changing your ways, more than any man can do

When you run an endeavor with a name like ‘the garbage ladies,’ you attract attention from the name alone. Often people try to correct us, ‘you mean the garbage men.’ No, we are the garbage (wo)men. Our name in Turkish is a play on words, whereby one letter, ‘m,’ changes the gender. While Melih, my business partner, is indeed male, everyone else involved directly is a woman. After all, that is rather the point of what we are trying to do, provide opportunities for those for whom opportunities did not previously exist. Or if they did in actuality, they were not perceived as being there. Few of our ladies have more than a fifth grade education, all but one are married, and they all keep a spotless house. Working outside was not an option for many reasons, including that the husbands would not want it, but also that the women so often have not been comfortable beyond familiar surroundings.

If you ask our ladies why they come to the workshop, the first thing they will tell you is ‘because I feel good when I come here,’ or ‘being here gives me a chance to grow, to improve myself.’ The second reason will be for the financial benefit. Our ladies are paid by the piece and essentially earn just as much as they want to. Never before have they been able to be affirmed for their work, have they felt a purpose other than being a mother, a wife, a homemaker. They have a difficult time putting their feelings into words. Peter Gabriel and Youssou N’Dour put it well in ‘Shaking the Tree,’ ‘waiting your time, you’re more than just a wife…changing your ways, more than any man can do.’ Yes, that is what our ladies are doing.

If you have never been paid for your work previously, your first salary is something to celebrate. Because we are a small business, we pay our workers in cash. They earn from 20 to 1,000 Turkish lira, about $15 – 750 per month. Their reactions are mixed but always laden with emotion. No one receives their first pay without double kisses, one on each cheek. The first time they receive their payment, our ladies cry, they beam with joy, or they laugh out of nervousness. It’s one of those mixed feelings to be providing the first money while at the same time being so aware that these women have missed out on so many opportunities over the years.

‘I can buy my son a new desk to do his homework on.’ ‘I can pay my electricity on time.’ The first salary is never for themselves, always for their children and/or the household. Subsequent salaries however, may be spent on themselves.  ‘I’m off to the market for a new pair of trousers.’ ‘I’m getting my teeth fixed.’ ‘I no longer have to ask my husband for cigarette money.’

I mentioned that I had gone out to breakfast with some friends. Several of my ladies followed that lead and went out to breakfast the following week. Previously, that would have been unthinkable. One does not spend money on eating out, especially breakfast. The concept took off so that, when business was really good, more than half our ladies let themselves be so decadent.

People ask how we measure our successes, our progress. I am not always sure. My development-o-meter would include a measuring device that would register the impact of spending one’s own money as one wishes; feeling confident enough to figure out how to get to the nearest private hospital and to go there on your own; being able to tell your husband that yes, after all these years, you will work outside the home; looking your boss in the eye when she says your work is not good enough and asking her to point out why. And by taking yourself out for breakfast.

Those women who stay with us do so because they feel part of what we are doing; they feel they are the real garbage ladies. At the end of the day, it is quite humbling to see them continue, to see them grow and change. Anyone who reads this blog has had so many more opportunities in life than our ladies have had. When I get frustrated when things are not going as I wish they were, when we are having communication problems, when I tell them the colors to use but they still get the tones wrong, I recall the words of a dear friend, another man, who reminded me that progress is not always linear nor is it consistent.

We may be the garbage ladies but we know that there are a lot of men out there who support us. Our thanks go to them as well as to those who know that we are wrecking the status quo and let us get on with it.

camel wrestling

‘My brother-in-law’s sister’s son met his wife at the camel wrestling. The weather was much like it was today, and he walked by a young woman whose eyelashes were so long they left shadows on her cheeks. He had no way to meet her but was smitten. A few days later he spoke to the milk man and asked if he didn’t have a daughter the same age as the gal with the beautiful eyelashes. Alas no, but his brother did. The rest is history.’

