So you want to be a Turk?

 It had been four years since my sorry butt had graced the well worn seat of a Turkish airlines flight and delivered me into the country that I found myself residing in. Just like the landing of the Turkish airline flight, the four years had been bumpy! However, now I found myself extremely contented and happily married and fully settled in Turkey. There was one slight problem though, even though I considered this country as now my home – it wasn’t! To confirm that it wasn’t, year on year I would have to stroll along to the main police station and have a stamp firmly impressed into a little blue book called a “Yabancilara Mahsus Ikimet Tezkeresi” which indicated I was a foreigner and only residing in the promised land.  The stamp in the book didn’t come cheap, and still doesn’t. There was only one way around it, I would have to become a Turk!

Arriving home from the police station after another stamp in the “Ikemet” and handing over a fist full of Lira, I opened my laptop. “ How do I apply to become a Turkish citizen” Google threw back the answer via the Turkish citizenship website!

*S/he should be at the age of consent according to his/her national law (if s/he is not a citizen of any country, Turkish law is taken into consideration which requires 18 years old as the age of consent

No problem there – I was on my way!

*S/he should reside in Turkey for the last five years and should have the intention of settling in Turkey (This condition may not be applicable to those who are married to a Turkish national or those with Turkish origin)

I was married to a Turkish woman – This was citizenship thing was easy!

*S/he should be in good health

Ok, I had recently had an sorry episode of being booted up the posterior in a football match, which in turn caused a cut in the back passage. This engaged me in the embarrassing situation of having to go to the local hospital emergency department with a panty pad down the back of my shorts! –  I surmised that the Citizenship office wouldn’t want an inspection in my “rusty sheriff's badge” area, so won’t mention that to them, I thought!

*S/he should have an adequate command of  Turkish

I can order a kebab in Turkish, adequate for me!

*S/he should have enough financial resources to support himself/herself and his/her family in Turkey

I was on the phone immediately to home “Dad can you transfer some money into my account “

*The applicant must own a Sezun Aksu CD and swear allegiance to the King known as Ibrahim Tatlises. 

Ok I made that one up!

So with all those ticked off, I embraced my wife firmly and declared to her “ Darling I am going to be one of you!” She pushed me away abruptly “ You’re having a sex change?”  - oh the good old Turkish wit!

A few days later me and the good lady found ourselves standing in front of man at the “Vatandaşlık Müdürlüğü” better known as the Citizenship Bureau. Smilingly I informed the man “ I want to be a Turk”, unsmilingly he handed me a photocopied piece of paper along with a bellow of smoke from his cheap cigarette. On it was a catalogue as long as an obese families grocery shopping list!. All detailing every single document I required to complete the first stage on the long road of becoming “one of them”.

We sat in a local coffee shop eating pastry whilst scrutinizing the list in front of us! Bank statements, birth certificate, wedding certificate, medical certificate, social security information, a police check record, notice from the British consulate, some documents in autocratic speak, A401 document, B578 document, some document to prove what side of bed I got out on  – the list went on!.  Along with eight passport photos and all foreign documents to be translated into Turkish. The list finished with a note in black bold type : All forms must be duplicated three times and installed in a three clear plastic folder, supplied by yourself.

Looking forlornly at the lexicon of demands in front of me, my wife being a typical “roll up the sleeves and get it done” type of person, shrugged her shoulders and notified me to eat up, we have to get started. And get started we did!

The next two days were spent bombing around the streets of Antalya in search of  documents , certificates, and evidence of my being. Badgering official looking employees at every stage. Being sent there to be told “go there” and then informed “to return there” again with a few lira needed in payment at every junction.  Our days were industrious and we were rewarded with the majority of the items required. Eight passport photos from Mehmet, our local photographer, were quickly snapped and printed and if I do say so myself, quite dashing I looked.  Proving it’s not what you know but who, a full A1 health certificate was obtained without even having my bits held and being told “cough”. Supplied by a doctor, Father of one of my students whose medical examination of me extended to “Hi Mike – How are you?” My response of “ I am fine Cem bey” was good enough for him and the medical was over and the certificate duly issued.

On the third day, we returned to the Vatandaşlık Müdürlüğü, via the local stationary shop to get everything triplicated and to obtain the much needed clear plastic folders. Handing them over to the same man who had handed me the list not three days before, “ We have done everything required and in three folders” I proudly said. He then perused, investigated, scrutinized every line of every document, occasionally glancing up at me as I stood nervously . “We will be in touch” he officiously replied! – Stage one over.

The reality however was they didn’t get in touch, and after a month things had gone decidedly quiet. Coming back from work one day, technically something I was not legally allowed to do, I checked the postbox. A small note was sandwiched between the phone bill and a flyer for some new salon recently opened offering body care. I quickly unlocked the apartment door and passed the note to my wife who was up to her eyes in washing. She ran her eyes over it quickly “what day is it today?” she asked nervously. “20th May” I replied. “Ok”  she responded without taking her eyes away from the fast spinning washing machine “the police are coming tomorrow to talk to us about the citizenship application” . Stage two was about to start.

Now, I have never been a lover of the Police, not that I have ever had any personal dealing with them, except a rather weird sobriety test in New York once, which included me stood crossed legged on the side of a road while attempting to touch my nose. Holding nothing against these fine up standing  men and woman who protect us so bravely (cough), I just have never reacted well in front of anything or anyone official. Turkish police officers in my home were about as welcome as typhoid for me!

Both sitting anxiously and in silence we waited  expectantly for the visit.  It wasn’t long coming, 9.15am precisely the doorbell rang it’s annoying bird whistling chime. I pressed the front door release, waiting with the apartment door open as the chugging sound of the apartment block lift signaled they were on their way . Within seconds the lift door slid open and two men, dressed in jeans and jumpers, stood before me. “Oh sorry, I was waiting for someone else,?” I screeched with annoyance. “Michael bey?” one looked at me with non smiling eyes. “yes that’s me”. my reply came . “We are from the Antalya police we informed you we were coming”. I stood in shocked silence not expecting two men to be dressed like the Turkish equivalent of Starsky and Hutch before me, then noticing one of the plastic clear folders we had handed in at the Vatandaşlık Müdürlüğü . My wife broke the silence and quickly hurried them in with as much enthusiasm and smiles as she could muster whilst offering them our best house slippers.

