One Friday night a couple weeks after I arrived, Deniz invited me to go out with a group of his friends. He met me at my front door; Deniz and Ertan both insisted on doing so for weeks before they would let me meet them at locations more mutually convenient. This was a latent chivalry that occasionally possessed them even though they were nobody’s definition of macho. Along the same lines, they tried to pick up the tab whenever we went out, despite the fact that I was technically employing them. (Such gender expectations were hardwired in me, too; I was raised in a Middle Eastern family, after all. But I was also filing occasional stories for the Times under a freelance agreement in which I swore never to accept gifts on the job, so the payment issue was one of many arenas where I struggled to balance conflicting roles.)
As Deniz and I walked down İstiklâl Street, he pointed out numerous “passages” that specialized in different sorts of retail goods. These bustling arcades in grand stone buildings housed tradesmen and merchants selling everything from discounted H&M irregulars to electronics and housewares. Until the early twentieth century, this neighborhood, then known as Pera, was largely the domain of Armenians, Jews, Greeks, and European traders. Many of the buildings were constructed in the Ottoman era by Armenian architects, and accordingly some of the passages had Armenian names. I walked by one of these for the better part of a year before I noticed its tiny sign, faded and outdone by bright ads for tailors and law offices, announcing Tokatlıyan Pasajı. The name itself was a passage of sorts: it came from an Armenian hotelier, Mıgırdiç Tokatlıyan, who was originally from Tokat, near the Black Sea. Tokatlıyan erected the building in 1897 as a 160-room luxury hotel, renowned in its early years as one of Constantinople’s finest. Now it was one of the shabbier facades on İstiklâl. As for the name of the passage, it was not only inconspicuous but misunderstood by some Turks, who did not know an Armenian surname when they saw one. “Tokatlıyan” looked almost identical to tokatlayan, a form of the Turkish verb tokatlamak, to slap; thus tokatlayan pasaj, although an improbable phrase, would mean “a passage that slaps.” People couldn’t resist teasing one another when they walked through Tokatlıyan Pasajı: “Watch out, this passage might slap you!”
* * *
THE BUILDINGS STANDING shoulder to shoulder along the noble avenue were like sentries guarding access to disorderly backstreets flooded with seekers of nightlife. As we navigated this tangle of alleys behind İstiklâl Street, competing music blasted from the speakers of each café and bar. Deniz stopped in front of a doorway where a Bon Jovi song boomed by way of invitation. It was an Irish pub, complete with a Guinness sign in the window. About ten of his friends were gathered around a long table. Before I knew what was happening, I was seated next to a fellow named Hakan, and Deniz was at the other end of the room. This made me nervous; I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to reveal to these people. I didn’t want to spoil a Friday evening social gathering by saying something inflammatory. So I decided to forestall receiving questions by asking them myself.
“What do you do here?” I said, turning to Hakan.
“I am a graduate student at Bosphorus University,” he said. Bosphorus—or Boğaziçi in Turkish—was known to be a very progressive campus, but Hakan looked conservative to me, wearing grandma glasses and a collared shirt, so I imagined he might be an engineering student or a business major. I asked him what department.
“History,” he said. “Late Ottoman history and the situation of minorities.”
I looked down the table for Deniz, who was chatting and laughing with his friends. Why had he left me with this character? A student of late Ottoman history was certain to have his anti-Armenian arguments close at hand. Sure, I had said I wanted to talk to such people, but the moment caught me unprepared.
“And why did you come to Turkey?” Hakan asked.
“I’m just doing some research,” I said. Now two of his friends were listening to our conversation, and I grew even more uneasy.
“What kind of research?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I lied. “I’m still figuring it out.”
Hakan looked puzzled. I figured he could shrug off my apparent lack of purpose as just another American with money to burn, a Fulbrighter perhaps. I got up to go to the bathroom.
When I returned, Hakan stood up, pulled my chair out for me, and handed me a beer. “Meline!” he shouted. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Tell you what?”
“You are Armenian!”
I glared at Deniz.
