Presidential Elections: Commentary

Presidential Elections: Commentary

In Beylerbeyi 

On August 10, 2014, for the first time in modern Turkey’s history, the president will be elected by the public instead of by parliament. Citizens will visit their local polling station to unfold their ballots and choose their 12th president. The three-term Prime Minister Recep Teyyip Erdoğan, of the ruling Justice and Development Party (AKP), is considered the candidate to beat. I observed political banners of Erdoğan all over Istanbul with more frequency than I did his competitors, and with the resources of the State behind him he is surely able to be familiar to Turks residing in other countries, numbering 2.8 million according to Today’s Zaman newspaper, now able to vote in Turkish elections for the first time. Erdoğan's image as a “street fighter” for challenging Western countries has made him popular among the lesser-educated Turkish citizens abroad.

In Bebek

But Erdoğan's image remains shaky in urban Istanbul. Low voter turnout would be to Erdoğan's advantage, my friends shared. The educated classes are disenchanted with him since the government’s handling of the Gezi Park protests which took place in May of 2013. From what started as a modest sit-in in opposition to an urban development plan in Istanbul’s Taksim Square, the violent eviction of protestors inspired as many as 3.5 million of Turkey’s 80 million people to take part in what became a widely publicized demonstration. Shortly thereafter, Turkey joined China, in blocking Twitter.

“Twitter, schmitter,” Erdoğan was reported on the CBC News site to have said in an angry speech to supporters in the northwest town of Bursa. He vowed to “root out” the social media platform. “I don’t care what the international community says. Everyone will witness the power of the Turkish Republic.” (www.cvc.ca, “Turkey tackles Twitter, comes out bruised” By Sasa Petricic, March 24, 2014). 

This home belongs to a member of Erdogan's family in Beylerbeyi

Despite Erdogan’s efforts, the penetration rate of Twitter among Turkish internet users is about 30 percent. The Twitter block was originally motivated by politics, after taped conversations were leaked during a corruption investigation, in which Erdoğan was allegedly heard discussing with his son how to get rid of millions of euros. I saw this house (see right) which was raised recently near Beylerbeyi, allegedly built for Erdoğan’s brother-in-law.  Older homes around it must abide by the many strict planning rules imposed on homes near the shores of the Bosphorus, where residents cannot even change the size of a window. This modern concrete building stands out like a sore thumb.

My friends Nükte and Vincent were drawn to the Gezi unrest, as many secular Turks were, as it inspired hope that Turks had found their pulpit for civil rights and democracy. Compared to the Occupy movement, the Gezi Park protests galvanized both left and right-leaning Istanbuli Turks. Nükte relayed to me an encounter she had with a local policeman on the ferry boat on their way back from Taksim Square, her face still burning from tear gas. He expressed his own bewilderment on being at the other side of the protest, and described the round the clock shifts he worked alongside a police force that was bussed in from Anatolia to face protestors. 

I asked about the baby. No one knows who it is.

Turkey’s experience with a multi-party system is short and riddled with problems. The parliament is largely dominated by the conservative party, with two or three strong parties able to exert some influence, but as many as 30 others that are not electorally successful, resulting in a polarized domestic political environment. The leftist parties, most notable of which is the Republican People's Party or Kemalist Party (CHP) draw much of their support from big cities and coastal regions. Erdogan’s main competitor, Ekmeleddin İhsanoğlu, was hand-picked by the Kemalist and Nationalist Movement (MHP) parties without securing the support of their bases. As a newcomer, İhsanoğlu is relatively unfamiliar to the greater Anatolia, and has cast himself as an independent, vowing to unite the secularists and the Islamists. but many secularists remain skeptical and view the secularism of Kemalist Turkey as at its last breath. Whether a vision of secularist Turkey can be kept alive with Erdoğan at the helm, remains in question.

