Our last week in Istanbul was memorable, the kind of memorable that necessitates a few days of recovery. As I am relatively apathetic to chronology, I will begin with our trip to the Ali Sami Yen stadium in Sisli on our final night. In 'Galatasaray' apparel we descended into the distinctively silent underworld of the Turkish subway system. I should stop to emphasize the extent to which Istanbul is marked by this silence, both in a very straightforward, acoustic sense, but also in a more metaphoric sense. There are positions, within the spectrum of Turkish politics, that are never vocalized, and there are words that are never said in succession. I can only imagine this is the outcome of a forced sense of nationalism, and of laws like Article 301 of the Penal Code which outlaws the "denigration of Turkishness". Instances of enforcement of this article include the prosecution of Orhan Pamuk for saying: "Thirty thousand Kurds and a million Armenians were killed in these lands and nobody but me dares to talk about it"*. Naturally, in the context of this silent society, we were somewhat conspicuous. However we assured ourselves that our saving grace, in the struggle to blend in, would be the various 'Galatasaray' scarves and hats we purchased only days before the match. We were convinced that we could pass as true Turkish football fans. So we bounced along on the subway, keeping an eye out for similarly colored scarves and hats, in hopes that we could abandon a hopeless sense of direction for a far more practical tendency to follow the crowd. We succeeded in following fellow fans, and eventually found ourselves amidst a crowd of excited Turks.
The game we were about to witness was the first match of round three of the UEFA cup, and apparently a pretty big deal. The crowd was boisterous but friendly, and we were well received, despite being distinctly foreign.
After ninety, goal-less minutes the game ended in a tie, and the masses reverted to their natural, silent state. We shuffled out of the stadium, our ears still ringing with the 'Galatasaray' chants, which we had not understood, but had nonetheless participated in without reservation.
Next, I will recount our evening at Munzur, a leftist gathering place off of 'Istiklal', Istanbul's busiest street. Louis, a former Carleton professor who taught our "Beneath the Surface" seminar on the underground subcultures and marginalized societies of Istanbul, led a couple of us through the backstreets that run parallel to Istiklal, with promises of a rather abstract 'good feeling' he had about the evening. We found ourselves at Munzur, whose walls are adorned with portraits of Che Guevara, and we were ushered to the second floor by an excited waiter. He whispered something to Louis and rushed off to grab refreshments. We had, by chance, stumbled upon "a night which we will tell our grandchildren about". These were the words of Yavuz Bingol, Turkey's most popular folk singer who was sitting with his friends, and fellow celebrities: Onur Akin, Cengiz Ozkan, and Can Dundar, in the back of the place. The night progressed, and the musician who was scheduled to play abdicated his seat, as the celebrities took turns reading poetry, playing Saz, and singing. We were escorted closer to the stage, where we took front row seats at what was the most intimate musical performance I have ever encountered. The above photograph, of Bingol, was taken from my seat. It became rather apparent, as night transitioned into early morning, that we, as Americans, were a kind of secondary center of attention. And that the celebrities, for whatever reason, were performing for us. Thus, we were trapped. To leave would be to disrespect Turkey's finest and most revered musicians. We were a captive audience. At one point the police showed up, but upon being informed of the situation, left without a word. By the time we left the sun was on its way up, and we made it back to the hotel in time to shower and prepare for our morning class. It was, by all accounts, a once-in-a-lifetime event.*This quote was shamelessly lifted from Wikipedia
