On a Slow Boat

We took the train from Izmir to Selçuk, to visit the ancient city of Ephesus. We hadn’t heard of it before even though my dad told me Ephesus is mentioned in the Bible as one of the seven churches in Asia. Apparently St. John the Baptist spent quite some time preaching and converting people here and it was thought that the Book of St. John was written here.

Walking through the huge archaeological site, I couldn’t help but noticed the dissonance between the apparent past grandeur of the city and its current state – abandoned piles of rubbles. And unlike mining ghost towns that at most support a few hundred people in their heyday, Ephesus was an illustrious city with administrative centers (agoras), multiple bathhouses, a wealthy neighborhood, an advanced aqueduct system, a military barrack, and an impressive colonnade that went all the way to the harbor. The Celsus library had stored a large collection of scrolls. The amphitheatre could contain 25,000 spectators – thought to be the largest in ancient world. The list of past accomplishments goes on and on. And one can see evidence of this just walking through the expansive site. This was not an ancient village of a hundred people. Ephesus was a proper metropolis, until it was not.

How strange to think that a city could go from a major city of the world to a pile of rubbles in a span of a few generations. First it was ransacked by the Goths, though it seemed that it was economic reason that slowly brought it to its knees. As the river silted up the harbor, commerce – and along with it, people – moved to other cities closer to the sea until there was no more city to speak of. I wonder at what point cartographers decided to omit Ephesus from the map?

Still musing about the fate of Ephesus, we walked a few kilometers to the Temple of Artemis, which was one of the Seven Wonders of the ancient world. Pliny had written that the temple used to stand at 400ft (130m) tall; a feat of engineering at the time it was built. I had expected to see a smaller version of the Temple of Athena we saw in Athens and was confused upon seeing an empty field of grass. Are we in the right place? Were we supposed to go further into the bushes? It turned out, that was all that’s left of this ancient wonder. There isn’t even a column standing as most of the column blocks had been repurposed in other buildings. If there was no plaque to mark the site, it would have been forgotten.

I suppose these were good reminders that nothing lasts forever. Not even the most advanced building, an illustrious metropolis, nor an advanced civilization. Nothing is permanent.

Another serendipitous encounter. We were sitting by the promenade in Izmir when two women approached us. They are two Jehovah Witnesses who, with their husbands, are on a specific mission to approach the many Iranians who have come to Turkey looking for work. They wanted to know about our faiths, while I was way more interested in hearing about their experience preaching the gospel in this part of the world. Coincidentally, I’m in the middle of an interesting book by Philip Jenkins, which detailed the long, yet often forgotten history of Christianity in this part of the world (i.e. Christianity is actually not a ‘European’ religion) and that it had flourished in the Middle East, Africa and Asia, before being replaced by other religions in the last 4-500 years. In a way these missionaries are more than proselytizing. Re-seeding is perhaps the term?

Alas, the cold evening wind picked up, and we parted ways, but not before one of the women suggested that we checked out Pergamon. “It’s another ancient city not far from Izmir,” she said. “But less crowded than Ephesus.”

Less crowded? Sounds like something we would enjoy…

So the next day we figured out how to take a combination of the commuter train and bus to Bergama. From the bus terminal in town, we walked uphill to the site of the ancient town, passing old neighborhoods with their bright yellow-colored walls. I joked that they must have a sale on yellow paints not too long ago.

When we reached the bottom of the ancient acropolis, we decided to walk up instead of taking the cable car, which proved to be a good thing since we managed to find a free entrance into the site. It seemed that most tourists are only interested in the upper part of the agora so they only put a ticket station in the upper entrance.

We were the only visitors in the lower agora, and were able to explore the old gymnasium and sanctuaries, which are starting to be overgrown with weeds. No ropes or barricades to prevent people from walking all over the ruins. It looked as if a restoration was started at some point and then abandoned.

The scene in the upper agora was not as serene. The place was filled with tour groups of all nationalities, taking pictures in front of every pile of rock. We took it as our cue to wrap up our visit and made our way back to town and caught the bus back to Izmir.

What’s been so lovely on this trip is the ability to go to places, on a whim. We had a rough idea of where to go in Turkey, but not a whole lot. So it was a pleasant surprise to end up in Izmir, a city whose name was unknown to me before this trip. I’ve heard of Istanbul, Ankara, Antalya… but Izmir? We learned about Izmir from our host in Istanbul (it’s his hometown) and since we were heading south anyway, we decided to check it out.

First impression was that the city felt like a modern (read: Western) university city. People on the street were more relaxed than Istanbul and the atmosphere felt very international. It turns out that Izmir is the third largest city in the country and largely considered to be the most liberal city in Turkey, which just means that people are able to consume alcohol in public spaces and people aren’t dressed conservatively (read: very few women cover their heads). Our host in Izmir also said that the city is more egalitarian, that there’s less inequality in Izmir.