The third candidate, Selahattin Demirtaş, is a Socialist and represents the People’s Democratic Party (HDP). He is considered to have no chance at all of winning the election. Demirtaş was identified as his party’s candidate late and has very little visibility in the greater city of Istanbul, from what I observed. 

Voting was at one time mandatory in Kemal Ataturk’s Turkey, with turnout rates still hovering close to 80%. (http://www.idea.int/vt/countryview.cfm?CountryCode=TR). Many view Erdoğan's election as a sure thing, and won’t bother to vote. And yet, with the memory of Gezi still fresh, perhaps they will speak.

Source: wsj.com, July 10, 2014

Erdoğan sent this spam propaganda text Sunday wishing customers of this particular phone service a 

Happy Bayram. Others got similar messages from the opposition candidate İhsanoğlu.

Taksim Square, May 2013

Sunday, July 27th: Ramazan Bayramı (updated)

Ramazan Bayramı is the three-day religious holiday that follows the end of the holy month of Ramazan, the holy month of fasting. The three-day holiday this year begins this afternoon and extends through Wednesday. 

In Turkey, Ramazan Bayramı is a time for observant Muslims to send greeting cards to friends and loved ones, pay visits, and enjoy a lot of sweets. It is also a time of celebration, and after sunset the feasting begins with a ceremonial "break-fast" light meal called Iftar. For my secular friends, Ramazan Bayramı is mostly a time to avoid the freeways in the evening since they become crowded with people heading to Iftar events. I was also told that people who are fasting can be more irritable.

The most evident sign of Ramazan is the abundant availability of freshly-baked flat pide bread.

My friend Müge discussing which bread to choose at the bakery.
I wish I could post the smell of this bakery as I could a sound or a video.
Luscious.

A Pide seller, going door to door with fresh Pide.
Many of the workers and Pide sellers are fasting for Ramazan,
but continue to work and sell food to other non-observant residents and tourists.
It is commonly understood that people fasting may be irritable or short-tempered.

Kınalıada is the most populated of the Prince's islands.

I returned to Burgaz Island from Beylarbayı on the last eve of Ramazan, and found the ferry boat loaded with tourists (Arabs mostly it seemed) heading to the Prince's Islands. As we passed, I observed that every inch of the shores of Kınalı Island were covered with beach chairs and umbrellas, and children swam in the deep shore waters of the Marmara as the massive ferry boat floated by. 

Burgaz Island's shores, on the contrary, were serene and calm.  Nükte has said that this was the primary reason she chose Burgaz over the other islands.

Climbing the hill in the heat, with my large overnight bag, was difficult, but how wonderful to return to my friends' lovely flat, with its sea breezes drifting in through the french doors! I immediately put on my swim suit and went to soak in the neighbor's swimming pool and made one final errand to buy the last Pide of Ramazan at the bakery.



Here's is a quick view of my walk. Do you hear the seagulls?

I encountered this scene on my way back.

Wild cats and dogs are a common site in Turkey.
These ones were hoping to pick up
some scraps from the fellow's barbecue.

Saturday, July 26: Trip to Beylerbeyi

Saturday, July 26: Trip to Beylerbeyi

Nükte and her sister Müge have known me since 1989, when I made my first trip to Turkey.

I found this snapshot from 1989 framed at Müge's house when
I visited today. That's Nükte on the left, me in the middle,
and Müge on the right.

In 1989 I designed three independent study courses to be undertaken on Turkish art, culture and feminism during my 5th semester at UC Santa Cruz.  In advance of arriving, I sent a letter to Bosphorus University English Department looking for pen pals and for help with finding somewhere to live. Nükte responded to that letter and when her and her sister we quickly became friends. I returned again to Turkey in 1991 and worked with Nükte at Dateline Newspaper in Istanbul. We reconnected in 2006 and have managed to see each other about every other year since then, in Turkey, in Paris, or in the States.

Since my mother was leaving today to go back to Iran, it seemed an opportune time to make the visit to see Müge and her family.