Some people say that the camel wrestling is boring and isn’t it just awful for the poor animals. Well, I don’t think most people other than the owners of the huge beasts attend the event for the sport.

I know I don’t.

It’s to watch the other participants, gape at the enormous camels, and admire their finery that I go. I’m not an athlete but I would venture that calling camel wrestling a sport is pushing the limits. The animals do indeed wrestle each other, if that’s what you would call pushing each others’ neck until either one gets so riled up that he storms away or until one of the referees makes a call. I’ll be darned if I can figure out just how they win, but then again, for me, that’s not the point. They are all male, all frothing at the mouth, as they are ready to do their part for mating season. One really does not want to get hit with a wad of that spittle.

For weeks leading up to the day, camels are paraded around town. The sound of their bells is unique, and can be heard blocks away. Everyone stops what they are doing to come out and see them. It’s not so much that people find it odd to see decked-out camels walking through the cobbled streets of the town, but it’s a general excitement that they exist at all. Often the animals are walked past our workshop as we are en route to the main road that leads to the villages, where many of the animals live. Two days before the big event, Zorba 1 and Zorba 2 walked by The Garbage Ladies. Their names were stitched onto blankets, complete with ‘mashallah.’ I just had to see these two Greek namesakes perform.

And I did. But they were nearly one-upped by ZorBey and Spartacus. Other names, Baris, Onur, Ahmet Bey, well, those you expect. They are common names for Turkish men – Peace, Dignity, Ahmet, one of the many variations of Mohammed. ZorBey, I will never be convinced that was anything other than a variation of Zorba. ‘zor’ means difficult, ‘bey,’ mister, put the opposite as to how we are used to titles in English. But Spartacus, well, I couldn’t get close enough to his owner to ask just where that name came from.

There’s a fee to get into the wrestling, 10 lira, which is an awful lot of money for most people in this region. I would venture more than half get in for free – you know so-and-so who knows so-and-so and so on. The rest, well, it is the outing of the year, so they cough up the dough. Last year I got in for free, and felt so much part of the in-crowd. This year those selling tickets at the gate were not part of my inner circle.

I immediately went to view the camels who were waiting their turn to get into the ring, as it were. Anytime I see a camel anywhere, I can’t help but wonder if something didn’t go wrong in the planning process. They are such awkward animals, knock-kneed, standing in the most bizarre poses, often looking around as if they are slightly stoned. And yet they are magnificent. Their fancy outfits make them seem all the more so, with intricately embroidered bead work on their blankets: Turkish flag, anchors, geometric designs in an array of colors bordered by cowry shells. Each and every beast has an enormous brass bell (one will set you back 200 lira, about $150 US, in the local market) and at least one ‘Mashallah’ somewhere on its body. ‘Mashallah’ is used to keep away evil, to protect, to safeguard against anything bad that could happen, as a blessing or just an interchange to keep the positive just that. One says it all the time, just to be on the safe side. You would never bring your baby in public without some form of ‘mashallah’ somewhere on its being. And you would never send your camel out to competition without being duly protected.

One fellow who owns and entered all six of his camels beckoned me to come over. Whether it was for my sake or the camels I did not venture to ask, but he kept kissing the camel and encouraged the animal to do the same. I asked who did the embroidery, assuming it was the women-folk, and if it wasn’t mostly done in the winter months, when not much was happening in the fields. He and his brothers do it all he said, and mostly in the summer.  Shows what I know. I was then taken away by two young boys who were proud of their beasts as well and wanted their photo taken. I love this - they never ask for a hard copy though I show them the digital image. Everyone wants to feel important, somehow. I think I made the right decision by declining to have my photo taken kissing their prize fighter.