Starsky and Hutch arrive for interrogation

“Please sit” my wife offered. One of them accepted her offer, one of them didn’t. Hutch, the standing one decided he didn’t want to be part of the questioning process and rudely took himself off around our apartment on an unguided tour. Starsky, sat, with his unshaven face inspecting me from top to bottom running his hand over his mouth before throwing me my first interrogatory “So Michael bey, you have been here now for four years so obviously you speak good Turkish”. “ So so, it could be better but I am learning slowly” I smilingly replied in the best Turkish I could assemble. The smile wasn’t returned and my answer was not registered with him as he started a verbal Kalashnikov like series of questions. It was the obscurity of the interrogatories that confounded me. “What are the names of your in-laws” being the first. It continued, “where and where was your Father-in-law born?”, “When is your wife’s sister’s birthday?” “ What star sign is your wife?” “Who took your wedding photos?” I answered them all as best as I could and as honestly as possible. Each question designed to confuse and discomfort me. All the time Starsky, sat back comfortably, seemingly enjoying my discomfort, even lighting a cigarette without feeling the need to ask. The next one was blunt and direct “Are you in a marriage to gain Turkish citizenship?” . I replied as I always do when under duress, with a one liner “Can I phone a friend?” I laughingly responded. “Why do you want to phone a friend don’t you know?”. His stern, surprised face confirming the joke went blowing in the wind along with his cigarette smoke. My wife, explained something to him in Turkish, what exactly I had no idea as my mind had been transfixed on Hutch who stood in the hallway, looking at a hung framed football shirt, signed by old team mates. “Which team is this?” he shouted down the hallway to the two stressed and one relaxed souls, who turned as one . I took it as a chance to escape my interrogator. I stood quickly and walked over to Hutch…Starsky followed two paces behind me.

“It’s my old team shirt” I announced proudly. Then continuing to explain how football had been part my profession for a small part of my life. With that the storm clouds of awkward questioning parted into the sunshine of three men all with a common love for football. We all sat,while my wife made tea and spent the next thirty minutes talking about teams, players, formations. “Do you know Iddaa Mike bey?” Hutch asked me. I did know Iddaa, it is the Turkish equivalent of the English football pools. Hearing that I knew but never played, Starsky reached into the inside pocket of his well worn real leather jacket and unfolded an Iddaa form with all the forthcoming matches. Matches, that were scrutinized by them and the interrogation started again with a whole new format. “ Will Bristol City beat Nottingham Forest?”. “Can Cardiff win at Ipswich?” with each one of my insights slowly based on me being a native of those teams country, Starsky and Hutch filled out their Iddaa forum with permutations of which teams would win and lose in the week ahead.

They finally left, with a firm handshake and wishing me luck on my citizenship adventure – Stage two was complete.

Again silence for a month or so. I was  starting to worry that my football predictions had not gone well with Starsky and Hutch resulting them in losing money on their bets. Then out of the blue came a brown envelope containing another request from Antalya’s Police department. This time ordering me to some obscure police station on the edge of the city to have my finger prints taken for public records. It wouldn’t be the first time I had had my finger prints taken. A trip to my local police station back home when I was ten my previous experience. Organized by the school, the trip was scripted as a “community project” – even at ten I understood it to be a warning of “if you are naughty…”. Even locking us in a cell for five minutes to get a feel for the place. The warning obviously had the desired affect and as stated earlier had never been in trouble. However, if anything this episode was less daunting than the previous one. My prints were taken, my height and weight recorded all by a very attractive police woman who used the opportunity to practice her English. I was in and out in an hour even being invited to the police canteen to drink coffee, which I accepted. Stage three was completed!

Months drifted by, not a word was forthcoming. No letters arrived, no notes in the postbox  It seemed the process had ground to a sudden halt. So long in fact that I had stopped thinking about it and was resigned to another massive payment for residence fees for another year, which was coming soon. Sat on the bus, day dreaming out the window on a beautiful late summer morning, the vibration on my phone indicated a message. A number I didn’t recognize, spam sms no doubt offering me a new phone package. Alas, it was a message from the Citizenship bureau requesting for me to visit them urgently. As luck would have it, I was passing there on the bus I was on, so stopped prematurely outside their offices. I marched up the stairs to be confronted by “Mr Smile” the guy who so long ago now had passed me the long list of requirements. His demeanor had not wavered. still sullen, officious and unsmiling. "Do you wish to change your name to a Turkish sounding one?” he barked to me. The decision had to be made there and then!. I declined and as explained here something I later wished I had done.   My decision in the adverse reply didn’t seem to be to Mr Smile’s liking, as he looked at me distainly before declaring “ You must be here on Friday 27th September at 11.30am”. Before I could ask why he continued “ You will have your Turkish speaking test”. My heart sank!

Whilst reading this, you may have gained the impression that yours truly has an excellent command of Turkish to be able to endure all this officialdom and questioning. Seven years on from the Citizenship experience my Turkish has improved but at that time I can only describe my Turkish as an oral disaster. I seemed to have had accumulated a nice collection of Turkish words in my head, with no grammar structure to make them understandable. Sentences such as “ Do you want a coffee” became “ coffee want you”. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t – most definitely in an oral Turkish test it wouldn’t. I checked the date on my phone Thursday 19th September, I had one week to learn Turkish.

It was impossible, never having being any good at test or exams, I knew that the task of building my Turkish to any level of acceptance was about as likely as discovering I had woken one morning and morphed into Recep tayip Erdogan, the Turkish Prime Minister. I contacted a friend, who had to endure the process a few years before. His, recollection of his Turkish exam was not appealing as he listed all the questions that he had been required to answer, finishing with quoting the Turkish national anthem word for word.  He did advice me though, to forget learning Turkish grammar per say, but input into my brain scripts as an actor would . Quoting all the questions he had been asked, I wrote them down, and for the next five days and nights practiced the precise answers in my small brained head. Like some demented entertainer, I stood in the mirror practicing the lines I would need to get me through this torturous ordeal – and hoping that the same questions , as asked to my friend would be the same for me. After five days, I had perfected them, my wife even helping me with the pronunciation.   Last day, The Turkish National anthem, for hour upon hour I read it, sang it, spoke it, whispered it and perused over every word, mostly having no idea what they meant. The day ended with me being able to recite just three lines of it- I was useless. I knew how Turks consider the National Anthem, it is treated as much as a national symbol as the stars and crescent moon imprinted on the Turkish flag. It was to be my failure I just knew it!

We patiently sat outside the room where my next interrogators had gathered. Surprisingly, myself  not being the only one going through this.  We watched a blonde haired Russian girl enter before us. Her husband comforting her as she knocked on the door. Five minutes later he was comforting her again as she returned to the waiting eyes outside, in tears! This was going to be worse than I thought. We waited and waited outside for our turn and just as the clock struck midday we were informed to enter. Excelling a long breath I knocked and entered with my wife by my side. She being instructed to sit behind me and me instructed to sit on a chair in front of a horseshoe shaped collection of five authoritative men. Four of them in various uniforms and one directly in front me with a dark suit and red tie. He introduced himself as the Head of Citizenship and then introduced the collective around him. None of who registered with me .