The trip entailed 2 ferry rides, and a taxi north from Üskudar to Beylarbeyi. Müge has a lovely home overlooking the Bosphorus which she shares with her husband Alp and their son Sinan (7 1/2 years old). Thanks to Vincent's and Nükte's helpful hand-drawn maps, the trip to Beylarbeyi was uneventful and easy. Müge is a physiologist now, and her husband is a Psychiatrist.

We arrived to find a lovely lunch waiting for us.
Fish, potatoes, cucumber salad and roasted eggplant salad.

Mom and me with their son Sinan

Muge looking over the sea ferry map for me.

The view from their balcony

Mom departed after lunch, and Sinan and Müge and me took a walk to the water for a cup of tea and some shopping.

This week it is Bayram, a religious holiday tied to the end of Ramadan. The holiday means that many people, including Müge and Alp, are not working. The seaside was full of people fishing and milling about, enjoying the beautiful clear weather and breeze coming off the water.

July 25, 2014: Market Day

July 25, 2014
Market Day



Friday is market day on Burgaz Island. Everyone appears from their homes to haggle over trinkets and clothes. Vendors were from all over, even other countries such as China and Bulgaria.






Ne kadar means "how much" in Turkish. It's not hard to say. Trickier though, is understanding the responses I would get to the question.  I heard a shirt was on beş when it was really otuz beş. That's the difference between being $5 and being $12. I didn't figure out the mistake until I got less change than I was expecting.

Describing how to cook Chile Relleno

Mom was searching for the ingredients to cook a Persian meal for our hosts. Eggplant, mint, cilantro, garlic and onions were all on her list. We found all of these and so much more that were new and difficult to translate between Turkish, French and English.

Artichoke hearts. Turks don't eat the leaves of artichokes. Only the hearts.
They steam them in an inch of water with a bit of olive oil.

Dried eggplant is used for dolma. See here for a recipe: 

Mom wanted greens (sabzi) for her meal.
She found mint and cilantro

Vincent followed us along to help find ingredients. He'd filled a rolling shopping bag full of items already and it was quite heavy. "Bouvard," he said, "my family name, it means strong as a bull," he told my mother.

My mother went in search of a bathroom,
poking her head in to the first open door
she could find. No luck there.

But a few minutes later, with only the word
toilet, she had success. She came strutting
back down the hill to find me.

July 23, 2014: A Day of Rest

Mom seated on the veranda to the sounds of seagulls and ship horns.

July 23, 2014: A Day of Rest

Yes, as you might expect, I wanted to move as little as possible today. I spent most of the day shifting from one cozy spot to another, looking for escape from the sun to write, battling my head's desire to be on a pillow. Meals were lengthy affairs, relaxed encounters over familiar flavors and full of laughter as my mother told each story of the day before multiple times, in great detail and with a lot of dramatic flair. Slowly, the story of where she had ended up in Aksaray began to sink in and it was clear how desperate a moment it had been for her.  Perhaps it was also the sheer beauty - and tranquility - of the space she had ended up in (could she have even imagined it from her perch on the dirty sidewalk, that a place like this could even exist?), in sheer contrast to her crash landing in Istanbul's cheapest tourist quarter, that was the biggest shock to the system. In any event, we were both recuperating.

Finally, at about 5:00pm, at which point I felt myself sinking in to a deep sleep as soon as my lids would close, I rose and announced it was time to leave the house. Braving the path back down the hill to town, and then finding the house on the way back, seemed like enough of an adventure to keep me awake. I convinced my mother to join me. I needed coffee. So, armed with a simple map, we headed out.

