker than my other weak skills), and I felt embarrassed. I kept saying it was my 5 month layoff from skating, but I knew it wasn't just that.

Göktürk took it easy on me, but it was obvious he was much better. His skills probably resemble the best of what I see in my Albany hockey league. He plays defense, but skates nearly as fast as the top skater I know of in Albany. His shot isn't as strong as some I've seen, and I don't think he can place it as well as one or two sharpshooters in our league, but his control of the puck and moves with skating are incredibly strong (especially for someone from Turkey). He'd be a top player in our league, and conversely, some skaters from my league would have a blast playing here.

Not me, though. Again, he told me about the practices each week, including weight-training. I felt that I could keep up with him (he's one of the better in his league too), but that I would be one of the weaker players, as I am in Albany. He concurred, saying in the First league (just a step below), I'd do real well, but he wasn't sure about the Superleague. He said I should come to their first practices, however, and we'd see from there.

If I were younger, with something to prove, I'd do it. But I'm 42 (the ages of the players are roughly 25-30; he told me to tell the other players I was 35), and I didn't come here to Turkey to spend all my time trying to make a hockey team. I also fear some of the hitting in the league (in Albany it's considered a no-check hockey league; here it's full contact, and players don't wear full cages like I have). Again, if I were younger, didn't have a wife and three children and a new country to explore and a new job, etc.

Tomorrow I am going to thank Göktürk for the opportunity, but explain that I'd have more fun (and not have to devote so much effort) playing in the First league.

Along with my first hockey experience here, I borrowed a car for a few days. What a ride. The chaotic driving makes sense if everyone is aware of it and does the same thing (for example, when my morning shuttle van driver drives along the far LEFT side of the road to avoid the construction for a few blocks, and oncoming traffic gives him space as if that's ok). I equate it all to a city of bicycle riders. Sure, there are rules, but they are just there for some general direction. If hundreds of bicylists were on a roadway and meeting at a round-a-bout, everyone would manage, though it would seem chaotic to an outsider.

My driving included going through three red lights, one illegal left turn, and one illegal u-turn, all intentionally. It seems to be the norm that if it's safe, to go, especially as other cars are honking at you from behind to go. I see hesitant drivers, and they really are the most dangerous. One shouldn't be overly aggressive, but certainly confident.

I think our driving will be limited to occasional weekend trips around Ankara (a co-worker has graciously offered her car), which is enough for me, but I'm glad to have experience it, and Albany will seem quite tame after this.

And now, a guest blog from the real writer in the family, my wife Silvia:

September 1, 2006 Ankara

The kitchen sinks surprised us by their small, shallow size. An oval about the shape and dimension formed by your arms if you cupped both elbows with your hands, then added half a hand of depth, cut out of the room-length marble countertop. Modern stainless steel and all, but we were still confounded by how one hand-washed a large dish load in such tiny sinks. With effort we awkwardly managed washing the dishes from our first few meals but still sensed we had something to learn about this. Last night, I saw, beheld how dishwashing should be done, regardless of the sink, place, or time. With rhythm, and beauty, and a prayer.

Our hostess had withdrawn to the kitchen to stack and sort and organize the task of cleaning up after the feast of a small evening meal. When I came in to help, it became obvious she had developed a system, which my intrusion would only interfere with. So I willingly sat, at her insistence, to drink my cup of çay, or tea, and watched her, hoping to find out the secrets of utilizing order and space, soap and water. We shared no spoken language in common, yet she made much very clear to me. Ah, large plastic bowls filled with soapy water and placed on the counter near the small sink soaked silverware and served to dunk-soap and scrub the cups and plates, which she set aside on the countertop for rinsing later.

Her hands moved deftly, with grace, amid the rows of glasses and stacks of her finest china, which I had seen her extract from a hard-to-reach cabinet when she had just as handily set the table earlier. It is no wonder that in this culture of innumerable occasions for çay, a lifetime of setting, serving, drinking from, washing, and handling the traditional fine, hourglass-shaped tea glasses, multiple times daily, would encourage one to develop the necessary grace. I tell my children that here in Turkey, we must learn to be more delicate and graceful around the trays of tiny tea glasses and saucers, tiny stirring spoons, sugar cubes, and little bowls of finger foods. Our hostess had refined these abilities; it showed in her hands and movements, setting the table, serving food, and now, doing dishes.