Izmir is an old city. It went back to 1000 BC when it was an old Greek settlement. Izmir (previously called Smyrna), along with Ephesus and Pergamom were the three most important cities in the Roman province of Asia.

On our second day, we visited the agora – the old marketplace/city-hall from 4th century BC. It was late afternoon and there were very few people at the site, a contrast to our experience at the agora in Athens. I counted more stray dogs than tourists, roughhousing on the grassy patch and taking a nap in the old cistern underground.

We walked around, admiring the vaulted chambers, the aqueducts, and the remains of the basilicas which resembled the architecture of the Gothic churches we saw all over Europe, except that these were older.

In front of one of the water channels that fed the fountain, there was a sign:

Water channels big enough for a person to pass easily through them have been identified beneath the modern city within the agora and south of it.

Today water from an unidentified source still flow through these channels; it is understood that they were used from the Roman period down to Ottoman times. The water flowing from the terracotta pipe here comes from the above-mentioned channels.

Water from an unidentified source that was piped in almost two thousand years ago somehow still flows freely until now. Amazing.

It made me pause and consider the myth of progress and evolution that we always know better than our ancestors, that our modern knowledge trumps their ancient ones. These ancient cities with their modern aqueducts and sewage systems and public baths and city planning and architectural marvels (considering the tools available to them then) always made me wonder if there were aspects of ancient civilizations that are actually more advanced than ours.

It reminded me of a quote I read a few months ago:

There is an embedded assumption in evolutionary theory that the human race came from some prehuman source and through natural selection is heading someplace incredible, some peak of evolution that is our ultimate destination.

This belief naturally engenders the perspective that the human achievements of the past were all right for our ancestors,but in the here-and-now are obviously primitive and hopelessly old-fashioned.

Too, where we are now is better though not as good as where we are going. There is thus an inescapable disrespect for the cultures of the past and an inherent though subtle denigration of our present state, and a desire to get where we are going so we can finally be of worth, finally be evolved, that affects nearly all Western perspectives.

Stephen Harrod Buhner, “Sacred and Herbal Healing Beers: The Secrets of Ancient Fermentation”

And what if there were some knowledge that they had, that were unfortunately not written or documented or passed down, and so they’re forever lost to history and humanity is worse off as a result?

Before we got to Istanbul, a friend from college advised us to look for accommodations in Kadikoy, a neighborhood on the Asian side of the city. “That’s where all the cool people live these days,” she said. We followed her advice and were not surprised to learn that the couple we rented the room from are both actors in their thirties. Less the glitzy plastic Hollywood type, and more the salt-of-the-earth theater type who views the stage as a platform for art expression as well as social commentary. The first night we arrived we joked that we’re lucky to be staying with famous people. “Just a little bit,” M said as he showed a clip of a popular TV series he had acted in. “But now people are starting to forget me.” His voice trailed off, his tone matter of fact with a touch of self deprecation. She isn’t currently acting either, and works as a drama teacher at a local school.

If maybe at times he seemed a little down, it was because he had not acted in the last year or so. He knows he has talent, having won scholarships to study at the conservatory and the Best New Actor of the Year a few years ago, so he’s optimistic that the right role will eventually come. But understandably, he’s getting impatient and somewhat bitter at the industry who seems to increasingly favor ‘young and handsome’ over ‘experience and talent’.

We like both of them instantly. They are easy going and open, equally eager to explain Turkish culture to us as they are in hearing our stories from the road. It helps that all of us are food lovers. Within a few hours of arriving at their place, they had given us a list of the quintessential Istanbul local food we must try and shared a homemade dessert (ashure – a sweet porridge made of grains, oats and nuts) she had made earlier in the week. When we woke up the next morning, they were busy preparing a traditional Turkish breakfast spread (kahvalti) and menemen (scrambled eggs cooked in tomato sauce and green pepper), and invited us to have breakfast with them.

Their kindness didn’t stop there. After breakfast, M offered to walk with us around the neighborhood to give us the lay of the land and point out different restaurants and street vendors. I tried the famous rice-stuffed mussels (midye dolma) from a road-side stall that he recommended (Delicious!), we played backgammon (tavla) at a local cafe, and for dinner, we went to a local tavern (meyhane) to drink raki and have fried anchovies that are especially fresh this time of year. It tasted similar to the rakija we had in Albania and Montenegro though the anise flavor is stronger, and in Turkey, they don’t drink their raki neat. It’s always mixed half-and-half with water, which turns the alcohol milky white. They also never pound shots with their raki or drink it alone. Raki is to be drunk with food and with friends. No wonder it’s common for taverns to have set combinations on their menu where groups can order 5-10 different small plates of food (meze) and a bottle of raki for a set price.