The map includes their wifi password,
so in case you end up on Burguzada
and need to log on, you ought
not have any problem. ;-)

To our surprise, it took us only 5 minutes to walk down to the seaside! The horses, evidently, can't handle the steepness of the hills, so they head up in wide switchbacks which explains why the trip up had been so long, and disorienting. Coupled with the exhaustion I had been battling, it was as if I had been blindfolded and spun for a game of Marco Polo. If it hadn't been for the hill we were climbing, I don't think I would have even known which way was up. But in the light of day, and with the sounds of the gulls to follow, it was an easy stroll down the path between houses to reach the shore.

We sat for a coffee at one of the many cafes by the dock. The garçon (that's what you're supposed to address them as, which leads me to wonder if I'll encounter any women in the job of waiter) got a kick out of figuring out our order. My Turkish is still a mess in my head, so the words that emerge when I try to communicate have, thus far, been coming out all wrong. I'm mixing my verbs (gid, gel, gör - not to be confused with gün which is morning), so I haven't been brave enough to try yet. So for now I'm an awkward tourist looking for someone who understands English.

Our biggest challenge was buying the ingredients we needed for dinner (my mother had offered to cook), and it took five shop visits to get all that we needed for a simple chicken and rice dish. By now I think all the shopkeepers downtown are aware that there are a couple of Americans on the island.

So as not to throw a lot of words at not much to say, I'll be brief with the rest:
She cooked, we ate, and our upstairs neighbors invited us up for tea to enjoy their unobstructed view of the sea and Anatolia. Delightful. And I managed to stay up until 1:00am before sleep overtook me. Altogether a restful day.

A long dinner at around 10:00pm

The view from the upstairs neighbor's house.
An approaching ferry boat.

Iyi geçeler, which means goodnight,
Roia

11:00am 7/22 - 12:00am 7/24: In Constant Motion

SFO 11:00am 7/22

Full of excitement and anticipation, I boarded the United Airlines flight en route to Istanbul, Turkey, via Frankfurt at 2:00pm on July 22nd. After 14 hours at 35,000 feet (mix in 3 hours of sleep (in snatches), and 4 hours walking through the maze that is Frankfurt Airport), I arrived at Ataturk Airport at 5:00pm Wednesday, July 23. In Turkey. Another world. Turkish words immediately began swimming through my head, but I was unsure what half of them meant. Nukte appeared among the waiting crowd, familiar and smiling - what a strange thing after so many hours in limbo, landing halfway around the world, to be plucked and recognized. Home. 

I've known Nukte for 28 years. 

Driving through Aksaray, there traffic was arriving from 

all directions, with no sense of lanes at all.

Our first adventure was to find my mother, who had arrived in Istanbul that morning. A tour company in Tehran had set her up in a hotel in Aksaray, the armpit of an otherwise beautiful city. It was a trash hotel surrounded by other trash hotels, and a McDonalds. She was miserable. As soon as we called to say we were coming to get her, she repacked her bag and sat on the curb with her chin in her hands. It took us two hours to find her (subway connections, taxi, stopping passersby to ask the location of hotel), and when we pulled up to see her sitting there, it was a memorable sight. We swooped her up and off we went. It was now 8:00pm.

Success!

The ferry boat to Burgaz Island ("Burgazada") was leaving from the Kadikoy ferry landing at 9:30pm. We arrived with enough time to have a cup of tea before boarding. How glorious, an Istanbul ferry boat ride on a warm summer evening, the lights from the princess island glowing like jewels floating above the water. The air was heavy, wet and warm, but the air moved swiftly over us as we stood on the deck of the ferry. I found it ironic that I know to watch out for pickpockets and beggars, and yet passengers leave their suitcases near the exit of the ferry, and move about the upper levels without a worry about someone taking their bag. The ferry pulled in at 10:30pm. I had been traveling for 23 hours and was still in my traveling clothes. The ferry's engine was a loud hum as we moved through the Bosphorus to the Marmara Sea.

Burgaz Island allows no cars, and Nukte's summer house is at a high spot, several long and tall blocks up from the dock.