It started! Firstly asking my name and surprisingly my home phone number, both batted back to them with no problem. “ Do you like Turkey”, now this seemed such a futile question. Who in their right mind would answer “ Bloody Hell no way, the food is awful, the weather too hot and if I see another Mustafa Kemal photo I will scream”. I gave a short answer in the positive as not to whisked away in a straightjacket . It continued, and my friends advice of memorizing answers worked superbly. I felt calm, relaxed and held my own in the onslaught from these five men of high office. Then it came, the thing I had been dreading “ Do you know the words to the Turkish national anthem” the uniformed man on the left asked. I glanced at him, noting his uniform dictated that he was from the Jendarme. It was my biggest fear!. My mouth dried as I attempted the first line. “Korkma, sön……..”. I barely stuttered before my memory closed down. I apologised and asked to try again“Korkma, sön….Korkma, sönmez …Kork…..Korkma, sönmez bu ”. I just couldn’t do it and in my state of despair I could actually hear singing coming through the half opened window behind me. I tried again, but noticed that the collective gathering were speaking amongst themselves and looking at their watches. As one they all stood up and shook my hand and walked past me. It was then I realized the singing outside was the sound of the call to prayer from the city center mosque. The upshot being that my probers had to call time on my Turkish exam to attend Friday prayers. I had been saved by an act of God! – Stage four, the final stage was over!

With that all behind me it was just a case of sitting and waiting, and waiting and waiting. Five months to be precise. We had been assured that all was ok,however it transpired that the Government only issued ID cards twice a year and I had to wait my time. Arriving home one evening my wife showed me the letter from the Citizenship office informing me that I was now officially allowed to declare “ne mutlu turkum diyene” and that my Turkish ID card was awaiting for my collection. Next morning, me and my wife ran up the stairs at the Citizenship office. Stairs that we first climbed over a year before. Just like that time, we were met by Mr Smile, never changing, never smiling as he handed my ID card to me in exchanging for about ten signatures on separate forms. Later on inspection I realized that my name had been changed as explained here. It didn’t matter though, the trial and tribulation was over.

I was now a Turk!

Westy

I name this family..

A few years ago, in a fit of boredom, I decided to trace my family ancestry. Now, a task that I was sure was going to take me weeks, months, years even. Wanting to do the job and my bloodline justice, I set about downloading all the tools one would need for such a formidable task. Family tree maker, Genealogical programs  etc.  All of one day was spent finding the relevant government offices that I would need to contact, then setting up an excel file to input all the data. Family documents that I could procure at my parents were recovered and stored in a file that I bought specially for the task, even scanning them all into a photo dossier onto my well worn laptop. After a week of studious preparation I was ready to begin the project to end all projects.  First point of contact was my rarely spoken to cousin. “ Oh I did all that last year” she said smugly! I will email you it all! which she duly did!..Job completed in ten minutes!

Nothing much to report on my ancestry. It seems that the vast majority knew that some future ancestor would want to trace them all. So conveniently and kindly all were married, lived and died in the same parish in rural Somerset. All mostly with the “occupation listed as “farmer” with the odd “brick maker” interspersed between them. The only true touching moment was finding a photo on the British War Graves website of a Great Uncle who had died in the Somme at the time of the Great War.

After she had came home from her work, I recalled all this to my wife, who for those that do not know is Turkish. Her response startled me “ Who gave you the surname West?”. Of course I had no idea. “ I guess it is because we are from the West of England” was my only explanation. “Yes – but someone somewhere must have given your family this name”.  She was right of course, alas that information was way beyond the vast amount of genealogical web sites online!. Over dinner we continued the discussion and she informed me that her own family surname “Demir” had been chosen by her Great-grandfather way back in 1934!

It seems incredulous in this mostly modern Turkey that I reside in, that less than eighty years before, the good citizens of Turkey continued their daily existence with no recognizable family name whatsoever.  In Ottoman times, everyone in Turkey was identified by titles, nicknames, birthplace, and parentage. The male of the population were mostly known as “the son of (Father’s name). My own wife’s Grandfather was known as “Şeker Yasin” (Sweet Yasin) solely for his contant eating of a sweet produced in his beautiful village of Catalzeytin situated in the Black sea region of Northern Turkey.

It is worth remembering though, Turkey's population at this time was only a fraction of what it is now. There were far fewer people, and the desire and possibility for  travel was far less. Thus making it a lot easier to identify them by context: "Mehmet the Shepherd from Trabzon," Ahmet the Butcher from Zeytinkoy," "One-legged Ali from…," etc. Everybody was a person, not a name in a ledger. Doesn’t seem quite so bad when you consider these days when every possible official office has a record of you!

Then along came Mustafa Kemal the first president of the Turkish Republic, who in 1934, and in all his wisdom decided that all the families must adopt a Western style surname that would identify them for generations to come. Think about that for a second!. Imagine that your family have to come to an agreement on a name that will identify you and your future offspring until the end of time. Me and my good wife couldn’t even agree on what to call a goldfish that we were recently given. So to me, the fish was called Beckham and to her he was called Altintop! Thankfully the poor fish didn’t have time to show signs of schizophrenic  confusion. In true goldfish fashion he died a week later!

The task given to the Turks, must go down as one of the greatest social historic experiences in recent years anywhere in the world. One can only imagine with wonder at the conversations around Turkish dinner tables as they discussed what chosen name to call themselves. The rules of which name you could choose though were not so clear cut. Surnames that bore any relation to foreign cultures, nations, tribes, and religions were strongly forbidden. Thus meaning some ethnic families such as Greeks and Armenians, who had surnames already that had lasted them for generations were obliged to change them forthwith!   If the new law was designed to exclude the multiplication of names, it can also be argued the law was also fostered to strengthen the sense of “Turkishness” amongst the populous.

Duly charged with the task in hand, the Turks,  furnished themselves with every conceivable name possible. Some chose the simple and obvious, some chose the grand and prestigious, some chose the outrageous and some chose the bizarre. Some didn’t even bother choosing! Attending the naming office when asked “Ok what do you name your family?” – some replied back in the most simplist of ways possible “mmm..I don’t really know …Birşey” (something)! So the name “something” was duly given! There were those that maybe in a fit of discontent at this new law registered their new name as “Adıvar” (have a name (already) )  Some didn’t even have to choose. Mustafa Kemal was adorned with the name, that was to make him known throughout the World, Ataturk – Father of the Turks.

There is one area of thought that didn’t cross Ataturk’s mind, one would imagine. That  is how the names left a social and historical stamp of that time for future historians .  The jobs for example that some chose as surnames. “Demercı” (Blacksmith), çoban (shepherd) all possible occupations at the time are to be found . The recent years prior to 1934 had seen a seemingly never ending situation of conflict within the borders of the now Turkish Republic. Mirroring this, names such as “Savaş” (war) came into bearing. Chosen probably by men who had had the inhuman experience branded into their psyche. The surname “conk”is replicated often – after Conk Tepe (Conk Hill) scene of some of the bloodiest battles during the Gallipoli (Canakkele)  conflict. Added to this is also some proudly used “Conker” – the end suffix “er” representing a soldier from Conk Hill. ..The list is truly endless!

