Election slogans and Internet snark

Weary of fretting about the upcoming Turkish election, the terrible things that could happen between now and then, and the uncertainty of what might happen afterwards? Me too. Let's try to have a laugh about it instead, at least for a moment.

During the last election, all the way back in June, the ruling party plastered the country with billboards proclaiming "The others talk, AK Party does" (Onlar konuşur, Ak Parti yapar). Which, of course, left the question of "does what?" open to Internet jokesters to fill in:

"We are making the biggest thing in the world"

"We are making oven-baked pasta"

"We are doing something very super"

"We are making Turkish subtitles"

"We are doing whatever our hearts desire"

... and on and on.

The party's new election slogan, "There is no you or I, there is only Turkey" (Sen ben yok, Türkiye var) was of course also quickly appropriated by online critics:

That's a good one, for sure, but plenty of other alternatives could be similarly Photoshopped, don't you think? A few ideas to get the ball rolling...

Sen ben yok ayran var
(There is no you or me, there is only ayran)

Sen ben yok biber gazı var
(There is no you or me, there is only teargas)

Sen ben yok beton var

(There is no you or me, there is only concrete)

Well, how 'bout it?

Sen ben yok _______ var

This week, astute wags pointed out that a new ad campaign touting the party as "the women's party" was slyly colored pink but featured only the visage of the male, mustachioed prime minister. I'm just waiting for the memes to pop up on this one too...

Although, frankly, given the poster boy's most famous recent gaffe, I think I may have come up with a winner already:

Geometri ustaların partisi
(The geometry experts' party)

Got a nice ring to it, değil mi?

#Ankaradayız

Graffiti in Istanbul:
"If only it was a dream"

Turkey is still in mourning after the worst terror attack in its recent history, a suicide bombing targeting a peace march in the capital city of Ankara that killed at least 97 people. Flags are at half-mast, heartrending photos from funerals around the country are filling social media, and the sound of pots and pans being banged in protest echoes through the night air in many Istanbul neighborhoods.

Much has been written, and will continue to be, trying to explain the attack, what led up to it, and what its ramifications may be for the next election, and for the country in the longer term. Instead of rehashing them, or trying to add my voice to the many clamoring for attention right now, I'd rather share some pieces that I think are worthwhile reads, a few personal reflections, and some photos and other imagery that seem to capture the current mood -- or, at least, my mood.

"We are dying in order to live as humans.
You who have lost your humanity, you are already dead."
Photo via @sweidius

After such an event, it's easy to fall into despair, but it’s been heartening to see the outpouring of love and support from abroad. I know many people who have responded felt Turkey's pain personally due to their visits here or connections with Turkish friends, which speaks well of the country and its people despite the anger and fear swirling around us now.

"95 dead, 85 million injured"

Yesterday I saw an exhibit of works by student artists from Sarajevo, most too young to remember the bloody war that ravaged their city and killed tens of thousands. In the evening, I shared a wonderful Syrian meal with friends, cooked by a young man from Homs who has fled the violence there and is trying to finish his education and start a new life in Turkey, an endeavor the dinner was helping support. After, and amid, such great tragedies, somehow, life goes on.

Today, people around Turkey are gathering to mourn the dead and call for justice to be done, attending funerals and demonstrations despite the fear that undoubtedly now hangs over any large public gathering. I am inspired by their resilient spirit, along with that of the people who rallied to donate blood after the attack, to bring food and blankets to family members waiting outside Ankara's hospitals for news on their loved ones.

These people, and everyone else who fights for a better, more compassionate world, are living the words written on a protest sign by a young woman killed Saturday and laid to rest this morning in her Black Sea hometown of Arhavi: “Beautiful days don't come to us, we march to them.”