I then entered the spectators area to have a look around. ‘Tara abla, Tara abla’ – children from the local school I visit once a week were there, taking it all in from the comfort of an open-bedded lorry. ‘Tara abla, come over here’ – it was a neighbor from up the road, asking me to photograph hi with his buddy from the army.  But it was the people I did not know who interested me: The man with a view you could not pay for sitting on top of his truck, fondling his prayer beads, Michelin man right below to protect us all; the balloon seller who asked no fewer than 5 times if I had taken his photo - I had and I showed him; the gypsies who would beat their drums now and again, waiting to be called over to play a song or two. The man with piercing blue eyes proudly holding his 5-day old daughter, wrapped in a camel-wrestling souvenir scarf, was the highlight and no one topped him for depth of smile or depth of my amazement. Fresh out of the oven and the girl has a start on what is to come later in life.

I went back to the camels. ‘I wouldn’t stand so close if I were you, he might give you a good kick.’ Being tethered to a rope did not mean that a large animal ready for action might not lash out. I stood back. I asked and asked after the Zorba brothers. No one knew who I was talking about. Clearly these were new entries and from out of town. I finally found them and asked if they had been in the ring yet. ‘No but they sure are itching to get moving.’ I stood clear of them as well. I was pleased that I found them and glad I did not have to explain why could not get images of Anthony Quinn out of my head.

My nose was full of the smell of grilled camel sausage and raki, my eyes were sore from taking in so much finery in so many colors, my ears hurt from the emcee’s blow-by-blow count of the action in the ring and I felt filthy from the dust of the area. It was time to go home. I walked out feeling like I was part of it all and yet knowing I would never really understand a number of aspects of living here. No matter. I have privileged access to a way of life that is full of joy, color, culture and warmth in ways that were never on my radar but sure are now.

Camel wrestling: it takes the concept of spectator sports to a whole new level.

A day in the life of a finance inspector

We all have weaknesses. Some we are aware of, some, well, those around us are kind enough not to point them out. One of mine is so apparent, a love of cats. Long ago I got over worrying about being labeled the crazy lady up the hill with the cats. Now and again, I do hear a comment that makes me think, such as ‘I am wary of women with cats – they already have something warm and furry cuddling next to them when that could have been me,’ but I got over that as well.

We even have cats in the workshop. Ajda Hanim came to us pregnant. My take was that if we are a project for women, we needed to be there for all women, especially those who had been left in such a state and then left on their own.

When all is said and done, St Francis may smile upon me, but I am not sure I will be forgiven for holding Ajda, singing the Fishhead’s song (fishheads, fishheads, roly poly fishheads, eat them up, yum! you can take a fishhead to the movie, put it in your pocket and it gets in free) and her looking up at me in total adoration.

Ajda gave birth to 4 kittens, right there in the workshop. Being the good mother that she is, she promptly placed them in the cupboard. She took care of them, we took care of her.

When you run a workshop, you may or may not care about your appearance. Generally, I try to make an effort. And yet, reality dictates that your work on any given day may determine how you really look, and whether you care or not makes no difference. Shortly after the kittens were born, I was working on flour sacks that still had plenty of flour in them. Hence I was covered in white, foot-to-toe.

A few of our ladies walked in with their children and I took the opportunity to introduce them to the kittens.

About 45 seconds later, two representatives of the Ministry of Finance walked in.

Now what? I could not change my Pillsbury doughboy impersonation, bad as it was, nor could I hide the tiny feline that just barely fit in my hand.

I figured I was so far off the radar for these two officials, that I could just go for it. It’s not like I really had any options... So I held out my free hand to greet the gentlemen.

Neither of them took my hand and I really could not blame them. One admitted he was terrified of the beasts. The officials got right down to business, after introducing themselves. I was dying to know what they were really thinking.

'We want to ask a few questions. Do the women work here or at home?'

This was a terrifying question as it would expose me to all sorts of labor laws. Everything we did was legitimate, kosher, transparent, but we were operating within a different paradigm, trying to forge new paths, unfamiliar ones.

     ‘Well, they come here to learn what we are doing, learn new techniques, get things started, but mostly they work at home. You see, my ladies have not worked for pay before and they are not used to spending so much time away from home. They also have many responsibilities within the home, cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the children. They make our products mostly in between tending to those responsibilities.’