Hakan led the entire table in a grand clinking of pint glasses. “You are our brother!” he proclaimed. Then he put down his drink and threw an arm around my shoulders. I was completely confused.
“You’re Armenian, too?” I asked.
“We are Kurds!”
* * *
IN THE MONTHS ahead, I would grow close with Hakan and two of his friends, Murat and Özgür. I learned that in spite of their impressive diplomas and jobs—Özgür worked for a major American consulting firm, Murat at an important Istanbul think tank—they felt like second-class citizens. Like most Kurds in Istanbul, they had roots in the Kurdish towns of the southeast. They were raised speaking Kurdish, and some of their relatives couldn’t speak Turkish at all. But between 1983 and 1991—their childhood years—it was illegal to use Kurdish even in private, or to give Kurdish names to children. Only recently was broadcasting in Kurdish decriminalized. Growing up, they had been forced to pledge their allegiance to Turkey at the start and end of every school week, in an oath for pupils that begins “I am Turkish, I am honest and hardworking … My existence shall be dedicated to Turkish existence…” and ends, “How happy is one who can say ‘I am a Turk.’” My new friends felt their culture, the very basic fact of who they were, was being denied. It was worse than denying history; it was denying the present.
Before going to Turkey, I had envisioned a nation with only one event on its historical timeline: “Turkey, place where genocides are denied,” the sign at the border would have read. It was a revelation, however late in coming, to learn that Turks had endured wave after wave of instability: a series of military coups between 1960 and 1980; the rise of a Maoist left given to violence and shock tactics; bloody conflicts between the military and Kurdish rebel groups; clashes between Sunni and Alevi Muslims; fascism, martial law, and mockery on the world stage. Turkey had its own problems, its own grief and fear.
Hakan, Murat, and Özgür, along with Ertan and Deniz and several others I would get to know, formed a network I relied on, the first link of which had been Müge. One to the next, they ferried me around, hosted me in their homes, and humbled me with their energy and insights. Together, they were like some kind of “aboveground railroad”—watching out for me as though I needed protection—but in their willingness to help an Armenian who came to their country as if to enemy territory, there was a paradox: I was not the one with the most at stake. I could leave at any time, whereas my Turkish friends had to live out the consequences of their political and moral positions. Within this paradox was another one: for so long I had feared “Turkey,” but all of these people were Turkey.
11
Language
There were two main Turkish-language schools for foreigners in Istanbul: Tömer and Dilmer. Tömer was an acronym for “Türkçe Öğretim Merkezi,” or Turkish Learning Center. Dilmer stood for “Dil Merkezi,” or Language Center. Ertan suggested I try Dilmer; he said he had heard it was somewhat “alternative.” The way he phrased this, I imagined Montessori-style playgroups. Then I looked at the Web sites of both schools and realized what “alternative” signified in the Turkish context: free of direct government control. Tömer was connected to Ankara State University. It advertised massive discounts for anyone who had at least one Turkish parent; anyone of any nationality who was married to a Turk; and anyone who hailed from one of the “Turkic republics,” which it helpfully specified: Azerbaijan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, as well as Tatar, Turkmen, Uighur, and
Hazara peoples.
As for Dilmer, if the only evidence of an alternative approach was that course fees were not calculated like DNA tests, that was good enough. (Good enough to get me in the door, anyway: I found out later that Dilmer offered similar discounts but hadn’t listed them online yet.)
My teacher for level one was Mehmet Bey, a man in his midforties who wore a proper gray suit every day. He was a picture of conformity, like a harmless middle manager, padded and pink as though he’d gone straight from his mother’s kitchen to his wife’s without missing a meal in between. His complexion suggested that he’d not smoked a cigarette or taken a drink in his life, and it was only his crew cut of silvering hair and his suits that gave him an air of authority.
I found myself eager to impress Mehmet Bey. I had been fairly insulated from mainstream Turks until then, spending time with Ertan and Deniz or at the Agos office. The safety of a classroom seemed like a good place to get acclimated. A language teacher is always, for his students, like an entire country distilled into a person. Besides, I had been poring over grammar books for months, at home in New York, and I was ready to be put to the test.
