Alevis: Part 1

When I think of the Alevis I have met, the word "luftmensch" comes to mind. I imagine traveling bards, dervishes, street performers, fire-breathers, circus people. I think of a culture that emphasizes art as an expression of life and playing an instrument or singing or dancing as a matter of course.

Ali and Hakan, for example, play the saz and sing traditional folk music in a conservatory in Europe. When in Istanbul, they go out every night until three and four in the morning. Their evening begins with chai and backgammon in Taksim Square and ends spontaneously as they migrate through Taksim from chai shop to nargile restaurant to music hall. Sometimes they bring the party back to the apartment, which means, I wake up with strange bodies to step over and every couch and bed occupied.

Can keeps a photo of Kerouac above his bed. He claims he's trying to live "on the road," just like Kerouac. He has few possessions -- an old automatic camera, some plaid shirts, two pairs of jeans. His saving grace is that he can cook. Most days he prepares breakfast for everyone in the apartment, but not unti he's asked enough of us for money to come up with the ten lira for the ingredients. He's a handsome man, Can, and has at least three girlfriends that I know of (although one recently went back to France, leaving him a gift, a very nice graphic novel, so I'm not sure whether to count her or not). Not bad for someone who works in a movie theater, although he does speaks Zazaci, as they all do, everyone in the apartment, apart from Anton.

Anton studied opera at Istanbul University and is, apparently, working for the state opera a couple days a week. Not only is he the only one in the apartment who doesn't speak Zazaci, but he's also the only one not from Tunceli and not Alevi. He's married to Gizem, whom I've never met, but who lives here during the academic year, when she teaches psychology classes somewhere in the city. Frankly, I don't know how she can take being married to Anton. I've never once seen him clean up or cook a meal and yet many times I've heard him complain about the food or talk about how dirty the apartment is or how backward the neighbors are. He doesn't pay rent, apparently, because he's just crashing at the apartment temporarily for this state opera job; in any case, in my view, his guest tenant status gives him license to stay quiet and smile more.

I never realized how much Anton considers himself superior to the others until once after lunch the conversation came to language, specifically, Zazaci. "There's no point in learning to speak it. You're better off learning French or English, some Western language. I mean what are you going to use it for. No one outside of Turkey speaks it." Ahmet, Can, Can's girlfriend Turkhan, and Kemal and I were all sitting around the table and no one said anthing for about a half a minute or so. Then, Can very calmly said that he hadn't had much choice because his mother had spoken it to him since birth. Later I found out Turkhan and Can had actually met at a rally in Ankara to promote the Kurdish languages being taught in the schools, so clearly this was a subject about which they felt pretty passionately.

From what I have observed, these people in our apartment have pretty loose romantic arrangements. Turkhan, for example, works as a psychologist for the schools in Tunceli, but she comes to Istanbul during holidays to see Can. When she's in Istanbul, they do everything together -- make meals together, clean up together, smoke cigarettes together, go shopping together. To me they seem an ideal couple, yet there are two other girlfriends who do the same thing with Can and who also have short, dyed hair, flat chests, nose rings, and wear the same kind of waifish sandles and yoga pants. They all seem very attractive to me, but I wonder how it all plays out, finally. The French girlfriend's card said simply, "You were different from the others." She must have had a start when she saw me opening the door with my three-month-old daughter in my arms. Probably thought Can had forgotten to tell her about more than just the old girlfriend in Tunceli.