We decided to extend our stay in Istanbul, and ended up spending a lot of our times hanging out with our new friends. They cooked us dinner and breakfast, we made Indonesian food for them. They taught us a new card game (Americano), which is a close variation of a card game we already knew (Continental), and we played late into the night. We went to the movies together to watch the new Joker movie, and played Okey (a tile game with similar rule to Gin Rummy) at a local game parlour / tavern. We traded our favorite music, artists, movies and TV shows, and learned their views of the country. They told us about their life stories and aspirations for the future, and we shared ours.

At first I was a little bit wary with their generosity, feeling as if we would owe them something if we accept too much of their kindness. “Do we need to tip them at the end of our stay?” I asked Gabriel the second day we were there, worrying that perhaps the food and the walking tour service are their ways of getting extra payment from us. “I think they’re just nice people.”

Gabriel reminded me that we would do the same thing if the roles were reversed and we were welcoming people into our home. How very true. Of all people, I should know. I think after spending a few months in Spain, I’ve forgotten that there exists in this world, thousands of societies where hospitality and generosity to travelers / strangers are the common norms. They had no ulterior motive; they are just kind and generous people.

While M is naturally more extroverted, S is more reserved and shy, partly because she’s a little bit self conscious about her English and partly because she often seemed mentally exhausted after a full day of teaching. I can empathize. On days when she seemed more relaxed, we would converse using a translation app, passing the phone back and forth. I asked her about her family, she asked me about Colorado. I think I showed her a picture of the mountains, which she couldn’t believe was real. At some point she told us that she wished to move to Hollywood one day. “Why?” I asked her, half expecting that she would say something related to her acting career. “Because…,” she paused for a moment, “because American dream,” she said in English.

“What does that mean to you?” I asked her.

She smiled as she read the Turkish translation of my question, as if this was a test question whose answer she had prepared a long time ago.

“Freedom,” she said.

It’s tempting to dismiss her answer as nothing more than a trite platitude she probably ripped off from a Hollywood movie, the same incredulous way I often react whenever I see New Hampshire’s “Live Free or Die” license plate.

Freedom is a much more concrete and relatable aspiration when one lives in a country that can be categorized, by most international standards, as a dictatorship, ruled by someone who intends to turn Turkey into a conservative Islamic state. To her, freedom means being able to wear whatever she wants without getting silently judged by people on the street, and we’re not talking about anything obscene like leather chaps or lingerie, just regular modern wear that we all take for granted. I know what she means. When I spent a day walking around the old bazaar area wearing a tank top (exposed shoulders), I could feel the impolite gaze coming from all around. Similar to what’s been happening in Indonesia, Turkey is marching away from the secular, westernized country it was, and is becoming more conservative and more religious. In this case, freedom is neither superfluous nor abstract. It’s actually a very simple straightforward desire.

At the end of our stay, we ended up only seeing a few of the ‘must-see’ tourist destinations, but I felt I knew more about Turkey than any other countries we’ve been to after just one week of hanging out with M & S, who at this point seemed more like old friends than they are strangers. We treasured our time with them because we recognize that this type of honest cultural exchange doesn’t just happen every time we visit a new place. In our experience, it’s actually quite rare to get a local’s true perspective of the place. One, because of there’s often language barrier in the way. Two, because the business of travel has turned interactions into transactions, so instead of real human to human connections, we are served a packaged and monetized version. And sometimes I also think there’s apathy coming from both sides that prevent us from connecting. Each thinking: “Why bother with all the efforts when we will all become strangers again once we part ways?”

I wondered if, being at the crossroads of various trade routes from East to West, North to South, means that Turks are accustomed to receiving travelers and exchanging ideas with travelers from all corners of the world. Perhaps M & S are exceptional host because it’s in their DNA. Whatever the reason, we are grateful we strike it lucky with our new friends in Kadikoy, where all the cool people live these days.

They look to be between ten and twelve, maybe the youngest among them is only eight. I can’t be sure. I’m bad at telling people’s ages.

They’re too far away for us to be able to tell what languages they’re speaking, but they don’t look Turkish. The two girls in the group have taken over the stage and ask all their friends to sit down; they’re now performing a play, about a pair of lovers, perhaps a variation of star-crossed Romeo and Juliet, as one of the girls lay dying in the other girl’s arms. Everyone claps. One of the boys has grown bored of this play and decides to explore the space underneath the stage. He pries open one of the boards that cover the sides of the stage and crawls inside. Another follows behind him. Yet another boy in the group decides to play a prank on his two friends and replaces the board so his two friends are trapped inside. It must be dark inside. The two boys under the stage, upon finding that they’re suddenly without light, kick the board from the inside – sending it flying in the air – and rush out to punish the boy who had tried to trap them under the stage. Everyone cheers and screams. I notice one of the girls, the one who’s not wearing a hijab (headscarf) has a dark blonde hair, with piercing eyes that look more European than Turkish. They are Syrians.

