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I’m writing about Turkey this week, my beloved second home. While teaching there I met the kindest, warmest people I’ve ever known. They put Minnesota Nice to shame.
In my memoir about those years, you must only to love them, I recounted many tales of their kindness, from the bus driver who left his passengers to walk me across an overpass to my next bus stop (and offered to wait with me there) to the woman who offered me walnuts as her family gathered them beside the road. I’ve been invited into homes all across Turkey, repeatedly touched by the hospitality of people who have far less than I.
Overseas teachers are explorers, and I took advantage of every vacation and long weekend. In 2009 I visited Malatya, one of the areas devastated by the earthquakes. My friend and I wandered the streets before visiting Mount Nemrut, and we happened on a woman scrubbing her carpet with a broom and a bucket of sudsy water—out on the street. I questioned her about the process (in my limited Turkish), and she immediately insisted on making us coffee. She invited us for coffee (Nescafe?), produced small stools from her house, and treated us to the most delicious Turkish coffee I’d ever tasted. A few neighbors joined us, tickled to chat with the yabancilar (foreigners). One of the ladies beckoned us to a nearby shed to see a litter of newborn kittens. It breaks my heart to think of the destruction they face.
Me with Children’s Day dancers on Mount Nemrut. Photos courtesy of Ann Mershon
On another trip to Southeast Turkey, my friend Dee and I sat by a Turkish woman (a physicist) on the plane. She offered to help us organize a taxi into the city of Diyarbakir. Once she’d negotiated a fair price, she waited as we climbed in, then offered to ride along and help us find the bus to Mardin.
In spite of our protests, she hopped into the cab, assuring us she had nothing better to do. (Right.) We soon arrived at a low building surrounded by an empty concrete courtyard. Two boys scurried up with a battered wheelbarrow and piled our luggage into it. The boys got right down to business leading us to our bus. It turned out that the inside of the semi-circular otogar (bus station) was lined with white mini-busses. Our friend waited until our bus arrived, then told the driver where we were going and clarified the charge. After a flurry of thank-you’s, cheek-kisses, and goodbyes, we climbed aboard, and she headed off.
Our carpet-washing friend.
We shared a seat with a scarved woman and her 10-year-old daughter. They tried to chat, but we understood little of what they said. She proffered a piece of chewing gum, something like a tiny white eraser. We gnawed away at it, smiling and nodding amiably, unsure how long our jaws could take it. Amazingly, the gum developed a hint of mint flavor after about a half hour. It never softened, though, and I saw Dee surreptitiously spit hers into a Kleenex. I swallowed mine.
Turkish boys with scale (and souvenir).
And so began our adventure in the stunning city of Mardin, a glowing collection of yellow limestone buildings, many with carved entrances. Boys wandered the streets carrying bathroom scales, encouraging us to pay a few lira to weigh ourselves. Really? Two boys, Onur and Baris, proudly guided us through their city. Mardin was magical, and I believe much of it was spared in the earthquake. Sadly, Diyarbakir was not.
Tens of thousands of these benevolent people are without homes, and if you’re in a position to share a bit of your good fortune, I encourage you to donate to earthquake survivors. Forbes recommends the Syrian American Medical Society Foundation, the Center for Disaster Philanthropy, Plan International, Inc., and Direct Relief, all of which have a 100 percent rating on Charity Navigator. Please do what you can.
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