'So the women work mostly at home?'

     ‘Yes, the women work mostly at home.’ I mentally chided myself for not just answering the question directly.

'And where do you get your materials from?'

     ‘Most of our materials are essentially trash, but most of what we use comes to us in a clean form.’

'This isn't trash – it's all quite clean!'

    ‘ Right! Our sponsor has some packaging materials they cannot use, because it is damaged or perhaps they change the wrapping they are using and cannot use the left-overs, so they send those materials to us. To them it is trash, to us, it is, as you rightly pointed out, raw materials.’

We went back to the main room and sat down. The fellow who was afraid of cats was sweating profusely. I offered tea, water, coffee, but they were not interested. Inspector Number 2 seemed more intrigued.

'This is a rather original workplace you have here.'

     ‘Yes, we think so too. We are trying to provide a different model for development projects.’

All the while, I was wondering when this scene would explode, if I would be taken away in chains, or what prior knowledge they had been given so that my answers really did or not matter.

Mr. Afraid-of-Cats took out an official-looking form that had hand-written notes on it, a well-used piece of carbon paper, situated himself and his papers and asked, 'Do the women work mostly at home or here?'

I know this is not a trick question, even if asked 18 times, and so, I repeated myself yet again.

‘Yes, but they have to come here at least once a week.’ That had to be okay.

Inspector Number 2 was looking around so I got up and showed him some of our other goods. Door mats made out plastic bags in the shape of a fish; aprons made out of grain sacks; embroidered kitchen towels from cloth flour sacks. Again, I knew that we were way off their radar.

'Surely now and again you have expenses for the materials, no?'

     ‘Yes, of course, but as you can see, most of our materials we receive for free as they are considered garbage to our sponsors. Thread, zippers, yes, sometimes I have to purchase those.’ I was already paying a lot in taxes and really did not want to have to pay more or be hit with a fine for not doing things by the book. Then again, nothing I did was by the book. But we were legitimate! And yet here I was, covered in flour, having just put a kitten back in the cupboard.

All the while, I was hoping I was providing enough right answers to stay in the clear. But I knew that even with being honest, our enterprise would be suspect. I just hoped that I would not dig myself and our efforts any deeper than I could dig out.

Inspector Number 2 seemed impressed in general and let us know that. Afraid-of-Cats was still sweating, writing.

They finally accepted my offer of tea, sat down, looked around, and I would imagine tried to process what they were seeing. I am sure they have seen many different work places in their lives but I knew darn we that they had never seen anything like the likes of ours. Quietly, I commended their attempts to really try and take in what they were seeing. Tea finished, they thanked me, and walked out.

That seemed too painless to be real, but off they went and there we were, ladies, kittens, flour-drenched boss-lady.

I went back to cutting the grain sacks, smiling as I wondered just how these two inspectors might respond when asked, ‘honey, how was your day?’

meet my neighbor

Becoming a small-business owner meant that I was also now officially part of the community, not just another person who contributed to the local economy by supporting construction workers and hardware stores with the renovation on the property. I myself did not feel that change for a while but I knew that others were looking at me in a different light.

I had always gotten along with my neighbors and living here full time allowed us all to get to know each other bit better. There was one neighbor  I was closer to, and would make an effort to visit. Over the years of my coming-and-going, Perihan Teyze would make comments that I chose to take as sincere. ‘When are you going to move down here full-time so we can be real neighbors?’ Though our lives were – and are – worlds apart, she was the only one I could have a conversation with that was beyond the weather and making tomato paste.

My favorite older-lady neighbor is almost as round as she is tall, and despite having three teeth left, has a smile to warm your heart to the core. She also has a wicked sense of humor accompanied by a very foul mouth. When she laughs at her jokes, her entire self jiggles in wavy rhythm. In the winter, she wears floral shalvar under her floral flannel skirt with a striped sweater under a floral flannel top. I would venture she has never owned a bra.

