Deep Thoughts on Turkish Tear Gas …

I recently booked a trip to Turkey. Landed on September 10th and came home on September 18th, and it was amazing. Let’s just start there. However, before I post the photos and the highlights, I have to get into the tear gas situation, which happened the first night I was there.

Prior to going to Turkey I’ve been thinking a lot about Syria. The conflict in Syria has been different for me and for my family than any other Middle Eastern conflict. It’s more personal for us at this time.

I have a wonderful human in my life named Karim Shamsi-Basha. He’s a photographer. A writer. An American. A Christian. An Arab. A friend. Years ago, we had a conversation where he told me vehemently that Damascus was the most beautiful city in all the world. He put the romance of it in my heart and my head, and since I’ve desperately wanted to go there. With him. To see where he comes from, because he’s a man I respect a great deal for his own personal journeys, which have been many and storied and hard.

Karim’s a poet of a person. All Arabs are. Even when they come to America and build families in Alabama. That Islamic poetry stays ingrained in some ancient inner place, and that Arabic, melodic syntax leaks out in mundane conversations. In simple greetings. As-salam alaykum. Peace be upon you. To say a quick hello is to place a wish of God’s love upon another. You don’t grow up with that and then just leave it entirely behind.

In America, we just say, “What’s up?” We don’t even want an answer.

Karim moved to America more than 20 years ago. He’s got beautiful, funny children and has been massively successful as a photographer. Yet, despite numerous pleas to our government, on both a state and federal level, his sister Mimi has recently been denied even the most basic of tourist visas to America. She’s not able to get out of the way of the violence in Damascus.

It’s a heartbreaking situation, where Karim has gotten his elderly mother to safety in the United States and his brothers have gotten out as well. But Mimi hasn’t gotten her visa yet. She was in Lebanon for a short while, but then was forced to go back to Syria alone. Bombs are now going off and kidnappings have become a reality in her neighborhood. She has been cut off from her family and is in legitimate fear of losing her life. It makes me nauseous to think about. I’ve lost a lot of tears and a lot of sleep over this situation, particularly since watching this clip of him on the news, speaking to Mimi on the phone. Karim is my family. His family is my family. It’s breaking my heart.

So when I decided to go to Turkey with my buddy Deb Hopewell, I kept thinking about the strange fact that I couldn’t walk over what was literally an imaginary line someone  placed in some sand. We were all kids once. We faced bullies, but we went home and our mothers made us feel better. If the bullies were really bad, our mothers made a phone call. Shit got sorted.

Then we grew up. Our sandboxes got bigger. It seems that the angriest and loudest amongst us still rule them. And the meek are still only allowed to play in certain zones … at certain times … with certain people. Where’s the proverbial mother? What’s the symbolic phone call? I can’t imagine that the “phone call” is dropping bombs. We would never have been allowed to answer violence with violence as children. Why is it ok as adults?

I can’t simply take Mimi’s hand and lead her out of her city to somewhere safe? Why do these men get to make the rules? Would women make them any better? I don’t have any answers. I only have Karim, crying on the phone to his sister and it’s been in my head non-stop.

After this recent trip to Turkey, I can say I wake up more often with this guilty feeling that my writing talents are wasted on things like Campari and the perfect plate of fried chicken. I suppose I can wrap up in a blanket of believing that it’s ok … because I’m putting something happy in a world splattered with fear tactics disguised as journalism.

But how warm is that blanket going to keep me when I’m looking back on it all at the age of 80? Are my talents being wasted? Am I taking the easy way out?

I’m conflicted. And I think all the honest people are at points. Anyone who tells you they feel something with absolute certainty, 100-percent of the time is a fanatic. Unfortunately, we have let the fanatics have the sandbox. It’s a dangerous time.

I landed in Turkey and I was thinking about Mimi. Within six hours of arrival, I was doubled over, blind from tear gas and considering that I couldn’t remember the name of my hotel and couldn’t see my bag that was two feet from my face. Life has a funny way of giving you new priorities sometimes. It has a funny way of filling your head with thoughts of war and politics when a week before it was simply Chicken & Waffles … Dark & Stormy’s.

I’m going to follow this blog post with a lovely one about Turkey, I swear. About the men and women I met there. About the massive smiles and the warm pita bread. About the colors cast off blown glass lanterns in early morning Istanbul sunlight. But for now, I’m thinking about the experience of getting hit with tear gas, and it needs to be posted on this blog.

I came back after the tear gas experience to our hotel around 1am. I made notes of the experience in a rather train-of-thought way. I felt the need to write in a way that other writers will understand. I had to crawl backwards into my own head and mentally cry on paper for a moment. For Mimi. For all those people who are born elsewhere and who, no matter how peace-loving and meek, must right now fight for their proverbial sandbox.

I want to share the thoughts I recorded here and now because they mean something to me and that’s what this blog is about. Sharing world travel experiences that mean something to me.

These are the notes I wrote down that night:

My eyes are burning. So this what tear gas feels like? I’m glad I had that experience so now I know. But damn. This still hurts. It’s hard to type because the words keep blurring. Tonight was amazing. Tonight was exciting. Maybe I should be a war reporter? Maybe not. My fingers are sluggish. My brain is full with thank you’s and accusations.

We walked out into the night, eager to start our 10-day trip to Turkey. Hungry. Bloated and worn out from plane flights and plane food. We started up the tiny cobblestone alleyways towards Istiklal Avenue, the main open street at the top. It reminded me of Prague, the way streets curve and twist on one another. The way darkness puddles and is broken by softly lit street lamps and the glow of shops open late. There’s a romance to Istanbul I haven’t yet been able to really look at. Maybe tomorrow. Tonight, all of a sudden people began jogging towards us, tossing glances back over their shoulders. A few guys had gas masks around their necks. Others were laughing and yelling and waving the Turkish flag. Some were carrying banners plastered with the face of Che Guevara. We backed into a doorway and let them pass.

