The Shaman Within - dd2

Following suit with the very old family tradition, I took the wrong bus. When I realized it, instead of the good ol' E5 we were already running on the freeway. As most of you know you can not find bus stops on freeways, ours included. Fortunately I was finally back home, in the land of the flexible rules and the least-bothered people with them. I asked the driver if he could drop me at a convenient place near to my destination. "No problem," he said and soon I was on a bridge trying to figure out the best path to the exit toll booths 50 meters below. That proved easy, too; apparently many had done it before and the path down to the booths was clearly marked. 10 minutes later, I was down and walking back on E5 - we had already cleared Hereke, my final destination - contrary to what I had originally intended.

I could have taken another bus, but it was August, I had 15 days off and nothing better to do with a very light hand baggage. So... After ten minutes on foot while a gentle breeze washing my face, I saw a cemetery, alongside the road, overlooking Izmit Bay. It did not occur to me that I had been to the place before until I arrived at the gate. Then I remembered. Here, in this isolated but beautiful place had we buried my grandmother. I was 5 then and could barely remember the details.

Cemeteries are special. Regardless of the monotheistic culture soup we are forced to swim, that little man, or the woman, your preference, the shaman inside survives. The only enemy that kills him is Hollywood. Against its horror movies, ghosts, zombies, etc, shaman is helpless, he suffers a silent death. And I met Hollywood at a very late age, so mine was alive and kicking. The little man told me to get in and I entered the cemetery. There was not a single soul around to ask for direction but the shaman knew the way. In less than a minute I found her grave and was standing by her tombstone. Her Birdie! After all those years, I was back, at my roots, at the place where I came from, and eventually would go.

"Birdie," she used to call me, because I was the one who would run to the grocery and fetch her cigarettes (now an illegal act), Gelincik brand, finest specimen of the once famous Turkish tobacco. I would run, not wasting a moment to deliver her cigarettes. The change was always mine!

Her smoking was like a ritual. She would wait for my mother, for coffee, real Turkish style, no less. Well, that meant 10 minutes during which she would open the box, take one cigarette, rolling it with her thin fingers, adjusting it so that it would fit perfectly to the holder. She took her time, hers was not a competitive world. Grace! That was all that mattered. When coffee was ready, so was she and her cigarette, now properly placed in its holder. She would light it, yes, oh so gracefully, take a puff, release the smoke with a barely audible sound. Then she would take a sip from her coffee and complement my mother.

Authority was her second nature. I had never seen her raise her voice. Yet, nobody could say no to her, especially my father. When facing her, he was like a child. I remember once reading in a study that in Turkish society the highest status for women was being a grandmother, somewhat similar but stronger than seen elsewhere around Mediterranean. A study in vain, confirming what is already known. Long time later, I asked my father if she abused it or was ever capricious. He told me "No, she was not." She was the wisdom itself, another shamanic trait.

And the shaman took over me completely. I walked over and sat on her grave, resting my back to the now slightly yellowish marble, where her name "Melek" (meaning angel in Turkish) was carved. I took out a cigarette, not Gelincik but pure Turkish still, and started my own ritual (I took a mental note to bring coffee next time). We smoked together. Although I usually gazed at the bay, I was careful enough to exhale towards the ground, so that she too could enjoy it. Here I was, together with grandma, in a cemetery, in our cemetery, two generations together, in the most peaceful place in the world.

Part 1: Significant Dots of Red and Black
Part 3:

Gone are Proud Locos

 It leaves without a hassle from Haydarpasa everyday, destination: Adapazari; and so it is appropriately called: Adapazari Express. Filled with workers and students, but especially workers, it runs back and forth during the day. The regulars of early morning and late evening departures are easy to spot. Tired, seldom in the mood for chat, living in their own worlds, trying to get some rest and above all, accumulate strength to make it again another day, for tomorrow.

As soon as it clears Bostanci, it gains some momentum, as if it knows it has its real customers on board now, not those who sneak in to reach the suburbs of Istanbul faster. Electric powered, it runs as if it is tearing the air and the ground apart, regretting the laws of physics that restrain it. Arrogant and selfish, it is way different than its predecessors. I remember.