According to the Turkish Language Association, about twelve percent of words used in Turkish are borrowed from Arabic, Persian, or French; in practice, the number is higher because many Turkish words that were invented to replace foreign ones never caught on. With a rudimentary knowledge of Persian and eight years of French from high school and college, I had a head start on my classmates. Most of them were young Europeans working in Turkey—a Swiss archaeologist, a German teacher, and a Belgian finance adviser among them. There was also a Korean businessman, and a couple of canny Russian women who had met Turkish husbands on the Internet—they disclosed this openly—and were studying the language to communicate with their new in-laws.
On the first day of class, we learned to introduce ourselves. Catherine, a middle-aged French woman weighed down by a cargo of expensive baubles, had been living in Turkey for twenty years, but had never taken a language class. Although she feigned modesty, she was already able to carry a conversation in what Turks liked to call “Tarzan Turkish.” She kicked off the exercise: “Benim adım Catherine. Fransa’dan geliyorum.” My name is Catherine. I come from France.
Next was a young German student who tried to follow Catherine’s example. “Benim adım Liesl. Fransa’dan geliyorum.”
Mehmet Bey laughed. “Fransa means ‘France,’” he said. “You come from Almanya.”
For each student’s home country, Mehmet Bey had a ready point of reference. To the finance adviser: “Belgium! Didn’t you bring us some chocolate?” About Germany, he offered a slightly fraught commentary on why Turks refer to splitting a bill in a restaurant as paying “German-style,” while many other cultures call it “going Dutch.”
When it was my turn I said, “Benim adım Meline. Amerika’dan geliyorum.”
Beside me, the next student began to speak but Mehmet Bey held up a hand to stop him. “Meh-lee-neh,” he said, repeating it slowly, with perfect pronunciation.
I nodded.
Then Mehmet Bey went to the dry-erase board and wrote my name in large block letters with a red pen. After M-E-L-I-N-E, he added a question mark and looked at me for confirmation of the spelling.
I nodded again, beaming. Although my name is distinctly Armenian, Turks did not recognize it as such—the vacuum of knowledge about Armenian culture ensured this. But the sounds and syllables we used were similar, so my name came easily to them, resembling their Emine or Melike, common names for girls. Even the counter clerks at Istanbul’s many Starbucks cafés who wrote my name on the sides of cappuccino cups tended to spell it right without asking. This gave me more satisfaction than it would seem to warrant; the very thing that always caused a moment of awkwardness when I met a new person in America gave me a flash of belonging here, in the last place I’d have expected it.
Next, Mehmet Bey erased the question mark with the side of his fist and replaced it with a long blank line where my last name would go. “Soyadınız ne?”
“Toumani,” I told him.
“Meline Toumani,” he said, in the same measured articulation.
I nodded again.
“But that is not an American name.” He spoke in English now, emphasizing the word not. “Meline Toumani, what is your real origin?”
My brain started to buzz the way it does on a stage or in a job interview. “I was born in Iran,” I answered.
“Ah, Musulmansınız!” So I was Muslim, he said. He liked this.
“Musulman?” he repeated.
I shook my head. In an instant I had gone from feeling slightly smug to paralyzed, like the impotence of a dream in which you cannot will whatever action—run, scream, open a door—you need to take.
Mehmet Bey tipped his head slightly to the right and, with his eyes, invited me to explain.
“Armenian.”
“Ermenian!” he exclaimed, pronouncing it the Turkish way—their word was Ermeni—and lifting his voice in what sounded like forced nonchalance. I waited to see what would follow, but by the downbeat he had turned to another student.
I couldn’t keep track of the next few people introducing themselves; I was too rattled. Looking around the room, I noticed Catherine, the French woman, staring in my direction. As I met her gaze she blinked both eyes tightly with a kind of smile, which I took as a knowing sympathy. I blinked back. It was humiliating the way Mehmet Bey had moved on without comment, as though I had answered the simple question of where I was from with the words, “I like to tap-dance naked in my bedroom”—something a person wasn’t expected to disclose to strangers. At least the Europeans understood, I thought, feeling grateful to Catherine for her wordless acknowledgment.