“Protest,” a man said. He ignored my tossed questions and kept walking. 

We continued upward, to the open, wide avenue of Istiklal, near Taksim Square, and saw a large group of maybe 50 police officers, dressed for anarchy. Helmets. Batons. Plastic face guards and gas masks. There were armored vehicles. There were guns. There were giant water cannons. I wrapped my camera strap twice around my wrist and held my Nikon low and behind my thigh. It felt heavier all of a sudden. Like it could be used as a weapon. Like it could land me in jail just for holding it. 

We gave the police a wide berth and put them at our backs and walked towards the singing and chanting in the distance. I tried to shoot photos, but my hand wouldn’t steady enough for the aperture needed. A flash? Seemed like a stupid idea. I had that feeling when you watch horror movies and you want to scream, “Don’t go up the stairs, dumbass!” We were heading up the stairs, towards the action. We were like cats. Stupid and ruled by curiosity. The cat comparison now strikes me as ironic, because a few hours later, I’d be shoving my face into a bowl of milk. 

When the crowd came down the street, it was like a wave. First chants of  “Everywhere is Taksim” in English and in Turkish. The sound of voices thickened. The sound grew worried. Happy jostles turned to shoves as we were almost overtaken by a wave of humans running forward … away from the police, who were giving chase.

We ducked into a small liquor store and the owner began lowering the metal garage doors as people continued to hustle in, ducking under at the last moments for before it clanged shut. Nine of us stood inside. You could hear the water cannons thumping beyond the metal. We joked that I should make a few cocktails for everyone.

Ten minutes later the doors  reopened. The street lights now reflecting in puddles and wet concrete. Protesters all scattered. We ducked down a side alley that seemed calm and chose a small café. We ordered our first tastes of Turkish food. Olives resting in oil. Red peppers and pita bread with halumi. Spinach salad, with crushed nuts and pomegranate seeds …  earthy flavors mingling with a slight balsamic taste. We were laughing and jesting at our mere brush with revolution … smiling in our thankfulness to see it without being sucked down.

And then … the crowds came running by. Legitamitely running this time. Not jogging. There was yelling in Turkish. Locals began to jump up from the tables around us, silverware dropped noisily onto plates.

This girl rushed the patio clutching her face. She had a pink tank top on and for some reason seemed American. Maybe it was the blonde hair. My first thought was, “I have to help her. That could be me.”

Her eyes were just leaking. There are tears and then there’s just a faucet. And for this one moment, I thought, “It’s fine. I can fix this. I can figure out how to make tear gas stop burning. I have an iPhone. Simple enough.”

I went to reach for the girl, turning back to get my bag and then the gas hit me too.

Being hit with tear gas? Directly? Like from 4 feet away? I can’t speak to that. I can speak to a remaining cloud that rolls in off a breeze. I can speak to it wafting into our restaurant.

I moved backwards with everyone else, blinking at the television and the projector that was now covered in shadows of all of us cramming in the back. It was no use. The doors were open. And all of a sudden, it really hit me. What tasted like cleaning fluid began moving seeping down to my lungs. The whole room smelled like someone had set off 50 firecrackers inside. My eyes were useless. I realized I couldn’t help that girl anymore because I couldn’t even help myself.

My eyes began to ooze. You think it’s crying, but there’s literally this oozing feeling. Like they might slightly be melting. I crouched down and pressed my palms as hard as I could into my eye sockets.

I couldn’t see Deb. I couldn’t see the girl in the pink tank top. I couldn’t move my hands without searing pain. And I considered that I didn’t quite recall the name of my hotel. Momentary flare of panic. Swallow it, Jenny. Just try to swallow and stop coughing so much. Panic never fixed anything.

And there you are. Accidental revolution. Protesting instead of eating pita. Life is that quick sometimes. 

When we could (sort of) open our eyes again, the girl in the pink top looked at me. She looked like she’d been dumped. Like the whole world had told her to fuck off, and she’d pleaded and pulled at her face for a while before meekly gazing upwards, all acquiescence and surrender. I didn’t speak to her. I felt stupid for thinking I could have done anything. A woman came by and quietly insisted something in Turkish, pointing at a bowl of milk. Finally, when i couldn’t comprehend, she dipped my scarf into bowl and placed it on my puffy face. It’s how you treat tear gas apparently. Not water. Milk. There’s another “mother” metaphor in there somewhere, but i’m too jetlagged and blurry to figure it out right now. 

Deb and I found a totally enclosed restaurant about 30 minutes later. We re-ordered dinner. Another bottle of wine arrived and was greedily opened. But within a short time, it happened again. The gas canister went off in the street directly below us this time and the noxious, face-burning fumes were so thick, they came through the walls and up the stairs. I forwent a glass (and manners) and drank wine directly from the bottle, standing in front of the air-conditioner, letting the cool air blow on my burning face. I knew to ask for milk this time. And for the first time in my life … standing in front of that shitty air conditioner in Istanbul … clutching a liter of cheap Pinot Grigio and a milk drenched scarf … I realized missed real journalism. I’m laying here now in the darkness, missing a relationship I’ve never  known. It’s September 11th here in Turkey. My home in New York is preparing to grieve in a few hours. Tonight I miss real journalism … and it has me conflicted. 

1:32 a.m. Istanbul, September 11th, 2013