The other night I went up to see Perihan Teyze, to say ‘hi,’and to receive one of her powerful I-love-you-this-much hugs. Two other women were there, knitting away. Both had yarn wrapped around their neck, clicking away with the yarn moving smoothly into guided designs.

The conversation I walked into was about a neighbor whose two sons were in prison.

'What are they in for?'

‘Must be drugs.’

'That's good – anyone who deals or does drugs should be locked away forever.'

Perihan clarified, 'I don't know about the drugs, but I know they were pimping women.'

'They should be in jail for that then.'

One of the knitters added, ‘Things like that are the work of the devil and no one, even Allah, should be surprised at that. '

As if on cue, the call to prayer sounded over the loudspeaker and the knitters both put down their handwork but carried on with their gossip. They picked up where they left off when the prayer ended, never missing a beat with their commentaries

Another neighbor knocked at the front door, let herself in, and immediately headed up the stairs. As far as I knew, there was only a terrace, toilet and bathing facilities up on the next flight. Perihan told her to help herself from the bag, nodding to the sack of potatoes the new arrival had dipped her hand into.

'I only need 2,' the recent arrival said, 'but you need to do something about these stairs. What if you have to do a big one at night?'

One of the knnitters said, 'you need to be careful on the stairs,' as if the thought never occurred to Perihan before.

She replied, well, I have my 'necessity pot' that I use at night. Falling down those stairs is the last thing I need to worry about.'

'You should put the loo where the fridge is, on the first floor. What if one of your guests needs to do a big number? It can happen you know.'

Perihan Teyze, ever in full form, answered, 'if that happens, they can shit in a plastic bag and I'll fling it at your door.'

The knitters carried on, not missing a beat and I felt I was as much a part of the neighborhood as anyone else.

Our landlord, Yasar Bey

Our workshop is located at the intersection of two formerly main streets in the old part of town. One cobblestone road was the main road to Izmir. The other now gets more traffic as it connects the main road leading to local villages to the town. It is a lively intersection, with basic commerce mostly for the grain store and much socializing that revolves around Seytan Suat’s teahouse. With our recent presence, the four corners now represent the state of women officially in the workforce in Turkey: ¼ for women, ¾ for men.

Technically we rent two places for our workshop, side by side. They used to be one piece of property, formerly a tea shop, divided up for each of the owners’ sons. Somewhere along the line, something happened, and the owner and his youngest have not spoken to each other in years. The fight must have been rather intense as the two brothers still do not speak to each other either. I had a doorway opened in the newly dividing wal to we could aess our materials without going outside and then in again. I also had the urinal changed to a ‘modern’ toilet. A urinal is fine for the clientele of a tea shop in this part of the world but not for ladies, garbage ones or otherwise.

Two landlords, father and son, worlds apart. The son and I have always gotten along. He even shook my hand when I signed the original rental agreement and smiles when he greets me. His father, well that relationship was over a year in the making.

When I first rented the space, the old man could barely contain his contempt for me. I used to wonder if it was because I was foreign, then if because I was a woman, perhaps even because we are threatening the status quo. None of the women in his life worked for pay and I assumed he saw the role of women in the home.

Over the year, I was to learn that he would have treated anyone else just the same. He would have yelling bouts full of colorful language to anyone in the neighborhood he was angry at. His wording was rarely original but he made his points clear. It took a while to understand if it was okay to laugh or if one really take his anger seriously. No one in the neighborhood likes him and they all vacillate between arguing and just ignoring him. Now and again there will be a decent conversation between the 3 male owners of the property at our intersection, but mostly people seem more content when Yasar Bey goes on his own way.

‘HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA’ he roared one day after we locked up. ‘Official  working hours are over????????????? HAHAHAHAHAHA’. I had been waiting for more people, men in particular, to challenge what we were doing, so in a way this was expected. It still hurt though, especially as I saw how proud our ladies were that they indeed were working, whether within official hours or not.