Protest sign in Antalya: “Our pain is great. So is our indignation.
We are bereaved. We are in revolt."
Photo via İleri Haber

Selected reading:

• "Louder than Turkey’s cries of anger are cries for peace. There’s still hope" – Turkish-British journalist Alev Scott finds reason for optimism
• "Ankara bombing and the end of the Turkish Republic" – a far more pessimistic take by political science professor Umut Ozkirimli
• "Turkey: After the Ankara massacre" – an analysis by journalist and academic David Barchard
• A first-person account of the Ankara attack by a friend and colleague (Turkish version)
• Portraits of some of the victims (Turkish version)
• More extensive bios of the 100 victims

How to help:

• The "10 October Solidarity" civil initiative is organizing volunteers and donations to help survivors and their families
• A scholarship fund for archaeology students in Turkey has been set up in memory of Dilan Sarıkaya, 22, who was an archaeological student at Çukurova University

Open Studio Days in Istanbul

Walking down a frequently trod street in our Beyoğlu neighborhood, we peered more closely than usual at the houses lining either side, eyeing doorsteps and overhead windows for the pink balloon that meant there was art inside.

Jewelry by İrem Burcu Ummansu

I had been excited to learn that the “Open Studio Days” (Açık Stüdyo Günleri) concept was finally coming to Istanbul. SF Open Studios had always been one of my favorite events back in my San Francisco days, offering a full month of opportunities to explore new neighborhoods, meet local artists, peek into their studios, and maybe even buy a print or two. And the weekend-long Istanbul Open Studio Days got off to a good start right away, with a nicely printed brochure containing details on the participating artists and maps to guide us on our urban treasure hunt.

Painting by Desen Halıçınarlı

Starting off near home in Çukurcuma and working our way down to Tophane and Karaköy, a friend and I stepped gingerly into the first location on our self-plotted tour, feeling a little awkward about entering a stranger’s house, but were warmly greeted by the artist, who cheerfully offered us snacks and showed us her colorful painted caricatures and ceramic pieces. Proceeding more confidently after that, we climbed to fifth-floor walkup apartments and into dusty hans (traditional commercial buildings). We got lost a couple of times and failed entirely to find one or two studios on the list.

In Karaköy, we enviously ogled beautiful jewelry reflecting the architectural forms of old Beyoğlu buildings. I fell madly in love with one painter’s moody cityscapes — and got to step out onto her roof terrace to see some of the vistas that inspire her — but was afraid to ask how much they cost.

Paintings by Begüm Mütevellioğlu

The next day, we did it all over again, boarding a ferry to Kadıköy and diving into the streets of Yeldeğirmeni, a newly hip Asian-side neighborhood where crumbling Ottoman-era wooden houses sit amongst new apartment buildings and even newer cafes and boutiques.

One of the artists’ studios was inside one of those old wooden houses, offering a rare glimpse inside a characteristic (but quickly vanishing) style of Istanbul architecture along with some fine paintings. With lots of street art to look at along the way, we visited a printmaking studio, stood around awkwardly while one artist hosted what appeared to be a dinner party for her friends, and scratched our heads over some conceptual works in a gallery.

Print by Mediha Sevinç

Wrapping up the days with beers in one of Kadıköy’s many lively bars, we raised our glasses to toast a successful weekend meeting up-and-coming artists, looking at their works in progress, seeing some of their inspirations, and poking into some new corners of the city. A few duds aside, the Açık Stüydo Günleri had been a wonderful, well-organized event. Too bad it only happens once a year.

Environmental battles along Turkey's Black Sea coast

Turkey's little-visited Black Sea coast has become a hotbed of resistance to dams and other environmentally damaging hydropower projects, part of an ambitious national development and privatization agenda that includes the building of coal plants, nuclear plants, and nearly 2,000 new dams, as well as many new mining and other industrial operations.

The Black Sea region’s lush forests and small mountain villages provide a striking backdrop for the fierce battle being waged there, a fight pitting farmers, fishermen, and beekeepers against the powerful government and corporate interests seemingly intent on bulldozing the landscape and damming its life-giving waterways in the name of “progress” and profit.

