Turkish Awakening Read Free Page A

wonderfully bohemian mode of transport, allowing you to travel for a few lira all the way across town with constantly changing travel companions, and a driver whose mission it is to hurtle along, stopping only to hoover up and spit out passengers in swift, profit-making succession. It is hectic but fun, much cheaper than a taxi, better than a bus, and a great showcase of Turkish chumminess. I love the atmosphere of a dolmuş , where you pass your money forward to the driver through the hands of several strangers, receive your change similarly, shout out when you want to get out, and are cheerily sent on your way by six new friends. There is a kind of comfort and trust among people here which I really don’t see in Europe – it is absolutely typical of Turks that they are happy to throw themselves into a confined space with people they don’t know, and treat them like family.
    Dolmuş literally means ‘stuffed’, and that’s exactly what they are. Once, I was squashed next to the door of a very stuffed dolmuş when, characteristically, the driver stopped to pick up two more passengers – a woman and her child. There were literally no seats left so the mother stooped awkwardly by the door and lifted her kid onto my lap.
    ‘That’s it – sit on your sister’s lap. Good girl!’
    I loved the fact that this lady automatically assumed that I would be happy with this situation, and that the words ‘health and safety’ did not cross the mind of a single person present. It is such a typical scenario in this country, and there is no paranoia about potential paedophiles lurking around every corner. I find it difficult to imagine an equivalent situation in London – a mother parking her child on your lap in an overcrowded minibus, everyone else smiling over at the pair of you, not a seatbelt in sight.
    Turks love children. Nowhere else in the world have I seen not only women but men go soft at the sight of a small child, almost without exception. My favourite instance to date was the male security guard at Atatürk airport who was lifted from the depths of catatonic boredom to joyous raptures by an unruly toddler, placed in his care by a mother struggling with the X-ray machine. This uniformed young man chortled and gambolled with the child as the other guards gathered round him in an admiring group, subsequent passengers ignored as they passed through the detector.
    This child-friendly attitude undoubtedly has a lot to do with the great importance of family, and close-knit households, in this country, but there is a most fundamental, human connection among people here that I have noticed in various guises. For instance, Turks are so much more relaxed when it comes to protocol, although there is undoubtedly a lot of annoying bureaucracy and paperwork on an institutional level. However, I have found that when there is an opportunity to use personal discretion, employees generally go for it, particularly if there is some appealing human interest.
    When I arrived for my appointment to obtain a residencepermit at the intimidating governmental compound in Istanbul, I realised to my dismay that I had forgotten to get a formal reference for my residential address and had not even filled in the part of the form stating my reasons for staying in the country – a disaster. Luckily, my canny boyfriend was there too, and when the surly-looking bureaucrat asked the official reason for my stay in the country, he was treated to the script of a Hollywood romance: how we two had met, how I stayed against my better judgement, how we couldn’t be parted, etc., etc. The official lifted dull eyes from the registration form, surveyed us with the ghost of a smile and uttered the immortal words: ‘Love, then,’ before stamping the seal of approval on my half-empty form and shouting out the next name in the queue. Clearly, his attention had wandered as he listened to the love story and computerised my form: to this day, my father’s name is