There were some that used their surname as an object of covert snobbery. The Turkish writer and humourist Aziz Nesin, who at the age of twenty one personally experienced the Surname law noted in later years:

“when the surname law was passed which directed every Turk to select a last name, people's secret feelings of inferiority surfaced: Some of the world's stingiest became known as "Eliachik" (Openhanded), the greatest cowards named themselves "Yurekli" (Stoutheart), and many of the laziest took the name ''Chalishkan" (Industrious ) . One of our teachers chose the surname of "Cheviker" (Dextrous) when he could barely sign his name to a letter.”

Then of course there are simply the beautiful. One could take a lifetime and never finish the list of Turkish names that when translated are simply warm and charming. If I peruse my Facebook friends list for example, I find -  “Adıgüzel” (beautiful Island), Yilmaz (Undaunted), Guven (Trust), Mutlu (Happy),  Göloğlu (son of the lake), Erdem (Virtue), Yildirim (lightening), Uğurlu (Fortunate), etc etc !.

Turkish names really do come into their own beautiful self when combined with their literal first names. Some time ago , I was fortunate to have a wonderful student. Wonderful as a student and also wonderful purely for her name alone; Melek Gökçen. Beautiful as it is in Turkish, however when you understand that her first name Melek translates as “Angel” and her surname as “of the skies” put them together and…..? Truly delightful I think you will agree!. For me, simply to be able to translate Turkish names is reason enough to go running to the nearest Turkish class.

Try this if your Turkish is not up to scratch. When travelling around, look up!. There before you on the sides and balconies of small Turkish business such as lawyers and dentist you will see the names of the occupants displayed. Take a dictionary and check the meaning of the occupants name in English – it will keep you amused and bewitched for hours believe me!

However, back to where I started  - my own English ancestors. Six years ago, I applied to take Turkish citizenship. Completing one of the many stages and interviews, some would say interrogations, I was offered the opportunity to change my name to one more in tune with my new Turkish identity. I refused!. I refused simply in a sense of pride and as to hold dear the name some long lost ancestor in the dawn of time had bestowed on us. Looking back, I regret my proud decision so very much. Now that I understand the Turkish language more then I did in those days, I realize that I passed away a great chance to avail myself with such a meaningful and more fitting name that corresponds with my character or more accurately, the way I see my character!. If given the time over again, I would have bequeathed  the name upon myself “ Multu çiftçioğlu”. I will allow your good selves to translate!

The good people at the Turkish Citizenship Department though seemed to have ideas of their own when it came to keeping my name! A few months later a big brown official letter arrived proudly acknowledging that I had been accepted into the Brotherhood of Turks and my Kimlik (ID card), that all Turks must have on their persons at all time, was awaiting for me to take. Proudly I hurried along to the Citizenships office to take my kimlik and with sweaty impatient hands received it from the officiating man behind the iron grill. My wife kissed me happily with as I perused my ID. Then the word struck me “VEST”!…Michael VEST!. The fools, after all the forms I had carefully filled out, after all the interviews I had undertaken under duress, they had managed to misspell my own surname!

Immediately I returned to the office and the stern man behind the grill that I had left just minutes ago. “ My name – look you have it wrong, it’s WEST not VEST”. Smilingly he replied that in the absence of the letter “W” in the Turkish alphabet that any name with that letter within it is replaced with a “V”!.. I was stuck with it!

So, now I sit and ponder! Maybe, just maybe a few hundred years from now some long distant relative will sit down and undertake the task that I did in ten minutes. That of tracing his family roots!. I can see it now, filled with stories of how their family name VEST came from a long distant Englishman who came to the shores of Turkey many moons ago. “What does VEST mean though” he or she will wonder in Turkish as they grab their dictionary or whatever they will be using in those distant times. “V – very – vestible – vessel, agh here it is VEST” then they look and read

“ UK (US undershirt) a type of underwear, often with no sleeves, that covers the upper part of the body, worn for extra warmth:”

They then turn triumphantly to all their future Vest relations. “I have discovered that our great ancestor was an English immigrant, named after a an undergarment worn by men of that time” he or she will say proudly, and one likes to think with a tear in their eye in remembrance of little old me . Then they will finish “ No doubt he was not that intelligent to have been making underwear, probably poor, maybe little or no education in fact nobody of any real interest at all” !

Such a sobering thought!

Westy

The department of disasters!

Saturday evening is my time!. My dear wife is on duty so I have the whole apartment to myself to put on my jogging pants and best warm sweater with my feet up. The remote control is mine. A nice scotch waits patiently in the bottle ready to be poured. A nice chili con carne has been already prepared the night before just waiting to be heated. Then I go into slob mode, eating crisp and dry pastries and the world is a wonderful place again after a long week. Bliss, perfect bliss!

There is sometimes a spanner in the works though. A spanner that goes by the name of TEDAŞ. To give it its full name translated, “The Turkish Electric Distribution Company.” I prefer to use the abbreviation TEDAS as to mean "The Electric Doesn't Always Satisfy!". So inept are they at “distributing” electric that If they ever made a film about the practices of TEDAS, then it would start with the words “ Carry on…… “! I am also sure that if I ever met the top man in charge at TEDAŞ, he would have a big read nose that would go “beep beep” when squeezed.

The Head of TEDAS takes another complaint

Now, please don”t get me wrong here and think I am being anti-Turkish public services. I can happily say that the phone company supply me with a decent and not expensive service. My internet provider serves me with an excellent service at a very reasonable price. My mobile phone company for the most part has never let me down. The water company serve…ok maybe let”s leave the water company for another time! However, TEDAŞ infamously supply the most expensive electric in Europe with arguably the worst service.

Take for example, a few weeks back. There I was on my “slob” night. A night where it was definitely a night to be home as a winter storm slammed against my window. I happily relaxed, feet up, happy as a porker in poo! The patient scotch had been poured and was now shaking hands with the chili that had been happily consumed a short time before. In short I was in a happy place! Evil minds at TEDAS  decided I was far too happy though and it was time to have some fun at my expense.

Manchester United were on the TV and on the attack, battling for another win as I sat on the edge of my seat. Then it happened! The instant sound of all the electrical appliances having their life support machine cut off and myself being confronted by instant blindness!. The first reaction is to wait, my optimist mind communicates “ok don’t panic it will come back after a minute”. I pull back the curtains behind me and check out the window. The whole neighborhood is in total darkness and with the moon obliterated by the storm clouds it was blacker than a miner’s armpit!