Standing there, her back partly to me, she revealed only her busily washing hands amidst the sudsy waters, her bare swollen feet on the softly woven rug, and the oval of her face framed by a loosely wrapped scarf. The traditional Muslim dress, can one call it? Her long skirt and long sleeves and loose scarf left only face, hands, and feet exposed. After a few weeks of seeing this traditional dress code interspersed with “modern” dress and Western styles, it no longer even struck me. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to notice her attire if the call to prayer hadn’t drifted in through her open patio door at the end of the kitchen.

The call came as she rinsed the glasses. By now she had placed an empty bowl in the sink under a low stream of cold water, flowing lightly enough so it would take some time to fill the bowl, perhaps forever and never. And in this slowly running time, she would hand-cup with her right palm some of the water from the stream over to the soapy glass, which she held in her left hand over the sink but to one side of the bowl. So that this cupping, splashing, rinse-off water would not impurify the bowl water, always filling unceasingly between the hand-drawn outflows, never overflowing. Then the pre-rinsed glass would get dunked in a methodical way in the water bowl, again with grace, forward, backward, within, around, and out. Another glass. Cupping, splashing. Dunk down, back, inside, around, and out. I became entranced, watching, hearing, feeling the movements.

Then hearing her words. Mumbles to me. But answers, I believe, to the awakening, admonishing, and melodious call to prayer, the ezan, echoing out from the minaret heights of the local mosque, for the last of five times that day and at the beginning of all Muslim prayers: ‘Allah is great! There is no god but Allah, and Mohammed is his Prophet’. For a second, my breath held, I wondered if she would stop washing dishes to pray, then realized I was witnessing a prayer. All of this. The grace, the movements, the water, her replies to a higher call. And in this moment of recognition, of awe, at the beauty in something so mundane as doing dishes, I wanted to become one of the glasses she was rinsing, to be a part of the flowing rhythm of her kitchen. Of Creation. How I needed to be cleansed, rinsed, and purified, by her hands, the water, and her prayers!

Tears came to my eyes, unbeknownst to myself, until the interruption of her daughter—a ponytailed, blue-jean-and-T-shirt-clad 20-something—walking into the kitchen and through my line of sight caused me to blink, and breathe. And in my momentary feebleness, unable to leave my trance completely and try to explain what I was seeing, one could only come up with what might have sounded like a faint-hearted apology for sitting there amidst all this movement and work. “I was just watching your mom do the dishes; maybe you know how good that can feel, as a child watching your mother wash the dishes.” Then wondered how it might feel for my children. Sitting across from each other at the small kitchen table, we smiled in agreement, each in our own understanding, while the dishwashing continued.

Copyright 2006 by S.Z.Strich

Today the directive came down from administration - teachers may not carry cups in the hall between classes. While classes are in session is ok, but NOT BETWEEN CLASSES!

I will bring back to Averill Park many new and valuable educational ideas such as this.

When you're in a foreign country, if you don't become proactive, not much is going to happen. Conversely, if you keep trying (even if your command of the native language is limited), just the fact that you're a foreigner can open doors for you. Maybe it's the pity they feel...

For example, I knew that Ankara had one of the two or three existing rinks in the entire country of Turkey, so I brought my hockey equipment (for those who don't know, I play in the Capital District Hockey Association Men's League, an over age 30 league). I thought surely I could join a league here, keep in shape, make some new friends, etc.

After three weeks, however, I was getting nowhere. There was a league mentioned, but it only had three teams, and may have also played one or two teams from Istanbul. Everytime I had someone call on my behalf (and I kept pestering them), someone from the league said I had to have a "letter" from my US team, and asked if I only expected to do the training part (i.e. practice). Well, I wasn't sure about a "letter," but emailed my league, and they sent a letter verifying I had been playing in league the last three years. Then I had to find out about games versus training (in the US, we only play games, and often our only training is at the Ale House afterwards). I also was trying to find out about the ability level (I'm not very good compared to true hockey players). Afterall, Turkey is ranked 41st in the world, behind Australia, Israel and South Africa. But still, a good athelete is a good athelete. I kept having people call on my behalf, however. After all, I'd lugged that equipment half-way around the world.