“We were born hearing the voice of this river and we will die with it” is a commonly expressed sentiment among Black Sea villagers, whose honey harvests, hazelnut crops, and vegetable gardens all depend upon the region’s rivers. Though the threat of dams looms the largest, gold mining and other extractive industries also put people’s health, homes, and livelihoods at risk.

Local activists who have rallied against such threats often end up facing new ones: lawsuits filed against them by hydropower companies, many with close ties to Turkey's ruling political party; intimidation and even violence from police and other security forces seeking to break up protests; vilification as traitors, communists, or even terrorists by government authorities; and pressure from local officials and religious leaders not to speak out against such projects, and to take below-market buyouts for homes in the path of construction.

With a grant from Mongabay's Special Reporting Initiatives, I traveled this spring across the eastern Black Sea, from the port city of Trabzon to the mountain towns of Artvin, Murgul, and Yusufeli, taking in the gorgeous – but in many cases already blighted – scenery and talking to local residents and activists about the threats they and their homes face.

Read my first two articles from this reporting trip on the Mongabay website:

• New solidarity in struggle to protect Turkey's 'life spaces'

• Turkish government bears down on rural resistance to mining and hydro projects

(Almost) alone at the Artemis Temple

I'm not proud of it, but I've got to admit, over the years, I've become a bit of a ruins snob.

I've been lucky enough to be able to visit some stunning, awe-inspiring, downright reverence-inducing ancient sites -- from the colosseum of El Jem, where you can walk through the cellars that once held wild beasts of all types, to the temple complex of Baalbek, with its mysterious megalithic stone blocks -- many of them blissfully free of crowds.

The downside of this good fortune is that it takes more than a towering structure or a well-preserved frieze to impress me (and that it makes me embarrassed to feel so blasé when other visitors are clearly wowed). A ruin usually sticks in my mind and my heart not because of its size, age, or level of preservation, but because of its setting and the experience I was able to have there -- whether hearing the call to prayer rise up from the modern city of Bergama while gazing out over the ancient ruins of Pergamon, poking my head into the 2,000-year-old shops of Ostia Antica, or rambling freely over the remains of Patara.

So while intellectually I can appreciate the value of Ephesus, heralded as the the best-preserved classical city in the eastern Mediterranean, traipsing down its mile-long main avenue along with thousands of other camera-toting, flag-following tourists can feel more like a slog than a privilege, especially in the midday summer heat.

The Temple of Artemis, annoying tout not pictured

I thought I'd found my Selçuk-area bliss instead at the Temple of Artemis; one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, it now scarcely merits a single-line mention in most guidebooks. But what could be more evocative of the tides of history and twists of fate than this once-grand temple reduced to a scant few architectural remnants rising out of a murky green swamp, birds nesting atop its scattered capitals? I sat happily on part of an old column in the shade of a mulberry tree for some time, listening to the birds all around and watching them wade, swim, and dive in the plant-filled waters. The dusty, hot modern town was largely hidden behind layers of green, affording a wonderful view of the İsa Bey Mosque and the Basilica of St. John.

Just one thing disturbed my reverie, like the buzzing of a mosquito all the more difficult to ignore the longer it went on: the insistent voice of the sole other person at the site, a vendor calling out "Lady, postcard! Postcard, lady! Laaaady!" 

Ode to the night bus

I love the feeling of waking up in a new place, of drowsily realizing that the rolling hills out the window are not the concrete caverns you left behind....

I love the bustle of the mola dinlenme tesisi, with its rows of giant buses being hosed down and crowds of people shopping, eating, and smoking as if it was midday and not two in the morning...

I love arriving not at a sterile, interchangeable airport but at a dusty small-town bus station or boisterous big-city otogar, its halls echoing with the shouts of touts calling out their company's destinations, or the drumming and singing that sends a young man off on his way to become a soldier...

I love watching families being able to accompany their travelers until the last minute, coming onto the bus to make sure they're settled into their seats, waving madly as the engine starts, even running alongside the bus as it starts to pull away...