Soon the teacher was on to a new question: where in Istanbul did we live?
Catherine volunteered. She said that she lived in Sarıyer.
Mehmet Bey turned to the class and explained that Sarıyer was a beautiful district way up the Bosphorus, known for its old fishing villages and historic seaside mansions.
Catherine nodded proudly. “And do you know which house is ours?” she said, dropping her h and r in the French way, which ouse is ouwz. “We couldn’t afford it but it was too beautiful! I live in Enver Paşa’s old mansion.” She laughed, a percussive smoker’s laugh.
Was I hearing things? Enver Paşa was considered the most powerful leader of the late Ottoman Empire, and one of the three chiefs of the Young Turk government directly responsible for the Armenian genocide. Since childhood, their names had lurked in my mind as a triumvirate of evil: Enver Paşa, Talat Paşa, Cemal Paşa. Could she really have just said Enver Paşa? My name is Catherine, Meline is Armenian, and I live in Enver Paşa’s house. The other students looked on blankly. The name meant nothing to anyone in the room except for Catherine, Mehmet Bey, and me.
After class I found myself on the sidewalk with Catherine. I wasn’t sure what to say; she had seemed like an ally, but then she had mentioned Enver Paşa with an exuberance that I found inscrutable. Catherine dug around in her giant Chanel bag for a while before asking me for a light. Then she asked what I was doing in Turkey.
“Some research,” I told her. “I’m a journalist.”
“Ah, but you’re an Armenian journalist. So I guess you came here to prove that a genocide occurred.” Her smile was pinched now, and the tightening of her cheeks made layers of makeup divide in the creases around her eyes. “You know, it’s very bad what the Armenians have done to us French. You made our parliament write that paper, and now Turkey is very angry about anything French,” she said. “Eight months I had to wait for my residence permit! It’s terrible.”
She was referring to the fact that the very energetic French-Armenian diaspora had convinced the French Senate to give preliminary passage to a bill making it a crime to deny the Armenian genocide. The second house of parliament had said it would not move the bill forward to become law, but this didn’t stop Turks from
taking the gesture personally. Turkish TV stations broadcasted the debates live, and thousands of Turks vowed to go to France just to deny the genocide and get themselves arrested. Prime Minister Erdoğan blocked France’s involvement in an eight-billion-dollar gas pipeline that was in the works, and military ties with France were suspended. For a while, anything French was fair game. In central Istanbul, a famous alley of cafés long known as Paris Street was rechristened Algeria Street. A gleaming, new block-lettered street sign installed by the city served mainly to confuse tourists holding suddenly outdated maps.
The subject of my origins never came up again in Mehmet Bey’s class, and instead of Catherine, I befriended the German students. But I was attuned to imagined innuendos like a Cold War–era conspiracy theorist might have detected atomic secrets in the morning news. Whatever the day’s lesson, my mind could find a connection to the genocide. One day we were learning adjectives in pairs of opposites: hot/cold, black/white, tall/short, and, somewhere down the list, true/false. Mehmet Bey paused on this last example and explained the difference between the usage of the word “false”—yanlış—and the word yalan, for “lie.” Was he trying to tell me something?
When Mehmet Bey reacted to the word “Armenian” by pretending I hadn’t said anything unusual, I felt, for the first time, what it was like to be made invisible. Up until that point, I thought invisibility was exactly what I needed; I didn’t want anybody to know what I was up to. Hrant’s murder had only strengthened the impulse to stay inconspicuous. But being totally unacknowledged felt terrible—maybe worse than if Mehmet Bey said something blunt, like “I don’t accept that there was a genocide”—even though he surely assumed silence was the more considerate alternative.
The incident also made me want even more to impress Mehmet Bey. I couldn’t help it. I had a fantasy that if I were the best student in his class, he would come away thinking just a little bit better about Armenians in general. “But there was that nice, smart Armenian girl at the language school,” he might tell his wife.
There Was and There Was Not: A Journey through Hate and Possibility in Turkey, Armenia, and Beyond Page 14