One of my assistant principals, Nehat, who himself looks like he could play linebacker or tightend for a professional team, said he had a friend who helped train a team, and would contact me. But after many days of promises, he still hadn't shown up. Today, however, he was to show at 11 am, so there was hope.

Well, 11 am came and went, then 11:30, then 12. I said I was leaving at 12:30 to run an errand, and he said he should arrive at 12:20. Just as I was leaving, Nehat showed up at the office door, with two 25ish looking Turks. The larger of the two (neither were that imposing) was Göktürk, wearing a Wayne Gretsky t-shirt, and several days growth of beard. Through a fellow English teacher acting as translator, I found that Göktürk was the CAPTAIN OF THE TURKISH NATIONAL TEAM! So what if the national team isn't that highly ranked, I thought wow, this is kind of neat. They said Turkey just moved up from Group C to Group B internationally, and they wouldn't start the league for two more weeks, because most of the players were traveling to Belgrade or somewhere to play next week (some former Russian country, but it was lost in translation).

Well, I thought, I'm probably in over my head, but maybe I could watch them practice and see their skill level. No way, though. Göktürk lives near me, and he would pick me up in the morning and give me a one-hour try-out...and then drive me to school. My department advisor had to give permission, but what could she say (I have no morning classes on Wednesdays). So tomorrow I try out for one of the teams (a free league by the way, if I make it, since the teams are fully sponsored).

It just goes to show what can be accomplished if you try...

Well, I've made it through two classes, with only one major glitch. I...SAT ON A DESK! I was told earlier in the week that teachers only stand or sit at their desk, never sit on a table or desk. After my second class today, however, a teacher reminded me that I shouldn't do that, and that the principal was going around looking in the window checking. An hour later, another teacher approached me to say...the same thing! Well, as one who likes to move around a bit in the class, this will through me off (I'm not even aware that I sit on desks - and by that, I mean lean a bit on a desk). Hmmm...

Otherwise, I certainly enjoyed my classes. I'll have to find out if they enjoyed me. The students' abilities ranged in each class, as did their confidence level. Each class had at least one or two strong students who could help me get my point across. My 11th grade language class, which is the strongest, has an exchange student from California, a student from Australia, and one who lived until last year in England.

My 9th grade prep class had students who had difficulty repeating words I said. But in any language, I could feel for the kid who came in 30 minutes late; he'd been sitting in the wrong class! Mistakes are universal.

My most immediate problem is the trouble I'm having learning names (it doesn't help there are extra letters, or that a "c" has a "j" sound, etc.), but otherwise I'm feeling confident. Since my lessons are somewhat mapped out, and I only teach 14 hours a week in total, I have more time than normal to write up specific lesson plans. I should bring more energy to my classes than ever here.

Tomorrow the students arrive. Until then, I will discuss an equally important subject - toilets. In Turkey there are two types. One is the more commonly found U.S. toilet that one sits on, and you discard toilet paper in and flush. The other is what I call the Turkish toilet. Basically, it consists of a small hole in the ground, surrounded by a grooved or ribbed porcelein edge on which you place your feet (it seems just the right size for your feet, though I haven't tried it to know for sure). The hole at the bottom (there's a slope to the bowl in the ground) is only about 5 inches in diameter. I'm not exactly sure how much one "does" in these toilets, but as a regular hiker in the outdoors, I can say from experience that attempting to "do one's business" while squatting is not that easy. And I find them everywhere, including public restrooms, my school, and our apartment (it's in it's own room, which we use for storage). I tend to stay out of them, but they seem popular (we have urinals as well as both types of toilets, and more often than not the Turkish toilets are the ones in use).

