After a long and arduous twenty consecutive days of work (I must actually consider myself lazy --- some teachers have been working every day for the past 3 months), I was well and truly ready for some peace, order, and --- while not in search of good government --- at least for some relaxation (if that has flown well and truly over the heads of most of you, that's because you have been unaware that that is the Canadian motto -- don't worry, most Canadians don't know it either...)
Leaving Canadian myths aside, I prepared for my day off of monk-like silence. In my best interest, I concluded that the best way to spend a day off solitarily contemplating the intricacies of existence was to go to a Gypsy festival in one of the barrios of Istanbul. Now, as most of you can guess, a barrio is not a particularly appropriate place to contemplate existence in silence. Secondly, one would never accuse Gypsies of being of a particularly quiet disposition. And thirdly, a festival encompasing our first two points is a sure-fire way to ensure that silence won't be the watchword of the day.
The festival in question was Hıdırellez. Long a popular holiday in Turkey, it is especially celebrated by the Roma. Every year, on the evening of May 5th, fires are lit, wishes for the coming year are made, dances are held, sleepless nights are (not) enjoyed, and so on. Ostensibly, the holiday is in honour of the Prophet Elijah and his connection to the mysterious ''Green Man,'' (Hızır) a semi-mythical prophet common to many cultures and religions around the world. According to the Qur'an, he is immortal, a guide for all other prophets, and a helper to those in need. While Hızır did not make an appearance at yesterday's festivities, it certainly did not stop the assembled Roma from enjoying a good night out in the barrio.
As it is, yesterday's Hıdırellez festivities carried an added political significance. The district in which it was held is Sulukule, a community just inside Istanbul's ancient city walls possessing a thousand year long Gypsy presence. The Roma of Sulukule have been living in the district since the days of the Byzantine governers: They survived the fall of Constantinople in 1453, they prospered during the Sultans, they witnessed the rise of the Ottoman Empire and its subsequent fall, they escaped the privations of modern Turkey's violent birth, and lived through four military coups --- all the while, they produced the city's music and added a colourful tile to the cosmopolitan mosaic that is Istanbul. Alas, after all the trials and tribulations of the past one thousand years, they now face their sternest test yet: The Istanbul City Council.
Unfortunately for the Roma of Sulukule, they happen to inhabit some of the primest ''undeveloped'' real estate still found within Istanbul's ancient walls. Developers have been drooling at the prospect of razing the ancient quarter, erecting luxury (but officially ''affordable'') accomodation, shopping malls, and other trappings of ''modernity''. That a Roma quarter --- with its attractive houses, chicken coops, livestock, colouful drunks, smoke-filled nostalgic cafes, peeling paint, crooked alleyways, dusty playgrounds, power lines, and hordes of friendly children --- should still exist within the heart of historical Istanbul seems to have become a bit of a sore point for the city authorities.
As such, they are doing their best to ''rectify'' the situation. Denizens are being offered about 40,000 YTL for their property at a take it over leave it rate --- unfortunately, the ''affordable'' new residences to be built will start at 140,000 YTL. Far from destroying the character of the district, however, the developers, in cooperation with the City, promise to retain the ''Gypsyness'' of the community. Despite plans to bulldoze the multicoloured houses, raze the smoke-filled cafes, eradicate the dusty playgrounds, pave neat and modern roads through the crooked alleys, and relocate the hordes of friendly children, the original character will apparently be maintained. Somehow, according to the developers, Sulukule's ethos as the preserve of the Gypsies, spiritual guardians of the music of the city, will survive the demolition of the present Sulukule. Such thinking, of course, is folly. At best, any ''re-creation'' of Sulukule will feel artificial and tacky (much like clumsy attempts to rebuild the city walls --- the restored wall looks like the wall of a mechanics shop in an industrial district), at worst, nothing will remain whatsoever.
In an effort to stall such efforts, NGO's and concerned citizens are increasingly putting pressure on local authorities to halt plans to destroy the personality of Sulukule. As part of the drive to increase awareness over the fate of the district, organizers invited the public to yesterday's celebration of Hıdırellez. While most of the participants were locals, a foreign research team and yours truly also penetrated the colourful backstreets, eager to lend support for Sulukule's protection.