My mom, and my suitcases, were not going to have an easy time of it, so we hired a horse and buggy. 25 Turkish Lira.  My suitcase was heavy and took up an entire seat, so Nukte said she would walk. Walk? I immediately got nervous: it would be my mom and I on a horse and buggy being delivered to a house I had never been to before by a driver who spoke no English, in the dark. Against the clip clop of the horses hooves, as our buggy navigated the narrow alleyways by people enjoying a late stroll, or a seaside cafe, I began composing what I would say in my head. "Bey Effendim, hangi ev? Burdami?" Sir, which house? Is it here? He stopped at a vegetable stand to pick up his grocery bag, and continued on up the hill. Up, left, right, we were pulled by two white horses that were hoping, as I was, that their day (and mine) would end soon. The cart stopped suddenly and, nervous, I jumped out. "Hangi ev, Bey Effendim? Burdami?" 

The stream of Turkish that he responded with poured over me like a bucket of cold water. I had no idea what he was saying, except I was fairly certain he was not pointing out a house. "Are we here?" my mother asked. "I don't think so," I replied, and climbed back in the buggy. Up, left, right, and higher we climbed. Again the buggy stopped. And again I repeated the collection of words that I hoped would lead me to a bed. Again he rattled off a response at a rate that my brain couldn't follow. "What's going on? Are we not there yet?" my mother said, incredulously, and she laughed as I climbed back up confused. On and on we went, and for yet a third time we stopped. I waited for as long as I could stand, and then hopped out, asking "Burdami?" It's got to be here, I thought to myself. How much farther can it be? When I climbed back in to the buggy for the third time, my mother laughed uproaringly as I sat there a bit shame-faced. I had to admit I didn't know what I was doing and I was completely at the mercy of this middle-aged buggy driver. I sat back and resolved to not say another word. This entire ride took maybe 15 minutes, but we finally pulled up to a curb to find Nukte's husband Vincent waiting for us. Finally.we.had.arrived. And I think I could be sure this time. The driver was evidently as frustrated as I was as he related the story to Vincent in Turkish. He didn't know what to make of me: a nervous American jumping out of the cart every time he needed to give his horses a rest, or set the break for a downhill stretch.

Whew. 11:00pm. A soft bed. A meal, close friends. And a veranda that displayed the Marmara Sea spreading out before us.  It was at 4:00am, when I struggled to sleep, that I heard the Muezzin, mixing with the sound of seagulls at the dock. Listen with me here

This is the view I woke up to the next morning.

I'm leaving for Istanbul tomorrow at 2:15pm!!
Stay tuned for my posts.

        My memories of Iran had already faded by the time I was seven years old so when the trunk arrived one fall day in October I was awestruck. It arrived on our doorstep like a long forgotten relative, encased in metal and lacquered wood, shredded rope wrapped around its belly and our address plastered to its top in my father’s careful script. The heavy iron handles lay flat along its sides like tiny round arms, worn and smooth in my hand. This was the lost trunk that my parents had sent ahead before our return. They had considered it lost, gone forever, and yet here it stood after having had travels of its own.

        It must have taken both my parents to lift that trunk. I imagined them holding those heavy handles, surprised by the weight of them, and then a noisy heave as they brought the trunk over the threshold. They would have carried it slowly through the dark hallway and down the carpeted stairs to our rumpus room, calling out to each other when they turned the corners. But I wasn’t there to see any of that. It was already enthroned in the deep shag of our rumpus room floor by the time I got home from school, and I found it there, waiting for me.

     The things that usually littered our rumpus room: my father’s massive canvases leaning against one wall with only the blond wood frames and frayed canvas edges exposed, the black upright piano with its bench settled underneath, and the old zenith TV on its rolling cart, they stood at attention around the trunk as if eyeing it, challenging it. Who goes there and what right have you here, you unexpected and uninvited stranger?