I was insulted personally and had to hold on to keep anger as well as tears back. I reverted to coping skills from childhood and told myself that I would not drop to his level, as I saw it. I reminded myself that we are doing something rather different and that we need to win over the locals, whether we got along personally or not, and that change was difficult to deal with. The owner of our workspace had been here for a lot longer than I had, and it was, after all, his neighborhood that I was bringing change to. I vowed to never let him see me weak, not then, not at any other time.

When the weather was warm enough, Yasar Bey would sit at the base of the steps to his home, three meters from our main entrance, for hours. I always made a point to greet him, always asked how he is doing. It has taken over a year, but he has warmed up to me, to us. We now are on civilized terms, even able to joke with one another. I cross that tenuous line of teasing myself as well as others about my infidel status. Recently I told Yasar Bey that he was jealous as he was not a true infidel as I was. Many people really get upset when I speak like this but he can fire right back. ‘I’ll take you hunting so you can shoot your own pig.’

Not too long ago, there was a funeral for a high school boy who was killed in a terrible car accident.  I did not know the young man personally but I felt the weight of his schoolmates as they walked by us en route to the mosque for the funeral. There was not a dry eye in the workshop.

The funeral procession had come and gone and we had gone back to work. I had stepped outside the workshop later in the afternoon for a phone call and saw the elderly fellow sitting on his stoop. I went over and asked him how he was doing. He said ‘fine,’ but I sensed he was not and said so.

I asked him if he went to the funeral. I figured it was probable that he did as the young fellow who was killed lived two streets behind him.

The old man looked up at me and said,

‘You know, I really hate accidents like this. They are just awful.’

There was a look of deep emotion in his eyes and he held on to his words long enough for me to understand there was more he wanted to say.

‘I can still see the limbs of the 8-year old girl and the family friend who were in the car that I crashed into. I got out of my car and picked the pieces up and put them in a pile and covered them up with my shirt. I hate accidents like this. I had forgotten everything until this happened. You know, the court case went on for 7 years. When it was done, they put me in prison for 11 months. I couldn’t do anything there, hardly could even sleep. We never know when our time is up nor how we will go. But I will never forget that little girl.’

I now understood why he was such a grumpy old man and so antagonistic to so many.

I said that I was so sorry and that this must be a huge burden to bear and that I did not know if I would be strong enough to carry such a weight.

‘You get over it after a while. God gives you strength and you don’t think about it so much. It has to be that way, else how could you live?’

I really do not know.

the past is political as well as personal

Sometimes we need to remember to look at progress, to see where we have come from and where we are now.

People ask why I came to Turkey. I think, maybe, in total vanity, that it could be that I was Helen of Troy in a former life an am looking for that level of excitement. The fact of the matter is that, as many here assume, I was leaving the US, just not for the reasons that they think. From any people’s perspective, I would not be here were I not running away from something. One of the biggest ironies of my life is that I naively came to this country without knowing much about its past. This is ironic as I did not want to be in the US because there was so much about US foreign policy that seemed to contradict what the US was founded upon and that is even if we overlook the small detail that the land was already populated.

Little did I know back then that there are so many angles to the history of the founding of the Turkish Republic and that I would spend many years tiptoeing around to try and get some of the facts, to find out what really happened.

If this was so difficult for me, imagine what it is like for those who grow up here. There is much that cannot be discussed or mentioned. One can go to jail for insulting ‘Turkishness,’ though just what that is has yet to be clearly defined.

I live in a town that was almost completely re-populated during the Greek-Turkish exchange. A few of the ladies I work with are only now beginning to talk about their families trip from the islands of Midilini or Crete to Ayvalik, and how their families made the adjustment to life here. It is difficult to know just what happened of course as the perspective of memory changes over time. It is all the more difficult if so much of what happened cannot be discussed in public.

This is true for many people all around the country.

Today I am writing not about the garbage ladies nor my life here in Ayvalik. Today I am sharing a bit of the political which is also personal. I come from a place where freedom of speech is a priority. Growing up with that notion sometimes makes it difficult to remember that so many people do not grow up with that concept as a given.

