Free Turkish Awakening by Alev Scott Page A

‘neighbour’ isseized on almost like a long-lost relative – probably a sign that Turks feel fundamentally more comfortable in a smaller community than the modern super-communities in urban areas today.
    Although migration is now the norm, Turkish language reflects a time when people stuck with the community into which they were born. The word yabancı is derived from yaban (wilderness) and means both ‘stranger’ and ‘foreigner’/‘non-local’. It reflects a village-like sense of community in which only immediate friends and relations were familiar, and anyone new to the area was big news (this is still the case in many rural parts of Turkey). Other terms like yurt dışında also reflect this – the phrase literally translates as ‘outside the area of the tent’, so would have originally been used to mean anywhere outside the immediate family homestead in the Turkic nomadic regions. Now it means, simply, ‘abroad’ – anywhere from Greece to the Gambia. Originally, yabancı was most frequently used in the ‘non-local’ sense, but it increasingly applies to people from distant countries as more and more tourists come to Turkey. As not only a non-local, but indeed a Genuine Foreigner living in Turkey, I normally provoke a Turkish Inquisition on first meeting. There are several questions that I expect to be asked: How old are you? Are you married? Where do you live – but where exactly ? What do you do? Is that well paid?
    Coming from England, the irrepressible and slightly possessive curiosity of Turks towards outsiders and their tendency to ask what the English would stiffly call ‘personal’ questions seems impertinent, vulgar and unnecessary. The Turks, if they stopped to consider it, would probably consider theirown behaviour friendly, and moreover honest. In England, we ask these questions silently, sizing a new acquaintance up, but Turks just go ahead and ask the questions they want to ask, bypassing unnecessary preambles about the weather, dispensing with artifice.
    Is this really sinister or judgemental? Turks take an interest in you, particularly if you are foreign; they want to place you, to work you out, and yes, the questions are superficial, but they are a start. When I first arrived, I was offended by the questions and thought: ‘Why does it matter how old I am or where I live? Don’t they want to know Who I Am?’ Then I realised that that was a vain hope, in both senses of the word. It is impossible to discover someone’s true personality initially, so you might as well get the basics. The real cause of offence, if one is honest, is their interest in how rich you are – money just isn’t taboo here in the way it is in England.
    A great deal of Turkish interaction must be taken within context – without this mantra, a foreigner can feel beset by intrusive interrogation or unwelcome opinion. The extension of the Turks’ interest in other people’s affairs is their tendency to pass comment, without invitation or encouragement, regardless of their relationship with their interlocutor. Comments on other people’s appearance, in particular, are perfectly acceptable. If you have lost a little weight, this will be pointed out in graphic terms: ‘My God, you’re wasting away, you’re like a pencil! What’s happened?’ Or the reverse: ‘You know, you’ve put on weight, you must be very content, maşallah. ’ In fact, once your Turkish friends are passing comment on you like this, it is a sign that you are part of the fold, so taking offence makes no sense at all.
    When I worked briefly in a media office in Istanbul, I was perplexed by the contradiction of hierarchies. On one level, employees were extremely deferential to their superiors – hanım (‘madam’) and bey (‘sir’) were used even after many years of working together, and people took care not to challenge anyone in a higher position at the company. This led to a rather staid atmosphere, with orders issued majestically