A minute passes, in total silence and in total darkness. Candles are needed. I used to have a sense of where the candles were kept in my home. However with every one of my wife”s cleanups they are moved to an even more obscure place. I need to call her and ask her where she has hidden them this time. With the house phone being connected to the now defunct electricity supply, I open my mobile phone and enjoy the light it dispenses but do not enjoy the fact it is now nearly empty of charge!. I locate my normally sane and sensible wife”s number and call:

Me: Askim, where is the candle?

Wife: What kindle?

Me: No, not kindle, candle!

Wife: When did you buy a kindle?

Me: NO!, Listen. not kindle, Candle, I don”t have a kindle! I need a Candle the electric has gone!

Wife: Whose kindle askim ya?

Me: No ones Kindle, candle!

Wife: Kindle , Kindle. what”s a kindle kindle?

Me:No. CANDLE NOT KINDLE!….. Oh Bloody hell..wait!

I quickly open the Turkish dictionary application on my phone and read

candle
(n) Mum

Me: Askim, listen carefully , where is the Mum?

Wife: Whose Mum askim?

Me: Our Mum, our candle.!!

Wife: Your Mum is in Engl……

Me: NOOOO, LISTEN. I beg you askim , The electric has gone and I need a candle, Turkish MUM!

Wife: Oh , sorry askim I understand now!

Me: Thank Christ for that!

Wife: You want to buy my Mum a kindle

Me: Askim, Listen please carefully before suicide becomes a feasible option!. I need a mum..understand.. M.U.M..MUM!

Wife: Askim, have you been drinking raki again?…I told you not to drink it again after you embarrassed us at Ahmet”s sunnet party..

Me: OH for fu……….

My cursed sentence is cut off and I am again thrown into Stevie Wonder land as the charge on my phone empties. I sit and now an even bigger problem is setting in. I have a condition that few actually know about . I suffer from DCS or Directionally Challenged Syndrome and have to guide my way round anywhere by using objects as markers!. When driving, for example, I use markers like “ I have to turn right at the red house with a thatched roof” – even if I have made the same journey every day for  years. If someone knocked down the red house one night I would be driving around for days like a lost pensioner on the M25!. Now, in total darkness, I know I am in the living room but where the door out is I have no idea. I am basically a blind ship without a rudder!  I am for all tense and purposes HMS Stevie Wonder!

“Wait it out Mike, wait it out” I say loudly to myself. I need light though, the darkness is freaking me. My laptop is in the bedroom but I have no sense how to locate the bedroom never mind the laptop and the light it will bestow on me! I give it a try though. I gingerly stand staring into dark and utter oblivion, forgetting the tray that was on my lap with the remnants of the chili. The remnants are now smashing below me on what I suspect is the wife”s new oak coffee table!. My first step forward confirms my suspicion as a sharp injection of broken porcelain spikes into my toe sending painful shockwaves up my foot and is followed by a piercing scream. I fall forward.  The aforementioned coffee table breaking my swift descent, well breaking my stomach’s fall as my head lands on the carpet beyond it! 

Stunned, I lay there in a pool from my now emptied whisky glass that is being soaked up into the white stainless carpet. It’s the wetness around my foot that distresses me though, I place my other foot next to my now throbbing toe, it’s wet, it’s sticky, it’s warmish…it’s blood!

I am now in a total daze, totally lost and bewildered in my own environment, totally in darkness and laying there in a disfigured form. I am now convinced that when TEDAS supplied the wiring in our apartment they have installed hidden cameras with night sight vision. Convinced that somewhere in a TEDAS office in Antalya some guy called Cem or Mustafa is shouting “ Hey, lads, come and look what I have just made this English bloke do”

The worriment I am in though is about to get worse. I need the toilet!. Chili con carne and Bells whiskey, my stomach has decided is not to it’s liking and wants to eject it as soon as possible. The toilet, how do I get to it!. Now, my mind is racing in panic as my stomach screams “ you jerk, you have just done the culinary equivalent of putting diesel into a petroleum engine..get it out now!”

I roll my stomach of the coffee table and it lands with a thud, not appreciated by my stomach which responds by gurgling like a bucket of hot tar. I feel around me, the square hard shape forming in my hands tells me that is the leg from the coffee table. My stomach is now cramping with pain . I need the toilet and quick. A plan is formed!. Remembering a documentary about fireman going into a smoke filled home. They used a rope as a guide and tied it to the back of the fire engine!. The coffee table leg will be my fire engine!. I need rope, cotton, fishing line in fact anything I can tie to the coffee table leg. I remove my sweater and remembering my boy scout days expertly tie one arm of the sweater around the leg. I guide my hands along the now outstretched jumper all the way to the other arm, sliding my now begging posterior along the floor. My stomach lets out a roar as and my bowels have put up a “coming soon” poster on the outside! Things are getting desperate now, my outstretched sweater is not enough! I remove my jogging pants and attach one leg of them to the now outstretched arm of my jumper. It works perfectly as I slide my hands along the jeans to the end, and my bottom even further outwards along the floor. The darkness is so disorientating , however with my hands now at the end of my jeans, that are in turn attached to an arm of my jumper  which in turn is tied to a coffee table leg, I feel further outwards. My bowels yelling “are we there yet idiot?”.. I slide in an arch around the room, my backside now numb, but wait! what is this?..it’s hard, it’s wood, I tap on it..yes, it’s the door. I pull it towards me, stupidly forgetting my head is in its path as it slams into my nose!

No time to worry about my nose and the blood that is now trickling down my face as my bowels are pleading for the eject button!. I slide into what I guess is the hallway but have come to the end of my lifeline of sweater and jogging pants. I have to let go of my lifeline and propel myself and my bottom forward. Sweat is now rolling down my face mixing in with the blood from my nose. I am like a man in a desert crawling along the sand in search of salvation. Something is hard in front of me, I knock on it another door, oh thank God the bathroom door. I push it hard, only to be rained on by ornaments followed by a pot plant given by my mother in law that strikes my face at speed. It all suggests that I come across the hallway side cupboard. Good news though, the cupboard is a marker and I know that the toilet door is to the left of it. I slide my now, numb and pleading posterior leftwards and reach out. The floor is cold and hard. The tiled floor of the bathroom! I have made it. Skimming my vertical body along the floor, my whole body numb now and my bowels screeching in pain. My throbbing blood dripping head touches something hard, I glide my hands upwards. It’s the toilet, I have made it.

Within a split second, I am perched on top of it and my bowels are emptying faster then the speed of light. I relax , my backside numb but in gentle relief. In total and utter blackness I am content, TEDAS tried but they couldn’t defeat me!. It seemed as a mark of respectful defeat TEDAS decided to turn the electrical supply back on. “At last” I whispered to myself as I sat facing the toilet with its seat open. My eyes blinking furiously in the now blinding light!. TEDAS had not finished though, they were toying with me and after three seconds of perfect light they turned off the supply once again. Now, in horror films, they always use lightening as a form of light to show you of the horror that lays before you, and that is what TEDAS had done to me. As the electric went again, my mind raced, why is the toilet in front of me? What is in front of the toilet?. What am I sat on? What has my bowels been emptied into?. The answer came as I felt below me, feeling more cloth and material…I was sat on the washing basket!