On January 19, 2007, Hrant Dink, a Turkish-Armenian journalist, was shot dead in broad daylight, just outside his office. The young man who pulled the trigger is still behind bars; though it is commonly believed that he did not act alone, no one else has been brought to trial. Hrant Dink was proud to be Turkish; he was also proud to be Armenian. He dedicated his life to trying to bring acknowledgement of past events. He did this in a manner that spoke of getting along, of mutual respect rather than of anger and blame. More than one hundred thousand people marched in Istanbul the day after his death. Say what you will but here in Turkey, it was an enormous gesture of strength, honesty and integrity for so many people to be on the streets in a peaceful manner of solidarity for justice and peace.

Until very recently, one could not talk about the Armenian situation here without feeling that you were treading on forbidden territory. Until very recently, you could not acknowledge that there was a ‘Kurdish problem’ in public, you could not speak Kurdish in public. Now there is a state-owned Kurdish language TV channel and there is much discussion on the difference between ‘mother tongue’ and ‘official language’. People may not yet speak openly of the burning of Izmir but there is more and more recognition of the difficulties faced in coming over from Greece.

Sometimes we need to remember to look around and see just what is moving forward.

Some of us start out ahead of the game in life through no doing of our own. Many others start so far back that it is nearly impossible for them to catch up. At the same time, there are many people in many places trying to make the quality of life a bit better for others, to make the scale of equal opportunity a bit more balanced.

Several years ago, a good friend gave me a book entitled ‘My Grandmother,’ by Fethiye Cetin. At first, the book seemed to be just about the author’s grandmother. It was nice, but I wasn’t getting it. Then the tears started to pour down my face. And they kept coming down. I was touched by the story, the honesty, the fact that so much had not been acknowledged for an entire lifetime. It was a personal story, not a political issue.

Another friend also gave me a book, ‘Children of the Sun,’ by Sevim Ak, a warm book about a young woman’s time spent in Southeastern Turkey and her interactions with the children. The region is predominantly Kurdish region, economically poor, in many areas, desolate. There was a civil war for nearly twenty years and the military presence is still strong and rumblings of the PKK, the Kurdish insurgency, are still heard. Geographically the area borders Iran, Iraq and Syria; culturally, the borders are more fluid.

Those of us who grew up with bedtime stories, with story hour, with book lists for summer vacation, understand the love and the power of the written word, be it fact or fiction. Not everyone grows up that way though and not every society is a literary society. Recent research shows that Turks are almost at the bottom of the list despite a high literacy rate: 4 people read 1 book per year here.

So when I came home the other day and saw that Cemile, the woman who weekly increases the quality of my life by cleaning my house, had pulled the book ‘Children of the Sun’ off the shelf to take home, I was a bit surprised. She had previously asked if she could borrow some of my books, as if I would say no. I did not ask why she chose that particular book though I should add that most of my books in Turkish are either political or delve into social issues. Cemile went on to say that the previous week she had borrowed ‘My Grandmother,’ and really liked it. She liked it so much that her children asked her to explain it. My eyes lit up but words failed me. I was stunned, I was impressed, I realized that I was witnessing a major social change.

Even in a country with a top-down democracy, change can come from the bottom. I do not think that I will live to see the day when, as Martin Luther King said, “[people] will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.” But I live with hope and the stubborn belief that things can be different.

Thank you to all who believe and are dedicated to bringing the quality of life up a notch or two, to working towards justice, peace, and a life of dignity, to acknowledging the past so that we can all move on to the future with less angst, few burdens of secrecy, more trust in one another.