Aside from toilets, another interesting feature of Turkish life is the attire worn by men. The older generation, as I've said, dresses quite formally (even suits, when it doesn't look like they're going anywhere formal). Another look consists of what I call the Ernest Hemingway vest, a khaki, pocketed vest usually worn over a white shirt. This is also worn by the older generation (I don't think there's even a remote chance I could pull off this look). Then there's the European sharpy look, consisting of lots of black or extremely bright polyester or silky clothing. Long pointed shoes and boots also seem to fit with this style. I had a chance to acquire some of this "look" when I bought some football (read soccer) shoes. There were models in florescent baby blue, and white with yellow and orange stripes, but I couldn't do it (even though no one here would think it strange) and bought plain old black Adidas.

I sometimes see English phrases on the few t-shirts around, but I chuckle a bit when I see quotes like "Wolves: American Baseball Club" or "Available for a limited time" worn by an elderly gentleman. They seem to epitomize the worst of our culture's style (as are baseball caps - the Yankees seem quite popular). Maybe the most interesting fashion, however, is the doctor/lab coat attire worn by many manual labor workers. It really makes them look quite distinguished.

And as for the women's dress, I'll have to save that for another time.

Ahhh, the weekend. Today we had plans to try out the outdoor swimming pool at ODTU (my private school is located on the campus of ODTU University). We called the head of the pool to verify we were coming (we were given a free pass for the weekend), and then walked down to a main street to wait for a dolmus. We waited, and waited, and waited... After about 45 minutes, we walked home and called to say we weren't coming. It turns out there are no dolmuses to ODTU from the direction we were waiting on weekends. This experience is a microcosm for much of what we do here - great plans, lots of waiting time, little to show for it except for knowledge for next time. This especially applies to the bureaucracy in the government and in setting up the schools. We've lowered our daily expectations; if we hope to accomplish three things, gettıng one done and understanding why the other two are unaccomplishable is ok. Maybe when we return to the U.S. we'll all be more laid back about things?

My schedule is slowly filling up. School starts in earnest on Thursday. About 12 men play football (soccer) after school, once a week, and I have been invited and already attended one game. We play outdoors on a tennis court-sized area covered with astroturf. Not only am I out of shape, but I find it humbling when a short, fat, bald, older man can dribble around me lıke I'm standing still. Oh well, ıt's great exercise and I'm meeting new people. Next on my list is ice hockey, which is still up in the air. The only true "league" has three teams, but I need to try out, and they want a letter from my club in the U.S. Since only one other Turkish city has an ındoor rink, I fear many of the players are on the national team. It should be interesting, whatever happens. If I join, games are Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Those activities will help me keep fit, but require time from my family. Most evenings I want to come home and be with Silvia and the children. We have a later dinner here (about 7-7:30) and then I usually get the girls ready and into bed while Silvia takes a walk with Silas (either pushing him in a carriage or Silas walking). I'm too tired to do much school work in the evening. So that leaves Weekends for travel and visiting people...

I'll try to get back to DESCRIBING what I'm seeing in future blogs.

The children are getting very used to the neighborhood, and life in Ankara for that matter. We live one street away from the bustling thoroughfare of Sukullo. Our own street parallels Sukullo for 150 yards before curving and connecting to the main road. At the curve, there ıs an ekmek (bread) shop, displaying a few types of ekmek in the windows, which is sold through a chest-hıgh open window in front of the store. Two days ago, Mara and Elli Sol (my little daughters), left with .40 turkish lira to buy a loaf. They had to go down one flight of somewhat industrial stairs (very wide steps, all gray cement, gray walls, dark lighting, what I call a pre-90's communist-style feel to the surroundings) which fill the center of our apartment building. They then pressed the button to release the lock on the door, and exited to the small walkway to the street. Hand in hand they walked up the inclining street to the shop and purchased one loaf of ekmek by themselves. By this time I was outside, on my way to catch my shuttle bus to my school, so I waited for them to return to the apartment. They were quite proud of their trip.

