They call me American. I am not just yabancı — foreigner — but a particular breed of outsider. People back home often ask me what it’s like to be an American in Turkey, fearing the stereotype that the “Middle East” resents the United States and thus its progeny. Don’t speak English too loudly. Don’t bring clothes with American insignias. Don’t let them target you.
There’s a store in Çorum that sells “hip” clothing, some of it emblazoned with broken English. Among the findings was the message, “the fact is that the world is out of everyone’s expectation But some learn to forget But others insist”. Another stated something unintelligible about snowflakes. A third impelled us to “always wear your invisible crown”.
Since my arrival in Turkey, I’ve often felt that being an American here is like having an invisible crown permanently attached to my head. Even in Istanbul, I was able to finagle free çay and pastries after telling the waiter my nationality. Turks are known for their unparalleled hospitality, but I can’t help but think that for me its amplified by my “American-ness”.
“Ingiliz? Fransız?” a waiter asked, after realizing I couldn’t speak Turkish. “Amerikalım.” “Amerikkaaaaa!” he exclaimed, eyes wide in shock at the prospect of someone from across the pond landing in Çorum. He left the table and sent over two new waiters, each of whom gawked at me curiously before asking questions in broken English. They left and a third waiter, this time a woman, came up and asked if I needed anything. When I got up to leave, the waitstaff stood on either side of the hall and waved to me as I made my exit. It’s important to note that this coffee house is huge and exquisitely beautiful… a place where, if it were in the United States, I would be lucky to even get service. Here, I got an unmerited Oscar red carpet.
As an American teaching English, I have been welcomed everywhere I go. So the threat of being in Turkey does not come from discrimination per se but a lack thereof — at least towards me. It comes from getting caught in the crossfire of events unrelated to my “American-ness”. By becoming just a human — in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The explosion in Ankara this morning was the largest terror attack in Turkish history: 95 confirmed dead and over 200 injured. These bombings targeted a peace protest calling for an end to Turkish-Kurdish violence. To restate: a peace rally was the site of the deadliest terrorist attack in Turkish history.
My roommate’s friend was there and barely escaped the blast, leaving the scene “with pieces of human on her”. Pieces of a life. Blood. Flesh. Body parts. Parting gifts from some of the 95 people who will never see their families again. They became martyrs to the fight against fighting, and these were their last shreds of non-violent reconciliation. Their protest was not a question mark; both their lives and their dreams were abruptly ended by a war they never asked for and exclaimed against.
We don’t know who did this and we don’t know why. What we do know is that there was a senseless loss of life, and one that speaks to the all-too-human tendency to box the world into “us” and “them” while blasting the “other” side to pieces. No country is exempt from it, but this tragedy hits home. My new home, filled with so many kind, generous, and life-loving people, is hurting.
Regardless of the culprit, this attack is a deliberate message of silence and intimidation. It says that Ankara, and all of Turkey, will be forced into shock and mourning through the upcoming election. It says that peace is not an option. It calls every death by disagreement “justice” and every public space a battlefield. It claims that people with opposing views thereby revoke their right to be human — and thus deserve to be corpses.
I worry that in an increasingly interdependent world, we will only find more of these tragic “solutions” to sift through the complexities around us. And Turkey is coming into an incredibly complex election.
The ironic thing is that bombs don’t discriminate. Their targets may come from prejudice, but when explosions erupt or bullets flood out of their cartridge, they don’t ask what you believe or where you come from. They only care where you are standing.
And in that moment, no one is anything other than human.