If you have made it this far, please stop for a minute to think not just about someone or several people that dedicate their lives to making a difference but also just what you can do to make a life a bit better for someone who started off lower than you did.

empowerment does not yet include color combinations

When people learn of what we are doing, a common question they ask is that with new-found economic opportunity, whether or not any of the women who work with us want to leave their husbands. To date, no one has asked if the ladies’ home lives are better because they are happier and therefore, their families are also happier. Visitors also ask if it is difficult for the women to get permission from their husbands to come. While we have a few women who have stood up to or have convinced their husbands to ‘permit’ them to come,  focusing on the fact that they will be able to augment the family income, by and large, if ‘permission’ is an issue, most of those women do not come. Most of our ladies are most comfortable in their own homes, in their own neighborhoods, with their own family members. They are not used to scrutiny and criticism any more than they are used to praise, never mind unfamiliar surroundings.

Many of the women who come to the workshop do so because they are seeking a sense of self, a sense of self-esteem. They spend their whole lives affirming others and no one – or hardly anyone – affirms them. They are all excellent cooks and keep spotless houses. But that is expected of them and so much of their identities are based on just that: their meals and their cleaning skills and that they are wives and mothers. There is little else in their lives that stands out, that sets them apart, that they can look at and say to themselves, ‘I am proud of having done that,’ never mind anyone else saying that to them.  As a friend recently reminded me, this is still a collective society and people tend to follow the norm, to do what has been done for decades.

Recent reports show there is still a long ways to go to bridge the gender gap in Turkey. There are still less than 25% of women in the official work force and participation in government hovers at 5% (UNDP, 2009). While there are plenty of women who stay at home due to tradition, pressure from the husband or family, there are many women who stay at home because that is where they are most comfortable. They have never seen themselves in a role other than mother, homemaker.

It takes a great deal of courage to cross the threshold of our workshop. To do so means allowing yourself to venture into the unknown, to learn a skill you do not know, to be with people who are not part of your familiar circle. In short, you are exposing yourself to vulnerability, crossing the path of many men who dominate three of the four corners where our workshop is located.

The women who come to our workshop are learning to feel a sense of accomplishment within a sense of a community. While we focus on creating opportunities that will hopefully lead to greater gender equality, what needs to be fostered just as much as the reality of income generation, is the sense of worth.

Working within these realities, I am still working to overcome some of the challenges that come with this endeavor that go way beyond the basic communication challenges: the form-function disconnect; wanting to enable-empower our ladies while at the same time producing marketable and sellable items. I am their first boss, yet I do not quite fit the image that they have of ‘patron.’ I want to encourage them to go beyond their own mental borders, to expand their horizons and yet I still find myself establishing many of the perimeters that they work in. As I work on sorting out my own contradictions and try to expand my own mental borders, I am still dealing with the day-to-day issues.

It took me a while to assert myself as the color guardian. Let’s be honest:  I am the Color Bitch. Many of our bags close with zippers, which in my mind, as well as our distributors and customers, should be of the same or at least a coordinated color as the bag itself. Two tones of the same color do not necessarily look good together. It may not be easy being green especially if those two shades of green should never be seen side-by-side. Color combinations may be a matter of taste; I need to concern our products with a matter of what can sell. Some colors that I would never put together actually work on some of the local houses here in Ayvalik, but the same does hold true for our bags that we target to up-scale markets.

Before I took over color control, I tried numerous times to make my point, oblivious that I was expounding on a topic that did not register, was not comprehensible. Not ready to give up, I tried different tactics. One day I found myself holding a bag, zipper side up, and showing it to its maker. I then turned the bag on its side, so she could examine the colors and then look back to the zipper.

I then asked one of the stupidest questions of my life, ‘Can you see that the color of the zipper does not go with the colors of the bag?’

As the words were coming out of my mouth, I realized that she had no clue as to what I was talking about. She was wearing a yellow, green and purple striped long-sleeve tee-shirt with a brown, red and blue floral skirt. While not all our ladies dress the same way, the ever-so-obvious was looking me in the face. I had been waiting for results that would never come. There was no way that she was going to see that the color of the zipper and the colors of the bag were not in sync. No, in her mind, function was paramount; form could come later, if at all.

I finally understood what ‘form-function disconnect’ was all about and added ‘color selection’ to my own job description.