In the dark such an easy mistake

I can hear and feel Cem or whoever in an office now looking at their screen with all of TEDAS crowded round, howling at my predicament. I cared no more, my will for survival had finished. The exertion of the last hour had drained me of every ounce of strength that lay inside me. My nose, my toe, my dignity were in pain. Once again TEDAS had lifted me from my calm happy existence and dropped me literally in the poo!. I fell back down to the tiles and crawled aimlessly to anywhere I could find comfort and liberation from this fall from electrical grace!

THE NEXT MORNING

The early morning call from the sparrow like birds outside awaken me from my enforced TEDAS sleep. My eyes open languidly. I am staring at an upside down plant pot that has discarded it’s load within eye distance. With mind slowly focusing on the previous evenings events I raise my now aching strained body vertically. I am in the hallway surrounded by the trinkets that the hallways cupboard had rained on me the night before. Like a man, walking into the aftermath of a storm I stand and see myself in the hallway mirror, a canal of congealed blood engrained in pot plant soil running from my nostril to my chin. The memories of the night before come flooding back as I slumber to the living room. It’s carnage!. Cloths, broken porcelain, broken glass, dry food and a trail of blood litter all around. A murder scene basically with it’s body still alive and now in total panic because my wife will be home at 9.30am. I check my watch 6.50am!!..A wife also with a condition – OCD – Obsessive Cleaning Disorder! 

The next few hours are a blur, as I scrub. sweep. clean,polish, wash, tidy anything that the previous nights TEDAS storm had thrown at me. Like a murderer cleaning all evidence from the scene of his crime. 9.15am, I peruse all around me, it’s looking ok..I think I have done it, ok the blood was a problem but bleach is a wonderful thing. As long as my wife hasn’t obtained infra-red vision in the last 24 hours I think I will be ok. I dive for the shower, skidding on the now polished clean tiles!. Quickly scrubbing the blood and sweat and soil  from my distressed and TEDAS abused body!

9.29am – Drying off in the bedroom that was unlocatable the night before, I hear the sound of the lift outside the front door jerking to a halt. My heart is beating as the sound of locks being released by keys confirms my suspicions. She is home! The door opens as I step out into the now spotless hallway, a towel hiding my modesty as a nonchantly dry my hair with another whilst greeting her. “Askim, I missed you ya” she hugs me . I smile and  reply likewise. She starts to lecture me about drinking raki and calling her when she is busy at work!. I let it pass!. I follow her into the living room, heart racing in the hope she doesn’t spot anything.

Nothing –she lays her keys on the coffee table as I fall onto the sofa in nervous fear!. “MIKE”…she says in a loud voice. I wait for what she has discovered, the games up. I know it as she turns to me looks all around and delivers “You cleaned up also, thank you askim, you are wonderful”. “well, I didn’t want you coming home to a messy home” I reply with a loving smile.  She hugs me again and ask if I can make her coffee whilst she showers . “no problem, go askim”. She exits through the door that had tortured my nose the night before. I sit, smiling hands in my face laughing inside at the craziness of the night before , the manic cleaning operation that had happened in the early morning, it had worked! I was in the clear! My wife was home, the sun was shinning, the home was cleaned and the electricity was working – the world was back to being a happy place!

I stood and went to the kitchen , filled the kettle with water, slipped the on button into position, still smiling . As I turned to go through the door a sound that can only be akin to wailing woman in distress and pain burst from the bathroom!

“ASKIM..YOU HAVE DONE A SHEET IN THE WASHING BASKET!”

Westy

 

One love -Two Cultures!

Not so long ago, I had the good fortune to read the biography of Malcolm X. A man some would say was a advocate of human rights and others would say was proven violent supremacist. Not my place in these pages to give my view! Within the pages lay a quote that obviously was so profound to me that I made a  point of highlighting.

 “I believe in recognising every human being as a human being--neither white, black, brown, or red; and when you are dealing with humanity as a family there's no question of integration or intermarriage. It's just one human marrying another human being or one human being living around and with another human being.”

It was roundabout the time I was reading it, that my wife and I were celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary. Ten, mostly very happy years. With me being English and her being Turkish,we are of course involved in what is pigeon holed as an "intermarriage". It's a word I generally do not affirm to, as it suggest that we are different, when in fact as Malcolm X, rightly pointed out, we are in fact just two human beings! Intermarriage, also for me seems to have overtones of marrying of someone better or lesser value than you - such as in the caste system in parts of Asia. Also a word that seems out of place in today's global society. My preference is cross-cultural marriage or relationship!.

In terms of the relationships themselves, how does a cross-cultural relationship work?. A question almost impossible to answer as we are all individually unique, with our own ideas, our own personalities and our own expectations. The question suggest that there lays some type of conflict within the relationship. The reality is that is the same as a normal kinship relationship. In both cases, just two opposing sides coming together with one common aim, that aim being to love and accept love. It does however beg the question does love transcend the cultural differences?. In my personal experience yes it  does mostly definitely .There are those those I am sure, that have experienced a more destructive cultural relationship who would answer in the negative. Sometimes the very differences that attract the couple together are then the differences that can cause conflict!

In Turkey, the number of cross-cultural relations grow year on year. According to the Turkish Governmental statistics there were over 200,000 Turkish nationals married to foreign citizens in 2011. Not including those foreign citizens who had taken up Turkish citizenship after marriage. Now, if one is to believe the foreign press, especially the British press, that is 200,000 men and woman having their back accounts emptied, being beaten senseless on a regular bases or a Turkish spouse ready to pounce on the passport opportunity and then later never to be seen again!. It, of course completely dismisses the notion that anyone could be contented and happy in a relationship not within it's borders.

As I said previously, we now dwell in a global society, one where technology, transportation and science has enabled us to expose our souls and our hearts to like minded individuals around the globe. A world, where thoughts are instantly given, our horizons are widened, new ideas are formed within us and new life dreams are played out. Internationalized love has well and truly been opened! Those dynamics have come together to increase the rise in international relationships and none more so then the Turkish/Foreign example.

As much as the relationship is easy to find though, many have found it much more difficult to conserve. As much as we are all varied and each individual relationship is unique there is one near common ground that every relationship negatively starts. That is the imbalance of culture. By definition, a cross-cultural relationship has to start of with one of the participants neglected of his or her cultural surroundings. For some this imbalance can be too much to grasp and the reality that your life will never be the same again ends up with an early visit to the divorce lawyers. 