I love stamping through snow at a midnight stop en route to the beach, where it's still warm enough to swim in the sea, reminding me how big and geographically diverse this country is...

And, I'll admit it, I love the little paper cups of Nescafe, and the snack-packs of processed cookies too.

Life amid the olive groves -- and the energy industry

"Welcome to Akhisar, realm of the olive," proclaims a sign arching over the entry to the bus station in this small Western Turkish town. Inside the station, bottles of olive oil are nestled in a display of fake flowers decorating one of the seating areas. The even smaller towns ringing Akhisar have tractors parked on their dusty streets and olive groves just outside the residential center; one town has olive-branch designs emblazoned on its town gate; another is named "40 trees."

Local pride aside, and in spite of the handful of wind turbines scattered on the ridges of nearby hills, what this region has become best known for, in the most tragic of ways, is coal. In May of last year, at least 301 people were killed in a coal mine in Soma, about 20 miles from Akhisar. Turkey's worst-ever industrial accident, it prompted outrage and mass mourning, but little in the way of accountability.

Just a few months later, as if to add insult to injury, an energy firm came into a Soma village called Yırca and bulldozed 6,000 olive trees out of the ground overnight -- disregarding a pending legal case, in which a court ruled just hours later that the company's expropriation of the land to build a coal-fired power plant was illegal.

I traveled to Yırca this week to see how the villagers were faring following the loss of their olive trees, and to investigate the larger battle between energy-industry interests and small farmers and rural residents that is playing out across much of Turkey. I spent the day with local muhtar (a kind of village headman) Mustafa Akın, his wife, and their neighbors as they tended some of the village's remaining olive trees, a difficult livelihood that they nevertheless say they do not want to give up.

My story about Yırca and Turkey's energy battles will be published later this year in Sierra magazine; until then, this slideshow of photos provides a glimpse of how the energy industry is already encroaching on Yırca, and at the traditional rural way of life that's at stake.

UPDATE: Read my article, "The Olive and the Power Plant," online, or see it as it appeared in Sierra's September/October 2015 issue (pdf).

Race day, Istanbul style

Most runners expect to complete a race to the sound of spectator cheers, announcers calling out finishing times, and some high-energy music from the post-race party.

What participants in the Istanbul Half Marathon on Sunday heard at the finish line instead were religious chants and songs, amplified to ear-splitting volume, from the gender-segregated celebration of the Prophet Mohammed's birthday that some city official had apparently seen fit to schedule for the same time in the same concrete wasteland, er, "meeting area."

Photo: Hope Gross Mandel

The incongruous pairing could be seen as a metaphor for the mix of ideologies and cultures jostling, not always comfortably, up against each other in Turkey. It certainly created humorous juxtapositions, with lycra-clad women -- some stripping down to their sports bras to change out of their sweaty race shirts -- gathered on one side, those swathed head-to-toe in black robes (an unusually conservative mode of covering for Turkey) on the other.

Istanbul's disparate realities also intruded into the day's sporting event in the form of bedraggled Roma and refugee children wandering around the race course, alternately trying to high-five runners and block their path. (In general, little effort is made at Turkish races to keep bystanders and runners separated, as the photo below demonstrates, and as any runner who's had to dodge around a street vendor and his simit cart mid-race can attest.)

Photo: Vodafone İstanbul Yarı Maratonu

Certainly, local flavor can add to the racing experience: Running past tanks and military bands along the route, and having the post-race entertainment include a show of soldiers performing rappelling demonstrations from helicopters hovering overhead made completing my first-ever 10k as part of the Beirut Marathon particularly memorable.

But after an 8k, a 10k, two 15ks, and a half marathon's worth of Istanbul races with chaotic starts so jam-packed as to drive people to walk on top of the portable toilets to bypass the crowds; emptied-out water stops; nonexistent crowd control; self-aggrandizing speeches by public officials who've done nothing to encourage sporting culture; mis-calculated route mileage; spectator-less sidelines, cars zipping onto the course before the race is over; and bag-retrieval melees, someday running a properly organized race is going to seem like the real novelty. 