      Iran had become an “other”, foreign, strange, the half of me that was oddly-colored and smelled of celery stew and rose water; the half of me that I tried to ignore. My year there when I was three and four was like a closed chapter of one of my father’s library books full of black and white pictures of artifacts and statues. All that was left were flashes of memory: paper schoolbooks that I couldn’t read, pots of steaming rice and the bright orange of a glass of fresh carrot juice. Iran had become the sound of my mother’s shouts in to our kitchen princess phone on New Years Day each year; her voice desperately reaching through the phone, her loud voice shouting in the language that was familiar yet incomprehensible to me now. Iran was the phone inevitably handed to me to hear a tinny distant voice calling my name in answer to my small hello. The awkward silence when I didn’t know what else to say.

     And when this trunk was finally opened it brought forth all these things in a flood that made me breathless. Its heavy rope was cut with our kitchen knife and fell away to expose the heavy padlock that had been hidden underneath. Within minutes my father produced the small key and the top was lifted. Stale air mixed with the smell of sweet moth balls lingered in my nose as I stretched my neck to peer inside. Its dark gut was still and full. My mother, chatty, exuberant, welcomed each item from its depth as she gingerly removed them– small folded rugs with bright patterns, tiny sheep skin hats that I could hardly believe I had ever worn, a tin samovar with small matching tea cups, clothes, wraps, shawls and stiff beaded shoes of gaudy colors. I stood away and poked at these things with outstretched fingers. Everything was scratchy against my skin and the old, weighted smell was so strong it assaulted me and filled the room. I gladly disappeared into the kitchen to make my mother a cup of strong black tea and leave her with these smelly and unexpected relatives.

     Satisfied that she had unfolded each item, caressed each with nostalgia and longing and then refolded them with the same creases, Mother began returning them back to their waiting vault. The trunk which witnessed this whole scene was eventually closed with a slam and my mother sprang up from her squat with a light step. Both of my parents seemed to welcome this trunk home. As for me, I was wash with relief when it was all over: the foreigness of these things only served to remind me of my own unexplainable foreigness. The trunk finally took its rightful place amongst the old boxes in our garage and I felt more at ease with its place there, hidden and unseen. Its contents would remain the assemblage of an unknown people. Artifacts of a culture, of a part of myself, that I would never truly know.

On June 3rd 1971, my father left Iran for Europe and on July 18th my mother joined him in Rome. For 20 days Lygeia and I were left in the care of our grandparents in Tadjrish.

Over the 10 months we had lived in Iran, I committed to memory the changing landscape of our inner courtyard garden. I watched my Grandfather grow sick and almost die, and then, miraculously, claim a second chance. Ten months was a lifetime and I knew no other life.

August 7, 1971

En route to Zurich Switzerland

At 30,000 feet we had lost all sense of time and place. My sister’s wadded cardigan was pressing marks into my flushed cheek so I shifted my elbow out of the crack between the airplane seats and readjusted my head. The rumble of the jet’s engine interrupted my sleep – I was tired and bored and wanted this in-between world to give way to whatever was coming next. Through the ochre of closed lids I listened for my sister’s voice, but both she and our escort, Uncle Hossein, who wasn’t really our uncle at all, were quiet. Uncle Hossein spoke no English or German, so Lygeia had translated for him when the stewardess came by to offer blankets and pillows. He wasn’t as bold and confident as he had been at Grandpapa’s parties. Instead, he seemed strangely timid in stockinged feet and a black suit, having to ask my sister to get him a glass of water.

Hours later I was back in my parents' arms and dozing off and on through a cab ride. I was placed on my feet and led with half closed lids through a carpeted foyer, and on to an elevator (ding!) to my parents’ hotel room. For once, I did not argue who should push the button - I was far too tired to care. We would stay one night before a train ride to Frankfurt and another long flight across the Atlantic and back to the mythic Home. Home? The word rang flat. I waited for my mother to place the large iron key in the keyhole, and turn the lock in the hotel room door.