Speaking from my own personal experience the first year of my marriage was by far the most difficult. Feeling devoid of "my own"; it neutered a strong sense of solitude even though I was exceedingly happy with my new bride. As I look back at that time though, I now realize how incredibly astute my wife played those times. Instead of suffocating immediately into Turkish culture, she drip fed it to me. She encouraged me to have English friends, took me to English book shops, made a point to begin with of only watching English programs. Then over the sands of time very slowly fitted Turkish culture into me like a thousand piece jigsaw.  It made a slow progress but one that I now fully appreciate how and what she achieved in and for me. Her patience and guidance is something that made me love her even more, and made my assimilation  into Turkish life and culture as natural as growing up. 

For those that survive the early "lonely" days, then one positive aspect of a cultural relationship is the self educational one.   Being in a cultural relationship forces you to examine and define your own values towards new ideas and prejudices. Your spouse, may have the same kind heart as you, nonetheless her experience of life has been contrastive. Through these contrasting experiences you see life from their eyes. Maybe sometimes reversing your former ideas that were once before set in stone, and sometimes not. The same happens in reverse of course, my wife's thought process over certain aspects of Turkish culture has changed by my own influential viewpoint. In kind, she has made me revalue and re-evaluate my own culture!

Ten years down the line though, I sit and realise just as much as we had cultural differences we also shared so much common ground. Little did I realise growing up in a small Somerset village in England that in a small village in the North of Turkey was a girl that shared the same dreams and purpose as me. Amazingly, we were once talking about literature and I happened to mention the first book I ever read was Ian Serraillier's "The Silver Sword". Without a word she went into her "momento basket", something it seems all Turkish woman have. One minute later, she showed me a Turkish copy of the same book!. She still is the only other person I have ever met who has read it! 

This week saw the remembrance In Turkey of those that gave their lives in the Battle of Dardenelles in Canakkele. A battle that saw Turkey and Britain in a ruthless and pointless war and a colossal waste of life on both sides.  Maybe those soldiers lives were not so much in vain though. Without their sacrifices, maybe myself and many others would not be happily living in this beautiful country and married to wonderful spouses!. We owe them a lot really!

Westy

If music be the food of love..

Last Saturday, was a significant day for me, as it was the first day I realised I was turning into my Father!. What warranted this realisation was me uttering to myself " Music was better in my day". What was it that elicited this utterance? well, in a fit of nostalgia deciding to listen to the UK Top 40 music charts on MTV.

It was, I estimate the first time I had listened to the top 40 in way over fifteen years. I am even surprised that it is still going. I can not even remember the last time I bought a CD Oh wait, I bought a Volkan Konak CD for my wife for her birthday two years ago - it's still unwrapped! Not that she doesn't like Volkan Konak, being from the Karadeniz she adores him. However as she explained to me, "I have all his MP3's!"

Listening away, to some group called "One direction"and then a man, who must be slightly on the pretentious side, to actually go by the name Will.I.am, I just pray that his surname is "aknob". I could take no more, and before the rather attractive female presenter announced " and this week's number one is" I turned off in despair. Despair at the British music scene that had once been the envy of the world.

When I packed for my new life in Turkey, ten years ago, one of the hardest parts was parting with my vinyl record collection. The actual songs ingrained on them were not the hardest part I was leaving. To me, every record  represented a single moment in my life. Representations that in one way or the other shaped me into who I was. My record collection were my identity.. How painful it was to say goodbye to "It must be love" by Madness. A song, I would play non-stop, after my then girlfriend moved to London . I would travel from my small town to London by train every Saturday just to spend one day with her a week. She left me eventually and took along with her my Pogues " Run sodomy and the lash" vinyl. It took me a long time to get over it, that album meant the world to me!

Anyhow, one thing that I never would envisage is how much I would enjoy Turkish music. In fact, as I travel to and from work these days, it is usually a new Turkish song I have discovered that I am engrossed in. In fact, as I type this my ears are being treated to this little ditty.

Just like the Turkish culture itself, it's music scene is incredibly diverse. From the pop giants such as Tarkan, to the, in my opinion one of the best Ska bands in the world at the moment, Athena. A group who once competed in the Eurovision song contest, don't hold that against them though. Have a listen.

The eccentricity of characters that the UK music scene holds are mostly repeated in Turkey. It's full of some of the most eccentric characters ever assembled in one place. Top of the bill, must go to one Bulent Ersoy. Commonly known in Turkey as the Diva, she started life as a male singer and not a very successful one at that. However, following transgender surgery in London, she reinvented herself as a woman and is now one of Turkey's highest paid performers mostly specialising in Ottoman classical music. Now, between you and me, her music makes my ears bleed. However, I am sure there are those of you outside of Turkey that are saying to yourself " just what does a Turkish transgender singer look and sound like". So here she is in all her glory..

Now Bulent is popular, however her popularity pales into insignificance when held against one Mr Ibrahim Tatlesis. Known as Ibo, to his army of fans, he  is probably the most successful and richest Turkish music star of all time. What is even more remarkable that attempts have been made on his life three times! Shot in the leg in 1990, survived an assassination attempt in 1997, and then shot in the head in 2011.You thought Keith Moon led a wild life huh?.The last shooting seems to have curtailed Ibo's recording career, unfortunately.

As, I said earlier Turkish music has many regional variations. Just as in the UK, regional diversity is reflected into it's music, than so it is in Turkey. Take for example, the capital Ankara. Usually played on a traditional guitar like instrument called a sas, it's songs are traditional. and if you ever have the fortune to attend a wedding in Ankara, you can be certain of two things. Firstly you will be entertained by the sound of traditional Ankara music. Secondly, you will be expected to dance! It is definitely not to everyones taste but me personally I love Ankara music, but absolutely no idea why!. Anyway, here is probably the most famous Ankara song, Ankara Misket.

The craziness of Ankara music, is nothing when compared to the Anaotlian region. The music is usually accompanied with a dance called the horon. Fast paced, and incredibly mezmorising it becomes impossible to listen or watch without wanting to join in. Although, I fully recommened an oxygen tent to be on hand if you dare try it. I did once, and spend the rest of the evening feeling like I had just ran a marathon! However, take a look and be inspired.

Anyway, hope that gives you a very quick insight into the musical offerings of Turkey. A land, where still artist can play their instuments, write their own songs and perform on a stage without the need of a backing track. I will finish by giving you my top five Turkish songs on my player. Songs, that even if you have no idea what they are singing about can still be enjoyed by the beauty of the music. After all, a music is the universal language of mankind.

Number 5

Tanju Okan.  Now, Tanju was, I say was as he died in 1996, a classical singer in the same vane of a Turkish, Frank Sinatra and just like Frank , Tanju liked a beer or two.However, that still doesn't take away the guy obviously had talent.  

