Turkish Awakening by Alev Scott Page A

For the average Turk, there is no suspicion or stigma associated with buying from an unlicensed, rickety cart, as there would probably be in London. For me, the change from Tesco Metro cashier to bellowing garlic farmer in the middle of the city was a glorious introduction to a more free-spirited, and indeed free-marketed, way of life. The culture of street selling encourages an atmosphere of community beyond anything else. The supermarket is synonymous with anonymity – packaged goods bagged by a bored, callow youth with no interest in who you are or whether you will come again. The garlic seller’s livelihood depends on his product and enthusiasm and repartee. He comes to you. He comes to the neighbourhood like the Pied Piper and unites Turkish housewives in the constant chore and joy that is preparing food for a large family.
    Turkey is a wonderful mixture of opportunism and trust. One of my favourite domestic sights is heavily laden washing lines stretched from the windows of one house to those of its counterpart across the street – neighbours sharing and airing their laundry with not a blush on either side, an admirable arrangement of mutual convenience. There is a very blurred line between a Turkish family homestead and its surroundings; emotions, raised voices and curiosity spill over from beyond its walls in a way that you just do not experience in England or other chilly European societies. One’s home is decidedly not a private space but a box at the opera of suburbia, both viewing point and exhibit. It is an open door. Some expats find the lack of privacy here irritating, but it is an indelible instinct of the Turkish psyche to share, and in place of solitude you receive untiring kindness, (unsolicited) advice and the support of as many burly matriarchs as you could wish for. That this goes for the middle of Istanbul or Ankara as much as it does for a rural town speaks for itself.
    Social differences definitely exist here, and snobbery is neither politically incorrect nor outdated, but at crucial moments it simply melts away. This, too, is part of a shared humanity which is hard to express but so obvious in action. A friend of mine moved here from America and for the first months of her residency took care to avoid the alarming-looking tramp who passed his time swigging beer outside her door and occasionally asking for a lira. One day, Gill arrived outside her house with an antiques dealer who had carried an Ottoman sideboard home for her. He asked for his tip, and had no change for the hundred-lira note which was the only money she had on her. Gill was starting to panic when Musathe tramp piped up from his recumbent position on the step below them. ‘Don’t worry, lady – here’s a tenner. Pay me back whenever.’ Gill was understandably both touched and a little embarrassed by this, and from thenceforth exchanged pleasantries and further lira with Musa the tramp, who referred to himself as kapıcı (doorman) of her building, and was indeed quite effective at keeping everyone at bay.
    There are surprisingly few tramps in Turkey. I think this is because of the very strong ethos of family support, and in the absence of family, the Islamic culture of charity, which means that the local mosque often takes care of struggling members of the community. This does not happen when the problem is drink or drugs, hence the presence of tramps swilling beer. My favourite local personalities are the crazy buskers with no talent, for example the dancing Michael Jackson impersonator with the permanent streak of paint in his hair and a gaping hole in his trouser seat, moonwalking in everyone’s way on the busiest Beyoğlu streets. More respectable is the man who looks quite smart from afar, in a shabby suit and slicked-back hair, who sings in the distinctively warbling style of Ferdi Tayfur, Turkey’s moustachioed answer to Tom Jones in his seventies heyday. This gentleman politely but relentlessly serenades couples