“We have a surprise for you,” my mother said, and pushed open the door.

“A surprise?” Lygeia asked and rushed over the threshold as the light was clicked on. I followed her past the large bed where my parents were to sleep, and through another doorway in to a smaller room where two twin beds sat side by side. The curtain was pulled open and the afternoon light poured down on an array of toys, purses and trinkets on each bed, of glorious reds, blues, yellows and greens – dolls with flowing dresses, a plastic purse of bright yellow and red, a Spanish flamenco dancer with a gown so full that her tiny plastic high heels were all but invisible to my eye. I dropped my father’s hand and rushed in with Sissy, wanting to grab it all at once into my arms. “For me? All for me?” I asked.

“This bed is for you Roia. That bed is for your sister.”
“Oh!” Lygeia squeeled, and we both rushed in to finger the cloth of the swiss apron we were both given, and the ruffles and the hair of each doll. From headboard to foot, it was a fantastic array, like Christmas, and the presence of these inanimate trinkets soothed me and reminded me of the awesome power of my parents to provide for me – to find me when I am lost. The weight of each doll in my hands was like another anchor to remind me of Home.

I turned over the flamenco dancer and studied her tiny shoes, her underclothes. I felt the plastic of my colorful and shiny purse. My mother and father eventually disappeared in to the next room to put down the suitcases but I hardly noticed.

“Sissy, look at this one!” I said with a grin, holding out the purse for her to see. She looked up briefly and went back to studying the long blond hair of the doll in her hands. She’d made room for herself on her bed, and had sat herself down amongst her prizes, her long legs extending off the end of the mattress.

Later that evening we sat at dinner in a dimly lit hotel restaurant. I had my new purse tucked tightly under my arm as I fell asleep in my chair. I let myself be carried back to our room for a long sleep in between cool sheets.

-end

Sweet surprise

From the back seat of the taxi, I am barely big enough to see out the dirty windows: squares, rectangles and blocks of concrete reach up in to a grey, muddy sky. Heads turn to follow us as we wind sharply through noisy Tehran streets, honks blast, voices call out, my mother yells directions to the driver. I watch the long ashen tip of her cigarette pulse red, visible from the open passenger window, and feel the smokey breeze, passed back to me, brush against my forehead.

With a force that throws my shoulders forward, we have pulled over and stopped. Brief stillness, and then an eruption of voices, grown-ups, bills counted and passed to the driver, and my father's arm reaches across me to open the door. I hesitate, and then step down to the sidewalk in buckled patent leather shoes, careful to avoid the dirty canal of water directly below my feet.

The smokey air of the taxi has dissipated, but the breeze that blows by me now holds its own smells, both sour and sweet, aged. People stream by as I reach for my father's hand, the scene is black, dusty suit jackets and muted colors broken only by brightly colored headscarves tied under chins. A shrouded figure passes closely, with a hand holding that of a small boy. How can this child know his mother from any other figure, this sea of strangers, with only the one hand to know her? I ask myself.

I am tugged forward towards an open door. I know we are supposed to meet someone - whom, I don't know. I am a follower and subject to the whims and distractions of adults. I have no reason to expect otherwise.

There is darkness inside, as our eyes adjust, which soon gives way to tall chairs, a long bar, and the slight sting of more smoke. I feel my father's hands lift me into his arms, and he sits me on a tall padded stool. My fingers search for edges to cling to. On the other side of the bar is a flurry of activity, people moving quickly, and a machine rumbling very loudly, dripping a vibrant orange liquid in to tall glasses. The smell of sweet carrots. I watch, my head cocked slightly, as the men with dirty aprons work around the machine, sometimes blocking my view. Eventually, one turns and places a glass of orange liquid in front of me. It's of carrots, I know this. Warm saliva begins to pool in my cheeks as I wrap my hands around the cool, tall glass.

"Roia," my father says. "Try this."