There are around 3.6 million Syrian refugees in Turkey, out of the five millions that are fleeing the country’s civil war. I encourage everyone to pause and try to grasp the number using a context that makes sense to you. For me, I try to imagine what happens if everyone in Los Angeles (4 million) are suddenly homeless.

Two middle-aged men saw what the boys were doing to the stage and give them a firm scolding. They told the kids to leave the amphitheater. The kids scamper away but quickly return to the stage when the men are gone. They sit on the side of the stage watching people crossing the front of the stage. The girls, upon seeing a woman dressed in furry pink jacket, rush to her and proceed to pet her furry jacket aggressively. The woman looks unsure of what is happening but feels uncomfortable with the whole situation of having her jacket petted, so she runs away from the kids. The kids laugh and shout to her, in English, “You’re so beautiful! Where are you going??”

Two days into our Turkey trip, we heard that Turkey just ordered an incursion into Syrian territory, its neighbor to the south, to create a so-called “safe zone”. What it means is that the Turkish army is going into Syrian territory (in violation of Syria’s sovereign border but what’s anyone going to do about it, really?), to get rid of the Kurds army that were there so as to be able to control the area, so they can move Syrian refugees who are currently in Turkey into this area. It’s the government’s way of resettling the 2-3 million Syrian refugees (technically “guests” as they were never given proper refugee status by the Turkish government) due to mounting criticism from Turkish people who begin to think that the government is wasting the country’s resources on the refugees and giving them preferential treatment instead of taking care of its own people. The bottom-line is: people are sick of the refugees and want them gone.

One of the boys found his way to the back of the amphitheater, where we’re seated. He looks at us, we say hello. He says hello back and asks in English, “Cigarette?”, his fingers mimicking the act of smoking. He must be only ten or eleven. I can’t tell. I’m bad with people’s ages. But he’s definitely not old enough to be smoking, not that we have any cigarettes to give to anyone, underage or not.

No one wants the Syrian refugees. The EU, perhaps the first to understand the scale of the problem and the havoc it will create on its politics and economies if the refugees start flooding en masse into Europe, agrees to give Turkey 6 billion (with a B) euros to take in the refugees, and implicitly, to keep them away from EU borders. I find it ironic to think that Europa comes from the name of a Syrian girl in Greek mythology. It’s the beautiful daughter of a Phoenician king (Agenor) and Phoenicia was an ancient civilization located in the current Syria, Lebanon and Northern Israel. We turn away from our namesake when it’s too burdensome to bear.

I came to the refugee issue firmly on the side of the refugees, ready to accuse anyone who exhibits the slightest animosity towards the refugees as xenophobes. I assume that they must be racist, because how else do you explain the lack of empathy? These refugees have nowhere else to go. Their houses have been bombed, their cities flattened, their economies drained lifeless. How do you expect them to stay in Syria? They are seeking refuge because they have to, not because they want to.

Then we started hearing locals explain their sides of the story. These are our new friends, who are educated, well-read, well-traveled, kind and gracious: we’re empathetic to the plights of the Syrians but they have to go back. There are too many of them, one said. They are changing the culture of this country, another said, referring to the fact that Syrians are mostly Sunni Muslims and speak Arabic while Turkish people are quite proud of their modernist take of moderate Islam first championed by Kemal Attaturk. They’re getting too much money from the government but what about us who need help too, said another. They can’t stay, is the prevailing mood everywhere we go, and the government must have sensed the growing dissent and understand that they have to send the refugees back or lose the election.

Until this trip, I didn’t fully understand the gravity of the situation and why it deserves the name ‘refugee crisis’. But these days we overuse the word crisis so much that it’s somehow lost its meaning because everything on the news is a crisis. It’s not until we live and breathe the reality of what’s happening in Turkey and Syria, that I fully grasp the meaning. It somehow never dawns on me that we’re talking about re-homing the population of Los Angeles somewhere else. And we expect the host country (in this case, Turkey) to absorb this many people. We expect the locals, the host, to accept a mass influx of strangers, who speak a different language, with different customs from theirs, to share their land. And notice how conveniently we can portray the situation using language like they should do this and they should do that. It’s not “we” because it’s not “us” who have to grapple with the situation. Until “they” become “we”, five million is just an abstraction.