As it happened to be, however, I happened to be the only blond haired foreigner present that spoke anything resembling Turkish. What followed was a five hour inquistion by hordes of adoring Roma children (nary a demand for money either --- to quash a prejudice about Gypsies): ''Where are you from,?' ''Where is Canada?'' ''Are you married to the other foreigners?'' ''If not, do you want to marry my sister?'' ''Why is your name Süleyman?'' ''Are you a Muslim?'' ''If not, how come you're not a Muslim?'' ''Do you want some rakı?'' (from a 10 year old boy who insisted that he was a good Muslim, despite promising to partake in said rakı with me) ''What football club do you support?'' and ''Would you be our English teacher?''. Of course, the questions didn't come sequentially, but sort of at once, many times over. I estimate that I answered the above questions no less than 37 times each.
My main contribution to engendering local goodwill (since I decided drinking rakı with 10 year olds might not ingratiate myself to their parents particularly) was to purchase a football for the local footballing youth, and provide amusement for the assembled headscarf wearing, smoking and cackling grandmothers to dance -- Gypsy style, of course. My feeble attempts to do anything but fall drew an ovation from the grandmothers and various local denizens, although I would posit that their applause was more out of embarrasment than any appreciation for my dancing ability (my efforts to explain that being a Canadian of Mennonite origin meant that I was genetically incapable of dancing fell on deaf ears).
All that was left, after the speeches, fantastic music, interrogation, and general good fun was to make a wish in accordance with Hıdırellez tradition. But, this being a chaotic Gypsy festival, wishes for the c
oming year could only be made whilst leaping over a good, old-fashioned mattress fire. I spent most of my time trying to take semi-professional photos (without success) of the Romanized mattress fire, before being exhorted by those assembled to make my wish and leap over the fire. Having not much experience with making wishes while jumping over mattress fires in Istanbul barrio districts -- being egged on all the while by a crowd of roaring Roma --- I was unsure of what I ought to wish for. But with the flames licking my waist, I decided that the most prudent wish for the coming year was also the most prudent wish for the following split second -- ie: That I escape my first Gypsy fire-jumping-wish ritual without getting burnt.
Thanks in large part to Hızır, my wish came true, with nary a burn mark to be found....
But while I was wishing for self-preservation, I imagine most of the area's inhabitants were invoking Hızır's name for a far more important wish --- the very self-preservation of Sulukule...
Leaving Canadian myths aside, I prepared for my day off of monk-like silence. In my best interest, I concluded that the best way to spend a day off solitarily contemplating the intricacies of existence was to go to a Gypsy festival in one of the barrios of Istanbul. Now, as most of you can guess, a barrio is not a particularly appropriate place to contemplate existence in silence. Secondly, one would never accuse Gypsies of being of a particularly quiet disposition. And thirdly, a festival encompasing our first two points is a sure-fire way to ensure that silence won't be the watchword of the day.
The festival in question was Hıdırellez. Long a popular holiday in Turkey, it is especially celebrated by the Roma. Every year, on the evening of May 5th, fires are lit, wishes for the coming year are made, dances are held, sleepless nights are (not) enjoyed, and so on. Ostensibly, the holiday is in honour of the Prophet Elijah and his connection to the mysterious ''Green Man,'' (Hızır) a semi-mythical prophet common to many cultures and religions around the world. According to the Qur'an, he is immortal, a guide for all other prophets, and a helper to those in need. While Hızır did not make an appearance at yesterday's festivities, it certainly did not stop the assembled Roma from enjoying a good night out in the barrio.
As it is, yesterday's Hıdırellez festivities carried an added political significance. The district in which it was held is Sulukule, a community just inside Istanbul's ancient city walls possessing a thousand year long Gypsy presence. The Roma of Sulukule have been living in the district since the days of the Byzantine governers: They survived the fall of Constantinople in 1453, they prospered during the Sultans, they witnessed the rise of the Ottoman Empire and its subsequent fall, they escaped the privations of modern Turkey's violent birth, and lived through four military coups --- all the while, they produced the city's music and added a colourful tile to the cosmopolitan mosaic that is Istanbul. Alas, after all the trials and tribulations of the past one thousand years, they now face their sternest test yet: The Istanbul City Council.
