Just wanted to get my feet into the Black Sea. Staring across it, knowing that I couldn’t see Russia on the other side because of the curvature of the earth. Wishing I could, straining against the impossible, trying to brake chains. The perpetual conflict. The wind whipping the water into a chop and threatening to take my hat with it. The chop chopping at my shins. Thankful for the warm sunshine taking the chill off the wind.
A group of young males being young males on a rocky outcropping to my right. We wandered over to see what all the frolic was about. Their laughing and chatter silenced at my, “Hello.” Then a few, “Hallo’s” in response. They gave us their names which we could not pronounce nor remember and identified as 5 Kurds and 1 Afghani. I tried to cloak the indistinguishable cocktail of thoughts swirling under my hat. We told them that we were American. Their faces lit up, their chatter renewed and you could see excitement in each of them as they bounced from rock to rock. The language barrier was too great to get to any depth in the conversation, though once again my curiosity was straining against it. With palms together we all expressed gratitude at the encounter and turned to walk away.
The young Afghani said, “Wait”, in pretty respectable English, and with an outstretched hand offered a pack of cigarettes. A gesture of gratitude. We accepted with equal gratitude and I thought, Hell, might even enjoy one with a cup of Turkish coffee soon. And as we walked back towards town, I explored the trepidation that I initially felt at the introduction, briefly, with an internal promise to come back to it later. But we had to catch a car, to catch a ferry, to get to an island.
The car ride, rich. Green as far as we could see, the roads winding, wide, and clean; something we had not seen since Tokyo. As we approached Istanbul the natural landscape turned to fields of crops and orchards filled with huge flocks of fowl. Then the highways dipped underground into long and well lit tunnels, coming up for intersections and roundabouts. No substantial views of the city that I have yearned to see since I was a kid. Yet.
We emerged adjacent to the Sea of Marmara, port side. As we climbed on the ferry we could see minarets and spires stretching through the morning haze from mosque tops and the larger of the city’s buildings. We couldn’t hear the city over the chugging of diesel motors, the screeching of sea birds and the Turkish and Arabic chatter, but we could feel it fading into the distance as me motored out of the harbor. Tena and I were among a handful of Westerners on the boat. Most of the female heads were covered, some, all but the eyes, and as the vibration of the city faded, we could feel eyes on us. A woman and her mother took a seat next to us. I eavesdropped to the best of my ability trying to pick up anything that I could use to orient myself and find some footing in this new place. There was almost nothing distinguishable beyond hard consonants and the swooshing of that throaty “sch” that you so frequently hear in this part of the world. The Kabatas Ferry is pronounced Kabatasch. I fought through pangs of Islamaphobia, and fears of rejection or even condemnation for approaching a Muslim woman, and asked, “What language are you speaking?” To my instant relief, the daughter turned, her smile leading the way, and said, “We are Syrian but we are speaking Romanian.” Her eyes lit up, her posture softened and mom nodded to the affirmative. Emboldened by her enthusiasm, I continued to shamelessly pry and she delightfully informed, her eyes and words like spotlights illuminating the vast spaces of my ignorance. I asked about Muslim women and their views on the headwear. She said that she chooses to wear a Hijab tightly over her head allowing no hair to show, because that is how she shows that she is a good woman in the eyes of God. She went on to amusedly describe that one of her friends wears the Burka, showing just her eyes and that her friend wears it because she thinks it is sexy. Others wear a simple head scarf allowing some hair to show. She shared that her belief is that in places where head coverings are required by law, those wearing them are not being authentic, that it should always be the woman’s prerogative. Perhaps a bold view in some places. She continued, and with a measure of intense sadness, to tell us about the destruction of Syria. But she spoke primarily of love. Of loving herself and raising her children to be good and kind people. We talked for the entire hour-long float across the bay to the island of Buyukada. And as we stepped off the boat and fought through the crowds of humans, navigated our way up the hills and steep streets to our room, I couldn’t help but feel a bit lighter in spite of the preposterous bulk of my backpack. I felt that a hand and chisel had somehow been busy chipping away at chunks of broad and derisive misinformation and sensationalized propaganda that I had allowed to attach over the years, like the barnacles on the underside of this very ferry.
We are in one of the oldest and most beautiful places on earth, feeling gratitude for this experience and for those brief and fleeting moments getting a glimpse behind the veil. In the real world where people still occasionally take the time to let you in, even if only for a few breaths.