Number 4

Now, no mention of Turkish music would be complete without mentioning Sezen Aksu. A woman who has sold an incredible 40 million albums world wide. Recently she played to a pack Royal Albert hall in London. Known as the "Queen of Turkish music", she still influences the Turkish music scene and is a prolific writer for other Turkish stars. A truly great performer..

Number 3

Duman are classed as an Antolian rock band who incorporate tradtional Turkish folk with rock with excellent results. Anytime, I feel slightly bored on the way to my work I always plug this in, turn up the volume and feels me with energy.

Number 2

Halil Sezai is a man of many talents an accomplished actor and singer song writer who I first heard when I was holidaying in the beautiful area of Capadochia. He is slowly getting more accreditation for his musical abilities. I so wish that someone would take this song and perform an English version of it.

Number 1

Well, I chose this song just simply because it' the song most played on my music player these days. The singer is actually not famous at all, she appeared in a competition on TV here and performed "Işyın" a song written and performed by Halil Sezai. Just simply, it's beautiful!

So there we have it, my choices. However if you have any other choices or comments please let me know.

Stay safe

Teenage kicks

This afternoon,I came home from work and planned to get my gear and head to the gym to try and trim my waist line after the holiday!. Also,summer is coming and I want to return the favour and kick sand in others faces for a change!. However, after receiving a few phone calls I had no choice but to do some very urgent work from home. 

 As it was a beautiful day here, I opened the windows to allow the warm afternoon breeze to drift in. Unfortunately though I had totally forgotten that the local school had just finished. Thus a multitude of children were drifting out with tired brains and hungry stomachs and heading home Whilst no doubt grumbling about the abundance of homework Sir had given to them. Slowly the abundance of children trickled away as I settled down to plan my work and send some important long winded e-mails. However, within ear shot and away from eye shot, a group of children were shouting and screaming at full voice. "koş (run) Koş koş" came the cry below. Gradually I could feel my patience slowly drain away along with my concentration to work! "damn kids, why don't they go home and play for Christ sake" I thought to myself. 

 Slowly the cries became hollers then the hollers became screams. Enough was enough and I could no longer concentrate with the bedlam going on four floors below. With clenched teeth and tensed hands I slammed down my laptop from my legs and half ran to the window to tell these young pest to stop shouting or expel their energy somewhere else. I slammed my head out of the window and immediately drew in clouds of air to exhale with force at these inconsiderate little terrors! My eyes locked onto the children and as I was just about to explode my anger at them something caught my eye. From my high vantage point I could see one child, eyes firmly closed counting backwards, while five other students were dotted around the immediate area. Behind a wall, behind a tree, under a parked car, in the communal swimming pool emptied for the winter. I watched bemused for a while then realised my clenched toothed anger had now been morphed into a lose lipped smile. Watching them play this simple game of hide and seek reminded me of two things. Firstly of my own childhood and how we played the same games forty years before and secondly just how innocent Turkish children are compared to children back in my homeland. 

 Ok, they were screaming and shouting and generally disturbing the peace of our normal tranquil neighbourhood..However, had I not done the same in my youth growing up in a small village in England?. Had I not caused the neighbours to scream at me?. Had I not enjoyed these simple games and gained much pleasure.? Actually the last question is definitely YES I gained much pleasure as it gave me my first kiss behind a garage while playing hide and seek. I was ten years old!. I also wondered if at all British children still continued with these games past down from generations before them.

 On my last visit to England it is so obvious that English children have lost all respect and the power to use their own imagination. Society and a vulnerability to commercialism have robbed them of an orderly childhood . No game is a game to them unless it has high quality graphics and the ability to kill as many people as possible on some trend setting computer game. When are people going to realise that these games of war, hatred and killing do make an everlasting impression on a young clueless mind. English children have lost the ability to communicate and I do not mean a pubescent teenager I mean all children. They answer in grunts or street slang and write in a language that is "kul and wiked"to them. They know a world of smart phones and peer pressure and a "must have" society. They are established into a society where sex, violence and drugs are open particles right across the British community. I mean what type of society thinks that it is perfectly ok to offer sex education to five year old children? Doesn't anyone sit back and think of the lunacy of this?. It's no wonder the UK has the highest rate of teenage pregnancy in Europe. 

Back in 2007 UNICEF published a report of 21 economically advanced countries. It compared 40 indicators -- poverty, family relationships, health and safety, education and children's own sense of happiness -- that might affect the well being of children. Top of the list were the Netherlands, Sweden and Denmark. At the bottom, in 21st place, was the UK, just below the United States. The report concluded, essentially, that children growing up in the UK were the unhappiest in the industrialised world, and that parents in more than half the countries surveyed spent more time "just talking" to their children than did those in the UK; and that just 40% of UK 11-, 13- and 15-year-olds find their peers "kind and helpful". Of course,reports are just there to be read and discarded!

 In contrast, here, the children seem to be hidden away mostly of the dangers and the more murky side to life They are raised mostly in a family valued society where respect for other humans is paramount. I am always amazed when I visit a Turkish friends house if they have children how calm quiet and obedient they are. Also how interested they are and always ask questions about myself and my country. Of course, using me to help them with their English homework also. I can never imagine an English child being presented with a Turkish person at their house to show any interest to them and their culture whatsoever. 

 I am not saying that all Turkish children are angels, hell, I have worked in a college here!.   They also play the same computer games and have the technologically brain numbing entertainment as their British counterparts. What I am saying though is that in general they have not lost the respect for elders and know their place in society. They are still the blooming generation, still aware of what they are and where their place in society is positioned. Whereas, the youth of the UK have accelerated their understanding of their place. They live with a mind of " I am here now give me what I want". However, you know what scares me the most?. It's not this generation in the UK, it's the generation to follow. The thought of ending back in the UK, as an old man being surrounded by the children of children who were raised without any moral compass feels me with total dread.

Even the simple things, like catching a bus come into play. The other day, I was on a very overcrowded bus here. I stood, which is the total norm here to donate my seat to an elderly man who thanked me and sat down. Opposite me was a teenage boy about fourteen years old, dressed in his school uniform, staring out the window totally lost in his own little world.  He was oblivious to the over crowding and old people standing around him, whilst he sat cozily. Feeling a little angrily about this, I tapped him on his leg and politely asked him to stand and give his seat to one of the ageing people around him. He did so without any complaint and apologised!. Now, could I imagine doing that in the UK?,asking a fourteen year old boy to stand up and give up his seat. The answer is no of course. Through fear of being told where to stick the seat or fear of confrontation. It is just something that would be totally alien to attempt.

 I think Mustafa Kemel Ataturk said " the future of Turkey is with its children" well if he looks down on the children of Turkey I am sure he will see a bright and respectful future..I wonder how Churchill would recieve if he also could look down at his "land fit for heros" !