Unfortunately for the Roma of Sulukule, they happen to inhabit some of the primest ''undeveloped'' real estate still found within Istanbul's ancient walls. Developers have been drooling at the prospect of razing the ancient quarter, erecting luxury (but officially ''affordable'') accomodation, shopping malls, and other trappings of ''modernity''. That a Roma quarter --- with its attractive houses, chicken coops, livestock, colouful drunks, smoke-filled nostalgic cafes, peeling paint, crooked alleyways, dusty playgrounds, power lines, and hordes of friendly children --- should still exist within the heart of historical Istanbul seems to have become a bit of a sore point for the city authorities.
As such, they are doing their best to ''rectify'' the situation. Denizens are being offered about 40,000 YTL for their property at a take it over leave it rate --- unfortunately, the ''affordable'' new residences to be built will start at 140,000 YTL. Far from destroying the character of the district, however, the developers, in cooperation with the City, promise to retain the ''Gypsyness'' of the community. Despite plans to bulldoze the multicoloured houses, raze the smoke-filled cafes, eradicate the dusty playgrounds, pave neat and modern roads through the crooked alleys, and relocate the hordes of friendly children, the original character will apparently be maintained. Somehow, according to the developers, Sulukule's ethos as the preserve of the Gypsies, spiritual guardians of the music of the city, will survive the demolition of the present Sulukule. Such thinking, of course, is folly. At best, any ''re-creation'' of Sulukule will feel artificial and tacky (much like clumsy attempts to rebuild the city walls --- the restored wall looks like the wall of a mechanics shop in an industrial district), at worst, nothing will remain whatsoever.
In an effort to stall such efforts, NGO's and concerned citizens are increasingly putting pressure on local authorities to halt plans to destroy the personality of Sulukule. As part of the drive to increase awareness over the fate of the district, organizers invited the public to yesterday's celebration of Hıdırellez. While most of the participants were locals, a foreign research team and yours truly also penetrated the colourful backstreets, eager to lend support for Sulukule's protection.
As it happened to be, however, I happened to be the only blond haired foreigner present that spoke anything resembling Turkish. What followed was a five hour inquistion by hordes of adoring Roma children (nary a demand for money either --- to quash a prejudice about Gypsies): ''Where are you from,?' ''Where is Canada?'' ''Are you married to the other foreigners?'' ''If not, do you want to marry my sister?'' ''Why is your name Süleyman?'' ''Are you a Muslim?'' ''If not, how come you're not a Muslim?'' ''Do you want some rakı?'' (from a 10 year old boy who insisted that he was a good Muslim, despite promising to partake in said rakı with me) ''What football club do you support?'' and ''Would you be our English teacher?''. Of course, the questions didn't come sequentially, but sort of at once, many times over. I estimate that I answered the above questions no less than 37 times each.
My main contribution to engendering local goodwill (since I decided drinking rakı with 10 year olds might not ingratiate myself to their parents particularly) was to purchase a football for the local footballing youth, and provide amusement for the assembled headscarf wearing, smoking and cackling grandmothers to dance -- Gypsy style, of course. My feeble attempts to do anything but fall drew an ovation from the grandmothers and various local denizens, although I would posit that their applause was more out of embarrasment than any appreciation for my dancing ability (my efforts to explain that being a Canadian of Mennonite origin meant that I was genetically incapable of dancing fell on deaf ears).
All that was left, after the speeches, fantastic music, interrogation, and general good fun was to make a wish in accordance with Hıdırellez tradition. But, this being a chaotic Gypsy festival, wishes for the c
oming year could only be made whilst leaping over a good, old-fashioned mattress fire. I spent most of my time trying to take semi-professional photos (without success) of the Romanized mattress fire, before being exhorted by those assembled to make my wish and leap over the fire. Having not much experience with making wishes while jumping over mattress fires in Istanbul barrio districts -- being egged on all the while by a crowd of roaring Roma --- I was unsure of what I ought to wish for. But with the flames licking my waist, I decided that the most prudent wish for the coming year was also the most prudent wish for the following split second -- ie: That I escape my first Gypsy fire-jumping-wish ritual without getting burnt.Thanks in large part to Hızır, my wish came true, with nary a burn mark to be found....
But while I was wishing for self-preservation, I imagine most of the area's inhabitants were invoking Hızır's name for a far more important wish --- the very self-preservation of Sulukule...