As time goes by

The impermanence of life, and both the pain and comfort that can promise, threads through much of Scottish artist Robert Montgomery's work currently on display at the Istanbul'74 gallery in the Galatasaray neighborhood of Istanbul.

Billboards and neon signs are his canvases for text-based works both politically aligned against these mediums' usual capitalist, establishment messaging and personally resonant of the longings and fears such advertisements emptily offer to assuage.

Some serve as reminders of how quickly beautiful moments can pass by:

"...Every morning some of
the things you have 
loved will always be 
behind you."

Others as assurances that the oppressive forces in the world will also eventually come to an end:

Montgomery's works speak of civilizations that have crumbled, dreams that have withered, people and places that have become lost to us.... but also of how those losses are themselves impermanent. One particularly bittersweet piece concisely conjures up the human connections so deeply affecting that you may never be fully free of them:

What the words leave open to interpretation is whether the "ghosts" are benevolent presences, or haunting ones, evoking memories that you cherish the ability to revisit, or ones painful to recall, but more painful yet to let go.

TO VISIT: "Robert Montgomery" is on view until 18 April at the Istanbul'74 gallery in Istanbul's Galatasaray neighborhood. The gallery is open Monday to Friday from 11 a.m. to 6:30 p.m. and Saturday from 1 p.m. to 6:30 p.m. Free admission.

An urban cycling adventure for a good cause

Precariously balanced on the back of a creaky tandem bicycle, I skated one foot along the curb as we wound our way through narrow roads clogged with cars and pedestrians, drawing curious stares, pointed fingers, and open laughter at the outlandish sight of bikes trying to traverse one of Istanbul's most bustling neighborhoods late on a Saturday night.

Ready to roll in Kadıköy

Inside a popular local soup joint, it was brighter and warmer, but equally busy, full of people downing hot bowls of mercimek çorbası before or after a night on the town. Our soup, however, was brought out from the kitchen not in bowls but in a large insulated container, ready to be packed into a specially rigged trailer on the back of one of the bikes in our odd little convoy. Then it was back out into the chaotic streets of Kadıköy, darting through traffic to reach the ferry terminal.

Across the Bosphorus in Karaköy, we met up with two more intrepid souls who had ventured out on a bitingly cold February night to delivery hot soup to the city's homeless. "I came the first time out of curiosity," one of the riders told me. "But the night had such a good feeling, I keep coming back."

After donning orange florescent vests, we headed back out into the night, this time on wider streets with faster traffic. Not much of a cyclist -- hence the tandem -- I felt my chest tighten every time a car zipped by closer than it needed to, or startled me with an unnecessary honk. I tried to keep focused on the reassuring tinkle of the bell on the bike behind us, and take heart from the cheerful demeanor of the only other person riding on the back of a tandem, a blind man who is a frequent participant in this unusual initiative that aims to make cyclists, the disabled, and the homeless more visible on Istanbul's streets.

Pouring bowls of soup to serve in Aksaray

Fear eventually gave way to exhilaration as we sped through the night, wind on our faces and legs pumping hard. We hopped off at ancient archways, mosque courtyards, metro entrances, and underneath highway overpasses -- anywhere we spotted someone huddled under a blanket or warming their hands around a fire burning in an empty tin olive-oil canister. Most welcomed the meal, and the chance to tell someone their story, though a group of homeless children alongside a busy boulevard ran away as we approached.

In the wee hours of the morning, the soup pot empty and our hands aching from the cold, we parted ways. As I walked up the hill towards home, I passed a building I've walked by hundreds of times without a second glance. For the first time, I noticed the alcoves created by its exterior architecture -- and the pile of blankets inside one of these niches, wrapped around a solitary sleeping figure.

READ MORE: My story about the two-wheeled soup-delivery initiative Engelsiz Çorba was published by GOOD magazine on March 13, 2015.