When I was a regular, when the service was first introduced, the locomotives were steam powered. Those engines, they were gentle, humble souls. They were aware of their limits. But most of all, they knew that the reason of their existence was passengers, you, us. Primitive as they were, they still tried their best to take you to your destination on time. Puffing and steaming, replenishing coal and water along the way, they shyly apologized you for not getting you any faster. When they were delayed, they almost cried in despair. If only they had more power...

Maltepe: her place. Can't remember how many times I came here, day and night, dawn or midnight. I should have never dated her. Yet, in affairs of the heart, reason seldom prevails. She wasted her two years for me. Time, it was important for her. She tried again after me. How I wish she had succeeded.

After the diesels were introduced, they renewed the rail tracks. So our selfish engine is running above par on its way to Gebze, where Pippa was murdered. I am looking at the scenery, trying to understand what went wrong. Diesels were a different breed. They were and still are indifferent, despite all the heat, cold creatures. A robot of some kind. They simply work. What went wrong? During the transition from steam to diesel and to electric, something changed. Someone poked a finger?

My joyride begins as we are approaching to Hereke. I deliberately choose the first car in trains (long time ago, you were allowed to smoke there). You could have watched the sparks at night when steam-powereds were at service. Now I see the reflection of the moonlight over the bay. No sparks, though.

As soon as we clear Hereke, it is the loco's time. Until Yarimca, or its present distasteful new name Korfez, it will go at full speed, rail tracks permitting. It does not care whether you are on time or not. Screaming through the night, it will satisfy its own hunger for speed, cursing the railroad company for the tracks and possibly Newton as well. It will only last ten minutes, alas. Soon, the sound of the brakes will be heard, silencing its moans and cries of protest.

Yarimca: my usual stop nowadays. I get off here, sort of glad not hearing its protests any more, that arrogant creature! It slowly accelerates as I watch the cars go by, a habit that stuck long time ago. At the back of the last car I notice the conductor and we mentally wave hands at each other. And Adapazari Express disappears with memories, my memories, as I turn back and walk home. 

Significant Dots of Red and Black - dd1

He was in the news; shouting, waiving his hands, calling for revenge. Only 16, maybe 17, or 18 at best. Frustrated in a devastated land by bombings, attacks, what not. "Death," he says, "kill them all!" The warrior of the future, potential terrorist; depending on your point of view.

Some organization, one or the other, will foster him, train him, send him back to the field. More pain, bloodshed, tears, anger... but above all, hatred. You could see it in his eyes.

I think we should take him, before anybody else, for military training proper. And I have a great idea whereabouts. What better place can there be the ideal training ground for him and his friends but Dardanelles?

They appeared in the morning of March, 18th. Queen Elizabeth, Agamemnon, Lord Nelson and Inflexible entered Dardanelles around 10:30, followed by the French armada. Their targets were Ottoman artilleries at Mecidiye, Namazgah and Hamidiye, guarding the straits, the route to Istanbul. Churchill's plan was simple: destroy the artilleries, clear the mines, then Godspeed to the Ottoman capital. Yet, all plans made on the table deviate to some extent when put into practice. This one deviated considerably. At the end of the day, Bouvet, Irresistible, Ocean were sunk, Goulois and Inflexible took heavy damage and they were barely afloat. A ground assault was inevitable.

Had it been up to the War Minister Lord Kitchener only, the British 29th division would have fought in Gallipoli. Tough opposition of British generals forced Kitchener to declare Australian and New Zealand divisions then located in Egypt would take their place.

And so they did. The first 1500 Anzac soldiers set foot in Dardanelles, at the Kabatepe region, which properly renamed Anzac Cove after the war.

In the ensuing campaign nearly 350,000 people had died from both sides and Çanakkale has the highest number of cemeteries among Turkish cities. In the map above red dots show Turkish, black dots invasion forces' cemeteries. And cemeteries are special; they have always been.

Part 2: The Shaman Within