Ekmek is served with every meal, and generally is a white loaf of bread with a nice golden crust that turns rock hard after one day. Therefore, ekmek is purchased daily. We've noticed two basic sizes, the .25 (about 18 cents - about a foot long and narrow) and .40 (about 30 cents- somewhat longer but much wider) Turkısh lira quantities. People have a tendency to hang yesterday's leftover bread ın clear bags on the wrought fencing in front of their apartments, though if it's for the less fortunate, for animals or garbage men, I haven't fıgured it out. To eat, one grabs the ekmek and tears off a fist-sized portion to dip ın soup and eat with just about every portion of the meal.

The children also like riding on the dolmuses, which are short 4 or 5 bench seated buses, wıth an aır assisted side door like a large bus and standing room along the passengers side. The children don't lıke to sit (and often there is standing room only anyway), they lıke to stand to the rear and left of the sıde door on a slıghtly raised tirewell, holding onto a horızontal raıling running along a window. There, like minature windsurfers, they ride out the sudden stops, jerks and bumps of the dolmus, watching the city fly by. Sometimes I wonder about the safety, as we hurtle at 50 mıles an hour through two, now three, now two again shıfting lanes of traffic, but they love it. Their balance certainly will be improved.

Since I'm here on an educational exchange, I should write about the educational practices that I see. The first and foremost, of course, is their national exam!

Students leaving 11th grade take one exam that covers all the major subjects. For entering a university, this one exam dictates their future. All the course grades and previous report cards don't matter if you don't score well on this test - university admittance is dependent on this exam. Think SAT and Regents tests, and multiply by 10 (though the test is only several hours long). On my first visit to my school, I noticed students and parents were arriving at short intervals, to meet with the principal. Some students were happy and joking, and others were depressed. I asked and was told that graduating students (they leave after 11th grade in most schools) meet to go over the test scores with the principal and sign up for a university. The principal helps guide them to an appropriate school (that is, which school will accept which score). The students sign up through the principal, and once a university is full, no one else can be admitted (so don't wait too long to meet with the principal).

Because of the importance of this exam, students spend much of their 11th grade year studying. They take private courses outside of school, and neglect their regular class studies to the extent that many miss most of the last 2 months of school. They will get doctor's notes to excuse them from class, but everyone knows they're home studying!

Now, as an educator, to hear that great effort is being put into studying is wonderful. However, to weigh one test so much in an academic-minded student's future is crazy (especially if a student is not a good test-taker). As a teacher of one group of 11th graders, I will have mixed feelings. I will be preparing lessons, and yet may only have 2 or 3 students show. It will certainly cut down on my grading load. But I will also want my students to do well on their exams. It sounds very different than the "buyers market" mentality of U.S. graduates and colleges (certainly there are exclusive schools, but even MIT doesn't select students based on only one test).

For my 11th grade class, which meets 4 times a week, I am responsible for reading short stories and helping the students with their writing. Two other teachers (my team) will be teaching the grammar and literary analysis portion of the class. I have been given four paperbacks of short stories (many of the authors are taught in U.S. schools), and I am adding some of the stories and lessons I brought from home). My 11th graders are an advanced class, many of whom will be going to teach English in the future, so this class should most resemble my U.S. classes.

In addition to my 11th grade class, I have six or seven 10th grade classes that meet once a week. These are my project classes. The students will be taught "English" in another class, but their major project grades will come from activities I create. After reading a story in a class, the students will work on culminating projects based on those stories under my supervision (partly to give the students a class to do homework, since it wasn't getting done at home). I like this idea, as I get to be creative with projects, and after assigning the students work, I have some time to help them (and since I'm grading it, they should listen). If the students are eager to work, this should also make it an enjoyable class.

My last class, of which I have two sections, are the prep classes. These are made up of beginner English students, so there is a wide range of ability. I have yet to figure out how to approach these classes, and only have one week before they arrive. I expect to depend on the help of other teachers as I start this class. I'll let you know what happens later.

Thanks to all who have written positive feedback. I especially like to find out how my experiences resemble those of others (I never realized how many international experiences my peers have had). I still have to walk to an internet cafe, but we finally got our phone hooked up, so our own internet at our apartment can't be too far behind...