Her infinite variety. ( Anthony and Cleopatra 2.2.244)
An-ne, the
Mother, is a veritable institution in Turkey. Turks are glued to their mobile
phones not least because at some moment in the day An-ne will call and the
obedient son or daughter (mostly the latter) must be standing to attention. If
it is already late in the afternoon, the message will be, “But why haven’t you
called me? Is something wrong? Didn’t you remember I went to the doctor today?”
Anywhere – in a shopping mall, a bookstore, a cafe, comes the inevitable whine
of the needy child. “An-ne! Where are you?” The whole world dotes on these
angels who can do no wrong. Their every whim must be indulged. Christmas isn’t
anything to Muslims of course but the city is full of brightly lit trees,
effigies of the silly old man in red hat and presents. Whole floors of istanbul’s
magnificent shopping malls are devoted solely to delighting the little people. The
shops are stuffed with goodies and people pack into them as if there were no
tomorrow. It’s only the social outcasts who go in for online shopping here:
everyone else regards it as a jolly family ritual.
You might
get the impression that Turkey with its background of military coups,
nationalism and repression was a patriarchal society. Wrong. Men just look as
if they have power: in reality they exist only to serve their women. Even
modern young working people for the most part wait patiently until they have
found their marriage partners before leaving home. Naturally, double standards
exist here as men have freer rein and must sew their oats. But they do it
discreetly with god-knows-whom. Meanwhile they live at home where they are
waited upon hand and foot – food is cooked, washing and ironing done for them
and every comfort seen to. Duygu, a healthy woman in her thirties complains
that her mother won’t even let her carry anything. Ilgin has just turned 40 and
works 7 days a week to make enough money for holidays. She wouldn’t dream of
going without her mother. They live together as do so many Turkish families,
mother and daughter, bound like Prometheus. You don’t even ask about father.
When Ilgin is feeling frisky she goes with her mother to one of the many clubs
in downtown Beyoglu, the centre of Istanbul’s nightlife. There they listen
together to live music and Ilgin takes pictures of them both on her mobile
phone. Can it be satisfying? Ilgin is no fool. “I make all the decisions,” she
says, gleefully. I can see who wears the pants. Why leave this comfort for some
unknown territory where you may have to be the maid, cook and bottle-washer for
some uncertain reward?
Age cannot
wither An-ne because whole armies of hairdressers, beauticians, manicurists and
cosmetologists exist merely to preserve her long-lost youth. Only near death
will a woman let the world see her grey hair: the rest choose any colour of the
rainbow though garish pinks and greens are still only for the outlandish or
those who have just discovered punk . Mostly it is blonde, and on special
occasions like New Years Eve, the hair will be pulled and teased into girlish
sausage curls of a corn-bright yellow. The effect is that elderly men always
have young-looking things of indeterminate age in tow. (Is that his daughter,
mother or wife? You can’t tell.) And what was once a Mediterranean land of
dark-haired, olive-skinned women has now become a kind of Disneyland of Barbie
dolls.
Daddy
provides. Sinem lives in a fine apartment paid for by her father and works when
she isn’t having the vapours. She is travelling the next day and An-ne keeps
phoning. “Why don’t you take the smaller suitcase darling? You might be
overweight if you take the big one?” Such tender loving care. But Sinem doesn’t
think so. “My sisters and I have been trying to get them to divorce for years!”
she says, sighing. “They do nothing but argue and can’t stand each other.” But
of course there are the beloved children. How could they inflict such pain on
them? Sinem is beautiful, intelligent cultivated and at 38, alas, still not
married. Her lover is a dashing colonel in the army, married with children.
“When he comes it is paradise! He brings flowers, chocolates and treats me like
a princess.” The stress of it all stops her from working. But she has the kind
of job that can deal with this on-and-off commitment because there is a
hard-working male who does all the donkey work. Life has fashioned things in such
a way that she must remain a princess in a tower waiting for the frog prince to
release her. So custom doesn’t stale her
infinite variety; she is free to go to any one of Istanbul’s delectable coffee
houses, galleries or museums. She has the leisure to read and reflect. And time
still before motherhood looms or the signs of old age must submit to the wiles
of the magician.
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